Authors: K.O. Dahl

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

The Fourth Man (4 page)

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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‘Elisabeth, what are you trying to say?’

Look up. Let me see you.

‘I’m trying to say that maybe you won’t like my brother. But that doesn’t mean I feel any less for you. Your being a policeman doesn’t have to make any difference. Jonny is looking for a new job. He’s going straight.’

‘Does Jonny know about me?’

‘Hm?’

She doesn’t know what to say. She’s trying to gain time.

A noise broke the tension and gave them some respite.

Footsteps clattered on the spiral staircase by the end wall. He looked over. Someone was on their way up. It was someone he knew: Lena Stigersand, a police colleague, Lena and her racist friend/lover, coming up the staircase, each with a tray of food. The staircase was five metres away. Soon Lena would be level with them and exit the stairs facing this way. She would see him with Elisabeth.

‘Your brother, does he know about us?’

‘I don’t think so.’

At that moment Lena turned to look for somewhere to sit. She was only seconds away from spotting Frank Frølich out on the town with a new lady friend; he was seconds away from a rumour about him being spawned.

Elisabeth smiled disarmingly.

As he refrained from answering the smile, she became earnest and looked down. Fidgety fingers. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Does what matter?’

‘About Jonny. Does it matter?’

Lena Stigersand shouted: ‘Hi, Frank!’

Game over.

Frølich peered up and pretended to be surprised: ‘Hi, Lena!’

Elisabeth remained absolutely silent.

Lena Stigersand came over to him with a smile, accompanied by her idiot of a partner/undercover policeman, who was bound to know about Jonny Faremo and probably even knew that Jonny had a sister. Both were now waiting beside the table where he was sitting with Elisabeth, who was concentrating on sucking her straw.

Frølich cleared his throat. ‘Lena, meet Elisabeth.’

It enveloped them, the slightly reserved atmosphere that arises when you exchange names.

Smiling, Lena said, ‘We’ve met before, Elisabeth.’

‘Oh?’ Elisabeth replied, puzzled.

Frølich remembered before Lena could say anything. So he interceded in and told her himself. ‘In Torggata, Badir’s shop. Lena was leading the operation.’

Elisabeth’s face cracked into a smile. ‘That was where Frank and I first met.’

Lena Stigersand’s face was a transparent pane of glass. He was able to see the wires connecting up in her head. The look she gave him. The detective now, the policewoman making connections, not the nice woman friend meeting a good colleague in town.

Lena and her partner moved off and were soon out of hearing. They scraped their chairs at the far side of the room. Frank Frølich pushed the half-eaten burger away. He was unable to think about food. ‘Elisabeth …’

‘Yes?’

‘I asked if your brother knew about us.’

‘I don’t know.’

He took a deep breath. ‘If you have talked to him about me, he knows.’

‘I don’t think he knows about you.’

‘You haven’t said a single word about me to your brother?’

‘Relax, calm down.’ Elisabeth had tears in her eyes now.

‘It’s you I’m interested in,’ Frølich said reassuringly. ‘I’ve never considered starting a relationship with your brother.’

Her face all smiles and gleaming eyes again. But why was she relieved? He reflected and knew the answer: she was relieved because the conversation was over.

Frølich was at work, sitting at his desk. He gave a start. Momentarily, he had been absent, his mind elsewhere – with her.

He gave another start as Yttergjerde repeated: ‘Go on, Frankie.’

He sat staring at Yttergjerde. For those blanked-out seconds he had no idea what they were talking about.

This is me. I start a conversation and switch off. What is going on?

His memory returned. He resumed the theme he had initiated: ‘I was just saying we were on a course learning about those blind dogs.’

‘They’re called guide dogs.’

‘Yes, that’s it. We were learning about how to recognize particular signs in dogs, ones which might be suitable for the job, about their natures …’ Frølich stared at Yttergjerde’s face, almost switching off again as his mind went in a different direction. But he focused firmly on the task in hand and continued: ‘And the eyes, the body language, right? It’s the same with drugs dogs. Some are suitable, some aren’t.’

Yttergjerde nodded enthusiastically. He sensed a witticism coming.

‘So, there I was, looking at these dogs, using what I had learned, right, and convinced that the Alsatian in the middle, that Alsatian was guide dog numero uno, right …’

‘Yes?’ Yttergjerde had a broad grin on his face, ready. He was already laughing at an as yet undelivered punch line. A grin was straining, held in by tensed cheek muscles.

And I’m sitting here,
he thought, as the tip of Yttergjerde’s chin impatiently bobbed up and down, waiting for the gag, for the twist, the final quip which would justify the release of his laughter.
What am I doing?

‘And the course director says we have to show what we have learned and there I am, sitting there, having sussed out the top guide dog in all of Norway, right, and I put out my hand, don’t I …’

‘Yes?’ More laughter, more bobbing chin.

‘And I get up …’

‘Yes?’

‘Go over to the dogs, the dog, the Alsatian in the middle …’

‘Yes?’

‘Stick out my hand …’

‘Yes?’ Yttergjerde’s laughter was on its way up his throat, it was already in the man’s mouth.

‘Then the dog snaps at my hand and I topple over backwards!’

He sat watching Yttergjerde, who had released his laughter.

Is this what I want? Is this what is known as social competence? Is this what defines me as a successful person? Is this the moment I might jeopardize by making a false move? Is this the moment I’m risking? A moment I’m not even sure I enjoy.

Yttergjerde wiped the tears of laughter from the corners of his eyes. ‘Oh shit,’ he sighed. ‘That’s so bloody typical, oh shit …’

‘The rumour’s true,’ Frølich said abruptly.

Yttergjerde, who didn’t know what he was talking about, said: ‘What rumour?’

‘About me and this woman, Jonny Faremo’s sister.’

Yttergjerde’s face was in flux, a laughing mask stiffening into a gentle gape. Yttergjerde was shaken, as they say in boxing circles. He was at that stage when the shock has had its physical effect, but he still hasn’t begun to comprehend that he has been struck.

‘So now you know,’ said Frølich grimly. ‘Everything the lads say is true. I’ve got together with Jonny Faremo’s sister — the same Jonny Faremo who served three years for armed robbery.’

He grabbed hold of his jacket and left.

Simple Minds were on the stereo. The voice was singing ‘You Turned Me On’ and a little later ‘Alive and Kicking’. As soon as the voice finished, the CD player went back to the beginning and a song called ‘Hypnotized’.

She wanted to have music on when they made love. She wanted precisely this music. But that was fine by him. There were two of them now; he was in her and she was in him. Her eyes betrayed no uncertainty, no pretence, no dissimulation. So the noise around them was of no significance; the music simply completed the picture, in the same way that on-shore breezes emphasize that air is something you breathe, that moisture states that water is matter in which you can swim. But he wasn’t listening to the words of the songs, he didn’t hear the drum rolls, or the backing vocals; his body was simply dancing with hers, he was focused on two lights quite close and at the same time far away, her blue eyes.

When he came in from the bathroom, she was lying on the bed reading. ‘Is that the same book?’ he asked.

‘The same?’

‘You always seem to be reading the same book.’

She put it down on the bedside table. ‘Have you ever heard anyone say that you can never go into the same river twice?’

‘Greek philosophy?’

She shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I don’t believe it’s possible to read the same book twice.’

She made room for him under the duvet.

A little later she asked him: ‘Why did you become a cop?’

‘I just did.’

‘You don’t even believe that yourself.’

He turned his head and looked into her face. Smiled instead of answering.

‘Are we in a private domain?’ she asked. ‘Keep off! Danger! Beware of the dog?’

‘I applied to Police College when I finished studying law and I got in.’

‘After law? You could have started in a solicitor’s office. You could have been a practising solicitor and earned millions. Instead of that, you run around snooping into other people’s business.’

‘Snooping into other people’s business?’

The intonation. It had been the tiniest bit sharp. But it was too late to moderate it after it was said. He cast her a glance. She was resting her head on his chest while the fingers of his left hand were following the pattern of the wallpaper. He stroked her hair with the other hand, knowing that she was trying to appraise the atmosphere.

‘It does happen, doesn’t it? You do snoop?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Are you annoyed?’

‘No.’

‘At least you aren’t a judge, that’s good.’

‘What’s the matter with judges?’

‘I have a few problems with judges, either because of the job they do or because they’re just so – judgemental.’

They lay in silence. Her head on his stomach. He lay there, playing with a lock of her black hair.

She said: ‘What are you thinking?’

‘That actually I could have become a judge. Perhaps from a career point of view I should have done.’ He was still playing with her hair. She was lying still. He said: ‘I like my job.’

She raised her head: ‘But why?’

‘I meet people. I met you.’

‘But there must have been something that made you consider becoming a cop. At some point, you must have wanted to become one, a long time ago.’

‘But why do you want to know?’

‘I like secrets.’

‘I guessed that.’

Her head went down again.

‘There was a policeman living in our street,’ he said. ‘The father of a nice girl in my class, Beate. He drove a Ford Cortina. The old model with the round rear lights – in the sixties.’

‘I have no idea what car you’re talking about,’ she said, ‘but it doesn’t matter.’

‘In the flat above me there was a girl called Vivian who went on the game, even though she was only eighteen or nineteen.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Ten maybe. I didn’t have a clue what a prostitute was. Didn’t have a clue about sex. The other boys talked about Vivian and showed me pornographic magazines with women baring their sexual parts. I thought the pictures were revolting.’

‘Were there pictures of her, of Vivian?’

‘No, but the boys wanted me to see what she did, or it gave them a hard-on, who knows? I was a late developer in this area. When I was ten, I was only interested in fishing, my bike and things like that. I remember Vivian as a rather drained, dark-haired girl with lots of thin, blue blood vessels on her legs. And her legs were always quite pale. She often sat on the steps smoking. Anyway, one day two men came along. One was wearing a coat and had slick, greasy hair. The other one, with a fringe, wore glasses and a short leather jacket. His face kept twitching. I was playing rounders with the other boys in the street and Vivian was sitting in her hot pants on the steps, smoking. When the two men came, she got up and went inside. Just sloped off.’

Frølich went quiet when the telephone rang.

She peered up at him. ‘Don’t tell me you’re going to answer the phone now.’

‘Maybe not,’ he said and watched the telephone without moving a muscle.

They lay listening to the ring tones until they stopped.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘Where was I?’

‘Two men and Vivian went off.’

‘One of the boys was called Yngve. He had a Tomahawk bicycle, one of those with a long saddle. Yngve picked up a stone and threw it at the two men. And we joined in immediately. The two men were the enemy, sort of. Then we picked up a couple of stones too.’

‘Two ten-year-olds?’

‘There were probably five or six of us. Yngve was the oldest, he was fourteen. My friends were thirteen and twelve. I was the youngest and I remember I was shit scared. I’d never been so frightened. The man with the twitch went for Yngve and he lay on the road bleeding. He had to go in the ambulance afterwards. I remember I ran behind the block of flats, panic-stricken. I hid between the rubbish bins and was sick, I was so scared.’

He looked down at his chest and met her eyes. He grinned.

She whispered: ‘Go on.’

‘Beate’s father sorted everything out. He was the undisputed king, he didn’t say a word, he didn’t flash police ID or a badge, he wasn’t in uniform, he just came and put the world back to rights. I suppose it all started there. His character – a symbol.’

‘Bruce Willis,’ she grinned.

‘He wasn’t a particularly nice man.’

‘Bruce Willis?’

‘Beate’s father.’

‘What did he do?’

He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Beate became a heroin addict and died a few years ago. At the class reunion she was the only one who didn’t turn up and all the girls talked about how she had been mistreated, screwed by her father for years.’ He stretched. ‘Illusions fade and die,’ he said drily.

She didn’t say anything.

‘It’s inherent in the word. Illusion, something which isn’t real.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘What do I like?’ He lay on his back thinking. ‘I like playing air guitar to ‘LA Woman’ by The Doors.’

‘You’re so boring. Come on. Say what you like doing.’

He stretched under the duvet and said: ‘I like looking out of the window when I wake up in bed in the morning.’

‘More,’ she said.

‘More what?’

‘More of what you like.’

‘You first.’

‘I like lying on the grass in the summer and seeing what images the clouds form.’

‘More.’

‘Cycling down a mountain on a mild summer’s evening.’

‘More.’

‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘I like copying down the titles of my records and organizing them alphabetically.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right.’ She snuggled down under the duvet. ‘It’s your turn,’ she whispered.

‘I like being on my own in a special place.’

‘So do I.’

She lifted her head from his chest and looked up. ‘A beach,’ she said. ‘In the evening when I sit there, eventually all I can hear is the lapping of the waves on the shore. If anyone comes and talks, you don’t hear it.’

‘Water’s like that,’ he said. ‘I have the same experience when I go fishing, by rivers or streams with rapids.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

He looked at her again. She seemed slightly offended. ‘OK, I give in. It’s not like that.’

‘When you say things like that I don’t feel like saying any more,’ she said.

‘You!’ He sat up until they had eye contact again. ‘Don’t be cross.’

‘I’m not cross.’

‘So what’s the name of your beach?’

She smiled. ‘Hvar.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The name. Hvar.’

‘Of the beach?’

‘It’s an island.’

‘Where is it?’

She rested her head without answering.

He caressed her hair and yawned. Soon he would be asleep, he could sense that and he was happy. ‘By the way,’ he mumbled and yawned again. ‘I like the smell of bonfires in spring.’

At one point during the night he opened his eyes and the weight of her head was gone. He heard a soft voice speaking. She was sitting on the chair by the window with her mobile phone to her ear. ‘Aren’t you asleep?’ he asked. ‘What’s the time?’

‘I’m coming now,’ she whispered. ‘Just go to sleep.’

His eyes were closed and he felt her crawl in under the duvet. Before drifting off again he looked at her black hair cascading over the pillow.

BOOK: The Fourth Man

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