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 pointed 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.
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.
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?’
Frølich shook his head and walked back towards Jernbanetorget. Is it possible to sink any lower than being bought a beer by someone you have arrested countless times? He thought: the safest place to go on a bender seems to be further west. He caught the first tram, hung onto the strap as the tram swayed up Prinsens gate, got off at the lower end of Kontraskjæret, crossed to Fridtjof Nansens plass and decided to start on the corner and work his way along all the watering holes around the City Hall. It was a strenuous job. But he didn’t feel drunk; he just needed to keep emptying his bladder. A couple of hours later he wobbled into the lounge of the Hotel Continental. This was the place where original Munch paintings used to hang on the wall, where the male guests are the type of men who look forward to the weekend to try out their new golfing trousers and where the wallflowers are cultivated women with a nose for port wine. This was where an unshaven, furloughed cop could walk around incognito too, he thought, and fell over a sofa in the middle of the room. He ordered a whisky. After drinking another, knocking over a glass of beer and attempting to wipe up the mess with the table cloth from the neighbouring table, he was politely asked to leave. Things are improving, he thought. If I play my cards right now I will be taken to the drunk cells before the night is out. ‘I’m not drunk,’ he said to the girl who had been given the unenviable task. ‘I’m just suffering from a few synchronization problems.’ He stood up, impressed that he had managed to pronounce such a long, tricky word.
He tottered out and almost collided with Emil Yttergjerde. Yttergjerde must have been in the middle of his own pub crawl because there was a red, almost purple, glow to his face and he had to hold onto the lamppost as they stood contemplating each other. Together, they staggered around the corner and into Universitetsgata. Several bars there. And he still had some money left.
It was evening, maybe night, at any rate many hours later, when he and Yttergjerde were sitting at a table in Café Fiasco. No, he concluded, it had to be night. He was drinking his beer and struggling not to slide off his stool while concentrating on Yttergjerde’s mouth. The music was hammering away and he was shouting to be heard through the din.
‘She was from Argentina,’ Yttergjerde bellowed.
Frølich put his half-litre down on the table, wishing Yttergjerde would shut up and stop his awful shouting.
‘But I didn’t find that out until later,’ Yttergjerde shouted.
‘What was that?’ Frølich shouted back.
‘The woman from Argentina. She was broke, you see, and I kept her going with cigarettes and some food. I was arseholed when I got into this bus, it was four in the morning and I was going to Milan. Anyway, I sat down in the bus and then she came and sat down beside me. She’d spent all her money on rented cars and expensive hotels in Paris and Rome. She needed somewhere to live because there were still two weeks to go before her return flight left from Paris to cross the Atlantic.’
Yttergjerde paused for breath and took a drink from his glass of beer.
‘What are you talking about?’ Frølich asked.
‘My holiday,’ Yttergjerde said. ‘Keep up, will you?’
Frølich raised his head. It was impossible to hear yourself think. There was a break in the music. But not for long. Someone put on some Springsteen. One chord, one riff: ‘Born in the USA’.
Frølich was about to say something. Just to prove that he wasn’t going to collapse. Instead he had to battle not to fall off his stool. He clung to his beer glass and said: ‘I guess I’ll have to be off now.’
Yttergjerde didn’t hear. He put down his glass, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and roared through the music: ‘I couldn’t talk to her about Swedes, you see. This woman had been with a Swede and he’d been knocking her about for a long time. And she was whingeing and nagging me – that was probably why it finished – always asking me if I was all right and telling me in the morning I looked extremely aggressive. I have no idea what I look like in the morning actually, but I was sick of the nagging, really sick of it. I mean, I’ve never heard that I look aggressive before. Anyway, in the end, I lost my temper and told her in my Oxford English I wasn’t angry. But, I said, if you don’t stop asking me if I’m angry, I’ll lose my temper. Perhaps I was a bit rough. I mean, it’s not so easy to catch the nuances using Oxford English. Anyway, she legged it and that was the last I saw of her. Just as well maybe. I mean, it was a hopeless business. I was on holiday. I put the woman up and kept her in cigarettes for four days – while she was doing the best she could to pay in kind. That’s no healthy basis for a lasting relationship.’
Frølich stood up. The room swayed. He was plastered. He said it out loud: ‘I’m plastered.’
‘What I mean to say is,’ Yttergjerde unflaggingly pointed out, ‘the world is full of women, Frankie. I mean people like me, divorced, can relax. What about people like you who have never worn the ball and chain? I’ve got a pal, thirty-something, he’s up to his eyeballs in women. Single mothers, Frankie, trips on the ferry to Denmark, dances. You don’t have to get fucking depressed because of this woman.’
‘I know you mean well,’ Frank Frølich said. ‘But the only thing I need now is a taxi and a bed to lie in.’
‘Yeah, go on home, Frankie. Sleep it off, have a lie-in, forget the bloody woman. Last time I felt like that I went to the whorehouse in Munkedamsveien, I mean, just to release some of the pressure. But the one who got the job was one of those sneaky pusses. I’m sure she was married or engaged, and what’s the point of being a whore then, eh? If you think the whole thing is revolting. Eh? She was a looker but she refused to do anything but missionary, so I got angry, didn’t I? I don’t mean to be difficult, I said to the madame in reception, but I’m paying a lot of wonga, so these women of yours should be able to manage a bit of customer service, shouldn’t they, I said, and then I was given a voucher. What about that, Frankie?’ Yttergjerde sobbed with laughter. ‘You know, that’s how it should be in marriage too. You just get vouchers!’