Sohlberg sighed. “I’m sure your client’s public relations people came up with those great talking points that you’re now parroting for me. But I know a lot. For example . . . I know for a fact that your buffoons started following me so that your client would know for sure that I was pursuing the Astrid Isaksen bait that she threw out at me.”
“Who . . . what client . . . what bait?”
“When your client sent Astrid Isaksen to ask me . . . ‘why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?’ You and your client knew that I would not be able to resist looking into that juicy mystery.”
“I don’t understand . . . my so-called client sent who to ask you what?”
“Your client . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal the new leader of the Venstre party . . . sent Astrid Isaksen to ask me . . . ‘why was Chief Inspector Nygård kicked off the Janne Eide case?’”
“Really? . . . But you have no proof.”
“But I do. Yes Noer. I do. You see . . . I met yesterday with Astrid Isaksen. I showed her a picture of Liselotte Bjørkedal. Guess what Astrid said?
“‘That’s the nice lady who helped me and my Daddy.’”
“So? . . . Can’t a politician help a constituent?”
“Yes,” said Sohlberg. “But you must admit that’s a mighty peculiar turn of events. . . . That’s exactly what Astrid Isaksen said to me when she baited me. And that was the first mistake that you and your client made. You never counted on Astrid Isaksen imitating your client by repeating a favorite phrase of Liselotte Bjørkedal.”
“Excuse me but that’s a phrase that could be said and is said a thousand times a day by any number of persons.”
“Wrong. That’s a typical if not trademark phrase of Liselotte Bjørkedal. I heard it by pure chance on the television . . . during an N.R.K. news report . . . the camera cut to Liselotte Bjørkedal at a Venstre party rally where she attacked Norway’s open immigration policies and the Norwegian oligopolies that fuel our country’s grossly overpriced goods and services. She said:
“‘It’s a sad if not pathetic day when Norwegians have to travel to Sweden to buy butter and fix their cars because such simple goods and services are too expensive in Norway. That’s a mighty peculiar turn of events.’
“You see Noer . . . that’s when I realized that I had heard that odd phrase before. My blood ran cold. . . .
“‘A mighty peculiar turn of events.’
“I thought to myself . . . ‘Wait a minute . . . that’s the exact same phrase that Astrid Isaksen used when she first met me.’”
“So? . . . Big deal. It’s just a coincidence.”
“No,” said Sohlberg with force. “There’s no such thing as a coincidence in a criminal investigation.”
“Sohlberg . . . what an imagination you have. Impressive.”
“What’s impressive is the hard evidence that I have as to Liselotte Bjørkedal. I had a mole of mine look up a mountain of evidence from public records which showed several things . . . first . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal was Berge’s boss . . . she’s the one who assigned him to prosecute the Janne Eide murder case. . . . Second . . . public records show that your company is a well-paid vendor of the Venstre party. Third . . . Liselotte Bjørkedal served for decades in the parliament’s intelligence committee . . . she’s close friends with all types of people from Russia’s old K.G.B. and the new Federal Security Service. She’s also friends with top people at Britain’s M.I. Five and M.I. Six . . . just the sort of shady characters who can get access to the foreign bank documents and accounting records that incriminated Kasper Berge.”
“Big deal. Like you said . . . all that is in the public record . . . and yes . . . the Venstre party is a client of my company . . . no one’s hiding anything.”
“Wrong. What’s hidden is the true purpose of the expenditures on your firm.”
“Look at me Sohlberg. I’m yawning . . . yawning with boredom. Is that all you have?”
“I also have proof that your politician used the company Norge Tourist Now! to pay the rooms and meals and ski lift tickets at the Hovden ski resort for Astrid Isaksen and her aunt and the aunt’s boyfriend.”
“So what if that is true?”
“The four week stay at the luxury resort was part of your client’s brilliant scheme to keep me on the investigation that ultimately took down Kasper Berge. Your client wanted to keep me away . . . from asking too many questions from Astrid Isaksen. After all . . . you or your client knew that I was prone to get suspicious about who was really behind Astrid Isaksen.”
“What a fantasy.”
“Your client is also the one who sent me all those documents showing how Berge and Liv Holm and Ludvik Helland were looting Eide’s estate. Liselotte Bjørkedal used her position in parliament and her contacts at the Director General of Public Prosecutions to get hold of those documents. She’s also got plenty of pals in other government agencies here and abroad who can get those records . . . legally and illegally.”
“What baloney.”
“Noer . . . you knew that sooner or later I would try to interview Astrid Isaksen to find out who had really sent her to visit me at the Zoo. So your client paid for Astrid Isaksen to go on that long four week vacation at a luxury resort that she and her family could never afford. . . . Why? . . . Because you and your client did not want me asking the girl any questions about who put her up to visiting me and baiting me.”
Noer laughed hard enough to interrupt his shodo calligraphy. He resumed his artwork after a belly laugh. “Any other fantasies you care to throw out?”
“I understand that the Venstre party gave a job to Jakob Gansum.”
“What’s wrong with that? . . . Helping out a poor citizen who was falsely accused and tried for a murder he did not commit. Since when is that a crime?”
“Well . . . the clincher for me is the rumor that’s swirling around.”
“You . . . the great detective . . . base your work on rumors?”
“It’s been my experience that every rumor . . . like many a lie . . . is based on a grain of truth.”
“And just exactly what is the rumor that clinches everything for you?”
“That Liselotte Bjørkedal is going to name you as the director of the Norwegian Police Security Service.”
The bamboo brush shook with Noer’s laughter. The brush splattered tiny black dots on the pristine paper. “Look Sohlberg . . . look what you made me do. Look at all those spots. . . . Interesting . . . they look great! . . . Now . . . me? . . . The head of P.S.T.”
“Yes,” said Sohlberg who was aghast that the corrupt former inspector was likely to become the director of P.S.T.—the secretive state security agency that is the equivalent of MI-5 in England or the FBI in the USA. “Oh . . . yes . . . Noer . . . laugh all you want. But you are indeed in the running to get that job as your reward . . . or . . . perhaps . . . as a payoff resulting from the subtle blackmail that you now have on Liselotte Bjørkedal thanks to your work on ruining Kasper Berge.”
“Please. How ridiculous.”
“Every journalist I spoke to confirms that you are being considered for director of P.S.T. and that you are the real front-runner for the job.”
Noer’s eyes became as soft and gentle as armor-piercing anti-tank missiles. He put down the brush and whispered:
“So what if I get the job? . . . Trade-offs and rewards . . . they happen all the time. That’s how things get done in politics and government and business. You’re not going to tell me that I’m going to do a worse job that the last P.S.T. director . . . who stupidly blabbed out top secret information . . . at a party in the Russian Embassy about the P.S.T. running agents inside Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
Sohlberg shrugged. “I never said you’d be worse than her. Quite the opposite . . . I’d say you have the best qualifications for highly-effective counter-intelligence and counter-terrorism.”
“So . . . what is your problem Sohlberg . . . just what do you want?”
�
�Don’t ever manipulate or try to trick me. Don’t ever do it again. Ever.”
“Sohlberg. You have zero evidence. At best you have lots of speculation based on flimsy and circumstantial proof. Look . . . you’re a goody-two-shoes . . . that means you can’t stop yourself from helping people . . . or investigating crimes. You’ll do it again and again. . . . So what if you wound up helping us by helping Astrid Isaksen and her father. . . . Don’t you see? . . . Sometimes you help more than the intended target of your benevolence. And that is good karma.”
Sohlberg stood up and left the calligrapher who returned to painting enigmatic but beautiful characters.
Back in his car Sohlberg smiled as he drove home to his wife. They had a special date that evening thanks to Astrid Isaksen. He looked forward to attending Astrid Isaksen’s invitation to see her at a Saint Lucia celebration.
He turned on the radio and heard the song:
“Black night is falling in stables and homes. The sun has gone away, the shadows are threatening. Into our dark house enters with lit candles. Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia!”
Sohlberg hummed the song. He was immensely happy over the fact that his meeting with Noer had achieved his ultimate goal—having a powerful politician and her henchman owe him a favor in exchange for his silence. But Sohlberg’s silence was not a permanent silence. His silence could always be retracted.
Quiescence was the card that he had been dealt by circumstance and he meant to play that card very well indeed.
His silence could and would serve a higher purpose in the future. Like the far-sighted explorer who embarks on a long and hazardous journey Sohlberg had cached a favor that he might very well need down the road. He could use the favor to save his own career or to solve another case that cried out for justice. Or he could expose Liselotte Bjørkedal’s betrayal of Kasper Berge—her fellow party member and reputed one-time lover.
~ ~ ~
Later that evening at the Sankta Lucia ceremony Noer’s words reverberated in Sohlberg’s mind.
Sometimes you help more than the intended target of your benevolence.
And that is good karma.
Astrid Isaksen hugged the Sohlbergs after the ceremony. Her radiant smile assured Sohlberg that she was happy living with her father ever since her grandparents had died. Jakob Gansum looked as happy as a man can be when he’s making up for lost time.
The Sohlbergs finally went to sleep at midnight. He woke up less than twenty minutes later and perceived that he had not fully closed the curtains. He parted the thick velvet drapes and as he stood by the window he saw the snow falling.
An enormous winter storm dropped snow all over Europe that night. From Dublin to Oslo the snow fell and fell. Like his dead Karoline the snowflakes fell and disappeared. A vast alabaster dimension covered the world. The immaculate snow fell on the living and the dead. The saints and the sinners. The sane and the insane. The guilty and the innocent and the not so innocent.
THE END.
THE AUTHOR
Jens Amundsen is the pen name of an attorney whose literary anonymity protects him and his clients from the powers that be and want to be.
THE PUBLISHER
Nynorsk Forlag stays true to its roots as an independent publisher bringing the best of Nordic crime novels to the public. From its humble beginnings as an underground press, the company intentionally remains small so as to stay focused on its authors and readers.
[sample chapter]
WHITE DEATH IN TROMSØ: AN INSPECTOR SOHLBERG MYSTERY
by
JENS AMUNDSEN
Published simultaneously in the USA and Norway.
Copyright (c) 2011 by Nynorsk Forlag.
Translation copyright (c) 2011 by Nynorsk Forlag.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Chief Inspector Sohlberg investigates a mass grave near Tromsø, the most northern city of Norway, just 1,242 miles from the North Pole. He uncovers more than nine murdered victims in a suspenseful investigation that involves the ultimate threat to Western civilization.
Ch. 1/Én
MORNING OF THE DAY, TUESDAY, JULY 6
Only 1242 miles separate Tromsø from the North Pole. The same amount of miles separate Alaska’s Prudhoe Bay from the North Pole. Tromsø however is much warmer and more hospitable to human life than Prudhoe Bay thanks to the Gulf Current which brings warm waters to Norway all the way from the sunny hot climes of Florida and the Caribbean. But geography like the stars is not at fault for human events.
“I’ve never seen so many bodies,” said Constable Lars Rasch of the Troms politidistrikt. He did not exaggerate. Rasch had never even seen one single homicide victim during his five years as a policeman in the northernmost city of Norway. He stared at the row of frozen bodies buried in the permafrost.
“Look like sardines in a can . . . don’t they Rasch?”
The constable said nothing. Instead he looked in disgust at Per Moen the owner of the fish shack that had become the tomb for nine corpses. Rasch turned his gaze upon the sea. The morning’s storm had washed the sky and the ocean and the islands in depressing shades of gray that seemed to merge into one mournful salute to the dead.
“Hey Rasch . . . how soon can you move the stiffs out? . . . I need to have a place to store my stock out here. It’ll cost me a fortune if I have to move my inventory elsewhere. . . . I imagine I’ll be compensated for my building getting torn apart to get these popsicles out of here . . . no?”
Rasch grunted. He had always heard and now knew for a fact that Moen was a man obsessed by one thing only—the bottom line.
“Look . . . we’ll discuss this later.”
“No. Now. Let’s talk now. I don’t want your people ripping up my land when they dig up the stiffs. I swear I’ll sue the police if you don’t put everything back to the way it used to be. This might just ruin my fishing operations if you keep blocking me from access to my land and fish shack and dock.
“Rasch . . . don’t you understand?
“I need this shack to keep my fish cold in the permafrost below . . . I can’t afford refrigeration. My great-grandfather found this spot . . . and now you’re going to ruin me! . . . I swear I’ll sue for millions and get you fired if I’m not allowed back in tomorrow.”
“Do whatever you need to do. But right now you need to leave this crime scene.”
“Hey Rasch you little jerk . . . ever since you joined the police you’ve been acting like you’re a real big man in town. I remember when you went to school with my little brother and he used to beat the daylights out of you.”
“Are you leaving or not?”
“Alright . . . alright. Save the tough guy looks for someone else.”
Rasch sighed as soon as he was alone. He knew that he too would soon have to leave the area that he had cordoned off in police tape. Forensics promised him they’d be over to start processing the shack within the hour. He wanted to but decided against ripping up the rest of the wood floor planks that he and Moen had pulled up.
One of the corpses caught Rasch’s attention. A large white towel covered a barefoot man. The blood-soaked frozen-stiff towel read:
WELCOME TO TROMSØ!
Constable Rasch could not help thinking that Tromsø had turned out not to have been all that hospitable or welcoming to the nine bodies that he had found shot point-blank in the back of the head and buried quite unceremoniously under Moen’s fish shack in a remote location on the island of Reinøya.
“Let’s see,” said Rasch to himself, “if I can get the old city slicker out here.”
The constable took out his cell phone and dialed his boss who was at headquarters just 30 miles south of him. While Rasch dialed he noticed what appeared to be a square booklet next to one of the bodies.
~ ~ ~
“What . . . nine bodies?” said Chief Inspector Fredrik Waldemar Hvoslef of the Troms politidistrikt. “Shot in the head? . . . Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Constable Rasch while he stared at the nine corpses. “Al
l of the bodies have one hole in the back of the head . . . and big exit wounds in the front or the top of their heads.”
“Arrange for the autopsies . . . call in forensic services to help you.”
“I already did. Aren’t you coming?”
“I . . . I can’t,” said Chief Inspector Hvoslef. He did not like leaving his comfortable and warm offices at 122 Grønnegata in downtown Tromsø. Nor did he want to travel on a small boat to the crime scene because he easily got seasick. In fact Hvoslef a transplant from Oslo rarely left the small island of Tromsøya where most of the city was located.
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