Faithless, page 16
His worst nightmares didn’t have to be right. But they could be.
He grabbed the Maglite, the handcuffs and the plastic restraints and set off. Jumping soundlessly from rock to rock in light trainers.
As long as he stayed on the mountain his progress would be soundless.
The mountain ended in a deep crevice and now the cabin wasn’t far away. He crouched and edged his way down with his eyes fixed on the terrace railing further ahead.
In the end he had to jump. Landed with both feet on leaves and dry twigs.
There was a crunch. He stood still, bent over. Held his breath to listen. Heard nothing. Had he been rumbled?
He breathed out, his mouth open.
Without moving a muscle, sweat pouring down his face, he waited until he was sure that all normal sounds were back. Leaves rustling, the wave-like rumbling of a plane in the distance…
Setting off again, he concentrated on placing his feet on rocks.
The cabin appeared between the trees. A narrow wooden construction, on two levels, small base, deep in a hollow. In front of the cabin someone had tried to lay a lawn. On the edge grew straggly scrub. Frølich sat on his haunches between the thin trunks, hidden by the bushes.
The last ten metres had no cover. The leaves of the asp rustled as a gust of wind blew across the mountainside. He heard Mattis turn a page.
Two black plastic pipes on the ground revealed the source of summer water.
Two entrances. One through a broad door straight ahead. The second on the floor above, via the terrace where Mattis was.
Which way should he go?
How?
Then he heard voices. He listened. They came from inside. No. There was only one voice. It rose, but then it broke off.
He looked at the cabin. Hostile windows and greyish-blue walls. The countryside, the trees and the sky were reflected in the glass.
He stood up without making a sound. Placed a foot on the grass, then one more. If anyone looked through the window now, the game would be up. Six more metres. Four metres. Three. Then he realised the blinds were drawn. He sidled along the wall. Pressed his ear to the wood. Listened. Heard crying. In a flash he was back in the past. Had the same taste of blood in his mouth as twenty years ago. The same panic. He couldn’t bear it.
His body moved on autopilot. He ran across the grass, found the staircase up to the terrace and covered it in three strides.
Mattis Langeland heard the footsteps and sat up in astonishment.
The next second Frølich was above him. The policeman grabbed his arm. Rolled him onto his stomach. Forced a knee into his back. Wrapped an arm around his neck. Tipped him backward. Mattis screamed. Frølich tied his hands with the plastic cuffs and finally understood what Mattis was screaming:
‘Andreas! Andreas!’
Frølich turned to the glass door in the cabin. No one around. He turned back to Mattis, who was making a dash for the staircase, with his hands behind his back. Frølich put out a foot and the naked body crashed down on the wooden planks.
He grabbed hold of one ankle and dragged the howling figure back. Handcuffed the ankle to the terrace railing. The wood wasn’t very strong, but it would hold.
Eventually Mattis shut up. They exchanged glances. Mattis was panting and got to his knees. Frølich turned his back on him and walked slowly towards the glass door.
He opened it. Inside there was silence. He stood listening. Still silence.
There seemed to have been a party in the room. Empty cigarette packets and beer bottles on the table.
A staircase led to the ground floor.
Iselin Grav’s voice in his brain: I don’t think she’s dead.
Frølich glanced through the window: green treetops.
Peered over his shoulder. Mattis Langeland had stopped yanking at the railing. Their eyes met.
Frølich moved into the room. Tiptoed down the stairs. No one to be seen. Not a sound to be heard.
The staircase ended in a corner. All he had to defend himself with was a torch.
On the landing halfway down he stopped. His heart. He could hear it pounding. His eyes misted up. The chirping of the cicadas returned. He blinked to see better, wobbled and said to himself: ‘There are no cicadas here. Keep going.’
Frølich tore himself away from the wall. Breathed through an open mouth until his lungs were functioning normally.
He took a step and had to grab the banister to stop himself falling down the stairs. Carried on down to the bottom. No one there; no one waiting. He became aware of a pungent smell. Vomit. Sweat. Stale air. He continued. There was a smell of bedrooms here.
Frølich kept walking. The air quivered. There were two open doors. One to the left and one to the right. One was a room. The other…
A window smashed. The tinkling of glass was followed by the sound of running feet over rock. Andreas was trying to escape, but he wouldn’t succeed. Frølich moved to leave, but as he turned to go, he caught sight of something. He froze on the spot. On the bedroom wall was a large mirror, which revealed details of the room. The spotlights on the ceiling. Two cameras on stands. The body on the bed.
Frølich let Andreas run. He walked slowly towards the open door and went inside.
31
As he approached the entrance to the block, the front door was opened by a large, fat woman in a long red dress. Gunnarstranda slipped in smartly before the door closed, turned and stared after her. She seemed to be gliding on an undercarriage; she reminded him of a robot moving on invisible wheels.
Valeur lived on the second floor. Gunnarstranda had to ring three times before the door was opened by the man in the Peeping-Tom photos – wearing jeans and a loose yellow shirt which suggested a paunch behind the line of buttons. His short beard was grey with coarse bristles, which made him look unkempt. Valeur observed the policeman with his head held back to spare his eyes from a thin line of smoke coming from the cigarette in his mouth. The sight impressed the former nicotine slave so much that Gunnarstranda felt he had to comment on it.
‘Nowadays smokers are usually found shivering on street corners or a balcony. I thought indoor smokers were an extinct species. To have such freedom I don’t suppose you can be married,’ Gunnarstranda concluded.
Valeur removed the cigarette from his mouth. ‘And who are you?’ he asked tartly.
‘Gunnarstranda, Oslo Police, Violent Crime and Sexual Offences.’
The psychologist looked him in the eye for a few long seconds before moving aside to let him in.
The hi-fi sound in the sitting room reminded Gunnarstranda of the Sixties. A low coffee table was covered with catalogues and files. ‘Excuse the mess.’ Valeur grabbed the remote and turned down the volume. ‘I’m a collector, you see.’
The flat was one long run through with a balcony at each end. The panoramic windows with push-doors created a light, pleasant atmosphere. Gunnarstranda walked over to the windows and confirmed that the neighbours had a clear view inside.
‘Hits,’ Valeur said, tidying the files and catalogues spread across the table. ‘Top-Twenty hits in Britain, the US and – naturally – Norway.’ He lifted a dog-eared booklet. ‘This is the Top-Ten lists from 1960 up to the end of the radio programme.’
‘And what are we listening to now?’
‘”Pretty Flamingo” by Manfred Mann. Made its entry at number eighteen in the UK Top Twenty in April 1966. Within a fortnight – mid-May – it was top and stayed there for three weeks before slipping down the charts and disappearing after nine weeks. In Norway the record went straight into the number-three slot on 3 June, held its place on the radio, but then dropped down to seventh and out. Summer holidays, of course. I’ve always loved Manfred Mann and I’m sure it would’ve done better if it’d been released earlier.’
The room was equipped for vinyl. The two free walls were full of tightly packed shelves of old 45s, black, with and without sleeves, some green, others red.
‘It’s my obsession,’ Valeur explained. ‘Get hold of the records, cross them off the list. We’re herd animals. You know that, as a policeman. There are cultural differences, however; some years there’s a very distinct difference in musical taste between the US and the UK, and it’s interesting to see where they diverge. What’s unique in Norway is the position of the Top-Ten radio programme because it was based on a customer feedback button. People decided on the basis of their taste, so it was a momentary experience that determined a song’s place on the list, not the sales figures. That is unique. What was your name again?’
‘Gunnarstranda.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘A few years ago you had a patient called Signe Strand.’
There was a sharp intake of breath and Valeur sighed. ‘Don’t tell me Oslo Police are working on the case!’
‘Your name did come up.’
‘Come up? My name?’
‘She was your patient, wasn’t she?’
Valeur sat scrutinising Gunnarstranda. At length he made a decision.
‘She had eating issues. Signs of anorexia. Her gym teacher had flagged it up. The weight loss was significant, but not alarming. I worked for the Child and Adolescent Mental Health Services at that time. A couple of weeks after she was killed I spoke on the phone to someone working at Kripos. I don’t even remember whether it was a man or a woman. They wanted to know if I had any inside info, if I knew about any secret boyfriends or if she’d had fears regarding any specific men. I can barely remember what I answered. The conversation lasted less than two minutes.’ He hissed in annoyance. ‘And so you say my name came up?’
‘Do you know someone by the name of Sivert Almeli?’
Valeur shook his head. ‘Should I?’
Gunnarstranda put his hand in his pocket for the photographs. He laid the three of them on the table.
‘Goodness gracious,’ the psychologist said. With his eyes firmly fixed on the photos he stubbed out the cigarette in a well-filled, round aluminium ashtray. ‘That’s me,’ he confirmed and eyed the police officer for an explanation.
When this was not forthcoming, he took a packet of Teddy from his chest pocket and tapped out a cigarette.
He offered one to Gunnarstranda, who shook his head.
Valeur held the cigarette up to the light for a few seconds, then lit it with a red disposable lighter and talked out of the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m into nostalgia, Gunnarstranda. That’s part of my personality. I’m looking for some happiness from the old days – even though I know that this state is actually an illusion. But what can you do when you have an obsession? I wish I could go back to the times of Radio Luxembourg, the old songs, the chord riffs. When I was a teenager and started smoking, you could go into a shop and buy decent cigarettes. The selection was immense: Camel, Rothmans, Benson & Hedges, Pall Mall, South State, Kent, Merit, Blue Master, Red Virginia, Gitanes, Gauloises, Lucky Strike. In those days the brand you smoked was part of your personality. I like nostalgia, Gunnarstranda. I’m continually looking for a form of bygone harmony.’
‘Mummy, I want to go back,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Back to the warm, secure womb before reality hit with all its problems and complicated decisions.’
‘I wasn’t thinking of that far back,’ Valeur countered forcefully. ‘What has my mother got to do with this?’
Gunnarstranda pointed to the photos. ‘Aren’t you wondering why I’ve shown you the photos?’
Valeur tapped one of them. ‘Naturally. I’m assuming you’re the same as my patients. Eventually you will get to the point.’
Gunnarstranda glanced up. His glance was expected. A different Valeur was looking out from behind the man’s eyelids. A devil inside him flashed and glinted until the policeman saw and tried to lock onto him. Then he slid back inside and was gone.
Gunnarstranda focused on the photos again.
‘These photos were taken by Sivert Almeli a few days ago. He was a librarian at Deichman Library.’
‘Was?’
‘He was murdered.’
Valeur raised both eyebrows. ‘Why did he take photos of me?’
‘That’s what we’re wondering.’
Valeur shook his head. ‘You must have heard this so many times, but I don’t understand anything.’
Gunnarstranda laid the photo taken at Tusenfryd on the table. Almeli on the water ride. ‘Have you ever had this man as your patient or met him in some other way?’
Valeur took the photo. He studied the picture from various angles. At length he shook his head. ‘Sorry. I’m afraid I can’t be of any help.’
‘What’s your connection with Deichman Library?’
‘Thirty years ago they had a branch in Valkyrie plass. I grew up in Majorstua, in Bogstadveien. I often used to borrow books about the Hardy Boys or the Bobbsey Twins. Of course, the branch is closed now. It must have been too expensive to hire rooms and pay the librarian. But in those days books were so important for people that they wanted a branch close by, as you know. Do you understand what I mean when I say I want to go back to another time? Well, now I mostly read nonfiction and order whatever I need off the net.’
Valeur took small puffs of the cigarette.
Gunnarstranda was intrigued by what he had just seen and wanted to evoke the same reaction again. He took a strip of chewing gum from his pocket, undid the silver paper and put it in his mouth. ‘I used to smoke more than you once,’ he said. ‘I’m developing COPD and will die in agony – according to the doctors.’
‘They print the same message on the packets.’
‘But you still won’t stop?’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Of course not,’ Valeur said, placing the cigarette on the edge of the ashtray.
Neither of them said anything. Eventually Valeur stood up, a sign the visit was over.
‘I’d like to ask you one more question,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Be my guest,’ he answered in English.
The policeman passed him another photo. ‘Do you know her?’
Valeur didn’t need to answer; his expression said everything. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Her name’s Veronika Undset. She was also murdered. Again by unknown hand. It’s been in the papers, by the way.’
Valeur slumped back onto the sofa.
‘Something tells me you knew her.’
‘Not very well.’
Gunnarstranda sat quietly. Absent-mindedly, Valeur took another cigarette from the packet and held it between his fingers without lighting it.
‘You’ve already got one on the go,’ Gunnarstranda smiled, pointing to the smoking cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I’m sure you know I love reactions like that – you being a psychologist.’
Not even this caustic remark could elicit the response he wanted. Valeur smiled wearily. He took the cigarette he had lit and put it in his mouth.
‘She had one session, last week. We hadn’t even got to know each other.’
‘What impression did you have?’
‘She seemed frustrated. Of course, that’s true of everyone who comes to see me. But I didn’t have the impression she was suffering from angst or neuroses; she just seemed frustrated. She said she needed someone to talk to, to sort herself out, to sort out her life. She told me she was engaged, so I imagined she might want to discuss things because she’d become unsure about her relationship. I don’t know – we didn’t have time to delve into her problems.’
‘She didn’t mention the name of this man, Sivert Almeli?’
‘No.’
‘Did she talk about her fears?’
Valeur shook his head.
‘Did she mention anything about strange men harassing her, stalking her?’
‘No. The conversation was very banal, about general matters, the situation with her fiancé and so on. Naturally I assumed the real problem lay much deeper and it would come out in the course of therapy.’
‘What about the fiancé?’
‘She wasn’t sure about him, whether he loved her as he claimed. Anyway, she had her doubts and that made her doubt herself.’
‘Were you able to help her?’
‘In fact, I’d been thinking of suggesting they should both come for therapy, together.’
‘But you didn’t. Why not?’
‘I wanted to get to know her better first. I thought perhaps there might have been other things depressing her – as she chose to come for therapy alone. When people come to a psychologist the reason given can be based on some form or other of rationalisation.’
‘You mean there could be other causes behind it?’
‘Precisely. But I never managed to get that far.’
Gunnarstranda leaned forward.
‘This man – Sivert Almeli – was her neighbour. He was killed shortly after she was. We have reason to believe there was a, shall we say, unusual relationship between them, psychologically. Almeli spied on Veronika Undset. He secretly photographed her. He was a case for a psychologist. But she didn’t mention any of this to you?’
‘If anything we talked about had been in any way relevant to your case I would’ve told you.’
‘Why did she choose you in particular?’
Valeur shrugged. ‘I would’ve asked her, at some point during the therapy, but I didn’t have the opportunity.’
‘So she wasn’t referred to you by a doctor?’
‘No. Those patients have to put up with long waiting lists. Veronika Undset belonged to the group of patients who come on their own initiative and cover their own expenses, without any support from the public purse.’
‘Are there many patients like that?’
‘Quite a few. Norway’s a rich country, and many people are willing to pay the full price to avoid having to wait.’
‘The strange thing is,’ Gunnarstranda said ruminatively, ‘that this Almeli has taken shots of you without you realising. He took them the same day Veronika’s body was found. He’s off sick from work, but he doesn’t stay at home. He takes three photos – only three – and you’re in all of them. Why would Almeli do that?’
Valeur doesn’t answer at once. His stereo has gone quiet. There is silence in the flat. ‘I think I have an explanation, even if it might seem a bit odd.’
