‘Birgitte Bergum is defending Rognstad,’ Yttergjerde said.
‘You talk to her. I don’t feel up to it.’
‘I have done. She says Rognstad wants to plea bargain. Rognstad wants to get something off his chest. This Bibbi babe is simply acting as a mediator.’
Gunnastranda started putting on his coat.
Lena Stigersand plucked up courage and asked him straight out: ‘What’s wrong with surrounding yourself with beautiful objects?’
‘Does it really interest you what other people care about?’
‘Yes.’
‘What Birgitte Bergum cares about?’
‘No.’
‘Who interests you, for example?’
‘You, for example,’ Lena Stigersand said.
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Gunnarstranda gave her a long searching look. ‘Personally,’ he said stiffly, ‘I spend all my time keeping myself healthy and well by avoiding keep-fit classes, moderation, courses on how to give up smoking, new diets and a good night’s sleep.
Yttergjerde said: ‘I’ve thought of something.’
The other two turned to him.
‘If Rognstad knows something… no, forget it.’
‘What were you thinking?’ Gunnarstranda insisted.
‘Forget it. It might not be anything. I mean Rognstad is in custody and now he wants to get off the hook. He could just say anything.’
‘But you were thinking of something.’
‘I was thinking the only thing that has happened since he knocked Frank down is that he’s been arrested – that he’s on his own. I mean, Ballo didn’t turn up at the bank. Perhaps Ballo…’
‘Yes?’
Yttergjerde shrugged. ‘Not sure. We don’t know what Rognstad’s pitch is going to be anyway, do we?’
Gunnarstranda mused. ‘There’s something in that,’ he said. ‘Ballo has gone. Merethe Sandmo has gone.’ He looked at Lena Stigersand. ‘Check for Ballo’s name on the airline flight lists too.’ Then Gunnarstranda walked back to his desk with slow, deliberate steps. He sat down, reached for the phone and tapped in a number.
The other two stared at each other. Lena Stigersand hunched her shoulders forward as Gunnarstranda asked to speak to the bank manager.
They exchanged further glances when they heard the question he asked: ‘Could you find out from your employees whether there has been a documented visit to this safety-deposit box over the last three months? Yes, please, ring me back.’
29
Frank Frølich was in his car reading the report on the 1998 Narvesen burglary. The great mystery, he thought, putting down the papers and starting the engine to keep warm. A break-in. Five hundred thousand kroner in a small safe. The thieves hadn’t managed to open the safe in the house, so they took it with them. They stole the safe from a house in Ulvøya. What had struck him at the time was how clean the whole job had been: nothing else stolen, no silver, no jewellery, not a scratch on the Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, no fancy ornaments touched, no vandalism, no tagging, no crapping in jam jars or thieves’ other original calling cards. Only the safe was spirited away, containing half a million NOK. Serious enough or unusual enough for the investigating team – himself included – to form alternative hypotheses, such as Narvesen making up the whole thing for a potential insurance payout. But since there were no specific items in the safe, the contents were not insured. There was only cash in it, and Ilijaz Zupac had been identified coming out of the house that night – as one of a group of many. And where had Narvesen been that night? Far away. He had been on holiday – according to the report -on the Mauritius islands.
He called to mind his thoughts in 1998. First of all, the break-in had to be genuine. As luck would have it, a vigilant neighbour had been alerted by the unusual activity in Narvesen’s garden and his house, which she knew to be empty. She had called the police, who arrived too late. Later, from the files of photos, she pointed out Zupac as one of the men she saw getting in the car which drove away. Frank Frølich had thought at the time that the burglary must have been an inside job. Someone must have known about the money, someone must have known where the safe was and the same person must have known Narvesen was away, thus the coast was clear. However, the arrested man, Zupac, hadn’t uttered a word, neither about the robbery nor about his accomplices.
Frank Frølich took a decision: he put the car into gear and drove off. It was a dark December afternoon. Cloud cover over the Ekeberg Ridge resembled a heap of discarded oily rags. He took Mosseveien to Ulvøya, not knowing whether Narvesen would be at home or what he could say to the man.
Driving across Ulvøya bridge, he passed an elderly man in a beret and a woollen coat fishing from the bridge. That, Frølich reckoned, could be one approach – cast a line into the water and just stand in the cold with your mind in observer mode.
Frølich swung into Måkeveien, braked and parked behind a Porsche Carrera. He surveyed the sleek car, thinking: If thiscar belongs to Narvesen, he’s a bigger buffoon than I took him for. The house behind the fence was large and detached, post-war, with a huge injection of cash at a later point. He opened the wrought-iron gate, walked up to Narvesen’s front door and rang the bell. Loud barking from inside. A woman’s voice shouted something. Next there was the sound of claws on the parquet flooring. The door opened. A woman in her thirties with long, raven-black hair, an oriental appearance and a smile worthy of a film extra in Hollywood. She had a distinctive three-centimetre-long scar running from her chin to her cheek. It did not mar her face in any way; it was the kind of mark which invited you to look twice, which lent her appearance a touch of mystery, even of mysticism. The dog she was restraining was a delicate-looking, lean English setter. It wagged its tail and wanted all the attention.
‘Yes?’ the woman said, and to the dog: ‘Come on, now. You’ve said hello, you can relax now. Come on, in you go!’ She grabbed the dog’s collar and lifted it more than pushed it behind the wide door, which she closed afterwards. ‘Yes?’ she repeated in a friendly voice. ‘How can I help?’
Frank Frølich thought she matched the Porsche. He said, and it was the truth: ‘I’m a policeman. I once investigated a burglary here, about six years ago.’
‘Inge isn’t at home right now.’
‘That’s a shame.’
The dog was growling behind the door. Its paws were scratching.
She smiled again. The little scar at the corner of her mouth retreated inside a dimple. ‘He’s only being playful. What did you do to yourself?’
Frølich fingered the contusions on his face and said: ‘Accident at work. When will he be back?’
‘At about eight.’
They stood looking at each other. She made a gesture to conclude the conversation and go into the house.
‘Are you his partner or…?’
‘Partner,’ she nodded. She stretched out a slim hand: ‘Emilie.’
‘Frank Frølich.’
He didn’t mention the reason for his visit. She was only wearing light clothes, her legs bare, sandals. She must have been freezing standing there like that.
As if she had read his thoughts, she gave a little shiver. ‘Shame he wasn’t in since you’ve made the effort.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is there a message, a telephone number -?’
‘No, no,’ Frank Frølich and went straight to the point. ‘The money that was taken at that time has reappeared, but he knows all about that. I just had a few questions. Do you know anything about the matter?’
She shook her head. ‘Inge and I go back only two years. You should really talk to him.’
‘He was in Mauritius when it happened,’ Frølich said. ‘On holiday. You don’t know if he was travelling alone or if he was with someone, do you?’
Her facial expression was more strained than friendly now: ‘I know nothing about such things. Sorry.’