The Fourth Man Read online

  Frølich felt his face go numb. ‘Me?’

  ‘She went into juicy detail about her night with you – prior to this round of poker.’

  Frølich could still hear an echo in his head of his pathetic ‘Me?’

  The silence between them grew. People passed them in both directions. A taxi trundled slowly by. The driver looked up at them questioningly.

  Frølich said: ‘You don’t buy the story about the poker game?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I called in as a witness?’

  ‘Would you have been able to say when she left?’ Gunnarstranda’s tone was acid.

  ‘Listen,’ Frølich said, annoyed. ‘I don’t like this any more than you do.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘I don’t understand why the judge accepted her testimony. It seems bloody unlikely.’

  ‘Could you have refuted it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why should I have called you as a witness? I have no idea whether the judge believed her. The point is that her testimony denies us a reasonable cause for suspicion and hence their release is a clear sign to me: before the next round, produce more evidence against the Faremo gang or undermine Elisabeth Faremo’s testimony.’

  ‘What time of night are we actually talking about?’

  Gunnarstranda took a deep breath.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Pull yourself together, Frølich.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You’re the one having a relationship with this woman! You’re the one who has been to bed with her. And you stand there like a donkey asking me about times. I don’t recognize you. Have a break. Go on holiday, take time off. You’ve been – excuse my French – humping the sister of a hardened criminal … for how long? For weeks? As far as I know, it might be all love and sweet music, but you’re a policeman for Christ’s sake. It might be a set-up. If you can’t see that, it’s my job to point out the possibility. Soon the whole force will see it. And then you’ll be suspended. And you can imagine how they will formulate the suspension, can’t you? That route is no good for you or me or the force. So, move out of the way of the elephants coming thundering around the bend. If you don’t move, you’ll be trampled underfoot. And whatever happens, you could do with a holiday. You’re a fucking shadow of yourself, man!’

  Frank Frølich looked the other man in the eye. ‘What are you talking about? A set-up?’

  ‘The woman must have had something going right from the off.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘You told me you protected her – in Badir’s shop – got her out of the way when the police went into action?’

  ‘No one knew about the operation. Her going into the shop was a glitch. Chance.’

  ‘Fine, she entered the shop quite by chance. But then – during the shooting and while the crazy guys were being nicked – you say she was stuffing cigarettes into her rucksack? She must have been doing that to get you interested.’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest idea why she was doing that.’

  ‘Remember, she doesn’t have a record. But when the bullets fly and she is lying underneath a cop on the shop floor, she starts pinching stuff – isn’t that a bit odd?’

  Frølich was sweating. ‘It might be odd, I don’t know.’

  ‘Just use your head. You’re in deep shit.’

  ‘But if this is all calculated and planned, I don’t understand why. Was she supposed to go around selling her body for months, making the wildest plans with me, in order to give her brother an alibi for killing a security guard in the harbour? My God, Arnfinn Haga, a twenty-two-year-old student working as a guard to earn some money on the side. Can’t you see that a conspiracy theory is completely absurd!’

  ‘So you think she’s in love with you and the business with her brother is pure chance, do you?’

  ‘Yes, in fact I do.’

  ‘Frølich, how long have we worked together now?’

  ‘A lot too long.’

  ‘Yes, probably, but we’ve muddled our way through quite a few cases. And even if no two cases are alike, a number of things about this one stink.’

  ‘Right!’ Frølich cut in. ‘But it’s also possible!’

  ‘What’s possible?’

  ‘It’s possible she had honourable intentions!’

  ‘Frølich! Stop being so bloody naive! There’s something not quite kosher about this bit of skirt. It doesn’t matter which way you look at every single bit of what you’ve told me, it all boils down to a con.’

  Gunnarstranda moved off. He strode briskly along the pavement. Frølich caught up with him and said, ‘OK, let’s say you’re right. She did have something going. If you’re so damned sure, what was she after, then? What was she planning on the shop floor? If this is not about the murder of the Securitas guard, what is it about then? Is it about getting me into deep water? There must be easier ways of causing me trouble than to start killing people. You must be able to see that. The only thing she has achieved is to put me in a spot of bother with some colleagues who are wondering now about my judgement – and what would be the point of that? Well? Can you tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, why the hassle?’

  Gunnarstranda stopped again. He glared at the other man with ice-cold eyes. ‘I’m not hassling anyone. I never do. You’re the one following me. You’re the one doing the hassling. We both know that the main suspects left court free men and your name was used in the trial to achieve that outcome. That means – if you have to have it spelt out for you – you cannot continue with this investigation. I’ll investigate the murder of Arnfinn Haga now without your help. If I were you, I would do two things: first, take a week off to avoid a blemish on your record. Next, I would have a chat with the girl. You owe that to yourself and your future, and not least the girl herself – if she really does have honourable intentions. And now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a job to do.’

  Frank Frølich watched him go. Gunnarstranda’s open coat flapped like a cape in his wake.

  Time off? Suspension? The words ricocheted through his brain. The blood in his ears pounded. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.

  He rang Elisabeth Faremo’s number. There was no answer.

  He stood looking at the phone. Nothing. Because she didn’t answer. That had never happened before. He tried again. Again no answer. He tried a third time. Her phone was switched off.

  8

  Three hours later he had treated himself to a week off and was sitting in his car on the road up to Ekeberg Ridge. He drove onto the roof which formed the car park for the flats beneath. A staircase led downwards, beside the building complex. One landing for every floor. Every landing led to two entrances. He found the door to Jonny and Elisabeth Faremo’s flat. Rang the bell but nothing happened. He listened. No padding feet could be heard behind the door. Everything was dead, dark and still. The only thing to be heard was the engine of a crane which barely drowned the usual drone of traffic in the streets below. The icy air, which until now had wrapped itself around his body like a cool skin, suddenly penetrated his clothes and made him shiver.

  He rang again. The skin on his forefinger went white as he pressed the bell.

  He stamped his feet to keep warm, went to the side to find a window to look through.

  ‘Are you looking for someone?’

  An elderly man with a stoop, stick and beret was standing on the staircase landing staring at him.

  ‘Faremo,’ Frølich said.

  The man took out a bunch of keys and tried to find the correct one. ‘Him or the lady?’

  ‘Both actually.’

  The man put the key in the lock of the neighbouring flat. ‘She went off about half an hour ago. Probably going on holiday. Had a rucksack and suitcase with her. I haven’t seen Jonny for several days.’ The man opened the door.

  ‘Did she take a taxi?’

  ‘No, she just went down there.’ The man p
ointed with his stick. ‘Took the bus, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you see her get on the bus?’

  ‘No. Why are you so interested?’

  Frølich was about to show his ID, but refrained. ‘We were meant to meet,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Pretty important. That was half an hour ago.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ the man said, moving to go indoors.

  Frølich waited.

  The man kept mumbling, ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ then finally closed the door.

  Frølich plodded slowly back up the stairs to his car. As he was about to get in, a silver-grey Saab 95 rolled up and parked in one of the reserved spaces. He put the key in his pocket and observed the other car. The driver was taking his time. Finally the door opened. A man got out: white, about 1 metre 90 tall, strong – either from intensive training or anabolic steroids – wearing green military trousers, Gore-Tex mountain climbing boots, a short leather jacket, brown leather gloves, sunglasses and a black cap. Frølich had never seen him in real life, but he knew instantly who he was and walked over towards him.

  They were the same height, but Frølich probably couldn’t lift as much in the bench press as this action-hero clone. Nevertheless, when Faremo took off his sunglasses he immediately recognized Elisabeth’s features: the nose, the forehead and the eyes.

  He said: ‘I’m looking for your sister.’ He thought: Big mistake. I should have introduced myself, been coldly courteous, not brazen like a little kid.

  The man took off his gloves with an effort and stretched out his hand. ‘Jonny.’

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘So you’re a friend of Elisabeth’s?’

  ‘Yes. Earlier today you were in court and got off because your sister talked about a man called Frank. You may remember?’

  Faremo grinned. ‘Elisabeth and I have occasionally discussed the fact that you were a policeman.’

  Frølich could feel the words sinking in: Elisabeth and I have occasionally discussed …

  Faremo went on: ‘She has always maintained that you weren’t an asshole, that you were …’ Jonny Faremo gave a cool, ironic smile as he prepared for the sarcasm: ‘ … that you were different.’

  Frølich controlled himself and refrained from giving a riposte. ‘Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A neighbour claims she left half an hour ago with a rucksack and another bag.’

  ‘Then she must have done.’

  ‘But you must know if she was going anywhere.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  Frølich thought: Because she’s your alibi, asshole! He said: ‘So you don’t know?’

  ‘You should drop the Gestapo style when talking to members of her family.’

  ‘I apologize if I’ve been offensive, but it’s important for me to get into contact with her.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Really. Is that so strange?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘From what I have understood from my sister, she was the one who had to take the initiative in your relationship.’ Faremo smacked a glove against his palm. ‘But now I’m in trouble, you’ve turned into a bloodhound and come running round here.’

  Frølich said: ‘If you see her, please ask her to ring me.’ He turned to go. The packed snow on the concrete roof was slippery. He almost fell, but he didn’t look back. She has told her brother everything . That was the only thing he thought. Jonny Faremo knew God-knows-what all the time he had been asking her about her brother. She had been sitting and shielding her cards like a child caught cheating.

  When he joined the main road Faremo was still standing in the same place, watching him closely.

  Frølich glanced at his watch. It was lunchtime, but he couldn’t swallow a bite. He pulled into the verge and stopped before he had driven fifty metres. What would be the best course of action? Find out where Elisabeth had gone or focus on the brother? How would he find out where she had gone? He hardly knew anything about her.

  He wove his hands round the wheel. Perhaps do nothing? Go home and sleep maybe? After all, he was off work.

  He didn’t have long to think. Faremo’s Saab drove past. Frølich switched on the ignition and followed him.

  9

  It was late afternoon when he parked alongside a picket fence near the tram stop at Forskningsparken. From here he made his way to the part of the university complex housing the history and philosophy faculty. The thought of this visit was distasteful. The thought of searching for the Elisabeth he didn’t know was distasteful. However, the distaste he felt for this side of her seemed less important as long as he was unable to get in touch with her, to find her. He wanted to hear what she said about the poker game, the alibi – all the things he couldn’t grasp. So he ignored the beast gnawing at his stomach, went into the Niels Treschow building and took the lift up the tall structure. He haphazardly roamed the corridors, took the stairs and wandered further afield as he read the names on the doors. The door to Reidun Vestli’s office was ajar. He knocked and pushed the door open. A young woman with blonde hair and an unusually powerful jaw looked up from the computer. ‘Sorry,’ Frank Frølich said. ‘I’m looking for Reidun Vestli.’

  ‘She’s gone home.’ The young woman looked at her wristwatch. ‘A couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘She wasn’t well. So she went home.’ The powerful jaw split into a big white smile. ‘On the Master’s course we’re allowed to use her office. She’s great like that.’

  ‘Was it serious?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. No, I don’t think so. Reidun is rarely ill.’

  Reidun Vestli had packed up and gone off a couple of hours ago. Elisabeth packed up and went off a couple of hours ago.

  Frølich said: ‘I really need to talk to her. We had an appointment.’

  Reidun Vestli’s office was tidy; the only object to disturb the impression of meticulous order was the quilted anorak the student had slung over the table in the corner. The woman behind the computer looked as if she belonged to the office.

  ‘You can try her home phone number, if it’s important.’

  ‘Yes, of course. You don’t have the number by any chance?’

  The student had a ponder. ‘Reidun is one of the few professors who has a business card,’ she said, pulling out a drawer in the desk. ‘I know she usually has a few lying around. Here we are.’ The powerful chin broke into another smile as she passed him the card.

  He studied the business card on the way down in the lift. Reidun Vestli lived in Lysejordet.

  He called her home number as soon as he was back in his car. It rang five times. No one answered. Then the little pause which indicated that you were being transferred. So she wasn’t at home. It rang twice more before she answered.

  ‘This is Reidun.’ The voice was clear; in the background, a low whistle. Frølich knew what that meant. It meant that she was in a car.

  ‘This is Frank Frølich. I would like to talk to you.’

  Silence.

  ‘It’s about Elisabeth Faremo.’

  The conversation was broken off.

  He stared down at the display. This was a conversation he had dreaded, but for Reidun Vestli it must have been worse. The panic-stricken refusal to speak made him ring again, instantly. The number rang and rang. Then the answer service took over.

  He was fed up. Pissed off. Right now the situation seemed totally ridiculous. He could hear Gunnarstranda’s voice in his head as he drove home. A set-up! Of course it is, Frølich!

  He had opted to take a whole load of accumulated time off because … why had he, actually? Because Elisabeth Faremo was covering up for her brother? Or was he doing it to hide, to bury his head in shame?

  A young man had been killed. But Elisabeth could have been telling the truth. Why couldn’t what she said have been true? Elisabeth had always sneaked out of his flat at night. What might have happened was this: Elisabeth had gone home. She had sat up for a
few hours with her brother and then all of a sudden the police ring at her door. Except for the tip-off. The problem was that he knew nothing about the tip-off. Who had tipped off the police and what was their motive?

  He automatically steered a course homewards. It was a dark winter afternoon and rush hour. He had taken time off. Nothing to do. What does a Norwegian man do when he has nothing to do? He has a drink – or five. Frank Frølich headed for the shopping centre in Manglerud.

  10

  He set out on his pub crawl. Had a couple of lagers at a bar registered under the name of Olympen Restaurant and known locally as the Lompa, the Rose of Grønland. The place was half full. Most of the customers were of the jaded variety, who lived nearby and went to the Lompa to have profound conversations with their beer glasses. Frank Frølich sat alone at a table watching the people around him. Lean men, most so rigid from years of hard drinking that they looked as if they were balancing on stilts when they walked into the toilet. When he moved on, it was to find a bar to prop himself up on. He went to Oslo main station, to platform two in the old Østbanehalle. The place was packed. Travellers. Commuters on their way home waiting for the next train. Men and women from Moss and Ski with their suitcases, warming up with a beer before catching the ferry to Denmark. The loudspeakers were playing the Hollies’ ‘He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother’ and a group of women dressed in track suits were singing along. Frølich studied himself in the mirror and felt like a Martian on Pluto. He drank his third and fourth beers while witnessing two old acquaintances of the police selling dope to some teenage girls. Frølich raised his glass. He was off duty for fuck’s sake. None of his business. But old acquaintances are as alert as wild mink. They immediately sensed Frølich’s passive state and were ready to misinterpret it. Frølich drank his beer and moved on, up Karl Johans gate. He paused at the intersection with Dronningensgate and the row of obscure bars. But then another old acquaintance limped out of the shadows by Kirkeristen: ‘Frankie, fancy a beer?’