Authors: K.O. Dahl

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

The Fourth Man (20 page)

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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Frank Frølich was in his car reading the report on the 1998 Narvesen burglary.
The great mystery
, he thought, putting down the papers and starting the engine to keep warm. A break-in. Five hundred thousand kroner in a small safe. The thieves hadn’t managed to open the safe in the house, so they took it with them. They stole the safe from a house in Ulvøya. What had struck him at the time was how
clean
the whole job had been: nothing else stolen, no silver, no jewellery, not a scratch on the Bang & Olufsen hi-fi, no fancy ornaments touched, no vandalism, no tagging, no crapping in jam jars or thieves’ other original calling cards. Only the safe was spirited away, containing half a million NOK. Serious enough or unusual enough for the investigating team – himself included – to form alternative hypotheses, such as Narvesen making up the whole thing for a potential insurance payout. But since there were no specific items in the safe, the contents were not insured. There was only cash in it, and Ilijaz Zupac had been identified coming out of the house that night – as one of a group of many. And where had Narvesen been that night? Far away. He had been on holiday — according to the report —on the Mauritius islands.

He called to mind his thoughts in 1998. First of all, the break-in had to be genuine. As luck would have it, a vigilant neighbour had been alerted by the unusual activity in Narvesen’s garden and his house, which she knew to be empty. She had called the police, who arrived too late. Later, from the files of photos, she pointed out Zupac as one of the men she saw getting in the car which drove away. Frank Frølich had thought at the time that the burglary must have been an inside job.
Someone
must have known about the money,
someone
must have known where the safe was
and
the same person must have known Narvesen was away, thus the coast was clear. However, the arrested man, Zupac, hadn’t uttered a word, neither about the robbery nor about his accomplices.

Frank Frølich took a decision: he put the car into gear and drove off. It was a dark December afternoon. Cloud cover over the Ekeberg Ridge resembled a heap of discarded oily rags. He took Mosseveien to Ulvøya, not knowing whether Narvesen would be at home or what he could say to the man.

Driving across Ulvøya bridge, he passed an elderly man in a beret and a woollen coat fishing from the bridge. That, Frølich reckoned, could be one approach – cast a line into the water and just stand in the cold with your mind in observer mode.

Frølich swung into Måkeveien, braked and parked behind a Porsche Carrera. He surveyed the sleek car, thinking:
If this
car belongs to Narvesen, he’s a bigger buffoon than I took him for.
The house behind the fence was large and detached, post-war, with a huge injection of cash at a later point. He opened the wrought-iron gate, walked up to Narvesen’s front door and rang the bell. Loud barking from inside. A woman’s voice shouted something. Next there was the sound of claws on the parquet flooring. The door opened. A woman in her thirties with long, raven-black hair, an oriental appearance and a smile worthy of a film extra in Hollywood. She had a distinctive three-centimetre-long scar running from her chin to her cheek. It did not mar her face in any way; it was the kind of mark which invited you to look twice, which lent her appearance a touch of mystery, even of mysticism. The dog she was restraining was a delicate-looking, lean English setter. It wagged its tail and wanted all the attention.

‘Yes?’ the woman said, and to the dog: ‘Come on, now. You’ve said hello, you can relax now. Come on, in you go!’ She grabbed the dog’s collar and lifted it more than pushed it behind the wide door, which she closed afterwards. ‘Yes?’ she repeated in a friendly voice. ‘How can I help?’

Frank Frølich thought she matched the Porsche. He said, and it was the truth: ‘I’m a policeman. I once investigated a burglary here, about six years ago.’

‘Inge isn’t at home right now.’

‘That’s a shame.’

The dog was growling behind the door. Its paws were scratching.

She smiled again. The little scar at the corner of her mouth retreated inside a dimple. ‘He’s only being playful. What did you do to yourself?’

Frølich fingered the contusions on his face and said: ‘Accident at work. When will he be back?’

‘At about eight.’

They stood looking at each other. She made a gesture to conclude the conversation and go into the house.

‘Are you his partner or …?’

‘Partner,’ she nodded. She stretched out a slim hand: ‘Emilie.’

‘Frank Frølich.’

He didn’t mention the reason for his visit. She was only wearing light clothes, her legs bare, sandals. She must have been freezing standing there like that.

As if she had read his thoughts, she gave a little shiver. ‘Shame he wasn’t in since you’ve made the effort.’ She lowered her gaze. ‘Is there a message, a telephone number – ?’

‘No, no,’ Frank Frølich and went straight to the point. ‘The money that was taken at that time has reappeared, but he knows all about that. I just had a few questions. Do you know anything about the matter?’

She shook her head. ‘Inge and I go back only two years. You should really talk to him.’

‘He was in Mauritius when it happened,’ Frølich said. ‘On holiday. You don’t know if he was travelling alone or if he was with someone, do you?’

Her facial expression was more strained than friendly now: ‘I know nothing about such things. Sorry.’

‘Well, I can come back later,’ Frølich said and left. By the garden gate, he looked back. She hadn’t moved from the spot; she had been staring at him the whole time. The dog behind the door was forgotten. She must have forgotten she was freezing cold too, he thought.

Gunnarstranda arrived late for their dinner date, as always. They had agreed to meet at Restaurant Sushi in Torggata. Tove loved sushi; didn’t want anything else except sushi — sometimes. The restaurant was tucked away on the first floor of the most ethnic street in Oslo. That was why she preferred to eat here. The food was exactly as it was in Japan. However, unlike in the sushi restaurants in Aker Brygge or Frogner, the guests here were real people – in fact, it was very difficult to spot brokers with a Dow Jones complex or hip-looking youths dreaming of a role as an extra in a commercial.

He looked at his watch. This was a little competition between them. Ten minutes late. He went up the wooden stairs, through the door on the first floor and looked around. She wasn’t there. He gestured to the head waiter, a Japanese-looking man in black. ‘A window table reserved for seven o‘clock,’ he said, hanging up his coat. This was her game. He had no idea whether she had reserved the table, or under whose name. He knew only one thing: when they ate ethnic food, she would never reserve a table under his name.

The head waiter consulted the book. ‘Rarsen? Table for four?’

Gunnarstranda shook his head.

‘Table for two? Kar Rinaeus?’

Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘Carl Linnaeus. Has the lady arrived?’

‘Not yet.’ The man picked up two menus and led the way into the room.

He had hardly sat down and ordered when Tove came through the door. A second later she was by his table, bringing with her a waft of cold winter air.

‘Sorry, but I couldn’t find anywhere to park.’

‘So you won this time, too.’

She grinned and took a seat.

‘I’ve ordered,’ he said.

They gazed at each other. She observed him with laughter in her eyes – when she was like this she could always force a self-deprecating slant on life out of him.

‘The reference to a botanist … does that mean you’re going to be Helen Keller next time?’ he asked.

‘Do I look like Helen Keller?’

‘Do I look like Carl Linnaeus?’

‘You sound like him sometimes. Apart from that, I thought you would be flattered.’

The waiter came with the trays of sushi.

‘There would be a closer resemblance if you did something about your hair. You could buy a periwig instead of combing your hair like that,’ she said. ‘Periwigs with a pigtail are sexy.’

‘I might look more like Linnaeus,’ he said. ‘But I wouldn’t be any sexier.’

She grinned again.

‘Well, you can say who you’re going to be next time.’

‘No, you choose.’ She smiled playfully, because she knew he didn’t like games like this.

‘Meryl Streep,’ he said.

‘Thank you, but I don’t think the head waiter will believe you,’ she said. ‘Anyway, why aren’t you eating? Aren’t you hungry?’

He looked at the red salmon covering the cylinder of rice he was holding in his hand. The similarity was intimidating. ‘Kalfatrus died yesterday,’ he said, peering up.
Big mistake
, he reflected.

Tove was out of control. She was laughing so much she was gasping for air.

Frank Frølich found Inge Narvesen’s private telephone number on the Internet. When it was eight o’clock, he waited for another half an hour and then rang.

‘Emilie speaking.’

‘It’s me again. Frølich, the policeman.’

A hand was placed over the receiver. Mumbling voices in the background. Emilie came back. ‘Inge is a little busy. Can he phone you back?’

‘It’ll take two seconds.’

Hand over the receiver again. More mumbling. Then an irate man’s voice:

‘What do you want?’

‘There were just a couple of things I wanted to ask about the burglary six years ago.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Just a couple of things to clear up.’

‘You’re on leave. Whatever you may find unclear is of absolutely no interest to me.’

‘It’s simply a matter of clarifying things which may cast light on …’

‘It is not. It is a matter of you sneaking around my neighbourhood and harassing a person I care for.’

‘Harassing?’

‘Asking Emilie questions about things she cannot possibly know. On top of that, you make insinuations.’

‘What I’m trying to do is view the burglary in the light of the reappearance of the money.’

‘Wrong,’ Narvesen said curtly. ‘And now I think it’s time to bring this conversation to a close.’

‘If you would let me finish. The stolen money turned up in the possession of someone who was not investigated at the time of the burglary. It means the burglary can be cleared up now …’

‘You’re working in a private capacity without the power to prosecute and this
case has been closed.
’

‘Where do you get that from?’

‘Your boss. And, Frølich, let’s not mince words. The sole purpose of this conversation is that you take note of the following: STAY AWAY FROM MY HOUSE.’

‘The break-in was too clean a job,’ Frølich persisted. ‘Nothing was stolen, nothing in your house was touched.’

The line went quiet.

‘Someone knew about the money, knew where it was and knew the house was empty. That means someone gave Ilijaz and his gang the information and they struck while you were away.’

‘Where do you live, Officer Frølich?’

‘Where do
I
live?’

He said nothing. Narvesen had put the phone down.

Frank Frølich stood gaping at the wall. These were not the best terms to part on. But there was no point ringing again.

As he was going to bed that night he sat down and looked at the pillow beside his own. Elisabeth’s long, black hair contrasted with the whiteness of the pillow.
A book of poetry
, he thought,
a bookmark, a hair
. He opened the book at the same place:
I forget no one.
He took the hair, lifted it up and laid it carefully on the page like a fine bookmark. He thought:
long bones in a burned-out chalet
. He tried to picture her face. But the image had faded.
I’m a sentimental idiot
, he thought, and went to the bathroom.

While he was cleaning his teeth, the doorbell rang.

He met his own eyes in the mirror, turned off the tap and put down the toothbrush. Checked his watch: it was past midnight.

The bell rang again.

He walked into the hall and squinted through the peephole. No one there. He opened the door. No one there. He went to the door leading to the stairwell. He opened this door too. No one there, either.

He listened but heard nothing.

He went back to his flat.
Probably some young brats ringing the bell and then running off Except for one thing. It’s past midnight.
He stared at the button which opened the front door downstairs, but hesitated. Instead he took the intercom phone and said: ‘Hello?’

Nothing. Just crackling noises.

He hung up the internal phone, went into the living room and looked out. If anyone was down at the bottom, it would be impossible to see them from up here. Outside, everything seemed normal: parked cars, sporadic traffic on Ring 3 further away. But in the line of parked cars he could see a pair of red lights glowing. An engine was idling.

It didn’t necessarily mean anything, but he went into the bedroom anyway and took the binoculars from the cupboard. The car was a Jeep Cherokee, but the registration plate wasn’t visible. And the windows were matt, impenetrable surfaces.

He put it out of his mind, finished cleaning his teeth and went to lie down. He lay looking at the ceiling until he could feel tiredness gradually catching up with him. He turned off the light and lay on his side.

Then the telephone rang.

He opened his eyes, contemplated the dark and listened to the phone ringing endlessly. In the end, he reached out his arm and lifted the receiver. ‘Hello.’

Silence.

‘Hello,’ he said once more.

There was a crackle until whoever it was at the other end cut the connection.

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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