Authors: K.O. Dahl

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

The Fourth Man (17 page)

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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‘That’s how it usually is.’

‘So we’ve got a few thousand banks to choose from and a few hundred thousand safety-deposit boxes,’ Frølich burst out dejectedly.

Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘It’s not meant to be simple.’

‘But why don’t the banks mark their keys?’

Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘I assume because having a safety-deposit box is a fairly solemn business. When I acquired one all those years ago I was provided with two keys and informed that the bank didn’t have any copies. If I wanted to authorize someone to open the box, it would have to be registered in the bank’s own authorization register.’

‘But what the hell am I supposed to do with the key if it’s not possible to find out which bank or safety-deposit box it belongs to?’

Gunnarstranda smirked and said: ‘Where has the key come from?’

‘She left it at my place.’

‘Who did?’

‘Elisabeth.’

‘Sure?’

‘A hundred per cent.’

‘The odds are that the key was issued to either Elisabeth Faremo or someone in her circle — Jonny Faremo, for example. Perhaps to both of them. The only snag you might encounter is that there is no central register of holders of safety-deposit boxes — something you would definitely be glad of in other situations.’

Frølich sipped his whisky while the other detective brooded.

‘You said you found a tattoo parlour in Askim where someone had decorated Elisabeth Faremo’s hips?’

Frølich nodded.

‘Did you find that out on your own?’

‘Of course.’

‘What made you search there – in Askim?’

‘Because Jonny Faremo was found dead in Askim.’

‘Would you be interested to know that Ilijaz Zupac once lived there?’

‘Where?

‘In Askim.’ When Gunnarstranda saw the bewilderment in the other’s eyes, he added: ‘I took the trouble to do a little digging around Ilijaz Zupac. He went to the FE College in Askim and took the basic mechanics course. In the seventies his father was working at the rubber-goods factory in Askim. There must have been a whole colony of Yugoslav immigrants there.’

‘Yugoslav?’

‘This was before Tito’s death and the Balkan wars. These Yugoslavs are now Croats, Bosnians, Serbs and Montenegrins. Where Zupac’s parents came from, only he knows. They’re both dead. However, he has Norwegian nationality and he did the basic and the advanced course at this college from 1989 to 1991. He’s a qualified panel-beater and was working in that capacity at the garage where you arrested him.’

Gunnarstranda motioned towards the key. ‘I have a safety-deposit box in Den norske Bank NOR in Grefsen. As I said, the keys are very similar.’

‘You mean we should go to Grefsen and try all the safety-deposit boxes there?’

Gunnarstranda shook his head. He said: ‘Faremo was killed in Askim, his sister got a tattoo in Askim, her ex-lover has lived in Askim. And I happen to know there is a branch of DnB there.’

They both lapsed into silence. Frølich was still holding the key in his outstretched hand. ‘It’s worth a stab,’ he said.

‘But it has to be done officially.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘I’ll have to use the case I’m investigating. I’ll call in Jim Rognstad and Vidar Ballo for more questioning about the Arnfinn Haga murder – and about the death of Elisabeth Faremo. I have a strong suspicion that neither of the two will turn up. If they don’t, there’s nothing to stop me –’ Gunnarstranda was tapping his chest with his forefinger ‘– from confronting the employees of the Askim branch of DnB –’ he leaned forward and snatched the key out of Frølich’s hand ‘– with this key.’ He put it in his pocket. ‘From now on you and I are playing in the same team on this case,’ he concluded. ‘I assume you’ll be making it into work tomorrow.’

Frølich deliberated. He didn’t like the direction Gunnarstranda’s outline of events was taking. He said: ‘What if the key doesn’t fit?’

‘Then you’ve got something to work on in the days to come.’

Frølich stood up. He put out his hand.

Gunnarstranda glanced up. ‘What is it now?’

‘The key. If this is supposed to be official, it will have to be official. I’ll hand it in tomorrow.’

After leaving Gunnarstranda, he decided to go from Bjølsen to the city centre on foot. He strolled along the pavement by the timber houses in Maridalsveien and took a left turn down by the old mill on the Akerselva. The bridge over the waterfall was illuminated now in the dark. He wandered over the bridge past the Hønse-Lovisa house and on to Grünerløkka. He had to think. Gunnarstranda’s snatching the key out of his hand had irritated him. But what did this emotion signify? Was it a kind of ingrown allergy to being given orders? To handing over the key and being obliged to go to work tomorrow, clean-shaven and properly breakfasted, ready to conform religiously to all the rules and regulations? Perhaps that was the cause of his irritation: the fact that he was disqualified by his personal involvement and this would make further work on the case difficult. So perhaps he wasn’t ready to go to work yet. The key weighed heavily in his trouser pocket. It had been left in his flat by
her
. This key was
his
. And this pressure from Gunnarstranda to go to work, to perform his function in the orchestra and allow himself to be conducted, he wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Not
yet
.

Autumn chose this night to demonstrate its damp side. The streetlamps in Birkelunden had an orange aura in the mist. A man wearing a parka and pyjama trousers was taking his dog for a walk. A dark car drove slowly past. Frank Frølich quickened his step, heading for Grønland Metro station.

He caught the last train. It was about one o’clock at night. He still wasn’t sure whether to go to work or not. For one thing, he would have to be up in a few hours. And for another he would have to tolerate the looks, the silence and the unspoken — not just for a whole day but every single day from now on. Would he
ever
be able to get back into the swing of police work?

He got off at Ryen station and walked slowly down Havreveien. The weather had become even milder. It was drizzling. He stopped – held the palm of his hand out to feel the drops falling. But he didn’t feel anything.

He heard the motorbike, but didn’t see it. He only felt himself flying through the air. Then the cold, wet, hard tarmac as his hands broke his fall. He didn’t feel the crack on his head either. But he heard it and it stunned him. As the air was knocked out of his lungs, he saw the rear lights of the motorbike. The powerful figure in the leathers and helmet rested the bike on its side-stand. He had been run over. The air had rushed against his face as he flew.
The man had run into him deliberately
. He tried to get up, but was too slow. A kick and he was down again. The man with the motorbike helmet was holding something in his hand. A voice in his head screamed:
Get to your feet! Run!
But his legs crumbled. He held his hands over his head as the man struck. Everything went black and he could feel hands groping his body. He lay there with his eyes closed and everything was still. He blinked but couldn’t see. He dabbed his face with his hand. Wet.
Blood
.
You have to get help!
He dragged himself up on all fours, but passed out and collapsed in a heap. He ran his hand over his face again, caught a brief glimpse of the street and the parked cars. The motorbike started up. The red rear light and the exhaust. The outline of a rider who didn’t look back. He managed to crawl. Slowly he clambered up onto the pavement as the sound of the motorbike faded into the distance. His clothes were soaked. He leaned back against a parked car. He felt his scalp with his fingers, found the wound and took his fingers away. He patted his pockets. The wallet was there.
What had he stolen?
He knew the answer and didn’t bother to check his pocket. Instead he searched for his mobile phone. No one would have seen anything here between the blocks of flats. He would have to call emergency services himself.

It wasn’t yet five o’clock in the morning. Gunnarstranda hadn’t eaten, hadn’t had a cup of coffee. He was irritated and irascible. Not even the sight of his sorry-looking colleague sitting beside him in the car could lift him. Frølich had been bandaged up with all the expertise at the disposal of Oslo Accident and Emergency Department, but was still in shock from the attack and stank of beer and vomit.

‘Didn’t you even catch a glimpse of his registration number?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘No idea who it was?’

‘No.’

‘You said it was just one man. Are you sure there weren’t more?’

‘I’m not sure, but I think there was only one man.’

‘And he took the key. That was bloody clever of you to take it with you.’

Frølich didn’t reply.

‘The thing that disturbs me most is the fact that they knew when to strike.’

‘What do you mean?’

Gunnarstranda opened the car door and said: ‘Come on.’ He half-guided and half-supported the heavy Frølich out through the door of the Skoda and into the entrance of the apartment building. It was morning. A newspaper boy on his bike rattled past. A man who came shooting out of a door stared wide-eyed at Frølich’s distressed condition.

They stumbled into the lift. The door closed with a bang and the lift jolted into action.

Frølich repeated: ‘What do you mean?’

Gunnarstranda narrowed his eyes with annoyance. ‘Do you think I’m daft, Frølich? These men struck tonight, pinched the key but didn’t touch your money, your phone or your watch. How could they know you had the key on you? They haven’t made a move before tonight. I didn’t talk to anyone about the key. If you want any sympathy from me in this case, I want to know how they knew that tonight of all nights was the time to attack.’

‘There was just one man. I suggest you ask him.’

‘Bloody hell, you’re pathetic.’

Frølich went quiet. The lift stopped. Gunnarstranda pushed open the door. They went out. Frølich searched his pockets for his bunch of keys, found it and opened the door.

‘You were allowed to keep
those
keys then?’

Frølich glared at him. ‘I haven’t got anything to offer you, I’m afraid.’ He sank down into the sofa.

Gunnarstranda stood in the doorway. His eyes were aflame. ‘You came to me with the key for help. You serve me up some idiotic justification for wanting to take the key with you. Then you almost get yourself killed, only to ring me and wake me up instead of calling emergency services. Well, you got some help. But if deep down you’re the man I take you for, and you still want my help, I have to bloody know what you’ve been up to!’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘And why can’t you tell me?’

Frølich went quiet again. He put a cushion behind his neck.

‘Answer me! Why can’t you?’

Frølich closed both eyes and let out a heavy sigh. ‘Before going to yours last night I went to the club where Merethe Sandmo used to work. I talked to someone working there, a woman.’

‘A woman.’ Gunnarstranda pulled a face, as if he had been eating lemons. ‘A woman,’ he repeated with revulsion. ‘What is it with you and women?’

‘Wait a moment – she put me onto Ilijaz Zupac. I went there a few days ago on a pure hunch and had his name presented on a silver platter. And yes, I went back there last night. But she’d been told to keep away from me. I took a risk. Thought I could smoke them out by asking her to tell these people – no idea who they are – that I had the key. She must have done that, at least it wasn’t very long before the motorbike smacked into me.’

‘What’s the lady’s name?’

‘No idea.’

‘Frølich!’

‘It’s true, I don’t know. She’s got red hair, or black hair dyed red, a pretty fiddly hairstyle – you know, Afro locks and so on. She’s about twenty-eight, give or take the odd year. But what’s more important is that the banks open soon.’

‘I knew it,’ Gunnarstranda said, exasperated. ‘You think I’m stupid.’

Frølich breathed out.

Gunnarstranda turned in the doorway and said: ‘I’ve thought a lot about the work we’ve done together, Frølich, and it’s gone well. I sort of thought we complemented each other. But now – it’s no good you keeping things to yourself and going round behaving like an idiot. There are too many dead people in this case: Arnfinn Haga, Jonny Faremo and Elisabeth Faremo. Add the academic at Blindern who killed herself and we’re up to four. You’re a policeman. I would never have believed I would see you lying there with one foot in the grave or that you’d be telling me tales during an investigation.’

‘I would never have believed it either,’ Frølich said. ‘But I know who it was,’ he mumbled.

Gunnarstranda shook his head. ‘Even if we’ve arrested a man on a motorbike before, it’s not certain he was the one who knocked you down.’

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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