The Silent Room (32 page)

Svendsen immediately logged on to his computer and hit the keys, bringing up an image from the Helgerød webcam. The screen showed the deep blue Skagerrak, vast waters that stretched from Norway to Sweden and the Denmark peninsula. Whitewashed rocks in the foreground were like a lunar landscape. The area was desolate. Ethereal. Very, very beautiful.

Jack’s voice entered Ryan’s head:
According to the UN, Norway has the highest standard of living in the world.
Looking at the webcam picture and thinking about the crystal-clear waters and boats filled with smiling Norwegians he’d seen from the taxi on the way from the airport, he could see why.

‘According to this report,’ Nystrom tapped the file, ‘Freberg wasn’t any more drunk than you or I would be if we took a test now. No drugs in his system. No one saw anything. The only reason we searched at Verdens Ende was because his car was parked there. It’s quite a distance from his home, approximately half an hour by road.’

‘The car was locked when found?’ Ryan asked.

‘And unattended, yes.’

‘There was nothing in the vehicle to suggest he’d done away with himself?’ Ryan queried. ‘He didn’t leave his wallet, house keys, that kind of thing?’

Nystrom smiled and raised an eyebrow to O’Neil. ‘We are lucky, you and I. We both have colleagues with quick brains.’

Ryan blushed at the compliment.

Nystrom was an experienced detective. It would not have passed her by that people who topped themselves did the oddest things. Suicide was a monumental gesture. Even so, those contemplating it often made things easier for loved ones left behind: putting car and house keys under the seat, leaving credit cards, mobiles, money and such. These were the clues that switched-on coppers looked for.

She moved on. ‘The attending officers reported nothing of a personal nature in the car, no indication that he did not intend to return to the vehicle. His jacket was there. It was a hot day. His keys and a few kroner were still in his trouser pocket when the body was recovered.’

O’Neil had heard enough. Thanking Eva Nystrom for her help, she checked the dead man’s address was current – a simple search by Svendsen on his computer – and stood up to leave. The door opened and coffee arrived. ‘It would be discourteous not to,’ Nystrom said, and they all sat down again. ‘Cake first, then Knut will take you to your hotel.’

60

It was dark, too late in the day to be visiting Anders Freberg’s widow unannounced. Ryan suggested they wait until morning. Before leaving the police station, Svendsen had bent over backwards to assist him, supplying stills of Freberg’s car parked at Verdens Ende, along with pictures of his body at the discovery site and on the slab at the morgue. There was so little written information available, he’d offered to translate for them and email it by morning, a level of cooperation the British detectives knew wouldn’t necessarily have been reciprocated had the roles been reversed.

Ryan stifled a grin.

Hospitality appeared to be Svendsen’s watchword. Absolutely nothing was too much trouble. Clearly, he had his eye on O’Neil. His tongue was practically hanging out.

Good luck with that, mate.

Still, who could blame him?

Ryan glanced at her. That smile could melt ice. O’Neil – who could probably give the Norwegian ten years and some – was trying her level best to fend off the offer of transportation for as long as she needed it. She was out of luck. This virile young man thought he was in with a chance and wasn’t letting go. Neither was he taking no for an answer. He insisted on dropping them at their digs, despite being told that they would rather walk.

It seemed churlish not to indulge him.

The Thon Hotel Brygge was a mustard-coloured, traditional wooden structure, built on the harbourside, overlooking the sea. Ryan was in love, his tiredness melting away as he took in the fresh sea breeze, the sound of gulls overhead and the chatter of tourists and locals sitting outside having a drink.

Home from home.

‘Fancy a pint?’ he said, watching Svendsen’s car drive away.

‘Better check in first.’ O’Neil looked at him. ‘Actually no, I’ll do that. Have a seat in the lounge. Didn’t you want to call Caroline?’

‘If I can get a signal around here.’ He needn’t have worried, made a quick call and hung up.

He waited, people-watching through the window for a while. When O’Neil didn’t show, he went looking and found her in reception. She was facing him, her back to the counter, one foot crossed over the other, head bowed, eyes on the floor. Deep in conversation, she had her mobile stuck to her ear, a wry smile on her face. He couldn’t help wondering who was on the other end, making her blush. He was about to back away when she looked up and saw him standing there.

Now they were both red-faced.

‘I’ve got to go.’ She ended the call abruptly.

She smiled at Ryan, an alluring expression on her face. Whoever she’d been talking to had altered her mood considerably. Unlike him, she seemed more relaxed, playful even. He tried not to let his resentment show.

What was wrong with him?

He’d only known her five minutes.

‘How’s things at home?’ She handed him a room key.

‘So-so.’ He couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It’s going to take time, guv. Hilary’s holding up but, until she can bury Jack, she’ll never rest.’

‘And Caroline?’

‘She’s fine . . . making herself useful. The kids love having her there.’

Before she could respond, the receptionist appeared with an A4 sheet in her hand. She gave the document to O’Neil. She scanned it and passed it on. Ryan read it carefully. It was a copy of an itemized hotel bill in Jack’s name. At the bottom of page there was a signature:
Anders Freberg.

Ryan raised his head. ‘Links don’t come any better than this,’ he said.

‘It certainly ties Jack to Freberg. C’mon, I need some air. Let’s walk before we get that beer and a bite to eat.’

‘You’re talking my language. That cake was great, but I could do with something more substantial.’

‘Unless you’d rather eat first and walk later,’ O’Neil said.

‘No, guv, I’m happy either way. I’ve been sitting so long my bones are creaking.’

Roz would’ve been in the bar by now.

They turned left out of the hotel with the sea on their right and walked along to the marina. An occasional sailor himself, Ryan loved the sound of the rigging slapping against the masts as boats bobbed up and down in choppy water. ‘When I booked the hotel, the receptionist told me that Tønsberg is the oldest city in Norway,’ Ryan said, for no other reason than to make conversation with his temporary guv’nor. He pointed at the pontoon in front of them. ‘Locals call this the
Båthavn.

‘Boat haven?’ O’Neil said. ‘How lovely. Have you always been drawn to the sea?’

‘Always.’

‘Maybe you have some Nordic blood in your veins.’

Ryan smiled. ‘Don’t worry, guv. I’ll keep my plundering to the bare minimum. You’re safe with me.’

O’Neil made a chopping gesture with both hands in front of her face à la Bruce Lee. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a black belt in several martial arts, so watch yourself.’

Ryan feigned relief. In the few hours since he’d joined her team, he’d felt only good vibes. They had a chemistry that was hard to come by, one you couldn’t force. Bond was perhaps a more appropriate word to describe what was developing between them. Whatever it was or wasn’t, he’d experienced it with Jack from the get-go, a connection that turned into a deep and meaningful alliance.

The magic was broken as O’Neil’s phone rang.

‘Maguire,’ she said.

You’d think he’d been watching.

‘Maybe he has news of the four-by-four.’ O’Neil pressed to receive the call, checking over her shoulder at the same time. There were very few people around, none of them standing still. She put the phone on speaker so she wouldn’t have to repeat the conversation. ‘Yes, John.’

‘Claesson Logistics are an absolute waste of space. According to the guy I spoke to, the four-by-four we’re interested in can’t be traced—’

‘Does the registration belong to them or not?’

‘The vehicle is theirs, but they can’t find it . . . allegedly.’

O’Neil rolled her eyes at Ryan. ‘They’re suggesting it was nicked?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘Go on . . .’

‘They have a fleet of identical vehicles. It wasn’t missed right away. They assumed it was lost in the system; that someone parked it up and forgot about it. Their admin is sloppy, guv. The logbooks for the day of the hijack aren’t available. When I pressed them on it, they said they must be in the car, along with the keys. To be honest—’

‘Did they report the vehicle stolen or not?’

‘Eventually.’ Maguire was dragging his heels.

O’Neil could tell he was holding on to something, making them sweat. ‘What’s the date on the FWIN?’ she asked, her tone impatient. A Force Wide Incident Number was issued as soon as any offence was reported to the police and uploaded on to the police computer. ‘John, you still there?’

‘Where else would I be? You’ve got Golden Boy with you while I do the donkey work.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake! Stop whingeing.’

‘You’re not going to like it, guv.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s dated Tuesday twenty-second.’

‘The day after Jack died?’ Ryan exploded. ‘How convenient. They kill him and suddenly the vehicle is hot. Don’t take their bullshit, Maguire. Go back and put the pressure on.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Oi! Cut it out, both of you.’ O’Neil threw Ryan a black look. ‘I issue the orders round here.’ She turned her attention to the phone. ‘Ryan has a point, John. Find out who reported it and bring them in for a formal interview. Are the team any further forward researching the notebooks?’

‘No, guv.’

‘OK, if there’s any news, call me.’

As soon as she hung up, Ryan apologized for overstepping the mark, feeling guilty –
but only slightly
– for having laid into Maguire when it was her call to make. He was more bothered that the exchange had interrupted a perfectly amiable conversation between the two of them.

‘Forget it,’ she said. ‘C’mon, I need that drink.’

They walked back along the quayside, the
brygge.
They took a seat outside the hotel, ordering a large glass of Ringnes – local beer. It was getting chilly but they were in no hurry to rush off and check out their rooms.

Ryan held up his beer.

‘Skål
,’ he said.

‘Skål
’
,
she replied.

They clinked glasses.

Ryan opened the menu, his appetite for local cuisine not as high on his agenda as it was for her. The menu was wholly in Norwegian. He looked at her, a wry smile on his face. ‘Can’t make head nor tail of it. It’s written in reindeer blood.’

61

The Freberg family home was in Åresund, a typical wooden dwelling, painted in duck-egg blue with a wide wraparound balcony and a large garden that ran all the way down to the water’s edge. Ryan couldn’t imagine a place more tranquil. It was heavenly. An old Volvo was parked in the driveway with a small boat, or
snekke,
hooked on to the back. Despite the early hour for a Sunday morning – still only seven forty-five – the woman who lived there came out to greet them as they walked towards the front door, a curious look on her face.

Hilde Freberg was fit, if tired-looking. Late forties, Ryan guessed, with a tanned and slightly weather-beaten face, a complexion not dissimilar to many of his neighbours who lived by the coast across the North Sea. Even if he hadn’t spotted her boat on his way in, this woman looked every bit a sailor.

Svendsen took off his cap and spoke to her in Norwegian. Ryan caught a few words of the language he understood, something about the Englishman not speaking Norske. A firm handshake later and they were seated in a large living room in front of an enormous wood-burning stove.

Introductions dispensed with, O’Neil took the lead. ‘Mrs Freberg, we are sorry for your loss. We appreciate how upsetting it is for you to discuss your husband’s death with strangers, but we have reason to believe that on the day Anders died he was going to meet an Englishman, a Special Branch colleague of ours. Does that make any sense to you?’

Svendsen explained that Special Branch was like state security. The woman was shaking her head, a look of understandable panic crossing her face.

‘This officer’s name was Jack Fenwick.’ Ryan stepped forward, showing her a picture of Jack, watching for a reaction. This close to her, there was no escaping the effects of being widowed at a relatively early age. The wrinkles round her eyes told a tale of sleepless nights and having to fend for herself for the first time since she was in her twenties.

No response was forthcoming, verbal or otherwise.

‘His brother died in an industrial accident on an oil rig in January 2006,’ Ryan added. ‘Detective Fenwick approached your husband around that time hoping he might help him to understand what had gone wrong. Did he ever mention him to you?’

Mrs Freberg shifted her gaze to Svendsen, whether for guidance or reassurance, Ryan couldn’t tell. With a sympathetic nudge, the Norwegian officer told her, in English, that the British detectives were involved in an important case in their country and urged her to answer the question.

‘No . . .’ She looked at Jack’s photograph and said: ‘I don’t know him. I never heard of him.’

Ryan was disappointed. Although he had no proof, he suspected that it was Anders Freberg who’d initiated contact recently. At the outset, it had been the other way round. Jack had been told to sling his hook, Freberg accusing him of talking rubbish. Safety was of paramount importance, blah blah . . . billions of dollars were spent every year recruiting the world’s best engineers to construct oil platforms that kept the workforce safe. Their expertise was highly prized and lucrative. It was laughable to accuse them, or the companies employing them, of a cover-up.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ O’Neil said. ‘Perhaps Anders mentioned officer Fenwick to you at the time?’