Night

by Bernard Minier

  Kirsten glimpsed the flame of a torch burning at the top of a derrick. The hexagon was getting closer. The H225 pivoted on itself and the landing pad disappeared from their field of vision for a moment. Then, after one last swerve, the skids touched the helipad, and in spite of the noise she heard Kasper gasp. No doubt about it, she thought, the pilot was a champion.

  What was waiting for them outside was no less violent: a stinging cold rain, and wind that was so strong she wondered if it mightn’t just blow her overboard. She stepped forward and felt the net beneath her feet. The whole area was plunged in darkness, apart from the neon lights at ground level. A man wearing huge earmuffs came out of nowhere and grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘Don’t face into the wind!’ he shouted, spinning her around like a top. ‘Don’t face into the wind!’

  Okay, but where were the gusts coming from? It felt like the raging wind was blowing from every direction at once. He shoved her towards the steel stairway that led downwards. Between the steps you could see the void; Kirsten was overcome with dizziness when she saw the raging, roiling waves below, churning up the ocean and smashing against the platform piles before continuing on their way through the murk of the North Sea.

  ‘Fuck!’ said Kasper behind her and, turning around, she saw him clinging to the guardrail.

  She wanted to keep going down but couldn’t. Impossible. The wind was like a wall, the rain and hail lashing at her cheeks. She felt as if she was in a wind tunnel for aerodynamic tests.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ she bellowed, humiliated but incapable of moving forward.

  Two hands pushed her from behind and at last she made it, one step at a time.

  The platform captain – a tall, bearded guy in his forties – was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps, together with another fellow who held out orange jackets with reflective tapes for them to wear.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked the bearded man from beneath his helmet.

  ‘Captain, I’m Kirsten Nigaard from the Kripos, and this is Kasper Strand, investigator with the Hordaland crime unit,’ she said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Jesper Nilsen. I’m not the captain, I’m the supervisor. Put these on: it’s obligatory around here.’

  His tone was authoritarian, his face inscrutable. Kirsten reached for the heavy jacket, which was not at all comfortable and far too big: her hands disappeared up the sleeves.

  ‘Where is the captain?’

  ‘He’s busy!’ Nilsen shouted to make himself heard above the racket, motioning to them to follow. ‘It’s a constant scramble around here, it never stops. Given how much it costs to keep a rig going even for just one day, there’s no time to waste.’

  She made her way, gripping the fence, buffeted from one side to the other and blinded by rain. They turned right, then left, then right again, went down a few steps, along a footbridge with metal grate flooring, then turned behind a big container which sheltered them for a moment. Helmeted men wearing protective goggles came and went. She looked up. Everything here was vertical, vertiginous, hostile. A labyrinth of neon and steel, haunted by North Sea storms. Everywhere there were signs, prohibitions: NO SMOKING, DO NOT REMOVE YOUR HELMET, DO NOT CROSS, NO WHISTLING (perhaps because, in spite of the noise, any unusual sounds could mean danger and, therefore, important information). There was vibrating, throbbing, roaring from all sides, with the clanking of pipes knocking together, the clamour of machines, and the breaking of waves further down. Right, left, right … Finally, a door. They were out of the wet in a sort of vestibule with benches and lockers. The supervisor opened a locker and removed his helmet, gloves and safety shoes.

  ‘Here, safety is everybody’s business,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a lot of accidents but when we do they’re serious. There is constant danger lurking around a platform. There’s a welding operation under way on the drill floor, an urgent repair job. We call that “hot work”. It’s a delicate phase we can’t delay. I don’t want you in the way while we’re doing it. That’s why you’re going to do exactly what we tell you,’ he added, his tone final.

  ‘No problem,’ she replied. ‘Provided you ensure we have access to everything.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be possible,’ he replied.

  ‘Uh … Jesper, right? This is a criminal investigation and the victim was one of your—’

  ‘You didn’t hear what I just said,’ he interrupted. ‘My priority is safety. Not your investigation. Is that clear enough for you, now?’

  Kirsten wiped her forehead and happened to catch the scowl on Kasper’s face. Like her, he had seen right through the supervisor and his captain: they were like two tomcats who had pissed all over the place to mark their territory. They must have finalised their strategy with the company bigwigs: they were sole masters on board, and consequently the Norwegian police could operate only within the perimeter and under the conditions that they had set. She was about to intervene when Kasper said, placidly, ‘Your captain, does he ever get any sleep?’

  The bearded guy with the subversive air gave him a condescending look.

  ‘Of course he does.’

  ‘Then when he’s asleep, does someone fill in for him?’

  ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  His tone made both the supervisor and Kirsten jump. Not so Type B after all, our Kasper Strand.

  ‘So you did.’

  Kasper moved closer to the man, who was a good half a head taller than him; so close that the man was forced to step back.

  ‘What am I driving at? What am I driving at? Do you have a place where you hold meetings?’

  The bearded man nodded warily.

  ‘Good. Then here’s what you’re going to do—’

  ‘I get the feeling you don’t understand, either one of you. You’re going to have to—’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Kirsten smiled. Nilsen turned crimson.

  ‘Now do I have your attention?’ said Kasper.

  Nilsen nodded, jaws clenched, glowering.

  ‘Fine. You are going to take us to that meeting room. Then I want your captain and everyone responsible for personnel management on the platform to meet us there. Everyone whose work at this moment is not absolutely vital, do you understand? Hot work or no hot work, I don’t give a fuck. This rig is a Norwegian rig, there is only one authority in charge here, and that’s the Norwegian Ministry of Justice and the Norwegian National Police. Have I made myself clear?’

  Captain Tord Christensen had a tic he was possibly not aware of: he pinched his nostrils every time something annoyed him. And the presence of two cops on board annoyed him supremely. The gathering consisted of himself, Nilsen, the rig’s doctor, several team leaders who were not essential to the operation under way, a brown-haired woman who, if Kirsten had understood correctly, was in charge of maintenance, and a blonde woman who was introduced to her as the supervisor for job security.

  ‘A little over twenty-four hours ago, Inger Paulsen, a worker on this platform, was beaten to death in a church in Bergen,’ Kirsten began. ‘We have official authorisation from the public prosecutor’s office to conduct an investigation on this rig. And this order means that all personnel must put themselves at our disposal to facilitate the investigation.’

  ‘Hmm. Provided these investigations do not put the personnel working on the rig in any danger,’ objected the blonde woman curtly. ‘Otherwise, I will personally oppose it.’

  Clearly everyone was playing the game of who could piss the farthest, thought Kirsten.

  ‘We have no intention of endangering anyone,’ Kasper replied diplomatically. ‘All those who cannot leave their post will be interrogated later.’

  ‘Did Inger Paulsen have a private cabin?’ Kirsten asked.

  ‘No,’ replied Christensen. ‘Production technicians share their cabins, two in each: one on the day shift, the other on the night shift.’

  ‘Do you have a list of all the workers who went ashor
e yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, I can get that for you.’

  ‘Have they all come back?’

  The captain turned to the supervisor.

  ‘Uh, no,’ he answered. ‘Given the weather conditions, there is still one flight that’s not back, with seven people still ashore. They should be here soon.’

  ‘Do you have any patients with problematic psychiatric histories?’ Kirsten asked the rig’s doctor.

  ‘That is subject to medical confidentiality,’ replied the little man, staring at her from behind his round glasses.

  ‘Which is suspended in the case of a criminal investigation,’ she replied briskly.

  ‘If I thought that were the case, I would have immediately asked for the patient to be removed from his or her functions.’

  ‘Then do you have any patients who have, let’s say, shown signs of less serious psychological problems?’

  ‘I could have.’

  ‘Does that mean yes or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will need a list.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can—’

  ‘I take full responsibility. If you refuse, I will have to arrest you.’

  She was bluffing, of course, but she saw the little doctor shudder.

  ‘How many men are on board tonight?’

  The captain gestured towards what she had initially taken to be a clock with a rotary display. The number ‘83’ stood out in big white letters against a black background. Then she saw what was written underneath, in English: ‘souls on platform’.

  ‘This is indispensable, for reasons of security,’ explained the captain. ‘We have to be aware at all times of the exact number of people on board.’

  ‘How many women?’ asked Kasper.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘And how many cabins?’

  ‘There are fifty double cabins. And then individual cabins for the captain, the supervisors, the team leaders, and the engineers.’

  Kirsten thought for a moment.

  ‘How do you keep track of where everyone is at all times?’

  Now the blonde woman spoke up. ‘The control room. All the work to be done on board is subject to prior authorisation. That way the people in the control room know where everyone is and what they’re doing.’

  ‘I see. And the people who are not working just now, what are they doing?’

  Christensen gave a little smile.

  ‘Given the hour, I would assume they’re asleep.’

  ‘Right. Wake them up, get them out of their cabins and gather them somewhere. We’re going to search Inger Paulsen’s cabin, then all the others.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘Do I look like I am?’

  Inger Paulsen’s cabin was less than nine metres square. The other occupant was one Pernilla Madsen. She was presently in the control room, so the cabin was empty. There were two bunk beds with blue sheets, and white drawers underneath, identified by the letters A and B; each one had a curtain and a tiny television fixed up in a corner, under the ceiling for one, under the upper bunk for the other. There was a little porthole in the centre of the cabin, a few shelves, a desk with two laptop computers, and two wardrobes behind the door.

  ‘It may seem spartan,’ said the blonde woman, who had guided them there, ‘but they only spend five months a year on board, and a lot of that, outside of work hours, is in the canteen or the cafeteria. They’ve also got a wide-screen satellite television, three billiard rooms, a movie room, a gym, a library, a sauna, and even a music room.’

  Kirsten took off the safety jacket and put it on the back of the chair. After the biting cold outside, the heat in the cabin was stifling.

  ‘The toughest thing is Christmas and New Year’s,’ added the woman, ‘when they’re away from their families.’

  Her voice was monotonous, toneless. Full of a dull hostility.

  Kirsten went through the shelves and drawers. Female underwear, T-shirts, jeans, some paperwork, a dog-eared paperback crime novel, video games … nothing. There was nothing here. The woman was still speaking behind her, but Kirsten wasn’t listening any more. One of the bunks had been neatly made, and the other was a mess. It was hot. Very hot. She could feel the sweat trickling under the back of her bra. She was getting a headache.

  Kasper finished going through the wardrobes. He motioned to her that he’d found nothing. They went back out into the long corridor.

  ‘Show us the cabins of the men who went ashore the night of the murder,’ she said.

  The blonde turned on her heels and led them down the corridor, its thick blue wall-to-wall carpet muffling their steps, and pointed to several doors. Kasper went into one cabin and she another. The woman didn’t move. Kirsten saw she was watching her from the corridor through the open door. Watching her, not Kasper. She felt obliged to search the cabin. Less than five minutes later, she had to face the facts: there was nothing to report here either.

  She went to the next door.

  The cabin was exactly like the others. She opened one of the drawers under the bunk and saw them right away, among the other clothes: female underwear. Soiled. She turned around.

  ‘Is this a woman’s cabin?’

  The blonde shook her head.

  Kirsten went on searching.

  Men’s clothing. Brand names: Hugo Boss, Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren, Paul Smith. She opened another drawer and frowned. Again, women’s underwear. There was blood on one pair. What on earth was this? She could feel her pulse accelerate.

  She turned towards the door. The hard blonde was watching her. Maybe she had sensed something. Maybe Kirsten’s own body language had sent her a signal that something was happening.

  Kirsten bent down and searched through the underwear. All the same size, more or less.

  She turned around. The woman had moved. Now she was standing with her shoulder against the doorframe. Right by her, staring. She looked up at the woman.

  ‘Whose cabin is this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you have a way to find out?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well then, let’s go. Show us.’

  On hearing Kirsten’s voice, Kasper joined them. She showed him the open drawer, the blood-stained pants. He nodded. He understood.

  ‘There’s something not right,’ she said to him. ‘It’s too obvious. It’s like a treasure hunt.’

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Kasper, ‘then it’s you they planned it for.’

  She looked at him. Not so stupid.

  ‘Follow me,’ said the woman.

  ‘Their names are Laszlo Szabo and Philippe Neveu.’

  They were in a windowless little office, full of papers.

  Neveu, a French name …

  ‘Which one went ashore last night?’

  ‘Neveu.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  The woman looked at the big wall planner with little coloured cards slipped into slots.

  ‘Right now he is at one of the welding posts on the drill floor.’

  ‘Is he French?’

  The blonde woman searched in the drawer of a metal filing cabinet, took out a file and handed it to them. There was a photograph of a man with a thin face and close-cropped brown hair. She figured he must be about forty-five.

  ‘That’s what he says he is, yes,’ said the woman. ‘What exactly is going on?’

  Kirsten looked at the bag containing the bloodied pants, then up at Kasper. When their eyes met she felt a rush of adrenaline. On his face was the same expression she must have: that of two dogs on the trail of their quarry.

  ‘What should we do?’ she asked him quietly.

  ‘Can’t exactly ask for backup, here,’ he replied.

  She turned to the woman.

  ‘Do you have any weapons on board? Who is in charge of security? You must have something lined up in case of pirates, or a terrorist attack.’

  Kirsten knew that offshore companies were extremely discreet on
the matter; no one wanted to admit to the vulnerability of what were highly strategic targets for well-prepared terrorists. Kirsten had twice participated in the annual Gemini exercise, which involved the police, special forces, the coast guard, and several oil and gas companies. She had also attended seminars. All the experts were unanimous: Norway was not as well prepared as her neighbours to deal with a terrorist attack. Until recently her country had been naïve, living with an assumption that terrorism didn’t concern them and would always spare them. But their naïvety had been shattered on 22 July 2011, with Anders Breivik and the massacre at Utøya. Nevertheless, even today, while oil rigs in Scotland were protected by police and armed guards, Norway still had not recognised the full extent of the danger. What would happen if well-trained men armed with assault rifles landed a helicopter on a rig and took it hostage? If they loaded it with explosives? And the workers who came back from the mainland: were they searched? What would stop one of them from bringing a weapon on board?

  She saw the woman press a button and lean into a microphone.

  ‘Mikkel, can you come right away, please?’

  Three minutes later a hefty guy who walked like a cowboy came into the little office.

  ‘Mikkel,’ said the woman, ‘this lady and gentleman are from the police. They want to know if you are carrying a weapon.’

  Mikkel looked at them with a frown and rippled his muscular shoulders.

  ‘I am, why?’

  Kirsten asked him what sort of weapon he had. His reply made her grimace.

  ‘Is anyone else on board armed?’ she asked.

  ‘The captain has a gun in his cabin. That’s all.’

  Shit, she thought. She looked at the storm lashing against the black porthole, then turned again to Kasper. He nodded. His expression showed what he thought about the situation.

  ‘We’re on our own,’ she concluded.

  ‘And unlike us, he’s on his own territory,’ added Kasper.

  ‘Can I ask what’s going on?’ said the brawny guy.

  Kirsten opened the case at her waist without removing her gun.

  ‘Take your weapon with you. But don’t use it unless I tell you to.’

  She saw the big guy go pale.