The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  She glanced at her watch. ‘We have allowed a few minutes for questions. I believe Dagbladet is first.’

  ‘You just described Adeler’s death as an incident. In Dagens Næringsliv you’re quoted as saying Adeler’s death is regarded as suspicious.’

  ‘Whatever appears in Dagens Næringsliv is Dagens Næringsliv’s responsibility,’ Lena said. ‘Is anyone from Dagens Næringsliv present?’ She scanned the audience.

  All heads turned, but no one came forward.

  Several hands went up. The Dagbladet journalist stood up. ‘You didn’t answer the question. Adeler’s death – is it regarded as suspicious or not?’

  ‘The job of the police is to determine what actually happened,’ Lena said. ‘I think TV2 is next.’ She nodded to a blonde woman in her early twenties, who then stood up with a microphone by her mouth.

  ‘Dagens Næringsliv suggested Adeler’s death might be connected to the Norwegian Oil Fund’s investments in Western Sahara? What is the police reaction to this?’

  ‘The police are investigating the circumstances surrounding a death. Our work consists in clarifying what actually happened on Thursday morning. We don’t concern ourselves with Adeler’s employment or any speculation linked to his area of expertise.’

  A disgruntled chunter ran through the assembled media ranks.

  Lena raised her voice. ‘The police mandate is to determine Adeler’s movements on the night of the ninth and tenth of December in such a way that we can explain how he could end up in the sea and drown. Once that is done, the police will draw their conclusions. Therefore the police need information from the general public. Anyone who knows anything about Adeler’s movements on Thursday night, please come forward.’

  She nodded to the Aftenposten delegate. ‘Yes?’

  ‘What comment can the police make on the news that Sveinung Adeler was in the company of Aud Helen Vestgård and a political extremist before he died?’

  ‘Adeler was in contact with many people before he died. That’s our comment.’

  The journalists were beginning to shout over one another.

  Lena straightened the microphone and asked for silence. ‘Adeler had dinner at the Flamingo Bar & Restaurant in Grefsen on Wednesday evening. Witnesses have said he left the restaurant at 23:00. The police are interested in Adeler’s movements from this moment on until he drowned and we need all the assistance the general public can give. Our information line is open around the clock. Dagsavisen, please.’

  ‘Adeler worked for the Government Pension Fund Global. What is the police comment?’

  ‘We have no comment to make.’

  ‘Does this mean the police consider the Dagens Næringsliv revelations untrue?’

  ‘We know it’s true that Adeler was at a dinner until eleven pm. Adeler drowned between five and six am. As I have said, the police require assistance from the general public on this matter.’

  Several of the audience shouted out.

  Lena nodded to a journalist with the VG logo on his chest.

  ‘Have the police interviewed Aud Helen Vestgård in this case?’

  Lena said: ‘The police have interviewed all the relevant witnesses in this case.’

  Lena looked across the audience.

  Steffen was still nowhere to be seen.

  Rindal looked at her with raised eyebrows. She shook her head. They started packing their papers.

  ‘Thank you for attending,’ she said into the microphone.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the journalist from Verdens Gang. ‘We have more questions.’

  She followed Rindal. They had to plough a way out.

  Twenty minutes later she and Rindal were driving out of the centre in Rindal’s silver-grey Mercedes.

  Lena had sat in the passenger seat still wearing her uniform. It was rush hour and cars were advancing at a snail’s pace.

  Should she, shouldn’t she? If she contacted him he might misunderstand. On the other hand, she needed to know. Lena decided to grasp the nettle.

  She wrote a text and made it impersonal. And sent it to Steffen:

  No sign of DN at police press conf???

  She put the phone on her lap. Seven whole minutes passed before the phone vibrated. Message from Steffen:

  We don’t cover criminal cases. But I miss you! Give me a chance. Let’s meet face to face – at my place tonight at 9. Tidy up, clarify, you set the agenda, promise, what do you say?

  Lena looked out of the car window, to the west. High, high up, delicate clouds tinged magenta red by the setting sun were drawing a veil over the sky.

  She ought to have gone straight home after work. She needed to find literature about cancer, radiotherapy and chemotherapy. She should be informing herself about what she would have to go through. She should have told her mother she had the same illness her dad died from. But she didn’t have the energy.

  She closed her eyes and knew things couldn’t go on like this. She had to tell her mother about the cancer. She had to tell Gunnarstranda and the others at work. If she was going to give Steffen the chance he asked for, she would have to tell him, too.

  What she was actually longing for was a state of mind where she didn’t have to think about anything. And these days Steffen was the only person who had managed to transport her there.

  You fool! Don’t forget what he did to you!

  Yes, you, you stupid woman!

  Have I actually been using the man as a kind of euphoria-producing drug? she asked herself.

  No. She opened her eyes to think about something else. The sun was low and dazzling. Soon it would turn and start making the days lighter, but there wouldn’t be any normal daylight until well into February. Where would she be then? Behind a folding screen in a hospital corridor? Or hiding in a flat behind blinds, trying on wigs?

  They were approaching the Ulvøya turn-off.

  If I meet him this evening I can push him for the source, find out who took the photos, she mused, and weighed the phone in her hand. Finally, she tapped in the following text, which she sent.

  OK.

  9

  There were two big cars in the drive of the immense detached house with a view over Oslo Fjord. A black Audi A6 beside a silver Lexus. Two free spaces beside these. Not a bad drive, Lena thought, as Rindal parked.

  ‘Now I know where to park when I go swimming in the summer,’ she said.

  Rindal remained as reticent as he had been during the whole journey.

  The sign on the door was made of brushed brass: IRGENS.

  They were expected, the door opened before Rindal could ring the bell. The man who opened it was in his seventies. He was wearing a checked, dark-brown tweed suit with a waistcoat and a watch chain over his stomach. This gave him a slightly aristocratic, British appearance, which was emphasised by the cool gaze that came from under bushy eyebrows and a haystack of thick, grey hair.

  Irgens shook hands with Rindal and nodded briefly to Lena. A deep, half-moon bag under each of his grey, watery eyes reinforced the arrogance of the man’s gaze.

  He surveyed them in silence as they hung up their coats.

  Afterwards he held open the door to a hexagonal office where every wall was clad with shelving.

  In a dark leather armchair sat Aud Helen Vestgård, dressed for the occasion in a tightly fitting sombre dress and black high-heeled boots.

  She leaned forwards and gave Rindal her hand, with an accompanying smile, then leaned back and nodded in a measured way to Lena.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Irgens said, stretching an arm towards the suite where Vestgård was already ensconced.

  They sat down. The chairs were upholstered in leather and creaked with every movement they made.

  Rindal finally took the trouble to explain to Lena who the man with the owl eyes was: ‘Herr Irgens is fru Vestgård’s and herr Råholt’s lawyer and business manager.’

  ‘Aud Helen would like to make a statement,’ Irgens said.

  The MP was reduced to a schoolgi
rl – she was nodding like a teenage swot towards the teacher’s desk. ‘Shall I do it now?’ she asked, batting her big blue eyes at the lawyer.

  Irgens explained that for the sake of form he had asked Aud Helen to write down her statement and that Rindal would be given a copy after she had read it out.

  Lena was impressed, both by the lawyer’s authority and ability to ignore her completely.

  Aud Helen Vestgård stretched an arm to the shelving and took down two sheets of paper that had been resting on some books. She cleared her throat, then began to read in a limpid voice:

  ‘“I, the undersigned, Aud Helen Vestgård, met Sveinung Adeler and Asim Shamoun at an unofficial engagement on Wednesday, the ninth of December at 20:30.

  Asim Shamoun is the father of my eldest daughter, Sara.”’

  Vestgård looked up from her papers and went from one face to the next as if to check their reactions before clearing her throat and continuing:

  ‘“Asim Shamoun is the local representative in Scandinavia of the Polisario organisation. He lives in Stockholm. He and I met for the first time in Paris in 1988, when we were both studying at the Sorbonne. Our child, Sara, was born in 1989. Asim Sharmoum is passionate about his country and the rights of his people. The reason for our meeting on the ninth of December of this year was that Asim had been approached earlier this autumn by the Government Pension Fund Global’s Ethics Council via Sveinung Adeler with regard to a company operating in the occupied areas of his homeland, Western Sahara.

  Asim and Sveinung Adeler had exchanged letters regarding the matter. Since then there had been some developments and Asim thought it would be useful to pass on information about these and changing conditions in his home country. Sveinung Adeler, however, hadn’t answered his many letters. Asim rang me at the end of November and asked me to talk to Sveinung to persuade him to meet Polisario. I tried to explain to Asim that Adeler probably wasn’t answering his letters because he had all the information he required. I explained the procedures to Asim and that there would be no point meeting Adeler, who was only a case officer on the Ethics Council and had absolutely no political influence.

  But Asim thought it was his right on behalf of Polisario to inform the Oil Fund’s Ethics Council about all the relevant information regarding the relevant company’s activities in Western Sahara as well as Morocco’s occupation of the country. He insisted on my arranging a meeting with Adeler and he rang me several times about this. In the end, I succumbed. I contacted Sveinung Adeler at the beginning of December.

  Sveinung concluded that a meeting with Asim could be construed as standard research and agreed to the dinner.

  Asim landed at Oslo Airport on Monday, the seventh of December. He was picked up by Sara and stayed at my house with my family from the Monday to Thursday, the tenth of December. He spent Tuesday and most of Wednesday with Sara.

  Asim and I met Sveinung Adeler at the Flamingo Bar & Retaurant on Wednesday, the ninth of December at 20:30. In this way Sveinung had a lutefisk dinner before Christmas while helping me out with a problem. Asim had an opportunity to inform him about his country. It was a win/win situation for everyone. Adeler came well prepared. It became apparent in the conversation over the meal that Sveinung was already familiar with the information that Asim had. He was also able to tell Asim that he would make a comprehensive presentation to his employer, the Ethics Council, who would make their recommendations on a completely independent basis.

  Asim and I left Adeler at 23:00. We took a taxi home. Sveinung was going somewhere else and turned down our offer of a lift.

  When we left him he was standing outside the entrance of the restaurant. He had assured us he would take the first taxi that came along.”’

  Aud Helen Vestgård’s voice gave way. Her eyes were shiny and she had to clear her throat several times for her voice to carry:

  ‘“Unfortunately Sveinung had an accident during the course of the night and drowned. I thought it was terribly sad to receive the news of his death. At the same time it is a fact that this accident occurred many hours after our meeting. Asim travelled home to Sweden on Thursday morning, before we knew anything about the accident.

  I found out about it on Thursday afternoon. My husband, Frikk Råholt, called me and told me the news. By then the name of the drowned man had been made public in some online newspapers. My husband and I discussed the situation. We arrived at the conclusion that we wouldn’t subject either Asim, my daughter Sara or myself to unnecessary media attention because of this case. We considered there was no point in dragging my or Asim’s name into the police investigation. It was our opinion that this exposure would only result in gossip and unfortunate political speculation, so there was no point. Since then it has transpired this was a misjudgement, which I am the first to deplore. The consequence of my low profile with regard to the police and press was speculation and that led the police, to an unnecessary degree, to waste resources on fruitless work. I am the first to regret this as well.

  That said, it is an incontrovertible fact that neither Asim nor I had any contact with Sveinung Adeler after 23:00 on Wednesday, the ninth of December. Asim and I took the taxi home. He stayed overnight with my family, and my husband, Frikk, drove him to Oslo Airport the following morning.”’

  Vestgård lowered her papers.

  Lena and Rindal exchanged glances.

  Rindal folded his hands and laid them on his knees. ‘Think how much easier this would’ve been if you’d told all of this to the police the first time we visited you,’ he said.

  Irgens coughed.

  Rindal took the sheet of paper Vestgård passed him. ‘Thank you anyway,’ he mumbled.

  Vestgård, pensive, took a deep breath. ‘There was so much going on. Asim’s a very committed patriot. If you ask me, the most important thing for him was to meet Sveinung and ensure the information got through.’ She opened the face of her palms. ‘It’s a cultural thing. Oral and written communication have different weights in our culture and his.’

  Lena glanced at the others. She supposed that Vestgård demeaning herself to include her in the discussion had to be interpreted in a positive light.

  ‘You were photographed by an as yet unidentified person’ Lena said. ‘Did you see anyone with a camera inside or outside the restaurant?’

  ‘No. But I would assume many of the guests had a phone with a camera. Lots of photos were probably taken, but don’t ask me to give a description of anyone. I didn’t notice any cameras.’

  ‘What unfortunate political speculation did you fear?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You say Adeler considered this meeting as standard research. Then you say you lied in your statement because you and your husband feared political speculation – what speculation?’

  Vestgård hesitated. She gave a heavy sigh and turned to face Irgens.

  ‘Today’s newspaper coverage is probably a good enough answer,’ said the man with the owl eyes.

  ‘Today’s newspaper coverage is today’s newspaper coverage,’ Lena said. ‘Aud Helen Vestgård is sitting here, but do I take it she won’t answer the question?’

  A silence hung in the air. Irgens stared at Lena with stern eyes. Vestgård’s lips quivered with fury.

  Lena decided to tighten the vice: ‘Adeler’s death was no accident,’ she said.

  No one said anything. If a strand of hair had loosened itself from Lena’s curls, she was sure they would have heard it. She looked up at Rindal, who stared back coldly. But he didn’t stop her.

  ‘The police have forensic evidence that the drowning was murder. For investigation reasons this information was not released to the general public. But I’m sure you understand that it’s of the utmost importance that you tell us all you know about his movements…’

  ‘I’ve told you everything,’ Vestgård interrupted angrily. ‘For God’s sake that ought to be enough.’

  For some strange reason it’s me against the rest of the world in this room,
Lena thought. ‘Does the name Stian Rømer mean anything to you?’ she asked.

  Vestgård frowned as though she were thinking and then shook her head.

  Irgens interrupted at that point and turned to Rindal: ‘You have the statement. Any more questions?’

  Lena watched Vestgård, who evaded her gaze.

  How was Lena to interpret this body language? Did the name Stian Rømer mean anything to this woman or didn’t it?

  It was impossible to say.

  Lena said: ‘You’ve lied to the police twice. Why should we believe you this time?’

  Vestgård didn’t answer. She sat looking Lena in the eye for a long time, then slowly turned her head to Irgens.

  The lawyer took Rindal’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Are you happy now?’

  Lena was annoyed. ‘I just asked a question.’

  Irgens ignored her. ‘Aud Helen’s statement is of course entirely confidential,’ he said to Rindal. ‘It has been made exclusively to the senior officers leading the investigation to clarify any unfortunate details. There has been some non-disclosure, yes. But you’re intelligent people. The tabloids have already labelled the child’s father a terrorist. You appreciate what a strain this is already for the child. You also appreciate what unfortunate speculation will ensue if this information about paternity or the relationship between Shamoun and Aud Helen reaches the public. We are relying on your discretion.’