Death in Oslo (20 page)

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, out of breath, as she hurried down the corridor, her heels clacking on the floor.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure myself.’

‘No one’s sure of anything these days.’ She smiled.

They finally stopped outside a blue door with no name on it. Silje Sørensen knocked, then opened the door without waiting for an answer. Adam followed her in. A middle-aged man was sitting in front of three monitors and something that looked like a sound studio mixing desk. He swung round and muttered hello before turning back and concentrating on his work again.

‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Adam Stubo, from the NCIS,’ Silje explained.

‘The New NCIS,’ Adam corrected her, with a smile.

‘Stupid name,’ grumbled the man by the mixing desk. ‘Frank Larsen’s the name. Police Sergeant.’

He didn’t hold out his hand and his eyes were still glued to the monitors. Black-and-white images from a petrol station, with customers coming and going, were being shown fast-forward on the screen.

‘There aren’t many people who know as much about the armed robbery brigade here in Østlandet as Adam,’ Silje Sørensen said, pulling two chairs up to the large table. ‘Sit down, Adam.’

Sergeant Larsen seemed more interested now. He gave Adam a brief smile, while his fingers danced across the keyboard. The screen went blank, and a few seconds later a new image appeared: a man who was leaving the shop through an open sliding door. The camera must have been mounted on the ceiling, as the man could only be seen at an angle, from above. He just about collided with the newspaper stand, and then pulled his cap further down on his forehead.

‘We haven’t managed to systematise the questioning of witnesses yet,’ Silje said in a low voice, while the sergeant manipulated the picture to make it clearer. ‘But there’s at least one thing that strikes me. This man, or these men – we currently think there are two – want to be noticed by the people working in the petrol station. He’s chatted with the assistant and made himself obvious. But he doesn’t want to get caught on camera. We don’t have a single clear picture of his face – or their faces, to be precise.’

Frank Larsen pulled up another picture on a second monitor.

‘Look.’ He pointed. ‘He obviously knows where the cameras are. He pulls down his hat, here . . .’ All three of them looked at the monitor that was marked A. ‘And then looks away, here.’

Monitor B showed a man almost sidling up to the counter.

‘If they know where the cameras are, they’ve been there before.’ Adam spoke quietly, and stared in fascination at Monitor C, where an unclear, grainy picture of a man was gradually becoming sharper. It was filmed from behind, at an angle. The peak of his cap covered most of his face, but his chin and big nose were visible. It was too early to say for definite, but Adam was sure he could make out a trimmed beard.

‘And if they’ve done a recce beforehand,’ he continued, ‘there should be better pictures from previous visits.’

‘Hardly,’ Frank Larsen said sullenly, as if the thought of going through even more material depressed him. ‘The stations generally delete them after a couple of weeks. Every crook knows that. These guys too, no doubt. So all you have to do is have a look around well in advance, that’s it. There’s this one too, by the way.’

A pudgy finger touched a button on Monitor C.

The man in the picture was broad-shouldered, and sure enough, his chin was covered by a short, trimmed beard. His eyes were hidden by the peak of his cap, but it did not cover
his unusually large and hooked nose. The man had a crew cut under his cap, and a small solid gold earring in his right ear.

‘I’m sure I’ve seen him before,’ Silje said. ‘And something tells me that it’s to do with the armed robbery. But it—’

‘He’s cut his hair,’ Adam said and pulled his chair closer to the table. ‘And grown a beard. The earring’s new, as well. The only problem is . . .’ he was smiling now, and ran his finger over the screen, ‘you can’t disguise that nose.’

‘D’you know who it is?’ Frank Larsen sounded sceptical. ‘It’s not as if you can see a lot of the guy.’

‘It’s Gerhard Skrøder,’ Adam said and leant back in his chair. ‘They call him the Chancellor. He’s such a big mouth about town that for a while we thought he was involved in the NOKAS robbery. But it was just boasting in the end. The Munch paintings, on the other hand . . .’

Frank Larsen’s fingers were working while Adam spoke. A printer in the corner of the room started to rumble.

‘We’ve never managed to get anything on him, but if you ask me, he was involved.’

Silje Sørensen got the printout and studied it for a moment before passing it to Adam.

‘Still certain?’

It was not a good picture, but with all the clever computer manipulation, it was at least clear. Adam nodded and again ran his finger over the picture. The huge nose, broken in a fight in prison in 2000, and then again in a scuffle with the police two years later, was unmistakable.

Gerhard Skrøder came from an apparently good home and was a notorious thief. His father was a top executive in a large public organisation and his mother was an MP for the Socialist Left Party. Gerhard’s sister was a corporate lawyer, and his younger brother had just been selected for the national athletics team. Gerhard himself had been sprinting from the police since he was thirteen, but generally lost the race.

The Norwegian Cash Service, or NOKAS, robbery in Stavanger the year before was the biggest armed robbery in Norwegian history, and cost one policeman his life. Never before had so many resources been poured into one case, and they got results. The court case started after Christmas. Gerhard Skrøder had been in the spotlight for some time, but then fell out of it again towards the end of the winter. But as the NOKAS investigation turned the whole armed robbery scene upside down, his name popped up in other, almost equally interesting, connections. When the Munch paintings
The Scream
and
Madonna
were stolen in broad daylight in August 2004, Gerhard Skrøder was in Mauritius with an eighteen-year-old blonde who had no criminal record. And it could be proved. Adam was convinced that the man had played a key role in the planning. And that could not be proved.

‘Let me see,’ Frank Larsen said and held out his hand for the printout.

He studied it for a long time.

‘I choose to believe you,’ he said finally, and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. ‘But can you tell me why a guy from the armed robbery league would be involved in a cover-up operation for the kidnapping of the American president?’ He looked at Adam with red eyes. ‘Can you tell me that, eh? Kidnapping the American president is not exactly what these boys normally get up to, is it? They only think about one thing, those guys, and that’s money. And as far as I know, there haven’t been any bloody demands yet, not a bloody—’

‘You’re wrong,’ Adam interrupted. ‘They don’t only think about money. They also think about . . . kudos. But you’re probably right about one thing. I don’t believe that they’ve kidnapped the American president. In fact, I don’t think that Gerhard Skrøder knows anything about the case. He was just doing a well-paid job, I should imagine. But you can ask him.
Those boys . . .’ he looked at the picture again, ‘they’ve made choices that mean that we know where they are at any given time. It shouldn’t take more than an hour to haul him in.’

He patted his stomach, pulled a face and added: ‘And now I
must
have something to eat. Good luck!’

His phone started ringing. He glanced down at the display and then bolted out into the corridor to take the call, without even saying goodbye.

T
he woman was nearly at the lake. She wasn’t really dressed for this weather. The sky hung leaden above the water and the waves were being whipped into white horses only a hundred metres from the shore. It had looked so promising in the morning that she had even risked taking her thermal underwear off. Which had been fine on the way out to Ullevålseter, but she now regretted having taken a detour to Øyungen on the way back.

She had parked her small Fiat at Skar; she was still driving, despite her son’s desperate attempts to stop her. She had just celebrated her eightieth birthday, and after the party, she had discovered that her car keys were missing from the hook above the hall shelf. She knew that her son meant well, but it still annoyed her that he had done it and that he believed he was a better judge of her health than she was. Fortunately she had an extra set of keys in her jewellery box.

She felt fit as a fiddle, and it was her walks in the forests and hills that kept her that way. She had had a couple of aneurysms, which made her a bit forgetful, but there was nothing wrong with her legs.

She was very cold and desperately needed to pee.

She wasn’t shy about going to the loo in the woods, but the thought of pulling down her trousers in the bitter wind made her pick up pace so she wouldn’t need to.

But it didn’t help. She had to find a suitable spot.

She headed north by the dam and broke a path through
the undergrowth and the birch trees that were exploding with catkins and sticky light green leaves. A natural embankment made it difficult to go any further. The old woman gingerly tested a tussock with her boots and then lowered herself down into the ditch behind the embankment, which was about a metre and a half deep. She was just about to undo her trousers when she saw him.

He was lying peacefully asleep. One of his arms was over his face, as if to protect it. The moss he was lying on was thick and soft and the low birch trees almost acted like a duvet.

‘Hello,’ the woman called, keeping her trousers on. ‘Hello there!’

The man didn’t respond.

She struggled past a boulder and stepped in some mud. A branch whipped her face. She swallowed a scream, out of consideration for the man under the trees. Finally she managed to fight her way over to him and stood there, gasping.

Her pulse increased. She felt dizzy, and carefully lifted his arm. The eyes that stared at her were brown. They were wide open and there was a fly crawling around in one of them.

She had no idea what she was going to do. She still didn’t have a mobile phone, despite her son’s constant nagging. It ruined the whole purpose of being outdoors, and could also cause brain tumours.

The man was wearing a dark suit and some good shoes, which were very muddy. The old lady was on the verge of tears. He was so young, no more than forty, she reckoned. His face was so peaceful, with beautiful eyebrows that resembled a bird in flight over his big open eyes. His lips were blue, and for a moment she thought that the right thing to do would be to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. As she pulled back his jacket to get to his heart, something fell out of his inner pocket. It was a kind of wallet, she thought, and picked it up. Then she straightened her back, as if she finally understood
that the cold corpse was more than several hours beyond being saved by heart compressions. She still hadn’t noticed the bullet hole in the man’s temple.

She was suddenly overcome by nausea. Slowly she lifted her right hand. It seemed to be so far away from her, completely out of her control. Fear made her want to run away, back on to the path, to the road through the forest where there were always other people. She put the small black leather wallet in her pocket, automatically, and clambered back over the embankment. Her right leg gave way underneath her; it felt numb, but the old lady managed to struggle through the undergrowth and get back on to the gravel track, thanks to the iron willpower that had kept her so strong and healthy for eighty years and five days.

Then she collapsed and lost consciousness.

‘T
here’s nothing to discuss,’ Johanne said.

‘But—’‘Stop. I warned you, Adam. I told you last night and I was sure that you understood how serious I was, but then you apparently didn’t care. And that’s not why I’m calling.’

‘You can’t just leave and take the—’

‘Adam, don’t force me to raise my voice. That will frighten Ragnhild.’

It was a lie and he knew it. He couldn’t hear anything that sounded like babbling in the background, and his daughter was never quiet unless she was asleep.

‘Have you honestly left me?
For real?
Have you lost your mind?’

‘Perhaps a bit.’

He thought he heard the hint of a smile, and breathed easier.

‘I’m so disappointed,’ Johanne said calmly. ‘And absolutely furious with you. But we can talk about that later. Right now, I want you to listen . . .’

‘I have a right to know where Ragnhild is.’

‘She’s with me and she’s fine. I cross my heart and promise that I’ll phone again later today to talk everything through. And my word is worth slightly more than yours, as we both know. But just listen to me.’

Adam clenched his jaw. He balled his fist and raised it to hit something, but all he could find was the wall. A uniformed
police cadet spun round about three metres further down the corridor. Adam lowered his fist, shrugged and forced a smile.

‘Is what Wencke Bencke said on the TV true?’ Johanne asked.

‘No,’ Adam groaned. ‘Not her again. Please!’

‘Just
listen
to me!’

‘OK.’

‘You’re grinding your teeth.’

‘What do you want?’

‘Is it true that the security cameras show no one going in or out of the President’s room? From the time that she went to bed until they discovered that she was missing?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘Adam!’

‘I’m bound by confidentiality, you know that.’

‘Have you gone through the films to see what happened
afterwards
?’

‘I haven’t gone through anything. I’m Warren’s liaison on this case, not an investigator.’

‘Are you listening to me?’

‘Yes, but I don’t have anything to do with—’

‘When is a crime scene most chaotic, Adam?’

He bit his thumbnail. Her voice was different now. The wronged, unreasonable tone had almost disappeared. Now he heard the real Johanne, the one that never ceased to fascinate him with her Socratic way of making him see things differently, from another angle from the one he was so used to after thirty years in the force.