Faithless, page 18
‘We hadn’t slept for almost a week. We’d finished school. We were plastered all the time and lit fires on the beach at night. There were hardly any other Norwegians there, only four girls from Ålesund who were giving the local men the once-over. They didn’t want anything to do with us and spoke English so that we wouldn’t realise they were Norwegian. The locals regarded us as crazy loons. We fell in love with a girl serving at the café.’
Frankie suddenly realised that Iselin had no idea who Karl Anders was and would have understood hardly a word of what he was saying. Yet she was on her haunches listening. ‘I don’t remember the girl’s name,’ he whispered. ‘Fourteen years old, only, long eyelashes and thick black hair way down her back, so attractive that it hurt to look at her. We were dumbstruck, both of us, and behaved like it. We sat in the café all the time. Her father got the picture and incited a local mob to sort us out. I’ve never had such a beating, before or since. Two policemen drove up in a 2CV, but by that time my friend had legged it. It was me against the rest. I was arrested. I think the cops took me in to make sure I didn’t get seriously injured. I didn’t have a passport or anything on me. I was taken to an office, which was ridiculous; it was like a sheriff’s office in a Western. A small, fat policeman pointed to the cell and me and kept talking and talking and wagging his forefinger. I understood nothing of what he said, but I was pretty stressed, thinking only of my pal who was alone with the mob pursuing him. I was released after an hour. I went back. Then all the men in the village wanted to be my friend, they praised the way I’d fought and a big guy I’d given a black eye wanted to buy me a beer. My friend was nowhere to be seen. I ran back to the bonfire on the beach.’
Frølich got to his feet.
He swayed. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
‘In the hall.’
He staggered out. The toilet smelled of perfume. He bent over the bowl, stuck a finger down his throat and thought: that was more than twenty years ago.
Afterwards he rinsed his mouth, washed his face and stared at his watery eyes.
Stood there oblivious of time passing until Iselin knocked on the door. ‘How are you doing?’
He went out. She was wearing a white bathrobe.
He looked at the clock. ‘I’m a nuisance,’ he said. ‘Sorry. You’re working tomorrow and must be very tired. I’ll go.’
‘I’ll make us some coffee,’ she said, and went to the kitchen.
He sat down. Barely noticed her putting a hot mug of coffee in his hands.
‘I was shocked by what I saw in the film Andreas and his brother made. It was as though images were put to a soundtrack in my head.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I ran out of the village, to the beach. Since then I’ve wondered why I ran. I didn’t know anything, of course. But I ran. There were those cicadas in all the trees and they were making a racket. You know the kind of sound I’m talking about. I’ve hated that sound ever since. Then there were two noises. The chirping insects and her screams.’ He patted his chest. ‘My heart. Bang, bang, bang, and the taste of blood in my mouth and the screams that at first rose louder and louder and then fell to nothing. It felt like I was holding onto someone’s hand, someone hanging over a precipice, and I couldn’t pull them up, their fingers slipped out of my hand.’
He met Iselin’s gaze and leaned back in the chair. ‘By the time I arrived he’d finished. Then he went for a night swim.’
‘Who did?’
‘A man who works for Oslo Council.’
He lifted his head. It was light outside.
34
The wall was a collage of press cuttings, photos, arrows and notes in felt tip. In the centre: a portrait of Veronika Undset and some information. Arrows from the picture pointed to photos of Karl Anders Fransgård, Kadir Zahid, Sivert Almeli, dates, times, descriptions of where bodies were found, photos of the psychologist Erik Valeur, crossing the road and in a car driving away. Above this a school photo of a girl with a strained smile. Her head at an angle, doing her best for the photographer. A life, a collected history of private moments, laughter, tears, celebrations, joy, achievements, ambitions, goals and, not least, lost illusions – of which Gunnarstranda knew not a thing. Apart from one, an assumption based on his own personal predispositions: sitting for the portrait Signe probably had only one thought on her mind, if not the climax of her youth, then definitely of her years at school – to get drunk day after day and boogie through the post-exam period. The way she had done at the party in Finnsnes before leaving for some fresh air, never to return. First you dream, then you die – who had those words on their conscience?
At the time Kripos had considered charging Signe Strand’s boyfriend. He was six years older than her and had often been violent towards her. Once she had even ended up in hospital. But the DNA they found in the sperm on her body was not her boyfriend’s.
Gunnarstranda looked back at the photos of the psychologist – Erik Valeur. Driving a patient home after the first session. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so suspicious, if Veronika hadn’t been so attractive, if she weren’t dead now.
Gunnarstranda recalled the meeting with Valeur and his unusual demeanour, totally laid back when the police come calling, talking about the Top Twenty and the herd mentality. Did that necessarily mean anything? The guy had been cultivating his mania for collecting and, after all, Gunnarstranda had interrupted a ritual. There is something deeply human about collecting, he thought. Most people he knew were collectors of one kind or another. Before the Lillehammer Winter Olympics collecting commemorative pins had been a national epidemic. Fairs were held nationwide and some pins changed hands for phenomenal sums. Who collected them now? Gunnarstranda didn’t know anyone who did. But he knew of people who collected wrist watches, wine, cars, bottles of cognac, stamps, coins, banknotes, biros, disposable lighters, even matchboxes. Collecting has been handed down from our evolutionary past; you have to survive a long winter, storing wood, food, fodder for the animals.
But there had been something.
The caustic remark about his visit – accompanied by the look of cold, hard steel in his eyes that vanished as soon as Gunnarstranda sensed it. The same hard steel that had risen to the surface when the psychologist was put under ever such slight pressure.
The coldness. What else had it been but his own damned intuition? So nothing. None the less: Gunnarstranda couldn’t get Valeur out of his mind.
The telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver and asked the caller to be brief.
It was Emil Yttergjerde.
‘There’s something creepy about that psychologist. It’s taken him over two hours to wash his car.’
Talk of the devil, Gunnarstranda thought. Or as his mother would say: Life’s strange. Every time I think hard about a friend, she rings me.
Yttergjerde continued his report: ‘First he put it in the car wash at Statoil, but he wasn’t happy with that, then he rented a space to wash it himself. He went over it with a vac and ammonium chloride, took out all the mats and any detachable parts inside, crawled in and scrubbed it. He’s changed the water in the bucket several times and is still doing it. If he’s trying to remove clues, I think he might be successful.’
‘We haven’t got enough on him yet to do anything,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘That was what I thought, but it’s worth taking note, don’t you think?’
After hanging up, Gunnarstranda sat staring at the photo of the girl from Finnsnes. It was time to hear what Erik Valeur’s ex-wife had to say. He lifted the receiver and rang the police in Tromsø.
35
Even eating out became a round of the differences between them. Ståle wanted to go to one of the flashy places in Aker Brygge and order a dry hamburger at the price of a fillet steak. He wanted to see the chicks (it embarrassed her every time he used the word). She had asked him three times what he saw in her if what actually turned him on was twenty-somethings with silicon tits as a confirmation present and he was unable to imagine anything cooler than having sex on a TV reality show.
She won anyway. Lena never went out and ate west of the river Akerselva. She was as finished with cafés as she was with puberty. On her way down from Brugata to Grønlandsleiret there were restaurants with international menus at affordable prices cheek by jowl with Narvesen kiosks selling bottles of Farris mineral water and steamy novels about Norwegian milkmaids. People queued in front of telephone exchanges to talk as cheaply as possible with family and friends on the other side of the globe. Lena liked being in the crowd thronging between colourful apartment buildings interspersed with elements of foreign architecture, such as the minaret in Åkebergveien, where all that was missing to complete the exoticism was the mosque’s call to prayer above the low rooftops.
They arranged to meet at the Alibaba restaurant in Grønlandsleiret. She was early and killed time by wandering back and forth. She knew he was careful to arrive a quarter of an hour late. At a quarter past there he was, scanning the tables on the pavement.
He was always nervous about colleagues seeing them together and would pretend they were two workmates who had bumped into each other in town. Out of pure defiance she sat down at one of the tables outside. He wanted to go inside. She acted as if she hadn’t heard or understood and started flicking through the menu. Soon some of the customers began staring at him. Only then did he sit down.
Losing in a situation like that went against all his instincts. When he started to criticise, she didn’t beat about the bush. She looked into his eyes and gave it to him straight. ‘If you don’t want to eat here, now, with me, please leave.’
That annoyed him even more, but she didn’t give a damn. Ignored him. Instead she explained what the various dishes were. ‘Lahmacun is a kind of pizza, really tasty, especially with lamb.’
Ståle stressed that he wanted to have steak and made an unpleasant reference to her holidays in Turkey – wasn’t it actually Turkish men she liked?
She ignored his vulgar insinuations and explained that there was no problem ordering beef. He could have a shish kebab, for example.
The waiter came. Ståle immediately ordered a beer. She ordered half a bottle of red wine for herself. Santa Rita. She noticed he didn’t approve of that either. She had driven him hard and defied him several times. How would he exact his revenge? The thought of it was repugnant. At last she realised what was about to happen. This was their farewell dinner.
Two women, one in a black burka, the other in blue, pushed their prams past them. A young, more Western-looking couple strolled by, carrying shopping bags. Two men tried in vain to sell hash to passersby. She hoped they would move towards the river before Ståle saw what was going on.
‘Why did we come here?’ Ståle asked. ‘We could’ve been enjoying the sun at Beach Club instead.’
The two drug barons disappeared as the waiter came with the drinks. Wine for her and a glass of water. The beer for Ståle took longer. She had to smile; this was not Ståle’s day.
A tall, athletic man wearing a white gown and white turban walked past. She followed him with her eyes.
His eyes widened. Not a good sign. ‘Don’t think so much, Ståle,’ she said.
‘Shut up,’ he snapped. ‘I’m sick to death of hearing you say that.’
She distracted him by waving for the waiter. ‘He’s waiting for a beer,’ she said.
‘Of course.’
They exchanged glances. He couldn’t bear that either – her taking the initiative and bringing order to chaos.
The waiter appeared with the beer. Poured more wine into her glass. The bottle was empty. ‘Another?’
She looked up at him. A handsome young man from Iraq or Iran. Brown eyes and golden skin. ‘I’ll wait.’
‘They turn you on, don’t they?’
She didn’t answer, just looked away. Somewhere deep inside her she was glad the final act was drawing closer and closer: vaya con Dios.
‘There’s something we have to discuss,’ she said. ‘You and me.’
He smirked. ‘I’m going on holiday.’
She cast a sidelong glance to gather strength.
He gripped her hand.
She freed it and felt strong. ‘You’re travelling alone, of course?’
He shook his head.
The waiter appeared again. Were they ready to order?
‘We’ll wait a bit,’ she said.
The waiter left.
‘Shit, Lena, I’m hungry.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Crete. In the south, where we usually go.’
She was almost impressed by how casually he talked about it. A pain shot through her stomach. This confused her. She was the one who should be able to talk casually about it. ‘Didn’t we talk about travelling together – one day?’ she asked, took a sip of wine and felt her strength return. She repeated the question.
Ståle looked down at the table and smiled shyly. ‘That won’t work, you know that. But I’ll be back on the first. Then we two can go away for a weekend.’ He called the waiter, who stood at the ready with pad and pencil. ‘I’ll have one of those,’ Ståle said. ‘Number four.’
The waiter made a note and looked at her.
‘I don’t want anything,’ she said.
The waiter took the trouble to refill her glass of water before going.
‘Am I going to eat alone?’ Ståle asked, annoyed.
Lena took her handbag. ‘Just going to the toilet.’ She squeezed her way inside and through the tables to the toilet. She gazed at herself in the mirror. A hair above her right eyebrow stood up like a horn. She pulled it out. Studied a wrinkle above the bridge of her nose. Tried to smooth it out. But couldn’t.
At home in Lønnåsjordet where she grew up, on the floor above them lived an attractive, dark-haired woman who was visited twice a week by an older man. They never talked about this at home. You never talked about the neighbours. This woman had an English setter she walked every morning. At lunch on Sundays, come rain or shine, the family watched the woman and the dog. One Sunday morning thunder rumbled and the poor dog trudged reluctantly behind its owner, wanting to go back indoors. Her father lifted his coffee cup to his mouth and remarked: ‘A majestic poetry lingers over a lover’s loneliness.’
Lena had reacted: ‘It’s pathetic you mean, don’t you?’
Her father had smiled and left the conversation there. He had only meant to be witty. She felt sorry for the woman who seemed so abandoned and couldn’t understand how she could bear the eternal self-sacrifice.
And now she was in the same position herself. No. She met her own eyes in the mirror and shook her head. She wasn’t. Not at all. She unlocked the door. But instead of going back to Ståle she turned right between the shops and over to the opposite side.
Sitting on the bus home, she sent Ståle a text message.
Owe you for the wine. I’ll put the money into your account. Holiday money. Have a good trip, Lena.
She leaned back thinking life wasn’t so bad.
36
Rindal stopped Frølich leaving.
‘Good work, Frølich. Re the student from Kampala and all that. Any news on the kidnapper who ran away?’
Frølich shook his head. He knew Rindal, and Rindal had never been interested in the African woman.
‘We’re looking for him. Usual channels.’
Rindal nodded.
‘They made films,’ Frølich said. ‘There’s enough evidence.’
Rindal gave a non-committal nod and said:
‘What do you reckon about Undset and Zahid? Has Kadir Zahid got anything to do with the murder?’
‘It’s possible Veronika and Zahid had an old-pals’ act going, I don’t know. That was my first impression when I arrested her. But then it turned out she was getting married to Karl Anders Fransgård. So, it’s more likely she and Zahid were telling the truth. Their statements matched. Both said they grew up together, were in the same class, both said they were good friends. Both said they liked each other blah blah blah. So I can’t imagine Zahid killed Veronika.’
‘OK,’ Rindal said reflectively. ‘How do you think the case is going?’
Frølich shrugged. ‘There’s one matter that should be followed up more closely,’ he said. ‘The cocaine trail.’
Rindal furrowed his brow, confused.
‘We arrested Veronika Undset for possession of five grams hidden in a Zippo. She denied—’
‘Exactly,’ Rindal interrupted, nodding, distant. ‘Exactly, we have to take a wider view,’ he said. ‘A broader view. Don’t you agree?’
Frølich realised Rindal hadn’t asked for his opinion because he was interested, but because he wanted him to do something else.
‘Look at this,’ Rindal said, passing Frølich a pile of papers. ‘An inventory of objects seized on Zahid’s premises.’
‘Why do you ask my opinion about a case when you don’t give a shit what my answer is?’
Rindal reacted defensively, both hands raised. ‘I don’t care what you say. But there are two types of detective, Frølich: those who have to be briefed first and those who are already au fait with the material. This lead has to be followed up and you’re a man who knows both the Veronika and the Zahid cases. There could be things among the confiscated goods which link them.’
Frank Frølich was unable to hide his irritation. ‘This is office work.’
Rindal was already on his way. ‘Just have a look,’ he mumbled. ‘A little peep can’t harm.’
Frølich continued into Gunnarstranda’s office. ‘There’s something I have to talk to you about,’ he started, but fell silent when Gunnarstranda gesticulated with the telephone receiver.
‘Eugen? It’s me. Have you spoken to the psychologist’s ex-wife?’
Gunnarstranda glanced at his watch. ‘OK, talk later.’ He hung up. Turned to Frølich. ‘Suddenly Eugen Bendixen’s very busy. It’s ten to ten in the morning and he asked me to ring back in two hours. How can I help you, Frølich?’
