Faithless, page 22
To Frølich he said: ‘Once again, what are you doing?’
Frølich looked up from the filing cabinet. ‘Have you never asked yourself why Veronika chose Valeur in particular?’
‘Do you know why?’
Frølich waved a patient file from the archive. ‘I have an idea. You either choose a psychologist from the Yellow Pages or you have one recommended. If Valeur came via recommendation, it must have been through a patient here. That patient must be someone she knew. I have the name of a particular patient here. I think I know why she came here, and by God I think I know who killed her.’
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing as if on command. They stared at him.
He pulled a face and pressed the file close to his chest. ‘Just kidding!’
The men in white overalls snorted, turned away and continued with their work. Frølich motioned to Gunnarstranda.
They went out.
‘Who?’ Gunnarstranda asked, nodding towards the file Frølich was holding.
‘I was going to tell you when you rang,’ Frølich said. ‘I was with Abid Iqbal. Who do you think we saw pushing cocaine to customers at Mono?’
*
Thirty minutes later Frølich parked a hundred metres from the house. He sat looking through the windscreen.
‘So we’re agreed, are we?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
Frølich nodded and got out of the car. He walked the hundred metres and stopped by the gate. Heavy-metal music was pounding out through the walls. The basement windows were lit and a couple on the ground floor, too. Perhaps Kristoffer was alone at home. Frølich glanced over his shoulder. Gunnarstranda was standing by the car with his hands in his pockets. He nodded. Frølich went to the door and rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang twice more before Gunnarstranda came through the garden gate. When he rang for the third time the music went quiet.
Frølich didn’t want to be seen and stood by the wall at the side of the front door.
Gunnarstranda stood on the doorstep and prepared to play the stupid caller in a coat when he heard the latches of a window being opened.
Someone poked their head out.
It was impossible to make out any facial features. The roof light shone on his head from behind. He heard only the voice:
‘What do you want?’
‘Is Janne at home?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you Janne’s boy?’ Gunnarstranda asked, stepping backward so that he could be seen.
‘Who are you?’
Frølich worked at the door.
Gunnarstranda coughed, and said: ‘Hear you go to a psychologist in Tåsen.’
There was silence for a few seconds.
‘Someone called Valeur,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Janne isn’t at home and I’ve no idea where she is, so goodbye.’
‘The golden goose has laid,’ Gunnarstranda said quickly.
‘What are you talking about?’
Frølich opened the door – as quietly as he could. A faint creak from a rusty hinge carried across the summer evening.
‘The golden goose has laid,’ Gunnarstranda repeated. ‘You’ve won the lottery. Did you know?’
‘Me? Win the lot—?’ The last word disappeared with the boy as Frølich grabbed him.
‘Ten years in clink,’ Gunnarstranda said, walking towards the front door.
He stood in the doorway watching the boy struggling underneath Frølich. Thin and spindly and unusually angry. The two of them were a rolling tangle of arms and legs. He let them roll over to the wall before striding past, locating the staircase to the basement and going down. He sniffed the air. There was a vague smell of putrefaction. He looked around, digested the sight of the little hall. The concrete floor. A light outline on the concrete where there had once been a rug.
Two doors led into rooms. A large basement sitting room was furnished in adolescent Satan-worship style. Black walls, vampire-themed posters, kitschy figure sixes and a cross hanging upside down. A candle was burning on a low table inside a skull.
He lifted the skull and studied it. The candle tipped over. He blew it out. The skull appeared to be genuine. He banged a knuckle on the skull. Jesus, he thought. What a hobby!
The second door led into the bathroom. Inside there was an old-fashioned white bathtub on lion feet and an old washbasin on the wall. Blue tiles on the floor, white tiles on the walls.
When Frølich came in, Gunnarstranda was kneeling on the floor trying to lift the drain grille with his penknife. ‘So he is alone here,’ Frølich said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Searching,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Could you go to the kitchen and see if you can find a plate?’
‘A plate?’
‘Yes, a plate.’
‘What about the boy?’
‘A plate, Frølich.’
Frølich went.
Gunnarstranda rolled up the sleeve of his right arm and stuck his hand down the drain.
Frølich was soon back with a big white porcelain plate.
From the drain Gunnarstranda pulled up a clump of wet, black gunge.
It reeked.
Frølich wrinkled his nose and grimaced.
Gunnarstranda dug down again. Another clump on the plate. When he stuck his hand down another time he met Frølich’s eye and explained: ‘If it was Kristoffer who scalded her he did it somewhere the water could run away.’
Gunnarstranda struggled to his feet and studied his catch on the plate. He rinsed his hands, took the biro from his breast pocket and prodded the black gunge with great interest.
‘Bård and the others’ll probably be a couple of hours at the psychologist’s,’ Frølich said to fill the silence.
‘We don’t need Bård,’ Gunnarstranda said, straightening his back. Between thumb and index finger he held a tiny object.
‘What is it?’
‘As Marilyn sings so convincingly, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend”. This is the diamond, Frølich. Veronika Undset’s missing earring.’
45
A red-hot pain throbbed in her temples. There was something in her mouth and she had to vomit.
‘Lie still!’
She obeyed, but had to have some air. She was hyperventilating. Couldn’t get enough oxygen. Concentrated: breathe in, out, in, out, in. It was slow, but she was gaining control over her breathing. When the numb feeling in her skin went she could feel his hands over her body. It wasn’t cloth she had in her mouth. It was a clump of sand and blood. She spat, opened her eyes. Tried to pull her legs from underneath her.
It was only now she noticed. She wasn’t dressed. He had taken off her running gear.
‘Don’t look.’
She turned her head from where she heard his voice.
‘Don’t look, I said!’
The pain stung as the blow hit home. She fell back on her side. Barely aware that he was kicking her. Groaned only when all the air was forced out of her body. Her stomach and side were numb.
Breathed in … out … in … out.
She rolled onto her stomach and again tried to get up.
‘Are you deaf or what? Don’t look!’
This time she couldn’t restrain an outburst and screamed with pain. Her back was ablaze. What is he hitting me with?
‘Shut up, lie still and keep your eyes closed.’
Her left leg was trapped.
She jerked it. Metal against her ankle. He was tying her up. He is not going to get his way.
‘Do you think I bought that story about the victim of abuse? Don’t you think I know who you are? There’s a picture of you in the paper, girl. Welcome to reality, Lena. Now you’ll have to play with the bad boy in the class. Don’t look, I told you!’
She passed out for a few seconds. When she came to her mouth was full of blood again. She was rolled over onto her stomach. She spat. Her left leg was still trapped. The weight of his body pressed down on her other calf.
Then she felt a hand between her thighs, hard fingers with nails that scratched. She wriggled like a snake. The pain burned and she screamed involuntarily as he shoved his fingers inside. The bastard.
She got more sand in her eyes. She thought: don’t lie still. If he moves I can free my leg. If he wants more he will have to move.
The pain paralysed her groin and abdomen. But she didn’t want to scream.
I’m stronger. I’m in better shape.
His weight shifted. It became more difficult to turn, harder to resist.
‘That’s the way, that’s the way, theeeere we are…’
There. The weight of his body was gone. Now or never!
As quick as lightning, she rolled onto the leg that was trapped. Gathered all her strength in the foot that was free.
Missed.
As quick as lightning, she pulled back her foot.
She saw the outline of a figure, the body towering over her, big and naked.
She thrust out her foot.
Bullseye.
Her heel hit him smack in the crotch. He folded up and fell forward. She watched the fall as if in slow motion. Her free foot was a steel spring, retracted and shot out again. He hit his face on the way down. His head jerked back and up. There was a crunch. His head, arms and legs hit the ground like a corpse. He lay there, motionless. For a few seconds she thought she had killed him. No. Blood and slime were running from his mouth. His head moved. Blood between his teeth. He tried to struggle up onto all fours. He is not going to get up again. She kicked again and again. Lay on her side, still with one leg tied while the other foot kicked hard and rhythmically like a motorised sledgehammer. When he was quite still she started punching him. She hit him systematically, without stopping, as if this were her job. It wasn’t the man she was hitting. She was hammering pain and frailty out of her body and consciousness, punishing herself and her lack of willpower. In the end she didn’t hit to punish, she hit like a smithy over an anvil, to strengthen her spine. His body lay unmoving on the ground receiving blow after blow. She hit out until she was completely exhausted and lay on her stomach gasping for air. Until she could barely lift her hand.
When she had to rest the pains came. In her hand, foot, lower abdomen. She sat up. Her ankle was bleeding. He had tied her foot with wire. She loosened it. Crawled over his body, pressed her ear to the naked back and listened. His heart was beating. He was breathing. There was a gurgling noise. She twisted his head to the side. Grabbed his tongue to free the airway.
She crawled over to a rock, sat down on it and stared at the bundle of a man lying in front of her.
No light between the trees, but she could hear the sea. She got her bearings. Her clothes lay beside the rock, along with his.
He whimpered.
She jumped up. No. He was lying still.
She felt faint and nauseous. She sank to her knees, got up onto all fours and swallowed until the nausea went. Noticed the wound on the back of her hand was no longer bleeding. She remembered the pain, the mobile phone flying through the air. He must have had a knife hidden somewhere when he was kneeling. Where was it now?
She pulled the pile of clothes to her and dressed. Stared at the sleeve, the spattered blood. She ran her hand under her nose. More blood. She didn’t care, searched his pockets, found the car keys and the knife. It was small. An open penknife with a blue steel blade. She weighed the knife in her hand. Eventually put it in her bumbag.
Afterwards she scrabbled around, still on all fours, looking for her phone – it looked too like a flat stone. She picked it up. Five unanswered calls, all from Gunnarstranda.
She put the phone in her pocket and walked back to the man lying motionless on the ground.
She picked up the wire he had used on her foot and stood with it in her hand thinking.
46
It was ten past four in the morning when Frank Frølich lifted the phone in the duty officer’s room from its cradle and rang the home number of his friend Karl Anders Fransgård.
Frølich hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t tired. Adrenalin was coursing through his veins. He counted eight long rings before Karl Anders took the phone.
‘Hi, KA. Frankie here. Can I talk to Janne?’
‘Eh?’
Frølich couldn’t be bothered to repeat himself.
Karl Anders stuttered a few vacuous phrases. There was the rustle of duvet and a whisper from the other end: ‘It’s for you.’
‘Me?’
Karl Anders, somewhat impatient: ‘Yes, it’s Frankie. He’s asking for you.’
‘Hello?’ The voice was alert – a good sign.
‘Hi, Janne, I’m ringing because I know you a little,’ Frølich said. ‘At any rate I think I do. Listen, your son, Kristoffer, has been arrested. He’s in custody. He’s going to be charged with the murder of Veronika Undset. I can’t say with any certainty whether that’ll be the only charge.’
He paused to let her speak, but he wasn’t interrupted. The line was still. He carried on: ‘Kristoffer has reached the age of majority, which means that we in the police don’t need to contact relatives. You won’t be informed officially and you won’t be able to make any demands or do anything else on behalf of your son. You have no visiting rights, either. On the other hand, you might be granted a visit if you come here now.’
Janne Smith was breathing heavily. Frølich let the silence continue to allow her to speak, but she didn’t say a word.
‘Come here now,’ he repeated, in case she hadn’t understood the first time.
Still silence.
‘Kristoffer will be in custody at the station until his case comes up before the judge tomorrow,’ Frølich went on. ‘The police will ask for custody for four weeks with no rights to post or visitors. If the police request is granted, you won’t be allowed to see him for four weeks – at least.’
He drew breath. Waited for a few seconds. Not a murmur.
‘Incidentally, I failed to mention that your house is being examined by forensic officers at this moment. They will provide a warrant showing that they’re entitled to do this if you ask them. They’ll probably have finished by tomorrow morning.’
He fell silent again.
Waited.
There was a clatter as she put down the phone and broke off communication.
Frølich sat looking at the dead phone.
‘What did she say?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
Frølich swivelled back and forth.
‘Well,’ Gunnarstranda said impatiently, ‘What did she say?’
‘She’s coming here now. She said that in this difficult situation the only thing she can do is give her son all the support she can muster,’ Frølich answered, and got up.
47
It was in the brief period in the middle of the midsummer night, when it is actually dark, that the duty officer decided to take action after receiving an anonymous tip-off.
Two officers driving slowly between the shops in Karenslyst were instructed to head for Kongsskogen Forest, Bygdøy.
The squad car shot across the roundabout before Bygdøy. They had the road to themselves, accelerated up the hills to the royal estate of Kongsgården and passed it at great speed. As the driver turned off, the blue light shone against the deserted houses of the Folkemuseet and was reflected in black windows. The driver braked over the speed bumps, the full beam was lost in the darkness between the trees, then it shone across the road again and caught the yellow eyes of a solitary cat crouched at the edge of the road.
‘Kongsskogen is pretty big,’ the driver said.
The other officer didn’t answer. Everyone knew the forest was big.
The driver turned into the car park, which was as deserted as the road they had just driven down. He stopped at the end and left the lights on. The cones of light from the headlamps picked out some tree trunks and became weaker as they went deeper. The two of them sat for some very long seconds staring silently into the darkness. It was the driver who broke the silence.
‘I can’t see anything, not a car, not a soul.’
The other officer didn’t answer. It wasn’t necessary. He couldn’t see anything either.
The driver reported back over the radio that it must have been a false alarm.
‘Are you in the car?’ the duty officer asked.
The two of them exchanged glances. The driver said yes.
‘Get out then! Start searching!’
When the driver opened the door the interior light came on. The officers saw their reflections in the windscreen.
Both hesitated. But in the end they grabbed torches and got out of the car. They trained together. Both hated losing when they competed against each other, whether it was in skiing, swimming or squash. Neither of them wished to articulate their anxiety or reservations. Neither of them wished to articulate the unease they both felt at stepping into the darkness. So they walked in silence, striding across the grass, each shining a torch. They maintained a distance of thirty metres between them.
Two torchlights shone between the trees. Neither of the men said a word. Neither of them wanted to reveal their nerves. For Christ’s sake, this was a search. This was routine work.
The driver glanced to the right as his friend’s torchlight came to a stop. He stopped too. He listened. He heard nothing. He said: ‘Steffen, what’s up?’
He received no answer.
At that moment his friend’s torch went out.
The driver shone his own torch on where he had last seen the light. And saw only bushes and tree trunks.
A chill froze his spine. A claw took hold of his stomach. He breathed through an open mouth and forced himself to walk towards the place where his friend ought to have been.
The torchlight moved with the rhythm of his steps. The ground, the sky, the ground, the sky. He stopped, swivelled round a hundred and eighty degrees with the torch at a right angle to his body. Then the beam passed a face. ‘Is that you?’ he shouted, moving the torch to find the face. But there was no one there. What the hell is this?
‘Steffen!’ he yelled.
