The Frozen Woman

by Jon Michelet

  ‘In history there’s an expression the Finns used during the Winter War about pockets where they’d surrounded the Russians. Originally the Finnish word motti meant “a storage place for logs”. Dotti Rønningen said she invented the word for the rhyme.’

  ‘Let’s not digress into her private domaine,’ Vaage says.

  ‘We’ve as good as solved a murder case, but we haven’t arrested a murderer. The Samurai we have every reason to suspect has disappeared like a will o’ the wisp,’ Stribolt says, looking towards the mountains west of Oslo as if Terje Kykkelsrud were hiding there. Kykkelsrud’s name has spread so far that he can be considered one of Europe’s most wanted criminals. But he has vanished into thin air.

  *

  The man who emerges from passport control at Gardemoen Airport really does look as though he has been a colonel in the Soviet military. He has brushed his white hair up, perhaps to increase his height – he is not tall. He is wearing sunglasses. His suit is as dark blue as Stribolt’s 17 May outfit, but square.

  When the Finnair flight came up on the arrivals board as landed Vaage said they should have had a little cardboard sign saying ‘Welcome, Mr Grossu’. They hardly had time to make one before he was there and any need for it was redundant.

  He must be used to picking out police officers in civilian clothes because he makes a beeline for Vaage and Stribolt, sticks out a big paw, gives them a firm handshake and lights a brown cigarette with a white cardboard holder. The interpreter turns up in the nick of time. She was nervous that Grossu wouldn’t speak Russian but Romanian, as Moldova has been a geopolitical football between Romania and Russia. She gestures that he has to extinguish his cigarette.

  KO Grossu speaks Russian so well that even the two Kripos officers, who can’t speak a word to save their lives, realise it is Russian. The colonel seems to have unleashed a formidable salvo on his arrival in Norway.

  ‘He says he can’t understand why smoking isn’t allowed in such a big, well-ventilated hall,’ the interpreter says.

  ‘Tell him we think he has a point,’ Stribolt says, ‘but let’s go out and have a smoke.’

  Once outside, Grossu stands to attention. The interpreter says he wants to make a short announcement:

  The colonel says: ‘My daughter, Yekaterina, who has been missing for more than three months, appears from all accounts to have been murdered in Norway by bandits. I’ve come here to identify a body that is presumed to be hers. If it’s my Katka in the mortuary in Norway, I’m sure she didn’t allow herself to be taken without a good fight, she would have resisted to her dying breath. Unfortunate circumstances, which require a political analysis I cannot go into here, forced her to flee her homeland to find a living abroad. The Kishinev mafia tried to force her into a shameful occupation. The gangsters would never have succeeded. I swear Katka would have taken their lives, or her own, rather than become a prostitute. If the Norwegian police ever have anything to do with “our” mafia you should know that it was created by the bourgeoisie, it is made up of bourgeois elements along with the dregs of the proletariat, it nourishes itself at the bosom of the bourgeoisie and deserves to be annihilated. I’d like to thank the Norwegian police for the work they have done to solve the case and hope that the perpetrator or perpetrators will receive the severest punishment the law will allow.’

  In the midst of this tirade Stribolt’s phone rings. As quick as a flash, he turns it off. As they walk towards the barriers of the Oslo train he checks his call log. The Kripos desk has been trying to get hold of him. He rings them.

  ‘Terje Kykkelsrud, the wanted man, has been found,’ says Haldorsen at the desk.

  ‘Alive?’

  ‘Severe injuries, maybe life-threatening. He’s in the hospital in Mora, Sweden, and has just come out of a coma.’

  Haldorsen thinks it wise for Stribolt to go to Mora as fast as possible to interview him. The Swedish police have been informed by the doctors that Kykkelsrud could relapse into a coma at any moment.

  Stribolt explains the situation to Vaage.

  ‘Best if I take our car and set off right away,’ he says.

  ‘Just go,’ Vaage answers. ‘You’ll probably drive better with a few milligrams of Advocaat in your blood.’

  Stribolt says to the interpreter: ‘Explain to the colonel that our chief suspect has been caught in Sweden and I have to interview him at once.’

  Colonel KO Grossu receives this news with a thin smile and runs a hand across his throat. He can see that the Norwegian police also understand the international sign for death.

  *

  Stribolt has driven from Kongsvinger to Torsby, through the Tiomila Forest from Torsby to Malung and through another hundred kilometres of forest when he finally sees Mora ahead of him from the hills over Lake Siljan. Late in the evening, the town looks like a glittering jewel cast into the wilds by a giant fleeing through the Dales.

  He rings his contact in the Mora police, an officer called Krantz, and is put through to the station in Millåkersgatan. Krantz is waiting outside in a police Volvo and drives in front of Stribolt to Mora Hospital.

  Before they go in, Stribolt wants a smoke and asks a few questions.

  ‘Why did it take you so many days to report that you had the man we were after?’

  Krantz answers that he has been on holiday and knows only what is written in the daily logs. The police in Mora turned out early in the morning on 12 May after receiving news of a serious accident near Lake Fågel on the R45 between Mora and Sveg. At the scene a lorry carrying logs was on fire. The driver explained that a motorbike had gone straight into the parked lorry from behind, skidded under the lorry and started burning. The driver had dragged the apparently dead biker away from the fire and tried to put it out with a hand extinguisher, to no avail.

  When the badly injured, unconscious biker was taken to A&E they found some ID in his wallet. His Norwegian driving licence said he was Henrik Lindberg and he was a resident of Drammen.

  Accordingly, Drammen Police District was contacted. The Norwegian police reported back that the Henrik Lindberg living at the respective address in Drammen had died several years ago.

  It proved difficult to supply any further information to the Norwegians. The plates on the burnt-out bike actually belonged to a Kawasaki Ninja reported stolen in Karlstad on 10 May.

  It was only when the patient woke up and told them who he was that they checked his name against the wanted list and raised the alarm.

  At the reception a doctor introduces himself as Dr Khan and tells the two police officers that the Norwegian patient has broken his spine in two places and cracked his skull and a cervical vertebra which in all probability will paralyse him from the waist down.

  ‘Is Kykkelsrud aware of the situation?’ Stribolt asks.

  Dr Kahn answers that he is, and that he can thank his solid constitution that he survived his encounter with a lorry-load of logs. He warns Stribolt to take care when interviewing him.

  Stribolt is led into the intensive-care unit.

  Kykkelsrud’s head, resting against a white support, is framed by steel rods. The red-bearded face is reminiscent of an old icon. The icon’s eyes are open and staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Are you Terje Kykkelsrud?’ Stribolt asks.

  The swollen lips open. An arm with a cannula attached moves a fraction.

  ‘Yes. And you’re a Norwegian cop?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Stribolt from Kripos in Oslo.’

  ‘You’ll have to moisten my mouth with a wet cloth if you want me to talk.’

  Stribolt does as he is asked, and says: ‘As yet there’s no charge against you, but this is a formal interview because you’re under suspicion of committing the premeditated murder of Øystein Strand and the wilful murder of a Moldavian woman by the name of Katka Orestovna Grossu.’

  ‘Never heard of her.’

&n
bsp; ‘She was probably murdered in Halden. Found in Oslo.’

  Kykkelsrud tries to nod. He grimaces.

  ‘You will also be questioned about the murders of your friends Richard Lipinski and Leif André Borkenhagen,’ Stribolt says.

  ‘Let’s get this over with so that I don’t snuff it before I’ve finished talking.’

  ‘Just say stop if you need a break.’

  ‘I got Lips with a grenade. It was self-defence. I shot Borken. They wanted to kill me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I didn’t throw the woman in the lake and I didn’t bury Beach Boy in the marsh.’

  ‘Describe the scene of the murders of the two you call Lips and Borken.’

  ‘Deserted area by the lake. Mälaren. Got Lips on the tarmac, Borken in a rental van close by.’

  ‘The murder weapon, the one you claim you shot Borken with?’

  ‘Heavy pistol. Walther, belonged to Lips. Dumped it in the river afterwards.’

  ‘Do you admit disconnecting the brakes on a Ninja motorbike Strand rode to his death on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  ‘Middle of Nowhere. Våler Forest. Reckon he knew… more water.’

  ‘I’ll give you some, but quickly tell me if you were involved in the murder of the woman in Halden.’

  ‘Not the murder. Transporting her away from Aspedammen.’

  ‘Who killed her?’

  ‘Borken. He had a knife.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘He thought she was a mule and was cheating him and Lips.’

  Stribolt moistens Kykkelsrud’s mouth. It creates an intimacy between them which he doesn’t like, but he supposes it’s advantageous for the interview.

  Kykkelsrud closes his eyes.

  Stribolt makes notes on his pad. If Kykkelsrud died in a mist of blood now, at least he would have clarified most of the elements of the case before he took his leave.

  The hospital surrounds them with its noises. A dull scream comes from somewhere in the building.

  ‘Let’s go on,’ Kykkelsrud says without opening his eyes.

  ‘You deny murdering Katka Orestovna, but my understanding is you moved her body. Where to?’

  ‘Thygesen’s. His garden.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A joke. An old score between us.’

  ‘You said you were supposed to dump her in the lake?’

  ‘Those were Borken’s orders. But I wanted her to be found.’

  ‘It’s easy to put the blame on someone you know is dead.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Kykkelsrud says, opening his eyes. ‘For Christ’s sake, you know I’ve decided to confess. Whatever I can confess.’

  ‘Did Borkenhagen order you to kill Strand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Grassing on us. Some crazy plan about blackmailing a rich man. The boy’s plan could have revealed the murder of the woman and our smuggling.’

  ‘Smuggling what?’

  ‘Amphetamines.’

  ‘Big quantities?’

  ‘You kidding? Smuggling’s a drop in the ocean.’

  Dr Khan comes in to see whether the interview can continue. Kykkelsrud says he wants to go on until he blacks out. He asks the doctor to give him a shot which will both dull the pain and liven him up. After some fuss he gets it.

  The large body under the white sheet trembles. Stribolt thinks the suspect is about to die, but Kykkelsrud comes out of the shakes more focused than before.

  ‘I have an alibi for the night of the murder in Halden,’ he says. ‘I don’t want the stabbing of a woman pinned on me.’

  The alibi Kykkelsrud comes up with is that he was at the new leisure centre in Askim. To Stribolt’s question of whether the centre was open in the evening he answers you can swim there until midnight, to attract kids who want to snog in the pool.

  He was there because he likes swimming.

  ‘Liked swimming, I should say. I like nothing better than a pair of wheels, but now I’ll have two under my arse. Kykke the Cyclops will be a centaur in a wheelchair. They’ll remember me in Askim because another guy and I fished up a kid lying on the bottom and they had to revive him.’

  After the swim in Askim Kykkelsrud got a call from Borkenhagen. And instructions to go to Aspedammen to pick up something from the house the Seven Samurai were borrowing. When he arrived on Brontes to find that what he had to pick up was a woman’s body, he rang back and protested.

  ‘Borken said if I didn’t remove her body he’d ring the cops in Halden and give them the address. And then I’d be found with a dead woman on my hands. He had me nicely snookered there. There’s only one road through Aspedammen. The other ways out are paths blocked by barriers when you get into the forest.’

  ‘So you acted out of loyalty to your biker gang and a certain amount of pressure?’ Stribolt says.

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘I’ll make a note that there are mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘I don’t need any mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m going to get life. For me that’s as clear as crystal. You can’t deny it.’

  And indeed Stribolt can hardly deny the punishment the suspect himself puts forward. In the USA Kykkelsrud would be given two or three life sentences or worse.

  ‘How did you transport the woman?’ Stribolt asks.

  ‘I went to Halden and stole a little van close by Brødløs. I didn’t have a clue what to do with her and then I thought of Thygesen. Seemed to work, confused the police anyway.’

  ‘But how did you imagine you’d get away with killing Strand? Fixing the brakes was bound to be discovered. All the evidence would point to you.’

  ‘Truth is I’d started to give up. We were going to set ourselves up in Estonia with the money from the smuggling. But I wanted out. To escape from all this shit. When I crashed I was on my way to fucking Finnmark to live alone on the plateau.’

  ‘Before you hit the truck by Lake Fågel you’d killed two friends along the way.’

  ‘They deserved to die. They tried to lure me into a trap and kill me, but I saw through them. So it was an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’

  ‘I think we can stop now and continue later,’ Stribolt says. ‘Anything you want to add?’

  ‘The lad, Strand. I reckon he knew what I’d done to the Ninja. He knew he’d gone out on a limb and the limb was going to break.’

  ‘You mean Strand knew he was going to ride to his death?’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ll take responsibility for it. A question from my side. Who was that woman, Katka, actually? Borken said she almost clawed his eyes out.’

  ‘Katka? She was a refugee from Moldova. Circumstances were such that she had to get out and she thought she would find safety in Norway.’

  ‘What sort of circumstances?’

  ‘Threats from the mafia,’ Stribolt answers.

  ‘Borken said she was a cheap whore.’

  ‘There’s no evidence to support that claim.’

  ‘Have you contacted her family?’

  ‘Yes. Her father’s in Norway to identify her body. By the way, has anyone contacted your family to say you’re here?’

  ‘No family worth contacting.’

  ‘You’ve been very honest in your statement. That will play to your advantage.’

  ‘I’m not after any poxy advantages. Except for one. If things go badly for me and I end up in a wheelchair I reckon I’ll be better off in prison than outside. They say the new high-security prison in Ringerike, where the Kosovo-Albanian drugs ringleader, Prince Dobroshi, is doing time is well adapted to wheelchairs. Could you put in a good word for me?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’
Stribolt says.

  ‘I go in for Zen Buddhism. You can imagine what the boys in Ringerike are going to call me when they find out, can’t you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Lame Dalai,’ Terje Kykkelsrud says.

  *

  Vanja Vaage has driven to Bestum to hand over a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey.

  Vilhelm Thygesen comes on to the doorstep, takes the bottle and frowns with disapproval.

  ‘Why are you giving me this, Vaage?’

  ‘We have a closed case to celebrate. You helped, and we at Kripos did our bit.’

  Thygesen asserts that, in his opinion, competent police work was not the primary reason the case of the frozen woman was solved. No, it was the internal antagonisms in a group of men that caused them to crack.

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ Vaage concedes. ‘But who remembers defeats when you carry the day?’

  ‘I don’t drink Irish whiskey,’ Thygesen says.

  Vaage has already mused that taking whiskey to a man who has had alcohol problems is like pouring petrol on a fire. However, she couldn’t come up with any other ideas for a present. Perhaps she has offended him by bringing spirits?

  ‘Just joking,’ Thygesen says. ‘I’ve got ice cubes in the freezer. Step inside, you trumpet of Nordland, you dusky cherub of the Helgeland coast.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ Vaage says, wiping her feet.

  Copyright

  First published in the UK in 2017

  No Exit Press/Pocket Essentials,

  an imprint of Oldcastle Books

  PO Box 394,

  Harpenden, AL5 1XJ, UK

  noexit.co.uk

  All rights reserved

  © Jon Michelet 2017

  Translation © Don Bartlett 2017

  This translation has been published with the financial support

  of NORLA

  The right of Jon Michelet to be identified as the author of this work, and

  Don Bartlett as the translator, has been asserted in accordance with Section 77

  of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced,