Sohlberg and the Missing Schoolboy: an Inspector Sohlberg mystery (Inspector Sohlberg Mysteries) (9 page)

The minutes slipped away while he was lost in thought. He wept silently and turned away so that no one could see him in the locker room.

Yes. I could be like Jacob and see the gate of heaven . . . except for her curse.

Right there before his very eyes was
his
life story. He turned off his phone. He looked forward to a future of planning every day and every minute on how to punish her as severely as she deserved and then how to get rid of her once and for all so that he could at least finish his life on earth in peace without her.

Scream . . . that’s what I want to do. Can I scream?

His mind pulled images from old memories of his childhood and he remembered taking field trips during his high school years to the many excellent art museums in Oslo. One image in particular had stuck to his mind and the image terrified him for the deep truth contained in the image and he could not get the image or painting out of his mind.

The Scream
by Edvard Munch.

How well he remembered the details of the swirling reddish-orange sky and swirling purple-blue waters and the skeletal and distorted face of the lonely and sick and terrorized person that he saw at the Munch-museet or Munch Museum.

He made his mind up at the gym to make sure that his scream would be the last thing that she ever heard while he killed her.

Yes.

His face and his scream would provide just the perfect ending for her. From the long window in the locker room he saw dozens of Sankthans bonfires blazing away.

In the pagan days the bonfires supposedly kept away witches or evil spirits from roaming the land during the endless daylight of midsummer. He remembered how his mother like many other old-fashioned and superstitious Norwegians used to throw straw dummies that looked like witches into the bonfires.

Should I burn her body in a Midsummer bonfire? Maybe even while she is still alive?

He had an evil witch to kill.

Yes.

The next June 23rd—one year from today—would be the day of her death. That would give him more than enough time to plan and execute. And execute he would.

~ ~ ~

One hour before midnight. The Otterstads and their guests sat by the beach in groups listening to jokes and music and playing games and it all seemed so festive and normal and happy to Sohlberg and yet the unnatural daylight filled him with dread. The pale midnattsol hung in the sky like an unwelcome guest of ill omen.

“Are you okay?” said Fru Sohlberg. She wondered if he was falling again into a depression.

“I guess that I’m just not used to seeing the sun at night.”

“I know. It’s so odd to be back and see sun and daylight in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe I should’ve taken a nap like you suggested. I feel a little lightheaded.”

Nora Otterstad overheard the Sohlbergs’ conversation. She immediately intervened and took both Sohlbergs to the main house. She lodged them in a small study near the main living room so that Sohlberg could take a nap on a very comfortable sofa while Fru Sohlberg watched over him.

A restless sleep brought little relief to Sohlberg. He dreamed that time itself was frozen and that the future was forever postponed. He felt trapped—in the past and the present. He was literally a man without a future.

At 11:45 PM Fru Sohlberg woke him up and said:

“The Otterstads are going to take us home as soon as they light the Sankthans bål . . . the Midsummer’s Eve bonfire by the beach. Okay?”

“No. Let’s stay. I’m okay.”

“No. We’re not staying outdoors on the longest day of the year . . . a day with no night. Imagine what that does to a man in your condition.”

“What condition?”

“You know . . . you know what I mean. . . .”

“What do you mean by my
condition
? . . . Are you saying I’m depressed . . . in clinical depression?”

“Oh please . . . don’t you see? . . . We never recovered from jet-lag since we arrived in Europe. We’ve had too much travel and too little sleep. You need to rest. And you’ve had so many memories to deal with after coming back to your parents’ home and. . . . Look . . . I don’t feel too good myself. We’re just not used to these day-filled nights.”

The Sohlbergs apologized and said their goodbyes to their hosts and everyone else at about thirty minutes after midnight. Leif Otterstad piloted them quickly back home through the placid waters.

Sohlberg turned one last time to watch the giant 30-foot bonfire on the Otterstad property. Bonfires dotted all of the beaches around the Oslofjord. The fires lent a wild and savage air reminiscent of the pagan Viking era and no one could escape the primal and visceral feeling that something imminent and far bigger than themselves was unfolding.

Chapter 5/Fem

1 YEAR AND 22 DAYS AFTER

THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4

“A new form of Number Four heroin is about to hit the streets . . . it’s cheap and extremely dangerous . . . with purity rates of ninety-eight percent and higher. . . . This deadly heroin is named Osama-H . . . because it was developed and manufactured by Russian and Bulgarian scientists hired by Osama bin Laden.”

With that introduction Sohlberg had the undivided attention of the department heads in charge of vice and drugs in all 27 of Norway’s police districts. They had gathered in downtown Oslo to hear Sohlberg’s 40-minute talk on international heroin smuggling. They met in a small auditorium at 12 Hammersborggata where the sleek and modern 7-floor building of the Politidirektoratet. The National Police Directorate occupied most of the city block on the southeast corner of Hammersborggata and Torggata.

After his talk Solhlberg took the elevator to Ivar Thorsen’s office on the top floor.

They shook hands and sat down. On Thorsen’s desk Sohlberg observed a pair of elegant water glasses made by the specialty glass firm of Kosta Boda from Sweden. Two fancy bottles of Voss artesian water sat ostentatiously next to the expensive glassware. Of course Ivar Thorsen no longer drank Farris mineral water out of the bottle. He was now a big man in the police. Sohlberg smiled at the pretensions which included elegant Swedish furniture and modern art paintings.

How the Oslo district police commissioner’s office had changed!

Who would have thought that Ivar Thorsen would ever sit in a lavish corner office?

In his wildest imaginations Sohlberg would never have
dreamed
of the dumb and plodding and unimaginative Ivar Thorsen ever sitting in a commissioner’s office decorated by an interior decorator and probably a Swedish one at that. Back when Sohlberg was a rookie police constable the most a district commissioner could hope for was Ikea furniture that was allotted on a very tight budget to only the most senior of commissioners. Now the police budgets were lavish if not extravagant.

“Do the taxpayers know how their money is being spent up here?”

“Don’t be obnoxious Sohlberg. Try to be pleasant for a change.”

“I am being pleasant. I didn’t say what was really on my mind.”

“Well . . . I myself will tell you exactly what is on my mind.”

A long and uncomfortable pause followed.

Sohlberg’s mouth almost dropped open when he heard Ivar Thorsen’s next words:

“I need your help Sohlberg. I have a cold case. Perhaps you’ve already heard of it . . . the missing seven-year-old boy who vanished one morning in school and has never been seen again.”

“The Karl Haugen boy?. . . I saw it on the news a few days ago on N.R.K. One and Two.”

Sohlberg also remembered his wife showing him a special anniversary section on the case in the Sunday edition of
Aftenposten
.

“Yes,” said Thorsen. “You can’t miss the case.”

“Just this morning . . . as I was coming in . . . I saw huge headlines plastered on
Verdens Gang
when I passed a newsstand.”

“That’s the case Sohlberg. The media is all over us because the one year anniversary came and went without us getting any closer to solving the disappearance.”

“One year . . . that’s almost beyond solving.”

“But—”

“Thorsen . . . you know the rule . . . less than half of all missing cases and homicides are ever solved at all unless they are solved within the first forty-eight hours. And you now have a missing case that’s twelve months old?”

“We did our best. We put tons of people and man-hours into it.”

“That’s why my rule is to work smart not hard.”

“Obviously we are not as intelligent as you are. That’s why a few months ago I shut down the investigation . . . it was obvious we were getting nowhere. But now the higher-ups want the investigation reactivated . . . they’re getting a lot of flak over it.”

“Who was in charge?”

“Trygve Nilsen.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“He’s a Chief Inspector . . . just like you.”

“Why am I not surprised that you promoted him?”

“He’s a hard worker. And loyal.”

Sohlberg almost shouted a vulgarity. Instead he shrugged.

“Listen here Sohlberg . . . I’m reassigning him . . . he’ll be investigating recent death threats over the Nobel Peace Prize . . . seems some Islamic terrorists are pissed off over some of the recent candidates that our parliament picked for the Nobel Peace prize. These crazy punks put out a video in Pakistan saying that they’re going to blow up the Storting.”

“How nice for Nilsen. Instead of getting fired he gets a plum job for a botched investigation into the unsolved disappearance of a little boy. I see nothing has changed here.”

“Actually it has . . . Sohlberg.”

“Don’t make me laugh.”

“Effective immediately I am appointing you to lead the investigation into the disappearance of Karl Haugen. Sit down! . . . Don’t even think of walking out of this office to call your pals at Interpol. The Politidirektør . . . yes the National Police Commissioner himself . . . already called the General Secretary of Interpol. He gladly released you to solve this apparent kidnaping.”

“What?”

“Interpol is assigning you here indefinitely until you solve the case.”

“What?”

“Check your e-mail. You’ll find official Interpol notification. You will also find the Politidirektør’s written assignment officially naming you as the lead on the Karl Haugen case.”

Sohlberg said nothing but felt lightheaded enough to pass out.

“Ain’t it great Sohlberg? You’re back working for
me
. . . just like in the good old days. The good news is that you can leave Norway as soon as you solve the case. I suggest you work fast and solve the case soon. I’ve heard through the grapevine how much you and your wife love living in Seattle.”

At first Sohlberg thought that he was the target of a prank. Then he thought that Thorsen was testing him to see if he wanted to come back to Norway. Sohlberg felt like vomiting when the reality sank in that this was no joke.