Sister

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  Frølich sighed and shook his head.

  ‘Hang on,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Before you came I spoke to the public prosecutor whose case this is. She thinks mobile phones have a code. If anyone other than Guri Sekkelsten sent the text they must’ve known about the code. That’s very unlikely.’

  ‘Not all mobile phones have a code,’ Frølich said. ‘But what do we actually know about what happened? She might’ve been threatened, forced to reveal the code or let the killer use her phone, or made to send the text herself. How can the police conclude anything when they don’t have the phone or they don’t know whether her phone has a code?’

  Gunnarstranda threw his arms into the air. ‘You have a point. But whether you like it or not, the public prosecutor and Police District East doubt your credibility. They say it could’ve been a random car you saw. There are loads of red Volvos in Østland. Arnfinn Brede said he asked you for the registration number. You didn’t know. He asked you about the driver’s appearance. You didn’t know.’

  ‘But this car had a defective rear light. I know that Guri’s car had one, too. I saw the car four kilometres from the crime scene and it was half past three in the morning. I didn’t meet any other cars.’

  ‘Brede said at best the car was circumstantial evidence, and while he thinks like that, there’s little you can do.’

  ‘And what about the kettle?’

  ‘Brede said you might well be right about that, but it’s still only circumstantial evidence, which is trumped by the suicide text. He said you’re a private investigator and you don’t have a lot to do. He thinks you’re pushing these things to get into the papers and raise your profile.’

  ‘Do you share Brede’s views?’

  ‘No. But try for a moment to see this case from Brede’s standpoint. What would the motive be for killing Guri Sekkelsten and making the murder look like a suicide? She was dressed. There are no signs of rape or any other injuries apart from strangling caused by the rope around her neck. There are no signs of a break-in. The door was unlocked and there were lots of valuables in the house. She didn’t have any particles of skin under her fingernails. All Brede has is the clues they find at the crime scene and your statement. He has no motives to go on. What you and I think about Guri Sekkelsten’s death makes no difference one way or the other.’

  ‘Guri Sekkelsten rang me because she was frightened.’

  ‘Brede’s understanding is that she was desperate, needed someone to talk to, but killed herself before anyone – in this case you – could come and talk her out of it.’

  ‘Arnfinn’s mouth is bigger than his brain.’

  ‘Such subjectivity doesn’t make you any more credible, Frølich. Brede bases his judgement on the fact that Guri Sekkelsten has a history of psychiatric problems. Her boss at the refugee centre has confirmed that she was absent from work for psychological reasons, among others.’

  ‘She fell off a horse. She was a showjumper and had to terminate her career. It wasn’t at all surprising that she was depressed.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Brede sees this as a history of problems. Can you say exactly what the time was when you found the body?’

  Frank Frølich shrugged. ‘I can say to plus or minus ten minutes.’

  ‘Ten minutes is a long time, Frølich. Arnfinn Brede has your statement. The text message was sent before you say you found her body.’

  Frank Frølich shook his head. ‘What is this? Do you believe that prat rather than me?’

  Gunnarstranda dismissed him with a sweep of the hand. ‘You say a lot of strange things. For example, you claim you saw an elderly woman come out of Andersen’s place when you were waiting for him outside. Are you sure?’

  ‘Why on earth would you ask me about that?’

  ‘Because the only person who’s seen this woman is you.’

  ‘I saw her. I don’t make things up.’

  The ensuing silence was long – so long, that Frank felt the need to repeat himself, stressing every single syllable: ‘I do not make things up.’

  48

  They sat almost glowering at each other.

  It was Gunnarstranda who finally broke the silence. He said:

  ‘If the public prosecutor is of a mind to dismiss Guri Sekkelsten’s death as suicide and not a punishable offence, there’s nothing you or I can do.’

  ‘If the body’s sent for an autopsy, the pathologists will find her death is not consistent with suicide, I can guarantee you that.’

  ‘The case has been cleared up. There won’t be an autopsy.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I assume the cause of death is thought to be obvious, so money needn’t be spent on an expensive autopsy.’

  ‘What about her car?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Her car hasn’t disappeared. It’s parked at the refugee centre where she worked. According to Brede that’s where it’s usually parked, even when she’s not there.’

  ‘But how did she get home if her car was at the centre?’

  ‘According to Brede, this is no mystery. She went to and from work like everyone else – caught a bus or got a lift from a colleague or a kind neighbour. You’ll soon have to accept that your theory that Guri Sekkelsten was murdered is a lost cause.’

  ‘She talked about the car when she rang me.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said: “I’ve got a car.”’

  ‘I’ve got a car. Did she say which car? Did she specifically mention the Volvo?’

  ‘No.’

  Gunnarstranda turned his hands over, showing his palms.

  ‘Have they been in touch with her aunt?’

  ‘Why would they want to talk to an aunt?’

  ‘Because Guri Sekkelsten was staying with her before she was killed. Furthermore, she’d said she was going to return there. Don’t you think it strange that she killed herself after making such an arrangement? Why did she write a suicide text to her employer and not to someone close, for example to her aunt or her brother?’

  ‘Her brother’s in prison and has no access to a phone. We’ll leave the aunt to Police District East. Anything else?’

  ‘You know there’s more. Guri Sekkelsten was with Fredrik Andersen just before he was killed.’

  ‘Your assignment, Frølich. It’s your turn to give us something. I want to know the exact wording of the job you were given by Andersen.’

  ‘It was about an asylum seeker at the centre where Guri Sekkelsten worked. This asylum seeker wanted to find her sister. Her application to stay in Norway had been rejected, and her appeal too, so finding this sister might have helped. I was hired to find the sister this woman claimed lived in Norway. Suddenly, out of the blue, Andersen appears in my office. And he knows I’m looking for this woman. He says the people who hired me weren’t being honest.’

  ‘That explains the business card,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘You gave the business card to someone who knows the woman you were searching for.’

  ‘My own thoughts exactly.’

  ‘What’s the name of the woman?’

  ‘Her name isn’t listed anywhere. She’s called Sheyma Bashur. That’s all I know.’

  ‘What did Andersen say when he visited you?’

  ‘He thought the woman who gave me the assignment was bluffing. She had no relatives in Norway. He hired me to have this theory confirmed. As you can see, this assignment ran counter to the one I already had so I couldn’t take it on – it wouldn’t be ethical, or even practical. Now the woman I was going to work for is out of the country and the person who knows something about that is Bjørn Thyness.’

  ‘Who did you give a business card to?’

  ‘Someone who knew.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I think I may’ve given one out at a hotel when I was walking around asking after this Sheyma. The woman I’m thinking about looks Thai. She was working at a hotel in the City Ha
ll quarter. I don’t have a full name. But I can probably locate her for you.’

  Gunnarstranda grabbed the tape recorder on the table, clearly annoyed.

  ‘We don’t want any more interference from you regarding this case.’

  49

  Gunnarstranda pressed the button on the tape recorder. He coughed and said: ‘You say Fredrik Andersen met Guri Sekkelsten a few hours before he was killed?’

  ‘That was what she wanted to talk to me about last night. That was why I drove to her home.’

  ‘Do you know where they met?’

  ‘At a restaurant.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I don’t know. A sophisticated one, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Why was Guri Sekkelsten with Fredrik Andersen that evening?’

  ‘She worked at a refugee centre in Hobøl. She had a close, confidential relationship with a special client, a female asylum seeker who wanted to be reunited with family because she’d had her application turned down. Fredrik Andersen knew the woman the asylum seeker claimed was her sister. That’s all I know.’

  ‘That’s all you know. How come you know that Guri Sekkelsten and Fredrik Andersen were going to meet?’

  ‘Because I told Guri Sekkelsten that Andersen knew the details of this family-reunion case. When she rang me last night she said she’d contacted Andersen about it personally. She’d spent an evening with him. The fact he was killed right after they parted had an enormous impact on her. She feared for her own safety and decided to stay in hiding.’

  ‘Why did she fear for her own safety?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where did she seek shelter?’

  ‘With a relative. An aunt. When she rang me last night I had the impression she was sitting on vital information about Andersen’s murder. I told her to go to the police and tell them everything she knew, but she refused. She also refused to tell me why she mistrusted the police. I offered to listen to what she had to say. We arranged to meet at her house. She was going there to pick up clothes before returning to her aunt. I drove to her place.’

  Frølich paused.

  Gunnarstranda gesticulated for him to go on. He sat without interrupting as Frølich once again described what happened when he found the body.

  After finishing, Frank Frølich rummaged in his pocket for his phone and placed it on the table.

  ‘I’m placing my phone on the table now so that the police can check this information.’

  Gunnarstranda switched off the tape recorder.

  ‘Show me the log.’

  Frølich showed him the calls. ‘This is Guri Sekkelsten phoning me last night. This is you ringing me afterwards. Here, I’m calling Guri’s phone when the killer receives my call in the car and threatens me. The time’s four thirty-two.’

  Gunnarstranda made a note. ‘You’d better drop by later and sign the interview sheet,’ he said. ‘I’ll send a copy to Police District East.’

  50

  Standing on the stairs waiting for the lift, he felt once again the unease that crept over him when he was in the vicinity of his old workplace. He was exhausted and had little desire to bump into any ex-colleagues. The only officer he met was a guy in reception. A young man he had never seen before. He nodded to him anyway.

  Frølich strode down the hill to Grønlandsleiret. Thinking about the pile of business cards he kept in his desk drawer in the office. He had only given away a single card that month. On his way to the metro station he rang the hotel where he had left the card.

  A man answered the phone.

  Frølich said he would like to talk to a woman who worked in the kitchen, by the name of Gamon. The receptionist was unable to put him through.

  How long would Gamon be at work?

  The receptionist told him when they changed shifts. It was quite a while yet.

  Why was he bothering with this? he asked himself, after he had rung off. He knew the answer. It was all about understanding what was going on. Since he gave Gamon the business card, life had batted him around like a shuttlecock. It wasn’t a feeling he enjoyed. It wasn’t a game he wanted to continue.

  51

  He managed to doze off for an hour on the sofa before having to drive down to the hotel in time for the change of shift. It was sultry outside, overcast, with thicker, black blankets of cloud over the Nesodden peninsula and broken patches of grey over Holmenkollen.

  He parked outside Oslo Stock Exchange to wait. It lay low, dark and heavy behind tall wrought-iron fences. He observed the building, which was reminiscent of L’église de la Madeleine in Paris. Both structures seemed somehow misplaced in their environments. The exchange had probably dominated the area with its classical features when it was built almost two hundred years ago, but now it was surrounded by modern high-rises that seemed to force it into the ground and jeer at it.

  He glanced across at the hotel. Guests were going in and coming out. Dragging their wheelie-bags.

  Ten minutes passed before Gamon came out. She was a slight figure, wearing tight trousers and a short leather jacket. But he recognised her face and the hair that was held in place with a sturdy slide. She walked with short, quick steps. Frølich got out of the car and caught up with her outside a strip bar.

  ‘Gamon!’

  She stopped, turned and looked at him, astonished.

  ‘I was in the hotel a few days ago asking about a woman called Sheyma Bashur,’ he said.

  She still looked at him in amazement.

  He repeated himself in English and added: ‘I gave you a business card.’

  He waved another card and pointed: ‘One like this. I gave it to you and you gave it away.’

  She shrugged and walked on. He stepped into the street to be able to keep up. A line of parked cars forced him to walk in the middle of the road. He shouted:

  ‘You gave the card to Fredrik Andersen. You know her, don’t you. You know Sheyma Bashur.’

  Gamon broke into a run. Frølich jogged a few metres behind her until he realised he was behaving stupidly. He let her run and stopped. Allowed her to gain a head-start on him. She glanced over her shoulder to see if he was following her. Soon she was just one of many silhouettes in the crowd by the bus stops in Jernbanetorget.

  He caught a glimpse of her as she pushed open the door to Oslo Central Station. When she was at the top of the escalator he was at the foot. She walked through the station, exited and took the stairs down to the Radisson Hotel and continued towards Grønland.

  He kept a short distance behind her, out of sight. She was walking more slowly now that she thought she was rid of him. She continued across the Akerselva river. The small figure was lost in the crowds again. This time among all the people visiting the immigrant shops in Smalgangen. He walked slowly down the street, past the butcher’s and the greengrocer’s, unable to see her anywhere.

  He turned into a clothes shop. Lifted sweaters and studied the price tags on shirts and waited.

  A few minutes later she passed the shop windows with two bags full of vegetables. She was heading towards Motzfeldts gate and disappeared into a green block of flats in Tøyengata. So she was going home. Now he knew where she lived.

  52

  The plan was to nip into the office on the way back to the car. But when he came out of the lift on the second floor, he gave a start and realised this wouldn’t be a short visit. It was evening and the building was closed and locked. Yet a man he didn’t know was sitting on the chair outside his office. Even though the man’s appearance was quite different from Andersen’s, this felt like déjà vu. He was around forty, clean-shaven and tanned with short, fair hair and bright, blue eyes. When he stood up he revealed a tall, lean but supple body. He extended a hand.

  ‘Frølich?’

  They shook hands as the man introduced himself:

  ‘Norheim, Snorre Norheim. I came in via the dentist’s on the floor below, on the off-chance that you might come by.’ He beamed a wry, charming smile. ‘And you did. My
good fortune.’

  They went into Frølich’s office.

  Frølich walked over to the window and opened it a fraction. Looked out. It was still sultry and the cloud was thickening. Thunder on the way, he thought. Turned back from the window, performed his usual routine with the chair and drawer and looked at his visitor.

  The man was standing erect in the middle of the room, dressed in dark trousers and a baggy jumper. Yet there was something military about him.

  ‘Won’t you take a seat?’

  Norheim remained on his feet.

  ‘What can I do for you, Norheim?’

  ‘Last night a woman was found dead in her home in Våler, Østfold.’

  Frølich ran his eyes over him again. This was special.

  ‘I have reason to believe you know this woman.’

  Frølich saw no reason to answer him.

  ‘In the news the police said they aren’t treating the death as suspicious.’

  Snorre Norheim opened the briefcase he had been holding under his arm and placed a folded newspaper on the table. It was Verdens Gang and open at page six. There was a news story written by Nicolai Smith Falck. And Norheim was right. Falck wrote that the police didn’t regard the case as suspicious.

  ‘That would mean this woman died of natural causes,’ Frølich said, looking up at his visitor again.

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’

  They looked each other in the eye for several long seconds. ‘But why would you have an opinion about her death?’ Frølich said at length.

  ‘I simply can’t believe it.’

  Frølich leaned back in his chair and felt an unease he couldn’t satisfactorily explain. It was something to do with the déjà vu experience. The re-enactment of a scene and the strangeness of his sudden popularity. He was being visited by one person after the other. They wanted something. Everyone wanted something from him. And now he was more nervous than excited about what this man actually wanted.

  ‘Why can’t you believe it?’