‘Did the relationship last long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you meet the man?’
‘Never. No one was allowed to meet the man.’
‘Why not?’
‘Elisabeth’s like that. She likes secrets. You know that. She never takes you home, either, does she.’
He sat up straight in his chair. She talked about Elisabeth in the present tense. ‘Elisabeth’s dead,’ he said. ‘Didn’t Jim tell you that?’
She looked down. Shook her head.
The silence lingered. Why doesn’t she ask about Elisabeth? How she died? What happened? He pondered, formulated an answer for himself and said: ‘Are you together with Jim?’
‘Together with? No.’ Her eyes were so fixed on the table they seemed to be closed.
‘But you told Jim what I said about the key. You knew who I was when I came in and saw you dance.’
‘I talk to Jim, yes, I do. But I’m unattached.’
‘He’ll probably be charged with murder.’
‘Jim?’ Her eyes still rooted to the table.
‘Someone set fire to a chalet. Elisabeth was in the chalet.’
‘When?’
‘The night leading to 29 November. Sunday to Monday.’
‘It wasn’t Jim.’ She finally looked up from the table, pensive, distant, and said: ‘That night Jim was at my place.’
They didn’t say anything for a long while. The noises in the café took over: the clatter of plates, cutlery, the buzz of muted voices.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked thickly, after clearing his throat.
She gave him a faint smile: ‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘I mean about the time.’
She nodded.
She broke the silence. And she did it after another wry, embarrassed smile: ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lie to you.’
They walked down Karl Johans gate together, towards Oslo main station. He stopped at the Kirkegata crossing and pointed to the cathedral. ‘I have to go that way.’
She stopped and looked at him for a few seconds. ‘Sure?’
He nodded.
She stood on the tips of her toes and allowed her lips to brush his cheek before turning on her heel and continuing down Karl Johan. He watched her supple figure move towards the throng of people and disappear. Then he turned and strolled off – on the opposite side to Kirkeristen.
He hurried down to the Metro and caught a train home – impatient. Once there, he immediately went to his car. He cleared the snow off the boot lid and took out a brush and a shovel. Dug the bank of snow away from his car. He got in, started the engine and drove to Ring 3, which he followed to the end, then took Drammensveien out of Oslo and turned off at Sandvika heading for Steinshøgda. The beast was back in his stomach and he focused on the tarmac ahead, the snow between the tree trunks, the winter setting in. He drove up Begnadal towards Fagernes. However, this time there were no visions of flames, no images of long bones. There was just an indescribable gnawing at his guts. And he was beginning to reason in a fresh way. To re-examine every tiny detail, the words spoken, what they meant.
Per-Ole ‘Cranberry’ Ramstad was waiting for him, as he had promised, when he reversed in front of the police station.
‘You’re fired up, Frank. You look like you’ve just come from a week of training hell at Officers’ School.’
‘I have to know who saw this Sandmo woman in Fagernes a few weeks ago,’ Frølich said.
‘I believe you,’ Cranberry said. ‘I can see it in your face. But I don’t know if I can help you there…’
‘All right,’ Frølich said quickly. ‘I have no time to waste. Look at this,’ he said, passing Per-Ole a photograph from the newspaper. ‘Go to your witness and ask if Merethe Sandmo had dinner with this man.’
Cranberry took the picture and studied it. ‘Bit of a limp fish,’ he said in summary. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Inge Narvesen.’
‘What does he do?’
‘Buys and sells shares at Oslo Stock Exchange. Billionaire.’
‘That’s good enough for me,’ Cranberry said, passing back the newspaper cutting. ‘The answer is yes.’
‘Don’t mess me about,’ Frølich said. ‘I want you to show me…’
‘No need,’ Cranberry said. ‘The witness is me. I saw Merethe Sandmo having dinner at the hotel with this guy.’
‘But why didn’t you say so?’
Cranberry smiled a sad smile. ‘It has nothing to do with you. It has something to do with my wife and the woman I was having dinner with at the hotel when I saw them.’
Frank Frølich took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Per-Ole,’ he said gently. ‘Next time we’ll go fishing in Vællers. Thanks for this.’
He took his leave of Cranberry and drove back. Calmer. He put on some music. Johnny Cash sang a cover version of U2’s ‘One’. Acoustic guitar and a voice without any illusions. It struck a chord with what was going on inside him.
41
Once again Frank Frølich was sitting behind a two-way mirror. This time he was joined by Gunnarstranda. In the interview room, Lystad from Kripos was in mid-flow. Opposite the police inspector sat Inge Narvesen and his solicitor. The latter was a man in his fifties who was clearly more familiar with corporate than criminal law. He had a plump, moon-shaped face beneath a mound of unkempt curls. Neither the solicitor nor Narvesen seemed particularly happy to find themselves in this situation.
‘Do you deny that?’ Lystad asked.
‘That I ate at the hotel? Not at all.’
‘Alone?’
‘No.’
‘Who were you with?’
‘No idea what her name was.’
‘Have a try.’
‘It’s true. I have no idea. She called herself Tanja, but I doubt she was christened Tanja.’
‘You’re absolutely correct. Who was this “Tanja” for you?’
‘A prostitute. She sold, I bought.’
‘Bought what?’
‘What do you buy from prostitutes?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘I bought sex off her.’
‘You went to Fagernes to buy sex off a woman working as a waitress in Oslo?’
‘Obviously the term “waitress” does not completely cover this woman’s activities.’
‘OK, let’s talk about something else. You started a relationship with a young woman in 1998, is that right?’
‘It’s possible. What do you mean by “young”?’
‘Elisabeth Faremo. She was working as a sales assistant at Ferner Jacobsen where you were a customer. Did you start a relationship?’
Inge Narvesen shot a glance at his solicitor. He nodded. ‘The term “relationship” is stretching it,’ Narvesen drawled.
‘Perhaps you would claim you confined yourself to buying sex off her, too?’
‘No. We were a couple. But it wasn’t a relationship of any duration.’
‘I know,’ Lystad said. ‘It stopped when her real lover was arrested for breaking into your house.’
Narvesen said nothing. He flashed a raised eyebrow at his solicitor, who slowly shook his head.
Gunnarstranda and Frølich exchanged meaningful looks. Whatever sort of choreography this was, Frølich thought, there was no question it had been rehearsed.
Lystad got up and walked over to the window facing him. He stood surveying the street. ‘You say you bought sex off this woman in Fagernes,’ he said to the window. ‘Where did you have intercourse?’
‘At the hotel.’
‘You didn’t have a room at the hotel.’
‘She did.’
‘She didn’t.’
‘She must have been using an alias. We were in her room, in her bed.’
‘What was the room number?’
‘I really cannot remember.’
‘Which floor?’
Narvesen smiled awkwardly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Lystad gave him a stony look. ‘Not so surprising that your memory plays tricks on you since neither the woman nor her alleged alias, Tanja, ever checked in at the hotel. But, for the time being, let us just say that your statement does not exactly tally with reality…’ Lystad raised a hand when Narvesen made a move to intervene. He said: ‘Where was her partner when you were having sex?’