The man at the bar yelled something or other.
The woman craned her head and screeched. She whispered to Frølich: ‘He’s so wearing.’
‘Right. I was with Elisabeth for a while. That was just after she went with that – hell, what was his name again?… some Iranian or Moroccan or wherever he came from…’
‘Ilijaz?’
‘Yes, Ilijaz, that was it.’
‘I’m fairly sure he’s a Croat.’
‘That’s right.’
The man at the bar roared again.
‘Coming!’ The woman went back to the bar and poured him a large beer which he took with a shaky hand.
Soon she was back. ‘Good to see a few new customers once in a while,’ she said. ‘Are you here for the show?’
‘Well, no, actually I came to talk to Merethe.’
‘I’m on at eleven. There are a few more people around then. Stag parties and that sort of thing. Just so naff. But you can come and see what you think.’
Frølich caught himself studying the hard lines around her chin, the first signs of a harrowed face, the glint of steel a long way behind her tram-light eyes.
‘Do you know what happened to Ilijaz?’ he asked and instantly knew he had blundered. She sent him a different, a strange look. All the scars and overgrown paths he had been examining in her face stood out in the same way that the autumn countryside takes shape when the early-morning haze lifts. He was the one she was avoiding now. The silence between them grew heavy and uneasy. She went back to the bar and stayed there.
Which landmine was it I stood on? he wondered and finished his beer.
She didn’t return to his table.
When he went to the cash desk, he put a hundred-kroner note on the bar and said she could keep the change. She looked away.
Sitting in the Metro, he rang Yttergjerde and asked him if he knew any criminals by the name of Ilijaz. He suggested a few alternative spellings. Yttergjerde said he would follow it up.
Yttergjerde didn’t ring back.
He found out for himself.
It was three o’clock at night. He woke up with a start – he had been dreaming about Ilijaz.
23
Next morning he couldn’t get to the police station quickly enough. Lena Stigersand met him in the corridor. She shook her head patronizingly, but also squeezed his arm. ‘I know that man… good to see you again.’
‘Easy, easy,’ Frølich stammered, feeling the sweat break out over his whole body. ‘I just want to pick up a couple of things before I go back on leave.’
He unlocked his office and closed the door. That was lucky. Gunnarstranda wasn’t in yet. No one was there. He couldn’t face meeting anyone. It had been enough of a physical strain exchanging the few words with Stigersand. He shook his head like a punch-drunk boxer and went over to the desk with the computer on. Logged on and searched for his report about the break-in at Inge Narvesen’s in Ulvøya on 4 November 1998. Afterwards he looked for a report by the Bærum police about a shooting incident in Snarøyveien a few days later.
The moment the reports had been printed out and he had them stapled together, Gunnarstranda walked in through the door. The older policeman didn’t bat an eyelid, just took off his overcoat and hung it up.
‘Leave over?’ he asked, briefly.
Frølich shook his head.
‘Wouldn’t it have been more practical to find the body of Reidun Vestli in your capacity as a policeman rather than a tourist?’ Absent-mindedly, Gunnarstranda continued: ‘It’s been playing on my mind. I talked to her about that burned-down chalet of hers and the minute I left she took a stack of pills and passed away. Crazy.’
‘It probably wasn’t losing the chalet that drove her to it.’
‘You’re thinking about the bones?’
Frank Frølich nodded. He could feel the sweat trickling from his brow. Talking about Elisabeth as bones was unpleasant.
‘The girl must have been special,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Another nod.
‘What have you got there?’ Gunnarstranda asked, gesturing at the papers Frølich had stuffed under his arm.
‘A case from six years back. The Snarøya murder.’
Gunnarstranda took a few moments to reflect. ‘Folkenborg,’ he mumbled. ‘Wasn’t he working at a petrol station?’
‘He owned and managed it.’
‘Taken hostage, wasn’t he?’
‘No. Should have been a straightforward arrest. Folkenborg was shot and killed by the man under arrest. I went with the guy from Sandvika to arrest him. He was working at the garage in Blommenholm. I had the papers for his arrest – a burglary in Ulvøya. When we got there, our man was behind the counter, but he drew a gun from his pocket.’ Frølich flicked through the report. ‘A Colt Python, short barrel. He waved it around, ran through the car wash and into the shed with the grease pit where Folkenborg was changing oil. Neither of us had considered this a dangerous job and neither of us had requisitioned a weapon. We had to stand by and watch the man run in with the shooter in his hand. Then we hung back. Unfortunately for all of us Folkenborg went into action. He probably thought he knew the man and had the situation under control. There was a bang. Folkenborg was hit in the chest. Then the man panicked, threw the revolver away and ran for it – straight into our arms.’
Gunnarstranda was deep in thought.
‘The man who fired the gun was Ilijaz Zupac,’ Frølich said.
‘Immigrant?’
‘Second generation. Mother and father from the Balkans. Both dead. Zupac is a Norwegian citizen.’
‘Why are you digging up this stuff now?’
Frølich put the papers in a bag and said: ‘Zupac was arrested because he had taken part in a burglary in Ulvøya. A fat cat called Inge Narvesen had his safe stolen. It was in a cupboard in his bedroom and there was half a million kroner in it. Ilijaz Zupac was seen by a neighbour. There were a number of people involved, but Zupac’s appearance gave him away.’
‘All right,’ Gunnarstranda said impatiently. ‘But why rake it up now?’
‘He was found guilty of aggravated burglary and wilful murder. Even though he wasn’t the only one involved in the burglary, no one else was charged. Zupac kept his mouth shut. I’m interested in witnesses and the investigation itself.’
‘Why?’ snarled Gunnarstranda.
Frølich hesitated.
Gunnarstranda’s irritation grew and the furrow above his eyes deepened.
‘Ilijaz Zupac was living with Elisabeth Faremo when he was charged and sentenced,’ Frølich said quickly.
They stood staring at each other. Gunnarstranda’s hands fumbled for a cigarette.
Frølich grinned. ‘I’ve made you curious, haven’t I,’ he mumbled.
‘I’m thinking something I’ve thought for a long time,’ Gunnarstranda said slowly.
‘What’s that?’
‘The relationship between you and the girl was a set-up.’
There was silence. Which Frølich broke: ‘If you’re right, I don’t understand the logic behind it.’
‘But even though you don’t understand the logic, you’re following up this link with Ilijaz Zupac?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why?’
‘The murder of the security guard. In my opinion, this clears up a little problem.’
‘Which problem?’
‘The fourth robber. Ilijaz wasn’t on his own when he robbed Narvesen’s safe. Ilijaz was Elisabeth’s lover, she was Jonny Faremo’s sister. I would bet a hundred kroner that one of the others was Jonny Faremo. If that’s right, Faremo has worked with other people apart from Ballo and Rognstad one or more times. So it’s no mystery that there were four of them the night the guard was killed on the quay. We have a fourth man involved in the Haga killing, but we don’t have the slightest idea who.’
‘If you come back to work, you may have a case now,’ Gunnarstranda said pensively.
‘Not so sure about that. I would still be disqualified as long as the trail leads through Elisabeth Faremo.’