Faithless, page 12
‘OK,’ said Frølich. ‘I have an idea with regard to this guy.’ He took both photos and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Tusenfryd,’ Frølich answered. ‘That’s where the photos were taken, isn’t it.’
20
Even though there was a nip in the air and ominous black clouds were forming above the mountains, the car park outside Tusenfryd was full of cars and buses. The man who met Frølich outside the administrative building was a tall, thin Vestlander in a short-sleeved shirt and a tie of the same colour and pattern as a stick of rock.
‘You’re in luck,’ he said. The person who was selling photos of the water ride now sold them on the day in question as well.
Frølich inclined his head in gratitude and followed the man, who was explaining the system they had with young helpers over the summer: the most important attributes were work rate, a willingness to provide a good service and a cheerful disposition. ‘We try to drum into them that they’re ambassadors, they’re the face of the amusement park.’ He explained that the youngsters got points according to their behaviour and the cheery humour and service they showed customers. A certain number of points qualified them for an award, there was a scale, and employees were given coloured badges, more tangible evidence of their success. These badges gave them increased confidence and they climbed the scale. Those who excelled over several seasons might be appointed group leaders. ‘I believe in competition to develop leadership qualities,’ the man said, with a Vestland roll of the ‘r’. ‘And I believe in women. Statistically speaking, the majority of our group leaders are women. Simple as that.’
Frank Frølich listened with half an ear as they trudged up the tarmac path and made way for children brandishing candyfloss with flustered parents at their heels. ‘That’s new this year,’ the Vestlander said, pointing to a tower at the end of a long queue of people. From there you could hear a cacophony of screams as the new machine acrobatically turned visitors’ stomachs inside out. The Vestlander picked up an ice-cream wrapper as he walked and threw the paper into a bin. He wiped his fingers on his handkerchief. Frølich trod on popcorn that had spilled from a paper cup the man had missed. Cooing pigeons with popcorn in their beaks ran from under their feet.
The Vestlander’s phone rang and he answered it.
They stopped.
Frølich turned and surveyed the park. The wave-swinger rotated and customers clung on tight, screaming as they were swung around. A small distance away there was the rumble of a more traditional carousel. There was a collective groan from behind the trees as the new attraction performed another twist. Frølich was reminded of his own childhood, listening to the sound of running feet, the snorting of pneumatic installations, the rattle of the cars on the rails of the rollercoaster that slowed down more and more before hurtling down a loop and triggering whoops of glee. He breathed in the air of hot fat, burned sugar and wafts of perfume from young mothers out walking. All these places have the same atmosphere, he thought: Tivoli in Copenhagen, Liseberg in Gothenburg, Disneyland in Anaheim – he could draw connections all the way back to the wandering fairs of his childhood when long lines of lorries camped outside the museums in Tøyen and set up rinks for dodgems and stalls for raffles. Once, in their teenage years, he and Karl Anders had spent a whole evening shooting at small bears which climbed trees and ran between bushes in a square display case. They had won a lot of teddy bears, which they generously donated to the girl who loaded the airguns. He was still smiling at the thought when the Vestlander resumed walking, having finished his phone conversation.
Another chilly gust of wind made him shiver. The sky had darkened considerably in the ten minutes he had been here.
They moved into a new zone of noise, and here people’s screams mixed with the sound of splashing water. Spray lashed the tarmac. Where the paths divided they were joined by a uniformed teenage girl with a ponytail and a sun visor. She curtsied and said hello. In the stall at the exit of the water ride two teenage boys were selling photos that were displayed on TV screens.
The girl with the ponytail took over the photo sales from the two who would talk to the police officer. One boy was overweight and stank of deodorant. His head was as round as a bowling ball and there was a cascade of red freckles around his nose. The other was tall, thin and had bad posture. He had big teeth and wore a headband to keep his blond hair out of his eyes.
The Vestlander had brought up the two relevant photos on a laptop.
The two youths shook their heads when they saw them.
‘The woman in the first photo might have bought both of them,’ Frølich ventured. ‘Does that help?’
They shrugged their shoulders.
The Vestlander started serving up figures. Tusenfryd had so and so many visitors every season. So and so many thousand went on the water ride every day. Of these so and so many hundred photos were sold every day, each and every day,’ he said. ‘To try and remember one visitor from all of this is simply impossible,’ he concluded.
Frølich fought to control himself. He was thinking, What the hell am I doing here if it’s impossible?
He stared at the two youths and made one last attempt. ‘This woman was very attractive and she bought two photos.’
The two youths looked at him just as blankly.
‘Sometimes it helps if you try to associate the day with a particular event. In other words, distinguish this one day from all the others. Something or other that happened on this one day. You might have bought new clothes, played in a football match or seen a certain film. The point is that if you can differentiate this day from all the others, this incident might stand out in some way and you can remember what happened.’
They looked at each other. Then they shook their heads.
Overhead, an immense thunderclap caused the Vestlander to flinch.
The rain beat down. People ran for cover. No one was interested in the photos any more. An elderly woman with a newspaper over her head scurried past. Water ran in torrents down the hill. Soon there wasn’t a single visitor to be seen. The girl with the ponytail reacted to the photos on the laptop. ‘I know who he is,’ she said, pointing to the lone man in the boat.
Frølich turned to her.
She nodded. ‘He’s the librarian at Deichman.’
The boy with the headband didn’t like being outshone by a girl. ‘Oh yeah? You don’t even work here!’
‘No,’ she retorted. ‘I’m a student and if you used your brain, perhaps you will be one day, too.’
The girl with the ponytail shut up when she saw everyone looking at her. Abashed, she looked at each of them in turn. Finally, she focused her gaze on Frølich. ‘I often study in Deichman Library and the man in the photo is the spitting image of the librarian.’
21
‘Sivert Almeli,’ Frølich said.
‘How did you find that out?’ Gunnarstranda asked sceptically.
‘It’s the man in the photo. He’s a librarian at Deichman and is off ill. He hasn’t given a reason for his absence. He just said he would be away for three days and the doctor would decide if he needed any more time’
‘Have you spoken to his boss?’
‘Colleague. She says he’s worked there longer than her, for decades apparently. He’s a kind of institution at the library from what I can gather. Seems to be an easy-going, ordinary sort of person, but keeps himself to himself, rarely takes part in the Christmas celebrations or any others. No one at Deichman has heard of Veronika Undset or recognised her in the photo, but I think I know what the relationship is between them.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Gunnarstranda said, changing his grip on the phone. He was in Veronika Undset’s flat, where he was searching through boxes of underwear in her wardrobe. On the bed there were piles of panties, nylons, tights, bras…
‘Why haven’t you spoken to the guy?’
‘I have a good reason,’ Frølich said. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where you left me,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Still in her flat.’
‘That’s what I thought. So you can speak to Almeli first,’ Frølich said on his phone with a grin. ‘He lives in the next block. Number eighteen.’
*
The entrance to Almeli’s part of the building was locked.
Gunnarstranda found the bell and pressed. Waited with his hands in his pockets. Obviously no one at home. He rang again. The fingers of his left hand found something in his pocket. It turned out to be Tove’s screw, still attached to the thread. The pendulum.
He pressed again, but the intercom by the bell was as silent as before. Then he pressed one of the others on the ground floor.
‘Yes,’ a small, hoarse woman’s voice answered, her vocal cords quivering with a pensioner’s anxiety.
‘Police here.’
She was waiting on the landing and supporting herself on a Zimmer frame. Grey perm and wrinkled face, about eighty. Wearing a white blouse and dark trousers. ‘What’s this about?’ she asked nervously.
‘My apologies,’ Gunnarstranda said sympathetically. ‘I must have pressed the wrong bell. I was looking for Almeli on the third.’
She snorted with annoyance, turned around and stabbed her Zimmer frame back to her flat.
Gunnarstranda continued upwards, staircase by staircase. Blocks of more than three floors without a lift were an anachronism. He was beginning to pant. The doctor was right. His lungs weren’t getting better, even though he had stopped smoking. He paused to regain his breath. Nevertheless, his lungs were going like bellows by the time he found the right door. The name plate was black, the letters white. Sivert Almeli.
The bell rang like a telephone from the Sixties. No one opened up. A draught in the corridor caused the door to move slightly. It banged against the frame. It was unlocked.
Should he? It was tempting. He glanced over his shoulder. No one would see him if he went in. He studied the neighbouring flat. No peephole in the door. Everything was quiet.
Gunnarstranda couldn’t restrain himself. He pushed the door open.
Stared at the hallway.
‘Almeli?’
Not a sound to be heard.
‘Police here. I have a few questions.’
Total silence. Or was that a sound?
He crossed the threshold warily. Closed the door after himself.
In the entrance there was a coat stand, but there was nothing hanging on it. No shoes on the floor, no pictures on the wall. Three closed doors shone uninvitingly. He raised his hand, but stopped as he heard a noise.
Where had it come from?
He knocked on the closest door.
‘Hello?’
He knocked again.
No reaction. He concentrated.
That was a noise.
He knocked again.
Nothing.
He opened the door. It was the bathroom, which was empty. White bathtub, old-style, ditto the sink. A toothbrush in a glass on the shelf.
He turned around. Opened another door and found himself looking into the kitchen. Just as empty. Must have been the original from when it was built. Sliding doors in diagonal cupboards and an old-fashioned sink. Clean worktop, clean table, gleaming sink unit. Not so much as a salt cellar on the table.
The noise must have come from the room behind the third door.
He raised his hand. Turned the handle and slowly pushed the door open, and found himself looking into the sitting room. It seemed abandoned.
‘Hello?’
No reaction.
Gunnarstranda went inside. Looked around. The flat was exactly the same as Veronika Undset’s, a mirror image. A narrow bed in the alcove. Beside that was a bedside table with a small black battery-driven alarm clock.
By the facing wall there was a TV with a chair in front of it and a desk with a laptop. That was all.
‘Hello?’
No answer this time, either. He was beginning to feel stupid. He walked over to the window. Saw Veronika’s flat. He could see inside. He saw a bit of the floor and the TV screen. If he crouched down, he could glimpse the bed in the alcove.
A chill went down his spine. He had a strong sensation he wasn’t alone. Someone was behind him.
The hairs on his neck were standing up as he turned – slowly.
The room was as empty as before.
He gasped for breath. He had never yearned for a cigarette so much. He was sweating. His vision blurred, the air quivered. He groped in his pocket for a nicotine chewing gum and pressed it under his lip.
He stood fingering Tove’s screw. Held the thread between his forefinger and middle finger and swung the pendulum until it was coiled round and the screw hit his fingers. Then he let go of the screw and repeated the action.
This flat is empty, he thought to himself. As the front door was open, Almeli must have just gone out on a short errand.
He sat down in the chair without thinking. He was still flushed. Were his hands shaking? He held the pendulum to check, held it between thumb and index finger until the screw hung without moving. No shakes. Happy, he asked himself, mostly for fun, ‘Is Almeli at home?’
To his surprise the pendulum started swinging. To and fro. Towards the north-facing window.
Gunnarstranda held the screw. OK, so the screw could talk. But what had it said?
‘Am I in Almeli’s flat?’ he asked himself.
The pendulum began to swing, but the opposite way this time, east-west.
Sceptical, Gunnarstranda took a deep breath and placed the pendulum in his lap. It bothered him that it had swung in different directions. That could be interpreted as the pendulum giving two different answers – and therefore having an understanding of the situation. Almeli wasn’t at home. He didn’t need a screw to work that one out.
Nevertheless, he couldn’t understand how it was possible for the screw to swing of its own accord and give two different answers by swinging in two different directions. Both of them correct. He was here, but Almeli wasn’t. But, he thought, it must have been his own subconscious that provided the impetus. The swing had to be a kind of desired reaction, one he couldn’t control. It had to be his subconscious that made his finger holding the thread start the movement – unbeknown to him.
On the other hand, he mused, it ought to be possible to control his subconscious in this case.
He waited patiently for the pendulum to be absolutely still. A question of control. In the end he couldn’t restrain himself. He let the pendulum swing free and asked: ‘Am I alone here?’
The pendulum swung, like the first time. If the screw was right, he wasn’t alone.
The second the thought was articulated, the same sensation returned. The air in the room seemed to tremble. A chill went down his back and sent him into a cold sweat.
That’s not right, he told himself. I’m sitting here alone.
He noticed he was staring at the wardrobe in the alcove where the bed was. Three closed doors.
Soundlessly, he rose to his feet. Put the screw back in his pocket. Stood collecting himself for a few long moments. Walked slowly towards the wardrobe. Stopped in front of the door in the middle.
He lifted his hand. Hesitated.
Slowly pulled the handle. The door opened. The hinges screamed.
He stood face to face with a line of jackets hanging from a rail.
Jesus, he thought. This is ridiculous.
He closed the door.
He spun on his heel.
Pressure had built up in the air. It was like sitting for too long in the sauna. He had to get out, away. He ran out of the flat.
On the landing he bent over panting.
What had happened? He had no idea. He checked the door. It was unlocked, as Almeli had left it. Almeli would expect to find it unlocked when he returned.
Gunnarstranda sauntered down the stairs. Stopped outside the door of the woman with the Zimmer frame. Rang her bell. It sounded like dull clangs from a remote church.
Her name plate was of the same kind as those on the third: black and rectangular with white letters. Solfrid Reine.
He heard her fumbling with the Zimmer frame behind the door. The peephole was dark. The door was opened a fraction.
‘Almeli? He’s the strange fellow on the third, isn’t he? No … I really don’t know.’
She articulated every word with special emphasis and a familiar tune in the upper-pitch range. ‘You’re from Trondheim, madam, aren’t you?’ said Gunnarstranda, careful to observe decorum.
The wrinkled face broke into a nice smile. Her eyes narrowed with delight. ‘How did you guess?’
‘My wife grew up in Rosenborg.’
‘Well I never. What’s her name?’
‘She’s dead,’ Gunnarstranda said, not mincing his words. He regretted his charm offensive and wanted to get back to the case in hand. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen Almeli today?’
Fru Reine was friendliness itself. ‘You know, it might be his laundry day. Erm, that is a possibility as his door isn’t locked. If so,’ she reasoned with a finger in the air, he must be downstairs in the cellar. Wait and I’ll check the list.’ She turned and pushed the Zimmer frame in front of her. The door shut behind her. When she returned she was holding a piece of white paper in her hand. And, yes indeed, it was Almeli’s laundry day.
‘Might I borrow your key, Fru Reine?’
‘Of course.’ She smiled again. ‘I’m really sorry. I’m so direct. I’ve done it so many times. I didn’t mean to pry into your private matters.’
‘No harm done.’ Gunnarstranda was almost starting to like her.
‘Don’t mess the place up now,’ she joked, passing him the key with a wink.
He waited until she had closed the door, then he hurried down the cellar steps. Unlocked the door and looked along a long, dark corridor that culminated in an illuminated, bombproof room.
His fingers searched for the light switch on the wall as he stared into the darkness. The feeling from Almeli’s flat returned – a kind of quiver. Something that made him reluctant to stay down here.
