Narvesen’s Jeep was the same colour. Furthermore, it was dirty and streaked after many kilometres on salted roads – just like his own car.
He took his mobile phone and found Narvesen’s private number. He called. It rang several times. Finally, a man’s voice answered thickly.
‘Hello.’
Frank Frølich rang off. He thought: Our whizz investor isn’t at work. Has it been a hard night perhaps?
He turned the ignition key. Then he caught sight of a shadow in one of the windows on the first floor. He put the car in gear and drove off.
34
They were making love. The flickering candle cast heavy, blurred shadows onto the wall. She was on all fours with her left cheek resting on the pillow. A deluge of black hair. He turned her over onto her back; went on; on and on. Elisabeth’s body quivered as she came to orgasm, but he pretended not to notice. He wanted to pound her to pieces, grind her into the ground with his pelvic thrusts, hard, remorseless, lunge upon lunge. When she came for the second time, he could feel the germ of a scream writhing out of a husk somewhere in his abdomen. She immediately sensed it, opened her eyes as if waking to an extreme reality and covered his mouth with hers, searching for the sound, as she held the base of his sex and clung to him. The sound would not stop, the germ of a scream became a vibrating convulsion which started in his toes, consumed its way through his body, took control of the muscles in his legs, thighs, back, stomach – but was controlled by the grip of her hand as she triggered the roar which surged through his windpipe into his mouth where she was waiting with her mouth and lips and hungrily absorbed it. Even though she was underneath, she was the one who was riding. She rode all the wildness out of him, all his fury, until he lay calmly between her legs. Then she came for the third time: a blase thrust of her groin, performed in lazy triumph, the way a rider finally turns a tamed wild horse to the sun to confirm that the task has been accomplished.
Frank Frølich opened his eyes.
The candle wasn’t alight. There were no shadows on the wall. It had been a dream. Nevertheless, he could sense her aroma: her perfume, perspiration, sex. He switched on the light. He was alone. In a few hours he would have to go to work. And the sole indication of Elisabeth’s presence was a black hair in a book on the bedside table. He switched off the light and rested his head on the pillow. Staring into the dark with wide-open eyes and wondering: Why was I so furious?
There were restrained cheers in the corridor when he opened his office door at eight in the morning. Emil Yttergjerde took a deep bow and Lena Stigersand said, ‘You look dreadful – sorry, I didn’t mean that.’
Frølich rubbed his face. ‘It’s been a tough few days.’
‘Well,’ Lena Stigersand said. ‘Today of all days it would be right to break feminism’s first commandment. Frankie, welcome back. Can I get you a coffee?’
At that moment Gunnarstranda stuck his head round the door. He coughed and said: ‘Frølich, I must have a word with you.’
When they were alone, Gunnarstranda said: ‘I’ve had a meeting with the Chief of Police and various police solicitors. We’ve agreed to go for the link between Jim Rognstad and the Loenga murder. Thus the murdered man is our only case. Elisabeth Faremo’s death is a Kripos matter and so is Jonny Faremo’s. And they don’t want anything to do with us – for the time being. The Chief will push for a co-ordinated investigation – then we’ll see. For the moment we’ll concentrate on the murder of Arnfinn Haga. OK?’
Frølich nodded.
‘For us, and for you in particular, Reidun Vestli, her chalet and the bones found in the remains are peripheral issues – only of interest if we stumble over some evidence which proves that Rognstad or Ballo beat up Reidun Vestli and/or set fire to the chalet. The Elisabeth Faremo case – if it is a case at all – is still with Kripos.’
‘Merethe Sandmo was seen in Fagernes the day the chalet burned down,’ Frølich said.
‘Kripos are dealing with the Elisabeth and Jonny Faremo cases,’ Gunnarstranda repeated slowly and sternly.
Frølich didn’t answer.
They stood looking at each other.
Gunnarstranda broke the silence: ‘The break-in at Inge Narvesen’s has been cleared up. It’s not our case and never has been.’
‘She had dinner with a man at the hotel.’
‘I know,’ Gunnarstranda barked with irritation. ‘But it’s not our case. Do you want me to send you off on leave two minutes after restarting?’
They eyed each other warily.
‘You were disqualified from the investigation of the Loenga murder because you were in a relationship with Elisabeth Faremo – for as long as she was alive. Some consider that you should still be disqualified. Several people, me included, feel you’re too emotionally involved in the whole business. The conclusion is that you’re not entitled to take any freelance initiatives on this investigation. From now on you’re my errand boy – no more, no less.’
Frølich didn’t answer.
‘But if we’re going to dig any deeper to find links between Rognstad and the Arnfinn Haga murder, we can’t walk around with blinkers on,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘We have to knuckle down, question witnesses and focus on the suspects we have.’
‘Rognstad might have had dinner with Merethe Sandmo.’
Gunnarstranda let out a deep sigh. ‘Something tells me it was a mistake asking you to come in this morning.’
Frølich said: ‘I was there yesterday, at what’s left of the chalet. I wanted to see the place. I met Cranberry Ramstad in Fagernes.’
‘I know. He’s sent me e-mails and faxes and I don’t know what. Now pin back your ears,’ Gunnarstranda said and yelled: ‘YES, I KNOW MERETHE SANDMO HAD DINNER WITH AN UNIDENTIFIED MAN IN FAGERNES, BUT IT’S NOT OUR BLOODY CASE!’
‘I drove from Fagernes to my chalet in Hemsedal. Someone tried to set it on fire while I was inside.’
Gunnarstranda sat down.
Frølich took out his mobile phone and showed him the pictures he had taken. He stood up. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Are these scorched boards proof enough for you?’
Gunnarstranda breathed in and coughed. ‘Tell me more,’ he said with a heavy heart.
Ten minutes later Lena Stigersand arrived with the coffee she had promised. She sensed the atmosphere at once and crept in on tiptoe: ‘Am I disturbing you?’
Neither said a word.
‘Obviously not,’ Lena Stigersand said and sneaked out.
Gunnarstranda waited until she had shut the door before saying: ‘Continue.’
‘After Fagernes I drove to Hemsedal where someone tried to burn me alive.’
‘Someone followed you.’
‘Of course.’
‘All the way from Oslo?’
‘Either from Oslo or Fagernes.’
‘Could someone have tailed you all that way without your noticing?’
‘Anything is possible. I had lots of other things on my mind. I was thinking about the fire, her, I didn’t bother about the mirror at all.’
‘But why try to murder you?’
‘No idea. I can’t see the motive.’
‘I’ve been investigating murders for more than thirty years. Motives for murders rarely belong to the rational category.’
‘Nevertheless there must have been a motive. Either it was revenge or someone was trying to stop me.’
‘Stop you doing what?’
‘Yes, well, that’s the point. Revenge is totally absurd.’