CHAPTER 9
My first day with Frei, Stavanger, 22 October 2011
Outside the villa in Storhaug, the water in the fjord at Hillevågsvatn sparkled in the warm sunshine. Tiny specks of dust danced in the rays spilling through the massive west-facing windows. I had almost finished a rehearsal of the formal complaint with Frei’s uncle, Arne Villmyr, a business lawyer in the oil company that had lodged the complaint. We sat at either end of a glass coffee table, while Frei curled up in an armchair at the window reading a book and wearing earplugs.
‘She’s working on an assignment.’ Arne Villmyr was in his mid-fifties. He had a subtle tan and healthy glow, and though his hair was thin, it was dark and neatly combed, plastered to his crown.
‘Oh.’ I turned to Frei in the brilliant sunshine. ‘What are you studying?’
Frei did not answer – she didn’t even glance up from her book.
‘Law,’ Arne Villmyr volunteered for her. ‘At university here in Stavanger.’ He rubbed the point of his smooth-shaven chin before making a sign to his niece.
‘Frei!’
‘What is it?’ Frei switched off the music and sat up straight in her chair.
‘Didn’t that assignment of yours involve something about the cases of police violence in Bergen in the seventies?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Our friend here from Internal Affairs probably knows a thing or two about the subject.’
‘Er …’ I cleared my throat and flipped down the screen of my laptop. ‘I don’t know how much help I can be. Of course, the cases in Bergen were one of the reasons for changes being made in procedures to do with investigating police officers and prosecutors at the end of the eighties, and for the previous organisation, SEFO, being set up to investigate internal issues. But I don’t have any professional expertise beyond what you can read for yourself in books and dissertations about the subject, unfortunately.’
Arne nodded absentmindedly as Frei looked at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Do you know what?’ She twisted the earplug cords between her fingers. ‘Maybe you can help me all the same.’
‘Oh?’ I turned to her again.
‘Perhaps I could interview you.’
‘About what?’
‘I don’t quite know. But maybe you’re more interesting than you first appeared. Maybe I’ll identify a different angle for my assignment, or …’ She hesitated slightly before breaking into a broad smile: ‘Maybe we’re the sort of people who’ll end up falling in love with each other?’
‘Good God, Frei!’ Arne opened out his arms in consternation. He was about to say something further when Frei burst out laughing and turned her face away, switching on her music and opening her book.
‘I’m sorry.’ Arne tasted his coffee, smacking his lips. ‘Well, shall we see if we can wrap this up soon? I’m sure I’m not the only one with more to do today.’
We completed the witness statement and went through the complaint that Arne Villmyr’s oil company had submitted to the deputy judge in the compensation case they had already lost in the District Court. As early as this, I knew that the complaint was going to be shelved. Outside, the sky was clouding over. The flat calm water had taken on a film of broken ripples. I had just packed away my laptop and said thank you for the coffee, and was standing up to leave when Frei pulled out one of her earplugs and looked at me.
‘Well? What do you say?’
‘To what?’
‘You and me at Café Sting, tomorrow at six o’clock?’
‘I … I …’ I was going to say something further, but Frei had already returned the earplug to her ear and her eyes to her book. Arne Villmyr had disappeared into the kitchen.
I could have said so even then. Told her that I knew, that I’d known all along – but I didn’t. Without a word, I simply turned on my heel and left.
FRIDAY
CHAPTER 10
Outside the hotel room I can hear the traffic come to life in the city of Tromsø. My throat is sore and my tongue feels rough and dry. Her scent is gone, leaving only the taste of essential oils and solvents seared into my mouth.
I switch off the alarm clock, get out of bed and make for the coffee machine to pour a cup of the coffee I brewed the previous night. I’ve received a message from Anniken Moritzen asking me to call her when I reach the lighthouse.
An hour later I’m on my way across the Tromsø Bridge in the hire car, heading north. You can see the newly fallen snow edging down the highest mountain peaks, against a backdrop of grey sky and a foreground overlaid with shrivelled leaves and yellow grass.
A few hours and two ferry trips later and I’ve arrived at the main hub of the district, Blekøyvær, which comprises various official buildings, two grocery stores, a garage, a craft shop selling knitting wool with a tanning booth in the basement, and a roundabout.
The local police station occupies part of a square two-storeyed building: green with white window-frames. The influence of Russian post-war architecture is staggering. I learn from the woman in reception that they share it with Health and Social Services on the upper floor. The police station is at ground level.
‘Bendiks Johann Bjørkang,’ says the local police chief, a man in his sixties who speaks with a thick local accent and sports cropped brown hair and a luxuriant moustache. A strong hand grabs mine. ‘You’re Thorkild Aske?’
‘So they say.’
‘Who?’
‘The people who say that kind of thing.’
My attempt at humour leaves him cold, so after running a finger over his chin, the police chief invites me into his office.
‘A kind of … private investigator?’ He sits down in a chair behind the desk and rests his hands on his belly.
‘No,’ I answer, taking the rickety wooden chair, with a folded newspaper shoved beneath one leg, that stands in front of his pale pine desk.
‘What are you doing here, then?’ He drums his fingers on his paunch.
‘I’d prefer to call it a one-off, forced on me by personal circumstances and accepted by yours truly owing to a lack of resistance and acute financial need.’
‘I see.’ Bendiks Johann Bjørkang gives a deep sigh. ‘So you’re here to look for the Danish guy?’
‘Correct.’
‘On behalf of his parents?’
I nod.
‘Well, we’re here to help.’ He raises his eyebrows sceptically. ‘I don’t think you’ll find all that much.’
‘No, nor do I.’
‘The Dane is the only case we have open at the moment. We had a Russian trawler that sank farther north in a storm a month or so ago, but everyone got out safely and apart from that it’s been as quiet as the grave.’ He folds his hands back over his gut. ‘Quiet as the grave.’
A young sergeant in his mid-twenties, also with a moustache, comes in and stares in turn between me and the police chief with an inane expression on his face, as if he has just interrupted his boss in a moment of intimacy and is wondering if he should leave or ask if he can join in.
‘Eh’ – the police chief clears his throat and gestures between the sergeant gaping in the doorway and me – ‘Arnt Eriksen, this is Thorkild Aske. He’s here because of the Danish guy. Arnt abandoned the Tromsø hurly-burly and moved up here nearly a year ago with his girlfriend. He is going to take over the local station after New Year when I retire.’
‘Hi.’ The sergeant wipes his hands on his trousers before offering me a sweaty hand. He gives me a crooked smile in an effort to show his awareness of the burden involved in the dangerous position assigned to him by life. ‘Arnt here.’
‘Yes, and I’m here,’ I riposte, shaking his hand until he takes on an embarrassed look. ‘Well,’ I continue, without letting go his hand, ‘what did the Tromsø hurly-burly involve, then?’
Arnt looks at me and at our hands, expecting me to complete the social etiquette and let his go.
‘The city is probably struggling with the same challenges as other cities,’ he ve
ntures, before clearing his throat. ‘Theft of property and a steady increase in serious drugs crime. We’ve also seen a marked escalation in prostitution in recent years, but—’
‘According to rumour, you used to work in Internal Affairs?’ Bjørkang interrupts in an effort to resume control of the pleasantries. He emphasises used to and nods at his sergeant, who tries to sit down while we’re still holding hands.
‘Rumour?’ I ask, letting go at last.
‘Oh, you know, even though your case escaped media attention, it still ran round the police force like wildfire. It’s not every day that a chief inspector in Internal Affairs is caught red-handed. It caused a furore in certain circles and a round of applause in others, from what I’ve heard.’
‘No doubt,’ I respond.
‘Was there not some business later when one of our lot, someone you’d had put behind bars, tried to get his case taken up again through the legal system because of what had happened?’
‘Did that help?’ I ask tartly.
Bjørkang shakes his head without taking his eyes off me. ‘Did you know that, Arnt?’ The local police chief turns to his sergeant, who has assumed his bewildered, speechless expression again. His head moves back and forth between his boss and me, depending on who is speaking. ‘That these guys here are specially trained to break down police officers who make an arse of themselves while on duty? So just look out.’
Arnt glances at me with a confused expression as Bjørkang bursts into raucous laughter that soon breaks off.
‘We used to call it interviews,’ I say.
‘Yes, of course,’ Bjørkang answers as soon as the phoney laughter peters out. ‘Tell me: who interviewed you when you were arrested?’
‘They brought in an instructor from the Police College,’ I answer. ‘With further education in the UK and an expert in phased police interviews, interview tactics, ethics and communication, psychological influences and a whole lot of memory-jogging techniques. Nice guy.’
‘Arrested?’ Sergeant Eriksen asks, looking as if he has just regained the power of speech.
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Bjørkang winks at me. ‘What is it you actually learn at Police College these days? Thorkild Aske has just been released after serving three years in jail in Stavanger.’
‘You mustn’t forget the time I spent in a psychiatric clinic,’ I say, without taking my eyes off the sergeant.
‘What had you done?’ Arnt asks, clearly disappointed.
‘He killed a girl in a car accident one night after work,’ Bjørkang interjects helpfully. ‘While spaced out on drugs.’
Sergeant Eriksen continues to stare at me, but there is now something different in his eyes. Something I recognise. Disgust at seeing one of his own who has crossed the line to the other side.
‘Gamma-hydroxybutyrate, or GHB,’ I answer, thinking about what Ulf had said in the car the day I was released from prison, that now it was my turn to sit at that end of the table. To be the one who adapts to conditions laid down by others, rather than dictating them. My ‘pilgrimage’ was what he called it. It simply hadn’t dawned on me how much it was going to cost.
‘I assume that was where you acquired that?’ The police chief indicates the scars on my face, stretching out like a spider’s web of fine threads from my eyes down my cheekbone to my mouth.
‘I was lucky. My head hit the steering wheel.’
‘Well,’ Bjørkang begins, now in a gentler tone of voice. ‘What’s happened has happened. The rest will have to be between you and him up there.’
‘The Head of Social Services?’
He smiles wryly. ‘We’re not here to dole out blame, but I’m a man who likes to know who I’m dealing with.’ He nods at his sergeant, Arnt, as if to tell him that this, what he is witness to now, is what is called top-level people-management. ‘I’m also of the persuasion that a man who has served his punishment is a man with a clean sheet. If I didn’t believe that, I would have nothing to do with you.’
Bjørkang rises from his chair and sends his sergeant out with an authoritative gesture. ‘OK, if the courtesies are over.’ He makes a sign for us to go. ‘Let’s go out to Skjellvik and take a look at the Danish guy’s boat then, before the day runs away from us entirely.’
We leave the local police station and get into a police vehicle. I leave the hire car behind. It’s raining: the frozen ground is glistening where raindrops strike and the wind gusts through leaves that still cling to branches in the chill October air. Blue-black clouds are drifting in from sea.
‘The dark time,’ Sergeant Eriksen says, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. ‘Not everyone copes with it too well.’
CHAPTER 11
The journey to the island runs through a steep-sided valley before the bumpy road returns us to the sea. On the way we pass the occasional postwar house clad in green, white or yellow fibre-cement weatherboards and corrugated iron roofs. Some still have lights shining in the windows, and there are strips of furrowed fields, but most of them were abandoned and surrendered long ago to wind and weather.
Eventually the tarmac runs out too in favour of gravel, until we crest a hilltop that offers a panoramic view over a wide bay with scattered settlements.
‘Do you dive?’ The sergeant’s face appears in the rear-view mirror.
‘What?’
‘I asked if you dive.’
Bjørkang shakes his head angrily.
‘What is it?’ the sergeant asks, his voice fracturing with dismay.
‘The man’s just out of jail, for God’s sake. Where do you think he’s been diving?’ Bjørkang takes off his police cap and slicks back some wisps of hair. ‘What sort of police work is that, eh?’
‘At Haakonsvern,’ I say after a pause. ‘And two or three times since then.’
The sergeant’s eyes have immediately returned to the rear-view mirror. ‘Well,’ he says eagerly, ‘what did you think?’
‘Hated it,’ I answer, and notice the fire in the young sergeant’s eyes fade out for the second time in less than a minute.
Right at the summit of the hill, there is a dark brown building and a car park, as well as a smaller, oblong building divided into three apartments.
‘Skjellviktun Residential Centre,’ Bjørkang says as we drive past. ‘It’s been there since the war. It was a barracks for the Krauts in this area.’
‘Krauts?’
‘The Germans,’ Arnt throws in, glancing back at me in the mirror again. ‘Did your family fight in the war?’
‘Not at all,’ I answer, scanning the way the sea interweaves with the landscape. On an islet farther out I spot a white building and an eight-sided lighthouse tower on a promontory close by.
‘Rasmus Moritzen’s lighthouse.’ Bjørkang points to a cluster of boathouses at the foot of the bay. ‘His boat is in one of those boathouses there.’
The wind cuts through our clothes, and beyond us the waves slap lazily together, twisting in billows of white. Fat trusses of seaweed stretch green tentacles across the pebbles on the shore. We trudge down to the boathouse with hands clamped tightly on our jacket collars, heads bowed against the rain. It’s difficult to walk on the slippery stones, and I feel the muscles in my legs and up towards the small of my back flexing with the strain.
‘The boat drifted in to land on Tuesday morning. We assume he was diving out beside Øyet at the weekend. His mother told us when she was up here that she’d spoken to him on Friday, but he hadn’t answered when she called again on Sunday afternoon.’ Bjørkang shakes his head as we approach the boathouse, where a man slightly younger than me is waiting in the doorway.
‘You took your time,’ the man says in an American accent, blowing on his hands. He is wearing a brown leather jacket with a wool collar of the type favoured by British pilots in the Second World War. He has a knitted hat on his head with the words No Bullying on it, and black leather gloves tucked under his arm. ‘I suppose it was Arnt who did the driving?’
‘Harvey, th
is is Thorkild Aske. He’s here on behalf of the missing Danish guy’s parents.’ Bjørkang turns to me. ‘And this is Harvey Nielsen. We need to see the Dane’s boat in his boathouse.’
Harvey Nielsen holds out his hand. He is tall and dark, with dimples that contract into snow crystals when he smiles. ‘Have you told him about the lighthouse?’
‘No,’ Arnt looks sanctimoniously at Harvey, towering a whole head above him. ‘We haven’t told him anything.’
Harvey Nielsen puts a powerful hand around my neck and turns me to the right as he points at the rocky slopes out beside the lighthouse. ‘Hey! You’ll get the entire story from me, since you ask so nicely.’ Revealing his teeth, he tightens his grip around my neck.
‘Go ahead.’
‘It seems that some rich folk from the south came up here in the eighties to transform the whole little island into a conference centre for yuppies. They converted the old keeper’s quarters and added a restaurant and bar, their own computer suite and gymnasium. Yes, and even an enormous disco in the basement.’
‘Then the money ran out only a year after the business was launched,’ Bjørkang interjects, while Arnt fiddles with his moustache, as if to assure himself that the wind hasn’t blown it off. ‘And the owners set fire to the main building when they didn’t succeed in selling it, in a botched insurance scam.’
‘Since then, it has lain empty.’ Harvey takes up the thread. ‘Until the Danish guy arrived and began to renovate it last summer.’
‘An activity hotel,’ the local police chief snorts. ‘What on earth is that?’
‘He was capable. I was out there and had a look. He’d taken an old Nordland boat and converted it into a table, and the bar …’ Harvey gives a wide grin. ‘The bar is absolutely fabulous.’
‘I’d never have gone out there on my own,’ Arnt mumbles as he gazes out at the lighthouse.
‘Well, we’ll have to take a look at that boat before it gets dark.’ Bjørkang slaps Sergeant Eriksen on the back and steps inside the boathouse with Harvey and me trailing behind him.
I Will Miss You Tomorrow Page 4