‘Keep moving!’
They stood on opposite sides of the fireplace. Frølich was having difficulty breathing normally. He blinked the haze out of his eyes. Between his hands: a piece of wood. An unusually wide gold picture frame surrounding a small motif. A woman with a headscarf holding a small fat child with curly hair. So that’s what it looks like. He concentrated on breathing, in, out, in deep, out. Narvesen’s eyes: wary, anxious. He’s not sure about me, my mental stability. Frølich could hear his own voice, hollow, distant:
‘Didn’t think this would fit into a safety-deposit box.’
‘The frame was taken off. But be careful, I have just had it reassembled.’
‘It’s a fine painting, but is it worth five million?’
‘Five million is nothing for a picture like this. There are collectors who would give ten times that to own something similar.’
‘Why’s that?’
Narvesen hesitated. His gaze, first at the picture, then the ruined door, then the picture, then Frølich’s face.
Breathe in, let it out, then in.
Narvesen said: ‘All art…’
He pressed his lips together as Frølich raised the painting to the light.
‘Carry on.’
‘All art is cheap to acquire at some point. It’s when art has communicated its value to the world that the price rises… but the way you’re holding it is beginning to make me nervous. Will you put it down!’
‘Explain what you mean.’
Narvesen’s turn to concentrate on breathing, his eyes firmly fixed on Frølich. His hands bound tightly behind his back. ‘For me as a collector, art and the experience of art are not simply two sides of the same coin, they are a part of my life, they’re an indivisible part of me. My experience of art is as intellectual as it is emotional. You have to remember that art is the language of symbols that allows us to make sense of the world around us, which defines us as humans…’
‘Etcetera, etcetera,’ Frølich interrupted. ‘But why precisely this painting? Bellini, the Madonna and Child?’
Narvesen’s outline was sharper now. Frølich had him in focus. Narvesen was sweating from his brow. He cleared his throat. ‘Something happened to art in 1420. An architect, Alberti, published a textbook on perspective. The Bellinis were among the first great… Giovanni Bellini was a master at capturing man’s experience of worldly dimensions in paintings, in art. He was not only one of the first, but one of the best of his time, he interpreted the world with a completely new figurative language. So he contributed to laying the foundations, the base, for the aesthetics we pursue today. That is why this painting is the most outstanding example of art I can own as a collector. In this small painting the most vital elements are concentrated into one study: Life and the Divine, the son of man and the mother of God. I never tire of gazing at this painting. This is my Mona Lisa, Frølich.’
‘It’s not yours.’
‘It’s in my possession.’
Frølich lifted up the painting. ‘It was in your possession.’
Narvesen fell quiet. His eyes were anxious now.
‘How did you get hold of this painting?’
‘You’ll never find out.’
‘Who sold you this painting?’
‘Don’t ask. You’ll never know.’
‘What are you going to do with a painting you can never show others? When you have to be on your own down there in your wank hole, gawping at it? You wait until your woman’s out and then sneak down to your secret.’
‘Don’t you understand? Have you never been obsessed by anything?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Frølich said. Long bones. The smell of smoke. Pain. He raised the bottle of cognac and drank from it. Then he took the knife out of his pocket, cut the strips around Narvesen’s wrists and folded back the blade.
Narvesen rubbed his wrists and said: ‘Just say what you want. I have enough money.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Just say the price.’
‘I understand what you said about obsession,’ Frølich said, grabbing Narvesen’s hair and pulling his head back.
Narvesen sank to his knees with a groan.
‘But I cannot accept that you tried to burn me alive.’
He let go of him.
Narvesen slumped down.
Frølich took the cognac bottle, poured the spirits onto the painting and threw it into the fire. The painting caught fire. An eruption of flames. Two seconds passed. Narvesen saw the fire. Another second. He comprehended what had happened. Then he screamed and ran towards it. Frank Frølich put out his foot and tripped him as he lunged. The man fell and crawled on all fours with his fingers in the flames. Frølich kicked him away. The painting was burning gaily. It blistered and cracked, the child’s face disappeared in the flames. The wooden frame crackled. The fiery red-orange tongues of flame burned through the woman, licked at her face. Narvesen wailed, scrambled towards the fire. The picture was alight. The image was consumed. Only the carving distinguished the frame from a piece of wood. The dog, which had been lying under the table, became excited. It started barking once more. Bounded out and bit Narvesen’s trousered legs. The man was squirming his way towards the fire. Frølich grinned, let him squirm, let him thrust his hand in the fire for the remains. The man blew on the charred residue like a young child trying to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Frølich stood watching for a few seconds. As did the dog. It cocked its head in wonder.
‘Now we’re quits,’ said Frank Frølich. ‘You should be happy I didn’t set you on fire.’
It was almost one o’clock when Gunnarstranda closed the door to Tove’s flat and ran down the stairs and out into the night. It had begun to snow. A fine white carpet a few centimetres thick lay on the pavement. He padded his way towards Sandakerveien to find a taxi. There was chaos on the roads. Cars braked and skidded. A snow plough cast orange beams of light up the walls further along the street. He had set his mobile phone to mute, but felt it vibrate in his inside pocket.
It was Lystad from Kripos. He had a message. A body had been found. Name: Vidar Ballo. Cause of death: overdose. Place: Ballo’s flat in Holmlia.
Gunnarstranda was unable to speak. What could he say, standing dumbstruck on a pavement in Sandakerveien in the cold of the night?
Lystad continued: ‘A caretaker broke down the door because some neighbours had been complaining about the smell. That explains why he hadn’t opened the door for several days.’
Gunnarstranda watched a Mercedes taxi with a lit roof sign glide past.
‘You’re so quiet,’ Lystad said. ‘Did I wake you?’
‘No, no. I’m walking home. Anyone know how long he’s been dead?’
‘The forensic pathologists will be able to say in a few days. I only found out by chance. I called his mother in Kvenangen. The priest had notified her yesterday. His death has been registered as a clear case of an overdose, so it seems.’
‘I may have been the last person to see him alive,’ Gunnarstranda said gloomily.
‘Will you investigate his death?’
‘Strictly speaking, it’s not me who decides that.’
‘Nevertheless, some hypotheses will have to be reassessed,’ Lystad said. ‘For us and for you, I assume.’
‘Absolutely right.’
Another taxi approached.
‘Perhaps we should work together?’
Gunnarstranda hailed the taxi. The car stopped. The driver stretched an arm across the back of the seat and opened the rear door.
‘Tomorrow, for instance,’ Lystad said.
‘Where are you now?’ asked Gunnarstranda, getting in.
‘Office.’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Gunnarstranda announced. He rang off and nodded to the driver. ‘Kripos building in Bryn.’