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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The discovery of a body in the freezing waters of Oslo Harbour spark an investigation that takes the Oslo Detectives right to the heart of the government … with life-shattering results. The godfather of Nordic Noir is back… ***Shortlisted for the Petrona Award for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel of the Year*** 'Fiercely powerful and convincing' LoveReading 'A masterclass in plotting, atmosphere and character' The Times 'Lena Stigersand, one of the decent, talented, hard-working Oslo police detectives in Dahl's ensemble procedural series, takes center stage in this excellent sixth instalment … fans of Scandinavian noir will be eager for Dahl's next book' Publishers Weekly **Book of the Month** ____________________ When a dead man is lifted from the freezing waters of Oslo Harbour just before Christmas, Detective Lena Stigersand's stressful life suddenly becomes even more complicated. Not only is she dealing with a cancer scare, a stalker and an untrustworthy boyfriend, but it seems that both a politician and Norway's security services might be involved in the murder. With her trusted colleagues, Gunnarstranda and Frølich, at her side, Lena digs deep into the case and finds that it not only goes to the heart of the Norwegian establishment, but it might be rather to close to her personal life for comfort. Dark, complex and nail-bitingly tense, The Ice Swimmer is a simply unforgettable instalment in the critically acclaimed Oslo Detective series, by the godfather of Nordic Noir. ____________________ 'If you want your worst fears about what goes on inside a cop's mind confirmed, meet Kjell Ola Dahl's Oslo sleuths, Gunnarstranda and Frølich … impossible to put down' Guardian 'A chilling novel about betrayal' Sunday Times 'If you have never sampled Dahl, now is the time to try' Daily Mail 'More than gripping' European Literature Network 'The perfect example of why Nordic Noir has become such a popular genre' Reader's Digest 'Dramatic, fast-paced and character-focused' Crime Review 'Skilful blend of police procedural and psychological insight' Crime Fiction Lover 'I have read many clever and thrilling crime novels through my life, but often they have nothing to do with real life. If I don't believe in them, they don't impress me. But when Kjell Ola Dahl tells his stories, I believe every single word' Karin Fossum 'Kjell Ola Dahl's novels are superb. If you haven't read one, you need to – right now' William Ryan
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Seitenzahl: 518
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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THE ICE SWIMMER
KJELL OLA DAHL
translated by Don Bartlett
Contents
Oslo. Thursday, 10th December
1
Nina threads her way through the stream of people pouring up the steps at Egertorget Metro Station. She continues along Karl Johans gate, where the heating cables under the flagstones keep the pavement free of snow. She speeds up. The traffic lights change to red, but Nina doesn’t stop. She glances over her shoulder and sets off at a run. The exhaust fumes spreading across the open tarmac reflect the lights of the morning rush-hour cars and creep up their bodywork. In shop windows plastic Christmas pixies in woollen jumpers and coarse fabric trousers stand and laugh. Others wear frozen smiles and wave stiff arms. Nina races past, a shadow on the glass.
Nina runs down the steps of Jernbanetorget Metro Station.
A train roars in and screeches to a halt. The doors open. Passengers disgorge onto the platform.
Nina hesitates. Waits. Looks around. The doors close. At the last second she makes a lunge. A man does the same into the carriage behind.
The train sets off. The temperature inside is warmer, but Nina is frozen. The carriage jerks and lurches around the bends. Passengers cling to the poles that connect the floor to the ceiling. Nina sits facing backwards. Her eyes flit across the other people, all squeezed close together, some staring at the ceiling, some with their noses in a book or a newspaper. Nina continues to search. And makes eye contact with her pursuer.
He is sitting right at the other end and raises his hand in a wave.
Nina jumps up. She works her way forwards. The train is packed and she hides behind backs as she moves towards the door. The train stops at Grønland.
The doors open.
Nina waits and gets off just as the doors close.
The train pulls away.
Nina is left standing on the platform. She doesn’t move, as though afraid to look, afraid to know the result of her sudden manoeuvre. Finally she turns. She sees her pursuer standing a few metres away.
They stare into each other’s eyes for several long, mute seconds. Nina is on the point of saying something. The words are drowned by the noise of another train braking and coming to a halt alongside the platform. The man can read her fear.
The doors open, passengers spew out and a few get on.
The two of them are motionless. Only Nina’s eyes roam.
The doors close.
Nina flings herself in.
In some miraculous way the pursuer manages to follow suit before the doors are closed.
The train moves off. Nina advances through the carriage, pushing people aside. She is at the front now. Soon she won’t be able to go any further. Slowly she turns and meets her pursuer’s eyes. She is standing like this when the train arrives in the next station. The doors open. Nina waits. The doors are about to close.
Nina makes a lunge at the last instant.
Nina walks slowly, glancing to each side.
As the train picks up speed, she looks around. Sees only passengers, no sign of her pursuer. The crowd on the platform is thinning.
Then she sees him. She has walked past him. The man starts walking. Towards her.
Nina backs away, down the platform. They are alone now. Nina is forced against the wall. But there is a gap in the wall.
She spins round and jumps down onto the tracks. She runs into the tunnel. Soon she has merged into the blackness.
2
The lowest strip of sky formed a purplish line above the horizon: a red incision in a frieze of grey hues. Steam rose off the water in the harbour. Twenty-four degrees below zero outside. In a few days the harbour would freeze over.
Lena Stigersand braked for the traffic lights in Kontraskjæret. The mere thought of minus twenty-four made her shiver.
‘Is that what you keep in here?’ Emil Yttergjerde asked. He was bent over in the passenger seat, rummaging through the glove compartment for a CD. He held up an unopened packet of o.b. tampons.
‘You won’t find it in there,’ she said. ‘It’s probably in another cover. I can’t keep them tidy when I’m driving.’
‘Another cover? We’re talking Tom Waits here,’ Emil said. ‘You don’t treat Tom Waits like that.’ He continued to search through the glove compartment. The lights changed to green and Lena pushed the gearstick into first.
‘What’s this?’ Emil asked as she changed back down, turned and crossed the tram tracks.
Lena was startled. ‘Put it back,’ she said quickly. ‘It’s a pepper spray.’
‘It’s dangerous, you know,’ Emil said.
‘That’s why you should put it back!’
Lena steered towards the City Hall Quay, where a patrol car and a yellow ambulance were parked.
Lena stopped and pulled the handbrake. Took the spray out of Emil’s hand. ‘Where’s the lid?’
‘It wasn’t on.’
‘Give me the lid.’
‘I’m telling you the truth. It wasn’t on.’
Lena threw down the spray, opened the door and got out. Her body hit the cold; it was like a solid wall. The snow creaked with every step as she made her way towards the two uniformed officers who were putting up barriers and securing cordons. Two other figures were operating a yellow crane on the edge of the quay.
She stepped over the cordon, walked past the stone building on the pier and went to the edge. The engine of the winch purred. A man in a diving suit stood on a life raft attaching a strap under the arms of a lifeless man floating in the icy water.
One of the paramedics tapped Lena on the shoulder. ‘I’ve been given to understand you’re in charge here.’
She nodded.
‘He’s dead and has been for quite a while. There’s nothing we can do, so we’re off.’
She nodded again. ‘OK.’
The ambulance started up and drove away.
The winch raised the body from the water. The stiff corpse banged against the quayside and the crane driver cursed.
A tram glided away from the Vestbane stop and was soon lost behind the pointed roofs of the stalls in the Christmas market, which looked like a festively illuminated village in front of the City Hall.
The crane driver cursed again. The dead man rose higher and rotated in the air. The lapels of his jacket hung like heavy pennants. Water dripped and immediately froze into icicles on his clothes. The crane driver shouted for someone to grab the body. Hands stretched into the air, be-gloved and be-mittened. They couldn’t reach. The body was too high.
‘Down, down, down,’ Lena whispered to the driver.
The body was lowered to the ground. Emil Yttergjerde grabbed the strap and turned the body onto its back. The water on the dead man’s face froze to ice as they watched. A glassy face belonging to a young man with short, fair hair. Lena knelt down and examined the man’s hands. No wedding ring, but an expensive watch on his left wrist: a Tissot Chronograph model that was still ticking. It was nine o’clock.
The sound of a choir singing far away could be heard, coming in waves through the grey light. Lena turned to look. Behind the fences, between the Christmas-market stalls, she caught a glimpse of a group of nuns singing a hymn for the first arrivals. Dressed in black. Like crows.
A knot of spectators had assembled behind the police cordon. Lightning flashed.
‘Suit and smart shoes in minus twenty-five,’ Emil mumbled, and added, as if to explain: ‘Heading home after a Christmas dinner, rat-arsed, and then he went to the harbour edge for a piss.’
Lena knelt down, searched the wet pockets and found a bunch of keys. In the inside pocket of the jacket, a wallet.
She opened the stiff leather. Had to take off her gloves. Blew on her fingers and studied the bank card: the owner’s name was Svei-nung Adeler. The date of birth showed he was thirty-one years old. The wallet also contained a prescription for cortisone cream and a wad of notes, which as yet hadn’t frozen into a block. She counted two thousand, two hundred kroner.
The dead man was tall, slim and well proportioned. Two years younger than me, Lena reflected. This is a guy who, yesterday, could have been sitting on the same bus as me or sweating profusely in the same gym, on a bike.
Just unutterably sad, she thought, with a shiver. The nuns had finally stopped singing. It had become lighter, a December grey. The Nesodden ferry clanked to a halt a hundred metres away. A flock of black, winter-clad passengers hurried out and dispersed towards Vika-terrassen and the National Theatre.
The only people interested in the scene where she stood were the clutch of reporters behind the cordon.
By the time the mortuary vehicle started up and took the deceased man to the Pathology Institute, two SOC officers had secured the pier. Lena and Emil strolled back to the car.
Reaching the cordon where the press were waiting, Lena took a deep breath and told them: ‘We don’t know any more than what you’ve seen. A man, ethnically Norwegian. An accident we presume occurred at some time during the night. We’ll establish the facts and send a press report when we know more.’
She hurried past the group.
A hand grabbed her arm.
Lena turned.
The man holding onto her was around forty with long, brown, wavy hair, a becoming unshaven face, and grey eyes that sought hers above a smile that revealed a little gap between his front teeth.
‘A photo?’ He flourished a camera. His eyes twinkled and she smiled back.
‘No, thank you,’ she said, opening the car door. She got in.
‘Here!’
She took the business card he handed her and pulled the door to.
Emil was behind the wheel. The press reporters were moving away. She watched the figure walking alone across the square, knotting his scarf and pulling a cap over his head. She read his card: Steffen Gjerstad, journalist.
‘I know that guy a bit,’ Emil said. ‘That is to say, my girl does. Monica. She’s on the reception desk at Dagens Næringsliv. He works there.’
‘Nice bum,’ Lena said.
‘Lena,’ Emil grinned, and shook his head, smiling. He started the car and crunched it into first.
3
Axel Rise was a tall, lean guy with long hair, which he kept combing back with two fingers as he tried to secure it behind his ears. The hair had to be a relic of twenty years before, when Axel was a motorbike cop, rode a big BMW and dazzled women with his hippy ways. Now he maintained the style with a short leather jacket. But his hair had thinned and greyed over the years.
‘It’s just incredible,’ Rise said in his Bergen dialect. ‘One of the Metro drivers sees someone running down the tracks in the tunnel. He sounds the alarm. The ops room in Tøyen brings all the traffic to a halt and sends staff in to check. They trawl through without finding a single living soul – they claim. Then the trains resume service. The Grorud train’s standing at the Grønland stop. It only manages two hundred metres. Guess what happens. This woman’s behind one of the pillars between the tracks. And she throws herself in front.’
Gunnarstranda’s biro died. He looked up. Straight at Rise. Rise appeared to be waiting for some comment. Gunnarstranda tried the biro again. No luck. ‘Have you got something to write with?’ he asked.
Rise took a silver Ballograf from the breast pocket of his biker jacket.
‘The woman was cut to pieces. You could’ve put all of her into an IKEA bag,’ Rise said. ‘If it hadn’t been such a messy business. Twenty minutes of high-pressure hosing in winter temperatures is hell for everyone.’
Gunnarstranda wasn’t interested in Rise’s Metro job. But his chuntering was making him lose concentration. He had half filled in the football pools coupon. But where was he in his system?
Emil Yttergjerde came through the door and sat down beside Gunnarstranda.
‘Quite a start to the day,’ Rise said.
‘What’s he blathering on about?’ Yttergjerde whispered in Gunnarstranda’s ear.
Gunnarstranda gave up on the pools. He pushed the Ballograf pen back and collected his coupons together.
‘What was that, Rise?’
‘A woman threw herself in front of a train,’ Axel Rise said. ‘It’s tragic, of course, and we know suicide victims are resourceful. But how was it possible? The Metro people claim they checked the tunnel but didn’t find her. Standing in front of the train, I could see there were lots of places to hide. Niches in the wall with locked gates in front. But they can be opened.’
‘I feel ill every time I hear about a suicide,’ Yttergjerde said.
‘I just can’t understand how it’s even possible,’ Rise intoned again. ‘The staff searching the tunnel must know it pays to search properly. Traffic’s held up for much longer after a suicide.’
‘I’m sure they do,’ Gunnarstranda said drily. He didn’t like hearing complaints about other people’s work. It reminded him of gossip. The cackle around the village pump.
‘Was she young?’ Yttergjerde asked.
Rise shrugged. ‘No teeth, a syringe and the whole kit and caboodle in her pocket – junkie. Plata type. If only she knew the trouble she’s caused. Why didn’t she kill herself in Plata? Couldn’t she have done it with a shot of heroin?’
‘Junkie?’ Yttergjerde said. ‘Anyone we know?’
Rise shrugged again. ‘Her name’s Nina Stenshagen.’
Yttergjerde shook his head.
‘How is it possible?’ Rise rumbled on again. ‘To search a tunnel with torches and the lights on and not find…?’
Gunnarstranda, who had decided to do the pools somewhere else, wasn’t listening any more. The door closed with a bang behind him.
4
Lena found a gap between two 1.5 metre-high piles of cleared snow in Vogts gate. This was Lena’s speciality, parking in tight spots. She signalled and drove past the car in front, ignored the queue braking behind her, reversed straight into the gap, twisted the wheel hard over and pulled the handbrake. The car slid into position as though the car and the gap were made for each other. Lena got out and checked her handiwork before strolling off to the entrance of the apartment block. The bells on the wall showed that Sveinung Adeler lived on the second floor. Could the dead man have a partner? It didn’t seem to be the case. There was just one name on the bell tab.
Lena pressed and waited as she sorted the keys on the ring she had found in his pocket.
Not a sound from the intercom by the bells. No buzz of the lock.
She pressed the button twice more, then opened the door with a key. She found the name S. Adeler on one of the post boxes attached to the wall. Inserted the correct key in the lock and opened the box. Advertising. No letters. She locked the post box and went up the stairs.
There was only his name on the door. Presumably he had lived alone. She fumbled with the security lock. She had to turn it three times before the door to the flat opened.
She stood in the hall and breathed in the atmosphere. The flat was utterly silent apart from a low buzz from a fridge. Lena sniffed and smelt a faint scent of green soap.
To the left a sliding door was open. It led to a bedroom. A white double bed dominated the room. It was made and tidy. On the wall there was a poster of Rihanna wearing a full white bodysuit. She might just as well have allowed herself to be photographed nude. Lena continued into the living room. One wall was almost completely covered with the spines of DVDs. A large flatscreen filled another wall. Surround sound. She looked at the film titles. A lot of action movies. She recognised a few: Pulp Fiction, Fargo, films with Jason Bourne. Also: Hong Kong films and American B films with Travolta and Cage. On the lowest shelf there were a couple of films with the Playboy bunny logo. This was obviously a single man’s room. On the table there were two empty bottles of Mexican beer – Corona. No ashtrays.
In a corner there was a kitchenette. A sheet of paper on the worktop. A neatly written note: ‘Need more washing powder and Jif’.
The note was signed. ‘Pamina’. Probably a home help. This Pamina might have just been in to clean. There were no pans of leftovers on the stove.
Lena opened the fridge. The remaining four bottles of a six-pack were on the top shelf. Otherwise there were two tomatoes, a Fjordland ready meal, a carton of apple juice and an unopened packet of two chicken filets. This fridge belonged to someone who lived alone.
She went back to the hall. Opened a cupboard. Piles of trainers and ski sticks. Sveinung Adeler liked to stay fit.
The mirror cabinet in the bathroom was overflowing. An electric toothbrush and a shaver between bottles of fancy after-shave and deodorants: Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, Hugo Boss, Tommy Hilfiger. There were almost more bottles than Lena had at home.
She turned to the laundry basket. It was stuffed full: jeans, training kit, underwear.
This flat didn’t tell her much. No calendar, not even a desk. No computer. Why not? Had he had a laptop with him last night? In which case it would lie in the mud at the bottom of Oslo harbour until archaeologists scoured through it at some point in the future.
Lena needed some personal information. She had to contact the relatives. She went through the bedroom again. No desk, no files, nothing.
She left the flat. Sealed the door with police tape. Went downstairs and onto the street. The cold gnawed at her nose.
Vanity and winter weather did not go together, Lena thought, as she stalked off in her long, thick puffa jacket, tying the cord of her fur hat under her chin. She felt like a penguin and probably looked like one too, but it didn’t matter. When the cold bit, health came before beauty. The people on the uncleared pavement were a study of hats, long coats and solid winter boots – also the man a few metres ahead of her. Reefer jacket and knitted beanie. Mittens.
This man was holding the mittens on either side of his face and peering in through the window of her car.
She coughed loudly.
The man straightened up. She recognised him beneath the hat – just about. It was the journalist, Steffen Gjerstad.
Gjerstad smiled when he saw her. ‘We meet again.’
‘We do indeed,’ she said, taking off one mitten and pulling the car key from her pocket.
‘I recognised Sveinung dangling from the crane,’ Gjerstad said.
‘I’ve interviewed the guy a few times. I suppose you’ve searched his flat?’
‘We have to inform the relatives,’ Lena said.
His icy breath formed hoar frost on the tips of the hair sticking out from under his hat. ‘He was a Vestlander. Came from Jølster, I believe. Quite a broad accent and mentioned the place once. So I’m sure his mother and father live there – Jølster.’
Lena involuntarily ran her bare hand through her hair and tucked the tips under her scarf. ‘And you’ve interviewed the guy? In what connection, may I ask?’
Steffen Gjerstad grinned. ‘We can swap information,’ he said with a conspiratorial wink. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘Looks like it.’
‘But you don’t know for certain?’
She liked the look of Steffen Gjerstad and smiled from behind her scarf. ‘It would be wrong to state anything until we’ve properly investigated what happened when he fell in. Do you know what his job was?’
Gjerstad put his mittens under one arm then took a pinch of snus from a box he’d produced from his jacket pocket and shoved it into his mouth. ‘Civil service,’ he said, with a bulging lip. ‘Finance department.’ He dusted the snus from his hands.
It struck Lena that taking snus was not the greatest seduction technique in the world. Then she said to herself: Seduction? Control your imagination.
Steffen continued: ‘I haven’t got anything in print. The interviews, two of them – it was research – were for articles we were working on. By “we” I mean the newspaper.’
‘But you knew Adeler?’
‘No. I knew who he was, if I can put it like that. He met estate agents and financiers. The paper where I work focuses on the economy and markets, and those circles aren’t big.’ Gjerstad thought for a few moments. ‘Sveinung Adeler was something of a parvenu.’ He grinned. ‘Wanted to be interviewed at the Beach Club and places like that. He was a namedropper – “the other day I met such and such a celeb”. Always wore the latest fashion and held his nose in the air – that type. But he was alright, macho, trained hard, pretty high standard, told everyone LOUDLY AND CLEARLY that he skied the Birkebeiner and the Vasa and that race down in Italy…’ Gjerstad snapped his fingers searching for the right name. ‘Marcialonga.’ He ruminated. ‘Not exactly my style.’
Lena unlocked the car. She had done the Birkebeiner three years in a row. ‘Nice to meet you, Gjerstad.’
‘Steffen.’ He winked.
She had to smile again and repeated: ‘Steffen.’
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘What about me?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Lena.’
He waited with a furtive smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘Stigersand,’ she added.
‘And do you have a phone number by any chance?’
He didn’t waste any time, she thought, but she liked that. She liked the subtext. She ratcheted the atmosphere up a notch and asked: ‘What do you want with my phone number?’
They looked into each other’s eyes, both smiling. He said: ‘In case something should occur to me, as they say in TV crime programmes.’
She nodded, tongue-tied.
He took a biro from an inside pocket. With his mittens under his arm he jotted down the number she gave him on the back of his hand. Both his hands were covered with notes in biro. There was something boyish about the sight and Lena felt a stab of tenderness in her chest. Enough is enough, she thought, and got into her car.
She drove off without looking back. Stopped at the lights outside Soria Maria. Her phone beeped. Message: Forgot to say have a nice day, Steffen.
He lifted her mood. She had to give him that.
5
Gunnarstranda had just sat down when the door opened.
Rindal watched him from the doorway without saying a word.
‘My wife used to look at me like that,’ Gunnarstranda said, slamming the desk drawer, ‘if she’d cocked up the Christmas dinner or forgotten to go to the Vinmonopol on a Saturday.’
Rindal didn’t smile. He came straight in and closed the door behind him. ‘Would you mind contacting the Metro ops room in Tøyen?’
‘Regarding what?’
‘We’ve just received a phone call,’ Rindal said. ‘From their security department.’
Gunnarstranda angled his head, intrigued.
‘The incident today. There’s more to it than we assumed.’
‘We?’ Gunnarstranda mused, although he said nothing. He waited for Rindal to continue.
‘The traffic controllers had been warned there were people in the tunnel. They stopped the traffic. They switched off the electricity and sent in security officers to inspect. It was all called off as a false alarm. No one was seen. The trains and trams get the green light. Traffic starts up again. Next thing they know, a woman throws herself under a train. It’s happened before. People contemplating suicide are cunning. They hide. I’ve walked the stretch between Grønland and Tøyen myself several times. I’m sure you have, too. There are bomb shelters and corridors down there. The woman in question found a hiding place and jumped out when the first train came. But now the Metro’s security people have rung me to say that they’d registered an alarm going off at an emergency exit inside. It happened after the collision and none of the staff went out through that exit.’
‘What about Axel Rise?’
‘What about him?’
‘I thought he was handling this case.’
Rindal took a deep breath. ‘There’s something I think you should know about Axel Rise,’ he said in a low voice.
Gunnarstranda stood up and put on the coat hanging over the back of his chair.
‘Rise and his partner had a son two years ago. This boy has a syndrome – brain damage and some mucus stuff. He needs round-the-clock nursing, a respiratory aid and regular oxygen infusions. The boy lives at home, but there are night nurses and alarms, and if he starts thrashing about in bed he’s straight to hospital, and apparently he does that quite often.’
Gunnarstranda sank back down on his chair. ‘The poor man,’ he mumbled.
‘It doesn’t end there,’ Rindal said. ‘A sick child is one thing, but it takes its toll on your relationship if you have no private life and have your home invaded by a variety of nurses day after day, month after month. It’s even worse trying to keep your career going, especially as a police officer. He applied for a job here to get some mental space. But he goes to Bergen every weekend and once or twice a week. When he isn’t working or on duty he’s plagued by a bad conscience. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not sure he’s the right man to draw conclusions in a case such as this.’
‘I see. But it doesn’t seem such a good idea to work in Oslo when you’ve got a wife and child who need you twenty-four hours a day in Bergen.’
‘Strictly speaking, that’s none of our business,’ Rindal said. ‘But having a child who needs you twenty-four hours a day must affect your mind. The man needs some space.’
Gunnarstranda sat looking at Rindal, silent.
‘I’d just like you to know how the land lies,’ Rindal said. ‘I’m asking you and the others to be considerate towards Rise; that’s why I’d like you to do this extra job. Check out the alarm and reassure the traffic controllers. They’re upset and want clarity.’
Gunnarstranda hadn’t been to the Metro’s new operational switchboard before. But he remembered the old one very well. There had been flashing analogue bulbs, a control panel mounted on cardboard, all connected to chunky switches and grey telephones that reminded you of the 1960s.
The new switchboard was separated from the world by a large, glass sliding door. The room was impressive. One long wall was a gigantic computer screen on which the train network was lit up with colour codes for various stations, and for turning loops, train markings, track changes and the movements of the trains from station to station. It was reminiscent of pictures from the Pentagon, Gunnarstranda thought, as he turned from the broad screen and walked towards the employees controlling the surveillance cameras. On the wall were monitors showing pictures projected by fifteen of the several hundred operative cameras. They showed stretches of rail, tunnel openings, ticket machines, platforms and a train pulling into a station that Gunnarstranda recognised as Majorstua.
Gunnarstranda was on nodding terms with most of the staff in the ops room. These were people who had worked at Oslo Metro for years – who had started as conductors, barrier guards or train drivers when the network was still called Oslo Sporveier. These operators knew the network inside out.
He nodded to one, knew exactly who he was, but couldn’t put a name to him.
Two minutes later the operator had rewound the Grønland tape to 06:30. The picture was in colour with a high resolution.
‘What are we looking for?’ the operator asked.
‘A woman dressed in a red track suit.’
The picture showed people standing still, people walking to and fro.
‘She was a junkie from the Plata area,’ Gunnarstranda added, ‘but you might not be able to see that.’
Nothing. They had the road going down to Grønland Station on the screen, they had what was known informally as the junkie staircase, then the corridors, the halls, the platforms, but no red track suit. The minutes ticked by on the CCTV.
‘My mistake,’ the operator said. ‘The driver who rang the alarm thought she was on her way south from Tøyen.’
They watched new footage. ‘Tøyen has lots of platforms.’
People walked to and fro, got off and on the train.
But they didn’t see anyone in a red track suit.
‘Perhaps she came by train,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘We have the same picture that the train drivers have on their screen before the doors close,’ the operator said.
‘If there’s a sighting of someone on the track at 06:30, we’re looking for a train that dropped her off just before,’ Gunnarstranda said.
The pictures came up. The whole length of the train. Passengers getting out. Doors closing. Train setting off. Another train arriving. Doors opening. Passengers getting out.
There. A passenger jumping out just as the doors closed.
‘That’s her.’
The person moved out of the picture.
‘The tunnel,’ Gunnarstranda said.
They watched the same red figure back down the platform, turn and jump onto the track. She was swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel.
Both Gunnarstranda and the operator stared intently at the screen.
‘There,’ said Gunnarstranda with a smile. ‘There were two of them.’
Pictures don’t lie. On the screen it was clear. Someone wearing a short jacket and a hood over his head hurrying after Nina Stenshagen, scrambling over the plastic barrier at the end of the platform, running down the steps and disappearing into the tunnel.
‘That man knows what happened,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘It must have been him who went through the emergency exit after the incident.’
‘That doesn’t help us much,’ the operator said darkly. ‘It means our security officers missed both of them when they were inspecting the tunnel. That’s impossible.’
‘The lights were on when they were searching the tunnel, were they?’
The operator nodded. ‘But there are no cameras in the tunnel.’
Gunnarstranda sat deep in thought. This case was beginning to stimulate his interest. The man in the picture followed Nina Stenshagen into the tunnel. Why? What was he doing when she threw herself in front of the train? Why did he keep hidden? Why did he leave the tunnel only after the collision?
‘Can you see if you can get the face of the guy in the hoodie?’
The operator rewound the tape.
He shook his head. ‘Looks like we’ve only got his back.’
‘He must have got on the train at some point,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘There are lots of stations to choose from,’ the operator said.
Gunnarstranda stood up. ‘Would you mind working on it a bit more and contacting me if you find anything?’
6
In the break Lena found a table with the day’s tabloids on it. Empty and half-empty cups were scattered across the surface. On top of the papers was a plastic box of cinnamon snaps. Beside it a poinsettia. She pressed a fingertip into the soil. Dry. She grabbed a half-full tea cup and emptied the contents into the pot, then lifted the box of biscuits and took the top newspaper. Nothing about the drowning in the harbour by the City Hall. What about the online papers?
Lena got up and went into her office. Took her laptop from the bag hanging over the chair.
VG-nett and Dagbladet.no had pictures of the ambulance and staff in the hi-vis jackets. Aftenposten had found an old archive photo of Lena. She never liked seeing herself in photos. In this one her hair was awful. The articles said nothing except that a man had been found dead in the sea.
She couldn’t resist the temptation. On the Birkebeiner website she looked for the name of Sveinung Adeler. His results popped up. Adeler had been a fit man. 2.57.06. That was phenomenal. Skiing from Rena to Lillehammer in less than three hours. Her own PB was 3.48.24. On that occasion she had been so tired over the last ten kilometres that pure willpower was all that had held her upright. Stopping would have meant she would have been teased by all her male colleagues for eternity and beyond – by Emil Yttergjerde in particular.
She decided to google the journalist Steffen Gjerstad. There were a number of hits. He clearly did a lot of social networking. She was invited to click onto Twitter, Facebook and LinkedIn. Instead she looked for pictures on Google. She flicked through them. A pretty good-looking guy. His own man. In two of the photos he was with a group of young women. They were laughing. He obviously liked being the only man. In one photo he was looking up at the photographer with a tentative expression. She liked that. That, and his smile.
She clicked on the Dagens Næringsliv website and searched his name. The titles of a series of articles he had written rolled out. Finance and feature articles. One about sailing boats, one about modern dress codes for men and one about trends and mechanical Swiss clocks. Not exactly her sphere of interest.
What kind of guy was Steffen in private? Did he like Tom Waits, for example? Did he have posters of erotic female singers on his bedroom wall?
She bookmarked all Steffen Gjerstad’s newspaper articles and closed her laptop.
The phone rang. It was Ragnhild, who worked in the Sogn and Fjordane Police District. Lena and Ragnhild had gone to police college together. They chatted for a bit then Ragnhild came to the point. Sveinung Adeler’s relatives in Jølster had been informed of his death by the parish priest. Ragnhild offered to visit his parents.
Lena agreed. ‘Ask if they have his cleaner’s phone number. I’d also like to know who he mixed with in Oslo,’ she said. ‘If his parents could give us a hand there, it would be good. Ask if he had a girlfriend or if there were any exes. Ask when they last spoke to their son and if they knew what plans he might’ve had for Wednesday evening. Oh, and Ragnhild?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you ask them for a photo? As recent as possible.’
She stared into the distance. Again she was thinking about Steffen Gjerstad. At that moment the phone rang.
Two minds – one idea. It was Steffen Gjerstad. She grabbed her phone. It thumped in her hand like a little heart. Should she answer it? She liked him well enough. But things were going too fast, and they shouldn’t.
Emil Yttergjerde came in, strode towards the plate of cinnamon snaps. ‘Lena, your phone’s ringing.’
She nodded and put it back in her bag. ‘Let it.’
7
‘It was my understanding I’d be working in the missing persons section,’ Axel Rise said.
Section Head Rindal said nothing. He leaned back in his armchair and observed Rise from under lowered eyelids.
‘I applied for Frølich’s job,’ Rise explained. ‘Frølich was responsible for missing persons.’
‘Frank Frølich’s suspended from duty,’ Rindal said. ‘His case is still pending. And we’re reorganising this section until further notice.’
‘But the job description—’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ Rindal interrupted. ‘This is my responsibility. I assign staff to reports of missing persons.’
Rise appeared put out.
Rindal drew a deep breath. ‘You did a good job on the Metro this morning, but apparently there was a hiccup regarding the emergency exits.’
‘OK, I’ll sort it out.’
‘Gunnarstranda’s there.’
Rise’s face tautened.
‘I couldn’t find you,’ Rindal said, taking a strip of chewing gum from the packet on the desk.
‘You’ve got a tough situation at home and you travel,’ Rindal said. ‘But some jobs need an officer round the clock.’
When Rindal went to carry on, Rise flicked his hair behind his ears and interrupted him:
‘The reason I applied to work here was to have more responsibility. I need to grow. You know that. It makes no sense to commute between Bergen and Oslo only to get bits and bobs.’
Rindal leaned back in his chair and reflected. At length he took a piece of paper. ‘I’ve got something here, sent to us from the security service, PST.’ He added: ‘A garbled letter to a female MP at Storting. Probably nothing. But check it out. Apparently a woman wrote the letter. The parliamentary administrators at Storting regard this letter as threatening.’
Rindal pushed the sheet across the table to Rise, who sat studying it disapprovingly.
Rindal fixed him with his eyes.
Axel Rise took the sheet and left.
‘Rise,’ Rindal said.
He turned by the door.
‘I’d like you to get to know Gunnarstranda.’
‘Why?’
Rindal looked down. ‘We can discuss that later.’ He swivelled round on his chair and concentrated on the computer screen.
Rise stared at him for a few seconds and then left.
8
On the way to Rindal’s office Gunnarstranda met Lena Stigersand.
‘Can you do me a favour?’ he asked.
Lena tilted her head, curious.
‘Ring me in eight minutes.’
Linda looked at her watch. ‘From now?’
Gunnarstranda nodded and carried on walking. He didn’t want to let this case go. There were a number of unanswered questions regarding the Metro suicide.
Rindal listened in silence as Gunnarstranda reported back on what he had seen in the Metro ops centre.
When Gunnarstranda had finished he said: ‘There are two possibilities. Either the mysterious second man has something to do with the incident or he hasn’t.’
Gunnarstranda resisted the temptation to comment.
‘So there are two people hiding from the search teams,’ Rindal summarised, ‘and as the searchers don’t find anyone, the electricity is switched back on, the lights are extinguished and the trains start to run, then this woman throws herself in front of one. Everything is stopped again and there’s a full alert. The passengers are evacuated, are they?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘They had to climb down onto the track and were guided back to Grønland Station.’
‘When?’ Rindal asked.
‘The collision occurred at 07:19.’ Gunnarstranda took out his notes. ‘This is the timeline: A train driver sees someone running on the track from Tøyen to Grønland Station and reports it. The electricity is switched off almost immediately. The time is 06:37. The search team starts walking from Tøyen down to Grønland at 06:43. It takes them just over twenty minutes. It takes that long because they have to search bomb shelters and corridors and so on down there. They shine torches through gates and check for anyone hiding. They don’t see anyone. The tunnel is about eight hundred metres long. When they reach the end, at 07:03, the conclusion is that either the train driver was mistaken or the person had run back out. So they send two men back, one on each track, for safety’s sake. These two move faster and it takes them ten minutes. They report the all-clear at 07:17. The electricity is switched on. The Grorud train starts up and hits the woman at 07:19.’
‘And the alarm shows the emergency exit being used?’
‘At 07:22. At that time all the train doors were closed and the train driver was in conversation with the ops room. He was reporting what had happened. The evacuation of the passengers doesn’t start until half an hour later.’
Rindal and Gunnarstranda looked at each other.
‘There was a person in the tunnel who saw her commit suicide,’ Rindal said, his brow furrowed with doubt.
Gunnarstranda corrected Rindal’s conclusion. ‘There was one person in the tunnel, one person who knows what happened.’
Rindal raised both palms in defence. ‘Control your imagination. This was a suicide. Case closed.’
‘She was a hardened junkie. Why didn’t she OD if she wanted to die?’
Rindal closed both eyes. ‘I’m not listening to what you’re saying.’
Gunnarstranda’s phone rang. He looked at the display and stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to take this one.’ Gunnarstranda left the room with the phone to his ear. ‘Just a moment,’ he said, and turned to Rindal. He lowered the phone. ‘Two people, Rindal. Both hiding. How is it possible that the security officers didn’t see them? This is a tricky situation for Oslo Metro, but also for the police. I intend to follow this line of enquiry.’
After he closed the door behind him he thanked Lena and rang off.
9
When Lena called Gunnarstranda she was queueing outside Mikels Kebab Shop in Grønlandsleiret. She asked to have hers wrapped. The low sun cast long shadows and made the cold air seem even colder as she trudged up the path to Police HQ. On her way in she met Axel Rise on his way out. She nodded to him.
‘Stigersand?’
She stopped.
‘You’ve got the case with the guy they fished out of the harbour, haven’t you? Sveinung Adeler?’
Axel Rise stood winding a long scarf around his neck. When he had finished he looked at her as if expecting a report.
‘Looks like an accident. He was probably pissed after a Christmas dinner and slipped on his way home,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘May know a bit more after I’ve spoken to the pathologists.’
Rise observed her without speaking, the same hangdog eyes.
The icy air was nipping at her ears, she was hungry and wanted to go in and eat. She made as if to move on.
‘I’ve received a tip-off,’ Axel Rise added quickly. ‘About the Christmas dinner last night. Sveinung Adeler was having dinner with a Storting MP.’
‘And who was that?’
‘Aud Helen Vestgård.’
Lena waited for him to continue, to give her more context. It didn’t come. Talking with this guy was like coaxing old wax out of a narrow candlestick holder with a broad-bladed knife, she reflected. Somehow it wouldn’t come out.
‘Where did you get that from?’
Rise gave her a sly wink, turned and walked down the hill.
Confused, Lena stood watching him disappear for four long seconds before following him at a jog. ‘You must have more than a name.’
Rise stopped. ‘What more do you need?’
Lena racked her brains for a sensible answer. ‘Anything. The woman has to be eliminated from enquiries.’
‘Of course she has,’ Rise said. ‘Ask her,’ he grinned. ‘That’s not hard.’ Axel revealed a set of broad, even teeth as he smiled. ‘Are you worried about talking to Vestgård? If you need help I’m at your service.’
Lena felt her irritation rise. ‘You and I are colleagues; we pass on what we know to each other. We don’t sit on secrets or buy and sell info.’
Axel Rise angled his head as though unaware of what she meant: ‘What are you talking about? We work in teams, yes. I just passed on a tip-off to you and I’m offering you help.’
‘You can start by saying who gave you the tip-off.’
Rise went quiet and the silence persisted. He didn’t want to say any more, that much was obvious. Lena spun on her heel and walked off. She tore open the door and marched in without looking back. She was already blaming herself. She hadn’t needed to lose her temper at Rise. His tip-off was useful. Sveinung Adeler worked in the Finance Department. Having dinner with a politician would be quite normal. But Rise had in some way suggested that they were alone. Aud Helena Vestgård was an attractive, married female politician. She occasionally appeared on TV. She took stands on controversial topics and could do the banter on popular satirical TV programmes. If she was having dinner with a younger civil servant, would that make matters more complicated?
Lena dismissed the idea. She would have to talk to Aud Helen Vestgård whatever.
10
The mirror had the same shape and size as a piece of A4 paper. The frame was narrow, but delicately wrought. The surface of the mirror had cracked at the edges. Old, thought Gunnarstranda. The edges of the mirror have aged, in the same pattern that cobblestones do. Looking at the mirror, he barely recognised himself. Cheeks puffed out, nose like a potato. In other words, the mirror was useless. Nevertheless he considered buying it. He knew Tove would love a mirror like this. It would be the perfect gift for someone who was interested in antiques. But the decision still hadn’t matured enough in him. Even if the mirror was a treasure, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He put it back, avoided eye contact with the sales assistant and left the second-hand shop.
It had become dark outside. The only reason he had come this way had been that he was looking for the bus the Salvation Army used to help severe cases of drug addiction. He needed to know more about the dead woman, Nina Stenshagen. The challenge was to find someone who knew something and was also reliable. People like this were thin on the ground in Nina’s milieu.
He headed towards Jernbanetorget and caught sight of the bus as it turned into Dronningens gate. The bus was old, from the 1980s, and the diesel exhaust it spewed out as thick and black as the smoke from burnt tyres. Gunnarstranda flagged it down. It pulled in to the kerb and stopped. The front door opened and Gunnarstranda jumped in.
There was hardly anyone on board. Only three or four jaded-looking addicts sitting at the back and eating their packed lunches.
The bus drove on as he leaned against a pole and showed his ID card to the guy behind the wheel: a man in his forties with long grey hair in a ponytail and wearing the Salvation Army uniform.
‘Nina Stenshagen,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘What about her?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘OD?’
Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘She fell under a train in the tunnel between Tøyen and Grønland this morning. I’m trying to establish the circumstances.’
‘Well, you won’t find them here.’
‘Did you know her?’
‘You don’t know people like Nina, but I was aware who she was. I’ve dealt with her a few times.’
Gunnarstranda held on tight as the lights changed to green and the bus accelerated. ‘Did she have any enemies?’
‘Nina? Hardly. It was hard enough for her to survive, poor thing. No enemies – unless she’d pinched someone’s shot for the following day.’
Gunnarstranda glanced over to the back of the bus. One of the passengers was passing round a carton of chocolate milk.
‘Is that likely?’
‘Is what likely?’
‘Was Nina the type to pinch stuff?’
The man behind the wheel smiled at Gunnarstranda as though the answer was obvious.
‘Do you know the names of anyone she hung around with?’
‘She had a boyfriend. She has had for a long time. Stig. That’s another tragic story. Once, Nina went on methadone. Five or six years ago. She tried to go straight. Stig’s never been on methadone. The inevitable happened. Just a mo and I’ll ask.’ He turned and shouted down the bus. ‘Any of you know where Stig is – Nina’s fella?’
No one answered. But one of them got up and stumbled to the front.
‘Nothing else?’ Gunnarstranda asked the driver. ‘She had a boyfriend, tried to go straight and otherwise, what? How did she end up on drugs? Where did she come from? Did she speak dialect for example?’
‘Nina was an Oslo girl.’
‘Past? Job?’
The driver shrugged. He stopped at the lights. ‘No idea.’
‘I know,’ said the guy who had joined them from the back. A skinny man with a very wrinkled face. He leaned against the back of a seat and rolled a cigarette with trembling hands.
Gunnarstranda watched him stick the roll-up between his lips and the pouch into his trouser pocket. Red Mix. He had smoked that brand – once.
‘Nina worked at Oslo Metro,’ said the guy, the cigarette bouncing up and down between his lips. ‘When her hands were steady she drove on the Østensjøbane for many years. Shift work, right. Then they have problems sleeping, and then they start on pills, then they start mixing them, and then they don’t get prescriptions any more, and then they have to buy them on the street. In the end they join us.’ He grinned and revealed a row of dark stumps in his lower jaw. ‘That’s how crazy it can get.’
The driver opened the door for him. The man jumped down and out. ‘Keep an eye on your kids,’ he shouted up to Gunnarstranda and the driver, and was gone.
11
It was too cold for the highway maintenance department to salt. Light snow mixed with previous falls and frozen salt brine made the carriageway on Drammensveien smooth and treacherous. Lena drove carefully and stayed in the right-hand lane the whole way out of Oslo. Grey and brown snow lay on the verge. She turned off at Lysaker. The further she drove towards Bærum, the cleaner and whiter the snow.
The street lamps along the road dotted with large detached houses cast a deep-yellow light over the countryside. Lena parked by the edge of a pile of snow.
The house where Aud Helen Vestgård lived towered like a castle in the winter darkness a few metres behind a wire netting fence. All the windows shone with light, but there were no occupants in sight.
Lena’s timing was calculated. The most important TV news programmes were over and there was still at least an hour before the debates started. So she wouldn’t be disturbing, she assumed.
Two figures came walking up the hill. Two young women, it turned out. One had long blonde curls that bounced on her shoulders as she walked. The other had wound a large scarf around her head and shoulders. Both disappeared into the gates of the Vestgårds’ house. The daughters of the house, Lena concluded – or the daughter of the house and a friend. Lena watched them enter through the front door. When it closed behind them she got out of the car.
Not a sound could be heard when she pressed the bell. A few long seconds passed, then the broad door was opened by a man in his mid-forties. Lena recognised his face. It was Frikk Råholt, Aud Helen Vestgård’s husband and a state secretary in some ministry or other. She had seen him many times before – on TV. Nevertheless she was taken aback by how small in stature he was. His face was square and attractive; his hair combed back, greying at the temples. He inclined his head in an enquiring smile.
Lena showed him her ID. ‘Lena Stigersand, Oslo Police District. I’d like to speak to Aud Helen Vestgård, if I may.’
Frikk Råholt was clearly curious, but his manners prevailed over his curiosity. He held the door open and moved aside. ‘Come in.’
He closed the door behind her. ‘Please wait here. I’ll call you.’ He left.
The hall was large and welcoming. Wide sliding wardrobe doors on one wall. Big, black tiles on the floor.
A song on the radio came from the depths of the house: Dean Martin. Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
Dean Martin was faded out and a voice took over.
Lena felt a sneaking sense that she had made a bad decision steal down her body. She looked at her watch. It was several minutes since Råholt had let her in. What were they doing?
Another Christmas song: ‘I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus’.
Lena plumped down on a stool beside the front door. If Aud Helen Vestgård had been out with Sveinung Adeler last night she would of course have informed the police. After all, the name of the drowned man had been made public many hours ago. And if there was one thing MPs did it was to follow the news on the TV, radio and internet.
Lena turned her head and almost jumped out of her skin.
Aud Helen Vestgård was standing in the doorway watching her.
Lena shot up like a schoolgirl caught sleeping in class.
‘Stigersand, wasn’t it?’ Aud Helen Vestgård stretched out a hand.
The owner of the hand was in good shape for a woman over forty. She obviously spent a lot of time keeping fit. And she had quite a different style from her husband. Vestgård wore jeans and a bright-red top – clothes that emphasised her figure and made her seem youthfully casual.
‘As you can perhaps imagine, I’m quite curious to know more,’ Vestgård said in her pleasant speaking voice. ‘Have you found anything yet?’
Lena had no idea what she was talking about and had to admit it with a tentative smile.
Vestgård regarded Lena with surprise, but explained: ‘Parliament reported a letter I’d received to the police. It was confused, but there was no misunderstanding its intent. It was a death threat. Am I to understand that is not why you’re here?’
Lena concentrated hard and chose her words with care: ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about that case. I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding the death of Sveinung Adeler.’
Aud Helen Vestgård turned her head in a friendly yet inquisitive way: ‘Oh, yes?’
Lena hesitated, but again chose her words with care: ‘I understood you knew him.’
‘I don’t.’ Aud Helen Vestgård stuck both hands in her pockets. Her jeans were so tight there was only room for her fingertips. ‘Excuse me for asking, but where did you get the idea I know this man?’
This meeting was taking a very different turn from what Lena had expected. She was feeling warm in her thick clothes and unzipped her jacket. ‘Your name has been mentioned and so we’re obliged to check. We’re trying to clarify the circumstances regarding Adeler’s death and what might’ve happened—’
She didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence.
‘Could you bring me up to speed here? Who is this Adeler and what has happened?’
Lena let her words sink in. The questions made the MP look exceptionally bad. An official in the Finance Department had been found floating in the harbour that morning. The young man’s death was on everyone’s tongue and she, a Member of, the Norwegian Parliament, didn’t know what had happened?
‘A drowning incident,’ Lena said with a poker face. ‘Last night or early this morning. Tragic story. Sveinung Adeler died when he fell into the water by the City Hall Quay. But no witnesses have come forward and before we draw any conclusions we have to detail what exactly happened. He was dressed as if he had been out dining last night, and we’ve received a tip-off suggesting he was at a Christmas dinner where you were also present, but you’re saying that isn’t the case?’
‘Yes. Your tip-off is incorrect.’
Lena waited. But nothing was forthcoming. ‘Where were you last night?’
Vestgård put on a weak smile, almost of acknowledgement. ‘At home.’ She added: ‘Here with my husband and child.’
Lena made to leave.
‘You know, I suppose, I regard this as strange,’ said Vestgård, still with her fingertips in the tops of her pockets. ‘The security service reported the death threat to the police. If I hadn’t been concerned before, I was petrified then – this is just a bit over the top, isn’t it, someone wishing you dead? PST is taking this case seriously.’
Lena nodded. She understood.
‘Then the police come and ask me about this instead.’ The woman fixed Lena’s eyes with her gaze.
‘I can only apologise,’ Lena said sympathetically. ‘On the other hand, it’s a positive that I’ve got a little further in my case.’
Lena took off her gloves and gripped the door handle behind her. ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.’
Vestgård said nothing.
‘Have a nice evening,’ Lena said, stumbling out.
Lena walked briskly down the drive and out of the gate. She fumbled as she inserted the key in the car lock. Her little Micra was as out of place here as she was.
Immediately the thought had been articulated she lifted her head and inhaled the fresh, cold air. Then she noticed another little car a few hundred metres down the road. It was a black Fiat 500.
Lena thought the model the height of cool – it was chic and rounded and loyally designed like the original classic of many years before. This one even had a hood – a cabriolet. She would have loved to buy one herself – if only she could have afforded a new car. In the meantime she would have to make do with dreaming.
When Lena was small her father had kept an original Fiat 500 in the garage. This veteran car had been his great hobby, and every winter he spruced it up in preparation for the summer. He had loved the car and he had loved fiddling around with it. The car had also been an adventure for her. Small and compact, it had been like riding a dodgem on the road. And whenever Lena saw a picture of a Fiat 500 she thought about the pillow she’d had when she was a child. A white pillow with a black stain. She smiled at the memory. It hadn’t been her fault. She had forgotten she was dirty. Her father had dabbed oil on her nose when he was lying on his back, working under the car, and she had bent down to tell him dinner was ready.
She opened the Micra door and was on the point of getting in. Then she noticed someone sitting inside the Fiat beneath the street lamp further down.
Lena got in. Started the engine and put the heating on full. The person in the Fiat must have been frozen. The car must have been there for a while because there was frost on the inside of the glass. Why hadn’t they started the engine and the heating?
She cast a final glance at the house. From a window on the first floor Vestgård and her husband were watching her. She considered what Vestgård had told her about the threat. Nothing on this earth is straightforward, Lena thought. But in the end I am a cop. She opened her bag and took out a pen and something to write on. Made a note of the car’s registration number.
Lena was in her own world all the way down to Drammensveien. She drove home in a dream. Planning what she was going to do – maybe go skiing. Yes, that was definitely what she was going to do.
She fumbled blindly for a CD in the pile and shoved it in. Soon Tom Waits was singing ‘Rain Dogs’ accompanied by a hurdy-gurdy.
She was completely immersed until she arrived home at the block of flats in Tvetenveien and drove down into the garage complex. Then she glanced into the mirror. A car drove slowly past on the road behind her. A modern version of a Fiat 500 in black – with a hood.
Was that possible? She stopped. Two identical cars? It seemed almost too improbable. She sat watching the garage door roll down behind her, immersed in thought.
Seeing two Fiat 500s in the space of twenty minutes – well, maybe. But if both were black and cabriolets?
Could that be chance?
She dismissed the idea and parked.
12
The snow on the illuminated piste was packed hard. The intense cold would presumably keep most skiers indoors. So there would probably be ice on the tracks, which would make for heavy going. She wouldn’t need to apply much grip wax. More like glide wax. She fetched her skis from the tall cupboard in the hall and leaned them against the worktop, underside up. Ran her hand along the blades. What wax did she use last time? Purple? Or blue? May as well remove it. She looked for the wax iron and plugged it in. Ran the hot iron back and forth so that the paper absorbed the rest of the old wax. The last bits she removed with a knife. Then she rubbed in a good layer of wax. Melted the glide wax with the hot iron. Fetched the box of waxes from the cupboard under the worktop. Checked the thermometer outside the window. Minus eighteen. So it might be less than minus twenty on the piste. Light-blue VR30 should do the trick. She put two light layers under the binding and spent time distributing the wax with a cork. There we are. Perfect. If Lena was going to complete the Birkebeiner she would need to get a few kilometres in her legs every week. To progress. Gradually increase distance and speed. She changed into woollen underwear and ski pants. She allowed herself an extra woollen jumper under her jacket and ran down the stairs to the car.
