Faithless, page 5
His phone rang.
He fumbled for it with trembling hands. Read the display. Discovered to his disappointment that it wasn’t Karl Anders’s number.
‘Yes?’
‘Lena here. Thought I should tell you that we’ve had an alibi confirmed. A guy called Mattis Langeland was in Bar Robinet until it closed on Saturday morning.’
‘Alone?’
‘Alone.’
‘Who says so?’
‘A guy who works in the bar. Mattis Langeland contacted him and told him to ring the police.’
Frølich put the phone back in his pocket. This was not his day. Not at all.
He leaned back on the bench with his eyes closed. The sun baked down and he was already sweating. He mentally shelved the missing-person case. Couldn’t get Veronika Undset out of his head. Went back over what happened that morning: she opened the rear door of the taxi and stepped out. The glance she sent him, calm, knowing. He had sensed it then – and now he was absolutely sure. She had known someone was tailing the taxi she took from Kadir Zahid’s. It was so obvious. Kadir had told her: the cops are keeping me under surveillance. Be prepared. They might approach you when you leave here.
That was exactly what they had done. He could visualise the little smile on her lips as she got onto the rear seat of the police car. Two images, he thought. Spot the difference.
The difference was that he found something in her bag.
Could she have been telling the truth?
She must have been telling the truth. She would have been clean if she knew she was risking an encounter with the police after leaving Kadir. She wouldn’t have had drugs on her. Her reaction when he found the lighter was genuine.
But why didn’t these thoughts give him any peace?
Karl Anders and he had history. They had a shared past. Was that why he was so clammy and restless?
No. It couldn’t be. What happened took place more than twenty years ago. This was about Veronika Undset – a woman with many layers to her personality. She had been streetwise, had managed to retain her composure in tricky situations. She wasn’t given to outbursts; she waited, she examined the circumstances…
He weighed the phone in his hand. He had rung twice without getting an answer. Karl Anders should ring back of his own accord.
He put the phone in his pocket. His shirt was sticking to his body in the heat. The ground was dry; the trees in the park had absorbed all the moisture and left the grass looking yellow and scorched. He longed for a shower. Glanced at his watch. It was time to pick up old sourpuss.
*
Frølich was driving and the Dandy Warhols were on the radio as they went down Sognsveien. ‘You Were the Last High’. They passed the tram on the bend by the entrance to the university. They had to stop at the lights by Ringveien and the tram swept past again. Gunnarstranda, who had been sitting lost in thought, turned the volume down and said:
‘Let me get this straight. You arrested her as she was leaving Zahid’s at the crack of dawn, you found some cocaine on her and threw her in a cell – and you did that to your pal’s fiancée?’
‘I didn’t know about their relationship then. I only found out in the evening. Karl Anders was celebrating his fortieth. We hadn’t seen each other for many years, but I was invited – I received an invitation several weeks ago. I went into the party and who did I see? Her! She was as shocked as I was, but we managed to keep our masks on, both of us.’
‘But she visits Kadir Zahid alone, at night, when she’s engaged to someone else? What sort of person is this Karl Anders? Is he jealous?’
The lights turned to green. Frølich put the car in gear. He gave the question some consideration and chose his words with care:
‘Once I knew Karl Anders well. Very well. But when we were young and artless, straightforward; we knew everything about each other, right, the way boys are. That was many years ago, though.’
‘You don’t know him any more?’
‘We haven’t been in contact for a long time.’
‘Why not?’
Frølich buzzed down the window. He had been expecting the question, but he wasn’t ready to tackle it. Instead he concentrated on the traffic, exaggeratedly. The lights on the Adamstuen crossing went amber. Aggressive motorists surged forward. He sat waiting for a gap in the stream of cars. It took time. Another tram approached. The car behind hooted. Frølich set off and shook a fist at a driver who only just managed to brake.
He continued down Theresesgate. Glanced at Gunnarstranda who was still waiting for an answer. Frølich said nothing.
‘When I haul in this Karl Anders for an interview, we’ll use the TV room. I want you to watch,’ Gunnarstranda said at length.
Frølich cast an involuntary glance at the rear-view mirror. Remembered again Veronika’s slightly condescending smile from the rear seat on the Saturday morning. Now he was onto her. She couldn’t bluff any more, she couldn’t hide. He had the authority to explore all her secrets, read private letters, diaries if she had any, go through her medicine cabinet and find out any little ailments she may have had, acquaint himself with her vices and bad habits, he could even nose through her rubbish. He felt a quiver of power run through his body. He knew he should feel sullied, but he didn’t. He felt strong and focused, as though she were lying beneath him in the sunshine, naked, right now.
Frølich blinked and breathed in. This couldn’t go on. He pulled in suddenly to the bus lay-by at Bislett.
‘What’s up, Frølich? Aren’t you well?’
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t be on this case,’ he answered. It was so hot and he was about to undo the top button of his shirt when he realised it was already open.
‘Why not?’
‘I might be too close to the people involved.’
‘You’ve investigated Veronika Undset. You know about Kadir Zahid’s relationship with her. Of course you should be on the case!’ Gunnarstranda snorted. ‘What do you mean close?’
‘I’m not impartial.’
‘As far as your friend’s concerned, yes, but you can still do a job on the investigation.’
Frølich took his phone. Keyed in the number. The phone rang and rang. Until the dialling tone returned. Frølich sighed. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Who isn’t?’
‘Karl Anders.’
‘Something tells me you’ve been trying all day,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Frølich texted him: Hi KA, we must talk. Ring me on this number. FF
He sent the message, left the phone on the console in the middle and checked his mirror before driving off. Waited for a gap in the traffic. He asked: ‘Could she have been attacked out of the blue and raped?’
Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘Then we would have found the body at the crime scene. She was killed somewhere else, rolled up in plastic, transported – presumably by car – and thrown into a refuse container. Clothes? We haven’t got them. All we have is a diamond earring in her left ear. You probably didn’t see, but there were burn marks on her stomach and between her thighs – and so on. The pathologist thinks someone washed her with boiling-hot water post mortem – probably to remove any biological clues.’
Both men went quiet.
‘As after a rape,’ Gunnarstranda added.
The silence persisted. Frølich thought about Karl Anders, thought about Veronika being killed, now, right now.
‘Friends,’ Gunnarstranda said after a while.
‘Hm?’ Frølich replied, pretending not to understand.
‘Your friend’s playing hide-and-seek with us. But you were at his party. Where there must have been some friends of theirs, friends of the couple. People who knew her. That’s the place to start.’
Frølich nodded. ‘I’ve got a missing-person case as well,’ he said. ‘The African girl who disappeared. There’s a possibility she might have been killed too…’
Gunnarstranda angled his head. ‘And so?’
‘It’s difficult to do both, two murders…’
‘Rosalind M’Taya’s status is missing. You don’t know if she’s been killed.’
‘The point is—’
Gunnarstranda interrupted him: ‘Veronika’s friends, Frølich. Names of the people at the fortieth birthday party who can help us to find out what she was doing yesterday. Veronika Undset was killed, patently.’
‘I hadn’t seen Karl Anders for many years. I was the only one of our old pals to be invited. He has a completely new circle of friends.’
‘But you spoke to some of them, I suppose?’
‘I had a woman sitting next to me who knew Veronika well. Janne Smith. I can start there.’
Gunnarstranda nodded with satisfaction. ‘I’ll talk to Veronika’s family, then.’
*
Back at the police station, the first thing Frølich did was to ring the home number of Janne Smith. She didn’t answer. Instead he was put through to an answerphone. He hesitated, but in the end didn’t leave a message. He rang her mobile, but it was switched off. The same voicemail. At that moment the door opened and he put down the receiver. It was Lena Stigersand.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
He shook his head.
‘I’m going through some surveillance videos from Gardermoen Airport,’ Lena said, ‘with regard to Rosalind M’Taya. The ones I’ve checked I’ve marked with a yellow sticker.’ She showed him a DVD with a Post-it on. ‘It’d be good if you did the same. There are so many bloody films.’ She placed a pile on the desk.
‘What are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘Have lunch,’ Lena said cheerily. ‘And afterwards both Rindal and Gunnarstranda consider the Veronika case more important than this.’
With that she was gone.
Frølich sat looking from the door to the pile of DVDs to the phone. He opened his laptop and inserted the first film.
9
The others couldn’t fathom how she had the energy to run in such heat. But they knew nothing. They knew only about Ståle, believing they knew everything. What Lena herself thought, they had no idea. This couldn’t go on, she realised that. Ståle probably agreed. Deep down, he also wanted an end to the relationship. Perhaps that was why they were continuing the way they were. Everything was about sex, which escalated every time they met.
She liked his self-assurance, but hated his brutality. She didn’t want to think about their last meeting. She preferred to attempt an analysis. As passion was all that bound them, all their energy was channelled into a sexuality whereby both pushed the boundaries every time.
Like now, she thought ironically. His free day and she jumped at his idea of having lunch. Role play.
She put on her tracksuit and trainers and ran off with a small rucksack on her back. Jogged down the path in Grønland Park and then up towards Åkebergveien. She loved running, feeling her knees, thighs and calves absorbing the weight of her body with ease. Breathing correctly. Not letting her imagination run wild. Not thinking about what would happen. Running across the roundabout in Galgeberg. Not warm yet. Listening.
There. She heard the roar of the V8 as he braked behind her. She didn’t turn. Kept jogging. Thinking that he was watching her now, fantasising. Soon he would be alongside her. Rolling down the window as she approached the bus stop. She thought: He’ll do it there, at the bus stop.
She braced herself. No one around at the bus stop. She sprinted. For a short distance. The car pulled in and forced her off the road. She had to stop, stand, gasping for breath. The window was open. Sunglasses hid his eyes. He ordered her into the car. She asked why.
‘Jump in,’ he repeated peremptorily. An elderly lady came towards them. The car was in her way. Annoyed, the woman stopped.
‘Do as I say,’ Ståle said.
She obeyed. He put the car into gear. Silent. It was wonderfully cool in the car. Cold air streamed towards her face.
He drove along Ringveien, turned off up Maridalsveien. She had her breath back now. The air-conditioning was cooling her body, but not enough. He ordered her to get undressed, and she obeyed until she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on.
He told her what to do to herself. Again, she obeyed.
At length he parked under the deciduous trees. Told her what to do to him. She did as she was told. She didn’t think, she just reacted and enjoyed doing so. Going with the flow, like a kayak down a rushing stream, concentrating on the pleasure of controlling the forces and the boundless power she had. She did feel dirty afterwards sometimes. Sometimes she wondered about her own powers of judgement.
No one knew better than Lena that this was theatre. She was the daydream. She fulfilled the fantasies Ståle couldn’t realise with his wife, who was going through the change and suffered from osteoporosis. He always complained about his wife and she let him. This woman was mere words. She was his dream about the source of youth, and she didn’t give a damn while she was in the middle of it. No amount of self-contempt could outweigh the intoxication and the power she experienced as he surrendered totally.
Afterwards, however, she was the equally dominated slave of her super-ego: as sure as rain follows the sun, condemnation and self-mockery took the place of desire in her consciousness. Then he was nothing. Then he was as dirty as she felt.
His member died inside her however little she wanted it to. Soon he would push her away, throw the condom out of the window without realising that such an act was vulgar and offensive and illustrated with total clarity the absence of genuine feeling in their relationship. He was a child. A child with a chest that rose and fell like after a long sprint. His sweat made the silvery hairs on his chest glitter. He was sated. She raised her head and kissed him on the chin although she didn’t really want to do that. Her fingers stroked his hard abdomen and pecs. Astonished now that this was what lit her desire. The flesh under the suntanned skin. ‘Get dressed,’ she whispered.
‘I might want you to do it again,’ he replied.
His words increased her sense of unease, and she kissed him on the neck to avoid any further talk that might ruin any remaining tenderness.
She nimbly sat up and turned to the side. Picked up her clothes and dressed. Collected her rucksack from the rear seat.
He inhaled to say something.
‘I have to ask you a favour,’ she broke in. ‘Now.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I need transport. And you’re free.’
*
Half an hour later he swung his Mustang into the empty forecourt in front of Dekkmekk. She sat for a few seconds looking out before saying: ‘Despite almost non-existent activity he manages to support his mother, his father, his sisters and his brothers with this business. None of the sisters has paid work. They sleep during the day and go on the town at night. The four brothers have at least two cars each. All of them have wardrobes a footballer would envy. The parents live in Peshwar for six months, where they own one of the town’s most attractive houses.’
‘You have the choice,’ Ståle said. ‘If you drive a Rolls or a Ferrari, it’s thirty litres to a hundred kilometres. If you drive a Micra, five.’
She glanced at him with a smile. ‘And what do you mean by that?’
He grinned back. They looked into each other’s eyes. ‘I think you’ll have to squeeze into your Lycra again soon.’
She quickly opened the door and put one foot on the ground. The heat from outside entered the car. The draught derailed his thoughts.
‘What sort of place is this if there’s no one around in the middle of the day?’ he asked.
‘There are people here only twice a year,’ she explained. ‘That’s at the transition between autumn and winter and winter and spring. Then his brothers are here changing tyres for the customers who stray here by chance. But this lot aren’t cheap, so the customers never come back. This activity only keeps invoices and accounts alive for VAT and tax-return purposes.’
‘My wife says even couples who have no children drive five-seaters. They don’t drive a two-seater. That’s the way it is.’
Lena stared at him. ‘Don’t think so much, Ståle,’ she said in a low voice.
That wasn’t nice. She could see he was furious and as she read his reaction she wondered why she was so nasty.
He was about to say something, but she put a finger in front of his mouth. Then she leaned forward and brushed his coarse mouth with her lips.
A dark blue Audi A6 drove past them and onto the forecourt.
‘Who’s that?’
‘The owner,’ Lena said. ‘He keeps the place under surveillance 24/7. It took him less than five minutes. Not bad when we arrive in an unmarked car.’
She got out of the car. ‘Wait for me,’ she said.
The Audi had stopped by the garage entrance. A man in shorts and a polo shirt stepped out.
Lena showed him her ID. ‘Kadir Zahid?’
‘Lena,’ Kadir grinned. ‘We’ve met several times. Why so formal?’ He glanced at Ståle’s blue Mustang. ‘You’ve come here in a fancy car, Lena. Is that your boyfriend?’
‘That’s Ståle Sender, a police officer. He’s my back-up, as we in the profession call it.’
‘Shame he’s a cop. I like to talk cars with men who know one end of a car from the other.’
‘I’m here to ask you about Veronika Undset,’ Lena said.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead. Veronika’s the woman they’re talking about on the news. The one who was found in a refuse container, murdered.’
Kadir Zahid turned on his heel and pulled open the shutters. A few seconds later he was standing with his back to her. As she was about to speak he walked between piles of tyres, past lifting equipment and machines, towards an office with glass walls.
Lena glanced over her shoulder.
Ståle Sender opened the car door and got out. She waved to him and mouthed: Back soon. He crossed his muscular arms and leaned against the bonnet of the Mustang. Sunglasses in front of his eyes, the V-shape of his upper torso and his pose made him the cliché he wanted to be.
She followed Zahid, past the tyres, the jacks and hydraulic machines.
