‘Don’t tinker with this case while you’re on leave.’
‘I haven’t done anything else since I’ve been away.’
Silence again. They could read each other’s thoughts well and neither of them was going to waste words on the obvious. Frank Frølich was breaking all the rules, but he would continue to do so whatever measures Gunnarstranda took to stop him.
‘The car has turned up,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Which car?’
‘Jonny Faremo’s Saab, the one we thought had been seen near the Glomma the day he was released.’
‘What about it?’
‘The car was abandoned on a deserted logging track near Sollihøgda – a hundred kilometres from Askim. A farmer passing by in his tractor every day finally became irritated enough to ring in.’
‘Has it been examined?’
‘Kripos are working on it. Now don’t do anything stupid,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘And keep me posted.’
Gunnarstranda waited until the door closed behind Frølich before swivelling round to pick up the phone.
He rang the detective he knew best in Eco-Crime – the Economic and Environmental Crime division: ‘Chicken Brains’ Sørlie. But before Sørlie managed to answer the telephone Gunnarstranda had one of his sporadic coughing fits.
‘Is that you?’ Sørlie asked amid the coughing. ‘Are you OK, Gunnarstranda?’
Gunnarstranda nodded and gasped for air. ‘Just these rotten lungs of mine.’
‘Perhaps you should give up smoking?’
‘Perhaps sheep should stop bleating?’ Gunnarstranda suggested breathlessly and sat erect again. ‘There was something I wanted to ask you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘Inge Narvesen. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘Businessman.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘I know he’s an art lover.’
‘What sort of art?’
‘Paintings. He’s spent a lot of money on art. His collection must be a bit like Stenersen museum at its peak, only Narvesen doesn’t go in for modern art much.’
‘But what does he live off?’
‘He’s a trader on the stock exchange. Buying and selling.’
‘Buying and selling?’
‘And he’s got POTS of money,’ Sørlie said. ‘Invests a lot in property. The last I heard he’d bought up large areas of the forest Norske Skog had put up for sale. He’s planning to build mini-power stations on a number of the rivers, I believe. That’s pretty popular now as energy is expensive and the authorities don’t give a damn about environmental issues.’
‘Nothing illegal, though?’
‘Doubt it. He’s an upright sort. Never heard of him being involved in anything disreputable. Has a good reputation at the stock exchange as well.’
‘No weaknesses: never touched up young boys, exposed himself to girl guides -?’
‘Inge Narvesen is clean. Believe me.’
‘Well, he’s a very unusual person then.’
‘If there are any irregularities, they’ll be financial.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Gunnarstranda said, irked. ‘Talk to you later.’
On entering the hall of the apartment block, Frank Frølich made straight for the post box. The box was so full you could hardly turn the lock. When he opened the door, a pile of bills fell out. One letter slid across the stone floor. His name and address were written in beautiful looped handwriting. No sender’s address.
He managed to curb his curiosity in the lift, but impatiently weighed the letter in his hands. Could it be from Elisabeth? He closed his eyes and struggled to think clearly. Long bones. Flames.
He was perspiring as he opened the lift door. To have a hand free to unlock his front door, he put the letter in his mouth. Once inside, he ripped open the envelope and read:
The most difficult thing about writing a letter is the salutation, as Elisabeth used to say. She always thought long and hard before she decided what she would write: Hi or Dear, or perhaps nothing at all. The first words of a letter actually said as much as the letter itself, she thought, because they signalled the emotional relationship the writer was communicating to the receiver. For me it was always reassuring to read her letters. She always started them with Dear Reidun. In this way she calmed my nerves enough for me to be able to absorb the message – even though what she had to say on occasion had a bitter taste. She told me about you first in a letter. But I don’t want to get sentimental now, and I assure you that all Elisabeth’s letters to me have been burned. As you see, I have left the salutation out completely this time. It feels right. I haven’t started taking the pills yet. First of all, I want to get this letter out of the way. I don’t know who will find me, nor do I really care. But I am writing to you because I have realized that you are driven by the same passion that I have struggled with. Therefore, I have a tiny hope that you will understand me well enough to fulfil a last wish. I don’t know whether Elisabeth will be able to stand up to these terrible people. I hope she can, but I have no illusions. Nor did I have any illusions when they came here. Elisabeth warned me about them and, arrogant as I so often am, I took no notice, believing I would be able to stand firm. However, I have always had a fear of pain and I couldn’t hold out. Although I knew that revealing her hiding place would lead to what I am doing now, I still couldn’t stand firm. So I told them where she was hiding. Hence I am responsible for whatever might happen to her. My fate is sealed. I hope she will survive, but I have neither the illusions nor the courage to wait for an answer. Should this nightmare end well for Elisabeth, tell her from me: My darling, forgive me. I tried, I really did.
Reidun
Frank Frølich slumped into a chair. It was difficult to unravel his feelings. Before he began to read he had supposed the letter would be from Elisabeth. So, to hear Reidun Vestli’s voice in his head was a shock. Forgive me, he thought. These terrible people, he thought. A last wish, he thought, and sat up. He read the letter through again.
He jumped when the telephone rang and seized the receiver.
‘I’ve just had a chat with Sørlie from Eco-Crime about the fat cat who was robbed by Ilijaz Zupac, this Narvesen person,’ Gunnarstranda said.
He’s beginning to ring a lot now. ‘Oh yes? Did Sørlie come up with anything?’
‘Nothing, as usual, except that Narvesen is loaded. He’s a stock market trader, owns a lot of art and has swathes of forestry property in Hedmark.’
‘I knew that.’
Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘But Sørlie has just rung me back. He must have had Narvesen’s name on the brain when he put the phone down. Eco-Crime receives a list issued by banks when there has been a large withdrawal of money. And Inge Narvesen’s name is on it. From Nordea Bank, to be precise.’
‘Large withdrawal?’
‘Five million.’
‘Why does that kind of information go to Eco-Crime?’
‘Routine matter. Banks are obliged to report large transactions, cash withdrawals and that sort of thing to intercept potential money laundering.’
‘Has Narvesen said what the five million was for?’
‘No one has got round to doing anything yet. What is mindboggling is that this withdrawal took place on a very particular day.’
‘Which day?’
‘The same day Jonny Faremo was released and his sister made off for the woods.’
Frølich was staring out of the window as a couple of cars on the roundabout several metres below avoided a collision by a hair’s breadth. ‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘You wouldn’t be talking to me if you didn’t have a theory.’
‘There doesn’t have to be any connection at all, but you know how I feel about so-called coincidences.’
‘Gunnarstranda’s Coincidence Theorem,’ Frølich said with a tiny smile. ‘There’s no such thing as a coincidence. The word coincidence is a construct to replace and thus conceal the logical explanation of how things happen.’