‘You’re recovering, Frølich. When I die you can write my obituary. But if my theory is correct, Narvesen has taken out the money for a reason, and I’m guessing blackmail.’
‘Why?’
‘Narvesen has been blackmailed before.’
‘What?’
‘On a cruise. I looked up Narvesen in the archives. There was some story in 1991. Narvesen was one of the main shareholders in one of the shipping companies who sail American tourists round the Caribbean. It happened right after the fire on the Scandinavian Star. Everyone was talking about security and describing passenger ships as death traps, weren’t they. Someone was trying to blackmail Narvesen for ten million. If he didn’t pay up, information about inadequate security on the cruise liners would be leaked. The blackmailer was a Norwegian ex-captain from one of the cruise liners. The man had been fired for drinking and apparently wanted to get his own back.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was caught. Got three years.’
The two cars on the roundabout had caused a bottleneck. Someone honked their horn. Then the traffic started flowing again. A clenched fist shook from one of the car windows and the two cars were soon lost in the traffic.
Frølich said: ‘If the man was arrested, Narvesen must have gone to the police for help on that occasion. He hasn’t done so this time.’
‘That’s clear. But why else would anyone take five million out of the bank?’
‘No idea. But if Narvesen is such a whizz-kid in the stock market as you said, he would have been much more sophisticated with regard to money laundering. He could have used a trusted solicitor’s private account or something like that. Simply withdrawing cash suggests honourable intentions or extreme haste.’
‘Haste is a word I like,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Especially with respect to the day the money was withdrawn.’
‘What does Sørlie say?’
‘Sørlie considers Narvesen as pure and spotless as a freshly scrubbed baby. And he believes it too. But I’ve never met anyone like that. I think anything is possible. Maybe Narvesen has been posing for photos in a G-string with an apple in his gob.’
‘No one is shocked by anything any more.’
‘Perhaps he likes little boys and was caught red-handed by his wife’s private detective?’
‘He was single at the time,’ Frølich said. ‘And I doubt he’s interested in anything other than women. Regardless of whether he’s married or not, there’s no shortage of single wannabees in Dagens Nœringsliv who spend their time screwing each other and drinking champagne in the breaks. No, sex is too old-fashioned. I would put my money on some financial hanky-panky.’
‘The problem is,’ Gunnarstranda said, ‘that Narvesen passes for an honest man – a model businessman for many people, I’ve heard said. At the stock exchange on top of that.’
‘There’s no honesty in the Oslo Stock Exchange, and Sørlie should be the first person to know that.’
‘Yes, but we’re talking about the part of the honesty spectrum covered by the law. Inge Narvesen is always on the right side of the line – with a good solid margin in between. Though there are not many options open when you have to justify a withdrawal of that kind of money.’
‘What about kidnapping?’ Frølich said.
‘He hasn’t got any children or any valuable racehorses or prizewinning hunting dogs. But I suppose Sørlie will put in a formal enquiry. Then we’ll see what Narvesen comes up with.’
After putting down the phone, Frank Frølich stood looking into space. He was wondering about Narvesen, about procedures. Sørlie and the formal approach. Tick-tock, he thought with irritation. Tempus fugit. Time drags, everything goes slowly. Nothing happens. He looked at the clock on the wall. Soon it would be one o’clock. Lunchtime for the workers. One thing he did remember from the kerfuffle surrounding the break-in at Narvesen’s in 1998 was an almost surrealistic conversation during the man’s lunch break at his permanent table at the Theatre Café.
Lunch. Theatre Café. The time.
It was a long shot. But was there anything else he could do?
Frølich took the underground to the National Theatre station. From there he quickly crossed Stortingsgata and walked with lowered gaze past the windows where Theatre Café customers sat having their lunch – absorbed in themselves and each other. Turning the corner of Klingenberggata he peered in and spotted Narvesen sitting at his usual table – alone as had always been his wont. He was taking coffee – so he would soon be finished.
Frølich checked his watch again. It was approaching a quarter to two. He walked around the block and joined the queue of people waiting for the tram outside the National Theatre, opposite the windows of the Theatre Café. There was snow in the air. Tiny, dry snowflakes lifting on the wind and settling like fragments of dust on people’s shoulders and sleeves. He could make out Narvesen’s brown hair through the windows on the opposite side of the street. At two o’clock precisely the man rose and joked with the waitress clearing the table. Good friends, good tips. Frank Frølich waited until Narvesen had moved into the corridor towards the cloakroom. Then he sprinted away from the wall and crossed Stortingsgata. When Narvesen had eased on his winter coat and was on his way through the entrance, Frølich had one foot on the pavement.
He said: ‘Well, I never! Hello and nice to see you again! Long time no see!’
He grabbed the hand that Narvesen automatically stretched out.
‘Do I know you?’ The man’s whole being radiated bewilderment. In his winter coat, with his upper body bent forward and his gloves rolled up in his left hand, he resembled an old photograph of John F. Kennedy. Small granules of snow landed on his hair.
‘I’m a policeman. We met after a break-in at your house some years ago. Somebody had stolen a safe.’
The confused expression on Narvesen’s face changed to one of irritation. ‘The money which never reappeared?’
‘Half a million is nothing,’ Frølich said with a smile. ‘Compared with five million in cash.’
Narvesen’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything.
‘Nordea registered a withdrawal of five million kroner in small notes in your name less than a week ago.’
‘And what has that got to do with you?
‘Maybe nothing with me, but with Eco-Crime.’
Narvesen stood facing him, thinking. The gloves he had held rolled up in one fist changed hands. Then he began to thwack them against individual snowflakes on one arm.
‘You’re a policeman,’ he said. ‘What was the name?’
‘Frølich.’
‘Right, now I remember you. You looked a little different then.’
‘I had a beard.’
‘Exactly, now it’s coming back to me. Well, then, you know I am a wealthy man?’
Frølich nodded. He was puzzled. The man sees the cop who investigated a theft of half a million of his money and he says: ‘Right, now it’s coming back to me.’
Inge Narvesen started edging away. They walked side by side along the pavement. Narvesen said: ‘If I gave you a number – say, one million eight hundred thousand – what would that mean to you?’
‘A really nice apartment in one of the satellite districts – where I live now, for example.’
‘If I said eight million kroner, what would that mean to you?’
‘That would be harder to have any kind of genuine relationship with.’
Narvesen glanced at Frølich and gave a wry smile. They turned down Roald Amundsens gate towards Klingenberggata and Haakon VIIs gate. ‘I feel the same,’ Narvesen said. ‘Exactly fourteen months ago the value of a small part of my portfolio increased by 150 million kroner. Tomorrow, at this time, the same portfolio will be worth 300 million kroner more. This has nothing to do with me, but with a series of factors: current low interest rates, my own long-term investments, the breadth of my portfolio and, not least, how the general economy is performing in the market place. And it’s not the first time this has happened. On the roller coaster that is the stock market, I have experienced lots of what seemed to be endless boom times. But I’ve always come through the ensuing crises with both feet on the ground and a good base for further business. And I’ll tell you a little secret as far as that is concerned.’ Narvesen stopped. They had come to the corner of Klingenberggata and Haakon VIIs gate.