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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The Oslo Detectives are back in another chilling slice of Nordic Noir … Frølich searches for the mysterious sister of a young female asylum seeker, but when people start to die, everything points to an old case and a series of events that someone will do anything to hide… 'An impeccably plotted gold-star, A-grade work of Scandi noir' The Times 'Absorbing, heart-rending and perfectly plotted' Denzil Meyrick 'Outstanding … This is a must for fans of Nordic noir' Publishers Weekly STARRED review ____________________ Suspended from duty, Detective Frølich is working as a private investigator, when his girlfriend's colleague asks for his help with a female asylum seeker, who the authorities are about to deport. She claims to have a sister in Norway, and fears that returning to her home country will mean instant death. Frølich quickly discovers the whereabouts of the young woman's sister, but things become increasingly complex when she denies having a sibling, and Frølich is threatened off the case by the police. As the body count rises, it becomes clear that the answers lie in an old investigation, and the mysterious sister, who is now on the run… A dark, chilling and up-to-the-minute Nordic Noir thriller, Sister is also a tense and well-plotted murder mystery with a moving tragedy at its heart, cementing Kjell Ola Dahl as one of the greatest crime writers of our generation. ____________________ 'Kjell Ola Dahl has always been skilful at character and setting, but the particular defining characteristic of Sister is the steadily accelerating pace, handled with a sure touch. And Frølich remains a rounded and intriguing character, particularly in this latest iteration' Barry Forshaw, Financial Times 'Kjell Ola Dahl's novels are superb' William Ryan 'Dark, stylish and suspenseful … the perfect example of why Nordic Noir has become such a popular genre' Reader's Digest 'If you have never sampled Dahl, now is the time to try' Daily Mail 'Suspenseful, beautifully and clearly written, with a sure-footed plot, this is a book that thrills' Live & Deadly 'Dahl is a quiet master of the detective thriller, delivering complex plots and a simpatico hero — Frank Frolich, cop turned PI — with Chandleresque elan plus a serious intelligence that roots out essential truths. Here, Frolich is pulled into the "shadowlands" of Norway's asylum seekers and those who profit from them, in an impeccably plotted gold-star, A-grade work of Scandi noir' The Times
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Seitenzahl: 476
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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i
PRAISE FOR KJELL OLA DAHL
‘A triumph of skill, invention and edge-of-the-seat storytelling. As always, not to be missed!’ Denzil Meyrick
‘Kjell Ola Dahl’s novels are superb. If you haven’t read one, you need to – right now’ William Ryan
‘Dahl ratchets up the tension from the first pages and never lets go’ The Times
‘More than gripping’ European Literature Network
‘Utterly convincing’ Publishers Weekly
‘If you have never sampled Dahl, now is the time to try’ Daily Mail
‘Impossible to put down’ Guardian
‘The perfect example of why Nordic Noir has become such a popular genre’ Reader’s Digest
‘Skilful blend of police procedural and psychological insight’ Crime Fiction Lover
‘Fiercely powerful and convincing’ LoveReading
‘Further cements Dahl as the Godfather of Nordic Noir, reminding readers why they fell in love with the genre in the first place’ Culture Fly
‘Kjell Ola Dahl’s fine style and intricate plotting are superb. He keeps firm hold of the story, never letting go of the tension … a dark and complex story, and convincing characters presented in excellent prose’ Crime Review
‘Dahl is such a talented writer whose writing is powerful and so convincing … The only fault being the crime gets solved and life moves on!’ New Books Magazine
‘Suspenseful, beautifully and clearly written, with a sure-footed plot, this is a book that thrills’ Live and Deadlyii
‘Dahl writes wonderfully and it’s clear why he is regarded so highly’ Have Books Will Read
‘This is a dark, emotive and twisty mystery that has been tightly woven, full of surprises and lovable characters – such a fab treat for fans of Nordic Noir!’ Chillers, Killers & Thrillers
‘Twisty and incredibly well-written story, full of suspense and intrigue and it had me glued to the pages!’ Novel Deelights
‘Full of plot, twists and tales, this kept me intrigued from the first to the last page … Clever, twisty’ Harry’s Book Club
‘Extremely gripping … fast paced and exceptionally tense’ Misti Moo Book Reviews
‘If you like novels where the story is gripping and the writing is so good that you actually feel like you are in the place it is set then I would highly recommend Kjell Ola Dahl’ A Crime Reader’s Blog
‘A gripping story with an unexpected outcome. Highly recommend’ Gemma’s Book Review
‘I found myself burning through the pages to the highly satisfying conclusion. Highly Recommended’ Bookie Wookie
‘This is good old-fashioned storytelling at its best … Excellent’ Beverley Has Read
‘Kjell Ola Dahl has once again gripped me from start to finish, hooking me whole-heartedly with his beautiful writing and complex plot’ Ronnie Turner
‘Kjell Ola’s writing is amazing as it keeps you tense throughout and you just never know where it is going to end’ The Secret World of a Book Blogger
‘The aspect of this novel I found most compelling was the author’s style of writing. I could hear his voice clearly and I loved it’ Books, Life and Everythingiii
‘A fast-paced, well-plotted story … Each move is planned, no loose ends are left to ponder over, and the intimacy between the characters and the reader makes you want to come back for more’ Cheryll MM’s Book Blog
‘Kjell’s style of writing is relaxed and allows you to get to know the characters, but don’t be fooled, it had my heart pumping … I promise you will be hooked!’ Wrong Side of Forty
‘A compelling and complex book that will have you chomping down on your nails, waiting to see what happens … Brilliant stuff’ Jen Med’s Book Review
‘A complex, tightly plotted noir crime book, full of tension, suspense, twists and atmosphere’ Emma’s Bookish Corner
‘I can most certainly see why this author is considered one of the godfathers of Nordic Noir. He spins his tale with ease and keeps you guessing up until the very end. Intricately plotted … with a satisfying ending’ Where the Reader Grows
‘I was gripped’ Portable Magic
‘The author’s style of writing and pace is very easy to read … If you are a fan of Nordic Noir or like intriguing crime mysteries then you will love this’ Over the Rainbow Book Blog
‘An engrossing and beautifully crafted novel … it is a book that captivated me from the very first page through to the startling finale. Highly recommended’ Hair Past a Freckle
‘Thrilling and complex … an enthralling read’ The Quiet Knitter
‘I loved the plot in this book and the writing style was excellent! … A thorough enjoyable read’ Donna’s Book Blog
‘I thought Dahl got the pacing of the novel just right, hooking me into the story from the very first page’ My Bookish Blogspot
v
SISTER
KJELL OLA DAHL
Translated by Don Bartlett
CONTENTS
SISTER
ix
PART 1
1
A number was nailed to the corner of the house wall. He slowed down, leaned forward and glanced to the side and up as he drove past. There was no light in the windows or any other sign of life. He carried on. Rounded first one bend, then another. A place to turn came into sight. A tractor trail leading into the woods. Frank Frølich braked, reversed into it a few metres, pulled out and drove back, past the house again. This time he noticed the gable of another building behind the main house. He continued for a short distance, still unsure how he should go about this, and came level with a wider turning area beside the remains of a brick construction. It looked like a disused petrol station. He pulled off the road and stopped. Made up his mind. Did a U-turn and drove back. Came to a halt by the bus stop near the drive of what appeared to be an abandoned smallholding. He switched off the ignition. Opened the door and got out. There was complete silence. No traffic. A line of trees along the road screened the property. Through the trees, he could see no neighbouring houses. The deserted house stood about twenty metres from the road, in front of a dilapidated outbuilding. He strolled up the narrow drive. The house was chalet style, with one and a half floors, old and run-down. The white paint was flaking off and there were green stains down the wood panelling. Two upper-floor windows were boarded up. The original front door had been replaced with a newer type. The posts supporting the porch roof were rotten at the bottom, where they rested on a concrete plinth. No name-plate on the door, but the number on the house wall didn’t lie.
He couldn’t see a doorbell anywhere. But a sheep bell hung from a blue nylon cord beside the door.
He rang it.
No response.
He rang the bell again. Pressed his fingers against the door. Locked.2
He turned away from the front door and stared at the tumbledown outbuilding. It looked as though a gigantic thumb had pushed the roof down in the middle. One end-wall was bulging under the pressure. Presumably the stanchions had started to give way. Tiles had fallen off. Some of the gaps in the roof had been repaired with corrugated-iron sheets. An optimist had attached a ratchet strap between a post in the entrance and a telephone mast. Probably as a kind of preventative measure against the increasing tilt on one side. An opening in the longer wall was covered with a green tarpaulin. It hung like a huge curtain, with a plank nailed fast lengthwise under the eaves.
He crossed the yard, lifted a corner of the tarpaulin and pulled it aside. The opening was revealed; it was dark inside. He stepped in. The tarpaulin fell back. He stood waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. There were stacks of beer crates and several cardboard boxes. He had found what he was looking for: beer and cigarettes. He took some photographs with his mobile phone. The pictures would probably be evidence enough for his employer – a food wholesaler. The works manager suspected the driver who lived here of siphoning off goods. This stock suggested she was right.
He crouched down under the tarpaulin again, ambled back to the car, got in and drove towards Moss to find the motorway back to Oslo. This job had been easier than he had imagined. Quick, not much effort involved. All he had to do now was write a report and attach the photographs.
By the slip road onto the motorway there was a shopping centre. He followed an impulse, braked, headed down to the centre and found a place to park. For ages he had been planning to swim a couple of times a week. But to do that he needed a swimming costume, and now he had the time to buy one.
The broad glass doors slid open. It was early in the day. Not many customers. He walked down the main avenue with shops on both sides. Passed a café. Green eyes behind heavy eyelids checked him over as he walked past. She was in her thirties and wore her red hair in a bob, like a helmet.3
It turned out to be too early in the year for swimwear. The assistant in the sports shop tried to sell him some running tights instead. Frølich politely declined.
He walked back the same way and made eye contact with the woman in the café from a distance. She started tidying up behind the counter, so as to appear busier than she actually was, he imagined. A thought struck him. People usually say, when planning a holiday in a big town: if you are choosing somewhere to eat you should go for a place where there are already lots of customers. No one was sitting in this café.
She had finely drawn lips and a hint of a cleft chin. A young Catherine Deneuve maybe. The top of a tattoo licked at her neck.
He stood at the counter and asked what the menu of the day was. She recommended a tapas salad, which she could make up using whatever ingredients she had at her disposal in the kitchen. She assured him that she was good and smiled self-ironically, revealing shiny white teeth in a broad mouth, which made him want to see the smile again. He said: ‘I’ll try that then.’ Immediately she left to make the salad. There was a languorous sensuality about her body. She moved from the counter to a fridge and back again, rhythmically, lissomly, as though dancing. Since there was no one else in the café he saw no reason not to start a conversation. He told her that in fact he had come to buy a swimming costume, but the sports shop didn’t have its summer stock in yet; did she know anywhere else that sold swimwear?
She looked up with Mona Lisa eyes and almost imperceptibly shook her head. After another sashay she told him she was a naturist, and with that she channelled the conversation into an intimate zone, one where he felt unsure of himself; he wondered whether she was trying to kill off the conversation. But after serving a salad consisting of cherry tomatoes, cos lettuce, salami, roasted pine kernels and slices of parmesan with freshly baked bread, she came over to his table and asked if everything was alright. He said, as was indeed the truth, that it was the best meal he had eaten for a long time. She asked him where he was from. He answered, and 4gradually they moved on to more personal topics, with the result that, as he was driving to Oslo, she was on his mind and he caught himself coming up with new questions he would have liked to ask her. The conversation had rattled along with no longueurs. What a shame she lived so far away.
That evening he sat with a laptop on his knees, trying to write a report to the works manager at the food wholesaler’s while studying the photographs on his mobile. The majority of the shots he had taken of the stolen goods were dark and grainy. He put aside the laptop, fetched a beer and hunkered down in front of a serial on TV, having decided that he would repeat the trip the following day. This time he would be able to make use of the digital Canon and flash he had invested in when he started up his business, but which he hadn’t taken many photographs with so far.
2
The next day he knew where to go and headed out on the E6 south of Oslo. He maintained a good speed and came off at Vestby, took the Oslo road to Hølen and continued to the slip road onto the R120, where he turned off and drove in the direction of the smallholding. There weren’t any cars in the yard today, either. The house seemed just as abandoned. He parked by the bus stop, walked up to the house, stood at the front door and, to be on the safe side, rang the bell. Pushed at the door. Locked. Then he slipped under the tarpaulin covering the opening in the tilting barn. He took some pictures with the proper camera and flash this time. Checked the display to make sure the quality of the photographs was good enough, then got back in the car and drove to the shopping centre.
As soon as he was through the automatic doors he feared he was on a wild-goose chase. The café was packed, and she was nowhere to be seen. But as he turned to leave she appeared behind him and said:5
‘Hi. Back again, are you? That’s nice.’
He asked her straight out whether she was doing anything that evening. She was. Presumably she read the disappointment in his eyes because she hastened to ask if he had found the swimming costume he was after. He shook his head. Then she flashed him a smile and said he could go swimming with her at the weekend.
A swim at the beginning of March, he thought, and nodded. Perhaps she was an ice swimmer. He asked where he should pick her up.
‘Just a mo,’ she said, went back to the counter, dealt with a couple of customers and returned a few minutes later with a map she had drawn. She was renting a house in Skjeberg.
‘By the way, my name’s Matilde.’
‘Frank,’ he said, choosing not to mention that most people called him Frankie.
He was keen to hear how she pronounced his name, if they ever got as far as calling each other by their first names, that is.
3
On Saturday the rain was falling in sheets. A sombre atmosphere lay over the countryside as he drove his Mini Cooper south. Black tarmac and black ploughed fields stole the light, and the rain collected in small lakes on the biggest of them. Bare branches were outlined against the sky. The ground hadn’t started to send up green shoots, either.
He was going to Skjeberg Bay, not far from Høysand. There were plenty of summer cabins and older detached houses between the rocks. Matilde lived in one of the smallest. It nestled there, with a drive and a handkerchief of a garden behind a white picket fence. As he turned in to park in front of the cabin, the worst of the rain had passed. She was sitting on the terrace in front of the door, barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose sweater. In one hand she held an umbrella, in the other a lit cigarette. Beside her sat a border collie, which meekly stood up to be stroked when he mounted the steps.6
They stood smiling at each other for a few seconds.
‘Crap weather,’ he said.
She said nothing, just went in and held the door open.
It was like walking into a room from the 1950s. The sofa looked as if it had been bought from the furniture catalogues of the time, and there was kitsch on the walls: flea-market art – a gipsy girl stretched out on a divan beside a seaman in a sou’wester with a crooked pipe in the corner of his mouth. Above the dining table was a retro wall light with a miniature bulb shining from behind a heart-shaped lampshade. The most modern object in the room was a small Bluetooth speaker on the teak table in front of the sofa. From it came muted country-and-western music. The room had an open kitchen and Matilde was already sashaying between the fridge and the hotplates. The dog sat in front of the wood burner, watching him as he crouched down beside her record collection. Vinyl albums, most of them classics from the golden age. Every One of Us by Eric Burdon and the Animals, Trilogy by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, B.B. King’s Live at the Regal and, further along, gems such as Exile on Main Street, Wave, Spectrum and Heavy Weather. The LPs were wedged onto a shelf beside a Tandberg Sølvsuper 10, with inbuilt speakers in a wooden cabinet, and a record-player with a strobe light on the side of the turntable.
He could feel he liked her tastes and the contrasts they created. In addition, he was happy she hadn’t broached the subject of swimming. And he appreciated the way they didn’t have to say everything to each other, which was the same feeling he’d had when they spoke for the first time in the café.
A photograph on the wall showed two ungainly figures on skis, both wearing jeans and anoraks. Both were covered in snow, as if they’d just had a fall.
Matilde turned away from the stove. ‘That’s me and my mum. Neither of us is very good at skiing, but we have such a lot of fun together.’
He sat down on the low sofa.
‘What’s your dog’s name?’7
‘Petter,’ she said. ‘It’s actually my mother’s dog, but she has a new partner and he’s allergic.’
Petter rose to his feet and pinned back his ears when he heard his name. Matilde knelt down and stroked him. ‘So that’s why he lives with me.’ She looked up. ‘Hope you’re not allergic to dogs.’
They exchanged glances with an energy that was fuelled by all the layers of the question. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘Not as far as I know.’
She came over and sat beside him. ‘There’s some coffee on the go,’ she said. ‘Just have to wait a bit.’
The dog laid his head on the floor and looked up at them. Frank leaned back with his eyes closed and took in all the sounds of the room. Water boiling, the noise of the kitchen extractor fan and the faint quiver of a pan lid, the muted C&W music, the crackling of logs in the stove.
He opened his eyes and gazed straight at her, she was resting her head on the back of the sofa, too. They sat looking into each other’s faces. Matilde smiled gently as he took her hand and her sweater crackled with electricity as she moved closer.
4
He visited Matilde the following weekend as well. And the following one, and the one after that. The fourth weekend she caught a train to Oslo. They went out in the city centre and she stayed over until Monday morning.
Matilde thought it was good that he had stopped working for the police. She was unwilling to say why, but considered it absolutely fine that he was working as a private investigator. The reason came out on the last day of May. They were sitting in garden chairs on her terrace in the sun. Matilde’s mobile was quietly playing Lyle Lovett on the portable speaker. She said she had loved books about Nancy Drew when she was a child. She had dreamed about becoming a detective herself.
‘Then I got myself a detective buddy instead.’8
‘The question is: how long will it last?’
She sat bolt upright.
‘The work, I mean,’ he added quickly. ‘I haven’t got any commissions at the moment and I’m living off savings. When they come to an end, I’ll have to get a different job.’
Matilde stretched for the Marlboro pack on the floor, tapped out a cigarette and lit it using a white lighter. She inhaled deeply and said she had a friend who needed a detective.
‘Her name’s Guri, and she works at a refugee centre in Hobøl. What’s the matter with you?’
‘She needs a private investigator?’
‘Someone’s gone missing, from what I can gather. I’m not absolutely sure. I wasn’t really following when she was talking about it. But when I told her the guy I was dating was a detective she went wild.’
‘OK,’ he said, closing his eyes again and continuing to enjoy the atmosphere, the mild weather and all the post-coital peace.
Later, when the sun disappeared behind the trees and it became cooler, Matilde went in and fetched two blankets. After a while she asked him if he felt up to driving her somewhere.
‘Of course.’
It wasn’t a long trip. They drove away from the holiday cottages and turned north onto the motorway. Came off by Moss, continued along the R120 eastward and after a while took the Dillingøy exit. Here they drove on muddy gravel tracks as Matilde fed him instructions:
‘Right here … carry straight on … There,’ she said, pointing to a padlocked, ramshackle shed. ‘I’ve got a summer car.’
Matilde smiled mischievously as she inserted the key into the lock. The hinges creaked as she opened one broad door.
‘Same model as the one Thelma and Louise drove around in. It’s even the same colour.’
As the crooked doors revealed metre after metre of chrome and 9steel, he was reminded of something from a film. The flashy convertible was turquoise and had white leather seats. The wings were incorporated into the bodywork. The wheels had whitewall tyres and the long bonnet set off associations with the spaceship in Star Trek.
‘Ford Thunderbird, 1966, convertible,’ Matilde said, unable now to hold back the smile. ‘Whenever I say that, it sounds as unreal as ever.’
She got in, adjusted levers. Moved the column gear shift back and forth. Then pulled another lever. The bonnet opened a few centimetres. She clambered out again. Lifted the bonnet, bent over the engine. ‘We need some electricity,’ she mumbled and attached the earth cable to the battery, dropped the bonnet and climbed back in. Waved another key and said: ‘Cover your ears.’
It sounded like a landslide as the V8 engine started up. It almost choked. She put her foot on the accelerator. The engine roared and grey exhaust fumes filled the space between the timber walls. ‘It’s a bit out of sorts at the moment,’ she shouted.
He could barely see the car through the fumes. But when she finally eased the pressure on the accelerator the engine idled comfortably.
He asked her how she had managed to land such a treasure and was told she and an ex had been on holiday in the US. They had bought the T-bird when they had to drive from San Francisco to New York. On reaching the east coast her ex wanted to sell the car, but Matilde had grown to love it. So she costed the price of transport to Norway. It was freighted across the Atlantic in a container ship. When the relationship finished she bought his share of the car.
‘It runs on ninety-eight octane leaded petrol. I have to put lead substitute in the tank whenever I fill up.’
There was one downside though, she said. There was a faint smell of mould inside the car. Matilde put the smell down to the hard winter and the poor state of the garage. The soft-top over the car couldn’t keep out the damp on its own, she said. But a good 10run-out would help. The smell would go with the fresh air and the heating system working.
‘It was the same problem last summer, but it resolved itself.’
5
If Matilde was a competent cook she was at least as competent a mechanic, he quickly gathered. At the back of the garage there was a socket set and some flexible box wrenches. On their way back they drove in convoy and popped into a Biltema warehouse. The oil, filters and antifreeze had to be changed. At home she had new fan belts and other parts that frequently needed replacing. The rest of the weekend they spent getting the T-bird ready, punctuated only by bouts of passion in Matilde’s double bed.
To suppress the smell of mould they went to work with two rounds of water, soap and disinfectant. And still they had to hang four Wunderbaum air fresheners to dull the odour when on Sunday they went on a kind of maiden voyage and cruised northwards to Moss, turned down through the town and crossed the channel to the island of Jeløya. They went past the Sjøhaug naturist centre, which didn’t appear to have opened for the summer. Matilde told him that she and her mother had gone on holiday there every summer, in a caravan. She remained a naturist herself, but had dropped the caravan holiday.
‘It’s too crowded when you can hear your neighbour fart in the morning as he gets up. Not to mention all the rest.’
They continued towards Refsnes Gods hotel. Matilde said she had worked there in the summer as a waitress.
They walked down to the shore. The sea was dead calm and the sun hung high in the sky. One of the Bastøy ferries was on its way over.
The beach was full of tiny pebbles. Matilde picked the ones that she considered appealing, either because they felt good in her hand or because they had nice patterns.
Frank sat down and watched the sea absorb the light from the 11sky. He suddenly thought about his father. Saw him in his mind’s eye with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, walking in the mountains.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Matilde said, sitting down beside him.
‘My father.’
‘I’ve never seen mine,’ she said. ‘He and my mother lived together before they had me. That’s all I know.’
‘Did they split up?’
‘I don’t know. My mother doesn’t like to talk about him.’
‘Why not?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Haven’t you ever had any contact with him?’
‘I have a few letters and a couple of photographs.’
At the end of the beach a boy in an anorak and windproof trousers was walking with a spinning rod in his hand. He jumped up onto a sea-smoothed rock and began to cast his line.
This sight reminded Frank of his own boyhood. Some summers his family had rented a cabin in Tjøme. When they weren’t fishing from the rowing boat that came with the cabin, he used to cast a line from a hill behind the outside toilet, hoping to catch mackerel and small saithe.
He watched the boy as he set one foot behind the other, brought the rod back, threw, and let go of the finger holding the line. Heard the sound of the line spinning out of the reel and the little plop as the lure broke the surface of the water. The boy stood still, waiting for the lure to sink before he reeled in.
After the third or fourth throw, the rod bent in classic fashion.
The fish tossed around. It might have been a sea trout. They were usually pretty frisky when they bit.
Frank lay back, felt a breath of wind caress his eyelashes and heard the undulating drone of a passenger plane in the distance.
Matilde’s mobile rang. She answered it. He opened his eyes and watched her.
‘Of course,’ she said, put down her phone and looked at him. ‘Do you remember me talking about Guri?’12
Frank didn’t.
‘The woman who works at the refugee centre and needs a detective.’
He nodded.
She put the phone to her ear again. ‘We’ll be there in an hour.’
She rang off and stood up. ‘Let’s get going,’ she said. ‘It’s quite a drive.’
‘A missing person, wasn’t that the story?’
‘A woman from the Middle East. She’s searching for her sister. Apparently this girl travelled to Norway because her sister had travelled ahead of her several years before. The detective’s job is to find the sister.’
He fell silent, concerned.
‘What’s the matter?’ Matilde said. ‘Are you going to turn down work?’
‘I fear this lady may not necessarily have any money to pay with.’
Matilde didn’t say anything for a while.
‘You could talk to her, couldn’t you?’ she said, slightly disgruntled.
Frank was still silent.
‘I can give you some money. I get paid on Wednesday.’
‘Out of the question.’
‘What’s wrong with my money?’
‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘I’ll talk to her and you’re not paying for anything.’
Matilde stretched out a hand and squeezed his forearm.
‘The main thing is you listen to what she has to say. They don’t have an easy time of it, these poor people, and this girl’s sister means everything to her.’
6
Matilde said she had met Guri for the first time after a gig at the Down on the Farm festival in Halden four years before. They had been travelling on the same train home when it hit an elk, which 13affected the electricity supply and left them stuck between two stations. It had been the last train that day, so NSB had organised buses instead. She and Guri had struck up a conversation as they stood waiting for a bus that showed no signs of ever appearing. Then Guri had rung her brother and he had come to drive them home. Afterwards they had often been together. Guri was a trained psychiatric nurse. She was crazy about everything to do with horses and had long had her own horse stabled on a farm not far from Svinndal. There she used to practise showjumping. But the previous winter the horse had baulked at a fence. Guri had dug in her heels, but this startled the stallion; it kicked out its rear legs, or something like that, and Guri fell off.
‘An Arab. It must’ve been on edge.’
Guri had fallen badly. Fortunately she had been wearing a helmet, but it didn’t protect her back. So, no more showjumping for a good while. However, the prognosis was better than expected. She had retrained her body by paddling a kayak.
As they approached Spydeberg they turned off the main road and continued towards Lyseren. Matilde drove right down to a grassy slope, which must have been a kind of beach, and parked beneath a huge pine tree. She texted a message and received an answer at once. They strolled down to the water’s edge to wait.
Frank sat down on a stump and gazed across as Matilde took off her sandals, folded up her trousers and waded in. A swarm of midges danced above her head; they looked like a little cloud.
After a while a kayak approached at great speed. The sun glinted on the paddle blades with every stroke that Guri took. The kayak glided up onto the grass, then she lifted herself out: a lithe woman in her thirties, wearing a wetsuit down to mid-thigh, long, blonde hair in a plait over her shoulder.
She and Matilde hugged.
Afterwards she turned to him: a face with limpid blue eyes and a narrow, slightly crooked nose above attractive but vulnerable lips that made her seem shy when she smiled. Like now, as they exchanged looks, a ‘hi’ and a handshake.14
Guri told him that the refugee centre where she worked had what they called a ‘dedicated area’ for asylum seekers with psychological or other illnesses requiring special treatment. This was where she met the girl who was searching for her sister.
‘She’s in a bad way,’ Guri said. ‘The doctors can’t agree on whether this is post-traumatic stress syndrome or a deeper psychological issue. But she’s had an awful time. She’s fled from war and abuse into more abuse here in the west. And now they’ve decided she has to leave again. They’re kicking her out on her arse. The bloody government. It’s so cynical. She can barely look after herself, but out she goes. She has one last hope: her sister, who travelled the same road a few years ago. Her sister came here, to Norway. But no one has a clue where she’s living or what she’s doing. Now Aisha’s stuck in the refugee centre and desperately needs to be reunited with her sister while the police just can’t wait to fly her to Turkey. She’ll never stand it. If she’s sent to Istanbul she’ll die or take her own life, I’m sure of that.’
Guri’s kayak must have been very light because she carried it under her arm, to a red Volvo estate parked under the trees, and hoisted it onto the roof. She took a couple of rollers with straps from the car and attached the kayak firmly, with sharp yanks, glanced across at Frølich and said: ‘Turn around.’
He didn’t understand what she meant. ‘I’m going to change my clothes,’ she said.
He wandered down to the water as the women sorted out Guri’s outfit. On his return Guri was wearing a flowery top, light-blue jeans and sandals.
They got into their cars. Guri led the way while they followed in the convertible. Guri’s Volvo had only one rear light working.15
7
It wasn’t a long journey. Soon they were driving into the refugee centre by Elvestad. Guri parked by what appeared to be the main building. Matilde pulled up beside her.
The doors slammed as they got out.
‘This is where I work,’ Guri said.
‘One of your rear lights isn’t working,’ Frank said.
‘He used to be in the police,’ Matilde said.
‘Good job you aren’t anymore,’ Guri said. ‘There’s a lot more than the rear lights that doesn’t work on the car.’
A group of tall, lean Africans were playing basketball on a court. They waved to Guri, who showed Frank and Matilde the way in.
The place felt like an institution. The residents sat in small groups, chatting, playing cards or Chinese chequers, or simply trying to kill time.
A man in jeans and a sweater grabbed Guri. All three of them stopped. Guri gave him a quick hug and asked him, in English, to fetch Aisha. But the man said Guri should come with him, so she showed Frank and Matilde into a small room and said, ‘Wait here and I’ll bring her to you.’
The waiting room also smacked of an institution. Second-hand tables, second-hand chairs and by the windows hung stiff, yellow curtains that could well have been the originals from the time when the house was built many decades before.
The woman who followed Guri into the room a few minutes later seemed very young. She wore brown trousers and an acrylic sweater with a roll neck, probably a survivor of the 1970s. Her black hair was gathered in a thick ponytail. It was clear from her facial features that she was unwell. When she talked, there was a white streak of saliva at the corner of her mouth, and she sat with a rigid, crooked grimace on her lips as her eyes flickered nervously between Frølich, Matilde, Guri and the interpreter, a buxom woman in a dark dress, her hair covered by a white hijab. She introduced herself as Havin and told them in good Norwegian that she had lived in the country since the early nineties.16
The woman spoke to the interpreter, who spoke to Frølich. The woman’s name was Aisha. The interpreter took the trouble to explain that Aisha was also the name of the prophet’s youngest wife.
Aisha said that her sister had left Iraq in the autumn of 2005 and had come to Norway. The family had been in touch via the telephone. She had been working and had earned money and was happy.
Frølich remembered the time of the Bush administration’s bombing raids on what they called the Axis of Evil. He remembered the immense anti-war demonstration in Oslo in which he’d taken part.
He asked Aisha what her sister’s name was.
‘Sheyma.’
‘When was she born?’
The young woman hesitated. Said something.
The interpreter said that Aisha thought her sister was eighteen when she fled.
‘So she must be around thirty now,’ Frank said, appraising Aisha, who could barely be eighteen.
‘You can’t have been very old when your sister fled?’
Aisha didn’t answer.
‘Why did she flee?’
The young woman shook her head. ‘No understand.’
‘She doesn’t understand,’ the interpreter said.
He took a deep breath and waited, wanting to give her time.
There was nothing else forthcoming.
‘What kind of work did your sister do in Norway?’
The interpreter translated: ‘Hotel work. She tidied rooms and made beds and cleaned at a hotel.’
‘You don’t know which one?’
The interpreter asked.
The woman shook her head again. ‘A hotel in Oslo. She made beds, cleaned.’
‘When did you lose contact?’17
‘No understand.’
‘You said your sister rang home. When was that?’
‘Two years later, in 2007,’ the interpreter said.
‘Has she contacted you since then?’
Aisha shook her head.
Frank turned to Guri. ‘But you’ve tried to trace her?’
‘We have. But we can’t find her name. She must’ve changed it.’
‘Why would she do that?’
Guri shrugged. ‘Aisha’s sure she’s alive and living in Norway.’
The interpreter translated. Aisha nodded energetically and said something.
‘“I can feel she’s here”,’ the interpreter translated. ‘“I know Sheyma’s in Norway.”’
‘She made a long journey to get here?’
Aisha nodded.
‘Was there any special reason for her choosing Norway specifically?’
Aisha sat thinking after the interpreter had explained. ‘No understand.’
‘I mean, did she know anyone here? Why did she choose to come to Norway instead of Sweden or Germany, for example?’
Aisha glanced anxiously from one to the other and finally shrugged her shoulders.
‘Did she ring home many times?’
‘Once. She was so happy.’ Aisha smiled. ‘Happy to be in Europe.’
‘Did your sister travel alone?’
The young woman eyed him as the interpreter translated, and she gave a curt answer.
‘She doesn’t know,’ the interpreter said.
‘Surely she must know whether her sister fled alone or with others.’
The interpreter sent him a kind look. ‘She doesn’t know. If she doesn’t know, she doesn’t know.’
Frank leaned back on his chair. Trying to make eye contact with 18the young woman, which appeared to be nigh on impossible. Aisha looked down and away, as though not willing to meet his gaze. An air of helplessness seemed to surround her, but also a vulnerability, which emphasised how lonely she must be. However, none of this made the task any easier.
He glanced at Guri and Matilde for help, thinking they must see how hopeless this all was, but their attention was focused on the young woman on the chair.
‘Help me, sir. Please help me to find my sister,’ Aisha pleaded in English, leaning across the table.
Matilde nodded authoritatively.
Frank realised that everyone else in the room was looking at him, as though he were the main protagonist, someone they expected a few timely words from.
‘I assume you’ve checked other refugee centres to see if she’s there?’ he said to Guri.
She nodded.
‘I need a pic, a photo,’ he said. ‘Something to show people.’
The interpreter translated.
Aisha still appeared confused. She said a name.
Guri intervened. ‘Shamal?’ She turned to Frølich. ‘Shamal. He’s in this section. He can lay his hands on the picture.’
Guri went to the door. The same man in jeans and a sweater appeared and was gone again. ‘Shamal’s off to get the photo,’ Guri said, and closed the door.
8
Half an hour later Frank was standing by Matilde’s car examining a tatty photograph of a girl wearing a long, flowery dress, her hair hidden by a light-blue headscarf. Clean features. Large, dark eyes and finely drawn eyebrows. Full lips and a mole on her right cheek. Quite different from the sister in the dedicated area in the centre. According to Guri, one of the doctors visiting the centre thought Aisha had a personality disorder. Another doctor considered it a 19variant of PTSS. A gang rape and other abuse during her escape from Iraq had traumatised her.
A cruel fate, Frank reflected, re-examining the faded photograph of Sheyma. And wondered what she looked like now. Was she still alive? If she was eighteen when she left she would be thirty or thirty-one. If she still lived in Norway she might be integrated, employed, with her hair uncovered, the mother of small children, with the appearance of someone who had undergone all the changes family life can impose. Or she might be married to a Muslim of the conservative variety; perhaps she lived in a marriage that didn’t allow her to be seen outside. The photograph he was holding in his hand might be completely worthless.
If Aisha’s sister had a residence permit it ought to be possible to trace her. She might even have Norwegian nationality. But she could also have been deported from Norway, transported back to some transit country. She might be stuck in some refugee camp in Greece or Hungary, or indeed anywhere. Perhaps she was living illegally in Italy or Germany. On the other hand, all the years without a sign of life could just as well mean she was dead.
The sad fates of asylum seekers were only one side of this business. Naturally, Frank felt sorry for Aisha, because she was a victim. She had fled the war, lost her family and been exposed to abuse and mistreatment, and now she had to live an undignified transit life. If he could alleviate some of the girl’s suffering by searching for her sister he would happily try. But he was unsure whether Guri or Aisha understood how pointless the whole thing was. Had he made it clear enough to them? Or was he creating unrealistic expectations by agreeing to this job? Would it be more honest to spell it out? Forget your sister. It’s a waste of time trying to locate her. But how cynical was that approach? The poor girl was alone in a strange part of the world. She was on the threshold of a good life in Norway while the sands of time were running out. The machinery of power was about to close the door on her. Out you go, back to broken dreams. It could happen tomorrow, or in a week’s time. No wonder Aisha was desperate.20
Yes, he told himself. You know people at Kripos and Oslo Police. You’re bound to be able to pull in a favour.
The front door of the red building slammed. Matilde and Guri came out, stopped and talked. Matilde said goodbye to Guri, who waved to him, turned and went back inside.
He stuffed the photograph into the breast pocket of his shirt.
‘Thank you so much for doing this,’ Matilde said as they got into the car. ‘I can feel it,’ she said. ‘I can feel your energy and aura. I know this is going to be a success.’
9
Later that evening, driving towards Oslo, he mulled over the strange meeting at the refugee centre. It wasn’t only the futility of the enterprise that bothered him. If he was to have a sniff of a chance of achieving some kind of result he needed more information. But it wasn’t only that, there was something about Guri’s involvement. What made her hire a private investigator on behalf of someone in the refugee centre? Sure it was a shame about Aisha, but it was a shame about anyone fleeing a country. And people who worked with refugees ought to be trained to keep a professional distance. The first commandment in that line of work was not to get involved personally. Why did Guri feel so strongly about Aisha’s fate?
Another thing he should check more thoroughly was Guri Sekkelsten’s family. He had recently completed an investigative assignment involving another Sekkelsten. The driver who stole beer and cigarettes from his employer. Ivar Sekkelsten had had to go to prison because he already had a conditional sentence. After producing visual evidence against Ivar Sekkelsten, Frølich had also testified against the man at the trial. It was his evidence that had sent Sekkelsten to the slammer.
Could Guri and Ivar be related? If they were, might that be a problem? Should he reject the job?
Well, he thought at once, this was a favour to a friend. Locating 21Aisha’s sister seemed pretty futile anyway. What he could do was go through the national registers, talk to the right people and have his assumption confirmed: finding Sheyma Bashur in Norway today is mission impossible.
After returning home, he started on precisely that. He tried a few electronic searches for Sheyma Bashur without getting a nibble. That offered three possibilities: she had left the country; she was still living in Norway but had changed her surname, possibly her first name as well; or she could be dead and had died here in Norway. Matilde, Guri and Aisha insisted she was still alive and in this country. They had no basis for this assumption. But if he was going to work on this hypothesis he was looking for a woman with a different name from Sheyma Bashur.
He started the next working day with nothing to tax his brain apart from the photograph in his breast pocket. In other words, he had no employment that offered any prospect of earning an income. He refrained from checking his bank account, but knew from earlier checks that he would have enough for his rent and other necessities for at least a month. The smartest move now would be to sit down and write job applications. With his police experience he would be in with a chance at the biggest security agencies. Looking for work, however, required the kind of motivation he didn’t possess at present.
He rang NOAS, the Norwegian organisation for asylum seekers. Frølich introduced himself and presented the case. A woman fleeing Iraq – reportedly in 2005 – and coming to Norway – possibly in 2006, perhaps later. Which countries she had passed through was unknown, but presumably included Turkey, Greece, Italy and Germany, because that route was supposed to have been used a lot at the time. But no one with this particular person’s name existed in the national registers Frølich had been able to peruse. If 22she had taken Norwegian nationality or had a residence permit for Norway, she was not registered anywhere under her real name. Nor was she registered at any refugee centre. She had left Iraq in November 2005. Two years later, in late autumn 2007, she rang home from Oslo. She told her family that she was working as a cleaner in a hotel in Norway, in Oslo. She was fine. Thereafter, silence. No one knew why.
‘I’ve checked the missing-persons register at Kripos. No hits.’
The man on the telephone asked if she had travelled from Iraq on her own.
‘I don’t know.’
‘How old was she when she left her home country?’
‘About eighteen, apparently.’
‘It seems rather unlikely that she’d travel alone then. As a woman, she was vulnerable. Presumably she did travel with someone. One other thing: if she’s been in Norway without an official residence permit there are not many jobs she could have taken. She must’ve looked for illegal work, and in the environments frequented by people from the Middle East it is usually the men who get the few jobs there are. As a refugee from Iraq she came from a strongly gender-segregated society. A male society.’
‘Her family insists she worked here in Norway.’
‘Are you sure you have the correct name, then? If she was employed it suggests there was a residence permit.’
‘I had her name spelt to me by a member of the family.’
‘Sure it’s spelt correctly?’
‘Yes.’
‘As I said, paid work suggests a residence permit. Some women fleeing alone can be forced into prostitution or taken care of by someone who either protects or exploits them. Are you sure she wasn’t travelling with a man?’
Frank Frølich hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Why did she flee?’
‘I don’t know that, either.’
‘What ethnicity? Kurd, Armenian, Turkmen, Sabaean…’23
Frank smiled with embarrassment at his reflection in the window and said in all honesty: ‘I don’t know that, either.’
‘She’s a Muslim, not a Christian Syrian?’
‘Her sister’s named after the prophet’s youngest wife – Aisha.’
‘Shia or Sunni?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘The reason I ask is that there have been, and still are, tensions between these branches of Islam in Iraq, as I’m sure you’re aware. But it seems improbable that a woman would flee alone. To escape from a country requires preparation and money. It’s often organised, usually by the family. They collect money. A young woman on her own … Are you sure she set out with the family’s blessing?’
After the conversation Frank sat studying his notes. On the piece of paper were a number of logical questions. They made him wonder why he hadn’t been more persistent with Aisha? Why hadn’t he questioned her in more detail?
Because he hadn’t prepared for the meeting.
He knew nothing at all about refugees. All he had to go on was an old photograph and some hearsay that the sister had worked at a hotel in Oslo. He had gone with Matilde to Lyseren to be accommodating. He’d met Guri to be accommodating and joined them at the refugee centre for the same reason. Deep down, though, he hadn’t taken this assignment seriously.
As he had taken on the job now, it was obvious he would have to talk to Aisha again. And ask the right questions.
It would have to be another day. But he couldn’t let the day go without doing something. The best thing he could do was make a start.
10
Over the last ten to twelve years the hotel business had seen many changes. The acquisition of hotels to form chains was only one side. Several of today’s commercially run establishments didn’t exist 24when Sheyma Bashur rang home. Travel and tourism were industries that had grown in the capital. If Sheyma had worked in a hotel in Oslo, there was no guarantee the place was still in business.
A woman of around twenty, in transit, with years behind her as a refugee, presumably had to live from hand to mouth, had to deal with people smugglers and border police, possibly without a legal permit to stay in the country, but she still got work as a cleaner, someone who tidied and cleaned up after others travelling through. There was a substantial dose of irony in that. If Aisha’s sister had worked illegally, it would have been in a less luxurious hotel, he reasoned. As though a hotel’s size and standards would tell us anything about its relationship with the tax authorities, he thought afterwards, but he did what he had decided nonetheless. He started at the bottom of the price range, with the youth hostel in Sinsen, continued fruitlessly through Oslo centre, with pension houses and B&Bs. Then he went to work on smaller well-known hotels in the Oslo ‘pot’. On the occasions he met hotel managers, most of them tried to convince him that they didn’t employ illegal staff. However, they had agreements with sub-contractors and couldn’t guarantee what they got up to. Frølich nodded understandingly and asked if he could talk with someone on the cleaning side. Many hotels had delegated this service to agencies. Frølich made the effort anyway to question them. Most of the cleaners he met were of foreign origin. There were Russian women, there were Ukrainian women, Lithuanians, Filipinas, Polish, Somalian, Nigerian, Eritrean, Iraqi, Thai women wearing plastic gloves on their hands pushing vacuum cleaners or trolleys equipped with detergents, cloths, soaps, kitchen scourers and mops. They straightened up, blew strands of hair from their mouths, looked at the photograph, shook their heads and passed it back. He felt like a fisherman with one pathetic rod faced by an enormous sea with only one fish that was worth reeling in. He had, however, been smart enough to collate a list of hotels and overnight accommodation in Oslo and the region. He crossed off the places he had visited and started on the next. The plan lacked much ambition. He set himself a target of getting through the list, 25only so that he could sit back with a clear conscience – he had no hopes of actually getting a bite.
When evening came he tried to work out how he could write a report for Guri about his lack of success – but without seeming too negative.
Matilde rang a little before midnight. She had got hold of a CD by a German indie band who had released two records before they went their separate ways in the nineties. She was excited and asked him to listen while she turned up the volume. He said he would rather be with her and listen to the music there, which was the truth. She agreed and asked him how he had got on ‘with his search for the sister’.
He had to be honest. It had gone badly. But he added that he was planning another trip to Elvestad to talk to Aisha again. Some additional information would focus his search better.
Matilde said she would ask Guri to call him.
11
Next day he carried on with the list of overnight accommodation. And after another series of wasted trips he got what appeared to be a nibble. It was at a hotel near Bankplassen. A chain with a low-budget profile. The clientele seemed to be predominantly backpackers, most of them with their noses buried in their mobile phones or iPads. One person stood at the check-in desk in front of shelves of soft drinks and peanuts. The other end of the lobby was fitted out as a breakfast bar. He showed the photograph of Sheyma to a Thai-looking woman who was clearing the breakfast tables. She removed her disposable gloves and studied the picture. Then she took it with her and disappeared through a swing door. Frølich followed her. He found her again, in a kitchen with a line of sinks and dishwashers. She was standing and talking animatedly with a thin African-looking woman in a tight, grey, ankle-length 26dress. The Thai woman pointed at Frølich and gesticulated. Both women turned their backs on him. Eventually the Thai woman came back, passed him the photograph and said in English:
‘Sorry, we don’t know this woman.’
But she wasn’t so sure, Frølich thought. What gave rise to the uncertainty? And why did she have to confer with the other woman before she could make up her mind?
They stood eyeing each other. The woman seemed suddenly uneasy. She started putting her gloves back on. On her chest she wore a badge bearing her name: Gamon. She turned away from him.
‘Gamon.’
She turned back.
He rummaged in his wallet and handed her his business card.
She read the card and looked at him enquiringly.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘If you should happen to remember something or see her, I’d be grateful if you got in touch.’
She turned on her heel and left.
He walked out and trudged in the direction of his office. Bought a couple of newspapers on the way at one of the kiosks down in Kirkeristen and continued to Storgata. His stomach told him he was hungry, so he turned into Oslo’s last outpost of the old-style, dimly lit, café bar: Dovrehallen. He found some of the regulars were already in position: carefully combed grey hair above ruddy-cheeked faces staring pensively into the day’s first and perhaps Oslo’s cheapest beer. He nodded to the familiar faces and sat at a window table in a partitioned stall completely to himself. He ordered a fry-up from the faded beauty who brought the menus. She recognised him and asked what he wanted to drink. He was tempted to order a Pils, but went for iced water and coffee. After all, it was the middle of the day and he had convinced himself he was working on an assignment. This didn’t stop him musing on the fiasco that was Frank Frølich while he waited for the food. He had left the police in what some might call disgrace. And now he resembled the parody of a failed private detective, 27
