Faithless, page 8
He grabbed his phone and texted:
G! Hope it’s OK if you deal with Karl Anders Fransgård before 16.00. Available on this number. F
Half an hour later he was given a yellow vest and ear defenders by Ståle Sender.
If it became necessary to play good cop/bad cop, Ståle was the perfect foil: cast in the same mould as Chinese gymnasts and with the same sharp crease in his trousers. Cold, blue eyes above narrow lips. Bristles on his chin as short as his hair, uniform shirt open at the neck where a chunky gold chain rested on suntanned clavicle. Frankie regarded Ståle’s coarse hands. The sight of the wedding ring gave him a sort of reinvigorated tenderness for Lena. There was something self-destructive about her eternal search for a partner.
They didn’t say much to each other. There wasn’t much point, inside ear defenders, which transformed the howl of jet engines into loud but muted background noise. A cool breeze blew across the Gardermoen runways. Behind the immense glass walls passengers were stocking up with spirits and tobacco for holidays in southern Europe. A plane came in to land, low at the back, like a goose on its way down to the water. They passed caravans of baggage trailers, catering vehicles and passenger buses. In the corridors: line after line of tourists on their way home; sunburned and overweight, wearing gaily coloured shorts and expensive sandals with ergonomic straps and soles, bold choices of cowboy hats which would soon be stowed away and forgotten. Queues of passengers in the jet bridges that led to the planes, cabin staff on their way, as they always were, striding quickly across the tarmac: elegant, long-legged and uniformed, with downcast eyes and a good hold on their practical cases, into the long, round fuselages that would soon be speeding down the runways and tilting their noses upwards, then climbing towards the clouds, same aerodynamic heads and dorsal fins as sharks.
Where was Andreas Langeland?
Ståle pointed a fat, quivering index finger.
Frølich barely recognised the cameraman from the film set. No pirate’s kerchief or drop-crotch trousers. The figure seemed thin and small in blue work pants and a hi-vis vest. He made the same boring impression as a reflection of Frølich’s face on a grey weekday.
Shortly afterwards the three of them marched in file past the zinc toilet where the drugs smugglers have to sit until their bodies return the pouches they have swallowed, past the dressing rooms and scanners, into a sparsely furnished interview room. Andreas Langeland – pale but composed. Frølich realised at once that he was going to play it hard and asked him whether he understood why he was being questioned by the police.
The answer was impertinent. The police had a duty to issue a warning, didn’t they.
‘This is about Rosalind M’Taya.’
‘Who?’
Got you there, Frølich thought, and said: ‘Don’t you remember me talking to your brother Mattis about her when you were filming in St Hanshaugen?’
He didn’t.
Frølich presented him with a selection of CCTV pictures.
‘Oh, her!’ It had been one evening last week. She had asked the way to the airport bus.
‘She asked the way to the airport bus? Standing on the station platform?’
The question worked. Andreas Langeland’s eyes became pensive. Station platform. The cops knew something. Ståle and Frankie exchanged glances. They could almost see the cogs working behind the young man’s lowered eyelids. Andreas Langeland elected to play a careful back pass:
‘I didn’t know what was on her mind, did I.’
‘OK. Did you show her where the airport bus was?’
Nod.
‘Answer properly.’
‘Yes, I showed her where the airport bus was.’
‘What happened next?’
‘She got on the bus.’
Frølich and Ståle exchanged glances again. Cops 2 : Robber 0. The first lie was in the bag. This young man had to be more stupid than even he feared.
‘So how come she was in your car?
‘She what?’
‘You’ve got a parking spot, P11, first level, right? Europark’s CCTV shows you and Rosalind M’Taya getting into your car, a yellow 2007 Mini Cooper. Do you want me to read the registration number as well?’
Langeland’s eyes went walkabout.
‘Twenty-seven minutes later the car’s registered at the toll gates in Alnabru, and this is only some of the stuff we’ve got on you, Andreas. Come on, you gave Rosalind a lift from Oslo Airport to Blindern Hall of Residence. Isn’t that right?’
Andreas Langeland shook his head.
Ståle spoke up. ‘Are you calling us liars?’
Frølich regretted using Ståle.
‘I’m not calling you anything,’ Andreas Langeland said. ‘But I refuse to answer your questions. I’d like to ring for a lawyer.’
‘Why would you like to do that?’
‘You want me to say all sorts of shit which is not true and use it against me later. I know what you’re like.’
‘Do you know where Rosalind M’Taya is?’
Langeland was silent. Watched them, mouth closed, moist at the corners. Eyes defiant.
‘Do you think a lawyer would be able to deny she got into your car?’
Andreas Langeland was still quiet. His expression was furious. Frølich had seen hundreds of such expressions. No amount of common sense would mitigate their defiance.
‘Let’s jump forward two days,’ Frølich said. ‘To last Friday, Friday before the weekend. Where were you then?’
‘At work.’
‘And after work?’
Andreas Langeland shrugged. ‘Went home, played a game, watched a film, went into town late, here and there.’
‘With Mattis?’
This was a shot from the hip, but it hit the bullseye. He could actually see Andreas trying to avoid the bullet, sitting there tight-lipped.
‘Were you with Rosalind M’Taya?’
Andreas Langeland shook his head with a grin.
‘Mattis says he met Rosalind at the student pub on Friday,’ Frølich said. ‘You heard that with your own ears.’
The young man didn’t answer.
‘He said he was with you that Friday.’
Andreas smiled, and Frølich saw through him at once, but he still didn’t have enough to go on. He needed to know more.
‘Have you spoken to Mattis since?’ Andreas asked. ‘I didn’t hear him say anything like that.’
‘You’re saying you didn’t meet Rosalind on Friday?’
‘Have you got any photos to prove I’m lying?’ asked Andreas Langeland with the same self-assured smile on his face.
Frølich studied the hard-won composure on his rough features. ‘Clear off,’ Frølich said.
Ståle squirmed uneasily on his chair, but Frølich took no notice.
‘Do you mean I can go now?’
‘Of course.’
The young man in the yellow vest and blue trousers stood up hesitantly. The chair scraped in the silence. He slunk to the door and turned. ‘You should have informed me about my right not to make a statement,’ he said defiantly. ‘Now I can report you.’
Frølich nodded.
‘I think I will.’
Frølich nodded again.
Andreas turned to the door and opened it.
‘Andreas,’ Frølich said.
He glanced over his shoulder. ‘You’ve brushed up on your law since we last met. You’re a good student. I’m very impressed. Just one thing though: why have you been swotting?’
When Andreas didn’t answer, Frølich pointed a theatrical finger at him and fired.
‘PIAOUW,’ he whistled as the door closed behind him.
‘You’re too soft, Frankie,’ Ståle Sender said.
‘He’s lying,’ Frølich said. ‘We know he drove her to the hall of residence on Wednesday. But Rosalind M’Taya checked in alone. The problem is we have nothing to go on after she checked in. She was alive and well, participated in activities at the summer school and slept two nights at the hall before she disappeared. So there are two whole days after meeting Andreas to account for. I’ll question the lad again, but first I need to know more.’ Frølich rose to his feet.
‘Say hi to Lena,’ said his colleague.
‘Have you told her you’re married?’ Frølich asked. The comment was meant to be caustic, but it came out flat.
Ståle Sender grinned. ‘Appearances deceive, Frankie. I told Lena the first time. You never know what’s under the bonnet of car, I said, even if the car looks a bit battered. It’s only when you sit behind the wheel you can put your foot on the gas.’
Frølich was lost for an answer, as he always was when he met this man.
‘She’s still driving, Frankie. And this is what I tell the boys: it might be cheaper to drive a sensible little car, but driving isn’t only about money in the bank. It’s about comfort too. In a small car you bump along and are thrown around on the bends. By the time you arrive you’re a lot more tired than if you’d been sitting comfortably in an American sedan with a decent engine and decent suspension.’
Now what’s that supposed to mean? Frølich wondered, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He just spun on his heel and left.
13
‘Veronika Undset’s last day,’ Rindal said, and stuffed both hands in his trouser pockets. In brown slacks and a white shirt, open at the neck, he looked like Gene Hackman, as always. Waves of blond hair over his ears, suntanned pate, all that was missing was chewing gum, thought Frølich. As though he had telepathic powers, Rindal unwrapped an Extra and put it in his mouth. Hackman in Enemy of the State.
Frølich’s eyes followed an electric cable from the socket on the wall to the junction box and on to the neon light. It resembled the rally stripe on Karl Anders’s kayak. One summer they had paddled almost every day in the two-man kayak on Lake Bogstad. Actually it had been Frankie’s idea. He’d had a crush on a Swiss girl he had been watching several days in a row by a pontoon. She had been working as an au pair for a family in west Oslo somewhere, and she took the children with her every day to Bogstad to swim. He had to smile at his own transparency now – the excuses he made, ringing Karl Anders, the kayak…
‘Hello!’ Rindal roared.
Frankie gave a start. Lena Stigersand and Emil Yttergjerde both avoided looking at him. ‘You met Veronika Undset at her workplace at five minutes past three on Monday, 6 July – the day she was killed. When did you leave her?’
‘At about half-past three. The conversation wasn’t very productive. She admitted Regine Haraldsen was one of her clients, but denied tipping off Zahid about her or any of the other clients whose names you gave me. We talked for about twenty minutes max.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I urged her to co-operate with the police, told her about all of her clients who’d been burgled and said she could perhaps save her skin if she helped with our investigation.’
‘And?’
Frølich told him Veronika had immediately grabbed her phone after he left. Most probably she had rung Zahid. That at any rate was what he had assumed.
‘Could she have threatened to grass?’ Rindal asked.
‘Wouldn’t our undercover agents have seen something – if Zahid killed her? They stick to him like leeches.’
‘Zahid could still be behind the murder because he would never do the dirty work himself,’ Yttergjerde pointed out.
Lena Stigersand sent Emil a patronising look: ‘Hit man?’
The discussion veered off and Frølich was back with the Swiss girl. Her name was Irene and when she went to the lake with the children she wore a white bikini. Her skin was tanned brown. Every morning she mixed sea salt in a large bottle of water. She rubbed this saltwater over her body when the sun was at its peak. She thought saltwater gave you the best tan. The bottle had been his passport to teasing and dialogue. He had been in love with her, but she was mostly interested in Karl Anders. In fact, the two of them got together until her boyfriend from Switzerland appeared. A tall, flabby guy, a good ten years older than them. He rode a Harley in leathers and wore a German helmet from the Second World War. Frankie grinned at the thought.
‘What’s so funny?’ Rindal asked, playing with the chewing gum between his front teeth.
‘A thought just struck me.’
‘Keep your mind on the job,’ Rindal said. ‘What we know is that Veronika Undset used her bank card three times that Monday evening. She paid at a chemist in Byporten Mall at 20.08. She bought a packet of nail files and some skin cream. The assistant remembers her. She was wearing a flowery summer dress and sandals and carrying a shoulder bag. Shortly afterwards she paid for a latte and a brownie at Stockfleth’s on the corner between Prinsens gate and Dronningens gate. The pathologist reports that she didn’t eat anything afterwards. But an hour after going to the café, at 21.23, she took out eight hundred kroner from the Nordea ATM on Karl Johan. This is the last sign of life we have.
‘What was she doing in town though? Meeting someone most likely. Probably her fiancé – but I don’t see a single damned report of any interview with Karl Anders Fransgård!’
The echo of Rindal’s angry crescendo resounded between the walls. Everyone stared at Frølich. He met their stares. And held his tongue.
Rindal chewed like a man possessed.
Frølich glared back, still silent.
‘I want to read that report tomorrow,’ Rindal demanded. He turned to the board with the photos of the body and the chart showing relationships.
‘Veronika Undset was found just before three o’clock in the morning, rolled up in plastic in a refuse container on Kalbakken, rented to a housing co-op by the firm Ragn-Sells.’
‘She was naked.’ Rindal pointed to the photos of the body. ‘One of the residents in the co-op rang Stovner Police Station to complain about outsiders throwing rubbish in their container. Strangely, the police investigated further. Police Assistant Bodil Sydengen discovered the body at 02.48. None of Undset’s dress, underwear, sandals, bag, money or bank card have been found – the container’s been gone over with a magnifying glass and a fine brush. The body was rolled up in transparent plastic, which was sealed with brown parcel tape. The plastic is the type that is sold in rolls at all builders’ merchants, in the damp-proofing section, and is used to insulate and weatherproof properties. Builders and DIYers all over the country buy it every day. We know where and when it was produced, but finding out where and when it was sold is harder than looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. Ditto the tape. It’s the kind that’s used in post offices and private houses and is sold in all Norwegian bookshops and most supermarket chains.
‘Whoever wrapped her up left no fingerprints.
‘The victim was subjected to extreme violence to the head and stabbed multiple times in the chest. Death occurred between 23.30 and 00.30. After she died her stomach and genitals were washed in boiling water. There are burns to the vagina. In the pathologist’s opinion, the perpetrator washed the body in order to remove biological evidence after a rape and he succeeded. The scene of the crime is as yet unknown. Door-to-door enquiries have so far revealed nothing. No one knows Veronika by sight. No one heard screams or sounds suggesting an attack in any of the co-op flats, but several residents heard a vehicle outside – at a time that could tally with when she was put in the container. Therefore, we must assume she was transported from the crime scene to the container – in a vehicle. No confirmed sightings. Enquiries will continue. The only concrete object we have from the place of discovery is an earring. A small diamond.’
Rindal nodded to Gunnarstranda, who lifted up a small plastic bag and passed it to Lena Stigersand. She studied the contents and passed the bag on.
Frølich held the bag. The earring was an insignificant little stone forming a flower above a rosette with leaves of gold. He couldn’t remember having noticed it before.
Rindal looked at his watch. ‘I wish you luck. I know you’ll nail this. You’re a good team. So let me leave you with Gunnarstranda,’ said Rindal, making for the door.
Gunnarstranda waited until the door closed behind Rindal. ‘No diamond in her right ear,’ he started. ‘Veronika Undset had both ears pierced. I suppose there is another diamond. I think the perpetrator missed the earring. Why would a meticulous person, like our perpetrator, who scalds the body with hot water to remove clues, why would this person intentionally let Veronika keep a diamond in her ear? If this diamond was missed the other one may have been too. In other words, the other diamond may still be at the crime scene.’
Gunnarstranda paused for thought. ‘The clothes and possessions were removed, the body was washed, wrapped in plastic, taped up like a parcel, carried into a vehicle and thrown onto the rubbish container. This person is thorough, takes his time and works slowly. The murder was committed in a place where he could work without disturbance, for example, at home. Veronika had a coffee in town, took out money and met someone at their home. She probably took a taxi there. Her photo’s circulating among taxi drivers, but no one has come forward. On the other hand, Veronika was engaged. So the simplest explanation is that she met her fiancé. He picked her up, they drove home and had a row that got out of hand.’ Gunnarstranda directed his gaze at Frølich. ‘What’s your friend like? Is he prone to violence?’
Frølich looked down at the table while absent-mindedly fidgeting with his phone. He cleared his throat. ‘I wouldn’t like to speculate.’
‘You know the man,’ Gunnarstranda persisted.
Frølich studied his phone. His hand was trembling. ‘We haven’t had any contact in twenty years,’ he said, and had to clear his throat again. ‘I think you’re right that she met the perp in town, but it could have been anyone. I saw her myself visiting Zahid last Friday. How random was that? Veronika came out of his house and was fined for possession of cocaine. Afterwards she’s accused of leaking information about her clients to a big-time criminal. I put it to her straight, I accused her of being party to theft and organised crime. I’m sure she contacted Kadir Zahid after I left.’
