The Fourth Man (25 page)

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Authors: K.O. Dahl

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

BOOK: The Fourth Man
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Frank Frølich was searching for the note she had slipped into his hand. Finally he found it crumpled up in the back pocket of a pair of trousers in the dirty-linen basket in the bathroom. Her telephone number was written in large figures. The eight was two neatly drawn circles, one on top of the other.
What does handwriting tell you about personality
? He rang the number.
‘Hello, this is Vibeke and I’m a bit busy. Leave your number and I’ll ring you back in a moment.’
Now, at least, I know what your name is
. He waited patiently for the tone. ‘Hello, Vibeke, this is me, Frank. Thank you for everything. Hope you have some time for …’
He didn’t get any further. She had picked up the receiver. ‘Hello, Frank. Nice of you to ring.’
‘I felt like talking to you,’ he said.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he said.
She left the question unanswered and he let the silence drag on.
‘Are you there?’
‘Shall we meet up?’ he asked.
‘Right now I’m a bit busy. But otherwise any time. I usually get up at about twelve.’
He looked at his watch. It was afternoon. ‘What about one o‘clock tomorrow?’ he suggested. ‘Lunch?’
‘You can have lunch and I’ll have breakfast. Where?’
Frølich racked his brains for names of cafés and chose the first one that occurred to him: ‘At the Grand?’
‘Cool. I haven’t been to the Grand since I had a French vanilla slice with my grandmother there at least fifteen years ago.’
Lena Stigersand carried in a heavy pile of papers and asked: ‘Where can I put these?’
Absentmindedly, Gunnarstranda glanced up.
‘Where?’ she repeated.
He nodded towards the table in the corner. She staggered across.
At that moment the phone rang. Gunnarstranda took it. It was Yttergjerde.
‘Things are beginning to move, Gunnarstranda!’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Didn’t find a painting.’
‘You didn’t expect to, did you?’
‘Nope. I’ve just got back from searching the broker’s offices, Inar A/S. The five million in cash. He claimed he’d put it in a filing cabinet drawer, didn’t he?’
‘You mean to say he didn’t have the money in a drawer?’
‘Right.’
‘Well,’ Gunnarstranda said, looking at his watch. ‘He owes us an explanation.’
He put down the phone and rocked back on his chair.
Lena Stigersand, who had her back to him as she tidied the papers, glanced over her shoulder. ‘You look happy. Indictment on the way?’
Gunnarstranda pulled his fingers until the joints cracked. ‘Juicy grilled investor marinated in murder and seasoned with money-laundering!’ He grinned. ‘My goodness, there are times when I adore this job. It’s going to be bloody awful being retired!’
Gunnarstranda sat working into the evening. One by one, the others went home. He had a dinner date at home with Tove. She had asked him to come at eight and he had nothing else to do to kill the intervening time. When he finally craned his neck to check the clock, he saw Frølich’s jacket hanging over the back of a chair by the door. He stood up and opened the door.
‘Frølich?’
Frølich turned round from the photocopier and said: ‘Time to draw in my oars now. It’s late.’
Gunnarstranda put on his coat and said: ‘Thought you left ages ago.’
He observed his younger colleague as he went to collect his jacket and straightened the scarf round his neck. He said: ‘How long have we been working together, Frølich?’
The latter shrugged. ‘Ten years? Twelve? Thirteen? No, I can’t remember. Why?’
It was Gunnarstranda’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
Frølich said: ‘I’m off then.’
‘I’m off too.’
They stood looking at each other again. ‘Something up?’ Frølich enquired.
‘In your view, should we have done anything differently?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Do you think we’ve left anything undone – in this case?’
‘Should have been more on our toes with regard to Narvesen maybe?
‘We’ve had him under surveillance for several days,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He hasn’t been for a leak without it being noted down. According to reports Narvesen does nothing in the evening. He stays at home. Sometimes goes into the cellar. That’s all.’
‘Carpentry?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘What about Emilie?’
‘Emilie?’
‘His partner, Vietnamese-looking, attractive girl.’
‘Her with the Porsche? She’s a spinning instructor and is rarely at home.’
‘What’s a spinning instructor?’
‘She drives to a fitness studio four nights a week, sits on an exercise bike in front of a load of other exercise bikes and then they pedal away to music while the floozy howls into the mike urging them on.’
‘Oh.’
They left the building together. Neither of them said anything. They stopped outside and looked at each other again.
Gunnarstranda cleared his chest. ‘Ri-ght,’ he said. ‘Have a good weekend.’
Frølich nodded in response. ‘Have a good weekend.’
Tove had made lamb stew. It was his favourite. The food had the aromas of his childhood. Sunday lunches when he was a boy and the whole block could smell what was being cooked. The quarrels between him and his brother for the best bits of meat when the pot was passed around for seconds. But he didn’t say that. He had said it before. Several times. The fact that she had cooked this meal was Tove’s homage to precisely that nostalgia.
They had eaten, washed the meal down with a red wine she had chosen, a strong spicy Italian number of the Barolo variety, and they were now sharing the remainder. Louis Armstrong was singing ‘Makin’ Whoopee’ on the stereo. Gunnarstranda observed Tove as she sat in the armchair deep in thought.
He said: ‘What are you thinking about?’
She said: ‘A patient. Vidar. He’s crazy … no, he probably isn’t out-and-out crazy, but he’s one of our residents at the nursing home, poor boy. Barely thirty. He’s so thin and his face is always twisted, staring diagonally up into the air, his mouth open, holding the lobe of his ear with one hand. His mother said he was listening to God’s voice.’
‘Terrible,’ Gunnarstranda said and took a sip.
‘If you close your eyes, does everything go black?’ she asked.
He closed his eyes: ‘No, there’s a yellow flicker and I can see stars.’
‘Not everyone sees stars, but many people can see a sort of yellow in the dark. However, if you concentrate, look straight ahead with closed eyes, the flicker you see focuses into a centre, a point of light somewhere between your eyes, and if you look harder, this point will be a part of a large black eye. That’s your third eye looking at you.’
Gunnarstranda closed his eyes, raised his glass and drank. ‘An eye? Who’s looking at me inside my head?’
‘It’s God.’
‘Who says it’s God?’
‘Vidar.’
‘The crazy young man?’
‘Mm.’
‘Maybe he has a point. Would you like some more wine?’
‘OK, if you tell me what you’re thinking about.’
‘Be bold, fair maiden, but not too bold.’
‘Doesn’t that come from a fairy tale?’
‘Probably.’
‘Come on, no wriggling out of it,’ Tove said, getting up, fetching another bottle from the cabinet and opening it.
‘Wriggling out of what?’
‘Out of telling me what you’re thinking.’
‘I was thinking that I was looking for two people for murder.’
Tove filled both glasses and said: ‘Don’t you do that every day?’
Gunnarstranda pointed his forefinger at the stereo. It was Ella Fitzgerald singing the first lines of ‘Autumn in New York’.
They both listened.
‘This time it was you who interrupted me,’ he said after a while.
‘Me – and Ella.’
‘The two people are under investigation for killing a security man, Arnfinn Haga, and for arson with murder.’
‘What kind of people are they?’
‘A lingerie model, twenty-nine years old, and a criminal on a disability allowance who has spent five-eighths of his life in the slammer.’
‘But why are you thinking about them?’
‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’
They went quiet again. Ella handed over the microphone to Louis Armstrong.
Tove took a seat beside him on the sofa. She rested her head against his shoulder. They remained like that in the half-light. Car headlamps sent yellow rectangles across the ceiling as they rounded the bend outside. As Louis Armstrong blew his horn through the loudspeakers.
 
It was like a scene from a B-movie. It was evening. The slim, blackhaired woman bounced on her high heels through the wrought-iron gate to the low-slung car. Her outline was silhouetted against the street lamp further away. She got in. The car door closed quietly and firmly. The engine growled like an unhurried, replete wild animal as the car drove away. Frølich watched the red rear lights. He had plenty of time. He was patient. Through the garden gate he went, off the shingle path, onto the lawn. A dog inside began to bark. He went on, undeterred. Crouched under an old apple tree, waiting. A shadow appeared in the window. Someone peeped out into the dark. The dog continued to yelp. Finally, the shadow moved away. Eventually, the dog quietened down. Frank Frølich wondered about the dog. The twitchy, lean setter.
What exactly is it I’m after? Why am I crouching here?
He blinked dry eyes in the dark. Blinked away his self-criticism, doubts, misgivings.
It was cold. The sky was black, no stars, no moon. The chill air augured snow. Frølich waited by his post as if hunting elk: stationary, eyes skinned for movement. After an hour the light went on in the cellar. Frølich glanced at his watch and made up his mind. Seven minutes. The light in the cellar window was still on. Another light went on in one of the basement windows. Four minutes passed. No more lights. Five minutes. The second hand crawled round. He was breathing faster. Six minutes. He straightened up. Had to control himself not to leap forward and knock down the door, not to hyperventilate. Seven minutes. He loped across the lawn, ran up the steps and rang three times. The dog began to bark. He ran down the steps again. Rounded the corner of the house, onto the veranda – without making a sound. He checked his watch again.
Relax! Breathe
. The dog had made its way to the veranda window. The bared red gums and white teeth drooled and yapped behind the transparent curtain. He could hear footsteps on the cellar stairs. A voice was scolding the dog, which continued barking madly. He waited for the front door to open. When the light from the door opening hit the opposite side of the lawn, he kicked in the glass door. As he kicked at the fragments of glass, he heard the man swear. The dog snapped at his foot. Frølich kicked it and sent it sprawling and whimpering. He was inside. The man came from the hall towards him. His face met Frølich’s fist straight on. Frølich didn’t say a word. Just lashed out. He got the man on the floor, rolled him onto his stomach, held his hands firmly in place with his knees and reached for the plastic strips in his belt. The dog was at him again. It barked and snarled ferociously, and snapped at his ribs. Frølich punched it and it flew across the floor. Then he tied the man’s hands with the strips. He stood up. Now it was the dog’s turn. It came bounding towards him. He grabbed it in mid-flight and squeezed its snout shut so firmly that it squealed; it was close to suffocating. The dog’s hind legs gave way as it hit the floor. Then he let go. The dog crawled under the table with its tail between its legs.
He surveyed the surroundings: the man on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. He was abusive, but Frølich didn’t listen. There was a fire in the hearth. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Otherwise the room was conspicuous for the heavy furniture and pictures on the wall.
Why am I doing this?
He strode to the front door. The man had left it open; he closed and locked it. He found the stairs leading to the first floor and ran up. Narvesen’s yelling resounded behind him. He was sweating. Came out into a narrow corridor. Opened a door. A bathroom. Another door. Bedroom. Another door. Office. Desk drawers, papers. Slammed the drawers shut. Sneering laughter. From downstairs.
He hasn’t run away. But he didn’t follow me either. So I won’t find anything here.
He charged back down the stairs. Narvesen’s laughter died in his mouth. Sitting on the floor. His eyes defiant, semi-triumphant, glared past him. He followed Narvesen’s eyes. A door. He turned. Walked to the door. Narvesen screamed again, louder, uglier.
The door led to the cellar. He went down. It was a crude cellar. It smelt damp. Walls and floor of grey concrete. There was the hum of a freezer. He went on, past the freezer, through a door. The wine cellar. Small niches had been embedded in the wall, each containing a couple of hundred dark bottles on their sides. He walked through the next doorway. This was the boiler room. An enormous steel tank covered almost one wall. A modern boiler on the opposite wall. Pipes running off in every possible direction. He was sweating. Wiped his forehead. He could hear soft violins and followed the sound. The boiler began to roar. There was a click as the burner lit the flames. He went on, through the furthest low door, and entered a furnished room. It was small and dominated by an Italian designer chair, the reclining kind. A mini-stereo was playing something which reminded him of Mozart. A drinks bar. Half a bottle of Camus VSOP, a single glass. And in front of the chair a safe. The safe door was open. Inside the safe, a painting. Frank Frølich bent down.
‘Don’t touch.’
Frølich straightened up. Narvesen’s voice was clear and razorsharp. It felt like waking from a dream. He turned.
Inge Narvesen, his hands tied behind his back, stood in the doorway. His face was smeared with blood.
Frølich took the painting.
‘Put it down.’
‘Why?’
They glared at each other.
‘You’re a nobody,’ Narvesen hissed. ‘After this you’re a nothing.’
‘I’ve heard,’ Frølich said, ‘that you’re vindictive. But you’re too late. You ruined your chance when you set fire to my chalet. Now it’s my turn.’
Narvesen supported himself on the wall. His face slid into shadow; his eyes became two narrow, moist slits.
Frølich studied the picture. It was bigger than he had imagined. A wide frame. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said, pointing to the steps. ‘
Après vous
.’
‘Put back the picture first.’
‘I make the decisions here.’
‘Haven’t you understood yet? You’re nothing. Tomorrow you’ll be out of the force. You, a policeman? That’s just a joke …’
Frølich blinked.
Narvesen, his head jutting forward aggressively, came towards him with a rolling gait.
Frølich blinked again. He saw his own hand shoot forward. ‘Up there!’ Narvesen toppled against the wall. Frølich grabbed the bottle of cognac and held it up. Narvesen wasn’t aggressive any longer.
‘Careful with the picture!’
‘Get upstairs!’
Narvesen staggered up the stairs with his hands behind his back. One shoulder hit the wall and he had to struggle to retain his balance.
‘Keep moving!’
They stood on opposite sides of the fireplace. Frølich was having difficulty breathing normally. He blinked the haze out of his eyes. Between his hands: a piece of wood. An unusually wide gold picture frame surrounding a small motif. A woman with a headscarf holding a small fat child with curly hair.
So that’s what it looks like
. He concentrated on breathing, in, out, in deep, out. Narvesen’s eyes: wary, anxious.
He’s not sure about me, my mental stability
. Frølich could hear his own voice, hollow, distant:
‘Didn’t think this would fit into a safety-deposit box.’
‘The frame was taken off. But be careful, I have just had it reassembled.’
‘It’s a fine painting, but is it worth five million?’
‘Five million is nothing for a picture like this. There are collectors who would give ten times that to own something similar.’
‘Why’s that?’
Narvesen hesitated. His gaze, first at the picture, then the ruined door, then the picture, then Frølich’s face.
Breathe in, let it out, then in.
Narvesen said: ‘All art …’
He pressed his lips together as Frølich raised the painting to the light.
‘Carry on.’
‘All art is cheap to acquire at some point. It’s when art has communicated its value to the world that the price rises … but the way you’re holding it is beginning to make me nervous. Will you put it down!’
‘Explain what you mean.’
Narvesen’s turn to concentrate on breathing, his eyes firmly fixed on Frølich. His hands bound tightly behind his back. ‘For me as a collector, art and the experience of art are not simply two sides of the same coin, they are a part of my life, they’re an indivisible part of me. My experience of art is as intellectual as it is emotional. You have to remember that art is the language of symbols that allows us to make sense of the world around us, which defines us as humans …’
‘Etcetera, etcetera,’ Frølich interrupted. ‘But why precisely this painting? Bellini, the Madonna and Child?’
Narvesen’s outline was sharper now. Frølich had him in focus. Narvesen was sweating from his brow. He cleared his throat. ‘Something happened to art in 1420. An architect, Alberti, published a textbook on perspective. The Bellinis were among the first great … Giovanni Bellini was a master at capturing man’s experience of worldly dimensions in paintings, in art. He was not only one of the first, but one of the best of his time, he interpreted the world with a completely new figurative language. So he contributed to laying the foundations, the base, for the aesthetics we pursue today. That is why this painting is the most outstanding example of art I can own as a collector. In this small painting the most vital elements are concentrated into one study: Life and the Divine, the son of man and the mother of God. I never tire of gazing at this painting. This is my
Mona Lisa,
Frølich.’
‘It’s not yours.’
‘It’s in my possession.’
Frølich lifted up the painting. ‘It
was
in your possession.’
Narvesen fell quiet. His eyes were anxious now.
‘How did you get hold of this painting?’
‘You’ll never find out.’
‘Who sold you this painting?’
‘Don’t ask. You’ll never know.’
‘What are you going to do with a painting you can never show others? When you have to be on your own down there in your wank hole, gawping at it? You wait until your woman’s out and then sneak down to your secret.’
‘Don’t you understand? Have you never been obsessed by anything?’
‘Yes, I have,’ Frølich said.
Long bones. The smell of smoke. Pain
. He raised the bottle of cognac and drank from it. Then he took the knife out of his pocket, cut the strips around Narvesen’s wrists and folded back the blade.
Narvesen rubbed his wrists and said: ‘Just say what you want. I have enough money.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘Just say the price.’
‘I understand what you said about obsession,’ Frølich said, grabbing Narvesen’s hair and pulling his head back.
Narvesen sank to his knees with a groan.
‘But I cannot accept that you tried to burn me alive.’
He let go of him.
Narvesen slumped down.
Frølich took the cognac bottle, poured the spirits onto the painting and threw it into the fire. The painting caught fire. An eruption of flames. Two seconds passed. Narvesen saw the fire. Another second. He comprehended what had happened. Then he screamed and ran towards it. Frank Frølich put out his foot and tripped him as he lunged. The man fell and crawled on all fours with his fingers in the flames. Frølich kicked him away. The painting was burning gaily. It blistered and cracked, the child’s face disappeared in the flames. The wooden frame crackled. The fiery red-orange tongues of flame burned through the woman, licked at her face. Narvesen wailed, scrambled towards the fire. The picture was alight. The image was consumed. Only the carving distinguished the frame from a piece of wood. The dog, which had been lying under the table, became excited. It started barking once more. Bounded out and bit Narvesen’s trousered legs. The man was squirming his way towards the fire. Frølich grinned, let him squirm, let him thrust his hand in the fire for the remains. The man blew on the charred residue like a young child trying to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. Frølich stood watching for a few seconds. As did the dog. It cocked its head in wonder.
‘Now we’re quits,’ said Frank Frølich. ‘You should be happy I didn’t set you on fire.’
It was almost one o’clock when Gunnarstranda closed the door to Tove’s flat and ran down the stairs and out into the night. It had begun to snow. A fine white carpet a few centimetres thick lay on the pavement. He padded his way towards Sandakerveien to find a taxi. There was chaos on the roads. Cars braked and skidded. A snow plough cast orange beams of light up the walls further along the street. He had set his mobile phone to mute, but felt it vibrate in his inside pocket.
It was Lystad from Kripos. He had a message. A body had been found. Name: Vidar Ballo. Cause of death: overdose. Place: Ballo’s flat in Holmlia.

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