Sohlberg mused over all of Thorsen’s answers when he realized that Thorsen had used interesting words when describing his conduct as to the missing documents. Sohlberg tried to look as calm as possible. He yawned and said as casually as possible:
“Oh . . . by the way . . . what did you do with all of the documents and stuff you took out of the files at the Zoo and the court?”
Thorsen’s eyes widened. He knew Sohlberg was on to him. “I . . . I took them home. I put them under my mother’s bed.”
“What? . . . You didn’t shred or burn them?”
“Heck no! . . . Do I look insane?”
Sohlberg smiled. Thorsen had at least inherited his mother’s peasant cunning. It was for nothing that she had arrived as a young and penniless farm girl from the Austlandet region near the Swedish border to work as a maid for a well-known banker who lived near Sohlberg’s parents. Sohlberg still remembered how shocked he had been as a teenager when his mother informed him that Thorsen’s mother had been impregnated by the banker’s son. Sohlberg moved closer to Thorsen and said:
“What else was in those papers? . . . What was so important that they wanted you to destroy Nygård’s notes?”
Thorsen’s small peasant eyes shifted. He hesitated and then blurted out:
“Nygård’s memo to Ellingsen . . . Nygård wrote down that he absolutely needed to compare the prisoner’s fingerprints with all other fingerprints inside the house. That’s when Berge panicked and demanded that Nygård get fired or pushed out of the force. Berge didn’t want Nygård comparing fingerprints that would eventually reveal that Jakob Gansum and Ludvik Helland were two different individuals.”
Sohlberg sat back into the sofa.
Berge had to have known that Liv Holm and Ludvik Helland had picked the perfect patsy—Jakob Gansum—to blame for the murder of Janne Eide.
Liv Holm and her lover Ludvik Helland . . . and their enabler Kasper Berge . . . could only enjoy the financial fruits of their bloody labor if Jakob Gansum did time as the substitute for the real murderers. That’s why Berge made sure that all records were sanitized and that Jakob Gansum was locked up in a lunatic asylum.
Thanks to Berge no one would ever be able to link Jakob Gansum to Ludvik Helland.
Berge is the linchpin . . . that one indispensable character in a corrupt tragedy that produced a sham investigation and prosecution.
Thorsen wailed. “What do I do now?”
“You have to go to the Zoo. You’ll have to explain everything. They’ll want explanations now that London arrested the real Ludvik Helland.”
“No. No. I can’t go back. They’re going to crucify me.”
“Maybe not. To your credit you saved all of the documents. Tell them that. They might forgive you.”
“No. No. That’s not how they work on the top floor. They need a scapegoat. I will be their sacrificial lamb.”
“Time to face the music. You played a dirty game. It’s time to pay.”
“No. No. No.” Thorsen misery-laden eyes watered up. He blew his red nose. He sobbed. He shook his head. He twisted the fabric of his pant legs. He filled Sohlberg with disgust.
“That’s it.” Sohlberg could not stomach the man whom he intensely disliked and held in contempt. “Get up Thorsen. Get up and go to the Zoo and take it like a man.”
Thorsen shook his head weakly. He was all sniffles and tears. Penance and panic and self-pity fought hard inside him.
“Thorsen! . . . Get a grip. Be a man. It’s not like they’re going to lock you away at an insane asylum . . . like you did to Jakob Gansum. And it sure isn’t like you’re going to face a firing squad . . . is it?”
Ivar Thorsen shrieked and ran out of the Sohlberg’s home.
Fru Sohlberg had been hearing the men’s conversation. She stepped from behind the hallway and said:
“I wish you weren’t so harsh on him.”
“Thorsen deserves it.”
“Even if he does deserve it . . . that doesn’t mean you should treat him badly.”
“Well . . . good riddance. He’s finished. Done. History.”
“I really wish you wouldn’t go out of your way to destroy him. . . . You’re better than that. Besides . . . you never know when you’ll need him.”
“What? . . . Me need him?”
“Yes. You never know. Maybe one day he’ll be your boss.”
“Never.” Sohlberg laughed. But an ominous sinking feeling told Sohlberg that an imbecile and craven bootlicking mediocrity like Ivar Thorsen was destined to rise to the top levels of government or the corporate world.
The doorbell rang. A soft knock followed the bell.
“Is it him?” said Emma Sohlberg.
“I doubt it. He almost kicked down our door and broke the doorbell. It’s probably some reporter.”
Sohlberg went to the door and for a second time a shocked and speechless Sohlberg could only motion a Thorsen to come inside. The 78-year-old mother of his former friend was the very last person Sohlberg had expected to meet at his doorstep that morning.
“Please,” croaked the bent-backed old woman, “Please don’t harm my son. Please! He can’t get fired. He can’t lose this job. Police detective is the only only job he’s ever had worth having.”
Emma Sohlberg stepped forward. “Sohlberg . . . who’s this lady?”
“Fru Thorsen,” replied Sohlberg as his anger boiled over at Ivar Thorsen bringing his mother along as part of some backup plan and then throwing her at his doorstep in a last ditch desperate attempt to coerce him into saving Thorsen’s career. “Madam . . . this is my wife . . . Emma Sohlberg.”
“Please help me,” cried the wizened Fru Thorsen. Tears flowed down her wrinkled and dried-out cheeks. “Please . . . please.”
“Let me make you some tea,” said Emma Sohlberg who headed towards the kitchen while making eyes at Sohlberg to take the old woman to the living room.
Before Sohlberg could do or say anything Fru Thorsen dropped to the floor on her knees. She hugged Sohlberg’s legs in an iron vise and wailed and sobbed uncontrollably. “Please! . . . Please! . . . Please! I beg you. I beg you. I will clean your house. I will be your maid. I will cook. Wash and iron. I’m an old woman but I will do the work. Sweep and mop and dust. Please don’t let them harm my son. He can’t lose his job! . . . Please! . . . I beg you.”
Sohlberg blushed and tried to pry her off his legs but her sobs grew louder and more embarrassing and the sobbing and wailing soon turned into howls. Emma Sohlberg ran back to the entryway and stared in disbelief at the awful and degrading scene.
“My son Ivar . . . he’s all I got. Have mercy on him. Please. I beg you. Please. Please help him. Don’t let them harm Ivar. Please. Don’t let him get fired.”
The howling and wailing drove Sohlberg to desperation. He almost fell down as her grip tightened around his legs.
“Please,” he yelled. “Please stop.”
Emma Sohlberg reached down and tried to pull Fru Thorsen off but the old woman was not letting go.
“Alright,” yelled Sohlberg. “Alright. I’ll help your son.”
Thorsen’s mother dropped on all fours and began kissing Sohlberg’s shoes and moaning and crying. Between sobs she whispered:
“Thank you. Thank you. You’re so good to me. Thank you.”
Sohlberg’s face darkened with embarrassment and anger at having been forced into helping his former friend. The Sohlbergs spent more than fifteen minutes convincing Fru Thorsen that Sohlberg would protect her son and somehow help him keep his job. After much pleading and promises from the Sohlbergs the crafty old woman relented and went to the kitchen with Emma Sohlberg. Thirty minutes and two cups of coffee and two croissants later Fru Thorsen finally left the Sohlberg residence. Sohlberg observed her walk back to her son’s car and he could have sworn that she was strutting triumphantly.
While his wife ran upstairs to finish getting dressed Sohlberg’s personal cell phone rang. He did not like the caller’s number on the scr
een.
“Good morning Dr. Nansen.”
Although he could barely hear her scratchy and shaky voice the panic was unmistakable.
“You better get over here real fast.”
“Where? . . . Why?”
“We’re at Oslo University Hospital. Jakob Gansum has been stabbed. He’s in surgery. I think he’s dying. He might not make it.”
Chapter 16/Skesten
AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF MONDAY,
DECEMBER 15, OR THIRTEEN DAYS
AFTER THE DAY
Dr. Jorfald jabbed his finger into Sohlberg’s chest. “We should’ve never let you talk us into having a patient spy on another patient. You’ve created a disaster. Horrible.”
Bergitta Nansen put her tiny hand on Sohlberg’s arm. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Before Sohlberg could say or do anything he was physically pulled away by Inspector Kristina Skrautvol. She was the lead detective on the Jakob Gansum stabbing. The two detectives walked down to a small conference room reserved for patients’ families.
“Thanks for doing that,” said Sohlberg. “I couldn’t take more from Jorfald.”
“The pompous jerk is in a major tizzy . . . he’s just worried about his reputation . . . not about Jakob Gansum.”
“Typical,” said Sohlberg. A weak smile briefly crossed his otherwise sullen visage. “I’m glad you’ve been assigned to the case.”
Inspector Kristina Skrautvol looked surprised. She was well known but not well liked in the Oslo Police Department as a result of her blunt if not brutal honesty and her size and deadpan looks. A flat boring voice and wild platinum-blonde hair topped off her appearance. Few police officers other than Sohlberg understood that her tousled coif came not from any complicated hairstyle or expensive hairdresser but from her refusal to ever spend any time combing her hair. Sohlberg appreciated and admired her intentional disdain of all outward appearances because she solved crimes and obtained convictions by maintaining a laser-like focus on discovering all of the relevant facts and circumstances of the crime.
“Chief Inspector. You may be glad I’m on the case. But that’s no guarantee the case will turn out right. Actually . . . I think it’s going to turn out bad.”
“Tell me why. Let’s sit down.”
They sat down but she barely fit in the chair. At 5 feet 11 inches and 300 pounds the single Inspector Kristina Skrautvol was as overweight and tall and strong as the married Fru Sohlberg. Both women had overly stout and flagrantly buxom figures. But for Inspector Skrautvol that meant she did not present the media-friendly Pretty Skinny Girl image that her superiors desired. She was therefore repeatedly denied the rank of Chief Inspector when other candidates with far less achievements and intelligence and seniority had been promoted to CI.
“What happened?” said Sohlberg.
“Håkon Krogvig stabbed Jakob Gansum fifteen times. I’m surprised Gansum is still alive.”
“What provoked the attack?”
“Gansum found out where Håkon Krogvig was hiding a map which showed exactly where Krogvig buried each of his fifty-three victims in Europe . . . including twelve in Norway.”
“Oh?” said Sohlberg in amazement. His instincts had been correct. Håkon Krogvig had killed more than two girls in Norway. Sohlberg’s surprise came from the size of the victim count. He had only expected five or six victims based on the number of years that Håkon Krogvig had actually lived inside Norway. “Then what happened?”
“Krogvig caught Jakob Gansum trying to take the map out of its hiding place in the woodworking shop. Krogvig had recently hidden the map inside one of the lathes . . . Gansum saw the hiding place. . . . I understand that Gansum had been spying for you . . . right?”
“Yes.”
“Before he went into surgery Gansum told me that Håkon Krogvig had until recently been willing to let him see the map . . . and copy it . . . as long as Gansum promised to let Krogvig watch his revenge killing of the woman who framed him for the murder of Janne Eide.”
“Did Gansum or anyone else get the map?”
“Nope. It disappeared. We’re sure that Krogvig destroyed the map.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because Gansum told Krogvig that he was going to turn the map over to you.”
“What?”
“Yes. You see . . . Gansum hated Krogvig for killing little girls. Gansum told Krogvig that he was working for you. That’s when Krogvig stabbed Jakob Gansum.”
Sohlberg wanted to slam his fists on the table. His rage grew as he thought of the valuable map and how Gansum had almost died getting the map.
Inspector Kristina Skrautvol eyed Sohlberg and the bulging arteries in his neck. She offered him a measure of solace:
“Don’t feel bad Chief Inspector . . . you did the best you could under the circumstances. Also . . . Jakob Gansum saw a television report . . . he knows about the arrest of Liv Holm . . . that put his mind at peace . . . he’s a different man . . . he’s no longer obsessed with killing her now that you exposed her deceit.”
“Good. That’ll help him adjust back into society . . . if he survives the attack.”
During their conversation Sohlberg had moved his chair away from Inspector Skrautvol as slowly and discretely as he could. The inspector smoked each of her 60 daily cigarettes down to the last millimeter—as if each stub held the world’s last tobacco leaves. Even more offensive for Sohlberg’s nose and lungs was the fact that Inspector Skrautvol puffed away on repulsive Russian cigarettes—Sobranie Black and Belomorkanal. Despite the acrid stench of tobacco fumes on her person and her clothes Sohlberg intensely liked and respected Inspector Skrautvol.
“Has Gansum’s daughter . . . Astrid Isaksen . . . been told?”
“Not yet.”
“I’ll call her,” said Sohlberg without any enthusiasm.
“Fine. But you also need to know that Håkon Krogvig fled the scene.”
“He escaped?” Sohlberg’s anger instantly changed to horror.
“Krogvig is gone. Vanished. Whereabouts unknown. That’s why I feel this case is not going to end well.”
“But . . . doesn’t he have a G.P.S. unit on him?”
“He cut the titanium band off his G.P.S. locator with a steel saw tipped with diamonds.”
“How did he smuggle that inside the Dove Center?”
“I still don’t know. But I have a good idea who may’ve helped him.”
“Who?”
“This orderly . . . Rolf Vika.”
“Did he admit it?”
“Not yet. But we took his cell phone . . . it’s incriminating to say the least. We also confiscated the cell phones for all other employees at the Dove Center.”
“Good thinking. . . I’m sure that made you very popular. Did anyone threaten to go to court?”
“No. If they did . . . do you think I care?”
“Of course not.”
“What are they going to do? . . . The Criminal Procedure Act . . . lets me confiscated things if they are ‘believed to be important as evidence.’”
“Excellent work in getting the cell phone.”
“It gets better and better . . . I researched the names of all persons that Rolf Vika called the last thirty days . . . I found out that one of them belongs to Krogvig’s brother. I went and interviewed the brother . . . and before he could deny anything I told him I knew what he had done and that he was going to be charged not just for helping set his brother free but also for any assaults or murders that his brother commits while on the loose. . . .
“That got him thinking since I reminded him he has a wife and three daughters. He confessed to sending his brother the saw through Vika the orderly.”
“Wow,” said an admiring Sohlberg. “You’ve done good. . . .”
“Like I said . . . it gets better. You see . . . I wasn’t satisfied with that break in the case. . . . I wanted more . . . I wanted to see if I could find any other dirt on Rolf Vika so as to get him to confess . .
. I figured he’d probably have some drug dealer on his phone directory since I found a tiny amount of marijuana at his work locker.
“So I went down the list of phone numbers that he called the past ninety days and that had called him. . . . I did a reverse lookup and found one number that really stood out.”
“Whose?”
“Kasper Berge . . . remember him? . . . The former prosecutor . . . now the big hot-shot Venstre politician trying to take over his party as the Unge Venstre youth leader.”
Sohlberg and the Gift Page 27