Authors: K.O. Dahl
Tags: #Suspense, #Crime, #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Detectives, #Police Procedural, #Police, #Oslo (Norway)
The Fourth Man (2 page)
Afterwards, alone, his head pressed against the tiles: Frank Frølich twists the tap to red and allows himself to be scalded by boiling-hot water – recalling the strange tattoo on her hip as she straddles him backwards. He cannot picture this without becoming aroused yet again, feeling the urge to do it once more, knowing that if she had walked in through the door at that moment, he would have thrown her down on the bathroom floor, or in there, over the desk – and he would have been unstoppable.
Such thoughts are a virus. In the end they disappear, but it takes time. Eventually everything passes. Three days, possibly four, a week – then the thoughts release their grip. In the end your body is left numb and begins to function normally, glad that it is over.
Six days went by. He was back in shape. But then the mobile phone on his desk bleeped. One message. He read it. A single word:
Come!
Come!
He automatically tapped in the sender’s number and sent it off to enquiries. His phone bleeped again. Another message. This time with the sender’s name and address:
Elisabeth Faremo.
Elisabeth Faremo.
Frank Frølich sat down. His body was tingling. He lifted his hand. It wasn’t shaking. Nevertheless, this woman had thrown a switch. He had assumed he was symptom-free and unaffected, assumed he had come to terms with the intoxication. But no. Bang. Feverish. Unable to think. A bundle of pent-up energy. He was charged up. As a result of one solitary word!
He sat looking at the small phone with its illuminated display. It began to vibrate in his hand. The phone rang. The same number.
‘Hi, Elisabeth,’ he said and was surprised at the clarity of his voice.
Two seconds of silence. Long enough for him to think:
Now she knows I have looked up her telephone number. She knows the effect she has on me, she knows she can throw a switch and raise my temperature to fever pitch by keying in a message.
But then came the gentle voice he had not heard for several days: ‘Where are you?’
Now she knows I have looked up her telephone number. She knows the effect she has on me, she knows she can throw a switch and raise my temperature to fever pitch by keying in a message.
But then came the gentle voice he had not heard for several days: ‘Where are you?’
‘At work.’
‘Where?’
‘Police HQ, Grønland.’
‘Oh.’
It was his turn to speak. He cleared his throat, but he had hardly drawn breath before she interrupted: ‘Don’t you have a break soon?’
‘What’s the time?’ he asked, looking at the place where the clock had been that had hung over the door until a few weeks ago but was no longer there. Just two wires protruding from the wall.
‘No idea. Around lunchtime.’
‘Where shall I pick you up?’
‘Are you driving?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be at Lisa Kristoffersens plass, near Voldsløkka.’
‘In ten minutes.’
He couldn’t think. No room in his head for anything but images: the curve of her back, the roundness of her hips, the black hair flowing across the pillow – the sapphire-blue stare.
He threw on his jacket and left. Down the stairs and into the street. He started the car and drove off. What was the time? He didn’t have a clue. He didn’t give a shit about anything in the world, concentrated simply on not hitting pedestrians. Accelerated. As he was driving down Stavangergata she appeared from nowhere, came walking towards him on the pavement. With her came the scent of late autumn, perfume and throat lozenges. She took a seat without uttering a word.
He fixed his eyes on the wing mirror. Breathing normally, despite her sweet fragrance. Cold, controlled check of the mirror. He waited until the road was clear, then signalled and drove off – conscious of her constant gaze, directed at his impassive profile. She wriggled out of her lined brown leather jacket.
Finally, after passing the turn-off for Nydalen, she broke the silence: ‘Aren’t you happy to see me?’
He stole a furtive glance at her. She was feline. Two huge blue eyes with large pupils, the look of a cat. He could feel his pulse racing. Temples pounding. But he maintained his mask. ‘Of course I am.’
‘You don’t say anything.’
Her hand over his, on the gear stick. He glanced down at the hand — the fingers, glanced at her again. ‘Hi. Nice to see you again.’ The words stuck in his throat. He was driving towards Kjelsås, Brekke and Maridalen.
What am I doing?
Lips stroking his cheek. The hand that slipped off his and under his jacket. It was as if she had filled a recently tuned engine with high-octane fuel and pressed START. His heart was beating so fast and so hard that the blood in his ears was thumping. Trees on both sides. He slowed down, drove into the lay-by, over to the copse, away from the road. Came to a halt. Put the car in neutral and let the engine idle. As he snatched another sidelong glimpse, she covered his lips with hers.
When she spoke, it was the first time for an hour: ‘Would you mind driving me somewhere?’
‘Where?’
‘Blindern.’
‘What are you going to do there?’
Wrong question. Her eyes narrowed.
The atmosphere melted away.
He breathed in and stared at the trees outside – collected himself to look at her again. The daggers in her eyes had changed into a kind of preoccupied sheen – she regarded him from inside a private room where she did not want to share anything with him. The voice from a cool, smiling mouth: ‘I’m going to look for a job.’ He pulled into the kerb and dropped her off in Moltke Moes vei. He sat watching her. A tiny amount of snow had fallen overnight; he noticed it now for the first time. The snow had melted into a slush in which her footsteps left large puddles. The woman who until a short time ago had been a very part of him was now reduced to a slight figure lifting her feet much like a cat not wanting to get its paws wet. Is it possible?
Is this small stooped figure, a mere nobody wrapped in cotton, wool and skin, is this the creature who has me totally in her power, who makes my heart pound so hard that I feel my chest will explode?
Is this small stooped figure, a mere nobody wrapped in cotton, wool and skin, is this the creature who has me totally in her power, who makes my heart pound so hard that I feel my chest will explode?
Drive! Far away! After a couple of weeks she will be forgotten, airbrushed out.
But as the slender form disappeared into the Niels Henrik Abel building he switched off the engine, opened the car door and got out. He followed her.
Why I am doing this?
But as the slender form disappeared into the Niels Henrik Abel building he switched off the engine, opened the car door and got out. He followed her.
Why I am doing this?
Because I want to know more about her.
She had continued through the building to the other side. He followed fifty metres behind her. A mini-tractor came across the snow-covered flagstones. He moved to the side and walked past students conversing in low voices in twos and threes. She went into the Sophus Bugge building. He stopped a good way behind her, observing her through the high windows as she disappeared into an auditorium.
If she was a student, what was she studying? He entered the building through the heavy doors.
He walked towards the broad door leading into the auditorium. Reidun Vestli’s name dominated the timetable. It was she who was now giving the lecture.
He took a seat outside and picked up a newspaper lying there. He was plagued by doubt. What would he do if she came out and saw him?
He closed his eyes.
I’ll tell her straight. I’ll tell her it isn’t enough to have casual sex in a parked car – I want to know who she is, what is going on in her mind, why she does what she does …
I’ll tell her straight. I’ll tell her it isn’t enough to have casual sex in a parked car – I want to know who she is, what is going on in her mind, why she does what she does …
Do you yourself know why you do what you do?
Frank Frølich sat staring blindly at the front page of the newspaper. A photograph of a military vehicle. Civilians murdered. An incident which engaged people’s attention all over the world.
Dagsavisen
had given it front-page status believing that he would care, would be lured into immersing himself in all the verbiage they managed to spawn about this incident. But he didn’t care. Nothing at all was of any significance now, nothing, except for Elisabeth, this – from where he stood – completely anonymous and rather delicate woman with the pale face, red lips and eyes of a blue he had never seen before. Her existence meant something, meant a great deal. He had no idea why. He only knew that she did something to him – physically, but also mentally, something which aroused a craving in him he had only read about, heard about, something he had never given credence to – and now he was spying on her.
Dagsavisen
had given it front-page status believing that he would care, would be lured into immersing himself in all the verbiage they managed to spawn about this incident. But he didn’t care. Nothing at all was of any significance now, nothing, except for Elisabeth, this – from where he stood – completely anonymous and rather delicate woman with the pale face, red lips and eyes of a blue he had never seen before. Her existence meant something, meant a great deal. He had no idea why. He only knew that she did something to him – physically, but also mentally, something which aroused a craving in him he had only read about, heard about, something he had never given credence to – and now he was spying on her.
He had met her three times.
That phone message:
Come!
His brain was immediately empty of all other images except those of her body – her lips, her eyes. And barely half an hour later they were caught up in a sexual intensity he had seldom experienced the like of before.
The word – did she know what she had set in motion? Was she doing it on purpose?
Come!
His brain was immediately empty of all other images except those of her body – her lips, her eyes. And barely half an hour later they were caught up in a sexual intensity he had seldom experienced the like of before.
The word – did she know what she had set in motion? Was she doing it on purpose?
At last the door opened. Out streamed a faceless mass of students. Most wearing their outdoor clothes. He looked at his watch. It was four o’clock. The lecture was over. He had butterflies in his stomach.
What if she sees me?
What if she sees me?
There were fewer and fewer students emerging now. Soon there wouldn’t be any more. Had she passed him?
Slowly Frank Frølich stood up. He walked warily towards the door and opened it.
He was at the top end of the auditorium, behind the rows of chairs looking down on the lectern. There were two people down there. Elisabeth was one of them. The other woman was talking to her in a soft voice. She was in her fifties with black hair in a kind of page-boy cut, wearing a long black dress.
They were standing very close to each other. They may have been very good friends. They could have been mother and daughter. But mothers don’t caress their daughters like that.
He was spotted.
The two women looked up at him. Both very calm, as if they were politely waiting for him to retreat. He searched for something in Elisabeth’s eyes, but he found no signs of recognition, no suggestion of guilt, no shame, nothing.
They stood like that for several seconds, three pairs of eyes meeting across rows of chairs, until he backed out and left.
From time to time he tried to see himself from the outside. Focus on the subject – which caused his cheeks to burn with anger and shame. His brain dominated by one single desire: to rewind and edit out everything, to escape such an embarrassing, abject condition. So, Elisabeth was no more than a student involved with a lecturer – who, furthermore, was a woman. Frank Frølich made up his mind: never again. Never go near her again.
But the rational voice inside him protested. Why? Because she is dangerous? Bisexual? Mysterious? Because she had pretended not to know him? Because he had been snubbed in such an ignominious way?
No, thought the scorned voice, not to be silenced. It was because she had put him in a fever. Because she had rendered him incapable of action, and weak – turned him to jelly.
When she rang him next time he didn’t answer. He sat there with the mobile phone in his hand. It vibrated as if a little heart was beating inside it. Her name glowed in the display. But he didn’t stir. Ignored it every time.
Soon she began to ring him at home.
It was a farce. Running to the phone and reading the name in the display. Not answering it if it was her. Definitely not touching the phone if it was an anonymous number. Thus he sat at home late one evening letting the phone ring and ring. He didn’t get up because it was her calling. That was how much power she had over him – even when he was alone, he struggled to extricate himself.
A week went by. Frank Frølich felt that the fever had almost run its course. It was Thursday afternoon now. He had finished work, endured the mind-numbing journey on the Metro as usual and strolled up to the front door. One of the elderly ladies living on the seventh floor of his block was going through her post box in the entrance hall. Frølich was still in his Metro state. He held open the lift door for the stooped woman, who was no different from all the other stooped women he occasionally met in the lift. As the door closed he pressed the button. He stared vacantly in front of him at the floor dividers on his way up.
He got out of the lift.
He heard the bump as it continued on its way upwards while he fumbled in his pocket for his keys.
He froze.
A tiny detail about the front door stopped him in his tracks. The peep hole in the door glowed yellow. It was usually dark. Had he forgotten to switch off the light in the hall this morning?
Finally, he slipped the key into the lock, hesitated, then turned it. The door opened without a sound. He sidled in. Closed the door quietly behind him. Held his breath. The lights in the hall, that was one thing, but the door to the living room ajar – that was quite another.
This moment was to imprint itself on his consciousness ever after.
Someone was in his flat.
He stood still, mulling the notion over and over again as his body slowly went numb, his mouth dried and he lost sensation in his hands. Without considering what he was doing, he noiselessly glided two metres across the floor to the living room door. He was no longer in control. It was as if he was watching himself from the outside: he saw himself lift one hand and cautiously place it on the door and push it open.
Sharp intake of breath. His body still numb, as though from shock.
She was sitting with her back to him. On the floor. Undressed, wearing only turquoise underwear. The delicate back bent forwards. Two prominent birthmarks beside her spine. From a distance her tattoo looked like a long, dark pen stroke. She was sitting cross-legged in front of the record player and stereo unit. She couldn’t hear him. Over her ears she wore his new headphones. The music in the room sounded like wind rustling dried leaves. She seemed very much at home. She had intruded into his space and then encapsulated herself in her own world. CDs and LPs were strewn across the floor.
His emotions formed a knot in his stomach: tension, fury, curiosity. She had forced her way into his flat – his mind raced. One thing was the physical intrusion – the practical side, her ‘actually doing it’. The other was the mental intrusion, forcing her way into his innermost sanctuary, his home – simply performing this act without asking him, usurping the right. He was unable to break the spell. A flood of emotions had him in thrall.
Perhaps it was the draught from the door, perhaps a glint in the glass door of the cabinet, but suddenly she gave a start, ripped off the headset and jumped up.
‘My God, you gave me a fright!’
The next moment she was close to him. ‘Hi.’
‘Hi to you, too.’
She looked up, sensed the agitation, the well of conflicting feelings besetting him.
‘Aren’t you just a tiny bit … happy?’
‘How did you get in?’
‘I borrowed a key.’
‘Borrowed a key?’
‘When I was here last.’
‘So you’re a thief?’
An echo of an earlier conversation. Utterly composed, she looked into his eyes and said: ‘You knew, didn’t you?’ Provocatively at first, but then she lowered her gaze – as if ashamed.
As if,
he thought repeatedly:
As if
!
he thought repeatedly:
As if
!
‘I borrowed it. From the bowl in the kitchen.’
‘Borrowed the key?’
‘Are you annoyed?’
‘Did you take the key from my kitchen last time you were here – without mentioning it to me?’
‘You’re annoyed.’
‘Far from it.’
‘You don’t like this kind of surprise?’
‘I’m not sure if “like” is the right word.’
‘I meant well, though.’
‘Why aren’t you wearing more clothes?’
Her voice darkened. ‘So you can see me better.’ She feigned a giggle when he didn’t respond.
There was an inherent vulnerability in her awkwardness. But she sensed that he noticed, and smothered this mental nakedness in a tighter embrace, quickly adding: ‘No, it wasn’t that. I took a shower. I was so cold.’ She tugged at his body and stiffened slightly when she felt his reluctance. ‘I know it was wrong. Borrowing the key without asking. Sorry.’
She let go of him and marched through the room, towards the kitchen.
Her jacket was on the chair under the window. She bent down for it, keeping her legs straight – a living pose from a glossy men’s mag. She looked through the pockets and showed him the key, flicking back her dark hair. The pearl in her navel glinted and then she was back close again. ‘I won’t ever do it again.’ Then she marched into the kitchen. He heard the key clink against the foreign coins and the odds and ends in the bowl. She straightened up, rested her head against the door frame and studied him. He had to swallow. When she moved towards him, it was as though she was walking on a catwalk, one foot in front of the other. She held his eyes the whole way. Her lips said: ‘I thought you would be happy. Probably because I like surprises myself.’ Her hand groped and she glanced up at him. ‘You
are
happy. Your body is happy.’
are
happy. Your body is happy.’
‘But how did you manage to find the right key?’
She loosened his belt, pulled his shirt loose; her fingers undid the button on his trouser waistband. The cool fingers gliding down his stomach. She stood there with her eyes closed and lowered her voice. ‘Why do you always have to talk about dreary things, Mr Grumpy?’
He relented and kissed her.
‘She’s my mentor,’ she said simply.
‘Who is what?’
‘Reidun, the lecturer at Blindern university, she’s my mentor.’
‘Now you’re talking about dreary things. Anyway, you appeared to be totally immersed in each other.’
‘She is.’
‘She is what?’
‘She’s in love with me.’ She faltered, then looked up. ‘And neither you nor I can do anything about that, can we?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘I had to listen to her. She was telling me something important. Anyway, it wasn’t very nice of you to follow me, was it?’
He held his tongue. Wasn’t sure whether it was nice or not. All the blood in his body was drawn down to her cool hand. Her lips curled into a smile as his erection grew. A smile with closed eyes; some make-up on her eyelids had dried into clumps.
She sank onto one knee. He closed his eyes and breathed in sharply. He ran his fingers through her hair. She glanced up. The rustling sound from the headset on the floor returned. He asked her: ‘Shall we go into the bedroom?’
‘Are you frightened someone will see us?’
‘I want all of you.’
He lifted her, carried her slender body, which weighed nothing at all, threw her laughing onto the bed, ripped off her underwear and grabbed her ankles. The gold ring on her big toe shone in the light of the afternoon sun coming through the window. He held her tight. She liked that, being held tight.
That night he followed her. It was almost three o’clock when she crept out. He gave her three minutes before sneaking after her. His brain was in turmoil. Part of his consciousness stretched out like a cat in the sun, remembering how she had taken what she wanted but had also given so much back. Another part of his brain sat behind a bush, suspicious, jealous, fearful that the performance was a deception. This is what drove him out into the cold autumn rain, what made him skulk along the street a hundred metres behind her, hiding in the shadows.
You’re doing this because she already had a secret plan to break into the flat when she first went there. She stole a key! She took the fucking key! And she lets herself in — as if she lived there. She speaks in codes, never talks about herself, doesn’t say what she does and avoids openness even when you ask. She plays down her relationship with the lecturer and makes up some pretext. She’s full of lies!
You’re doing this because she already had a secret plan to break into the flat when she first went there. She stole a key! She took the fucking key! And she lets herself in — as if she lived there. She speaks in codes, never talks about herself, doesn’t say what she does and avoids openness even when you ask. She plays down her relationship with the lecturer and makes up some pretext. She’s full of lies!
She walked ahead of him with long bouncing strides. Suddenly there was a vibration in his pocket. His mobile phone. He took it and looked at the display while trying to keep in the shadow of the trees shielding him from the street lights. He read: ‘Hi Frank, Thank you for a wonderful evening. Sweet dreams, kiss, Elisabeth.’ Involuntarily, he stopped. He observed the slim back well ahead of him. From a distance she seemed so delicate, so well meaning. What am I up to? Following a woman who has given me the night of my life! You know where she lives. She’s on her way home.
Standing there in the dripping rain, mobile in hand, he came to. He looked up. She was gone. He jogged down Ryenbergveien. At the bottom he caught sight of her figure again. A taxi with an illuminated light on the roof passed him. It was on its way towards her. He hid as she turned towards the taxi. It slowed down but continued on past her as she made no move to flag it down. So she was telling the truth. She had felt like walking, not getting home quickly.
He was taken aback when he saw the complex of flats where she lived. Even more taken aback when he read the names by the doorbells. More than taken aback. He was stunned.
Elisabeth and Jonny Faremo.
Elisabeth and Jonny Faremo.
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