‘Well, tell me,’ Frølich said impatiently.
‘A good antidote to eternal optimism with stocks and shares is an occasional trip to the bank. Then I take out a pile of money. I stuff all the notes into a supermarket carrier bag and put it in a cupboard in the office. The last time I did this is less than a week ago. Yes, I withdrew five million in cash. It’s in my office. In a plastic bag. Whenever I make a transaction of such unreal proportions, I go to this cupboard and look into the bag and say to myself: “Inge Narvesen,” I say. “This is what it’s all about, this is real money. With the contents of this bag you can buy a reasonable home, an above-average car and a fair-sized holiday chalet. You can put the rest of the money in the bank and live on the interest.”’
‘You’ve got five million in a cupboard?’
Narvesen nodded. ‘And now I have to go back to my office and earn more money. Nice to meet you, Frølich. Have a great day.’
Frølich watched him go. Two minutes’ chat about money and ‘What’s that got to do with you?’ turned into ‘Have a great day’. Five million in a cupboard in the office? Don’t make me laugh.
He did some mental arithmetic: five million kroner, that’s fifty thousand hundred-kroner notes. Is there enough space for them in a carrier bag – or if he had used thousand-kroner notes – five thousand notes? How many bags did he need? OK, Inge Narvesen wanted a genuine relationship with money, so why not confine the sum to a hundred thousand? Or two hundred thousand? That would be much more in accord with the logic behind the act. First of all, make a staggering profit and afterwards check how many notes make up just one hundred thousand. But – five million?
He thought back to the time six years ago. The atmosphere in Narvesen’s house. Deadly serious. The worry in his mother’s eyes – she had been there to represent him. Yes, that was what had happened: Narvesen had been on holiday, somewhere hot – Bahamas or Pitcairn Island or something like that – and his mother had turned up after the break-in. The crime had been committed in the son’s house. Must have been night time or early morning. Narvesen’s mother had sat like a lonely little bird in the corner of the sofa imagining all sorts of bogeymen while Narvesen sent his telephone instructions from the southern seas.
Frank Frølich thought about Ilijaz Zupac. So far he had served more than five years of the sentence for a second, more serious crime. Perhaps it was time to have a chat with Ilijaz Zupac.
24
It was a freezing cold morning. A narrow margin of cloud resembling red lava presaged daybreak over the mountain peaks. Frank Frølich was heading north on the E6 towards the rush-hour traffic and the sun rising in the east. He pulled out his sunglasses from the glove compartment. As his car sped over the ridge, Karihaugen and Nedre Romerike revealed themselves as a large patchwork quilt of farmland in hibernation. Three lanes, 120 kilometres an hour and only oncoming traffic. The scene seemed almost American. He pushed a Dylan CD into the player – ‘Slow Train Coming’ – and clicked forward to the title song. It was a long track and the driving guitar complemented the scenery. On top of that, there was something fateful and invigorating about the repeated refrain of a train coming. He felt he could be that train. It was moving slowly but it was making progress. When Dylan finished singing, he played the track again, until he arrived outside the high walls of Ullersmo prison.
After passing the gate in the internal prison wall, he was met by a young man with big, blond, curly hair, who said: ‘Are you the person who wants to meet Ilijaz?’
Frølich nodded.
‘I’m Freddy Ramnes, the prison doctor.’
The man’s handshake was firm and he looked Frølich steadfastly in the eye. He said: ‘Do you know Ilijaz Zupac from before?’
Frølich raised both eyebrows and considered the question briefly before deciding to answer honestly: ‘I arrested Zupac in autumn 1998. I questioned him at various times the same day and then gave evidence at the trial. Those are the only times I’ve seen the man.’
Ramnes hesitated. ‘Are you here on police business?’
‘I’m on leave at present.’
‘May I ask why you’re here?’
‘For personal reasons.’
They weighed each other up.
Frølich waited for the unpleasant question: Which particular personal reasons? But it never came.
Eventually Frank Frølich said: ‘Is there a problem? Doesn’t he want to talk to me?’
The doctor took his time to answer. ‘This has nothing to do with me,’ he said in the end, sticking his hands in his pockets as if the words he was searching for were down there. ‘It’s more the situation. Ilijaz is sick. He needs, really needs psychiatric treatment, a facility we are unable to offer.’ He went silent, apparently still searching for words.
‘Yes?’ Frølich said, expecting more.
‘We’re dealing with a very needy person here. I thought I should prepare you for that.’ Pause. Ramnes finally added: ‘Hmm. Shall we go?’
The echo of their footsteps resounded against the concrete walls. This is unusual. The doctor is accompanying me on the visit. But then he’s young, probably an idealist.
They came to one of the more comfortable visiting rooms where inmates can meet their partners and there are condoms in the cupboard. The room was not very inviting, however. It contained one cheap sofa, one table and one armchair. Bare walls. In front of the radiator, between the wall and the armchair, a man was squatting on the floor. Frank Frølich didn’t recognize him. The previously golden skin was now grey. His hair was a greasy, tangled mess reminiscent of a crow’s nest; his back wretchedly rounded in a T-shirt full of holes. The man was squatting like a Hindu in meditation along the banks of the Ganges, hiding his head in his hands.
Frølich and Freddy Ramnes exchanged glances.
‘Ilijaz,’ Freddy Ramnes said.
No reaction.
‘Ilijaz!’
The figure stirred: a hand, filthy, with narrow fingers and long nails, began to wind strands of hair.
‘Ilijaz, do you want a Coke?’
The situation was ridiculous. Frølich looked across at the doctor whose expression was serious and empathetic.
‘Ilijaz, you have a visitor.’
A look, hunted, like a frightened cat’s, before his head hid itself again.
‘Ilijaz, would you like to come and say hello to Frank?’
The head didn’t budge.
Frølich cleared his throat. ‘Ilijaz, do you remember me?’
No reaction.
‘I arrested you that time six years ago, at the petrol station. I’m the policeman who talked to you afterwards.’
No reaction.
‘You had a Norwegian girlfriend called Elisabeth. I wanted to talk to you about…’ He paused when the figure on the floor moved. The crouching body turned away completely, into the corner.
Frølich and the doctor exchanged glances again. Frølich said: ‘Elisabeth Faremo. Jonny Faremo, Vidar Ballo, Jim Rognstad…’ He stopped. No discernible reaction. He cleared his throat and proceeded: ‘I have a photograph of Elisabeth Faremo. Would you like to see it?’