Authors: K.O. Dahl
Tags: #Police Procedural, #Police, #Oslo (Norway), #Mystery & Detective, #Detectives, #Crime, #General, #Suspense, #Fiction
The Fourth Man (14 page)
Frølich had taken up a horizontal position on the sofa and was studying the ceiling yet again — a black mark beside the lamp. Might have been a fly. But it wasn’t moving. It was something else. He had stared at the ceiling from this position at least a million times, seen the mark and thought: perhaps it’s a fly. But not even this time could he be bothered to get up and find out what it actually was.
He lay on his back mulling things over. You know she had a tattoo done in Askim four to five years ago. What else? You don’t know what it represents or why she did it. The tattooist who had injected the ink into her skin had been supplied with a design and didn’t know what it symbolized. So he was no further forward: the man remembered the design, but not her face.
Frølich realized he was fumbling around at the edges of a puzzle, unable to make the pieces fit any longer. He would have to try another corner. But which one?
What set the whole business rolling? That one night, the murder in Loenga, the arrests based on the tip-off.
Question: Who tipped them off?
Answer: Merethe Sandmo.
Question: Why?
Answer: Not a glimmer. A mystery. It might have happened because Merethe Sandmo had first been with Elisabeth’s brother, then had gone off with Vidar Ballo. So there may have been some unknown factor in the group, an internal force driving these two events: Merethe Sandmo moving from one man to another and contacting the police when the three of them become responsible for a murder. However, when she blows the whistle, why does she give them only three names instead of all four?
Only one person could give him the answer to that: Merethe Sandmo.
And Merethe Sandmo worked as a waitress.
Frank Frølich, lying on the sofa and contemplating the black mark beside the lamp, knew he would be heading for the city centre.
He looked for a shirt and tie. When he had blown the dust off his suit, he realized he should have had it cleaned a couple of years ago. He left it in the wardrobe and instead chose a pair of dark linen trousers and matching jacket. Posing in front of the mirror, he mused: a little hair gel and he might make the grade.
He took the only taxi parked at the Ryen rank. The driver was reading
Verdens Gang
and was visibly startled when Frølich opened the door.
Verdens Gang
and was visibly startled when Frølich opened the door.
To the city centre, he said, and left the cab in front of Bliss, whose existence was announced by a flashing pink neon light on the wall. For a weekday, it was too early to go out. The doorman wasn’t in position yet, and apart from him there was only a single customer in the room. The customer was trying to strike up a conversation with the woman serving him. She was an exaggerated solarium-brown colour and had her hair in Rasta dreadlocks. Apart from a green mini-skirt and red fishnet stockings, she wore nothing. She must have been in her late twenties – a nicely compact stomach beneath her breasts.
Frølich sat down at a table in the corner. A poster said the show was due to start at nine. The text was illustrated with the regulation picture of a stripper climaxing, wrapped around a fireman’s pole.
The woman in the fishnet tights came over to his table and asked him what he wanted. Her nipples were the colour of chocolate mousse. Frank Frølich didn’t know where to look.
The befuddled man at the bar scowled; he obviously didn’t like any competition for the lady’s attentions.
Frølich decided to focus on her eyes, which shone like tram lights out of her solarium-tanned skin. He ordered a large beer and asked if he could speak to Merethe.
‘Merethe who?’
‘Sandmo.’
‘She’s left.’
Frølich determined to make the most of the opportunity: ‘Left?’
‘Yes. Stupid really. She was making good money here.’
‘Where’s she working now?’
‘In Greece. A club in Athens or somewhere like that. She got a good job. I was just a little jealous of her, working in Greece, wasn’t I? It’s warmer down there now than it is here in the summer.’
‘Damn!’ Frølich could feel himself getting into the role. ‘I’d have known where I was with her, if she’d said she was going to Greece, just to work … Left a long time ago, did she?’
‘About a week ago. Wait a moment – I’ll just get your beer.’
She crossed the floor like a ballerina, her breasts doing a jig as she swung round for a glass to draw his beer. The man at the bar was having difficulty balancing on the stool.
He reminds me of myself, Frølich thought glumly.
‘Do you know Merethe well?’ he asked, when the woman came back with his beer.
‘No, I’m a friend of Vidar’s, Vidar Ballo.’
‘Poor Merethe. I feel
so sorry
for the girl.’
so sorry
for the girl.’
‘And I know Jonny’s sister,’ Frølich said. ‘Elisabeth Faremo.’
The man at the bar yelled something or other.
The woman craned her head and screeched. She whispered to Frølich: ‘He’s so wearing.’
‘Right. I was with Elisabeth for a while. That was just after she went with that – hell, what was his name again? … some Iranian or Moroccan or wherever he came from …’
‘Ilijaz?’
‘Yes, Ilijaz, that was it.’
‘I’m fairly sure he’s a Croat.’
‘That’s right.’
The man at the bar roared again.
‘Coming!’ The woman went back to the bar and poured him a large beer which he took with a shaky hand.
Soon she was back. ‘Good to see a few new customers once in a while,’ she said. ‘Are you here for the show?’
‘Well, no, actually I came to talk to Merethe.’
‘I’m on at eleven. There are a few more people around then. Stag parties and that sort of thing. Just so naff. But you can come and see what you think.’
Frølich caught himself studying the hard lines around her chin, the first signs of a harrowed face, the glint of steel a long way behind her tram-light eyes.
‘Do you know what happened to Ilijaz?’ he asked and instantly knew he had blundered. She sent him a different, a strange look. All the scars and overgrown paths he had been examining in her face stood out in the same way that the autumn countryside takes shape when the early-morning haze lifts. He was the one she was avoiding now. The silence between them grew heavy and uneasy. She went back to the bar and stayed there.
Which landmine was it I stood on?
he wondered and finished his beer.
he wondered and finished his beer.
She didn’t return to his table.
When he went to the cash desk, he put a hundred-kroner note on the bar and said she could keep the change. She looked away.
Sitting in the Metro, he rang Yttergjerde and asked him if he knew any criminals by the name of Ilijaz. He suggested a few alternative spellings. Yttergjerde said he would follow it up.
Yttergjerde didn’t ring back.
He found out for himself.
It was three o’clock at night. He woke up with a start — he had been dreaming about Ilijaz.
Next morning he couldn’t get to the police station quickly enough. Lena Stigersand met him in the corridor. She shook her head patronizingly, but also squeezed his arm. ‘I know that man … good to see you again.’
‘Easy, easy,’ Frølich stammered, feeling the sweat break out over his whole body. ‘I just want to pick up a couple of things before I go back on leave.’
He unlocked his office and closed the door. That was lucky. Gunnarstranda wasn’t in yet. No one was there. He couldn’t face meeting anyone. It had been enough of a physical strain exchanging the few words with Stigersand. He shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer and went over to the desk with the computer on. Logged on and searched for his report about the break-in at Inge Narvesen’s in Ulvøya on 4 November 1998. Afterwards he looked for a report by the Bærum police about a shooting incident in Snarøyveien a few days later.
The moment the reports had been printed out and he had them stapled together, Gunnarstranda walked in through the door. The older policeman didn’t bat an eyelid, just took off his overcoat and hung it up.
‘Leave over?’ he asked, briefly.
Frølich shook his head.
‘Wouldn’t it have been more practical to find the body of Reidun Vestli in your capacity as a policeman rather than a tourist?’ Absent-mindedly, Gunnarstranda continued: ‘It’s been playing on my mind. I talked to her about that burned-down chalet of hers and the minute I left she took a stack of pills and passed away. Crazy.’
‘It probably wasn’t losing the chalet that drove her to it.’
‘You’re thinking about the bones?’
Frank Frølich nodded. He could feel the sweat trickling from his brow. Talking about Elisabeth as bones was unpleasant.
‘The girl must have been special,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Another nod.
‘What have you got there?’ Gunnarstranda asked, gesturing at the papers Frølich had stuffed under his arm.
‘A case from six years back. The Snarøya murder.’
Gunnarstranda took a few moments to reflect. ‘Folkenborg,’ he mumbled. ‘Wasn’t he working at a petrol station?’
‘He owned and managed it.’
‘Taken hostage, wasn’t he?’
‘No. Should have been a straightforward arrest. Folkenborg was shot and killed by the man under arrest. I went with the guy from Sandvika to arrest him. He was working at the garage in Blommenholm. I had the papers for his arrest – a burglary in Ulvøya. When we got there, our man was behind the counter, but he drew a gun from his pocket.’ Frølich flicked through the report. ‘A Colt Python, short barrel. He waved it around, ran through the car wash and into the shed with the grease pit where Folkenborg was changing oil. Neither of us had considered this a dangerous job and neither of us had requisitioned a weapon. We had to stand by and watch the man run in with the shooter in his hand. Then we hung back. Unfortunately for all of us Folkenborg went into action. He probably thought he knew the man and had the situation under control. There was a bang. Folkenborg was hit in the chest. Then the man panicked, threw the revolver away and ran for it – straight into our arms.’
Gunnarstranda was deep in thought.
‘The man who fired the gun was Ilijaz Zupac,’ Frølich said.
‘Immigrant?’
‘Second generation. Mother and father from the Balkans. Both dead. Zupac is a Norwegian citizen.’
‘Why are you digging up this stuff now?’
Frølich put the papers in a bag and said: ‘Zupac was arrested because he had taken part in a burglary in Ulvøya. A fat cat called Inge Narvesen had his safe stolen. It was in a cupboard in his bedroom and there was half a million kroner in it. Ilijaz Zupac was seen by a neighbour. There were a number of people involved, but Zupac’s appearance gave him away.’
‘All right,’ Gunnarstranda said impatiently. ‘But why rake it up now?’
‘He was found guilty of aggravated burglary and wilful murder. Even though he wasn’t the only one involved in the burglary, no one else was charged. Zupac kept his mouth shut. I’m interested in witnesses and the investigation itself.’
‘Why?’ snarled Gunnarstranda.
Frølich hesitated.
Gunnarstranda’s irritation grew and the furrow above his eyes deepened.
‘Ilijaz Zupac was living with Elisabeth Faremo when he was charged and sentenced,’ Frølich said quickly.
They stood staring at each other. Gunnarstranda’s hands fumbled for a cigarette.
Frølich grinned. ‘I’ve made you curious, haven’t I,’ he mumbled.
‘I’m thinking something I’ve thought for a long time,’ Gunnarstranda said slowly.
‘What’s that?’
‘The relationship between you and the girl was a set-up.’
There was silence. Which Frølich broke: ‘If you’re right, I don’t understand the logic behind it.’
‘But even though you don’t understand the logic, you’re following up this link with Ilijaz Zupac?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘The murder of the security guard. In my opinion, this clears up a little problem.’
‘Which problem?’
‘The fourth robber. Ilijaz wasn’t on his own when he robbed Narvesen’s safe. Ilijaz was Elisabeth’s lover, she was Jonny Faremo’s sister. I would bet a hundred kroner that one of the others was Jonny Faremo. If that’s right, Faremo has worked with other people apart from Ballo and Rognstad one or more times. So it’s no mystery that there were four of them the night the guard was killed on the quay. We have a fourth man involved in the Haga killing, but we don’t have the slightest idea who.’
‘If you come back to work, you may have a case now,’ Gunnarstranda said pensively.
‘Not so sure about that. I would still be disqualified as long as the trail leads through Elisabeth Faremo.’
‘Don’t tinker with this case while you’re on leave.’
‘I haven’t done anything else since I’ve been away.’
Silence again. They could read each other’s thoughts well and neither of them was going to waste words on the obvious. Frank Frølich was breaking all the rules, but he would continue to do so whatever measures Gunnarstranda took to stop him.
‘The car has turned up,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Which car?’
‘Jonny Faremo’s Saab, the one we thought had been seen near the Glomma the day he was released.’
‘What about it?’
‘The car was abandoned on a deserted logging track near Sollihøgda – a hundred kilometres from Askim. A farmer passing by in his tractor every day finally became irritated enough to ring in.’
‘Has it been examined?’
‘Kripos are working on it. Now don’t do anything stupid,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘And keep me posted.’
Gunnarstranda waited until the door closed behind Frølich before swivelling round to pick up the phone.
He rang the detective he knew best in Eco-Crime – the Economic and Environmental Crime division: ‘Chicken Brains’ Sørlie. But before Sørlie managed to answer the telephone Gunnarstranda had one of his sporadic coughing fits.
‘Is that you?’ Sørlie asked amid the coughing. ‘Are you OK, Gunnarstranda?’
Gunnarstranda nodded and gasped for air. ‘Just these rotten lungs of mine.’
‘Perhaps you should give up smoking?’
‘Perhaps sheep should stop bleating?’ Gunnarstranda suggested breathlessly and sat erect again. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Inge Narvesen. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Businessman.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I know he’s an art lover.’
‘What sort of art?’
‘Paintings. He’s spent a lot of money on art. His collection must be a bit like Stenersen museum at its peak, only Narvesen doesn’t go in for modern art much.’
‘But what does he live off?’
‘He’s a trader on the stock exchange. Buying and selling.’
‘Buying and selling?’
‘And he’s got POTS of money,’ Sørlie said. ‘Invests a lot in property. The last I heard he’d bought up large areas of the forest Norske Skog had put up for sale. He’s planning to build mini-power stations on a number of the rivers, I believe. That’s pretty popular now as energy is expensive and the authorities don’t give a damn about environmental issues.’
‘Nothing illegal, though?’
‘Doubt it. He’s an upright sort. Never heard of him being involved in anything disreputable. Has a good reputation at the stock exchange as well.’
‘No weaknesses: never touched up young boys, exposed himself to girl guides – ?’
‘Inge Narvesen is clean. Believe me.’
‘Well, he’s a very unusual person then.’
‘If there are any irregularities, they’ll be financial.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Gunnarstranda said, irked. ‘Talk to you later.’
On entering the hall of the apartment block, Frank Frølich made straight for the post box. The box was so full you could hardly turn the lock. When he opened the door, a pile of bills fell out. One letter slid across the stone floor. His name and address were written in beautiful looped handwriting. No sender’s address.
He managed to curb his curiosity in the lift, but impatiently weighed the letter in his hands. Could it be from Elisabeth? He closed his eyes and struggled to think clearly.
Long bones. Flames
.
Long bones. Flames
.
He was perspiring as he opened the lift door. To have a hand free to unlock his front door, he put the letter in his mouth. Once inside, he ripped open the envelope and read:
The most difficult thing about writing a letter is the salutation, as Elisabeth used to say. She always thought long and hard before she decided what she would write: Hi or Dear, or perhaps nothing at all. The first words of a letter actually said as much as the letter itself, she thought, because they signalled the emotional relationship the writer was communicating to the receiver. For me it was always reassuring to read her letters. She always started them with Dear Reidun. In this way she calmed my nerves enough for me to be able to absorb the message – even though what she had to say on occasion had a bitter taste. She told me about you first in a letter. But I don’t want to get sentimental now, and I assure you that all Elisabeth’s letters to me have been burned. As you see, I have left the salutation out completely this time. It feels right. I haven’t started taking the pills yet. First of all, I want to get this letter out of the way. I don’t know who will find me, nor do I really care. But I am writing to you because I have realized that you are driven by the same passion that I have struggled with. Therefore, I have a tiny hope that you will understand me well enough to fulfil a last wish. I don’t know whether Elisabeth will be able to stand up to these terrible people. I hope she can, but I have no illusions. Nor did I have any illusions when they came here. Elisabeth warned me about them and, arrogant as I so often am, I took no notice, believing I would be able to stand firm. However, I have always had a fear of pain and I couldn’t hold out. Although I knew that revealing her hiding place would lead to what I am doing now, I still couldn’t stand firm. So I told them where she was hiding. Hence I am responsible for whatever might happen to her. My fate is sealed. I hope she will survive, but I have neither the illusions nor the courage to wait for an answer. Should this nightmare end well for Elisabeth, tell her from me: My darling, forgive me. I tried, I really did.Reidun
Frank Frølich slumped into a chair. It was difficult to unravel his feelings. Before he began to read he had supposed the letter would be from Elisabeth. So, to hear Reidun Vestli’s voice in his head was a shock.
Forgive me
, he thought.
These terrible people,
he thought.
A last wish
, he thought, and sat up. He read the letter through again.
Forgive me
, he thought.
These terrible people,
he thought.
A last wish
, he thought, and sat up. He read the letter through again.
He jumped when the telephone rang and seized the receiver.
‘I’ve just had a chat with Sørlie from Eco-Crime about the fat cat who was robbed by Ilijaz Zupac, this Narvesen person,’ Gunnarstranda said.
He’s beginning to ring a lot now.
‘Oh yes? Did Sørlie come up with anything?’
‘Oh yes? Did Sørlie come up with anything?’
‘Nothing, as usual, except that Narvesen is loaded. He’s a stock market trader, owns a lot of art and has swathes of forestry property in Hedmark.’
‘I knew that.’
Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘But Sørlie has just rung me back. He must have had Narvesen’s name on the brain when he put the phone down. Eco-Crime receives a list issued by banks when there has been a large withdrawal of money. And Inge Narvesen’s name is on it. From Nordea Bank, to be precise.’
‘Large withdrawal?’
‘Five million.’
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