What Never Happens (35 page)

“Jesus,” he thought to himself as he was shoved into a spartan interview room in Oslo’s main police station. “I only had some cocaine and a damned joint. A whole week! One week! When are they going to release me? Why hasn’t my lawyer done anything? She promised I would be out of custody by the weekend. I need to get a new lawyer. I want one of the top ones. I want out. Now.”

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve kept you in so long,” the policeman said in an unexpectedly cheerful voice as he pointed to a chair. “I understand, believe me. But you see, we can generally get the judges to do what we want. When we’re not happy with the trash we pick up. I once had”—he bellowed with laughter and closed the door behind him before sitting down on a chair that didn’t look like it would take his weight—“a real little shit. Not that unlike you. Pulled him in with three grams of hash in his pocket. Three grams, mind you. He was in custody for fourteen days, he was. Down in the backyard. Wasn’t even room for him in a proper prison cell. Fourteen days he was inside. For three grams! Just because he couldn’t understand that”—suddenly he leaned forward and smiled. His teeth were even and surprisingly white—“that I’m really a good guy.”

Ulrik swallowed.

“A good guy,” the policeman repeated. “Right now, I’m the best friend you’ve got. So you see, I get disappointed when”—he brushed his hand over his scalp, with a hurt expression on his face—“when you just ignore me. Won’t answer my questions or anything.”

Ulrik fiddled with the sleeve of his sweater. A thread had come loose. He wound it around his fingers, tried to push it in between two loose stitches.

“I’m sure that your lawyer’s made loads of promises,” the policeman continued. “That’s what they do, you know. But for her, you’re just one of many. She’s got better things to do than—”

“I want a new lawyer,” Ulrik said loudly and pulled back closer to the wall. “I want the best, I want Tor Edvin Staff.”

The policeman laughed again.

“Tor Erling Staff,” he corrected him and grinned. “I’m sure he’s got much more exciting things to do. But you just listen to me . . .”

He leaned so far over the table that Ulrik could feel his breath on his face. Garlic and stale tobacco. The detainee pressed his head back against the wall and gripped the edge of the table.

“You’re probably wondering why I’m keeping you here,” the man said, and again his tone was almost conciliatory, friendly. “I understand, I really do. You haven’t exactly killed anyone, have you? But let me tell you something. It’s what I call . . . the delicate ecology of crime.”

He sat back and straightened up again, at last. He looked puzzled, as if he didn’t really understand what he’d just said. Ulrik let the chair down to the floor again and dared to breathe out.

“Smart,” the man said, pleased with himself. “The delicate ecology of crime. Not used that expression before. You know, everything’s connected. Out there in the wild.”

He waved one of his massive fists at the wall, as if nature were pressing in through the drywall.

“If there’s lots of midges, there’s plenty of food for the birds. If there’s food for the birds, they lay lots of eggs. Snakes and martens eat the eggs. If there are lots of martens, it’s good for the fur trade . . . oh, hang on, they’ve got tame martens as well, don’t they? Minks, isn’t that what they’re called?”

For a moment he looked thoughtfully at Ulrik. The blue eye nearly closed, the brown one squinting. Then he shrugged and gave a quick shake of the head.

“You get the point,” he stated. “Everything’s connected. It’s the same with crime. The smallest junkie creep is connected with the worst bank robber, the most brutal killer. Or maybe it’s better to say . . . their actions are connected. It’s a web, you see. An incredibly intricate web of”—he hunched his back, lifted his elbows, and clawed his fingers, as if he was trying to frighten a child—“evil,” he hissed. “You buy drugs. Someone has to smuggle them in. They get rich. They get greedy. They steal. Kill if they have to. Sell drugs. Kids get addicted. Attack old ladies on the street.”

He was still pretending to be an enormous crab. His fingers were waving around in front of Ulrik’s eyes. His nails were bitten to the quick.

“The man’s a lunatic,” Ulrik thought to himself. “Does anyone else know that I’m here? He locked the door. It’s locked.”

“And that takes us back,” continued the policeman, who resumed his normal behavior, “to why I didn’t just let a squirt like you back on the streets again, as soon as I’d gotten your details last Saturday. Do you see why now?”

Ulrik didn’t dare to answer. It obviously made no difference.

“Because when the name Trond Arnesen popped up, it suddenly became more than just the white lines and a spliff,” the policeman explained. “’Cause everything . . .”

He paused and made an encouraging, rotating movement with his right hand.

“. . . is connected,” mumbled Ulrik.

“Well done! Exactly! Now we’re getting somewhere, son! And I’ll show you what I found at your place the other day. Had to take an extra look around, you see. Around your lovely, expensive apartment.”

He slapped the seat of his pants. Then his face lit up, and he pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket.

“Here it is,” he said, pleased with himself. “So, I’m guessing that these are your accounts.”

Ulrik opened his mouth to protest.

“Shut it,” the man snarled. “I’ve been banging up people like you since way before your dad got hairs on his dick. This is your book, and these are your customers.” He tapped his finger on the initials in the margin of an open page. “Telephone numbers and everything, so I’ve managed to identify lots of them already. Strange, really, the secrets people carry around. But not a lot surprises me anymore.”

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. He seemed to be completely engrossed in the little book.

“But not all of them,” he said suddenly. “I’m missing three names. I want to know who AC is. And APL and RF. And Ulrik . . .”

He got up slowly. He scratched his mustache, stretched, pulled on his earlobe. Smiled and then was very serious. Both his palms smashed down onto the table. Ulrik jumped in his chair, quite literally.

“Now don’t fuck me around,” he snapped. “Don’t you even try. They’re your customers, and I want to know who they are, okay? We can sit here until the cows come home, but that would be damn uncomfortable. For both of us. But mainly for you. So start talking. Now.”

His hand landed lightly on Ulrik’s neck. And squeezed. Not too hard. He loosened his grip but left his hand there. It was enormous and burning hot.

“Don’t waste our time, son.”

“Arne Christiansen and Arne-Petter Larsen,” Ulrik forced out.

“RF,” the man barked. “Who’s RF?”

“Rudolf Fjord,” Ulrik whispered. “But I haven’t seen him for ages. A couple of years, at least.”

The hand gently stroked the back of his head and then withdrew.

“Good boy,” the policeman said. “Now what did I say?”

Ulrik looked at him, terrified, the blood was pounding in his ears, and he was sweating.

“What did I tell you?” the man asked again in a friendly voice. “Lost your tongue?”

“Everything’s connected,” Ulrik whispered quickly.

“Everything’s connected,” nodded the man. “Remember that. Next time.”

“He’d get Mother Teresa to admit to triple homicide,” Sigmund Berli said cynically as he tapped the report the policeman had written after questioning Ulrik Gustavsen. “Or Nelson Mandela to admit to genocide. Or Jesus to—”

“I get the picture, Sigmund. Got it immediately, in fact.”

They were walking. Adam had insisted on going to Frogner Park first. Sigmund protested all the way. They didn’t have much time. It was freezing cold. Sigmund was wearing the wrong shoes, and his wife was in a bad mood because of all the overtime he was putting in. He couldn’t understand why they should waste twenty minutes in a park full of ugly statues and aggressive dogs on the loose.

“I need some air,” Adam explained. “I need to think, okay? And that’s not easy with you chattering away like a five-year-old. So shut up. Enjoy the exercise. We need it, both of us.”

He thought, “Johanne’s wrong,” and picked up pace. He felt an unfamiliar twinge under his rib cage. He’d never doubted her abilities before. He’d admired them. Needed them. He needed her, and he was losing her. Her instincts were wrong. Her intellect weakened by sleepless nights and a greedy baby. “The theory doesn’t hold. If the murderer wanted to create an uproar, make a noise, get attention, he wouldn’t have chosen Vegard Krogh. Victoria Heinerback, yes. Everyone knows her. But Vegard Krogh? A sham of an artist, a quasi-intellectual fool? Who practically no one had heard of? Johanne’s wrong, and we’re back to square one. We don’t know what we’re looking for. Where to look.”

“Why don’t we just call the guy in?” Sigmund was surly. He had short legs and had to jog to keep up with his colleague. “Why do we always have to visit people at home all the time? Damn it, Adam, we’re wasting taxpayers’ money by throwing away all this time.”

“People’s tax money is used for far worse things than us trying to find a way out of the mess we’re in,” Adam leveled. “Get over it. We’re nearly there.”

“I don’t believe that Gustavsen boy. Rudolf Fjord’s not a fag, you know. He doesn’t look like one. Why the hell would he pay that runt for sex? Huh? A tall, good-looking guy whom the ladies love! My wife reads all those magazines, you know, with pictures from premieres and parties and all that, and he’s definitely not a fag.”

Adam stopped. He took a deep breath. The air was so cold that it caught in his throat.

“Sigmund,” he said calmly. “Sometimes I get the impression that you’re just plain stupid. But as I know that you’re not, I must ask you to”—he warmed his ears with his hands. Took another deep breath and shouted, suddenly—“Shut up!”

Then he set off again.

They passed through the ornate gates onto Kirkeveien in silence. Two buses were parked diagonally outside. Adam pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. A flock of traditionally dressed Africans in wide, colorful garments were boarding one of the buses. It was hard to imagine why tourists came to Norway, Sigmund thought. And in February, when there was snow everywhere, and you got slush all the way up your legs, it was incomprehensible.

“You’ve got to admit that those dresses are silly,” he muttered.

“You look pretty ridiculous too, with leather patches on your ass, a red bolero, and silver buckles on your shoes,” Adam retorted, “but that doesn’t seem to stop you from wearing your national costume. It’s probably some sort of official thingamajig. What time is it?”

“Nearly six,” Sigmund complained. “I’m cold as hell. And anyway, it’s not a bol . . . bolero. It’s a woolen jacket.”

Eleven minutes later, Adam’s finger ran up and down a list of names on a metal plate beside a gray door.

“Rudolf Fjord,” he murmured and pushed the bell.

No one answered. Sigmund banged his feet together to keep warm and muttered under his breath. A young woman walked up with a bag over her shoulder. She fished out a bunch of keys and smiled at Adam.

“Hi’, she said as if she knew him.

“Hi,” he replied.

“Going in?”

She held the door open, and he caught it. The woman had red hair. She ran up the stairs, whistling like a girl, leaving behind a scent of fresh air and light perfume.

“Have a good evening,” she called. They heard a door open and close again.

“So here we are,” Sigmund said and looked up the stairs.

“Fourth floor,” Adam said and went over to an ancient elevator with folding iron gates. “I’m not sure this will hold both of us.”

“Max load 550 pounds,” Sigmund read on an enamel sign. “We’ll risk it, eh?”

It worked. Just. The elevator whined and groaned and stopped a foot before the fourth floor. Adam struggled to get the door open. The gates were jammed against the floor.

“I’ll think I’ll take the stairs on the way down,” groaned Adam as he finally managed to get out.

It was an impressive building, even if the elevator was ancient. The stairwell was wide and carpeted. The windows out to the back had diamonds of red and blue glass that threw a play of colors on the walls. There were two front doors on the fourth floor. Between them hung a glass-framed painting of a golden brown landscape somewhere in southern Europe.

Adam hadn’t even rung Rudolf Fjord’s bell before the door opposite opened.

“Hello,” said a woman in her seventies.

She was beautiful in a high-class way, Sigmund noted. Slim and very small. Groomed hair. Skirt and sweater and a pair of neat leather slippers. She was wringing her hands and seemed to be distressed.

“I’m terribly sorry to butt in, I know it’s none of my business,” she said. Adam noticed now that despite her old- fashioned, almost subservient appearance, her eyes were sharp. The two men had been weighed and measured up in a flash.

“Are you friends of Mr. Fjord? Or colleagues, perhaps?”

Her smile was sincere enough, and the worried furrow in her brow was genuine.

“I have to admit that I’ve been listening in case anyone came,” she said before they had a chance to answer. “For once I was grateful to hear the noise of that thing.”

A thin finger with a manicured nail pointed to the elevator.

“You see, Rudolf is such a boon to us here. He looks after us. Figures everything out. When I broke my leg just before Christmas”—she modestly lifted her left leg. It was beautiful, slim and whole—“he stopped by every day and did my shopping. We’re good neighbors, Rudolf and I. But now I’m . . . oh, I do apologize.”

With practiced hands, she undid the chain and came toward the two men.

“Eva Helleland,” she said, offering her hand.

The two men mumbled their surnames.

“I am so worried,” said the woman. “Rudolf came home about nine o’clock last night. I happened to come in at the same time. He had been to the theater with a lady friend. Rudolf and I always have a little chat when we bump into each other. Sometimes he even comes in for coffee. Or a glass of something. He is always so . . .”

“She’s like a weasel,” Adam thought to himself. “An energetic, curious weasel, with playful hands and darting eyes that see everything.”