The Fourth Man (21 page)

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Authors: K.O. Dahl

Tags: #Police Procedural, #Police, #Oslo (Norway), #Mystery & Detective, #Detectives, #Crime, #General, #Suspense, #Fiction

BOOK: The Fourth Man
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He slept badly and was tired when the alarm clock went off. Woke up with one idea on his mind: to get the burning chalet out of his system. To go and see it with his own eyes. He set out early, before seven in the morning, and was in Steinshøgda before eight. On the stretch to Hønefoss, he kept to the speed limit. He didn’t begin to put his foot down until he was driving alongside the river Leira in the Begna valley. Chris Rea was singing ‘The Road to Hell’. The irony of it, he thought, and turned up the volume. Norway’s valleys lay in winter shadow. The sun shone on the mountain peaks. In the Begna valley fir trees towered up like flagpoles on either side of the road. He tried to imagine Elisabeth’s face, body, but could only think about
long bones
. Someone had set fire to the chalet and to her. Someone had been out there in the night and seen the timber being consumed by the fire, someone had raised an arm in defence against the wall of heat, had heard the window panes exploding in a crescendo of howling flames and the crackle of countless bursting fibres in the timber as the fire enveloped it. Someone had stood there breathing through an open mouth in order not to smell the stench of scorched flesh in the yellow-black smoke from burning roofing felt, books, woollen fabrics and paraffin lamps exploding with showers of sparks into further flames which devoured down duvets, the kitchen interior, a timber store in a shed; flames melting the seat of a biological toilet before it caught fire with all the other chalet furnishings and one single overturned candle. Skin which is scorched black; flesh which melts and catches fire; hair which goes up with one tiny inaudible puff.
He was sweating. His knuckles on the wheel went white and he had to stop, had to get out. He pulled into a bus lay-by, got out and gasped for air, breathless, as if he had been on a long march with a heavy load on his back.
What is happening, what the hell is happening to me?
He had to go there, to the charred ruins. He wanted to see the remains with his own eyes. He lay across the roof of his car, looking like a prisoner in an American movie. He wanted to retch, but his stomach was empty. A car on the road passed by, two eyes ogled the man by the car in amazement, which made him straighten up and take a deep breath.
When, eventually, he was able to breathe normally, he got back into his car and drove off. This time he drowned his melancholy in Latin rock:
Mana — unplugged.
A suitable number of guitar riffs, enough emotions and, since he didn’t speak Spanish, it was absolutely impossible to understand what they were singing about. He drove into Fagernes market square before the clock struck twelve. Hungry, but restless, he bought a piece of fruit from a large kiosk and hurried on. The December darkness was drawing in. It would be light until half past three at the latest. He drove north – accompanied this time by Johnny Cash’s ‘The Man Comes Around’ and his crunching guitar riffs. It was like eating vitamins: every line of verse made him feel stronger. He turned off towards Vestre Slidre and took Panoramaveien up to Vaset. The snow on the highest peaks began to take on its wintry blue colour. The birch trees were bare and stubbly on both sides of the road. He arrived in Vaset. There was still quite a way up to the tree line on the mountains. He kept driving until he found the collection of chalets, then let the car roll slowly in between the small houses towards the ruin.
A chimney, about five metres in height, towered like an obelisk staked into the middle of the black heap of cinders.
So this is where you hid. Where you were discovered. Where you shouted for help.
The ruins were cordoned off with red and white police tape. There was a smell of soot and dead smoke. He looked around. No view. The chalet lay in a kind of hollow. It was only twenty or thirty metres from the other chalets. An impenetrable birch thicket prevented others looking in, like a singed pin cushion bristling skywards. He kicked the ashes. His foot hit a soot-soiled pot of paint. It rolled around and came to rest. Around the pot were blackened coil springs.
Here, right here, there must have been a bed.
He could feel nausea rising and falling.
Standing, looking at the black pile of soot, he was suddenly aware how tired he was of all this. Of Violence. Fire. Death.
He turned, went back to his car and started the engine. He had his own chalet. That was where he would go.
It was a calmer person who drove the few miles back to Fagernes. Who stopped to fill up with petrol. While he was standing with the petrol nozzle in his hand, he heard someone shout his name. Frølich turned round, but initially didn’t recognize the man. Then it dawned on him who it was: fiery red face, red hair and air of authority, it was ‘Cranberry’ or Per-Ole Ramstad, as he had been christened.
‘Per-Ole!’ Frølich shouted in response. The man was on his way through the petrol station door and waved for him to follow. Frølich gestured that he had to finish filling the tank first.
They had been at Police College together, he and Per-Ole, alias Cranberry on account of his red hair and cheeks. Per-Ole was working at the Nord-Aurdal police station. A solid soul in a solid body. He was the police force’s answer to Postman Pat – a man who knew everyone in his line of work and was kind to all. Frølich drained the last drops of the nozzle, screwed on the petrol cap, steeled himself for tricky questions and went to pay.
‘Hear you’ve been under the cosh,’ Per-Ole said after the opening chit-chat.
‘Which means?’ Frank Frølich said, putting the change in his pocket.
‘Heard you were an item with the lady who died in the chalet fire in Vaset.’
‘And what else?’
Per-Ole grinned. ‘Heard about your time off, the murder of a security guard, an inappropriate acquittal and all the bollocks. But, apart from that, are you OK?’
Per-Ole’s expression was tinged with concern and genuine sympathy. Frank Frølich blew out his cheeks. ‘Do I look it?’
‘You look like you need a holiday from the holiday, Frankie.’
‘Right first time. And I’ve been trying to relax for almost two weeks now.’
‘And now? Have you just been up there?’ Per-Ole motioned with his head. ‘At the ruin?’
Frølich nodded.
They exchanged glances.
‘Do you want to know a secret?’ Per-Ole asked. ‘Just received a statement which certainly ought to interest your boss. Heard of someone by the name of Merethe Sandmo?’
Frølich nodded again.
‘Thought so. You see, we had an enquiry from Oslo. This Sandmo woman was seen at Fagernes the same day the chalet burned down.’
‘Sure?’
‘Sure,’ Per-Ole said slowly. ‘She was in a restaurant. I can’t say any more than that, actually.’
‘Was she on her own?’
Per-Ole shook his head. ‘The woman had dinner at the hotel with a man.’
‘Was she staying at the hotel?’
‘No.’
‘The identity of the man?’
‘Not known. Your boss, though – don’t remember what his name is, but the fiery-tempered one with the wrap-over hair – he’s faxed over a pile of photos.’
They looked at each other again.
‘You could stay here for a couple of days, couldn’t you?’ Per-Ole suggested. ‘We could go into the mountains, go fishing in Vællers? Catch a few fat arctic char, smoke them and eat them with a dram or two. No better battery-charger in this world.’
‘That’s tempting, Per-Ole, but …’
‘But?’
‘I’ve got my own chalet to keep an eye on. On my way there now. To Hemsedal.’
Frølich could read in Per-Ole’s eyes that he had seen through him. But Per-Ole was a fine fellow. He didn’t say anything. ‘Another time,’ Frølich said. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable now. ‘It was tough – I mean, seeing the ruins.’
It was dark as he drove up the mountain road towards the family chalet. The headlights caught the screens of spruce on either side, making the universe seem as if it was a narrow path enveloped by spruce walls. This was terrain with isolated houses and farms, game and bird-life. He knew that because he had been here innumerable times.
Perhaps that’s my problem. I see this case the way a driver sees reality, as objects the headlamps pick out and illuminate. Perhaps I ought to shift my perspective, find a different angle?
It was, as usual, colder inside the chalet than outside. He opened all the windows and doors to create a through-draught and change the cold air while he strolled down to the well for water. A well was probably an overstatement. It was a trickle which had been developed into a spring. He and his father had dug up turf and soil to make a hole big enough for surface water to collect after being filtered through a mound of cleansing sand. Then they had sunk a ement ring which they had bought from a farmer in the village. So they had a well one and a half metres deep, a well which never went dry. And, in addition, stayed frost-free longer than the ground surrounding it. He had cut a slate slab lid to fit on top of the cement ring, mounted hinges and a little handle. All you had to do was pull the slab to the side and drop the pail into the dark water. Crystal-clear water, full of minerals and taste.
As always, he quenched his thirst before walking back slowly with the pail.
Then he closed the doors and windows and lit the old wood burner. It would take time to heat the large space under the high ceiling. So he went out onto the veranda and unlocked the sauna. The wood stove in there would be boiling hot in less than an hour. He fetched some finely chopped birch, tore off the bark and used it to light the fire. As the flames caught hold, he put on the birch and watched it catch before closing the stove door with the draught on full. Now he just had to wait. From the veranda he looked at the water, which hadn’t frozen over yet. He went to the shed and took his fishing rod, a couple of spinners and a sheath knife. Then he ambled down to the pond to pass the time. The moon was shining like a white Chinese lantern in the sky. All the birch trees had lost their leaves. The moon reflected on the black surface of the water and the rising frost smoke. The water was probably too cold to catch any fish. Even the leaves of the pond lilies had begun to prepare for winter. He cast the line a few times, the reel squealed and the spinner broke the surface of the water like the leap of a trout. But not a bite. It didn’t matter. He continued to cast a line. The water was cold and the fish were deep. He let the spinner sink until the line was slack and looped, then wound it in slowly. This was his favourite spinner, the one with the red tassel and red spots. He reeled in, lifted the rod, threw, let the spinner sink, reeled in — and got a nibble. The powerful jerk on the rod was unmistakable. Trout. It swam off with the bait and he let it run. The line zigzagged across the water until he locked the reel and wound it in. It held. Perhaps half a kilo. Perfect size. Perfect for frying in the pan.
The fish took a decision and swam to the shore. Frølich let it swim, reeled in until there was another jerk. Thirty seconds later he hauled it onto land; it wriggled around like crazy, squirmed and leapt into a juniper bush. He placed both hands over it. Held it tight. The fish had eaten all the bait. He quickly broke its neck and weighed the fine specimen in his hand. Looking up at the moon, he realized that he had been far away – for as long as it lasted – not thinking about anything else apart from the pleasure of being here in the dark by the lake.
He headed for the chalet reckoning that the sauna was probably hot enough. But the thermometer on the sauna room wall showed only 60°C. He put on more dry birch and some spruce. Dry spruce burned like matchsticks, quickly and fiercely, with flames which would soon boost the heat. Afterwards he went to the well to collect water to pour on the stones in the sauna stove. When he next looked at the sky, it had clouded over. He stood on the veranda, sipping at half a bottle of Upper Ten whisky. The temperature in the sauna had reached 80° and the first raindrops fell.
He undressed and lay naked on the bench. The sweat poured off him. He thought about Elisabeth. Her hands which had flitted across his body like nervous squirrels. He threw water on the stones. They hissed and the steam adhered to his skin, boiling hot, smarting. But he forced himself to lie still. He watched the flames through the glass pane in the stove and thought of the flames burning the long, glowing bones. Soon he wouldn’t be able to stand any more heat. He sat up. The temperature was approaching 90° when he burst through the door and sat naked on the stump of a spruce tree in the rain. This was half the pleasure of the sauna, being rinsed down by the rain, which was a degree or two off falling as snow, but still feeling as hot as before. Rain and sweat mingle as one. The rain kept him drenched, but when he licked his arm it tasted of sweat. The raindrops ran down his body, found their way down his stomach, thighs, let go and found a resting place on the cranberry leaves. But then the wind picked up and caressed his body, a new form of well-being, reducing the temperature a tiny bit, enough for him to stand up and pick his way down to the water: the ice-cold pond, where he glided in and swam between the water-lily leaves, an undulating white monster. Cooled and shivering, he ran back on sensitive feet to the sauna and the sweltering heat. He lay down on the bench and planned the meal for afterwards: trout grilled with salt and pepper, some mushrooms he had brought with him and a little cream, then a lager or white wine from the store in the room under the floor. Lying on the bench, he thought about Elisabeth again. He should have brought her here, shown her this, because this was him, this was the existence he occasionally yearned for; where he came to find his fulfilment.

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