He put it out of his mind, finished cleaning his teeth and went to lie down. He lay looking at the ceiling until he could feel tiredness gradually catching up with him. He turned off the light and lay on his side.
Then the telephone rang.
He opened his eyes, contemplated the dark and listened to the phone ringing endlessly. In the end, he reached out his arm and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello.’
Silence.
‘Hello,’ he said once more.
There was a crackle until whoever it was at the other end cut the connection.
32
He slept badly and was tired when the alarm clock went off. Woke up with one idea on his mind: to get the burning chalet out of his system. To go and see it with his own eyes. He set out early, before seven in the morning, and was in Steinshøgda before eight. On the stretch to Hønefoss, he kept to the speed limit. He didn’t begin to put his foot down until he was driving alongside the river Leira in the Begna valley. Chris Rea was singing ‘The Road to Hell’. The irony of it, he thought, and turned up the volume. Norway’s valleys lay in winter shadow. The sun shone on the mountain peaks. In the Begna valley fir trees towered up like flagpoles on either side of the road. He tried to imagine Elisabeth’s face, body, but could only think about long bones. Someone had set fire to the chalet and to her. Someone had been out there in the night and seen the timber being consumed by the fire, someone had raised an arm in defence against the wall of heat, had heard the window panes exploding in a crescendo of howling flames and the crackle of countless bursting fibres in the timber as the fire enveloped it. Someone had stood there breathing through an open mouth in order not to smell the stench of scorched flesh in the yellow-black smoke from burning roofing felt, books, woollen fabrics and paraffin lamps exploding with showers of sparks into further flames which devoured down duvets, the kitchen interior, a timber store in a shed; flames melting the seat of a biological toilet before it caught fire with all the other chalet furnishings and one single overturned candle. Skin which is scorched black; flesh which melts and catches fire; hair which goes up with one tiny inaudible puff.
He was sweating. His knuckles on the wheel went white and he had to stop, had to get out. He pulled into a bus lay-by, got out and gasped for air, breathless, as if he had been on a long march with a heavy load on his back. What is happening, what the hell is happening to me?
He had to go there, to the charred ruins. He wanted to see the remains with his own eyes. He lay across the roof of his car, looking like a prisoner in an American movie. He wanted to retch, but his stomach was empty. A car on the road passed by, two eyes ogled the man by the car in amazement, which made him straighten up and take a deep breath.
When, eventually, he was able to breathe normally, he got back into his car and drove off. This time he drowned his melancholy in Latin rock: Mana – unplugged. A suitable number of guitar riffs, enough emotions and, since he didn’t speak Spanish, it was absolutely impossible to understand what they were singing about. He drove into Fagernes market square before the clock struck twelve. Hungry, but restless, he bought a piece of fruit from a large kiosk and hurried on. The December darkness was drawing in. It would be light until half past three at the latest. He drove north – accompanied this time by Johnny Cash’s ‘The Man Comes Around’ and his crunching guitar riffs. It was like eating vitamins: every line of verse made him feel stronger. He turned off towards Vestre Slidre and took Panoramaveien up to Vaset. The snow on the highest peaks began to take on its wintry blue colour. The birch trees were bare and stubbly on both sides of the road. He arrived in Vaset. There was still quite a way up to the tree line on the mountains. He kept driving until he found the collection of chalets, then let the car roll slowly in between the small houses towards the ruin.
A chimney, about five metres in height, towered like an obelisk staked into the middle of the black heap of cinders.
So this is where you hid. Where you were discovered. Where you shouted for help.
The ruins were cordoned off with red and white police tape. There was a smell of soot and dead smoke. He looked around. No view. The chalet lay in a kind of hollow. It was only twenty or thirty metres from the other chalets. An impenetrable birch thicket prevented others looking in, like a singed pin cushion bristling skywards. He kicked the ashes. His foot hit a soot-soiled pot of paint. It rolled around and came to rest. Around the pot were blackened coil springs. Here, right here, there must have been a bed.
He could feel nausea rising and falling.
Standing, looking at the black pile of soot, he was suddenly aware how tired he was of all this. Of Violence. Fire. Death.
He turned, went back to his car and started the engine. He had his own chalet. That was where he would go.
It was a calmer person who drove the few miles back to Fagernes. Who stopped to fill up with petrol. While he was standing with the petrol nozzle in his hand, he heard someone shout his name. Frølich turned round, but initially didn’t recognize the man. Then it dawned on him who it was: fiery red face, red hair and air of authority, it was ‘Cranberry’ or Per-Ole Ramstad, as he had been christened.
‘Per-Ole!’ Frølich shouted in response. The man was on his way through the petrol station door and waved for him to follow. Frølich gestured that he had to finish filling the tank first.
They had been at Police College together, he and Per-Ole, alias Cranberry on account of his red hair and cheeks. Per-Ole was working at the Nord-Aurdal police station. A solid soul in a solid body. He was the police force’s answer to Postman Pat – a man who knew everyone in his line of work and was kind to all. Frølich drained the last drops of the nozzle, screwed on the petrol cap, steeled himself for tricky questions and went to pay.
‘Hear you’ve been under the cosh,’ Per-Ole said after the opening chit-chat.
‘Which means?’ Frank Frølich said, putting the change in his pocket.
‘Heard you were an item with the lady who died in the chalet fire in Vaset.’
‘And what else?’
Per-Ole grinned. ‘Heard about your time off, the murder of a security guard, an inappropriate acquittal and all the bollocks. But, apart from that, are you OK?’
Per-Ole’s expression was tinged with concern and genuine sympathy. Frank Frølich blew out his cheeks. ‘Do I look it?’
‘You look like you need a holiday from the holiday, Frankie.’
‘Right first time. And I’ve been trying to relax for almost two weeks now.’
‘And now? Have you just been up there?’ Per-Ole motioned with his head. ‘At the ruin?’
Frølich nodded.
They exchanged glances.
‘Do you want to know a secret?’ Per-Ole asked. ‘Just received a statement which certainly ought to interest your boss. Heard of someone by the name of Merethe Sandmo?’
Frølich nodded again.
‘Thought so. You see, we had an enquiry from Oslo. This Sandmo woman was seen at Fagernes the same day the chalet burned down.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure,’ Per-Ole said slowly. ‘She was in a restaurant. I can’t say any more than that, actually.’
‘Was she on her own?’
Per-Ole shook his head. ‘The woman had dinner at the hotel with a man.’
‘Was she staying at the hotel?’
‘No.’
‘The identity of the man?’
‘Not known. Your boss, though – don’t remember what his name is, but the fiery-tempered one with the wrap-over hair – he’s faxed over a pile of photos.’
They looked at each other again.
‘You could stay here for a couple of days, couldn’t you?’ Per-Ole suggested. ‘We could go into the mountains, go fishing in Vællers? Catch a few fat arctic char, smoke them and eat them with a dram or two. No better battery-charger in this world.’