by Thomas Enger
Even after so many years her voice trembled.
‘Me neither,’ Even said.
‘Anyway, Jimmy didn’t want us to go home until we’d talked things through. He didn’t want us to argue in front of you and your brother. And I have to admit, I wasn’t really arguing – I was just yelling most of the time. Screaming. Howling.’
She grabbed the salt cellar on the table. Turned it upside down, round and round. Then put it back.
‘But he admitted to it?’ Even asked. ‘He admitted that you were right?’
Susanne didn’t speak for a moment. Then she nodded and dried her tears. ‘I don’t know how far we’d driven, when he…’
Was she going to tell him everything? Was she really going to do that?
No, he would never talk to her again. Not ever.
She pushed back her shoulders. ‘Then he went funny,’ she said quickly. ‘Just passed out, all of a sudden.’
She could see her son searching for answers in her eyes, but she wasn’t going to give them to him. ‘We drove off the road. You know the rest.’
Her hands were shaking as she put the glass to her lips. God, she needed something stronger. Something to take the pain away.
‘Are you done?’ she asked. ‘I want to go back to Tobias.’
Even took a look at his sandwich, then said: ‘I guess I am.’
Susanne pushed her chair back and got up. Then she walked out of the canteen with her chin held high. Tobias was waiting.
64
Reidar Lindgren lived in Schleppegrells gate in Oslo, right next to Dælenenga – the sports field that, over the years, had been used for bandy hockey, athletics, speed skating and speedway, but now was crawling with footballer players – children as well as grown-ups. When Yngve finally found a parking space close by and stepped out into the cold Oslo afternoon, he was struck by how many people were out, despite it being windy and no more than five degrees. They were coming in and out of Birkelunden, a small park in the centre of Grünerløkka. Some were just on their way home from work, it seemed, arms full of groceries. Nearby, kids were playing in a school yard, dressed far too sparsely. What this part of the capital would look like on a hot summer’s day, Yngve could only imagine.
Reidar Lindgren met Yngve in the doorway of his apartment building. He was a robust man in his late forties. He wore a thick grey sweater on top of dirty working clothes and his long hair was tied up in a ponytail.
‘I could see you coming from the window’, he said with a smile as he firmly shook Yngve’s hand. ‘The bell isn’t working, you see.’
Yngve noticed his friendly ice-blue eyes.
‘Come on in.’
Yngve followed him up the stairs. It smelled like wet dog fur. ‘We don’t have a lift,’ Lindgren complained. ‘And I live on the fifth floor. It’s going to kill me one day’.
They were both breathing heavily when they finally reached the top. ‘Come on in,’ Lindgren repeated with a heavy exhale. ‘Want a coffee or something?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. Just show me to your brother’s room.’
‘You know, I wasn’t sure if I should even say anything,’ Lindgren said. ‘Frode being my brother and everything. I don’t know what he’s got himself mixed up in, but I do know that he would never do anything to hurt his own daughter. Don’t bother taking your shoes off.’
Lindgren took Yngve through a small hall and into a room with an exposed-brick wall. The curtains were pulled aside, giving the room some much needed light.
The bed was unmade. A sports bag was sitting open on the floor. A bloody T-shirt was lying beside it. Yngve bent down and using a pen from his jacket pocket, moved the T-shirt a little. It had blood stains all over it.
‘You know when he wore this?’ Yngve asked.
‘No’, Lindgren answered. ‘I’m afraid not.’
Yngve noticed a couple of pairs of boxer shorts in the bag. Some trousers, a shirt, a few pair of socks. A mobile phone charger was plugged into a wall socket. A bottle of vodka was on the floor as well, almost empty. The room was pungent with the smell of stale alcohol.
‘What has your brother been doing while he’s been here?’
‘Sleeping, mostly,’ Lindgren said. ‘At least when I’ve been around. He hasn’t said much. I’ve never seen him like this before.’
Yngve stood up and turned to Lindgren. ‘How do you mean?’
Lindgren seemed to think about his response. ‘He’s been so … down, you know? At rock bottom. It was almost as if he was avoiding me when he was around.’
‘Was he like that before his daughter was murdered, too?’
‘Not in the same way, perhaps, but he certainly was in a dark place before that happened as well.’
‘He must have said something to you about why he needed to sleep in your guest room – why he’d left home.’
‘Not much, no,’ Lindgren said. ‘He made it clear from the start that he didn’t want to talk about it.’
Yngve noticed some blood stains on the sheets as well.
‘But I’ve been a bit worried about him,’ Lindgren continued. ‘Before I saw that, I mean.’ He pointed at the T-shirt.
‘What’s been making you worry?’
He waited a beat before replying. ‘Frode and me, we come from a family where problems aren’t usually addressed. We don’t talk. We don’t share. Not personal stuff anyway. Which means everything builds up, you know, ready to burst.’
‘So you’re saying he’s lost his temper before?’
‘Oh, yes.’
Yngve took a step closer.
‘My brother does have a temper on him, that’s for sure. Got into some fights over the years, but mostly when he was younger.’
Yngve nodded, waiting for him to continue.
‘Anyway, a couple of nights ago he came in late, made a hell of a racket when he did. Just threw his stuff about, tripped up, then kicked his shoes off. They hit my bedroom door.’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been very upset, I guess is what I’m trying to say. There’s been a lot of suppressed anger there, I reckon.’
‘That finally burst out. He flipped his lid?’
Lindgren snapped his fingers and said yes at the same time.
‘Do you know if he’s had the use of a car while he’s been here?’
‘He has.’
‘Do you know if he’s driven it?’
‘I don’t, to be honest. Like I said, I haven’t seen him much while he’s been here. I’ve been at work. We’re tearing down an apartment building over on Sagene. We’re a bit behind schedule, so—’
‘The night Mari died,’ Yngve interrupted. ‘Your brother had been to Fredheim High, for the school show. But he came back here after, is that correct?’
‘He’s slept here every night, yes, since Saturday.’
‘Do you remember when he got here on Monday night?’
‘It was late, I know that. I’d already gone to bed. I woke up when he came in, but I didn’t think to check the time.’
Yngve made a final sweep of the room with his eyes. Couldn’t see any other objects he could take for further testing. He placed the bloody T-shirt in an evidence bag.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ Lindgren asked.
‘I’m going to check whose blood it is,’ Yngve said. ‘Thanks for telling me about it.’ He headed for the front door.
‘What’s … what’s going to happen now?’ Lindgren asked. There was distress in his voice.
‘We’ll have to find your brother first,’ Yngve said. ‘Then … I guess we’ll just have to see what happens.’ He opened the door. ‘Good luck with the demolition.’
65
Yngve had barely crossed the Oslo county border, on his way back to Fredheim, when the phone rang.
‘It’s DCI Bjarne Brogeland, Oslo police,’ the voice on the other end said. ‘You called about a Frode Lindgren?’
Yngve took his foot off the accelerator. ‘Yes, have you found him already?’
�
�It wasn’t difficult,’ Brogeland said with a laugh. ‘He’s in a holding cell, sleeping it off. He was arrested this morning.’
‘Why? How?’
‘He was completely pissed, trying to pick fights – the usual. He didn’t want to go home, either, or come with us voluntarily, so we had to bring him in on a public order offence. We’ve kept him here while he’s sobering up. You’re lucky – I was just about to let him go when you called.’
Yngve looked for the nearest exit off the motorway. ‘Has he said anything?’
‘He hasn’t spoken much, but he’s been very upset. He’s been crying a lot.’
Yngve explained what had happened to Mari.
‘Oh dear,’ Brogeland said. ‘I can see why he’s so distraught.’
‘Can I come and pick him up?’
‘He’s all yours.’
‘Alright, thank you. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Half an hour later Yngve met Bjarne Brogeland outside Oslo police headquarters. Frode Lindgren was standing beside him, head down, his clothes dirty – as if he’d spent the night in a ditch. He looked pale and completely worn out.
Yngve knew of Brogeland’s reputation. He’d been involved in a series of high-profile cases in Oslo over the last few years. He was in his mid-forties and was muscular – a tough guy. It was easy to understand why criminals respected and tried to stay clear of him.
‘He’s not in tip-top shape yet, but …’ Brogeland looked at Lindgren. ‘At least he’s sober.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘We’re moving in the right direction,’ Yngve said with a sigh. He glanced around, almost expecting to see Åse standing nearby. Frode seemed preoccupied with something close to his feet.
‘Need a place to question this guy?’ Brogeland nodded towards the police headquarters.
‘I think this guy needs a cup of coffee,’ Yngve said, and took another close look at Frode. It looked like someone had stuck a needle into him and let all the air out. ‘But thanks.’
Yngve drove them to Grünerløkka. He didn’t ask Frode a single question on the way. Frode didn’t offer anything either; he just sat there, staring out of the window, a distant look on his face.
‘Let’s talk in there,’ Yngve said as he found a parking space outside the Nighthawk Diner in Seilduksgata. ‘You hungry?’
‘Very,’ Frode said.
‘Let’s get something to eat, then.’
The Nighthawk Diner was exactly as its name suggested: a diner serving American foods in an American way. Most of the staff spoke English.
They both ordered a Nighthawk Combo – a hamburger with melted cheddar cheese and smoked bacon, some mayonnaise and salted potato chips.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Yngve said as he poured some water into their glasses.
‘My phone’s been dead the last twenty-four hours,’ Frode said, examining a spot of grease on the table. ‘Have you caught the bastard?’
‘No’.
‘Then what do you need me for?’
Yngve didn’t answer straightaway. He just examined the broken man in front of him. ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ Yngve asked and pointed to Frode’s hands – the red flakes of dried blood that flecked them.
‘Got into a fight the other night,’ Frode said.
‘With who?’
‘The wall.’
Yngve nodded, slowly. ‘Looks like the wall won.’
‘I don’t know about that.’
Frode emptied his glass. Yngve filled it again.
‘How did you treat your wounds?’
‘I didn’t,’ Lindgren said. ‘I just wiped the blood off on a T-shirt.’
‘What colour?’
‘Hm?
‘What colour was the T-shirt?’
Frode lifted his head. ‘You’ve been to my brother’s.’
‘Like I said, I couldn’t get hold of you.’
Frode nodded. ‘It was a white one. All white, I hate those T-shirts with all kinds of letters and stuff on them.’
‘Me, too.’
Their food arrived, and they just sat there for a while, eating.
‘Do you know what I did the other night?’ Frode asked, before emptying the glass of water again. ‘I followed Even Tollefsen. In my car.’ He shook his head. ‘I was so angry. So…’ He stopped himself. ‘I know you’ve heard the rumours,’ he continued. ‘How everybody thinks he did it.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘I wanted to run him over,’ Frode interrupted. ‘Really, Mork, I wanted to kill him. I almost did, too. I don’t think he saw me, but … maybe. I don’t know.’ He cut off a piece of his burger and shoved it into his mouth. ‘I just felt that I had to do something, you know,’ he said with his mouth full of food. ‘Silly, right?’
‘No,’ Yngve said. ‘It’s not silly at all.’
A few moments of silence passed.
‘Why have you been trying to reach me?’
‘Well,’ Yngve said, ‘partly because you’re here and not at home with your wife.’
Yngve didn’t think it necessary to elaborate. Frode chewed a little more slowly, before swallowing and putting his cutlery down. Then he folded his hands.
‘Cecilie and I, we…’
Yngve could see that Lindgren wasn’t far away from crying again. He exhaled violently, as if he was tired of being in pain and was trying to push it away.
‘We had our problems before our daughter was killed, too. Couples argue, for sure, but this time … this time it was worse. That’s why I went to my brother’s. I needed time out from everything.’ He put his hands on the table.
‘Can I ask what happened?’ Yngve asked.
Frode stared into the empty glass for a while. ‘You can ask, but I’m not so sure I want to answer you,’ he said. ‘It’s a private matter.’
‘Not if it involves your daughter’s murder,’ Yngve said.
Frode stared at him. ‘How do you mean?’ he asked abruptly.
‘We’re looking for a good reason why anyone would want to kill Mari,’ Yngve said.
‘Well, you’re not going to find it in our house,’ Lindgren protested. ‘No way.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Of course I’m sure about that. The problems Cecilie and I are having are completely … normal. It happens all the time, everywhere.’
‘Mari didn’t stay at home the last two days of her life,’ Yngve said. ‘She didn’t want to talk to you at the school show, either.’
Deep lines formed on Frode’s forehead. He swallowed a few times, then met Yngve’s gaze.
‘Cecilie had been cheating on me,’ he said. ‘For years. I found out, and … well, we argued. Mari was caught in the middle of it. I think she was afraid our marriage would fall apart, and … I guess she had every reason to be.’
Frode grabbed his knife and twirled it round and round in his hand before stabbing a potato chip and putting it in his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to get agitated. But our small family drama can’t have anything to do with Mari’s murder. Why would it?’
‘What did you do after you tried to talk to Mari that night?’
‘I … left.’
‘You didn’t wait for her after the show?’
‘No, I … I knew that she had work to do, and she clearly didn’t want to talk to me, so…’
‘Why was she upset with you, if Cecilie was the one who had cheated on you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Frode said. ‘Maybe … I was very angry that day,’ he said. ‘When we argued, I yelled a lot. Threw stuff at the wall and … I think I might have scared Mari a little bit.’
‘But still.’
‘Yeah, I know. I didn’t quite understand it. Maybe she just needed some space from it all. From us and our family.’
‘You drove back to Oslo after the show?’
‘Yes. And Mari and I never got to talk things thr
ough before…’ He was unable to finish the sentence. He sighed. ‘I’ve just been walking the streets feeling sorry for myself these last couple of days. I’ve been angry. I’ve been so angry, Mork, you have no idea. I’ve tried to find answers. I’ve tried to move the pain away from here…’ he pointed to his chest ‘…to somewhere else.’ He looked at his hands. ‘But it still hurts like hell.’
Yngve knew how Frode felt.
Yngve’s phone rang. It was Weedon.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this,’ Yngve said and lifted his phone to his ear.
‘Hey, boss,’ Weedon said. ‘I went through the CCTV recordings one more time, looking for a way to identify our guy going in at ten forty-nine p.m.’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I may have found something. Where are you?’
‘Oslo.’
‘OK. I need to show you, it’s easier that way. How quickly can you be here?’
‘Pretty quick, if it’s important.’
‘I think it is.’
‘Alright, stay put, I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Yngve hung up and looked at Frode. ‘I’ve got to head back to Fredheim. You’re going to be alright now, yes? You’re not going to start another fight with the walls or the Somali congregation down on Grønland anytime soon?’
Frode smiled briefly. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A day in a cell has a sobering effect.’
‘Good. Go home to your brother. Charge your phone. I bet a lot of people have been trying to reach you.’
It didn’t look as if Frode really wanted to speak to anyone.
‘I’ll call you as soon as I have any news about the case,’ Yngve added.
‘Thanks.’
Weedon was half asleep when Yngve entered his office.
‘Oh, sorry,’ Weedon said in a gravelly voice, sitting up straight.
‘What did you want to show me?’
Weedon moved over to the bank of three computer monitors.
‘I went through the images we have of our guy going in, frame by frame, trying to find something that could help us identify him. Look at this.’
He clicked his mouse. Zoomed in on a reflection in the window showing the man’s jacket. Weedon enhanced the image, repeating the operation a few times, then waited a few seconds for the software to bring the picture back into focus.