Sohlberg and the Gift (30 page)

A public record search for Norwegian lawyers named Falkanger revealed that one Baldur Falkanger—age 54—lived in Oslo and Gothenburg and London. He was married to 28-year-old Oda Falkanger. She was his fifth wife. Newspaper articles revealed that the Falkangers maintained an enormous pied-a-terre penthouse at a luxury building near Stranden in the Aker Brygge where they entertained high-powered corporate CEOs as well as Norway’s Crown Prince and other royalty. The racy Norwegian tabloid
Se og Hør
lived up to its name (
Look and Listen
) with pictures and video that showed topless royalty cavorting in the summer with the Falkangers on their 135-foot yacht
Big Bertha
. Warm weather allowed the Falkangers to dock the boat on the waterfront next to their apartment building. Pedestrians strolling on Stranden often assumed that the boat was a cruise ship for tourists.

A breathless article in the Danish
Berlingske
newspaper in Copenhagen described Baldur Falkanger as having plenty of money to burn. He had inherited a substantial fortune thanks to his grandfather who had taken shares of SKF stock as his payment in 1907 when SKF could not pay him for his legal work due to temporary cash flow problems. Until that lucky moment Old Man Falkanger had been laboring as an obscure patent lawyer hired by the founder of the ball bearing company SKF (Svenska Kullagerfabriken). The founder—Sven Wingqvist—had invented the self-aligning ball bearing that protected machinery from undue wear and tear. Falkanger’s misfortune in receiving unwelcome SKF stock payments eventually turned into a windfall. SKF became one of the world’s largest manufacturers of ball bearings and it then transformed itself into a worldwide industrial colossus that made and sold $ 10 billion U.S. Dollars worth of bearings and seals and lubrication products and power transmission systems.

With his police uniform Sohlberg caught the immediate attention of the maitre d’ of the tony restaurant.

“The manager please.”

“Of course,” said the head waiter. “Would you like to wait in the back . . . in the offices.”

“No,” replied Sohlberg because he might need to put public pressure on the manager if no cooperation was forthcoming. “Please tell the manager that Chief Inspector Sohlberg is here.”

“Yes . . . yes,” said the waiter as he shot off to the backroom office.

Sohlberg smiled. He had yet to meet a manager at a restaurant or hotel who wanted the police asking loud questions among nervous patrons.

The manager came out five seconds later. “How may I help you?”

“I need to confirm if you or your staff know a Baldur Falkanger and his wife Oda.”

“They are long time clients.”

“Have you ever delivered food to them?”

“Many times. Catered events and they’re one of the few on a select list of clients who are allowed to call us any time for take-out and delivery.”

“Here,” said Sohlberg. He pointed at a piece of blank paper that he pulled from his inside coat pocket. “Please write down their address and phone number.”

“I don’t know it by memory. I’ll have to go back to the office and get it.”

Sohlberg nodded and followed the man to the back of the restaurant. They passed through the kitchen where tempting smells of food brought pangs of hunger to Sohlberg. Once inside the dimly-lit and cramped office the manager offered Sohlberg a chair which the detective declined.

“Ah . . . here it is. I have a nearby street address and a landline phone number and a cell phone number. Which do you want?”

“All of them.”

The manager wrote down and then handed the information to Sohlberg who in turn handed him the picture of Jakob Gansum.

“Seen him?”

“No. Don’t think so. But I’ve only been working here for six months.”

“What about your waiters?”

“Just what I was thinking. Let me call Irene. She’s been here the longest.”

A smartly dressed waitress in her mid-fifties immediately recognized Jakob Gansum. “Yes. He was here a couple of years ago. He came with her . . . Fru Falkanger.”

“How can you remember?” said a skeptical Sohlberg.

“Easy. He made a pass at me when she went to the restroom. Grabbed my thigh under the table. Even gave me his phone number. He was a fresh punk. Made me an indecent proposal. Obscene rudeness doesn’t begin to describe it. I almost slapped the pig. But who am I? . . . He on the other hand was one of the many
men friends
that she brought here. If I slapped him then I’d be out of a job that has great tips.”

“I’m sorry about that experience,” said Sohlberg with embarrassed sincerity. “I greatly appreciate your kind help. It is extremely valuable. Extremely. This is a very very important case and your cooperation has been critical. Of course . . . I want neither of you to mention a word of my visit to anyone . . . especially the Falkangers.”

The manager nodded grimly while the waitress beamed brightly in the dark office.

“I’ll leave through the back door,” said Sohlberg who still worried about being followed.

A blast of icy wind greeted Sohlberg as soon as he opened a door that led directly into Fjordalléen. Wet snow started falling on the street. Sohlberg hurried to an imposing granite-clad building. Enormous windows jutted over the street from the higher floors where homeowners lived above businesses on the lower floors.

Sohlberg went inside a small coffee shop located next to the Falkanger’s building. He ordered a steamed milk and while he warmed up with his drink he searched www.skattelister.no on his personal cell phone to find out the annual income of Baldur Falkanger. Nothing turned up.

Perhaps Falkanger earned no income in Norway where he owns a luxury home. Maybe there’s some tax evasion going on.

At the Falkanger building the lobby receptionist looked startled when Sohlberg entered and said in a loud voice:

“Please call the Super. We have a report of an alarm that I need to investigate.”

Within 3 minutes the building’s superintendent ran out to the lobby to escort Sohlberg up to the top floor. The super answered all of Sohlberg’s questions about the layout of the apartment:

“Every unit takes up the entire floor . . . we have no two-floor units . . . and no sir . . . the units do not have any entrances or exits other than the front door by the elevator.”

“No kitchen doors? . . . Or doors for maids and servants?”

“No. There’s a service elevator that opens directly to the kitchen area.”

“Call your people and have them disable that elevator right now.”

The building’s administrator did just that with his walkie-talkie.

A long hallway lit with tiny halogen lamps in the ceiling and lined with tasteful modern art paintings and thick carpeting led Sohlberg and the superintendent straight to the Falkanger’s residence.

The detective frowned. He had expected an easy look inside an unoccupied dwelling. Instead loud music thumped against the front door. The vibrations ran along the walls. He had expected no one to be inside since this was one of many homes owned by the Falkangers.

“Do you know who’s inside?”

“No. We don’t keep track of the residents. They come and go as they please. They have their own security cards to swipe to get inside the building and the elevators.”

Sohlberg had planned on dismissing the super once the man used his master key to open the door to an empty apartment. Now he had to change strategies.

“I’ll take care of this,” said Sohlberg. “They probably set off the alarm by accident. I still need to check on them.”

“We’ve never ever had a break-in here. No crime. None at all.”

“So . . . there’s no need to say anything more about this to anyone. Right? . . . I’ll take care of this myself . . . if you don’t mind.”

The super nodded and left immediately.

As soon as the building superintendent entered the elevator Sohlberg took a deep breath. The elevator doors closed. He pounded on the Falkangers’ door and yelled:

“Police . . . open up!”

The music died. A long silence followed. He heard scurrying about and then a muffled man’s voice and maybe even a child’s voice.

Sohlberg kicked the door hard and screamed:

“Open up or the door comes down!”

The door’s peephole darkened as someone watched him. He heard the click of a turning door bolt. The door had barely cracked open before Sohlberg abruptly slammed his entire body weight on the door and the door’s security chain snapped and the door flung open. The overpowering stench of marijuana competed with the acrid chemicals of crack and meth. White powder and glass pipes covered a glass coffee table next to a brick of pungent cannabis from Turkey.

“Good afternoon . . . Officer,” said the naked man with a hairy potbelly and bald head. He spoke in the same bland and matter-of fact tone that he would have used if he had been caught taking an extra serving of caviar and crackers at an art gallery opening.

“Move back.”

The man’s red-rimmed blue eyes and runny nose and sparse red beard completed the repulsive appearance which reminded Sohlberg of a wild pig on crack.

Sohlberg took out his handcuffs. “Baldur Falkanger. . . .”

“Yes?”

“I’m here because of a disturbance call. Your loud music was bothering your neighbors.”

“Oh well.”

“Oh well?”

“You are breaking into my house. This arrest won’t stand up in court. You’ll never even get to a trial. I was only going to talk to you through a crack in the door. I never let you in voluntarily. You kicked your way in. My lawyers will flush you down the toilet.”

“Really? . . . When I came here to investigate a disturbance I saw that the door was already busted open. I only went inside for your safety . . . to investigate a break-in. I was worried someone had broken in and hurt you. Imagine my surprise at then seeing you buck naked with all these drugs laying about.”

“My lawyers will squash you like a cockroach.”

“Is Oda Falkanger here?”

“You seem to know my family well.” Falkanger studied Sohlberg’s epaulettes and with utter disdain added, “Chief Inspector.”

“Is she here?”

“Do you have a gangbang tonight with her at seven o’clock . . . or are you coming to the club with us at midnight? . . . You swing too Chief Inspector?”

Falkanger screamed when Sohlberg grabbed Falkanger’s left wrist and slapped one handcuff on that arm. Sohlberg then swung the sweat-drenched arm up the man’s hairy back so as to force the wrist all the way up towards the man’s neck while practically dislocating the shoulder.

“Listen good,” said Sohlberg. “Who else is in the apartment . . . where . . . what’s their name?”

“Pierre. In the master bedroom.”

“Call him to come out.”

Both men stared at a hallway which led towards the bedrooms.

Falkanger spoke in fluent French which Sohlberg roughly understood to mean:

“Pierre . . . will you please come out here. The inspector wants to get a look at your beautiful body. He may want a piece of you. Maybe we’ll have a threesome. Maybe we—”