The Final Murder (36 page)

Vibeke had said: ‘He’s walking on thin ice, but he should watch out for what’s coming from above.’

It was late and the building was almost empty. Kari Mundal had drunk a whole thermos of tea. She wasn’t used to figures and columns. She didn’t even do her own tax returns. Kjell looked after things like that. But curiosity drove her on as she ploughed through the accounts for the extensive renovation project, from cover to cover, from the ledger down to the smallest receipt.

Every now and then she stopped, straightened her glasses that were perched on the end of her sharp nose, squinted a bit longer at an invoice, before shaking her head and carrying on.

Then she stopped.

Div plumbing

PStark porcelain

Ft++

Wkseok03

Tot NOK 342 293

VATNOK 82 15032

To pay NOK 424 443 32

She had been studying unclear and meaningless vouchers for five hours now, but this was by far the worst. The words porcelain and plumbing were easy enough, but it took a while before she realized that it had to mean fittings and that there were in fact spaces between s^ and ok and 03. Had someone inspected the work and said it was OK in 2003? What did PStark mean? Postscript tark?

And why was there a PS at the top of the invoice?

The VAT had been invoiced and paid.

Se ok 03.

Se ok, pondered Kari Mundal.

September - October 2003, perhaps? Strange abbreviation.

She thought back to autumn last year, when it looked as if everything was going wrong with the building. It was primarily the cellar, roof and facade that were causing the problems. They had chosen the wrong kind of paint. The stone couldn’t breathe and they had to repaint the whole thing. And there was something wrong with the drainage. Following torrential rain, the cellar flooded. The flooring on the ground floor had to be pulled up and replaced due to

damp, which was an expensive and time-consuming operation that had nearly ruined all plans of a big opening Christmas party.

The toilets were already finished in June.

PStark.

Philippe Starck.

When they were doing up the big house at Snar0ya, their

youngest daughter had deluged her with interior design magazines.

‘Think new, Mum,’ she nagged, and pointed at Jacuzzis that

Kari Mundal couldn’t bear and toilets that looked like eggs. She most certainly did not want to feel like a hen every time she went to the toilet, was how she dismissed her daughter’s suggestion.

The big building in the Kvadraturen area of Oslo was renovated meticulously and with great care. The toilets were

old-fashioned, with high-level cisterns and porcelain handpulls on gold chains.

But in Rudolf’s flat, in his newly refurbished bathroom, everything was du jour. Philippe Starck. She had been there, she had

seen it, and the realization of what she had just unearthed made her hands sweat. She resolutely drank what was left of the lukewarm tea.

Then she took the voucher out of the file and went to get the key to the photocopying room. When she opened the door, the

silence in the corridor was like a dense wall. She hesitated for a moment, listening. She seemed to be alone.

Had Rudolf killed Vibeke?

Not for making a fuss about a bill for NOK 424 443 32. He

couldn’t have. Or could he?

Did he know that she knew? Had she threatened him? Was that

why everything had suddenly gone so smoothly just before the election, when Rudolf unexpectedly withdrew his candidature

and asked his supporters to vote for Vibeke?

Rudolf Fjord couldn’t have killed Vibeke. Could he?

Kari Mundal put the copy in a small brown handbag before

tidying away all the papers and quietly letting herself out of the building.

The woman who had wintered on the Riviera was on her way back to Norway. She was looking forward to it, in a way. At first she didn’t recognize the feeling. It reminded her of something rare from her childhood, something unspecific and vague, and she

wasn’t even sure that it was pleasant. She felt restless, she had an uncomfortable feeling that time was passing too slowly. Only when the plane climbed steeply into the sky and she watched the wide Baie des Anges disappear under steel grey clouds, did she smile.

Then she understood that it was anticipation she was feeling.

It was Friday the 27th of February and the plane was only half full. She had a whole row to herself, and when the air hostess asked if she would like some wine, she replied ‘Yes, please.’ It was too cold. She put the bottle between her thighs and leant back in her seat. Closed her eyes.

There was no way back.

Everything would be closer now. More intense.

More dangerous - and better.

Ulrik Gjemselund was petrified. The madman who had arrested

him just under a week ago had come to get him from the prison cell. Ulrik had tried to protest. He would rather sit in his cell until he rotted than spend time with the oversized bald man who obviously didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone. Particularly not Ulrik Gjemselund and his democratic legal rights.

‘Jesus,’ he thought to himself as he was shoved into a spartan interview room in Oslo’s main police station. ‘I only had some

cocaine and a bloody joint. A whole week! One week! When are they going to release me? Why hasn’t my lawyer done anything?

She promised I would be out of custody by the weekend. I need to get a new lawyer. I want one of the top ones. I want out. Now.’

‘I’m sure you’re wondering why we’ve kept you in so long,’ the policeman said in an unexpectedly cheerful voice, and pointed to a chair. ‘I understand, believe me. But you see, we can generally get the judges to do what we want. When we’re not happy with the trash we pick up. I once had …’ He bellowed with laughter and closed the door behind him before sitting down on a chair that didn’t look like it would take his weight.’. .. a real little shit. Not that unlike you. Pulled him in with three grams of hash in his pocket. Three grams, mind you. He was in custody for fourteen days, he was. Down in the back yard. Wasn’t even room for him in a proper prison. Fourteen days he was inside. For three grams!

Just because he couldn’t understand that…’ Suddenly he leant forward and smiled. His teeth were even and surprisingly white.

‘. .. that I’m really a good guy.’

Ulrik swallowed.

‘A good guy,’ the policeman repeated. ‘Right now, I’m the best friend you’ve got. So you see, I get disappointed when …’ He brushed his hand over his scalp, with a hurt expression on his face.

‘.. . when you just ignore me. Won’t answer my questions or anything.’

Ulrik

fiddled with the sleeve of his sweater. A thread had come

loose. He wound it round his fingers, tried to push it in between two loose stitches.

‘I’m sure that your lawyer’s made loads of promises,’ the policeman continued. ‘That’s what they do, you know. But for her,

you’re just one of many. She’s got other things to do than…’

‘I want a new lawyer,’ Ulrik said loudly, and pulled back closer to the wall. ‘I want the best, I want Tor Edvin Staff.’

The policeman laughed again.

‘Tor Erling Staff,’ he corrected him, and grinned. ‘I’m sure he’s got far more exciting things to do. But you just listen to me…’

He leant so far over the table that Ulrik could feel his breath on his face. Garlic and stale tobacco. The detainee pressed his head back against the wall and gripped the edge of the table.

‘You’re probably wondering why I’m keeping you here,’ the

man said, and again his tone was almost conciliatory, friendly. ‘I quite understand, I do. You haven’t exactly killed anyone, have you? But let me tell you something. It’s what I call … the delicate ecology of crime.’

He sat back and straightened up again, at last. He looked puzzled, as if he didn’t really understand what he’d just said. Ulrik let the chair down to the floor again and dared to breathe out.

‘Smart,’ the man said, pleased with himself. ‘The delicate ecology of crime. Not used that expression before. You know, everything’s connected. Out there in the wild.’

He waved one of his massive fists at the wall, as if nature were pressing in through the plasterboard.

‘If there’s lots of midges, there’s plenty of food for the birds. If there’s food for the birds, they lay lots of eggs. Snakes and martens eat the eggs. If there are lots of martens, it’s good for the fur trade … oh, hang on, they’ve got tame martens as well, haven’t they? Minks, isn’t that what they’re called?’

For a moment he looked thoughtfully at Ulrik. The blue eye

nearly closed, the brown one squinting. Then he shrugged and gave a quick shake of the head.

‘You get the point,’ he stated. ‘Everything’s connected. It’s the same with crime. The smallest junkie creep is connected with the worst bank robber, the most brutal killer. Or maybe it’s better to say … their actions are connected. It’s a web, you see. An incredibly intricate web of…’ He hunched his back, lifted his elbows and clawed his fingers, as if he was trying to frighten a child. ‘Evil,’ he hissed. ‘You buy drugs. Someone has to smuggle them in. They get rich. They get greedy. They steal. Kill if they have to. Sell drugs. Kids get addicted. Attack old ladies on the street.’

He was still pretending to be an enormous crab. His fingers

were waving around in front of Ulrik’s eyes. His nails were bitten to the quick.

‘The man’s a lunatic’, Ulrik thought to himself. ‘Does anyone else know that I’m here? He’s locked the door. It’s locked.’

‘And that takes us back,’ continued the policeman, who

resumed his normal behaviour, ‘to why I didn’t just let a squirt like you back on the streets again, as soon as I’d got your details, last Saturday. D’you see why now?’

Ulrik didn’t dare to answer. It obviously made no difference.

‘Because when the name Trond Arnesen popped up, it suddenly

became more than just the white lines and a spliff,’ the

policeman explained. ‘Cos everything …’

He paused and made an encouraging, rotating movement with

his right hand.

‘.. . is connected,’ mumbled Ulrik.

‘Well done! Exactly! Now we’re getting somewhere, son! And

I’ll show you what I found at your place the other day. Had to take an extra look round, you see. Round your lovely, expensive flat.’

He slapped the bum of his trousers. Then his face lit up and he pulled a notebook out of his breast pocket.

‘Here it is,’ he said, pleased with himself. ‘So, I’m guessing that these are your accounts.’

Ulrik opened his mouth to protest.

‘Shut it,’ the man snarled. ‘I’ve been banging up people like you since way before your dad got hairs on his dick. This is your book and these are your customers.’ He tapped his finger on the initials in the margin of an open page. ‘Telephone numbers and everything, so I’ve managed to identify lots of them already.

Strange, really, the secrets that people carry around. But not a lot surprises me any more.’

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. He seemed to be

completely engrossed in the little book.

‘But not all of them,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m missing three

names. I want to know who AC is. And APL and RF. And

Ulrik…’

He got up slowly. He scratched his moustache, stretched.

Pulled on his ear lobe. Smiled and then was very serious. Both his palms smashed down onto the table. Ulrik jumped in his chair, quite literally.

‘Now don’t muck me around,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you even try.

They’re your customers and I want to know who they are, OK?

We can sit here until the moon falls from the sky, but that would be bloody uncomfortable. For both of us. But mainly for you. So start talking. Now.’

His hand landed lightly on Ulrik’s neck. And squeezed. Not too hard. He loosened his grip, but left his hand there. It was enormous and burning hot.

‘Don’t waste our time, son.’

‘Arne Christiansen and Arne-Petter Larsen,’ Ulrik forced out.

‘RF,’ the man barked. ‘Who’s RF?’

‘Rudolf Fjord,’ Ulrik whispered. ‘But I haven’t seen him for ages. A couple of years, at least.’

The hand gently stroked the back of his head and then withdrew.

‘Good

boy,’ the policeman said. ‘Now what did I say?’

Ulrik looked at him terrified, the blood was pounding in his ears and he was sweating.

‘What did I tell you?’ the man asked again in a friendly voice.

‘Lost your tongue?’

‘Everything’s connected,’ Ulrik whispered quickly.

‘Everything’s connected,’ nodded the man. ‘Remember that.

Next time.’

‘He’d get Mother Theresa to admit to triple murder,’ Sigmund Berli said cynically, and tapped the report the policeman had written after questioning Ulrik Gjemselund. ‘Or Nelson Mandela to

admit to genocide. Or Jesus to…’

‘I get the picture, Sigmund. Got it straight away, in fact.’

They were walking. Adam had insisted on going to Frogner

Park first. Sigmund protested all the way. They didn’t have much time. It was freezing cold. Sigmund was wearing unsuitable shoes and his wife was in a bad mood because of all the overtime. He couldn’t understand why they should waste twenty minutes in a park full of ugly statues and aggressive dogs on the loose.

‘I need some air,’ Adam explained. ‘I need to think, OK? And that’s not easy with you chattering away like a five-year-old. So shut up. Enjoy the exercise. We need it, both of us.’

He thought: ‘Johanne’s wrong’ and picked up pace. He felt an unfamiliar twinge under his ribcage. He’d never doubted her abilities before. He’d admired them. Needed them. He needed her

and he was losing her. Her instincts were wrong. Her intellect weakened by sleepless nights and a greedy baby. ‘The theory

doesn’t hold. If the murderer wanted to create an uproar, make a noise, get attention, he wouldn’t have chosen Vegard Krogh.