Death in Oslo (16 page)

The gym in the police HQ had no windows. The Chief of Police had already started to pull at his collar. Fifty people were sitting in deep concentration at desks placed in a horseshoe around a huge round table. Charts and maps were hanging from the stall bars. The technical equipment gave off a suffocating waft of dust that mixed with the remains of sweat and smelly trainers.

‘They’re not happy with their offices either.’ Bastesen emptied his coffee cup in one final gulp. ‘We’ve given them
three offices on the second floor, the red zone, but they don’t appear to be using them. Which is no skin off my nose. And here we’ve got together your guys from PST, the best people from the NCIS and my men. It’s—’

‘And women,’ Salhus interrupted.

‘And women.’ Bastesen nodded. ‘It was more a figure of speech. My point is that we can’t let the Americans just do as they please and trample on everything. I don’t see how that will help the investigation. The language barrier alone would . . . And so far they have given us nothing. Tight as clams.’

‘The reports suggest that they’ve decided to set up shop at the embassy,’ Salhus said. ‘To be expected. The traffic in and out of Drammensveien has increased considerably, and all public services have been closed. They can do what they want in the embassy. I’m sure we would have done the same. And as for their lack of communication . . .’ He turned towards the Chief of Police. He wavered for a moment, then put his hand on Bastesen’s arm in an unexpected friendly gesture. ‘The Americans don’t give anything away unless it’s to their advantage,’ he continued. ‘And certainly not when they don’t trust the other party. Strictly speaking, I can understand why their trust and confidence in us is not optimal at the moment.’

Without waiting for a response, he stepped down from the raised platform in the far corner of the hall. He was still holding his cup of coffee when he stopped beside an overweight man in his forties, who was sitting with his chin cupped in his hands, staring at a computer screen.

‘Still nothing?’ Salhus asked in a quiet voice.

‘Nope.’

The officer rubbed his red eyes. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it before suppressing a burp and screwing the top back on.

‘I’ve watched all the videos three times. In slow motion, fast and real time. Nothing. No one comes and no one goes. The
woman must have flown out the window.’

‘No,’ was Salhus’ measured response. ‘She didn’t do that. As you know, Secret Services had someone standing . . . here.’

An aerial photograph of the area around the Hotel Opera was hanging on the wall behind the monitor. Salhus pointed to the roof of the neighbouring building.

‘And all the equipment is in good working order? No one’s tampered with anything? No short circuits or loops?’

‘Well if there are, they’ve been bloody well perfectly done,’ sighed the policeman, scratching his neck. ‘Basically, we’ve found absolutely nothing. I don’t get it . . .’

He looked up, obviously distracted by the sharp clacking of heels across the floor. The atmosphere in the provisional incident room was subdued. Most people tiptoed around. Even the whir of the technical equipment was dampened by lined cases and rubber mats.

A red-haired woman hotfooted over the floor. She was waving a phone enthusiastically in her hand, as if she had won a prize.

‘Witnesses,’ she exclaimed when she reached the Chief of Police, who had followed Salhus and was watching the empty corridor on the ninth floor of the Hotel Opera. ‘People are finally starting to ring in with sightings, and lots of them!’

‘Witnesses?’ Bastesen repeated dubiously. ‘Witnesses to what?’

The woman took a deep breath, and tucked her red hair behind her ear. ‘The kidnapping,’ she panted.

The corpulent policeman stared at her, as if he was having difficulty understanding the language.

‘There are no witnesses,’ he said aggressively and pointed at the monitor. ‘There’s not a fucking person to be seen!’

‘Not there,’ the woman said. ‘Outside. Later, I mean. Outside the hotel.’

‘Where?’

Salhus put a hand on her shoulder, but removed it immediately when he detected a slight frown on the woman’s face.

‘A young woman,’ she said, more evenly now. ‘A Russ. She was sitting with a friend in the parking place on the fjord side of Central Station when two men and a woman who fits the description of Helen Bentley went past . . .’ she glanced around swiftly and then leant towards the aerial photograph, ‘from here. They got into a blue Ford.’

‘Hmmm,’ the Chief of Police muttered. ‘Well, well.’

He had crossed his arms and was staring blankly at the wall. Peter Salhus was pensively pulling his earlobe. The policeman sitting in front of the screen couldn’t hide his grin.

‘We believe, tra-la-la,’ he muttered.

‘And she’s not the only one,’ the woman added quickly. ‘She and her friend, that is. Last night one of the old boys was picked up, and when he was questioned this morning before being released, it turns out that he’d been in the same place at the same time. And he says exactly the same thing.’

‘Same time,’ Peter Salhus said, and let go of his ear. ‘And what time was that?’

‘Around four, the two girls said. The old alcoholic said ten past four, because he’d just looked at the clock. And then . . .’ She fumbled eagerly in her jacket pocket for her notebook. ‘Three witnesses have, independent of each other, phoned in to report sightings of a blue Ford with two men and a sleeping woman in a red jacket in it, heading towards Svinesund. They’ve been seen in . . .’ She leafed through her book. She was now surrounded by an audience. No one said anything. The woman with the red hair licked her finger and turned another page. ‘At a petrol station on the E6, close to Moss. In a lay-by outside Fredrikstad, and . . .’ she stopped abruptly and shook her head, ‘in Larvik,’ she finished off in disappointment. ‘In Larvik, which is not on the way to Sweden.’

‘Not really,’ said the monitor man and laughed.

‘But we’re used to that,’ Bastesen said. ‘Some witnesses have actually seen something and others just want attention, or have remembered incorrectly. It’s something to be going on, though. Let me see the reports.’

He gave the woman an encouraging pat on the shoulder and followed her out of the gym. Peter Salhus stayed standing where he was. He stared blankly at the monitor while the officer fast-forwarded to a picture of the door to the President’s suite at four a.m.

‘Nothing,’ the officer said and threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Maybe it’s an episode of
Star Trek
and she just, like, beamed herself down to the car park?’

‘Rewind it to . . . When did the President come back to her room? Was it twenty past midnight?’

The man nodded and typed the time into the computer.

The President looked tired. She walked slowly and rubbed the back of her head as she stood waiting for the door to open. The fleeting smile that she gave to the two men with her did not reach her eyes. Then she nodded, said something to one of them, and went in. The door closed behind her. The agents walked towards the camera, got closer and closer, then disappeared from view. The corridor was empty again.

‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’ the policeman asked.

‘What?’ Peter Salhus straightened up.

‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’

Two Russ girls and an alky, Salhus thought to himself. Witnesses ringing in from petrol stations and lay-bys on both sides of the Oslo Fjord. They’ve all seen the same thing, independent of each other: a blue Ford, two men, and a woman in a red jacket.

He suddenly realised that more people would ring. And not just from the neighbouring counties. More witnesses would
call in, some reliable, others attention-seekers, but they would all swear that they had seen two men and a woman in red in a blue Ford.

The realisation made his cheeks flush. The air was heavy and sticky. He loosened his tie and his breathing quickened.

‘Do these images say anything to you?’ the policeman repeated.

‘No,’ Peter Salhus replied. ‘They confuse me just as much as the rest of this case.’

And with that he stuffed his tie in his pocket and went in search of more coffee and a couple of paracetamol.

L
ittle Ragnhild had fallen asleep in the car. Johanne drove past an empty parking place just by the gate in the low stone wall. A block further down, in Lille Frogner Allé, she found another one and slipped into the space vacated by a lorry with a broken exhaust pipe. Ragnhild whimpered a bit as she braked, but didn’t wake up.

Johanne felt sure and unsure at the same time.

She would be welcome here. She knew that. The flat was pervaded by a peculiar atmosphere of friendliness and isolation, like a sun-soaked island that lies far from the shore. The family generally seemed to stay at home. The funny old housekeeper in fact never went out, and Johanne was sure she had heard groceries and goods being delivered to the door. She had been there quite often over the past six months, every third week or so. To begin with, she came because she needed help. But then gradually her visits to Krusesgate became a pleasant habit. The flat and everyone in it was hers, and hers alone, an oasis, somewhere without Adam and the rest of the family. The housekeeper always looked after Ragnhild and the two women were left in peace.

They sat there and talked openly and sincerely, like two old friends.

Johanne had never felt anything other than welcome. And yet she hesitated. She could leave the bags in the car. That way she wouldn’t seem so obtrusive. Maybe she should test the waters first. Act as if she was just dropping by and see how
the land lay. If it was appropriate. If it was all right to turn up with a baby in tow looking for refuge with someone she had only recently got to know.

Johanne made a snap decision.

She turned off the engine and took out the ignition key. Ragnhild woke up, as she always did when it suddenly went quiet. She was delighted when her mother got her out of the child seat.

‘Agni sthleep,’ she piped happily as she was picked up.

Johanne walked briskly along the stone wall, in through the gate and up to the front door. She looked up at the top floor. The curtains in the sitting room were half drawn. No lights were on; after all, it was the middle of the day. The large oak trees cast sharp shadows on the asphalt, and as she approached the building she was blinded for a moment by the flashing reflection of the sun in one of the windows.

She took the lift up and rang the doorbell without any hesitation.

It was a long time before anyone came. Finally Johanne heard someone rattling with the security locks. The door opened.

‘Well, if it’s no’ my wee darlin’!’

The housekeeper didn’t even say hallo to Johanne. She picked Ragnhild up in a firm grasp and sat her on her hip while she babbled away. The little girl reached up and grabbed the necklace of extremely large colourful wooden beads that the housekeeper was wearing. Mary then limped into the kitchen and closed the door, still without having said a word to Johanne.

The wall at the end of the hall was glass. The woman in the wheelchair had come out of the sitting room, and was now a black silhouette against the sunlight that streamed in through the bare window panes.

‘Hi,’ Johanne said.

‘Hello,’ said the other woman, and rolled her chair nearer.

‘Is it all right if I stay here for a while?’

‘Yes, come in.’

‘I mean,’ Johanne swallowed, ‘can I . . . Could Ragnhild and I . . . could we stay here . . . for a few days only?’

The woman came closer. Her wheels squeaked slightly, but it was perhaps only the rubber against the parquet. Her fingers fumbled on a panel on the wall and then there was a low humming sound as the curtains closed in front of the window and the hall darkened into a comforting half-light.

‘Of course you can,’ she said. ‘Come in. Shut the door.’

‘Just for a couple of days.’

‘You’re always welcome here.’

‘Thank you.’ Johanne felt something catch in her throat and she didn’t move. The woman in the wheelchair came even closer and held out her hand.

‘I take it no one’s died,’ she said calmly. ‘Because then you wouldn’t have come here.’

‘No one’s died,’ Johanne sobbed. ‘No one has died.’

‘You can stay as long as you like,’ the woman said. ‘But first you should come in and shut the door. I’m quite hungry, so I’d thought of getting something to eat.’

Hanne Wilhelmsen retracted her hand, turned the wheelchair round and steered slowly towards the kitchen, from where they could hear Ragnhild’s bubbling, happy laugh.

W
arren Scifford’s eyes wandered from the ancient television set with its internal aerial over to the cork noticeboard with a broken frame. His roaming gaze stopped at the office chair. One of the armrests was missing. Then he almost imperceptibly sniffed the air. There were three brown apple cores in the rubbish bin.

‘I’m a bit superstitious,’ Peter Salhus admitted. ‘I’ve been in high-risk jobs since my early twenties and nothing has ever gone seriously wrong. So I keep my chair with me. And as for the rest of the office . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Well, the whole organisation is moving to new premises in June. No point putting much effort into the room. Please sit down.’

Warren Scifford hesitated, as if he was afraid of ruining his expensive suit. There was a kidney-shaped stain in the middle of the back of the chair. He carefully placed his hand over the dark patch before sitting down. Adam Stubo sat beside him, fiddling with a silver cigar case.

‘You still got that bad habit?’ Warren smiled.

Adam shook his head. ‘No, not really. One on Christmas Eve and perhaps a few puffs on my birthday. That’s all. But we all have our dreams. I can still sniff them and dream.’

He opened the case and wafted it under his nose. With an audible sigh, he then twisted it shut and popped it back in his inner pocket.

‘These witnesses,’ he said to Peter Salhus, who had poured three glasses of mineral water without asking whether they
wanted any. ‘Have you heard any more about them from the police?’