Norwegian by Night (25 page)

How I miss our sad songs sung together for joy!

But now is not the time for sadness. Or joy. It is the time for coffee.

Kadri rocks back and forth on his toes impatiently as a Swedish girl — here in Norway for the summer because of the higher wages — delicately pours the steamed and fluffed milk into his latte, leaving on top the signature flourish of the café.

Kadri plops his forty kroner on the table and then stares deeply at the coffee.

After a moment, the girl looks at it, too.

Kadri looks up at her and says, ‘Why did you paint a vagina in my coffee?'

‘What?'

‘Vagina. In my coffee. In the foamy bit.'

‘It's a leaf.'

‘A leaf?'

‘Yes. A leaf.'

‘You ever seen a leaf like that?'

They both consider the design in the coffee foam again.

‘It's my first day,' she says.

‘You were trying to make a leaf?'

‘Yes.'

‘So it's a leaf.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Keep the change.'

A middle-aged couple pushing a lime-green pram stands to leave one of the wrought-iron tables, and Kadri springs for it. He gives a little chuckle as he wiggles into the chair.

Ah, life. So many twists and turns. So much unexpected, and so little of it preventable. We do what we can to find balance. And to stay calm, we retreat to the simple pleasures. Like coffee and a good smoke.

Once he's well seated, Kadri whips out his iPhone and jabs at some little icons. He waits for Enver's phone to ring.

It rings a few more times than expected. Hell, who knows what Enver is doing from one minute to another? Besides, Kadri is going to do his part, be a good soldier, pay his respects. But he isn't going to take the extra step towards making any of this his own problem. It isn't his kid. Kadri didn't kill anyone. Not in Norway, anyway. The sooner this all ends, the better. Let Zezake step into the process, if it comes to that. Kadri has the box. That's enough for now.

Enver picks up the telephone. He is breathy and humourless as ever.

They speak in Albanian.

‘So, I got the box with the stuff in it.'

‘Was there any trouble?'

‘I hit a woman cop on the head, but she's there, and the box and I are here. She's alive. So, that's pretty much that.'

Enver is silent for a moment. He does this when he's thinking. It makes Kadri cringe. If you know your mind, why not speak it?

‘They take that sort of thing seriously here.'

‘Look, Enver. Whatever, OK? I was behind her. Thump. Like the good fairy asked the bunny not to do to the field mice. She knows nothing. Can I open the box? It's an ugly box. I'd like to get rid of the box.'

‘No.'

‘No? No what? No, I can't open it, or no, it's not ugly? Because, believe you me, it's ugly. It's all pink with little silver …'

‘You can't open it. I don't want you losing anything. I assume it's locked. I expect to find it locked when you bring it to me.'

‘Where are you?'

‘Glåmlia.'

Kadri scratches his chest where the gold chain occasionally pinches some hairs.

‘Any chance that's near Paris? I'd like to go to Paris.'

‘It's near the Swedish border. Look it up on that stupid toy of yours.'

‘There's something you should know.'

Enver says nothing.

‘The box? It wasn't in her flat. It was in the apartment where it happened. And I was right. An old man lives there. And I had to hide in the closet. And it smelled bad. Like somebody peed. Maybe an old man. Maybe a young boy. I'm thinking he peed because something scary was happening outside the closet. If it was a boy, then maybe the old man got him out of there later. So I think I was right about the old man. I think maybe he knows something. And I think maybe he even has the boy. It doesn't tell us where to look. But it tells us where not to look, you know?'

Enver hangs up without saying goodbye.

These calls are so unsatisfying. Never a thank you.

Yes, please, go back to Kosovo. Take your sullen attitude with you. The war is over.

Just before he can take a sip of his coffee, Kadri feels a tap on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees a uniformed police officer in his mid-thirties. He is wearing a blue shirt and tie.

‘What?' Kadri says in English.

‘You're under arrest.'

‘What are you talking about? I'm drinking coffee at a coffee shop. I'm smoking a cigarette outside, like everyone else.'

‘Like movies?'

‘What do you mean, “Do I like movies?”'

Petter had been holding his walkie-talkie, and now he raises it to his mouth and says, in Norwegian, ‘Is that the guy? Is that the voice?'

‘That's him,' crackles Sigrid through the radio.

Petter then tells Kadri he is under arrest, but Kadri begins to laugh.

‘You don't have a gun. Why should I come with you? Because you have nice manners?'

‘Because
they
do.'

Petter signals behind Kadri, and Kadri turns to see two very serious men in black flack-jackets holding Heckler & Koch MP5 9mm submachine guns.

‘That's the Beredskapstroppen.'

‘What?'

‘Delta force.'

Petter sees Kadri's smug face melt.

‘They'll shoot me here, in the café?'

‘No,' says Petter. ‘They'll shoot you there, in the chest.'

Then Petter leans in closely and whispers, ‘They are Santa's little helpers. They know when you've been naughty or nice. And you've been very, very naughty.'

‘You're maybe a little crazy, you know that?' says Kadri.

Petter walks back to the squad car and buckles into the driver's seat. He adjusts the rear-view mirror so he can see Sigrid lying in the back, her head with an ice pack on it, and a foul expression on her face.

‘I'm supposed to take you to the hospital. You might have a concussion.'

‘I can't. I've got work to do.'

‘Don't be stubborn.'

‘I'm not being stubborn. I have to make calls and get this wrapped up. It would take me longer to explain it to you than to do it myself.'

‘You should probably call your father before this makes the newspapers.'

‘Oh, Christ. Does it have to make the papers?'

Sigrid sees Petter shrug. ‘The police chief inspector was assaulted in connection to a murder,' he says. ‘But I suppose you're right. We can pretend it didn't happen. Or, if it is in the reports, I'm sure
Dagbladet
won't care very much.'

Sigrid moans.

And then her father calls.

Sigrid looks at the phone. ‘Papa' flashes on the screen. It is not merely a headache. She's in terrible pain — a throbbing, pulsing, pounding, relentless jackhammer to the cerebral cortex.

She curls into a foetal position in the back seat.

‘It's my papa.'

She sees Petter shake his head. ‘Better answer it. He never leaves the farm, but he always seems to know everything.'

‘He does have a way. Push the answer button for me. I can't find it.'

He hands her the phone.

‘Yah. Hi, Papa.'

‘So?' he says.

‘So what?'

‘What happened?'

It occurs to Sigrid at this moment, though she is unsure why, that the American saying ‘adding insult to injury' surely derived from someone's literal experience.

‘I got hit on the head.'

There is a pause on the other end of the phone.

She waits for it to end. But, oddly, the pause continues.

‘Papa?'

‘Yes?'

‘You have nothing to say?'

‘Now that you ask … Why didn't you bring a gun?'

‘I told you. I was hit on the head. I didn't need a gun. I needed a helmet.'

‘Well, there's no arguing with that, I suppose.'

‘Can we take this up again later, Papa? We need to regroup at the station, and try to see straight through this. And right now I need to throw up.'

The search for the missing boat on the Oslo fjord required a helicopter, and required paperwork and phone calls that Sigrid was not able to file or make when she returned to the station. Petter had to take over the office management. Most of her energy was spent insisting that she didn't want to go to the hospital.

She either had a concussion or she didn't have a concussion. If she had one, she shouldn't sleep. At the police station she would not be able to sleep. So, clearly, being at the police station with a concussion was good for her health. If she did not have one, she did not need to be at the hospital. With aspirin and a cold pack, Sigrid was able to make a convincing argument — to herself — that her office was the only logical place for her to be.

With the helicopter airborne, she was now receiving regular reports. The biggest decision had been whether to send it directly south towards Nesodden, or whether it was best to head south-west towards Drøbak and along the route towards Denmark.

They chose the Drøbak direction in the end. If they took the more easterly route they would fly to Nesset or so, then turn west over land to meet up with the coast, and then travel south, backtrack, and take it north all the way back to the helipad. That would burn a lot of costly fuel, so the decision was to gamble on the Drøbak side, take it as far south as the boat engine could be expected to go, and, if they found nothing, fly overland to meet up with the Nesset area and head up towards Kjøya, Nebba, and the other hamlets in that area. Engines on that kind of boat typically had a 12-litre tank, and so guessing its range was rather straightforward.

The co-pilot was in regular contact with Petter once he came back from lunch and resumed his duties of keeping Sigrid awake. The mission took several hours because of the distance, the tree cover along much of the coastal route, and the bewildering range of sports craft and leisure craft on the water. Trying to tell whether a small boat was moored, adrift, derelict, utilised, or even fitted the description was tiring and time consuming for the pilots.

By four o'clock that afternoon, they had managed to locate it. With the change of tide, it was more than a nautical mile from the little blue house. When it was finally inspected by local people, they found no signs of Sheldon or the missing boy.

‘Where is it?' Sigrid demands.

‘It was adrift off of Kaholmene. Near where they sank the German ship.'

‘I know where it is, Petter. Everyone knows where it is.'

Petter is getting increasingly concerned about Sigrid's general welfare and blood pressure in particular, but thinks it wiser, and perhaps safer, to say nothing.

‘Call the local police there. I think Johan is still chief. Tell him what we're looking for. Maybe they'll come up with something.'

Enver's crotch vibrates again. He reaches low and takes out the mobile phone to read the text message.

‘At the car,' it reads.

It is late afternoon now. Enver takes one last look at the house through the binoculars, and decides that the man and woman aren't going anywhere. Secretly, he's thrilled for a chance to get up and stretch.

But he doesn't stand. He crawls on his stomach until he's over a small knoll, and then slinks low to stay out of the cabin's line of sight.

It takes more than twenty minutes to walk back to the car through the woods, out to the road, and then around the bend where he'd made an effort to hide it, but wasn't as successful as he'd hoped.

Gjon and Burim are leaning against the trunk. They are smoking and talking quietly when Enver shows up.

Both look up when he steps onto the dirt road, brushing off his trousers and straightening his hair.

When Enver is close enough, Gjon whispers, ‘You heard about Kadri?'

‘What have you got to eat?'

‘Huh?'

‘What do you have to eat? What did you bring? A sandwich? What?'

Gjon and Burim look at each other and then at Enver. ‘We don't have any food. Why would we have food?'

‘You were supposed to bring food.'

‘Kadri was arrested. I don't know what he did,' says Gjon, ‘but he was a few blocks from the apartment when he got picked up.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘I was waiting for him outside the flat,' says Gjon. ‘He went in to look for the box and told me to …'