Harry Hole 02 - Cockroaches (8 page)

‘Miss Wiig’s office is the second on the right, sir,’ she said with such a beaming smile Harry considered falling in love on the spot.

‘Come in,’ Harry heard, after knocking on the door. Inside, Tonje Wiig was bent over a large teak desk, obviously busy making notes. She looked up, put on a light smile, raised a lean body dressed in a white silk suit from her chair and walked towards him with an outstretched hand.

Tonje Wiig was the opposite of the receptionist. A nose, mouth and eyes fought for room in a long face, and the nose appeared to carry the day. It was like a big tuber, but at least ensured there was a bit of space between her large, heavily made-up eyes. Not that Miss Wiig was ugly, no, some men might even claim the face had a certain classical beauty.

‘So nice that you’re finally here, Officer. Shame that it’s in such sad circumstances.’

Harry had barely touched her bony fingers before they were withdrawn.

‘We’d very much like to put this case behind us as fast as possible,’ she said, rubbing one nostril carefully so as not to smudge her make-up.

‘I appreciate that.’

‘These have been difficult days for us, and it might sound heartless, but the world goes on and so do we. Some people believe that all we do is attend cocktail parties and enjoy ourselves, but nothing could be further from the truth, I can tell you. At this very moment I have eight Norwegians in hospital and six in prison, four of them for possession of narcotics. Have you seen the prisons here? Dreadful.
Verdens Gang
rings every day. It turns out that on top of everything else one of them is pregnant. And last month in Pattaya, a Norwegian man died after being thrown out of a window. Second time in a year. Terrible fuss.’

She shook her head in despair.

‘And if someone loses their passport do you think they have travel insurance or money for a new ticket home? No, we have to take care of everything. So, as you know, it’s important we get things moving here.’

‘It’s my understanding that you’re in charge now that the ambassador is dead.’

‘I am the chargé d’affaires, yes.’

‘How long will it be before a new ambassador is appointed?’

‘Not long, I hope. Usually it takes a month or two.’

‘They’re not concerned that you’re left shouldering all the responsibility?’

Tonje Wiig gave a wry smile. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. In fact I worked here as the chargé d’affaires for six months before they sent Molnes. I’m just saying I hope there will be a permanent arrangement as soon as possible.’

‘So you’re counting on becoming the new ambassador.’

‘Well.’ She smiled mirthlessly. ‘That wouldn’t be unnatural. But you never know with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I’m afraid.’

A shadow stole in and a cup appeared in front of Harry.

‘Do you drink
chaa ráwn
?’ Tonje Wiig asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, my apologies,’ she laughed. ‘I forget so quickly that others are new here. Black Thai tea. I have afternoon tea here, you see. Even though, strictly speaking, it should be after two o’clock according to English tradition.’

Harry said yes, and the next time he looked down someone had filled his cup.

‘I thought that kind of tradition died with the colonialists.’

‘Thailand has never been a colony,’ she smiled. ‘Neither of England nor of France, as its neighbours were. The Thais are very proud of that. A bit too proud, if you ask me. A bit of English influence never hurt anyone.’

Harry picked up a notepad and asked if the ambassador might conceivably have been embroiled in anything dubious.

‘Dubious, Hole?’

He explained in concise terms what he meant by ‘dubious’, that in seventy per cent of murders the victim was involved in something illegal.

‘Illegal? Molnes?’ She shook her head energetically. ‘He isn’t . . . wasn’t the type.’

‘Do you know if he could have had any enemies?’

‘Can’t imagine he would. He was very well liked. Why do you ask? Surely this can’t be an assassination?’

‘We know very little at the moment, so we’re keeping all lines of inquiry open.’

Tonje Wiig explained that Molnes had gone straight to a meeting after lunch on the Tuesday he died. He hadn’t said where, but this was not unusual.

‘He always had his mobile phone with him, so we could get in touch if something came up.’

Harry asked to see his office. Tonje Wiig had to unlock two further doors, installed ‘for security reasons’. The room was untouched, as Harry had requested before he left Oslo, and it was a mess of papers, files and souvenirs which hadn’t been put on shelves or hung on walls yet.

The Norwegian royal couple peered down majestically at them over the piles of paper and out of the window overlooking a green space that Wiig told him was Queen Sirikit Park.

Harry found a calendar, but there weren’t many notes on it. He checked the day of the murder. Man U, it said – Manchester United, unless he was much mistaken. Perhaps a football match he wanted to see, Harry thought, dutifully going through some drawers, but he soon realised one man searching the ambassador’s office without knowing what he was looking for was a hopeless task.

‘I can’t see his mobile phone,’ Harry said.

‘As I mentioned – he always carried it with him.’

‘We didn’t find a mobile at the crime scene. And I don’t think the murderer was a thief.’

Tonje Wiig shrugged. ‘Perhaps some of your Thai colleagues “confiscated” it?’

Harry chose not to respond and instead asked if anyone had rung him at the embassy on the day in question. She was doubtful, but promised to look into it. Harry had a last look around the room.

‘Who was the last person to see Molnes in the embassy?’

She tried to recall. ‘It must have been Sanphet, the chauffeur. He and the ambassador were very good friends. He’s taken this badly, so I gave him a few days off.’

‘Why wasn’t he driving the ambassador on the day of the murder, if he’s a chauffeur?’

She shrugged again. ‘I wondered the same. The ambassador didn’t like driving in Bangkok on his own.’

‘Mm. What can you tell me about the chauffeur?’

‘Sanphet? He’s been here for as long as anyone can remember. He’s never been to Norway, but he can reel off all the towns. And the kings. Yes, and he loves Grieg. I don’t know if he has a record player at home, but I think he has all the records. He’s such a sweet old man.’

She angled her head and revealed her gums.

Harry asked if she knew where he could find Hilde Molnes.

‘She’s at home. Dreadfully upset, I’m afraid. I think I would advise you to wait a bit before you talk to her.’

‘Thank you for your advice, frøken Wiig, but waiting is a luxury we cannot afford. Would you be so kind as to ring her and tell her I’m on my way?’

‘I understand. Sorry.’

‘Where are you from, frøken Wiig?’

Tonje Wiig looked at him in surprise. Then she gave a strained chuckle. ‘Is this supposed to be an interrogation, Hole?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘If you absolutely have to know, I grew up in Fredrikstad.’

‘That’s what I thought I could hear,’ he said with a wink.

The spry woman in reception was leaning back in her chair and holding a bottle of perfume to her nose. When Harry discreetly cleared his throat she gave a start and laughed in embarrassment with her eyes full of water.

‘Sorry, the air in Bangkok is very bad,’ she explained.

‘I’ve noticed. Could you give me the chauffeur’s telephone number?’

She shook her head and snorted. ‘He hasn’t got a telephone.’

‘OK. Has he got a place to live?’

It was meant as a joke, but he could see from her face that she didn’t appreciate it. She wrote down the address and gave him a tiny parting smile.

9

Saturday 11 January

A SERVANT WAS
standing at the door as Harry walked up the drive to the ambassador’s residence. He led Harry through two large rooms, tastefully furnished in cane and teak, to the terrace door, which opened onto the garden behind the house. The orchids sparkled in yellow and blue, and butterflies fluttered past like coloured paper under large willow trees offering shade. They found the ambassador’s wife, Hilde Molnes, by an hourglass-shaped swimming pool. She was sitting in a wicker chair wearing a pink robe, a matching drink on the table in front of her, and sunglasses which covered half her face.

‘You must be Detective Hole,’ she said in a Sunnmøre accent. ‘Tonje said you were on your way. A drink, Detective?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Oh, you must. It’s important to drink in this heat, you know. Think of your liquid levels even if you aren’t thirsty. Here you can dehydrate before your body tells you.’

She removed her sunglasses, and Harry saw, as he had guessed from her raven-black hair and dark skin, that she had brown eyes. They were lively but red-rimmed. Grief or the preprandial drink, Harry thought. Or both.

He estimated her age at mid-forties, but she was well kept. A middle-aged, slightly faded beauty from the upper-middle classes. He had seen them before.

He sat down in the other wicker chair, which wrapped itself around his body as if it had known he was coming.

‘In that case I’ll have a glass of water, fru Molnes.’

She informed the servant and sent him off.

‘Have you been told that you can go and see your husband now?’

‘Yes. Thank you,’ she said. Harry noticed a curt undertone. ‘Now they let me see him. A man I’ve been married to for twenty years.’

The brown eyes had turned black, and Harry reflected that it was probably true that lots of shipwrecked Portuguese and Spanish sailors had drifted ashore on the Sunnmøre coast.

‘I’m obliged to ask you some questions,’ he said.

‘Then you’d better do it now while the gin’s still working.’

She swung a slim, suntanned leg over her knee.

Harry took out a notepad. Not that he needed any notes, but it meant he wouldn’t have to look at her while she answered. As a rule it made talking to next of kin easier.

She told him that her husband had left home in the morning and had not mentioned anything about coming home late, but it was not unusual for something to crop up. When it was ten in the evening and she still hadn’t heard from him she had tried calling, but she didn’t get an answer from either the office or his mobile phone. Nevertheless, she hadn’t been worried. Just after midnight Tonje Wiig had called and said her husband had been found dead in a motel room.

Harry studied Hilde Molnes’s face. She spoke with a firm voice and without any dramatic gestures.

Tonje Wiig had given Hilde Molnes the impression they didn’t know what the cause of death was yet. The next day the embassy had informed her that he had been murdered, but as regards the cause of death instructions from Oslo imposed absolute silence on all of them. That included Hilde Molnes, even though she was not employed by the embassy, because all Norwegian citizens can be forced to maintain silence if state security considerations demand it. She said the latter with deep sarcasm and raised her glass to a
skål
.

Harry just nodded and took notes. He asked if she was sure he hadn’t left his mobile phone at home, to which she answered she was. On an impulse he asked what kind of mobile phone he had and she replied that she wasn’t sure, but thought it was Finnish.

She couldn’t help him with the name of anyone who might have had a motive for wishing the ambassador dead.

He drummed his pencil on the pad.

‘Did your husband like children?’

‘Oh yes, a lot!’ Hilde Molnes burst out, and for the first time he could hear a quiver in her voice. ‘You know, Atle was the world’s kindest father.’

Harry had to look down at the pad again. There had been something in her eyes that revealed she had sussed the double-edged nature of his question. He was nearly sure she didn’t know anything, but he also knew it was his unfortunate task to have to take the next step and ask her straight out if she knew the ambassador had child pornography in his possession.

He ran a hand across his face. He felt like a surgeon with a scalpel in his hand, unable to perform the first incision. He could never get over his sensitivity when it came to matters unpleasant, when innocent people had to put up with having their nearest and dearest thrust into the limelight, having details they hadn’t wanted to know hurled in their faces.

Hilde Molnes spoke first.

‘He loved children so much we considered adopting a little girl.’ She had tears in her eyes now. ‘A poor little refugee from Burma. Yes, at the embassy they are so careful to say Myanmar not to offend anyone, but I’m so old I say Burma.’

She forced a dry chuckle through the tears and composed herself. Harry looked away. A red hummingbird hovered quietly in front of the orchids, like a little model helicopter.

That was it, he decided. She knows nothing. If it had any relevance to the case he would take it up later. And if it didn’t he would spare her.

Harry asked how long they had known each other, and she told him how they had met when Atle Molnes was a newly qualified political science graduate, a bachelor home for Christmas in Ørsta. The Molnes family was very wealthy, owned two furniture factories, and the young heir would have been a good catch for any young girl in the region, so there was no shortage of competition.

‘I was just Hilde Melle from Melle Farm, but I was the most attractive,’ she said with the same dry chuckle. A pained expression crossed her face and she put the glass to her lips.

Harry had no problem visualising the widow as a pure, young beauty.

Especially as that very image had just materialised at the open patio door.

‘Runa, my love, there you are! This young man is Harry Hole. He’s a Norwegian police officer and is going to help us find out what happened to Dad.’

The daughter barely dignified them with a glance and headed for the opposite side of the pool without answering. She had her mother’s dark complexion and hair, and Harry estimated the long-limbed, slim body in the bathing costume to be about seventeen years old. He should have known her age; it had been in the report he was given before leaving.