Sister

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  29

  In the doorway was Matilde. She was holding an ice-cream cornet in each hand.

  ‘Nougat or chocolate sprinkles?’

  ‘Chocolate.’

  ‘I knew it.’

  The cornet with chocolate sprinkles was wrapped in a serviette. She handed it to him and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘Do you know how I knew?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘You’re a Capricorn. And when I called you earlier today I was in Bergkristallen, the street in Lambertseter. And then I remembered that the right crystals or minerals for your sign are quartz and onyx. Quartz can sparkle in a variety of colours. But the onyx colour is like chocolate.’

  ‘You’re good,’ he said, leaning back. ‘I didn’t see you once.’

  ‘You didn’t know I was good?’ she said, gripping the muzzleloader pistol that functioned as a paperweight.

  ‘Actually I like strawberry sprinkles best,’ she said and pointed the pistol at the office workers across the street. ‘There’s something about artifice that floats my boat. Artificial silk, artificial fur, artificial sweets. But they only had nougat.’

  ‘Put it down,’ Frank said, pointing to a woman in an office across the street. She had got to her feet and was peering nervously in their direction. ‘They don’t know it’s sealed with lead.’

  Matilde put down the pistol and waved to the woman in the window.

  ‘So, tell me more,’ he said. ‘Where did Rolf Myhre go?’

  ‘He went for a walk – from Bjørvika, along the docks, past Vippetangen peninsula and the fishermen on Akershus quay – he stopped and exchanged a few words with some of the men on the sailing boats there. He knew several of them. At any rate, he greeted them. He continued back to City Hall quay. There he caught the boat to Gressholmen island.’

  ‘What did he do there?’

  ‘Went in the restaurant, Gressholmen kro. He had a mug of beer and talked to a guy I’d guess was the owner. A big, fat man. Afterwards he caught another boat. To Nakholmen. He visited a man in a cabin there. A man who looks like Frank Sinatra and whose name is Bernt Weddevåg.’

  ‘How did you find out his name?’

  ‘It was on a sign.’

  ‘What did they do in the cabin?’

  ‘They patted each other on the back like old pals. Sat down on the veranda to chat. By that time I’d lost interest and caught the boat back and bought ice creams for us.’

  Her phone rang.

  ‘It’s Guri,’ she said excitedly and put the phone to her ear. ‘Hi, where’ve you been?’ She left the room.

  Shortly afterwards she poked her head in again – with the phone held to her chest.

  ‘I’m off to meet Guri. I’ll ring you.’

  With that she was gone.

  30

  Frank made a note of the name – Bernt Weddevåg.

  He ate the rest of the ice cream. Then he lifted his phone. Rang the last number and got an answer at once. ‘Nicolai Smith Falck here.’

  ‘Hi Nicolai. Frank Frølich.’

  ‘Hi there.’

  ‘I Googled you and saw that you’d written quite a bit about the Sea Breeze in a newspaper series, a while back.’

  ‘Yes, I did. Dagbladet even presented it at an investigative journalism conference.’

  ‘Did you interview Fredrik Andersen in this regard?’

  ‘In this regard he and I were competitors.’

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  ‘He wrote about the case. I wrote about the case. I assume we used the same sources.’

  ‘Did you reach the same conclusions?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I think he allowed himself to be led by conspiracy theories more than I did.’

  ‘As an ex-policeman I ought to be flattered. It’s not often that the tabloid press bats for the state machinery.’

  ‘To be honest, I have no idea what Andersen’s conclusions were. I never read his book. But what can you say about the murder?’

  ‘Nothing more than I’ve read in the papers. You probably know more than me.’

  ‘It’s rumoured someone hired you to carry out surveillance on Andersen. Have you any comment to make?’

  ‘Before I answer I’d like to know who said what.’

  There was a brief silence. He could hear the journalist thinking and weighing the odds before he answered: ‘I was tipped off by an ex-colleague of yours.’

  ‘Who?’

  This time the silence was longer, and Frank was about to abandon the conversation when the journalist cleared his throat and said:

  ‘Bjørn Thyness. What can you give me in return?’

  The answer nettled him. He had never had a very high opinion of Nicolai Smith Falck, but he hadn’t imagined he would serve up the name of a source on a silver platter. Thyness also annoyed him – the fact that he had voluntarily talked about Frank and Andersen to the journo, but didn’t want to talk to him.

  ‘Still there?’ the journalist said. ‘What can you give me in return?’

  ‘No one hired me to do surveillance on Andersen. Andersen himself came to me and hired me for an assignment.’

  ‘What kind of assignment?’

  ‘I can’t say any more about that case.’

  ‘Surely you can give me a hint? After all, I blew my source.’

  ‘It’s about asylum seekers. Andersen was writing a book about immigrants.’

  ‘OK.’ Falck suddenly seemed excited. ‘Bjørn works in the immigration unit. Is there a connection – between Andersen and the unit?’

  The journo and Thyness were on first-name terms, Frank thought, and said:

  ‘I have no idea. The person who might be able to answer that question is Bjørn Thyness.’

  After he rang off he sat thinking. Bjørn Thyness manipulated and schemed, as though Frank were a piece in some game.

  Was this a kick in the bollocks for an ex-colleague who had once had a relationship with his partner?

  Bjørn had never been a good guy, but the idea still seemed unlikely.

  He hadn’t seen either Bjørn or Gøril for at least a year. Then you make a short phone call. And this drops on you.

  There was only one thing to do. He would have to talk to Bjørn again.

  He took a deep breath and found Bjørn’s number. It rang for an eternity.

  He put down the phone. Who could he ask then? Not a word would pass Gunnarstranda’s lips, there was no doubt about that. But there were others. He seemed to remember that Bjørn and Lena Stigersand had worked together quite a lot.

  31

  Half an hour later Frank walked through the door of Grand Pizza in Brugata, Lena Stigersand’s first choice for fast food. She hadn’t arrived yet. He was the only customer and stood watching the man behind the counter filling a pitta bread with meat, vegetables and a sauce, then Frank helped himself to a Coke from the display fridge, found a plastic fork on the counter, wriggled up onto a stool by the window and began to eat. The pitta bread was freshly toasted with a nice crust, and the meat was juicy. He could understand why this place was Lena’s first choice.

  A few minutes later she was leaning against the counter. She appeared to have come from a fitness session, wearing leggings, a pale sweater and yellow trainers. She ordered the same kebab as he had.

  He had swallowed the last bite when she sat down on the stool next to him.

  ‘I’ve just finished,’ Frank said.

  ‘Have a coffee,’ Lena said, tucking in.

  He stood up, but the man behind the counter had overheard the conversation. ‘Turkish coffee?’

  ‘Cortado, please.’

  He sat down again.

  ‘How’s business?’ Lena asked, and sipped her Coke.

  ‘I take one day at a time.’

  ‘Bit delicate, you being a witness in the Fredrik Andersen case,’ she said.

  ‘Gunnarstranda doesn’t like it?’

  She shrugged.
‘Never easy to say what he likes or doesn’t like. But he’s annoyed that you don’t want to say what kind of assignment it was that Andersen gave you.’

  ‘Hardly know myself. I told him all I know.’

  The man came with the coffee.

  Lena waited until the man had returned to his position behind the counter. ‘Why did you want to meet?’

  ‘I’d like to ask you a favour.’

  ‘What sort?’ she said quickly, with a suspicious frown.

  ‘And I was wondering if it was you who put a memory stick in my post box.’

  ‘No. Why would I?’

  ‘There were police documents in it.’

  ‘New or old?’

  ‘1988.’

  ‘My guess is they weren’t confidential. You can find them in the Public Records Office.’

  ‘How’s the Andersen case going?’

  Lena chewed without answering.

  ‘You’re on the team, aren’t you?’

  ‘For as long as it lasts. I’m writing job applications at the moment.’

  ‘You’re unhappy there?’

  ‘I’ve applied for several posts. They’ve chosen a man every time. I’m at least as well or better qualified. I’m pretty fed up.’

  ‘What are you applying for now?’

  ‘There’s a job going in Kripos.’

  ‘You’ll get it.’

  ‘You can’t say that. I’m still a woman.’

  ‘But you’ve got the best CV. Are there any other applicants?’

  ‘Bound to be. But if they choose someone else too, I’ll do what you did and stop.’

  They sat in silence for a while. Lena finished her kebab. Frank drained his coffee.

  She pushed her plate away and regarded him with an expectant expression.

  ‘Did Gunnarstranda tell you I saw Bjørn Thyness keeping Andersen’s place under surveillance?’

  She nodded. ‘So far that’s off the record.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It comes from you and you haven’t made a formal statement.’

  ‘Was there a case against Andersen?’

  Lena drank her Coke. Put down the bottle. ‘We’re keeping our minds open, as they say. What I can tell you is that Bjørn’s alleged surveillance isn’t our most interesting line of enquiry.’

  He waited for her to carry on. But she didn’t.

  ‘I still think Andersen must’ve had something on Thyness,’ he said.

  Lena shook her head. ‘You don’t know what line we’re pursuing, and in any case I can’t tell you.’

  ‘OK. These are my thoughts: Probably no one in-house was working against Andersen. However, the fact is that Thyness was spying on the man. I saw that with my own eyes. Why would he do that if he hadn’t had a report or a tip-off?’

  ‘Because the immigration unit has its own life to lead and works on cases the rest of us are neither interested in or know about.’

  ‘I ring Bjørn and he doesn’t pick up.’

  ‘If you were messing about with his partner, that’s not altogether surprising.’

  ‘Who says I was messing about with his partner?’

  ‘It’s a rumour I’ve heard.’

  Lena sent him an angled look, with an almost gloating smile on her lips.

  ‘Gøril and I finished long before those two got together,’ Frank said. ‘And I never “messed about” with her.’

  Lena was still smiling. ‘That’s the way Bjørn is,’ she said. ‘He’s VERY jealous.’

  ‘I was called by a journo. He asked me about my relationship with Andersen. He knew about things I’ve only told the police. I’ve worked out who his source is. It’s Bjørn Thyness. But he doesn’t answer the phone to me.’

  ‘Things are pretty turbulent between him and Gøril at the moment. Apparently they were rowing and Gøril said something nice about you to rub a little salt into his macho-man wound. My guess is it’s that simple.’

  Frank gave this some thought. Could it be so simple? Or was it connected with Andersen?

  Lena watched him again. ‘Why are you asking me of all people about this?’

  ‘I thought you knew Bjørn.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know Bjørn any better than I know you.’

  She sat in silence, gazing out of the window as she finished chewing. At length she rolled up her serviette. ‘If Bjørn’s pissing you about and you’re wondering why, I think you’ll have to go and ask him.’

  ‘But he doesn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Nothing I can do about that.’

  Lena gathered her things ready to leave.

  ‘I only need to know where I can find him,’ Frank said.

  ‘The immigration unit’s in Økern. You’ll find him there, I reckon.’

  ‘I’d prefer not to go there. It’s too official.’

  ‘Go to his house then. If you’re lucky you’ll find Gøril alone there.’

  ‘Very droll.’

  Lena slid down off the stool. ‘I have to go to Økern anyway. But not to talk to Bjørn.’

  She left.

  Frank stayed where he was, watching people stream past the windows. He had two assignments and they had both come to a standstill. He hadn’t the slightest idea how to proceed with either of them.

  32

  Frank spent the evening watching a couple of episodes of Breaking Bad. By the end he realised he had seen both of them before. Switched off the television when it was almost midnight. Not much else to do but go to bed.

  Lena rang as he was about to clean his teeth.

  He abandoned his dental ablutions, got dressed again and went out to his Mini Cooper.

  It was still light outside, even if it was past midnight. He went through the lights in Alexander Kiellands plass at just before one. Found a parking spot at the bottom of Waldemar Thranes gate opposite Tranen bakery and the asylum-seekers centre. Tipped his seat back and prepared to wait.

  He dropped off. But he never slept soundly sitting upright. So he quickly came to when the procession roared past.

  He got out of his car and watched.

  Bearing in mind the intensity, the speed and the pounding of feet, you could be forgiven for thinking a heavily armed Mafia Don was being arrested. But the targets were children. He caught a brief glimpse of Bjørn’s tall figure and crew cut on the way into the main entrance. Frølich followed and had to go past a skinny, semi-naked boy who was trembling as if he had just fallen through ice: cowering, bent forward, with a cuddly toy in his hand, a pink cloth pig. A uniformed woman dragged the boy and lifted him into one of the police cars along with a shabby wheelie bag. The boy was still wearing only pyjama trousers and his chest was bare.

  Presumably this kind of action suited Bjørn down to the ground. He got an adrenaline kick if all the external symbols harmonised with the superiority he felt when exercising power over the weak.

  Then the tall figure came back and down the stairs. Bjørn was speaking on a walkie-talkie; he rang off and slipped it onto his belt.

  ‘Bjørn!’

  Bjørn turned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You won’t take my calls.’

  ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘They’re children. They won’t be upset if you and I talk for two minutes.’

  ‘They’re not children. They lie about their ages, they lie about their identities, they lie about not having parents, they lie—’

  ‘This is about Fredrik Andersen. I was wondering what you and the immigration unit have on him.’

  ‘And why were you wondering?’

  ‘I have the feeling you’re freelancing.’

  ‘Freelancing? That’s what you do. I don’t do any freelancing.’

  ‘Why do you ring journalists and tell them rubbish about me and Andersen?’

  Thyness stopped for two seconds. Eyed Frølich, at a loss for words, then turned his back on him and was gone. The next moment two male officers dragged a girl each out of the door. They couldn’t ha
ve been more than ten years old. They were struggling and screaming with fear. They still had nighties on under their jackets.

  Frølich followed Bjørn to the lead car.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what your agenda is with respect to me and Andersen. But I’ll find out.’

  Bjørn shook his head and grinned.

  ‘I’d like to ask you a favour anyway.’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Aisha Bashur.’

  Thyness stopped and turned to him.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘An asylum seeker you picked up from a centre in Hobøl the other day. She was taken to Trandum. Slightly built girl from Iraq – maybe eighteen, nineteen years old.’

  ‘Sure of the name?’

  ‘Yes. Aisha Bashur.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I need to talk to her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s confidential.’

  Bjørn Thyness sneered. ‘Shame about that. The girls who were taken from the Hobøl centre were deported today. That would apply to the one you call Aisha Bashur. If I’d known where to, I would’ve told you, just to get rid of you.’

  Thyness walked on.

  Frølich followed.

  Thyness turned on his heel. ‘You still here?’

  Frølich could feel himself getting irritated by Thyness’s arrogance. He said:

  ‘You were one of the last people to see Andersen alive.’

  A searchlight behind Bjørn’s back made it difficult for Frølich to read his face.

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re deafer than I thought.’

  Bjørn’s face came closer. ‘I’ve never been any more interested in Fredrik Andersen than I am in your mother-in-law, if you have one. Go home and don’t bother your little head with things you don’t understand.’ He opened a car door.

  ‘Say hi to Gøril from me. For some strange reason I’ve been thinking about her more and more recently.’

  It was childish. However, it was Bjørn, after all, who had ratcheted up the aggro.

  Bjørn was already in the car. Frølich leaned in to speak. Bjørn slapped his face and quickly closed the door.

  The reaction was comical. But Frølich wasn’t smiling as the cars left. The lead car was now the last in the procession of three. They turned into the road.