Sohlberg and the White Death (22 page)

“I understand that both of you are life-long natives of Troms. Is that right?”

Both men nodded. Giske scratched the raspy clumps of rust-colored hair that emerged from his scalp like shredded Brillo Pads.

“Good. Then I’m sure that we can find the identity of all nine victims . . . as well as why they died . . . and who is responsible for their deaths.”

“Who’s responsible?” Inspector Giske looked as pleased if he had just found a cockroach swimming in his coffee. He nevertheless slurped away. “Sorry . . . but the whole thing seemed like a wild shootout to me. Victims and culprits are all mixed in together. It’ll be close to impossible to tell who shot who. I say it’s a waste of time at this point in the investigation to spend any time figuring out who shot what person with which weapon. That’s best left for later on . . . I say we focus on other things . . . but that’s your call . . . Chief Inspector.”

Skrautvol noticed that Rasch maintained a poker face while Giske spoke. The constable’s facial neutrality left her unsure as to whether Giske was a pessimist or a defeatist. Pessimists were somewhat tolerable because Skrautvol knew from experience that nay-sayers provide useful reality checks on any investigation. Defeatists—on the other hand—were unacceptable because Skrautvol knew from bitter experience at home and at work that defeatist thinking is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Skrautvol reminded herself to ask Rasch whether Haakon Giske was competent or not. If not she would have to remove Giske from the case and get him assigned elsewhere.

What if her new boss—Troms Police Superintendent Tor Einar Eilertsen—refused to provide her a substitute for Giske?

During a brief phone call the previous evening the superintendent had warmly welcomed her to Tromsø. He also mentioned that he appreciated her presence because the department was stretched to the max with the influx of summer visitors and the inevitable petty and serious crimes that follow tourists.

An ugly thought hit Skrautvol.

Was she stuck with Haakon Giske thanks to the manpower shortage?

Was he like so many of the sub-par and undesirable men who had come across her life?

~ ~ ~

“Look,” said Giske abruptly, “I don’t want to pee in anyone’s pool but we shouldn’t waste time and energy figuring out exactly what happened out there and who killed who. . . . Granted that it wasn’t good or nice or civilized . . . and maybe they didn’t deserve to die like that . . . and the dead need us to speak for them and blah blah blah. . . . But I’ve noticed a few little details that I want to share today . . . if I may.”

Skrautvol warmed up to the man. His insulting bluntness reminded her of her own special brand of honesty. “Go ahead. Share by all means.”

“No one is missing the nine vics. There are
no
missing person reports for any of them in our system.”

“Hum. Let me think about that.” Skrautvol pursed her lips as Giske’s thought-provoking statement sank into her mind. She organized the thoughts that surged into her consciousness. But her brain cells demanded fuel. Her neurons craved not food but a very dirty fuel—nicotine a/k/a the diesel of Kristina Skrautvol’s mental engine. “Inspector Giske . . . could it be that the vics have been reported as missing in some other country?”

“I looked into it,” said Giske. “First I checked the missing person lists that embassies submit to the Foreign Relations Ministry in Oslo and none matched any of our vics. Then I checked out airline and shipping companies and the ferries . . . and none reported any missing passengers. . . . Chief Inspector . . . a lot of giant cruise ships come up here during the summer . . . they’re packed with tourists from all over the world . . . plus we get tourists who fly in or they drive up here or take the bus.”

“And nothing?” The cigarettes beckoned. Her two Russian favorites—Sobranie Black and Belomorkanal—spoke to her in the international language of the smoke deprived. She lovingly fingered the thin outline of a sterling silver cigarette case of Sobranies inside her pant’s right-side pocket. She then did the same with a gold case of Belomorkanals on the left pocket.

“Nothing.”

Skrautvol pinched her thigh to stop herself from calling for a cigarette break. “Are there any Russian or East European or Asian immigrants living up here . . . how’s the refugee community?”

“Small. Three Pakistani brothers who own a kebab restaurant in tourist row. Two Russian border guards who defected in the Sixties . . . they walked and hitchhiked their way across Finland until they got here one summer. But our Russians are very much alive and accounted for . . . they’re in their eighties and married to Norwegian women. We have no East Europeans as far as I know. But we are also blessed with five Vietnamese refugees. One’s a mechanic from Oslo who works here during the summer only . . . he does repairs for the big cruise ships . . . he seems legit . . . then there’s four gang members . . . street-level drug dealers . . . mostly into pot but one’s diversifying into Ecstasy and meth.”

“What say you Constable Rasch?”

“Nothing to add. . . .”

“What about the
Welcome to Tromsø!
towel that was full of blood and wrapped around one of the men? . . . Were you able to trace where that towel came from?”

“Yes and no,” said Giske. “It’s from China . . . where else? . . . A wholesaler from Oslo sells thousands of them every year to all of the hotels and tourist shops in town. We’ll never find out who’s the buyer or owner of that towel . . . it’s like trying to track down the buyer or owner of a pair of chopsticks in Tokyo or Shanghai.”

~ ~ ~

“Alright,” said Skrautvol. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about the case last night . . . we are still left with some odd facts that don’t add up. . . . Why did someone take the time and trouble to strip the clothes and shoes and personal belongings off the dead before burying them under the fish shack? . . . The nine didn’t bury themselves . . . or cut off their own hands . . . did they? . . . Then there’s the two men who were mutilated . . . their faces destroyed beyond recognition. . . . Why just those two? . . . Was it because they’re locals that someone would recognize and send us off in the right direction?”

“No one’s been reported missing.” Giske slurped more of his coffee. “Of course friends or family may not know they’re missing. That’s why Rasch and I take a look every morning at the missing person reports.”

“Good.”

“On the other hand,” said Giske. “Family or friends might know that some or all of the nine are dead and they have a good idea why the dead got that way . . . so they don’t report anything to the police. The friends or families themselves may have stuff to hide.”

“Very good. All true.” The siren song of tobacco slowly faded away from Skrautvol’s ears. “Here’s another thing that bothers me. Most of the vics appear not to be from here. So someone must know how they got here . . . by air . . . land . . . or sea.”

Giske swabbed his coffee-dripping chin with his shirt sleeve. “We already looked into that puzzle. We took a pic album of our vics . . . the seven with recognizable faces . . . to the airlines and hotels and cruise ships and charter boats and ferries and tour guides . . . all the tourist restaurants and bars . . . and nothing. We even went to the Esso gas station in Hansnes . . . it’s the closest town to the fish shack . . . and none of the employees recognized anyone in the album. . . .”

“What about other gasoline stations?”

“We’re in the process of visiting all gas stations in a hundred-fifty mile radius . . . we called them on July nineteenth . . . the day after we found our nine dead vics . . . we asked them to save all video for the month of July . . . we still need to go out there and show every one of their employees the photo album just in case our nine arrived by car.”

“I’m impressed. You’ve been very thorough.”

“We,” said Giske, “have to be thorough because that’s how we do things. We’re not a bunch of lazy or dumb cops just because we’re out here in the sticks. No sir. We’re not going to let Oslo look down its nose at us and say that the hicks in Tromsø botched the case or that we can’t do the job.”

“No one’s saying that.”

“Maybe not you . . . but we hear what’s said through the grapevine.” Giske tilted the mug up high over his mouth and let the last drops fall into his cavernous mouth before belching. “Sorry but my acid reflux is worse in the morning. Anyway . . . I don’t think I’m going out bucknaked on a cactus limb when I say that it seems to me that all of our victims were trying to avoid being recognized at all cost.”

“Have you checked in with the illegal immigrant community to see if someone knows one or more of our victims? . . . How big is the illegal immigrant community in Tromsø?”

“Nothing as bad or large as down south in Oslo.”

Rasch blushed.

Skrautvol waved her right hand as if to say, “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion . . . right or wrong.”

Giske put down his coffee mug. He stared straight into Skrautvol’s eyes. “Chief Inspector . . . go ahead . . . you or Rasch can turn me in to the thought police who want everyone to think that Norway is one happy paradise for refugees and illegal immigrants.”

“I’m here to solve nine homicides . . . not social problems.”

“Good! . . . Anyway . . . we’ve already done our rounds with the illegals . . . we heard their gossip about newcomers and goings-on and there was nothing about our nine vics. . . . We showed the pics to everyone in our cozy community of illegals up here . . . and again . . . nothing.”

“So
how
did these nine get to Troms County?. . . Or are some of them residents?”

Silence.

“Where’s the person or persons who buried them?”

Silence.

“Gentlemen . . . I have no doubt that we will discover
who
are the nine dead and
why
they were killed if we find out
how
they got here and
who
buried them in the fish shack near Hansnes.”

Giske folded his arms. “What do you want to do?”

“Gentlemen . . . we’re done checking out all of the legit ways that these nine dead vics got here to lovely Tromsø and Troms County. Now it’s time to look at the illegal ways to get here.”

“I agree,” said Giske. “But how much time and effort will that take?”

“We need to do it.” Skrautvol leaned forward and looked into each man’s eyes. “We need to take a close look at small planes or boats for hire since our victims got killed up in Ringvassøy Island . . . which is not exactly attracting millions of tourists as if it were the Hawaii of Norway. . . . The final resting place of our nine dead is in a cove about three miles north as the crow flies from the little town of Hansnes . . . which sure isn’t Honolulu. . . . Hansnes doesn’t even have a traffic light. So . . . as far as time and energy are concerned . . . all I can say is that we will have to wear out the shoe leather.”

“And our livers,” added Constable Rasch.

“Livers?”

“Yes . . . Chief Inspector,” said Rasch. “If charter captains and pilots aren’t at sea or in the air then they’re mostly drinking themselves blind at bars or at home.”

Skrautvol pursed her lips. “Very good. Livers and shoe leather it is then. Let’s follow these two lines of inquiry for a week. . . . I also want to open a separate inquiry into the men with the mutilated faces . . . the ones with
pulla
bread from Finland in their stomachs. Since we’re closest to Sweden and Finland I’d like to go visit Finland—”

“A little interruption,” said Giske. “Before you make any foreign inquiries you need to keep in mind that Oslo . . . yes . . . the Minister of Justice himself . . . has made it perfectly clear that we are
not
to contact any foreign law enforcement unless and until we have real evidence in hand.”

“I know. When I got this assignment I was specifically told not to contact the Russians or Interpol until we knew more. But it’s an obvious issue that has to be investigated . . . isn’t it?”

Giske spoke softly under his breath. “But. . . .”

The worried looks on the two men’s faces amused Skrautvol. “Gentlemen . . . I’m not going to disobey orders or expect you to do the same. But I’d like to do some tourist stuff while there’s good summer weather. I also want to get a feel for the area and how the victims might have come in to Troms County . . . and why that
pulla
bread got inside our two victims’ stomachs.”

The two men silently accepted her proposed subterfuge. Skrautvol was sure that she saw the briefest of smiles break on Giske’s face. As usual Rasch kept his facial expression parked in neutral.

“Alright gentlemen. Let’s meet back here one week from today at ten-thirty in the morning and go over what we’ve found. And now the hard part . . . let’s split chores. Who wants to find the rent-a-captain who brought these people to Troms . . . and who wants to find our mystery graveyard digger or diggers out in Hansnes?”

“I’ll sacrifice my liver,” said Giske who did not look like a stranger to the bottle.

Skrautvol and Rasch managed to avoid smiling at Giske volunteering for the bar scene.