Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) (4 page)

“What do
you
want me to do?”

His boss took out a seven iron. “Do whatever it takes.”

“An arrest?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“A confession?”

“Whatever it takes. It’s your department. You’re the Police Commissioner and Chief of the Oslo district!”

Ivar Thorsen was troubled and his game went from mediocre to horrible. His score reached pathetic levels for the next two holes. He felt sick over the situation that his boss had just put him into.

If he failed then he would have to take the blame as well as any unpleasant consequences such as a forced early retirement.

If he got results then someone else would take the credit.

After much thought Thorsen slowly realized that it was okay if he didn’t get any of the credit before the public and the media and the government. This time he didn’t mind someone else taking the credit because the Minister of Justice or his boss or his boss’s boss would surely remember who had gotten things done.

After they teed off for the ninth hole Thorsen said, “I really appreciate you telling me that the Minister is interested.”

“I told you because I want no doubts or timid half-measures from you. This way there’s absolutely no doubt as to what
you
need to do . . . and what the rewards and consequences will be if you succeed or fail.”

Shivers went up and down Thorsen’s spine. “Any preferences on what I should do or how I should proceed?”

“It’s your department! Just do it.”

Ivar Thorsen couldn’t play at all. He spent a lot of time hacking away in the rough and cursed when he dug himself in deeper at a bunker of yellowish sand. He finally reached the ninth hole that offered magnificent views of Oslofjord and the city of Oslo and the low mountains which ring Oslo to the north and west.

His boss putted superbly. He motioned for Thorsen to come over and his boss said in the friendliest voice:

“I’ve noticed over the years that you have switched your hobbies many times.”

“Why yes I have.”

“Remind me. You started out on the Police Reserve . . . on probation. Right?”

“Oh yes.”

“And then you became a Police Constable. Right?”

“Right.”

“Interesting . . . that’s also when you took up horseback riding as a hobby . . . because that was what your boss liked to do on weekends. Right?”

“Yes,” said Thorsen uncomfortable and unsure where the conversation was going.

“Then you switched hobbies as you went up the ranks to become a Police Sergeant . . . and then to a Police Inspector. As I remember from way back then . . . you changed your hobbies to tennis and then to sailing each time that you got a new boss. Correct?”

“Yes. I took lessons for my hobbies. They were fun.”

“Oh I bet they were. And then you got promoted to Chief Inspector and then to Superintendent. Right?”

“Yes.”

“And if I remember correctly that’s also when you again switched your hobbies to skiing and then to playing that board game . . . Scrabble. Right?”

“Yes. I love skiing and playing Scrabble.”

“Just like your bosses.”

 “I. . . .”

“Then you switched to playing bridge before you became the Police Chief for the Oslo district.”

“Why yes. I love playing bridge just like you do. As you say . . . the cards exercise the brain.”

“And now you have switched to golf . . . the hobby of
my
boss the National Police Commissioner . . . and his boss the Minister of Justice and Chief of Police.”

“Yes . . . but only because the golf range offered me real cheap lessons thanks to a coupon I got in the mail.”

“Do me a favor.”

“Yes . . . of course.”

“Stop taking golf lessons.”

“Of course sir.”
 

“You need to quit golf.”

“Why not? . . .Yes. . . I will.”

“In the first place golf is a whole other game in a totally different category than from what you’ve ever played. Don’t you see? . . . Golf requires skills and talent that you simply do not have . . . no matter how many lessons you take or how much you practice. Understand?”

“I see what you mean.”

“Do you? . . . Good. I’m also sure that you can now see why someone like you . . . with so little talent and practice . . . is playing so very badly today.”

“Of course.”

“What a shame that
my
boss the National Police Commissioner invited you to the golf course where he and his boss the Minister of Justice are members. I don’t think that you see how you’ve embarrassed them with your atrocious playing and ridiculously vulgar polyester clothes and cheap clubs. I hope you will never again even think of accepting an invitation from any member of this club. Do you understand?

“Yes. Of course.”

“Also . . . I understand that you got invited here today because you’ve been going to the same golf range as the National Police Commissioner.”

“A coincidence I can assure you.”

“One that will never be repeated since you are quitting golf. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“Alright. I better hurry. I see that
my
bosses are almost at the eleventh hole.”

Thorsen went to get his putter to finish playing the ninth.

“Oh no Thorsen. You’re leaving right now. Go back to the office. I’ll tell my bosses that you left because you just couldn’t play well and realized that you’re just not cut out for this game.”

“Of course. Can you—”

“No. I won’t be driving you back in the cart. You can walk yourself back to the club house.”

“Thank you sir. Have a great game.”

“I will especially now that we had our little talk.”

Thorsen hid his shaking hands. He should have known that his boss was always watching his every move including his joining the golf range where the Minister happened to practice his golf swing. Thorsen had less than ten years to go before retirement. He could not afford to get demoted or even worse laterally transferred to Tromsø up north or some other frozen wasteland halfway up to the North Pole like Spitsbergen in the Svalbard archipelago where one Police Superintendent had committed suicide after being transferred there for the wrongful conviction of five innocent men.

At the club house Thorsen was directed to the private ferry terminal where Thorsen almost passed out when he realized that his boss had kept his round-trip ticket. Thorsen had almost no cash and as a non-member he had to pay 150 kroner or almost $ 30 U.S. dollars for the one-mile ferry trip to the Snarøya terminal on the mainland where he had left his car.

What would he do now that he had his marching orders?

He realized that he would have to move people around in his department and even worse bring in someone smart to get results.

“Never hire smart people to work for or around you,” his mother had told him. “They don’t take orders very well and they will always outshine you. Even worse they’ll get promoted and sooner or later take your job. No! No! No! Make sure that you always employ people as dumb or dumber than you. And my son you are not smart so you be very careful. Only hang around smart people as long as they help you.”

 Thorsen smiled at the thought of his clever mother. She was absolutely right. As a puppet he too could play the part of the puppet master and start pulling strings and moving his own puppets around. He would rearrange the chess pieces so that he had a chance of success.

By the time the ferry got to the Snarøya terminal Thorsen knew exactly what he needed to do. First he would get flowers for his mother and go visit her in the afternoon and then he’d go have dinner with his good wife whom his mother had picked from the village. He remembered his mother always saying:

“Us simple country people are winners because we are survivors. Peasants are born to survive! Remember this Ivar and you will do well.”

~ ~ ~

“Daddy! Daddy! I want my Daddy!”

The man looked at Karl Haugen and said, “Not now Karl.”

“I want my Daddy!”

The man shook his head. Children never failed to amaze him.

~ ~ ~

“I’m going to take a nap as soon as we’re done,” she said.

“Good.”

“Are you going to take a nap?”

“I doubt it.” Harald Sohlberg dried the plates and silverware that his wife rinsed and handed him from the kitchen sink. “I’ll read for a while . . . then maybe take a walk in the old neighborhood. I just can’t sleep in the afternoon. Not even after my fifteen mile run this morning.”

“If you don’t take a nap then that means that you are not going to have any sleep over a twenty-four hour period. Don’t forget . . . we have a party with the Otterstads that doesn’t start until eight. They like to celebrate Saint Hans Aften . . . St. John’s Eve . . . until very very late.”

“I know. They don’t even light their bål . . . bonfire by the beach . . . until after midnight.”

“Then there’s all that food. You’ll get reflux if you eat late. . . .”

“I promise I won’t eat so much that I feel like throwing up in bed.”

“You always say that and then you go ahead anyways and overeat like crazy. There’s going to be lots and lots of food. And that means lots of rømmegrøt . . . sour cream porridge. They’ll probably be serving food until two or three in the morning. You know you always go crazy eating rømmegrøt. Remember when we went to my parents in Bergen after we met? . . . You had almost four liters . . . a gallon . . . of my mother’s rømmegrøt.”

He could almost smell and taste the pudding of sour cream with melted butter and brown sugar and cinnamon. “Yes! I still remember that. But I rarely have it any more . . . this will be my once-in-a-year feasting on my favorite food. Besides . . . it’s been ages since we celebrated Sankthans . . . Midsummer’s Eve. It’s been what? . . . Maybe fifteen years since we spent a Sankthans in Norway? . . . It’s been at least five years since we’ve been in Oslo during the summer for more than a few days.”

“True. I’m so happy we came back. Three weeks of summer vacation!”

“Don’t forget though. I must do a presentation at headquarters before we can leave. Then we’ll be off to see your folks and enjoy lovely Bergen once again.”

Fru Sohlberg handed him the last dish and noticed his eyes. “Won’t it feel strange going back to the National Police Directorate? . . . Are you nervous?”

“Yes and no,” he said fully aware that his wife could read his face and gestures like an open book. Not even the best lie detector and voice stress machine could surpass her skills at accurately and instantly detecting his real feelings and thoughts. Sometimes he wondered if she and not he should have been a Police Inspector. He had no doubts that Fru Sohlberg would probably have solved more crimes than Herr Sohlberg given her special talents.