They were gone, leaving behind them night and silence. Their operation was over.
On the front steps sat a lone figure in a yellow hi-vis vest.
She had her face buried in her hands.
Frank Frølich walked up to her.
She raised her head. She looked Norwegian, was in her sixties and wore glasses. Her face was grimy with tears. ‘You saw what happened,’ she said. ‘You saw what they did to the children.’
Frank didn’t reply.
The woman was sobbing. Her body rocked to and fro.
Frank turned and walked to his car.
It was almost three o’clock in the morning. The police had carried out what they would probably call a successful operation. As for Frank, he was no further on. At that moment his phone rang.
33
‘Hi Frank. Guri Sekkelsten here.’
‘Hi.’
‘I’m so glad you answered. I was afraid you were in bed, asleep.’
She gave a short, somewhat embarrassed chuckle. ‘Or were you? Did I wake you?’
‘No, I wasn’t. It’s fine.’
‘Sorry if this is inconvenient. I wouldn’t have rung if it wasn’t important,’ she said.
‘Right.’
‘I managed to contact the writer, Fredrik Andersen.’
He let the information sink in, thinking: I should never have told her his name. Never.
‘He and I met that evening.’
‘You met Andersen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You did. OK,’ he said, thinking: She was with Andersen shortly before he was killed.
‘Along with Sheyma,’ she said.
‘The sister?’
‘Something’s not right there.’
‘OK, let me get this clear. You, Andersen and Sheyma, the woman I was meant to find, you three met that evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘At a restaurant, some tarted-up place. She wanted to go there, Sheyma. It’s her style. But what’s so crazy is that she denies knowing Aisha. She says Aisha’s lying, that the whole story is a figment of her imagination.’
‘What’s more important,’ Frank said, ‘is that Andersen was killed afterwards. You’re one of the last people to see the man alive.’
‘I think about that all the time. I’m afraid. And I reckon I have good reason to be.’
‘Why?’
There was a silence. Frank waited for a reply. None came. He said:
‘You have to talk to the police.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t want to talk to the police.’
‘But why not?’
Again there was a silence, longer this time.
‘Can we meet?’ she said at length. ‘It’s easier to explain things when you can see who you’re talking to.’
‘When?’
‘Preferably as soon as possible.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m out of town, but I’ve got a car. I have to pop back home. I daren’t sleep there anymore. After what’s happened to Andersen, I’ve been staying with an aunt. But I have to go home to pick up some clothes.’
‘We can meet there,’ he said. ‘At your place. What’s the address?’
34
Frank got into his car and started to tap Guri’s address into the satnav.
The address came up automatically. That made him think twice. He had put in the address once before. Ivar Sekkelsten and Guri Sekkelsten. She had the same address as the small-time crook who pinched beer and cigarettes from his employer. Matilde hadn’t told him Guri was married. So Ivar and Guri were related – brother and sister.
Well, there wasn’t much he could do about that. He put his car into gear. Then the phone rang again.
It was Gunnarstranda.
‘We have to talk. Where are you?’
‘Do you know what time it is?’
There was a silence and then Gunnarstranda gave a low curse. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late. Did I wake you?’
‘No, I’m out on a job.’
‘When can you be here? At police HQ?’
Frølich hesitated. ‘As I said, I’m busy right now. I’ll be a few hours.’
He cast a quick glance at his watch. It was about seventy kilometres to where Guri lived. A good hour’s drive each way, he calculated. Add an hour, plus a bit more on the way back because of the rush hour. How long would he and Guri talk for? Half an hour? An hour?
Actually he ought to open up to Gunnarstranda here and now and leave Guri to him. However, he had promised her not to get the police involved. He looked at his watch again.
‘Police HQ? I’d guess between seven and eight.’
‘See you then. Report to reception,’ Gunnarstranda said and rang off.
35
On the E6 Frank kept his foot down. It was a summer’s night and there was barely any traffic. He met the occasional semi-trailer and overtook various other vehicles. At Råde he turned off and continued on smaller roads towards Missingmyr. The light was soft and clear, and he had the sense that he owned the road, driving alone along the straight stretches through the forest. It was only when he went around the bends beside Lake Sæby that there was any oncoming traffic. He saw a Volvo estate and it seemed to be red. It passed him. Involuntarily, he slowed down. He watched the car disappearing in his rear-view mirror. The Volvo had only one rear light working. It had to be Guri’s car. He cast a glance at the satnav. There were fewer than five kilometres to her house. Within a radius of five kilometres how many red Volvos are there on the road at four in the morning? With only one rear light working?
Well, they had made an arrangement. If she had wanted to cancel it, she would have rung. After all, she knew he was coming.
He carried on and stopped in the same place he had parked the car twice earlier, at the bus stop by the drive. He got out of the car and peered between the trees.
He closed the car door. It sounded like an immense bang in the night stillness.
This was a much more verdant time of the year than his last visit. But the smallholding was the same. The main house still had two windows boarded up and green stains on the wood panelling. The crooked barn was still tethered to a telephone mast by a ratchet strap.
He checked his watch. A quarter to four. The morning was lighter now. The edge of the sky almost purple. At least in one of the windows in the house there was light.
He walked slowly up to it.
The land on the smallholding was overgrown with weeds and small wisps of sallow, alder and birch, which in a few years would form impenetrable scrub on rich soil. There was a little greenhouse next to the main house. The door was open. There were three or four potted tomato plants inside. A kind of pavilion had been rigged up on the veranda, a party tent with a few garden chairs in front of a globe-shaped cooking grill.
Against the house wall was a kayak he had seen before. But Guri’s car was nowhere to be seen.
Guri had said she had a car when she rang. He thought about the Volvo he had passed a few minutes ago. He didn’t like the gut feeling he was getting.
Had she asked him to come all this way out here only to leave before he had arrived?
He walked over to the front door. Still no proper bell. Only the same sheep bell hanging from a cord by the door. He rang. Nothing happened.
He rang again.
Then the door slipped open a few centimetres. It wasn’t locked. And the spring on the handle must have been broken because it was hanging loose.
‘Hello? Guri?’
No answer.
He knocked on the door. There was still total silence except for something that sounded like a distant wheeze. He listened carefully.
Could she have dropped by to collect her clothes and then driven off without waiting for him?
Wouldn’t she have locked the door after her?
The low whistle continued unabated.
He pushed open
the front door and entered.
The light was on in the hallway. There were several pairs of shoes on the floor. Women’s shoes with high heels. The whistling sound was getting louder. He pushed open the door leading to the kitchen. The light was off here. Blue cabinet doors and a white worktop. A stove with a ceramic hob. On it an old-fashioned kettle was boiling. That was where the whistling was coming from. Steam was coming through the spout. Condensation had begun to settle on the window. Frank took the kettle off the hob. It weighed very little in his hand; there was almost no water left. The whistling stopped. He switched off the stove.
One door led further into the house. He knocked without getting any response. He entered a small square room and pressed the light switch by the door. A wooden chandelier lit up. The person who lived here had very similar taste to Matilde. A vinyl record collection. A gramophone. Furniture that was evocative of another time. Only the ticking of an old-fashioned alarm clock on the windowsill could be heard.
A door led into another small room. Here the light was on, a white globe lamp hanging from the ceiling. There was a flat screen on the wall. Two speakers on either side. A window blind drawn. This was a home cinema. A sofa and a table, bowls with the remains of crisps and some Twist chocolates. No DVDs anywhere. A router with two aerials flashed from the windowsill.
He heard a thud somewhere else in the house. As though a door had slammed.
He stood motionless and listened. But heard nothing else.
He opened another door and was back in the little hallway. That was the ground floor covered.
Which door had slammed?
He gazed at the front door. Then he looked up the stairs leading to the first floor.
He cleared his throat. ‘Hello?’
Not a sound.
‘Guri?’
The same silence.
He gripped the handle, opened the front door a few centimetres and stared out. Everything was as it had been a few minutes ago. If someone had been in the house and had left, they had vanished.
Could the sound have come from the floor above?
He closed the door and turned to the stairs. Peered up. All he could see was the staircase and the banisters. He grasped the handrail and set off.
36
A step groaned as he pressed down his foot. He stopped and listened. Feeling like a burglar, he clung closer to the wall and tried to tread lightly. But it wasn’t possible to make no sound. The stairs creaked with every movement he made.
At the top he stopped.
He found himself at the end of a corridor with four doors. One was open and led into a bathroom. He glanced in. A bath with a shower curtain, toilet, sink and a washing machine. A shelf crammed with shampoos and creams. The tap over the sink dripped.
He knocked on the adjacent door.
No reaction.
He opened the door.
The room was decorated in a feminine way. The sloping ceiling made the room feel small and intimate. A dressing table with an embroidered cloth and small framed pictures. Guri in a bikini. Guri and a dark-haired man arm in arm. Guri on a horse.
There was an electric alarm clock on the bedside table. The second hand was slowly passing the figure seven.
A window was ajar. The opening must have made a draught, Frank thought.
There was a broad bed under the window. On the opposite wall was a wardrobe. Three doors, one with a mirror. He walked over and opened the wardrobe. Dresses on hangers inside, a wetsuit he recognised. There was also a section of drawers filled with nylons, tops and underwear.
He left the room and went into the next. It had to be some kind of guest room. There was a bed with a bare mattress. The dresser by the wall had four empty drawers. A wardrobe with no clothes in. Only loose clothes hangers. The window was covered with plywood.
He went out and turned to the last door. Hesitated in front of it. He knocked, but there was no reaction. He shoved the door open. A smell of after-shave hung in the air. A bed hugged one sloping wall. On it a duvet. By the bed on the floor there were two dumbbells. A desk with no drawers was placed against one wall. Someone had slept here not too long ago.
A clinking sound made him spin round.
He left the room and stopped by the bathroom door. The shower curtain. It was moving slightly. He coughed. No response. He broke into a sweat. Forced himself to cross the threshold and step in.
He stared at the curtain, which was perfectly still now.
He stretched out an arm. Not wishing to go too close. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. Stepped to the side. Made a lunge and pulled the curtain back. Simultaneously ducking.
He looked down into an empty bath.
Then there was another thud. A door being closed on the floor below. That had to be someone.
‘Hello,’ he said, feeling stupid when no one answered.
He went to the small bathroom window and looked out.
There was no one to be seen. The only difference was the light. A bright morning sun hung low in the sky, making the leaves on the trees glisten. He allowed his eyes to wander across to the crooked barn with the bulging wooden cladding.
What were the sounds he had heard? A cellar door banging in the wind?
He went downstairs. Stood in the little hallway looking into the kitchen. Under the kitchen table there was a trapdoor in the floor.
37
He went in, pulled the table to one side and lifted the trapdoor, which had hinges at one end. A wooden staircase led down into the darkness. Holding the door with one hand, he crouched down, rummaged for his phone and switched on the torch function. He could make out an earthen floor and the supports for some shelving down below. Attached under the trapdoor was a loose purpose-made bar to keep it open. He fiddled with it and got the trap door to stay upright. Frank straightened up and went backwards down the ladder. It was a rickety affair and swayed under his weight. He stretched out a leg so that his foot could search for the next step. Found it and placed his weight on it. Then the step broke. Panic-stricken, he wafted his hands around to find something to hold onto and pulled down the bar. The trapdoor slammed shut. He fell on his back, knocking the air out of his lungs. He gasped. It was pitch-black inside. He couldn’t see a thing. Panicked. Imagining rats and snakes on the earthen floor. Jumped to his feet, hitting his head hard. He fell back down again, but struggled up. He fumbled in his pockets for his phone. Couldn’t find it. Either he had lost it in the fall or it was on the kitchen floor.
He stood still, listening in the darkness. No sounds. He lifted his hands and groped around him.
His hands found a wall, a shelf. He felt his way along the shelf. Found the ladder. Searched with his hands and found the broken step. Lifted his foot and felt a step that held. Dragged himself up. Pushed at the trapdoor, which refused to budge. He pushed. But the trapdoor didn’t give.
He was sweating. Hyperventilating. Was someone standing on the trapdoor? Someone who wanted to keep him down here?
He pushed again. It was like pushing a concrete block. The trapdoor didn’t move.
He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and fumbled around to find the cracks between the door and the floor. Found them and finally realised what he had been doing wrong. He had been pushing the floor and not the door. He took a new grip. The trapdoor opened with a bang.
The phone was nearby on the kitchen floor.
Seconds later he was up. Brushed the dust and dead insects off his clothes, closed the trapdoor, pushed the table back to its original position and couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.
On the front doorstep he stood gasping for air.
The place seemed as abandoned as before. Although he had actually heard a door bang.
He tried closing the front door behind him to compare that with the sound he had heard in the house.
Closed it once again. It might have been the sound he had heard. He tried the door handle. The spring was weak. The strike plate from the lock was embedded in the lock-case.
It could have been the wind playing with the door.
Even if Guri’s car still wasn’t anywhere to be seen, the kettle on the hob meant that she wasn’t far away.
He set off from the front door and crossed the yard towards the barn. Observed the tarpaulin covering the opening in the wall. It was moving slightly.
Could be the wind.
He stopped. Moistened his index finger in his mouth and held it in the air. A slight chill on his finger told him there was a light wind from the west. He looked at the tarpaulin again. Now it was completely still.
Must be the wind.
38
He walked over to the barn, took hold of the tarpaulin and moved it aside. Went in. There was a rustle as the tarpaulin slipped back and covered the opening behind him.
It wasn’t completely dark inside. The dim light was created by narrow gaps between the boards in the cladding. There were no boxes of goods stored here anymore. The large space was almost empty. There were three rectangular bales of hay in one corner. An axe was lodged in a chopping block. Some logs lay around on the floor.
He stood still again and listened. What was that noise? It sounded like a plank creaking. But it didn’t come from this room. On the wall opposite the tarpaulin was a low opening in the cobwork. He went to the opening, bent down and wriggled through. Straightened up again.
All the walls here were cogged timber.
He heard the sound again. A soft creaking.
He stood still, all his senses sharpened. Suddenly wishing he hadn’t left the axe in the chopping block behind him.
Why did he wish that? There was nothing unusual to be seen in this large space. An aluminium ladder, the length of one wall. In the corner, an old-fashioned cart with two immense wooden wheels.
He felt something wet drip onto his hair.
Another droplet fell on him.
He raised his hand and smelt the moisture, looked at his finger. A colourless liquid.
He leaned back. Looked up. And found himself staring at two bare feet. A drop fell from one foot and landed on his forehead.
He didn’t move, he observed and listened. It was her body that was making the noise. It was swinging gently from the beam where a rope was tied. What was dripping from her feet had to be urine.
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