Lena sat down.
They looked at each other.
He didn’t say a single word. He laboriously peeled the paper from a sugar cube.
Now and then the man’s reticence could get on your nerves. ‘You wanted a briefing?’ she said as he studied the sugar cube in great detail.
Annoyed, Lena beckoned to the waitress. She disappeared behind the counter. Lena became even more annoyed. Didn’t she have eyes in her head?
‘I think it’s time for you to get out of Otta,’ Gunnarstranda said absent-mindedly.
‘Hm?’
The waitress was suddenly at the side of the table. She was holding a cup of steaming tea in her hands. She placed the cup on the table in front of Lena.
‘Tea,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I ordered it for you. Green tea, apple flavour. That’s the one you usually drink, isn’t it? I know you don’t eat between meals. So I haven’t ordered any food. Have a look around you.’
Lena looked around. A few weary old boozers with glasses of beer in front of them alongside the windows. At the neighbouring table three youths discussing something or other. Behind them an immaculately dressed gentleman was eating what was known as porsjon, bacon and egg on rye bread.
Gunnarstranda floated the sugar cube on his coffee. When it had absorbed enough he popped it into his mouth and sipped the coffee. He lowered the cup. ‘We used to rent a cabin in Gudbrandsdalen,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘me and my wife, Edel, who died some years ago. Whenever we needed anything we had to drive to Otta to do our shopping. Well, Otta’s a small place, and Gudbrandsdalen is a popular tourist trap. At weekends and Easter there were probably as many cars in the narrow streets as in half of Oslo. People were pissed off. If they drove, there was a traffic jam; if they walked, there was a queue; if they went shopping, there was a queue; if they went out to eat, there was a queue. A shopping trip could produce so much adrenalin and stress that people would get into fights if anyone jumped the queue to pay at the cash desk or the post office. Edel, she was much more clear-sighted than me. She said she couldn’t stand it any more. “Well,” I said. “Where do you want to rent a cabin then? Or perhaps you want us to buy one?” “No,” she said. “But we can go shopping somewhere else.” She was right, of course,’ Gunnarstranda smiled, stirring his cup. ‘We got out of Otta and never went back.’
Gunnarstranda lifted his cup and looked Lena in the eye.
‘And the point you’re making is?’ Lena said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.
Gunnarstranda put down his cup without taking a sip. He searched for words. ‘She couldn’t have children, Edel. That was her great sorrow in life. It was a sorrow she took with her when she became ill. It was my sorrow too, for a very long time. But now it’s not so important. Edel died ages ago and I’ve got over not having children.’
Lena had worked with this man for many years, but she had never heard him open up. She didn’t even know he had been married. But Lena wasn’t sure she wanted to know these kinds of details.
‘I’m not sure you should be so personal,’ Lena said gently. ‘Those of us who know you aren’t used to it.’
‘If you stop what you’re doing and look around,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘if you look at yourself, what’s actually important?’
‘In my life? Being successful. If you mean my job, the answer’s the same: being successful.’
Finally Gunnarstranda sipped his coffee. ‘But if you think a bit further than your job and today, what is actually important?’
Lena looked down at the table cloth. Being healthy, she thought, but she didn’t want to talk about that, not now. However personal Gunnarstranda wanted to be. She decided to change the subject. ‘I don’t wish to talk about that.’
‘I don’t mean a particular worry or a fear of death or any terrors you might have.’
She raised her head and looked him in the eye. Did he know? No. Gunnarstranda couldn’t know. No one else but her could know.
Gunnarstranda locked eyes with her, smiled faintly and shook his head a little patronisingly. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, ‘I don’t know anything you don’t want me to know, but the reason I asked you to come here is that I can see there is something. I like you, Lena. But I’ve been a cop all my adult life and now I can see a colleague of mine is about to lose her grip, or perhaps I should say “jump on the wrong train”. So I want you to stop and look around you. Something or someone is giving you grief. In such situations it’s important to stop, look up and imagine you’re a bird hovering aloft and looking down. The bird sees a wide swathe of countryside with a wealth of possibilities. But right below there’s a little place with a lot of people jostling and pushing and shoving and cursing and screaming to buy a loaf of bread or a newspaper. And in the midst of this sweaty herd of angry people is you, stamping and fighting, wasting loads of energy on utterly crazy things. But getting out is so easy. Just take a step to the side, find a new angle. You have to make yourself the main person in your life. Don’t reduce yourself to being an extra in the lives of others. To achieve this you have to see yourself in a wider context than one police case, or a particular worry, or a fear of death that has you in its grip and is making you blind.’
He fell silent.
She fell silent.
They gazed into each other’s eyes for a long time. She had no idea what to say, but she liked what he had said, she liked it that he understood.
It was Gunnarstranda who broke the silence. He bared his teeth in a broad grin. ‘This was our first and I hope last Get-Outa-Otta conversation,’ he said. ‘Now I’m ready for the briefing.’
5
She went through the online newspapers. Forced herself to look for deaths, drownings, accidents. She found nothing. News of the body that had been washed ashore in Kadettangen, outside Sandvika, hadn’t reached the papers.
So PST must have put a lid on the case.
Could that be possible? Lena got up from the worktop. The pan was sizzling. The kitchen began to smell of crispy bacon. Lena filled the pan with onions and garlic. The prevailing smell now was reminiscent of holidays in Italy. When the pasta came to the boil she still had a few minutes to wait, so she took the opportunity to manoeuvre the Christmas tree through the balcony door. She leaned the tree against the corner. It wouldn’t stand on its own. She crouched down and held it straight. The tree really was small, but with her mother’s old tree-stand it would be higher and fit perfectly into her flat. Lena used a clay pot as a support and got it to stand upright, more or less.
She went back in, forked up a strand of spaghetti and tried it. Al dente. Perfect. She rinsed the pasta.
Lena was treating herself to her favourite meal: spaghetti alla carbonara: pasta, bacon, fried onions and garlic, topped off with raw egg yolks. Sideplate: a wholemeal roll from Åpent Bakeri. And to drink: pure Norwegian water.
Lena ate with intense concentration, as if she had never seen food before. At the end she mopped up the remaining sauce with the roll. She might be ill, but there was nothing wrong with her appetite.
When the plate was empty she was still hungry for more, but she controlled herself. Instead she brewed up some green tea and sat down with the laptop again.
This time she clicked on the bookmark she had made when she was searching for Steffen Gjerstad’s articles. Single-mindedly, she combed through all of them. There was some truth in his nickname, the ‘Hanger-on’. His name was often in the byline next to other names. She narrowed the search to articles written by him alone. Started to scroll. She yawned with boredom, but straightened up when she found an article about the homeless in Oslo.
The picture had been taken one summer’s day, by Spikersuppa in Karl Johans gate. Two people were sitting on a bench: Nina Stenshagen and Stig Eriksen.
Lena studied the picture. After reading the article through once she read it again – word by word.
The myriad of stars in the sky was no longer a myriad. She had distanced herself now and she saw in the chaos the conto
urs of a system. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, feeling what it did to her to see the connections forming.
The man I’ve been to bed with, she thought, and was close to throwing up. She swallowed and stood up. With her forehead against the wall she swallowed until her nausea had gone. She tried to breathe normally. Which was easier said than done. But do it she would. She felt empty, like after an exhausting ski run. Lifted her hands and inspected them. Waited until her fingers stopped trembling. Then she picked up her phone. She dialled Steffen’s number.
It rang and rang. Finally he answered. ‘Gjerstad.’ The formal tone was so artificial it was almost embarrassing.
She cleared her throat, unsure whether her voice would carry. ‘I was made the scapegoat,’ she said. Her voice was carrying. She cleared her throat anyway and asked: ‘Was that the idea?’
‘Oh, it’s you. What are you talking about now?’
‘I’m talking about your recent article. I’ve been singled out as your source and I’m now under investigation. Have you been contacted regarding this case?’
‘Suspended?’
‘Yes, suspended. Shall I spell it for you?’
The silence lasted a little longer. ‘Can I buy you lunch?’
Lena looked down at the article with the photo of Nina Stenshagen and Stig Eriksen. She smiled to herself.
‘On one condition,’ she said.
6
Gunnarstranda opened Rindal’s door a fraction and Rindal beckoned him in.
There was a special news bulletin on the flatscreen TV on the wall.
‘I’ve had a long and detailed discussion with Lena,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘She’s a good officer. I was thinking of asking you to review her suspension.’
‘Shhh,’ Rindal said, pointing to the screen.
Frikk Råholt was holding a press conference. He confirmed his acceptance of his new job as consultant at the PR agency First in Line.
Råholt’s delicate face filled the screen. He said how pleased he was that the truth about Aud Helen’s relations with Polisario’s Stockholm office had come out in today’s papers. Truth was beautiful and precious. The truth was that his wife had neither been involved in politically subversive activities nor acted in any other fantasy scenario. The matter boiled down to something as simple and humdrum as caring for a child and to two people working together as responsible parents after a love affair in Paris more than twenty years before. But the press had presented wild claims that some funny business was going on between the Oil Fund and a completely legitimate political organisation! The press coverage was the scandal. The poor case officer, who unfortunately drowned, was only doing his job! Anyone who had seen how segregation was practised in Western Sahara could not understand how it was possible to use this poor country’s political situation to turn a Norwegian politician having dinner with her ex into a media circus!’
Frikk Råholt raised his head and stared into the camera. This was a scandal the Norwegian press should learn from. ‘Many editors and journalists should examine their consciences,’ Råholt said. ‘The Norwegian press lacks self-regulation. The bar for what the press allows itself is getting lower and lower. The only authority that can do anything about it is the press itself. We need freedom of speech, but even more than that we need a debate about media culture,’ Frikk Råholt said, locking his eyes onto the camera. ‘My wife is a living example of what an unpleasant burden it is to front politics publically,’ he added, then had to cede attention to the news anchor, who presented the next item: the enormous amounts of money Norwegians spent on Christmas presents.
Gunnarstranda glanced over at Rindal, who lifted the remote and turned down the volume.
‘What do you reckon?’ Rindal asked.
‘I don’t think the leak about the MP’s past with Shamoun came from us at all.’
Rindal clocked Gunnarstranda from across the table, a sceptical expression on his face: ‘Why not?’
‘Because Råholt can sit there puffing himself up without any fear of comeback. Now he’ll become the most obese lobbyist this country has ever produced.’
Rindal smiled for a few seconds then shook his head. ‘I don’t follow your train of thought.’
‘This happening now is no coincidence,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘I can feel it in my gut, in the marrow of my bones. Soon there’ll be more. We haven’t heard the whole story yet. What I’m sure of is that this man wants to steer the ship. There’ll be more, believe you me.’
‘Such as what?’
‘The official who drowned was examining a mining company operating in some ethical grey areas.’
Rindal smiled condescendingly. ‘So the Adeler case is tied up with this? Have you gone mad?’
Gunnarstranda shook his head. He pointed his forefinger at his stomach.
Rindal shook his head. ‘Your stomach’s lying. Keep your feet on the ground and use your brain.’
‘Do you imagine the lobbyist is holding a press conference for no reason?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
Rindal sighed. ‘Listen: Frikk Råholt’s a politician. That’s all there is to it. He’s stoking the fire. Naturally. He’s exploiting the situation. He’s a matador in the ring, playing to the crowd. He’s a winner. That’s all. The leak came from here.’ Rindal tapped his finger on the desk. ‘You and I are both grown-ups. We don’t imagine things.’
‘Who’s profited from this situation so far?’ Gunnarstranda asked sombrely. ‘Both Råholt and Vestgård. There’s only one loser: Lena.’
Rindal fixed Gunnarstranda with a heavy stare. ‘We both know Lena’s been to bed with the journalist.’
‘Lena’s loyal. She’s not the source.’
‘I can see you’re fighting for a colleague you like,’ Rindal said. ‘I like Lena too. But that doesn’t mean she hasn’t leaked information. The journalist could’ve got into her laptop or overheard a phone conversation for all we know. The point is that at some level Lena has shown poor judgement. In this situation we should leave any conclusions to SEFO. The world isn’t about conspiracy theories and, if you give it a little thought, you know that. Listen and take note: we’ve been accused of leaking confidential information. I have the head of the investigation sleeping with the journalist who publishes said information. So I have to act. I can’t afford to slip up. Capisce?’
Gunnarstranda looked at him. ‘Sayonara,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You don’t need to suspend Lena. You can take her off the case and give her admin tasks for a fortnight until this is over.’
Rindal contemplated Gunnarstranda, his brows knitted in annoyance.
‘We police are much too square-headed in our thinking,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘We focus too much on punishment and rewards instead of leadership.’
‘That’s enough,’ Rindal snapped. ‘Do your job and I’ll do mine.’
‘Actually there’s another protagonist who’s profited from this case,’ Gunnarstranda said, getting up. He walked to the door. Opened it and left.
‘Who?’ he heard behind him.
Gunnarstranda stopped, turned and leaned against the door frame. ‘One of the companies Adeler was investigating; goes by the name of MacFarrell. But you won’t find the name in the papers or anywhere else.’
‘Where did you hear the name?’
‘From the loser – Lena. The only person who didn’t have enough sense to keep the name quiet.’
7
Lena left her flat and met the new day, which was as dark as winter can be. She crossed the salt slush in Stortingsgata and continued quickly down towards Hotel Continental.
Lena’s birthday was on 1st April – April Fools’ Day all over the world. Most people had made a point of this over the years – friends, teachers, fitness coaches, boyfriends. Only one person had never made a joke about her birthday.
The day of her fourteenth birthday her father was waiting for some X-ray results. He was coughing a lot, but that was all. She celebrated the day
with her mother and father in the Theatercafé. Lena had asked for a Sony Walkman as a present and had received it. They had ordered walnut cake for dessert. When the waiter came, the lights went out in the restaurant. The orchestra played ‘Happy Birthday’. The waiter served the cake with sparklers crackling around him.
Every single 1st April in the years since then there had only been two of them to celebrate.
Lena had adroitly avoided the Theatercafé since. She had always come up with veiled excuses for not going there. The Theatercafé was an expensive place. People from the provinces went there in the hope that they would meet celebs from the city. It was a place for financiers, the media, stars and groupies of all shades.
Now she was going in through the classic portals for the first time in almost twenty years. She dreaded seeing the same things: the tall windows, the mezzanine with the orchestra, the rotunda, the buffet counter.
At the same time, however, Lena was happy. She was happy because her thoughts of a reunion with the café were on her mind, not the man she was going to meet.
She strode over to the cloakroom, took off her red woollen coat and passed it to the man behind the counter.
All the fashion bloggers swore by a short black dress. Lena had followed their tip. Her dress stopped in the middle of her thighs where equally black tights carried smoothly down to her ankle-high boots with low heels. Even the small handbag matched the dress, a treasure she had bought in Paris on her thirtieth birthday: Chanel 2.55 – black and elegant.
She turned and went into the restaurant, exactly ten minutes late.
She stood for a few seconds looking around. It felt like walking up a steep hill in her childhood. Slopes in reality are smaller and gentler than you remember.
This was only a café, a room crammed with people.
Conversation between all the guests created a loud booming sound beneath the ceiling. The din was wrapped in a concentrated Christmas fragrance: it was a bouquet that collected the scent of individual perfumes and mixed them with a pungent atmosphere of aquavit, lutefisk, creamed peas, roast pork and pork ribs, mutton ribs steamed for hours over beech twigs, sauerkraut with caraway, and puréed swede and pork sausages spiced with ginger, rounded off with floury potatoes, crowned with fresh coffee combined with the delicate odour of exclusive cognac. The place was packed. Steffen’s press card must have enabled him to get a table. The head waiter met her with a broad smile. She ignored him and craned her neck to find Steffen. She spotted him at a table for four facing Stortingsgata. He was sitting with his back to her, but jumped up from his chair when she appeared at the table. His eyes told her she had hit the bullseye with her clothes. She backed away when he went to hug her.
The Ice Swimmer Page 26