The Silent Room (31 page)

‘How come you lifted his suspension?’ he asked.

‘He’s been very helpful. That’s all you need to know. I briefed the team. They’re up to speed. Make sure you are too. Briefing notes are attached to the action sheet – also on your desk. I’ll deal with specific concerns next week during your evaluation.’

‘Specific concerns?’ Maguire stalled. He glanced at the documents, then at her. After what seemed like an age, he asked her to enlighten him. ‘Sounds like I’m in trouble, guv.’ He didn’t even have the decency to sound like it bothered him.

‘You are,’ O’Neil said. ‘But now’s not the time. We have enough to do.’

‘What is the new information and where did it come from?’

‘You can read, can’t you? Familiarize yourself with the notes. If you can’t answer your bloody mobile, I have no intention of repeating myself. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal.’

O’Neil was aware that a chasm had opened up between them. From this point on, there would be no going back. ‘As soon as Nicholas Wardle steps off the plane from Nigeria or arrives in the region by car, I want him interviewed, without asking direct questions. I assume you can manage that?’

‘Reckon I can.’

‘Bravo. I’m particularly interested in whether or not he has any responsibility for offshore electrical installation.’

‘Why?’ Maguire asked.

She flicked her eyes to the papers on his desk. ‘Read!’

Maguire picked up the briefing sheets, his facial colour rising as his eyes scanned the pages. And still he continued to make light of it. ‘Wardle is employed in the oil industry – so what? You think there’s some connection between him and the hijackers? You’re not suggesting he lent his Audi to them, are you, guv?’

‘No, John! But I suspect that they, whoever they are, may know him or know of him and that they might even have taken advantage of his being out of the country. You said yourself that it was common knowledge. They could be trying to muddy the waters, make it look like Wardle is our man in order to throw us off the scent. As far as I can tell, that’s the only plausible explanation for using his car.’

‘Coincidence? They do happen.’

‘That’s also a possibility,’ she conceded. ‘Which is why we need to rule him in or out. In the meantime, I want you to chase up Claesson Logistics.’

‘And what’s Ryan going to do while I’m working my arse off?’

‘He’ll be accompanying me to Norway.’

‘You are joking!’ Maguire didn’t try to hide his anger.

‘I couldn’t be more serious.’

He shook his head, a smirk almost. ‘So this tosser manages to wheedle his way in and gets a trip abroad as your wing man while I’m stuck here investigating shit lines of enquiry. And you expect me to take that on the chin? I don’t think so!’

‘That’s about the size of it.’ O’Neil was almost enjoying this.

‘Expect a complaint,’ Maguire said.

O’Neil chuckled. ‘Try your damnedest.’

‘I mean it, guv. It’s not on.’

‘I’ll tell you exactly what’s not on, what’s happening here and why, shall I? I’ve had about as much as I can take of your incompetence. You, John, are taking a back seat. In the last few months, you’ve dropped more balls than Ronnie O’Sullivan.’

Maguire opened his mouth to speak.

O’Neil got in first. ‘I’m not impressed with your work or how you’ve handled yourself. You’d better start pulling your weight or you’re out of here. With his hands tied and no warrant card, Ryan has come up with more information in his bait time than you have all week. So suck it up and keep your mouth shut. If you decide to go over my head, I warn you it’ll be you who’ll end up looking like a tit. I want to see an improvement. Consider yourself on a final.’

‘Don’t hold back, guv, whatever you do.’

O’Neil was done. Conversation over.

Incensed, Maguire stood up, his face turning beetroot. He seemed in two minds whether he dared challenge her authority any further. Shaking his head, he grabbed his jacket and made for the door.

‘John,’ she said before he reached it.

He turned, looking daggers at her.

‘If I arrange a briefing in the future, be there!’

‘Or what. . . guv?’

‘I might let it slip that you’ve been buggering about, letting the side down, trying to shaft Ryan over a woman. That won’t do your reputation as a ladies’ man any good whatsoever. By the way, she’s available, so take your
Sun
newspaper and shove your complaint up your arse.’

58

Ryan and O’Neil had just missed a flight to Torp. He’d managed to get them on to a Ryanair flight out of Liverpool the following day a two thirty departure that would get them to Norway by five twenty local time. Fortunately by the time he arrived at her office with the notebooks, Maguire had slung his hook and was nowhere to be seen. The heavy atmosphere and O’Neil’s face said it all. The word’ she’d promised to have with her DS hadn’t gone well.

‘Thrown his dolly out the pram, has he?’ Ryan handed over the evidence, feeling sorry for her. There was enough conflict in her job without it coming from within her own team.

‘What did you expect?’ She took the notebooks, hardly glancing at them. ‘Maybe now he’ll put in a decent shift.’ A big sigh. ‘Think I might be off his Christmas card list.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ Ryan said. ‘Eventually.’

‘You reckon? It looked terminal to me.’

Ryan tried not to smile. It was only two thirty and she looked done in. There was nothing worse than not being able to rely on a colleague.

He’d been so lucky with Jack.

Casting his eyes around the room, he noticed that the only chair available was behind Maguire’s empty desk. He thought better of using it, for her sake, not his. There was no point aggravating an already difficult situation should Maguire return. Ryan couldn’t give a damn either way but, with nowhere to park himself, he left her alone for a second. A moment later, he returned with a swivel chair from the office next door, sliding it across the floor so that they were facing one another over her desk.

‘Did you manage to talk to Freberg’s widow?’ he asked.

O’Neil shook her head. ‘I was going to but changed my mind. For all we know, she doesn’t speak English.’

‘Depends what age she is. Anyone under sixty probably will; those above, I’m not convinced. Depends where they live too. City folk are more likely to speak a foreign language than someone yodelling from a wooden hut in the back end of beyond.’ He took in a raised eyebrow and laughed. ‘I’m kidding!’

‘Either way, we’d better find out before we get in touch. What age was her husband?’

‘I’m not sure.’ That was the truthful answer. Ryan was certain that Newman hadn’t said. Or maybe he had and Ryan had been so shattered by news of Freberg’s death that he hadn’t listened.
Rest In Peace: 1960-2013.
‘Unless those dates in Jack’s notebook relate to him, in which case he was fifty-three when he died. You want me to liaise with Norwegian police and ask them to approach his missus on our behalf? There’s one thing for sure, they and she will speak our language a damned sight better than we can speak theirs.’

‘Even if she does speak English, she may not be fluent.’

‘Yeah, we might still need an interpreter. Just as well you’ll have me.’

‘You speak Norwegian?’ O’Neil was seriously impressed.

‘
Gä ut, gä hjem
.’ Ryan kept a straight face. ‘Gan oot, gan yhem – they’re practically Geordies, guv.’

The tension left O’Neil’s face, a wide smile replacing the frown she’d been wearing when he first walked in. ‘You had me going there,’ she laughed. ‘Talk to the police by all means; tell them we’re on our way and what time we’ll arrive. Maybe leave out the exact details until we’re face to face. I don’t want them jumping the gun until we’ve gathered our thoughts.’

‘Sounds like a plan.’

It felt good to be on the same side, even better shafting Maguire, who was last seen sulking in the station canteen, dishing the dirt on O’Neil, according to Ryan’s source. If she found out, there would be hell to pay. Some pricks never learn.

59

They left early on Saturday morning, meeting at headquarters and taking her car. Traffic was heavy as they drove west over the A69, much of it a single carriageway. It was a beautiful day bright sunshine and very little breeze. Ryan drove, O’Neil content to let him, leaving her free to drink in the stunning view of the surrounding countryside.

For the first part of the journey, Ryan allowed the miles to roll by without much conversation. On the M6 south, he picked up speed. He was thinking of the times he’d been double-crewed with Jack on this very road, the laughs they’d had, the fights over who’d drive, whose shout it was for breakfast, whose choice of cuisine for dinner.

‘You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?’ O’Neil turned her head to face him. ‘Sorry that was a silly question, Ryan. I don’t expect an answer but I want you to know that I’m a good listener, when you’re ready. You can talk to me.’

‘Thanks, guv. I think about him all the time.’ Ryan glanced at her. ‘We were like brothers, one
I
never had, an absent one
he
was gutted to lose. I can’t get used to the fact that he’s gone.’

O’Neil looked away, regretting what she’d started.

Ryan went quiet, hit by another wave of grief he hadn’t even begun to process, much less deal with. Maybe he never would. Jack’s murder had made him realize that he’d not come to terms with losing his father twenty-five years after the event. He envied those who had faith. For him, whatever form it took, death was a bloody black hole, a dark and empty space that sucked people up and never gave them back. Another funeral was his worst nightmare, an event he’d avoid, if only it wouldn’t be viewed as disrespectful. There were times he’d have preferred to have been a woman with a licence to cry – no stiff-upper-lip macho bollocks that made your throat sore and your head pound so hard it felt like it would explode. He was drowning in sorrow, slipping under the surface, and had forgotten how to swim.

The flight from Liverpool was full. It touched down in Sandefjord, Torp a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule. Fifty minutes later, a Mercedes taxi dropped O’Neil and Ryan off in Tønsberg, immediately opposite the police station in Baglergaten. By quarter past six, they were ensconced in an office, being treated like royalty by two officers from the local constabulary keen to impress their important English visitors.

The most senior, Politioverbetjent Eva Nystrom – a superintendent – was a woman with striking features and thick, almost white hair, worn short, and blue-grey eyes that cut right through you. She listened carefully as O’Neil outlined why they had made the long journey to Norway, rather than picking up the phone. She was testing the water, without going into much detail.

‘There was no criminal investigation into Freberg’s death?’ she asked. ‘Even in the initial stages?’

‘As far as I can tell, it was an unfortunate accident,’ Nystrom said. ‘It happens more regularly than we would like in our country. People don’t take care near water. It can be hazardous. Occasionally they slip and drown; if alcohol is taken, even more so. It creates many problems for us.’

‘Freberg was intoxicated?’ O’Neil asked.

‘A little . . . in Norway, we enjoy a glass of wine or beer in summer. Then we all think we can walk on water, no?’ She smiled, showing perfect teeth – clearly not a woman who took life or death too seriously. ‘An accidental drowning for sure,’ she continued. ‘I wouldn’t normally deal with a case like that. British Special Branch interest has sent you up the stairs to me. Your arrival has caused a lot of interest.’

‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ Ryan said. ‘We understand that the coroner pronounced death by misadventure. There was no doubt at all when his body was found?’

‘You know different?’ Nystrom’s second-in-command, Knut Svendsen, was mid-thirties, a sergeant, tall and fit. He’d been hanging on every word of the conversation, taking it all in. He’d seized upon the inference that all was not as it appeared to be. His concern and that of Nystrom was quickly gravitating towards suspicion.

Ryan was still waiting for a response.

‘We are less sure of what happened than you appear to be.’ O’Neil chose her words carefully. ‘All we know is that, had he still been alive, we would’ve liked to interview him in connection with a very serious matter at home. We are hoping to speak to his wife to see if she can help us with our enquiries.’

‘The officers who dealt with the case noted that Freberg was depressed,’ Nystrom said.

‘We were aware of that.’ Ryan knew what it meant, too. No sweat, folks: just another saddo who couldn’t hack a high-pressure job taking the easy way out. No need to spend too much time looking for clues that aren’t there. Freberg could’ve been pushed. If there had been any suggestion in the background that he was a suicide risk, it wouldn’t exactly be written off, but the police wouldn’t look very far or tie up resources trying to find out. ‘We’re not suggesting he took his own life.’

Nystrom held his gaze for a moment and then glanced at Svendsen.
‘Hent dokumentene, Knut. Jeg antar at våre gjester ikke har kommet hele denne veien for ingenting . . . ta med kaffe og kaker . . . ser ut til at de blir en stund
.’ As he got up and left the room, she turned to the others. ‘I asked him to bring the documents for us and some coffee and cake. You have me intrigued.’

‘Thank you,’ O’Neil said. ‘That’s very kind.’

A few minutes later Svendsen walked back in. No sign of coffee, but he had a blue folder under his arm. Opening it up, he laid it out on the desk for Nystrom’s attention. She studied the contents for a moment or two. The file was paper-thin, not enough inside to take her any longer.

‘No one saw him go into the water,’ she said.

‘Any injuries on him?’ O’Neil asked.

Eva Nystrom scanned the file. ‘Nothing that he couldn’t have done going in: a nasty head injury here, where he struck the rocks.’ She pointed at the side of her head to indicate where.

‘Which could equally have come from a weapon,’ Ryan said.

Nystrom shook her head. ‘Not according to our pathologist.’ She spoke to Svendsen, in her native tongue.
‘Vis dem webfilmen fra Verdens Ende.