He hovered in the borderland between sleeping and waking. Slowly his consciousness surfaced into the real world. He lay with his eyes closed.
The duvet rustled. He assumed she was raising herself onto her elbows. Her hair tickled. She ran a finger down the bridge of his nose. Eyes still closed, he asked:
‘Have I been asleep long?’
‘Half an hour maybe.’
‘What did you and Guri talk about?’
‘Yesterday?’
‘When you met her.’
‘She was completely different.’
‘In what way?’
‘Worked up. Jumpy. She’d panicked when she heard what had happened to the writer. She’d gone to stay with an aunt who lives on the Swedish border, in Ørje. She planned to stay there for a while. I asked her why. She said it was because she was sure no one would find her there. “Who’s trying to find you,” I asked. “Who are you frightened of? Who’s after you?” But she pretended she hadn’t heard me. All she said was that she’d met the sister you were supposed to be looking for.’
Frank opened his eyes.
A daddy-long-legs slowly moved up from the windowsill to the ceiling and towards the base of the lamp.
‘She said the same to me on the phone,’ he said with a deep intake of breath.
‘What is it?’
Guri had apparently neglected to tell them some very important things, he thought. She had kept things back from him and Matilde. He cleared his throat:
‘I should never have given her the writer’s name.’
‘Why?’
‘Because she contacted him as a result. And now she’s dead.’
Matilde sat up. ‘I don’t like you talking like that.’
She wrapped the duvet around her.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Did she say how she managed to get in touch with the writer?’
‘He had a desk in the House of Literature.’
It was his turn to sit up. ‘How did she find that out?’
‘She went there to ask after him. He had office space there. It was pure luck. Guri had told him about Aisha, how they had to find her sister urgently because Aisha was in Trandum prison. The writer thought someone had been pulling the wool over her eyes though and that Aisha wasn’t telling the truth. He’d been very arrogant and had told her to forget the whole business.’
The House of Literature, Frank mused. Why hadn’t he thought of that himself?
‘What did she do?’
‘She caught a bus home. And while she was on the bus, her phone rang. It was the writer. He wanted to meet her again. Guri said: “I’m on the bus and I live quite a long way away.” The writer said: “I’ll buy you dinner. Come back to town.” He said it was very important that they talked. So she got off the bus and caught another one back to Oslo. They met in a very fancy restaurant. Sheyma was there as well. She was waiting for them at the restaurant. It turned out that it had been Sheyma who’d made the writer arrange the meeting because she wanted to talk to Guri and find out more about Aisha. Sheyma had said she had several sisters. But not one called Aisha. And all her sisters were older than her. She and the writer were very keen to find out who Aisha was and where she could’ve got the story about a sister from. The writer wanted to know where he could find Aisha to talk to her. Guri said Aisha was in Trandum, so good luck, the walls there were higher than around Ullersmo prison. Guri was quite put out when Sheyma said she wasn’t related to Aisha. Guri couldn’t understand it.’
Matilde reached out for a cigarette on the bedside table.
Frank got up, stretched for the daddy-long-legs, held it in his hand, went to the window, opened it, and let the insect go.
‘My lighter,’ she said. ‘Could you see if it’s in the sitting room?’
Frank went out and fetched it. Lit her cigarette.
She smiled. ‘Could you do me another favour?’
He nodded. Went back to the sitting room and brought an ashtray. Passed it to her.
He could see Fredrik Andersen sitting in his office that day. Telling Frank that his employer was lying to him. Had Andersen been right all along? Why would Aisha lie about her sister?
Matilde was staring at him with a smile playing on her lips.
‘What’s up?’
‘Aren’t you cold?’
He smiled back. ‘I have to go back. And talk to the police.’
He started to get dressed. ‘Was Guri a hundred per cent sure it was Sheyma she met?’
‘Yes. She’d seen her picture, hadn’t she. She was absolutely sure. But she didn’t understand why Aisha would make up a story like this. It was one thing Aisha being desperate and wanting to stay in Norway. You can understand that she might’ve made up the idea of a family reunion. But this story must’ve come from somewhere. She must’ve found out Sheyma’s name somehow. She even had a photo.’
‘What did Guri think about all this? Where did she think Aisha could’ve got the story about the sister from?’
‘I asked, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She went all paranoid. Shut herself off. But the sister’s name isn’t Sheyma anymore. She’s married and has taken another name.’
‘What’s she called now?’
‘Guri didn’t know. The whole business was creepy.’
‘Someone’s after her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone wants to find Sheyma. But she doesn’t want to be found.’
They stared at each other for a long time. Lots of questions followed in the wake of this conclusion. But he didn’t want to say them aloud. Not now. Why not? Because Fredrik Andersen had been killed by an unknown perpetrator. Because the same thing had happened to Guri. Because the person who killed her had threatened to come after him as well. This was a detail he didn’t want Matilde to know, not yet at least, not until he knew more.
He turned away from her and looked outside.
A magpie jumped from the fence post down onto a rock. Here it hesitated, let a few seconds pass as if it wasn’t bothered by his presence, then unfolded its wings and flew away.
Get out of this, he told himself. Leave it to Gunnarstranda and Arnfinn Brede.
But his spine protested.
Because the words the voice spoke on the phone were unmistakeable: I’ll find you.
In response, his spinal reflex said one thing only: Find him first.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Matilde said.
‘Did Guri contact anyone while you were together?’
‘No. Maybe afterwards. I told her to contact you.’
‘She did, but not until later in the night. When did you say goodbye?’
‘Late yesterday evening. I wasn’t looking at my watch. She said she had things to do.’
‘Things to do?’
‘Those are the words she used.’
‘What do you think she meant by that – “things to do”?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did she ever say she was afraid of anyone in particular?’
Matilde shook her head.
‘Guri didn’t seem to be living on her own.’
‘She lived with her brother. But he’s in prison. He was on probation, but then was arrested again. He was stealing beer and fags from work and was caught. So he had to do time.’
‘OK,’ Frank Frølich said, suddenly unsure what would be the right thing to do. He ought to tell Matilde that he had played a not insignificant role in that story. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not now.
‘I’ll try and get hold of Ivar,’ she said. ‘He’s alright really and deserves to know what’s happened.’
45
As he was about to drive home he accidentally sat on his phone, which was on his seat. He raised himself and checked it. There were four unanswered calls. All from Nicolai Smith Falck. All during the last hour. He’d had more than enough of this journalist and decided not to call back. In the left-hand lane of the motorway and approaching Vestby, he felt another vibration in his pocket. He
took out the phone and saw that it was Falck again. He let the phone ring.
It was approximately two in the afternoon when he found a parking spot not too far from his home. He had two hours before his promised appointment with Gunnarstranda. Just enough time to have a shower and get some food down him. He got out of the car. Nearby he heard another car door open and glanced over his shoulder. Out of a small white van stepped a man with a face that was the spitting image of the MAD magazine mascot.
Nicolai Smith Falck was not a tall man. He only reached Frølich’s shoulders. But it is not only in the police that an ego compensates for a lack of height.
‘Didn’t you see I’d rung?’ the journalist said. He seemed annoyed. ‘Guri Sekkelsten,’ he went on to say.
‘Yes?’
‘She’s been found dead in her own home. According to my sources, you were the first person at the scene of the crime.’
‘I’m a witness and have no comment to make.’
‘The police say the death isn’t considered suspicious.’
‘So what are you after then?’
‘Fredrik Andersen was killed a short time ago and now this woman’s dead. Your name’s been mentioned in both cases.’
‘So?’
‘You have experience as an investigator. You found the body. What do you think about the police verdict?’
‘As I said, I have nothing to say.’
‘According to my sources, the police believe the woman killed herself.’
He didn’t answer.
‘According to my sources, you saw things others didn’t.’
‘Oh?’
‘Would you like to share your observations with our readers?’
‘I can repeat what I’ve said. I don’t wish to make a comment.’
‘But off the record,’ Falck said in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Between you and me. What do you think about the police concluding that Guri Sekkelsten took her own life?’
‘I don’t think anything about it,’ he answered and walked with an accelerated step to the front entrance, the journalist chasing after him.
‘But this has echoes of the Bygdøy roundabout story,’ Falck said. ‘The case of the woman who was run over by the juggernaut was classified as suicide. However, you found the man who pushed her. Newspapers like such cases. We like police officers who swim against the tide.’
‘I’m no longer employed by the police. I’m a private individual and I have no comment to make on the police investigation.’
Frank had the key in his hand, inserted it in the lock and twisted and was about to slip inside when Falck said:
‘They’ve found her suicide note.’
‘They’ve what?’
He turned to the journalist. Holding the door ajar. Nicolai Smith Falck revealed a crown in his upper jaw as he grinned. This roguish grin made the similarity with the MAD mascot complete.
‘Police District East have Guri Sekkelsten’s written farewell to the world.’
Frank continued to focus on the darkish crown in Falck’s row of teeth.
‘That got your interest, didn’t it,’ Falck said. ‘Why can’t we do what we always do? I give you a few snippets and then you give me a few.’
‘Or,’ he continued when no answer was forthcoming, ‘what’s your comment on the police discovery of a suicide note? Does that put what you observed in a new light?’
‘You’re a serious journalist, aren’t you?’
Falck angled his head, indulgently.
‘Then you’re governed by ethics and really oughtn’t to make news out of suicide,’ Frølich said, slipped inside the door and left Nicolai Smith Falck outside.
He took the stairs up to the flat just to expend some energy. Suicide note? Complete bollocks to the power of five. But who was Falck’s source?
46
After a shower and a shave, he cracked a couple of eggs into a frying pan. Stood by the window, keeping an eye out for Falck’s van while the eggs fried. He couldn’t see it, but still wasn’t convinced. He went to his Moccamaster and brewed enough coffee for two decent cups. Sat at the table and ate as the coffee trickled into the jug. Stood by the window again and kept watch as he sipped the coffee. What he really wanted to do was sleep. He would have to make do with dreaming about it.
When he left home for the metro station, Falck was still nowhere to be seen.
Half an hour later he was sitting opposite Gunnarstranda in his office.
Gunnarstranda appeared to be aware of the irony of this situation too. He indulged himself in a wry smile as he produced a mini tape recorder and started it.
Frølich felt the onset of a faint headache as he spoke into the microphone on the table. He gave his name, date of birth, address, telephone number and email address.
Gunnarstranda asked him to talk about Fredrik Andersen. Frank Frølich repeated what he had told him before, to wit, that Andersen had turned up at his office wanting to hire him for an assignment. Andersen had given him some money, an advance, and left the office. Frølich realised he couldn’t commit himself to this assignment. He called Andersen to inform him of his decision, but got no further than the voicemail. So he drove to Andersen’s house to return the money personally. No one answered the door when he rang the bell. He sat in his car, waiting. Then he saw a car stop outside the entrance. A Toyota RAV4.
Gunnarstranda leaned forward and paused the tape recorder. He said: ‘Is this car relevant to the case?’
‘That’s for you to decide.’
Gunnarstranda regarded him pensively. ‘We don’t think it’s relevant to the case.’
‘And I have no idea where your investigation’s going. But I’ve been asked to make a statement. The Toyota’s part of my statement.’
Gunnarstranda sighed. ‘Of course.’
‘While the tape recorder’s off,’ Frølich said, ‘there’s something I was wondering about.’
‘Mhm?’
‘I have a journo pursuing me. Nicolai Smith Falck.’
‘I know who he is.’
‘He knows a hell of a lot.’
‘He always knows a lot. He’s the kind of hack who thinks delving into crime is the meaning of life.’
‘True, but now he knows a lot more about the state of the Guri Sekkelsten case than I do. Much more – even though it was me who found the body.’
‘I’m not at all surprised.’
‘He must have exceptionally good sources.’
‘You know the game, Frølich. Someone owes Falck a favour.’
‘Yes, but who?’
‘God knows.’
‘I think I do.’
Gunnarstranda leaned back in his chair, slightly more interested.
‘Arnfinn Brede.’
47
Gunnarstranda waved a hand as if he were swatting a fly. ‘This is horse-trading, Frølich. Falck’s probably done a favour for Arnfinn. He wrote something Arnfinn wanted him to write or, at his behest, refrained from writing something – and Arnfinn gives him the odd tip-off. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Oh, there’s more than that.’
‘How so?’
‘I passed her car – a Volvo V70 – driving away from the smallholding just before I found her. Someone left the crime scene. Without a shadow of doubt. I saw a kettle boiling on the hob in the farmhouse. I removed it and switched off the stove. The journo told me the officers investigating think she killed herself. So they must imagine I made up the bit about the hob. Also, they must think I’m lying about the car I saw. How can they?’
‘They have a suicide note written by her.’
‘That’s what the journo said, yes. I don’t believe in any final words by Guri Sekkelsten for a second. Do you?’
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. ‘Before I answer that, the question is whether you have an alternative theory.’
‘I think so.’
‘OK. Well, I’m sceptical about the suicide note.’
‘Why?’
‘It wa
s a text to her employer.’
Frølich’s face broke into a grin.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘To her employer? Would you text the chief of police if you were going to top yourself?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not in the risk group.’
‘Have they confirmed the message? Is it on her phone as well?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest.’
‘When I found the body, I thought about the car I’d passed just before I arrived. It struck me she must’ve contacted the driver during the day. In other words, I got involved to some extent and wondered if her phone could tell me anything. So I rang her number to see if I could hear where it was. Someone answered the call. I could tell from the sound that the man answering was in a car.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘He threatened me.’
Gunnarstranda tilted his head, intrigued.
‘At least I perceived it as a threat,’ Frølich said and considered what the voice in his ear had growled. ‘He said: “I’ll find you.” Can that be interpreted as anything other than a threat?’
Gunnarstranda didn’t reply.
‘The point is that this man had her phone. In other words, Guri Sekkelsten was boiling the water either for herself or for this man and herself. She never actually made the tea or coffee. This guy killed her, made the murder look like suicide by hanging, took her phone and drove away from the crime scene in her car. It’s as obvious as saying if an apple falls from a tree it’ll land on the ground.’
‘Whether you were threatened or not, this is a police matter and you have to keep your paws off.’
Frølich heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Paws off what? Off who? The guy who threatened me? Do you want me to report an unknown killer perhaps?’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘The threat should be in your statement.’
‘And what good is that to me?’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer. Lost for words again, thought Frank, and decided to forget all talk of the threat. He said:
‘The killer has Guri Sekkelsten’s phone. He finds a number there, writes a text in her name and sends it.’
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat and said: ‘OK, someone drove off with her phone, but that doesn’t necessarily lend support to all your conclusions.’
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