Frølich sat behind the wheel. He waited until Gunnarstranda had settled in before starting the car. ‘Something familiar about this situation, it strikes me,’ he said, shoving the car into gear.
‘Look straight ahead, you,’ Gunnarstranda said drily. ‘’The only positive thing you can say about the past is that it has gone. Hope you can learn that this is also true of women.’
They drove past the bus depot on Ibsenringen and turned towards the Palace Gardens and Frederiksgate as they came out of the tunnel.
‘On my way to work today,’ Frølich said, ‘the Metro had to stop in the tunnel. A man was standing on the rails.’
Gunnarstranda glanced over at him. ‘It
is
a long time,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten that we don’t necessarily have to talk.’
Frølich smiled faintly. ‘The man on the rails was an Indian, an elderly man, just wearing cotton clothes and early this morning it was
bloody
cold. It must have been several degrees below.’
‘So he was freezing?’
‘He didn’t move a muscle. The man was really old, white beard and white hair. He was just babbling. Couldn’t speak a word of Norwegian. There was someone in my carriage who could speak the language and interpreted. Turned out the man was on his way back home – to Calcutta. He was unhappy in Norway, always cold and had no friends.’
‘Yes, well, he’s not the only one.’
‘But this old man had decided to walk home, walk to Calcutta. He wasn’t sure which direction to go, but he knew it was possible to get to India by train. And he had thought that if he just followed the rails, in the end he would come to Calcutta. But it turned out the rails he was walking on didn’t belong to the railway, they belonged to the Metro. So he could have followed the rails for the rest of his days and never have got any further than Stovner.’ Frølich grinned.
‘Vestli,’ said Gunnarstranda.
‘Hm?’
‘The terminus on the Grorud line is Vestli, not Stovner.’
Frølich turned into Munkedamsveien. ‘It’s really good to be back,’ he mumbled, swinging in to park behind Vestbane station.
They got out and made their way to Vika Atrium.
Gunnarstranda showed his ID in reception. Shortly afterwards they were received by a dark-haired woman in her early twenties. She was wearing glasses with a thick, black designer frame. The impression you were left with was that the glasses had put her on and not vice versa. She marched in front of them into what must have been Narvesen’s section. The contrast was palpable. The smooth glass partitions with the pure steel decor suddenly found their counterbalance in dark paintings and extravagantly decorated gold picture frames. Frank Frølich paused for a few seconds and looked around. It was like being in a museum.
The young woman opened a door. She showed them into a small meeting room and bowed before disappearing.
‘I think Narvesen is going to play hard ball,’ Frølich said.
‘You mean we’ll have to wait?’
‘Isn’t that the classic control mechanism? Think I’ve used it myself a few times. I think I even learned it from you.’
‘We’ll have to see how long we’re willing to wait,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Those of us who have worked with such techniques know a few effective counterploys.’
On the table there was an empty paper cup with a dried-up tea bag inside. Gunnarstranda grabbed the cup. ‘First offensive,’ he mumbled. ‘The inspector goes looking for coffee.’
With that, Gunnarstranda left the meeting room and walked cheerfully into an office – without knocking. Frølich saw the woman recoil in surprise. He shook his head, went out into the hall and studied the paintings hanging there. It was old art, full of madonnas and cherubs – the motifs reminded him of his childhood scrapbook.
Suddenly Gunnarstranda was by his side, holding a steaming paper cup.
‘Can you see what I can see?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Inge Narvesen is sitting over there pretending you and I don’t exist.’
Frølich followed his line of vision. Correct. Narvesen was behind a glass door apparently unaware of their presence. ‘You got yourself some coffee, then?’
‘Last night I dreamed about a devil,’ Gunnarstranda said as he raised his cup. ‘It was a sweet little devil with short curly hair, bashful, sucking its thumb. I remember thinking it couldn’t be a good devil. He didn’t inspire confidence.’
‘I’m not telling you what I dreamed,’ said Frølich.
At that moment Narvesen caught sight of them. Initially, he was startled; he then paused for a few seconds before getting up and going over to the glass door.
‘Someone back in out of the cold?’ Inge Narvesen said frostily. He was staring at Frank Frølich.
‘I have some questions to ask you,’ Gunnarstranda said and put down the coffee cup.
‘I’m busy.’
‘It won’t take long.’
‘I’m still busy.’
‘The alternative would be to obtain a court order and summon you to Police HQ for questioning. It would mean we leave here after a fruitless visit and you appear in my office when it suits me and stay for as long as it suits me. The choice is yours.’
Narvesen cast an annoyed, impatient look at the clock. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘The money you had transferred after we arrested Jim Rognstad, does that correspond to the sum you were missing subsequent to the burglary in 1998?
‘Yes. The amount is correct.’
‘There were no other items in the safe removed from your bedroom in 1998?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Would you be willing to sign a statement?’
‘I already have done so and would happily do so again. The case has been cleared up and I am extremely pleased.’
‘Name Jim Rognstad mean anything to you?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘The reason Rognstad was targeted is that a few days ago we were given a tip-off linking him with a container break-in at Oslo Docks and the murder of a guard.’
‘Really?’
‘As a consequence it would be interesting to see whether other suspects can be connected with Rognstad.’
Narvesen nodded impatiently.
‘Does the name Vidar Ballo mean anything to you?’
‘No.’
‘Merethe Sandmo?’
‘No.’
‘Jonny Faremo?’
‘No.’
‘Sure?’
‘Positive. Was there anything else?’
‘One question?’
‘Fire away.’
‘Physically removing the safe from your house while touching nothing else – that seems remarkably focused. Have you ever wondered about that?’
‘No.’
‘You were out of the country, on holiday, when the burglary took place. That suggests those responsible probably knew your house was unoccupied. Did it occur to you that a third party may have informed them?’
‘No. I leave it to the police to devise such hypotheses.’
‘But, if that had been the case, it would necessarily imply that you had a disloyal servant. Doesn’t that concern a man like you?’
‘It would have done if I had any reason to believe such a hypothesis. But I don’t. Since 1998 neither my house nor my office has been broken into. Ergo – as detectives are wont to say – I have no disloyal servants. Would you please excuse me?’
Without waiting, he walked past them and down the corridor.
Frølich grasped his arm.
Narvesen stopped. He stared disapprovingly at Frølich’s hand.
‘Been to Hemsedal recently?’ Frank Frølich asked.
‘Will you let go?’
Frølich removed his hand. ‘Yes or no?’
Narvesen didn’t reply. He walked towards a door further up the corridor.
‘Perhaps I should ask Emilie?’ Frølich called.
He didn’t receive an answer. The door was slammed shut. Narvesen was gone.
They exchanged looks. ‘Do you remember the blackmail business I told you about?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘The drunken captain who threatened to go to the press etc if Narvesen didn’t stump up?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘I tried to find the captain. He got three years and did two of them at Bastøy.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s dead,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘He got involved in a fight the very day he came out. Killed. Knifed by unknown assailant.’
‘Narvesen is not clean,’ Frølich said.
‘No one can allege that Narvesen was responsible for the killing. For the same reason you can’t claim he set fire to your chalet.’
‘Yes, I can. It was him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I just know.’
Gunnarstranda regarded him with scepticism. ‘If you’re so sure it was Narvesen, then it’s up to you to find out
why
– before you go accusing him of things.’
When they were outside in the cold again, Frølich came to a sudden halt.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘That man went too far when he locked me in and lit the match.’
They stood for a while watching the cars hurtling past.
‘Calm down,’ Gunnarstranda said and started moving. ‘We’ll get Narvesen, you can take my word for it.’
‘But it doesn’t look like we will, does it?’
‘I trust my instinct. And, in addition, here comes our Eco-Crime man, Chicken Brains Sørlie.’
Frank Frølich had met Birgitte Bergum once before. It had been a couple of years ago in courtroom number four and she had been defending a drunken carpenter who was an officer in the reserves. The man had drunk himself stupid in his chalet where he kept his service weapon, an AG
3
. In the middle of the night he had started shooting it off. Unfortunately, two tourists had pitched their tent in the vicinity. They were scared out of their wits and after climbing up a tree they rang the police from a mobile phone. But the local police station wasn’t manned in out-of-office hours. So they had to ring the central police switchboard, who sent out a patrol car from another district. But they got lost and the patrolmen called the tourists back to ask the way. The man with the gun, who was now well out of his skull, heard the tourists’ phone ringing and thought the enemy was abroad and about to despatch him. He therefore crawled along the ground wearing camouflage gear and closed in on them – with the invaluable assistance of the policemen who were ringing the tourists at regular intervals. When the police finally did arrive on the scene, the man went absolutely bananas and was only arrested after an exchange of fire, which led to one policeman being injured. Frølich had been summoned as a witness – to speak about the general context of arrests. Birgitte Bergum had been on him like a leech from the word go. He was thinking of this as he sat watching her through a two-way mirror in the interview room: a woman of about fifty with big hair, a big nose and a bust like an opera singer’s. With a self-assured, impatient expression on her face, she sat next to Jim Rognstad. He balanced on his seat like a fat Buddha with hair, limp and uncommunicative, wearing a black T-shirt, his hands folded and recently brushed hair flowing down both shoulders.
There were two of them secretly observing Rognstad and the solicitor. Frølich sat next to Fristad, who, as a legal man, was clearly uneasy with the set-up. He kept mumbling: ‘Oooh dear, I don’t like this. No, I must say, I don’t like this situation, Frølich.’
He went quiet when Gunnarstranda came into the room they were observing. Rognstad tried to stand up like a school pupil when the headmaster enters the classroom. Bergum ordered him to stay seated. Then she looked severely at the two-way mirror.
‘She’s seen us,’ Fristad said, nervously adjusting his glasses. ‘Bibbi’s sharp.’
‘Who’s sitting in there?’ was the first thing she asked, with a nod towards the mirror.
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer. But Frølich and Fristad swapped winces. ‘Put down the sound,’ Fristad muttered. Frølich turned down the volume so low that Bergum’s next remark could hardly be heard:
‘This is no good, Gunnarstranda. All interrogations should be performed in an atmosphere of total openness.’
Frølich turned up the volume a tiny bit.
‘This isn’t an interrogation,’ Gunnarstranda said tersely. ‘You requested this meeting.’
‘I want to know who’s sitting behind the mirror.’
‘Let’s call it a day then. Rognstad can go back to his cell and daydream. Either he has something to sell me or he hasn’t.’
Birgitte Bergum scrutinized Gunnarstranda sternly.
She turned to Rognstad and said: ‘What do you think?’
‘Just a moment,’ Bergum went on, leaning over to her client. The two of them whispered.
Frølich and Fristad exchanged glances again.
‘Bet they pull out,’ Fristad breathed. ‘Bibbi’s as tough as old boots.’
In the interview room Gunnarstranda yawned and looked at the clock. ‘What’s the decision?’
‘There was a painting in the box,’ Rognstad said, straight to the point.
‘Which box?’ Gunnarstranda asked, bored.
‘The safety-deposit box.’
‘No, there wasn’t. There was just money in the box.’
‘Right. But there should have been a painting.’
Frølich and Fristad looked at each other. Fristad straightened his glasses; he was getting excited.
‘What sort of painting?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Old. Worth a packet.’
‘OK,’ Gunnarstranda said wearily. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. This box we’re talking about is pretty small. What kind of painting would fit into the box and how did it get there?’
Rognstad leaned over to his counsel and whispered again. Birgitte Bergum spoke for him.
‘Its origin is of no interest. But it is a fact that a missing work of art had been deposited in the box as well as the money.’
‘You’re forgetting that I determine what is of interest or not. This information is meant to serve as a mitigating circumstance, is it not?’
‘My client is not interested in talking about the past history of the painting.’
Frølich grinned at Fristad and whispered: ‘The picture’s certain to have come from Narvesen’s safe. Jim Rognstad took part in the burglary, but he’s scared of incriminating himself still further.’
Gunnarstranda stood up and walked over to the two-way mirror. He stood combing his hair while mouthing: ‘Shut up in there!’
‘What kind of painting are we talking about?’ he asked with his back to the lawyer and Rognstad.
Bergum replied, ‘A stolen work of art.
Madonna with Child,
painted by Giovanni Bellini. It’s a small painting but worth millions. My client says it was in the safety-deposit box and someone must have removed it.’
Gunnarstranda turned. ‘Let’s take that from the beginning, shall we? You say that someone – thus a person other than your client – made their way into the vault, unlocked the safety-deposit box and took out the painting, but left the money, half a million, behind?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘We don’t know who.’
‘But this person must have used a key. Your client had the key.’
‘There are two keys.’
‘How did your client obtain his key?’
Fristad and Frølich gave each other a knowing look.
Birgitte Bergum and Rognstad whispered to each other.
Bergum said: ‘That has nothing to do with the case.’
‘I have reason to believe you acquired the key by illegal means.’
Birgitte Bergum said: ‘We have no comment to make with reference to your assertion. However, we consider it appropriate to remind you that my client has full legal access to the box.’
Gunnarstranda addressed Rognstad directly now: ‘There are two sets of keys to the safety-deposit box. And there are four people with right of access: you, Jonny Faremo, Ilijaz Zupac and Vidar Ballo. Jonny Faremo is dead. Zupac is in Ullersmo prison. You’re sitting there and telling me someone else nicked this painting from the box. So you’re saying Vidar Ballo has been there and taken the picture. If he did, why did he leave half a million?’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ Bergum interposed.
‘Irrelevant?’ Gunnarstranda started to grin. ‘Is it irrelevant that a notorious criminal walks legitimately into a bank vault and removes a painting, but leaves half a million untouched?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Why naturally?’
‘The individual in question could well go back and collect the money later, couldn’t he? The fact is, Gunnarstranda, that there was a work of art in the box and now it has disappeared.’
‘And the man on the moon eats cheese every day,’ Gunnarstranda snapped. He turned and walked back to the table.
Bergum sent him a deprecating smile. She had begun to develop a new interest in the mirror and when she spoke she addressed the glass pane: ‘We’re talking about one of the world’s most wanted works of art, Gunnarstranda. Go back to your office and look up the records of “Unsolved Cases” and check for stolen works of art. I’m sure you will find Giovanni Bellini’s painting mentioned, the great master of Italian Renaissance painting. The painting was stolen from the church of Santa Maria dell‘Orto in Venice in 1993. Imagine what solving a case like that would mean for you and Police HQ. After that, you and I plus the police prosecutor can discuss the definition of mitigating circumstances,’ she said, getting up and turning towards the glass. She stood still, adjusting her bra. Then she added in a chill tone: ‘Isn’t that right, Fristad?’
Two hours later Gunnarstranda and Fristad were alone. The latter scratching his neck in irritation. ‘Bellini, who the hell is Bellini? As far as I’m concerned, she might just as well have been talking about mountain walking in north Norway.’
‘The Bellinis were a dynasty apparently,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘How do you know that?’
Gunnarstranda turned to show him the encyclopaedia he had found on his bookshelf and said: ‘It says here there was one father and two sons. Renaissance painters at the end of the fifteenth century. There was also one equally famous brother-in-law, Andrea Mantegna.’ He flicked over the page and read on: ‘The Bellini brothers: Gentile and Giovanni.’
He cleared his throat: ‘Giovanni Bellini had enormous influence on Giorgione and Titian, who were both pupils of his, and towards the end of his life Bellini was himself able to learn from them … erm … erm … there are two motifs which dominate his altar paintings. In one there is a beautiful young Madonna with a child in front of a fixed tableau, often giving onto evocative background scenery. Giovanni Bellini’s pictures hang in all the great galleries of the world. There are pictures hanging in several churches in Venice …’ Gunnarstranda peered over the rim of his glasses. ‘Look here. I’ve seen that one.’ He showed Fristad a picture, a portrait of a pale man wearing a hat. With his glasses perched on the end of his nose, Gunnarstranda adjusted his reading distance. ‘That’s what I thought – the National Gallery in London. There’s nothing in this book about a robbery at any rate, but on the other hand this encyclopaedia was published well before 1993.’ He examined the year of publication before putting it back on the shelf. ‘Nineteen seventy-eight to be precise. Perhaps you could put in a good word for us so we get these reference books updated.’
‘No one updates reference books nowadays. They use the Internet, but perhaps you don’t know what that is …’
At that moment Lena Stigersand poked her head in. She said: ‘Just checked a couple of details about Rognstad’s story. In fact, a painting by Giovanni Bellini showing a Madonna with baby Jesus
was
stolen from the church of Santa Maria dell’Orto in Venice in 1993. Pretty stupid business. The church was being restored. Someone strolled in under the tarpaulin, put the picture in their bag and walked off.’
‘So the picture is small,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Stigersand nodded. ‘It has never reappeared and must be very valuable. Of course, pictures like these are almost never sold on. A similar picture of Madonna with the child Jesus, signed by Bellini, was sold in 1996 for £826, 500 at an auction in London.’
‘How much is that in Norwegian kroner?’ Fristad asked.
‘About ten million.’
‘Thanks,’ Gunnarstranda said.
Stigersand left, closing the door behind her.
‘We really modern types use the young ones to check modern stuff on the Internet,’ Gunnarstranda said and added: ‘If a picture like that went for ten million in ninety-six, it must be worth a lot more today. Prices for art shoot through the roof. Worse than flats in Oslo.’
‘But do you believe that?’ Fristad broke in. ‘Is it likely that the picture was lying in a deposit box in Askim for years? It’s rather far-fetched.’
‘If Rognstad’s pulling the wool over our eyes, then it’s a pretty good story,’ Gunnarstranda retorted. ‘So there has to be proof to underpin it. Rognstad would never have gone in for a plea bargain if he didn’t have proof. After all, he wants his sentence commuted. He’s got an ace up his sleeve. Now it wouldn’t be much of an ace if he didn’t know
where
the picture came from, would it. I would bet the picture was with the money in Narvesen’s safe. The question of where the painting came from in order to end up in the deposit box is the only ace Jim Rognstad has. But he’s waiting before he plays it.’
‘If that’s the case, how did Narvesen get hold of this picture?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. Not particularly bothered either. What is important is the sequence of events. The men we’re trying to nail break into Narvesen’s place in the autumn of 1998 and steal a safe. The painting and the money are in the safe. The neighbour’s wife only sees Ilijaz Zupac and points him out in the police photo files. Had she not done that, I presume the safe would never have been reported stolen – since there was such a famous item in it. The fact that the safe contained an item of such value would explain why it was the only thing that was stolen. Zupac is arrested. During the arrest Zupac fires a shot, one man dies and Ilijaz is charged with murder and sentenced. The safe is never found. In all probability his accomplices open the safe and the contents are deposited in the bank. One look at the names of the signatories and it is obvious that Ilijaz’s conspirators were the Faremo gang: Jim Rognstad, Vidar Ballo and Jonny Faremo himself. These three recently broke into the container at Loenga in Oslo …’