Faithless, page 14
He peered up at Lena with a strained smile.
She clicked on the screen.
Another photo. A zoom shot of the subject. The sash bar of the window was a dark shadow. Veronika Undset sitting on the side of the bed unhooking her bra. Next photo: Veronika Undset pulling a nightie over her head.
‘We’ve uploaded the hard disk we found in Sivert Almeli’s flat,’ Lena said. ‘It contains more than seven hundred photos. Half of them are nature photos, flowers in Nordmarka, shots of boats from the islands in Oslo Fjord, the sunset over Akershus Fortress and so on. The other half is paparazzi-style photos of Veronika Undset, mostly in similar scenes to this one, but also when she’s eating, reading a book, coming out of the front door, walking along the pavement.’
Gunnarstranda reached out his hand and fiddled with the keyboard.
‘There,’ Lena Stigersand pointed politely.
He clicked the mouse. Another photo: Undset on her way down the pavement. Then: Undset lost in thought waiting for a tram. Next: a close-up. A study of a woman’s profile. Eyes downcast. Blurred at the edges.
‘Arty-farty photo,’ Gunnarstranda mumbled. ‘Do you think she knows she’s being photographed?’
Lena shook her head. ‘This is psycho stuff. Peeping Tom hardly covers what he does. Stalker is better. He’s taken photos of her in all sorts of places: in front of the fountain at Eidsvolls plass, even hiking in Nordmarka.’
‘And she never knew?’
‘All the – what we might call intimate shots – were taken through the window. That suggests he was spying. But he’s followed her as well. I think it’s pretty unlikely she didn’t know he was tailing her. My guess is he was a stalker she knew about.’
‘She had a photo of him – taken on the water ride in Tusenfryd.’
‘Ergo,’ Lena smiled wryly, ‘she must have known what he was doing.’
Gunnarstranda leaned back in his chair with a furrowed brow: ‘She could have reported him for this.’
‘The report would’ve been shelved before she was out of the door,’ Lena said. ‘Provided that he wasn’t violent and didn’t issue threats.’
‘But we should be able to find the report.’
Lena gave a sceptical grimace. ‘The officer who spoke to her would’ve asked about any specific threats and so on. It’s very unlikely she could’ve come up with anything. She would’ve had to turn on her heel without leaving a report, like a good citizen. Probably muttering to herself that at the next elections she was going to vote for the right-wing populists.’
Gunnarstranda grinned. ‘Good, Lena, that’s your old self. Carry on like that and you’ll soon be the boss.’
‘I’ll check anyway,’ she said, clicking through the photos.
He watched the screen. ‘Have we got the camera?’
She shook her head. ‘No camera and no laptop found. Nor any memory cards for the camera. Everything indicates the perp was after the photos.’
‘Almeli could’ve accidentally photographed Veronika’s murderer when he was taking photos of her,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Lena smirked. ‘Looks like you and I think on similar lines.’
Gunnarstranda stroked his chin. ‘The perpetrator could be someone who knew both Veronika and Almeli.’
Lena shrugged. ‘These photos are from the extra hard disk the intruder didn’t find or didn’t take with him. The photo he was searching for could just as well be in this selection as in the camera or on the laptop. Thought I should show you a series of photos that is a bit special.’
She took the laptop and looked for another series. ‘Here,’ she said. The subject this time was a man crossing a road. He was around forty with short hair and a trimmed, unattractive beard. His hair was greying. He was wearing a short jacket and dark jeans. The next photo was of the man sitting in a dark green Mercedes. The third was the car driving off.
‘Three photos are quite unlike all the rest,’ Lena Stigersand said. ‘The rest are either studies of Veronika Undset or shots of nature. But these three were obviously taken in secret. And there’s one thing that’s particularly interesting.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The photos of the man were saved onto the disk the day after Veronika’s body was found. The same day Almeli rang in sick to the library.’
‘So he wasn’t ill. He was out taking photos,’ Gunnarstranda said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Let me see the first one of the man again.’
The subject was walking fast – unaware that he was being photographed. By the back foot there was a black shadow.
‘Why’s the background so out of focus?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Almeli was zooming in with a type of telephoto lens, three hundred mill or more. He was snapping shots from quite a distance. This is spying, this is.’
Gunnarstranda pointed to the shadow by the man’s foot. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is a central reservation.’
Lena Stigersand nodded.
‘We’re probably talking here about a road into town divided by a central reservation. ‘
‘Kirkeveien?’
‘Possible, but not definite.’
‘Gyldenløves gate?’
Gunnarstranda shrugged and clicked again through the three photos. The man crossing the road. The man getting into a car. The car driving off.
‘This rings a bell,’ he mumbled, and added, ‘no registration number. Why didn’t Almeli get the number of the car?’
Lena Stigersand shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was too nervous. I would’ve been if I was taking secret photos of a murderer.’
Gunnarstranda leaned back again. ‘It can’t be Kirkeveien,’ he said. ‘The car’s heading towards a crossroads without traffic lights. In Kirkeveien there are traffic lights the whole way.’ He inhaled sharply. ‘Show these photos around. I want to know where they were taken. I want to get hold of this man.’
25
It was a dream that wouldn’t let go. Stark colours and a closeness to water and skin. Iselin Grav’s skin. One image especially from the dream had etched itself firmly in his brain. It was when her body sank into the water. Frølich couldn’t remember whether she had slipped in accidentally or jumped in; he only remembered that the water was green and deep and that the figure plunged down with both legs together. Her blonde hair billowed in slow motion above her body, like a curtain. He couldn’t recall whether she was wearing clothes or not, but he had jumped in after her. Dived down, grabbed hold and lifted her onto land with consummate ease. Afterwards he had laid her across a huge log so that the water would run out of her mouth. So that she could breathe.
Absolutely crazy dream. But thoughts about Iselin Grav continued during the day. Her cryptic words. I don’t think she’s dead.
He was sure she was holding something back.
After lunch he could stand it no longer. He left Police Headquarters for Urtegata. Strode to the block of flats where Andreas Langeland lived. Rang the bell. No reply.
He took out his phone and tried to reach the boy on his mobile. Got his voicemail. He thought, If Andreas is at work it would be normal for his phone to be switched off.
Back in his office, he sat down with the papers describing the movements of Langeland’s phone. Went through them again. The problem was the proximity between the base stations. In Oslo there were so many of them. The strange thing was that the phone wasn’t in Oslo every day. Could Andreas be leaving it at work?
Gardermoen Airport, he wondered, and studied the movements. The phone was not in the north of Oslo, it had moved west and south.
Frølich started sweating. How thick-headed can you be?
He rang Langeland’s phone once again. It was still dead.
Could it be outside the coverage area?
He took the base-station map. The furthest bearing outside Oslo was a station in Buskerud. It lay between Filtvet and Tofte, about a hundred kilometres from Oslo. The stations followed the arterial road south. Frølich examined the map more closely. Inland, west of Filtvet and Tofte, there was forest, roadways through it and small lakes. Lake Røskestad. No base station for kilometres.
He rang Oslo Airport. Was passed from pillar to post. Andreas Langeland wasn’t there. Well, where was he?
Andreas Langeland was on holiday.
Frølich sat scrutinising the papers in front of him. He checked the times of day. Checked his watch.
Rosalind’s first meeting with a Norwegian: Andreas Langeland. Two days later: Rosalind has contact with Mattis Langeland. She goes missing. Andreas Langeland is grilled by him and Ståle Sender. No reaction. Andreas Langeland goes on holiday. Shortly afterwards, he rings a social worker at PPSS who describes his behaviour as worrying, ominous signs…
He followed the succession of movements on Langeland’s phone. It had to be possible to trace a pattern.
He studied the sheets as if they contained a cleverly contrived puzzle in an IQ test. The writing blurred. He rubbed his eyes, stared at the sheets again. Searching for links without seeing anything at all.
He called Telenor and asked for the last movement on Langeland’s phone. Rang off. Waited. Went out to buy a can of Coke in sheer frustration. Back: no paper in the fax machine. Went back out, paced up and down. Greeted people in a distracted fashion.
At last the fax started up. He grabbed the sheets. The latest movements. Langeland was now in a coverage area. In other words, he was moving along the forest roadways. His phone had passed Filtvet a short while earlier, so he was on the R281, along Oslo Fjord towards Drammen or Oslo.
Again, Frølich remembered the moment when Iselin Grav turned by the lift. I don’t think she’s dead.
Not yet?
26
Gunnarstranda fumbled with the CD as he put it in the player. It is illegal for people to talk on the phone when they are driving, he mused, but this was surely worse. He almost drove into the ditch because he couldn’t find the slot it was supposed to go in.
He decided to take Ring 3 west, turn off by Tåsen to go via Sagene, down Uelandsgate and Maridalsveien and get to Deichman Library from the rear – across Fredensborgveien. He might even find a parking spot there.
The opening track on the CD was a duet between Jimmy Buffett and Frank Sinatra – a pretty good version of ‘Mack the Knife’. Two quite distinct voices. Buffett, soft, almost sensual; Sinatra, seasoned, a touch rough. Alternating between verses and then every line. Gunnarstranda drove down Tåsenveien towards Nordre Gravlund, snapping his fingers. An uneasy feeling took hold of him. He pulled into the side of the road and stopped. Turned down the volume.
He couldn’t explain his unease. Got out of the car and scanned the road. Not much traffic. The noise level was so low he could hear the shouts of the people training on the Voldsløkka sports pitches. He was reminded of the allotments hidden behind the estate in Stavangergata. One summer he had hung out with Evelyn, who had an allotment cabin in Oslo. He had even slept there sometimes, many years ago.
Was it memories of Evelyn that had made him stop?
No, he concluded. The thought of her didn’t strike him until after he got out of the car. Something else had made him stop the car and get out? But what?
He lived not far away. East of Tåsenveien was Voldsløkka and the allotments while the post-war town planners had squeezed in high-rises around Gråbeinsletta further south. A ridge of green treetops towered over Nordre Gravlund.
Gunnarstranda turned and glanced up the road. To the north and west of Tåsenveien there were detached and terraced houses, on the outskirts of that gem in the old version of Norwegian Monopoly – Ullevål Hageby. Between the functionalist blocks and the cemetery lay the upper reaches of—
Uelandsgate.
Once Uelandsgate had been a modern avenue. A four-lane road with a central reservation in the middle.
The realisation hit him at that very moment: this is where Sivert Almeli photographed the as yet unidentified man.
But he was standing in the wrong place.
He was in the middle of the photo. Almeli had stood with the camera further down the road, pointing it in this direction – to the north. Gunnarstranda couldn’t restrain a grin. This was his stamping ground. Half his life he had lived in a flat barely seven to eight hundred metres away as the crow flies. He had walked around Voldsløkka on innumerable occasions in the evenings to clear his head.
Sivert Almeli must have been by the roundabout where Uelandsgate meets Kierschows gate. He had stood there taking photos of a man getting into a car that was parked…
Gunnarstranda walked slowly down the road. A chill ran down his spine. The car was still there.
It was a dark green Mercedes Benz. Gunnarstranda carried on past the car, down to where Sivert Almeli had most probably stood when he took the photos. A bus shelter. Inside the shelter was a narrow bench.
Almeli had either sat waiting for the bus or pretended to. From here he had taken the photos of the man getting in the car and driving off.
Gunnarstranda called Lena Stigersand and asked her to check the registration number. Three minutes later she was back on the line.
‘The car belongs to a man by the name of Erik Valeur,’ she said, and spelled his name. ‘I checked the Yellow Pages. The man’s a psychologist. He’s got a practice in Hortengata, but he lives in Bærum. What shall we do?’
He considered her question. ‘Give me his phone number.’
The phone rang five times before the answering machine cut in.
‘This is the answerphone of Erik Valeur. At the moment I’m busy with a client, but I have a contact hour between twelve and one every day. If you need immediate help, I’d advise you to ring…’
Gunnarstranda pressed Off and strolled back to his car.
27
The lift doors were closing when a running shoe kicked them open. In strode Mustafa Rindal wearing shorts and a Red Bull singlet. He was on his way to a training session. His clothes smelled of sweat and he was chewing gum. Strangely enough, he seemed to be in a good mood.
Gunnarstranda couldn’t for the life of him understand why some people had to change into training gear in their offices instead of the dressing rooms. He was working on a caustic remark, but Rindal beat him to it.
‘My commiserations, G, old boy.’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer.
Rindal grinned. ‘We have to treasure moments like these. Imagine seeing you with a long face!’ He whinnied.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Veronika Undset’s fiancé. I thought I read in the papers something about a defeat in court.’
‘Oh, did you?’ Gunnarstranda answered acidly. ‘Did you read that in the papers? Perhaps as someone in a responsible position you ought to pay more attention to internal communications?’
‘There are two kinds of losers, Gunnarstranda: those who mope and those who grit their teeth ready to fight back. What are you waiting for? Chin up, young man, as our poet Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson wrote.’
The lift stopped on the second floor and the doors opened. A distinguished lawyer stepped in. They nodded in silence.
There was a ping for the first floor. The lawyer stepped out.
‘Being a leader brings two challenges with it,’ Rindal announced out of the blue. ‘One is to guide others. The second is to motivate.’
‘You’re confused,’ Gunnarstranda responded. ‘What you just said is the intro to your talk at the next seminar. At the moment you’re in a lift with me.’
‘Exactly. And I’ve decided to motivate. Regarding the psychologist you tracked down.’
‘What about him?’
Another ping. They were on the ground floor. The doors opened and they walked out.
‘Lena’s good,’ Rindal said. ‘The girl’s got potential. She checked the name of Valeur on the database and do you know what she found? Erik Valeur worked at the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services in Troms.’
‘So?’
Rindal grinned. ‘The psychologist is registered. You know what that means, don’t you?’
‘If you could get to the point instead of giving yourself airs.’
‘Think about Finnsnes 2006.’
‘And what’s that when it’s at home? A new team in the basketball league?’
‘Oh, very droll,’ Rindal parried in the same tone. ‘You’re forgetting something, Gunnarstranda – ultimately your sarcasm will go nowhere, it drives intellect down a cul-de-sac. In coronary terms it’s like eating sausages and pizza – unhealthy in the long term.’
‘Sarcasm? I made the assumption based on your outfit. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Use your head, Gunnarstranda, your head! Finnsnes, on the island of Senja. May 2006.’
‘Murder?’
‘You’re getting warm, Gunnarstranda, you’re getting warm!’ Rindal jogged on the spot and punched him on the shoulder.
Two of Rindal’s training pals ran past, and he called after them: ‘Coming, lads!’ He almost spat out his chewing gum in the process, but caught it with a flick of his head and a very quick tongue. Like a flycatcher, Gunnarstranda thought, impressed.
‘Teenage girl killed by a drunk, that’s as much as I can remember,’ he said.
‘Signe Strand,’ Rindal said. ‘Nineteen years old.’ He lowered his voice and whispered: ‘Psychologist – Valeur’s name is in the interview reports!’ Rindal’s face was one big smile. ‘Signe Strand was one of the psychologist’s patients – she had an eating disorder. And Uncle Mustafa has given you a helping hand: I asked Kripos to fax over the case documents, and what do I find? The murder on Senja is nearly a carbon copy of Veronika’s. The girl was raped, stabbed to death and afterwards dumped on a refuse heap. Holy moly, G, play your cards right and this’ll be a media coup. Serial killing, old chum, eh? Cool or what?’
For the first time in many years Gunnarstranda was speechless.
‘See what a good boss you’ve got,’ Rindal beamed. ‘A friend in your hour of need, who gives you hot tips. Cheer up. Chin up!’
