Faithless, page 4
‘Physiologically speaking, she’s unhurt. She wasn’t at home when it happened. She was at her son’s in Fredrikstad for the weekend. But when she returned home the house was as empty as an eggshell. I’m sure you can imagine how distraught she is.’
‘I’d better ring her,’ she said.
‘Do you know this client well?’
Veronika shook her head.
‘Think carefully before you ring. This is a woman who’s lived a long life and has scrimped and scraped to get by. She’s lost everything. Strangers forced their way into her house and helped themselves. The shock after such a violation would be bad enough for most people. On top of that, she’s lost everything she possesses, everything she’s accumulated in the course of eighty-four years, things she was going to leave to her children.’
They stood gazing at each other in silence. There was something defiant and introspective in her eyes. This face with its clean, classical features suddenly seemed stiff and stylised, like a porcelain mask.
‘Regine Haraldsen is old, but not stupid,’ Frølich continued. ‘Neither she nor the police consider it a coincidence that the burglars struck the night before last. Whoever did it must have known she was away and that the house was worth a visit.’
‘So?’ she retorted.
‘So?’
‘What are you actually saying?’
‘Regine Haraldsen’s circle is small and diminishing. She has no home visits from nurses…’
‘You think one of my staff is involved?’
He shook his head.
Veronika gesticulated and smiled like a blonde in a high-school comedy: ‘Do you think I’m involved? I can tell you here and now – I have nothing to do with this. But of course I’ll ask the employees who were at Regine’s. You can talk to them; you can have the numbers of all the firm’s employees. I can’t have rumours like this hanging over me.’
‘Let me be perfectly honest,’ Frank replied. ‘The police wouldn’t be investing resources into following up this case so meticulously unless we could see a connection with another case. These people were not junkies on the lookout for money and dope. The people who did it worked like a removal firm. They knew the old lady would be away at the weekend, they’ve had their people inside her house, people who knew exactly what items of value there were. The burglars didn’t break anything. They didn’t go on the rampage searching for valuables. We in the police are also fairly sure who’s behind this – your old friend Kadir Zahid. You may have known all along why I’m here, but now finally I’ve got to the point: we believe we know why you visited Kadir on Friday night. We believe you are the missing link in this case. You don’t only organise home-help services for the likes of fru Haraldsen.’ He waved his notepad. ‘In four of the six burglaries like this one your firm was responsible for cleaning the house in question. That’s a score of around seventy per cent!’
Veronika sat down on the swivel chair behind the desk with a distant gaze.
Frølich shoved the notepad towards her. ‘Aren’t you curious about your clients?’
She looked at the pad without saying a word. The chair creaked as she swung from side to side. A car passed on the road. The room was warm. Her face really did resemble a mask, a carnival mask of the Italian donna, a high forehead above deep-set eyes, heart-shaped lips.
‘I didn’t want to be the officer to conduct this interview,’ he said. ‘But I’m doing it because I like you, Veronika, however odd that might sound. You and Karl Anders are getting married. I wish you well, so I won’t be coming back here again. I know Karl Anders, and I can’t get to know you so long as Zahid is under investigation. I came here to tell you this: this case is watertight. Kadir Zahid’s finished, believe me. With all the resources we’ve invested it’s just a question of time before we arrest him. I don’t know what hold he has on you, but I can promise you one thing: when Kadir goes down, he’ll take you with him – if you don’t do something hellishly quick to save yourself. You can still avoid being charged if you co-operate with the police. You don’t have to do that now – wait!’ he said when she tried to interrupt: ‘I don’t want you to talk to me, but talk to someone. I can help you find an officer to talk to. If you lay your cards on the table, you could end up with a fine or the case might be dropped. If not—’
‘Don’t waste your breath,’ she interrupted with a raised chin. ‘I have nothing to do with this business,’ she continued, overwrought. ‘Listen to what I’m telling you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. If there’s nothing else, I’d like you to go.’
He was silent.
‘I have work to do,’ she added.
‘If Zahid’s pressurising you, has a hold on someone you know, we’ll ensure no one comes to any harm.’
She smiled with downcast eyes and slowly shook her head.
He tried to interpret what this gesture meant, but gave up. ‘The longer you sit on the fence, the less credible you become,’ he pointed out.
Her eyes flashed again. ‘Less credible? You stand there and accuse me of exploiting my own customers. That’s a mistake. I’m not a thief and I have nothing to do with this business.’
‘Nevertheless I have to ask you: did you speak to Kadir Zahid about Regine Haraldsen?’
‘No.’
‘Not in any connection?’
‘No, I said!’
‘What about Harder Skaare?’
‘No.’
‘What about Solfrid and Henrik Gravdal?’
‘No, and you don’t need to mention any more names. I don’t discuss my clients with anyone! Now listen, Frankie, as Karl Anders calls you. I know you have a job to do. I want you to respect me and my job. I have nothing more to say. If you’re not happy you’ll…’ She searched for words. ‘You’ll have to arrest me again. So please go, will you?’
Frølich was very uncomfortable with the role he had assumed. But there was little he could do about it, except turn and go.
Once outside, he glanced in through the large window. Veronika had the phone to her ear. When she saw him she swung the chair around. Wonder if that’s Kadir Zahid, Frølich thought, getting into his car.
6
The train rattled along. He was sitting in an old-fashioned compartment with curtains in front of the windows. When he looked out he saw green countryside, a golf course with hollows and dips broken by lines of deciduous trees. Behind the greenery, the blue sea gleamed and on the horizon the azure merged into the light-blue sky. He stood up and leaned out. The wind caressed his face. The locomotive whistled. It was a black steam train – the sort with a thick, grey billow of smoke from the chimney stack trailing after it. The locomotive whistled again, a lighter note this time. Gunnarstranda turned his face to the sun and closed his eyes. There was another sound, but this time it wasn’t a train whistle. The locomotive was playing a strangely mechanical version of Mozart’s 40th symphony. And someone was digging him in the side. At that moment he realised he wasn’t sitting on the train but lying in bed. The sound came from his bloody phone and the hand shaking him was Tove’s.
‘Your phone,’ she whispered.
He opened his eyes. ‘Leave it. I’ll call them back tomorrow.’
The phone finally fell silent.
There was bluish-grey light in the bedroom, so it must have been early, very early, before the sun had risen properly. With great difficulty, he sat up. He checked his watch. Ten to four in the morning.
‘You don’t know who it was, do you?’ Tove said.
Gunnarstranda yawned. ‘Yes, I do. I know who it was.’
His phone beeped as it received a message.
‘Such a short time for Adam in Paradise,’ he sighed, and got out of bed. ‘You sleep some more. Or…’ he added upon reflection. ‘Actually we ought to discuss this.’
‘Discuss what?’
She was sitting up too now, naked. Her hair in a mess. Eyes blinking. This was a sight that made him understand the meaning of life.
‘Whether you’d like to continue the holiday here alone or do something else?’
‘Stay here on my own? Are you out of your mind?’
He nodded towards the phone on the bedside table. ‘I have to work.’
‘How do you know?’
‘If I say no, they’ll tell me it’s an order.’
They gazed at each other. Minutes passed. In the end she swung her legs onto the floor. ‘Well, we’ve had two fantastic weeks,’ she said. ‘Fancy some coffee?’
He nodded, and took the phone.
7
At last somewhere to pull in. A gap in the line of vehicles parked alongside the blocks of flats in Bjerregaards gate. It was boiling hot and there was no shade for the car. Frølich left the windows open and strolled down Damstredet and Telthusbakken.
A film crew was at work. The camera was placed on a little cart with four bike wheels. A young woman with a microphone on a mount in front of her mouth ran bent double towards three actors. On the cart was a man wearing drop-crotch trousers and a pirate’s kerchief – the cameraman. He was receiving instructions from a skinny guy with a back-to-front cap.
Two of the actors were men in clothes that reminded Frølich of Ludvig Holberg’s dramas: top hats, breeches and jackets with tails. The woman was dressed in a long, loose-fitting dress and had a bonnet on her head. She looked like someone from Elsa Beskow’s children’s books – Aunt Green. The three of them merged into the surroundings of small timber houses and narrow alleys. Only the tarmac spoiled the scene. They couldn’t have had tarmac in Holberg’s day, could they, Frølich wondered. But perhaps it didn’t matter, there are so many weird and wonderful things you can do with films. He studied the guy with the cap. Good-looking man with sunglasses and a little soul patch. The colleague at Westerdal’s had said the man’s name was Mattis Langeland.
Ten to fifteen curious onlookers sat on the grass watching what was going on. Mattis Langeland shouted: ‘Action!’ The three actors walked towards the camera while two guys pushed the cart. ‘Cut!’ yelled Langeland. This was repeated a couple of times, then it was all over. The film crew packed up their equipment while Langeland sat with the cameraman viewing the recording on a screen.
Frølich headed for them.
Neither turned away from the screen. Langeland waved an arm and said: ‘Please, I’m busy.’
Frølich stood his ground.
‘Are you hard of hearing?’
That was the cameraman with the pirate’s kerchief.
Frølich brandished his ID. ‘Police.’
The cameraman said nothing and at length Langeland turned around. ‘What’s the problem?’ The scar by his mouth was unmistakeable.
‘Mattis Langeland?’
Langeland nodded.
‘Apparently you were in the student pub in Blindern on Friday,’ Frølich said.
Langeland considered this statement. ‘That’s possible.’
‘Well,’ said Frølich in a measured tone. ‘This is a police matter. Were you there or not?’
‘I popped in, yes.’
The cameraman stayed seated.
Frølich showed him the copy he had of Rosalind M’Taya’s passport photo. ‘Apparently you were talking to her.’
Langeland studied the picture. The cameraman looked over his shoulder. Langeland nodded. ‘Chick from Africa. Just arrived in Norway.’ He passed back the photocopy. ‘Why?’
‘Tell me about it.’
Langeland shrugged. ‘Not much to say. I go there from time to time for a beer and a chat with people. That’s about it.’
‘See if there’s any talent?’
Langeland smiled wanly.
‘Did you pull?’
Langeland recoiled and threw out his arms theatrically as he said loudly: ‘OK, why don’t you tell me what this is all about.’
‘You’re the last person to have seen her alive,’ Frølich said coldly. It annoyed him that the cameraman didn’t have the wit to withdraw. He turned to the man and put out a hand. ‘I don’t think we’ve introduced ourselves.’
The cameraman warily shook his hand. ‘Andreas.’
‘Andreas, I’m talking to Mattis Langeland with regard to an investigation. Would you mind leaving us to it?’
The man shuffled off, like the wannabe film extra in The Wire or the star of an American rap video: kerchief tied tightly around his head, rings in his ears and eyebrows, T-shirt that was at least five sizes too big, ditto pirate pants.
Frølich turned back to Langeland, who said: ‘Andreas is my younger brother, you know.’ Then continued with, ‘Well, she was a real babe, right, but lost, kind of serious, not focused on having fun. We just exchanged a few words. Hi, what’s your name? Rosa or something like that and stuff about Africa and well … I had a couple of beers and hit the town.’
‘Did you notice her talking to anyone?’
Langeland shook his head.
‘Was she there when you arrived?’
‘No idea.’
‘When and how did you notice her?’
‘I suppose she must have come in after me. Yes, I think she did, or else she was in the toilet when I arrived.’
‘Was she alone when you saw her?’
Langeland nodded. ‘That was why I went over and chatted to her. She was alone.’ He nodded to himself. ‘That’s how it was.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Eh?’
‘You went over and chatted to her. What did you say?’
Mattis Langeland gave an embarrassed smile. ‘Bit corny. I said she was very beautiful and asked her if she’d like to be in a film.’
‘And?’
‘It was bollocks, of course. Terrible pick-up line. She didn’t take me seriously, so I slung my hook.’
‘Did you leave before or after her?’
‘Before.’
‘So she was on her own when you left?’
Langeland nodded.
‘The staff at the pub only mentioned you when we asked who she talked to.’
Langeland grinned. ‘That girl? Alone on the town?’ He opened his palms again. ‘Well, I left on my own…’
‘Where did you go afterwards?’
‘Into town. Lots of places. Hell’s Kitchen, Robinet. Where there were people.’ Langeland was suddenly cautious. ‘Hey, what is all this?’
‘Just answer the questions. Is there anyone who can confirm that they were with you after you left Rosalind M’Taya that evening?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I’d like you to give me some names and addresses.’
*
It was early afternoon by the time he was back at the police station.
Frølich heard a phone ringing as he removed the headset to his iPod on the way down the corridor. He turned towards the coat hooks and hung up his jacket. Emil Yttergjerde was sitting next to the telephone, but ignored it as he studied the pictures in the latest edition of Autocar.
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
Yttergjerde glanced up. ‘It’s for you.’
‘How d’ you know?’
‘Because he’s rung three times already.’
Frølich and Yttergjerde exchanged looks. Frankie put on a deep frown. ‘Him?’
Emil Yttergjerde nodded with a grin.
‘I thought he was on holiday.’
‘It’s been cut short.’
Frølich lifted the receiver. ‘Station, Frølich.’
‘It’s me. Now you listen here. On Saturday morning you arrested a woman – Veronika Undset. Is that correct?’
‘Nice to talk to you again too,’ said Frølich, winking at Yttergjerde who peered up from his magazine with a grin.
‘Seen today’s Verdens Gang?’
‘Nope.’
‘Front page. The dead woman.’
Frølich’s insides froze.
Gunnarstranda’s voice was still formal and concise: ‘We’ve matched the prints. It’s her, definitely. Can you come and ID her at pathology?’
Frank Frølich looked at his watch. He swallowed, but that didn’t help. The dreadful unease and heaviness in his stomach wouldn’t go. ‘Give me half an hour,’ he said, and rang off.
8
After parting company with Gunnarstranda at the pathology lab, Frølich needed to be alone and used the missing-person case as an excuse. He drove off without any real aim and ended up at the old seamen’s school in Ekeberg. He parked and sat for a few seconds in the car.
He had already tried once, but called Karl Anders on his phone again. No answer. He tried again. The voicemail answered. He switched off without saying a word, stuffed the phone in his pocket and got out of the car.
He ambled towards the park around Ekeberg Restaurant. Perfectly formed sculptures of women gazed at him with their unseeing eyes through the foliage and undergrowth. He found a bench with a view of the harbour and the mountain ridges to the north and the west. The Frederikshavn and Kiel ferries had docked. One of the Nesodden boats was on its way and the low drone of the motorway was somewhere beneath him.
It had shocked him to see Veronika Undset’s white, lifeless face. The state of her body, where it had been found. He could barely think about it. For the first time in many years he didn’t know how he would be able to cope with his job. He recited to himself: ‘… all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.’
This wasn’t only about murder. This was about Karl Anders and himself – whether he liked it or not.
It was typical that he got landed with a job like this just when he had some steam up in the Rosalind M’Taya case and a plethora of leads. That was where he ought to be putting his energy, checking statements, putting the skids under that conceited I’m-so-cool film director wanker, smashing his alibis. Some shithead in affluent Norway – possibly Mattis Langeland – had committed a crime against a poor girl who was alone and miles from home. It was offensive, galling, and had kindled a passion for the job he hadn’t experienced for years – until the encounter with the mortal remains of Veronika Undset.
