‘No. I leave it to the police to devise such hypotheses.’
‘But, if that had been the case, it would necessarily imply that you had a disloyal servant. Doesn’t that concern a man like you?’
‘It would have done if I had any reason to believe such a hypothesis. But I don’t. Since 1998 neither my house nor my office has been broken into. Ergo – as detectives are wont to say – I have no disloyal servants. Would you please excuse me?’
Without waiting, he walked past them and down the corridor.
Frølich grasped his arm.
Narvesen stopped. He stared disapprovingly at Frølich’s hand.
‘Been to Hemsedal recently?’ Frank Frølich asked.
‘Will you let go?’
Frølich removed his hand. ‘Yes or no?’
Narvesen didn’t reply. He walked towards a door further up the corridor.
‘Perhaps I should ask Emilie?’ Frølich called.
He didn’t receive an answer. The door was slammed shut. Narvesen was gone.
They exchanged looks. ‘Do you remember the blackmail business I told you about?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘The drunken captain who threatened to go to the press etc if Narvesen didn’t stump up?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘I tried to find the captain. He got three years and did two of them at Bastøy.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He got involved in a fight the very day he came out. Killed. Knifed by unknown assailant.’
‘Narvesen is not clean,’ Frølich said.
‘No one can allege that Narvesen was responsible for the killing. For the same reason you can’t claim he set fire to your chalet.’
‘Yes, I can. It was him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’
Gunnarstranda regarded him with scepticism. ‘If you’re so sure it was Narvesen, then it’s up to you to find out why – before you go accusing him of things.’
When they were outside in the cold again, Frølich came to a sudden halt.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That man went too far when he locked me in and lit the match.’
They stood for a while watching the cars hurtling past.
‘Calm down,’ Gunnarstranda said and started moving. ‘We’ll get Narvesen, you can take my word for it.’
‘But it doesn’t look like we will, does it?’
‘I trust my instinct. And, in addition, here comes our Eco-Crime man, Chicken Brains Sørlie.’
36
Frank Frølich had met Birgitte Bergum once before. It had been a couple of years ago in courtroom number four and she had been defending a drunken carpenter who was an officer in the reserves. The man had drunk himself stupid in his chalet where he kept his service weapon, an AG3. In the middle of the night he had started shooting it off. Unfortunately, two tourists had pitched their tent in the vicinity. They were scared out of their wits and after climbing up a tree they rang the police from a mobile phone. But the local police station wasn’t manned in out-of-office hours. So they had to ring the central police switchboard, who sent out a patrol car from another district. But they got lost and the patrolmen called the tourists back to ask the way. The man with the gun, who was now well out of his skull, heard the tourists’ phone ringing and thought the enemy was abroad and about to despatch him. He therefore crawled along the ground wearing camouflage gear and closed in on them – with the invaluable assistance of the policemen who were ringing the tourists at regular intervals. When the police finally did arrive on the scene, the man went absolutely bananas and was only arrested after an exchange of fire, which led to one policeman being injured. Frølich had been summoned as a witness – to speak about the general context of arrests. Birgitte Bergum had been on him like a leech from the word go. He was thinking of this as he sat watching her through a two-way mirror in the interview room: a woman of about fifty with big hair, a big nose and a bust like an opera singer’s. With a self-assured, impatient expression on her face, she sat next to Jim Rognstad. He balanced on his seat like a fat Buddha with hair, limp and uncommunicative, wearing a black T-shirt, his hands folded and recently brushed hair flowing down both shoulders.
There were two of them secretly observing Rognstad and the solicitor. Frølich sat next to Fristad, who, as a legal man, was clearly uneasy with the set-up. He kept mumbling: ‘Oooh dear, I don’t like this. No, I must say, I don’t like this situation, Frølich.’
He went quiet when Gunnarstranda came into the room they were observing. Rognstad tried to stand up like a school pupil when the headmaster enters the classroom. Bergum ordered him to stay seated. Then she looked severely at the two-way mirror.
‘She’s seen us,’ Fristad said, nervously adjusting his glasses. ‘Bibbi’s sharp.’
‘Who’s sitting in there?’ was the first thing she asked, with a nod towards the mirror.
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer. But Frølich and Fristad swapped winces. ‘Put down the sound,’ Fristad muttered. Frølich turned down the volume so low that Bergum’s next remark could hardly be heard:
‘This is no good, Gunnarstranda. All interrogations should be performed in an atmosphere of total openness.’
Frølich turned up the volume a tiny bit.
‘This isn’t an interrogation,’ Gunnarstranda said tersely. ‘You requested this meeting.’
‘I want to know who’s sitting behind the mirror.’
‘Let’s call it a day then. Rognstad can go back to his cell and daydream. Either he has something to sell me or he hasn’t.’
Birgitte Bergum scrutinized Gunnarstranda sternly.
She turned to Rognstad and said: ‘What do you think?’
‘Just a moment,’ Bergum went on, leaning over to her client. The two of them whispered.
Frølich and Fristad exchanged glances again.
‘Bet they pull out,’ Fristad breathed. ‘Bibbi’s as tough as old boots.’
In the interview room Gunnarstranda yawned and looked at the clock. ‘What’s the decision?’
‘There was a painting in the box,’ Rognstad said, straight to the point.
‘Which box?’ Gunnarstranda asked, bored.
‘The safety-deposit box.’
‘No, there wasn’t. There was just money in the box.’
‘Right. But there should have been a painting.’
Frølich and Fristad looked at each other. Fristad straightened his glasses; he was getting excited.
‘What sort of painting?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Old. Worth a packet.’
‘OK,’ Gunnarstranda said wearily. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. This box we’re talking about is pretty small. What kind of painting would fit into the box and how did it get there?’
Rognstad leaned over to his counsel and whispered again. Birgitte Bergum spoke for him.
‘Its origin is of no interest. But it is a fact that a missing work of art had been deposited in the box as well as the money.’
‘You’re forgetting that I determine what is of interest or not. This information is meant to serve as a mitigating circumstance, is it not?’
‘My client is not interested in talking about the past history of the painting.’
Frølich grinned at Fristad and whispered: ‘The picture’s certain to have come from Narvesen’s safe. Jim Rognstad took part in the burglary, but he’s scared of incriminating himself still further.’
Gunnarstranda stood up and walked over to the two-way mirror. He stood combing his hair while mouthing: ‘Shut up in there!’
‘What kind of painting are we talking about?’ he asked with his back to the lawyer and Rognstad.
Bergum replied, ‘A stolen work of art. Madonna with Child, painted by Giovanni Bellini. It’s a small painting but worth millions. My client says it was in the safety-deposit box and someone must have removed it.’