The Silent Room (33 page)

‘If he did, I don’t recall it.’

Ryan thought this odd. He didn’t think the woman was being deliberately evasive but, if there was no cover-up, then why not mention such an unusual event to his wife? Some nut-job Brit with a score to settle would be something he’d share, surely. It isn’t every day that a member of Special Branch contacts you, or any other foreign police officer for that matter.

‘Mrs Freberg?’ Ryan could see cogs turning.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Call me Hilde.’

‘You have something you’d like to tell me?’

‘My husband had become unhappy in the months leading up to his death.’ She wiped her face with her hand. ‘I didn’t tell the police this at the time – I was too ashamed because I didn’t get help for him – the depression was so acute he didn’t want to leave the house.’

O’Neil and Ryan exchanged a look.

‘And that was unusual behaviour?’ O’Neil asked.

Mrs Freberg nodded. ‘Before that, he was always outside, sailing, gardening, playing tennis. He lost all interest. I was worried for him, of course, but he refused to see a doctor. What could I do?’

‘Did your husband keep his work papers at home?’ Ryan asked.

‘Yes, he often worked remotely.’

‘May we see his office?’ O’Neil asked.

‘Through that door.’ Hilde pointed off to the side. ‘But there’s very little in there.’

Ryan led the way into a light and airy south-facing room, O’Neil, Hilde and Svendsen following him in. There were many textbooks on the shelves. The desk, however, was bare apart from a few pens and pencils stuffed into a glass tankard, some personal photographs of Hilde and two grown lads he assumed were her sons.

‘No computer?’ O’Neil asked.

‘A laptop,’ Hilde said. ‘But it belonged to his employer, QiOil.’

Ryan’s head went down. ‘They took it away?’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Freberg opened the desk drawer, took out one of her husband’s business cards and handed it to O’Neil. ‘In case you want to talk to them.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘What about a diary? Did he keep one?’

‘No. He used the calendar in his phone and made notes there too—’

O’Neil turned to face Knut. ‘Was there a mobile in Anders’ possession when they found him?’

‘They don’t have it,’ Hilde interrupted. ‘The police told me it was probably lost in the water.’

Ryan had an idea. ‘This is important, Hilde. Have you ever been burgled?’

It was a straightforward question. He registered the doubt on her face.

The woman gave a shrug of apology. ‘I’m not sure how to answer that. It’s possible.’ Seeing their bewilderment, she offered clarification. ‘Anders and I took a trip, just for a few days. My sister was very ill at the time. When we returned, he was convinced that someone had been in, that things had been moved.’

‘In this office?’

‘And the rest of the house. I was equally sure he was imagining it. He was always losing things. My husband was a brilliant engineer but a very untidy man.’ She managed a half-smile. ‘I was always telling him off.’

‘Was this before he started to get depressed?’ O’Neil asked. ‘When he stopped wanting to go out?’

‘Yes, he worked at home a lot more after that. He seemed very agitated. I thought it was stress. He’d been under a lot of pressure. A few weeks before he . . .’ She tripped on her words. ‘Before he died, he told me not to concern myself any more. He said he knew . . .’ She stopped talking and closed her eyes, fighting to keep her emotions in check.

Svendsen asked if she was OK to continue.

She nodded tearfully.

‘Hilde, my colleague and I are grateful for any information.’ Ryan was trying to build trust. ‘And we can see how distressing it is for you to share these memories, but what we are doing is vitally important and may even save lives. We can’t tell you how. We don’t yet know the full extent of what we’re dealing with.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ll have to ask the detective Anders was meeting. I can’t help you.’

O’Neil stepped in. ‘Jack Fenwick is dead, Hilde. And I have conclusive proof that your husband paid for his stay at the Thon Hotel on his credit card. They were planning to meet on the day Anders died.’

You could cut the atmosphere with a knife.

Ryan fully expected Hilde to ask how Jack died, but she remained silent. Maybe she couldn’t bring herself to speak because the implication was too hard to take. He gave her every opportunity and then pressed on. They had covered a lot of ground and he couldn’t afford to lose momentum.

‘You said your husband told you not to worry. That he knew something. What was it he knew, Hilde?’

‘He said he knew it would soon be over. The day he went missing I had a horrible feeling that he’d done something stupid. And when they pulled his body from the water, I thought that’s what he meant. I thought he’d jumped in. Except . . . I couldn’t believe that.’ She glanced at her countryman, the stress making her lapse into her own language once more.
‘Jeg følte meg så skyldig. Det var en lettelse når dommeren avsa dommen. Jeg vet ingenting om et møte med en engelskmann.’

When O’Neil looked at Svendsen he began to translate. ‘She was feeling guilty,’ he said. ‘She was relieved also to learn that his death was not a suicide. She insists she had no knowledge of the meeting with Jack Fenwick.’

‘OK, thank you.’ O’Neil decided to leave it there. ‘I may come back at some point to ask more questions and to carry out a more thorough search of the house, if you’ll permit us to. Is that OK? DS Ryan and I need time to gather our thoughts.’

Freberg’s widow spoke Norwegian to Svendsen one more time, her tone urgent, as if she had something to add and was worried it wouldn’t be heard. Sergeant Svendsen had an intent look on his face. Thoughtful. Whatever she’d said, it was important.

‘Knut?’ Ryan waited.

O’Neil was equally rapt, her focus on Freberg’s widow. ‘Hilde? Can you repeat that for me – in English?’

The woman hesitated.

‘Please?’

‘I said if it wasn’t an accident, it definitely wasn’t suicide. I was at my sister’s when Anders left the house. He knew I wouldn’t be home until very late. If he was going to kill himself, he’d have let the dog out into the garden.’

62

‘Even if she agrees to let us search the rest of the house, I don’t think we’ll find anything,’ Ryan said as they made their way down the garden path. ‘I think Anders Freberg’s evidence was either taken from him on the day he died by persons unknown, or it was going to be verbal. If I were a betting man, I’d say the latter is true.’

They had reached the police car.

‘Where next?’ Svendsen asked.

‘Good question.’ Ryan climbed in the rear next to O’Neil.

‘Your place will be fine,’ O’Neil said. ‘I’d like to use a computer at the station, if you have one free, then make some calls and find out if our incident room has come up with anything we need to know about.’

‘I wonder how far-reaching or serious this is,’ Ryan said, as Svendsen pulled away, turning left on to a main road. ‘For all we know, we could be looking at a potential Piper Alpha. No wonder Jack was so worried.’

It was a sobering thought.

In 1988, the same year Ryan’s father was murdered, almost two hundred kilometres northeast of Aberdeen, one hundred and sixty-seven men – including two who were part of the rescue effort – had perished in the worst offshore oil disaster in history, a catastrophe from anyone’s point of view. Thirty bodies were never found. As Svendsen drove them back to town, Ryan pushed both tragedies from his mind.

He had to stay focused.

O’Neil was quiet. Probably dwelling on what he’d just said, contemplating where to go next as she stared blankly out of the window, her mood as dark as the sky overhead. On the way there, she’d vented her frustration at always being one step behind the action. Ryan knew she wanted a result as much as he did. Right now, it seemed a world away. There was still much to do, so many unanswered questions.

As the landscape rushed by, something niggled him – almost, but not quite, in reach. They were crossing Kanalbroa into Tønsberg centre, approaching the
båthavn,
when it bubbled to the surface.

‘The boat!’ he muttered under his breath.

O’Neil turned her head. ‘What?’

‘The boat in Freberg’s driveway.’

‘What about it?’

‘Knut, turn the car around. We need to go back.’ Ryan looked at O’Neil, adrenalin pumping through his veins. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Last night, here at the marina, I noticed that most of the smaller craft were gone, uplifted for the winter. That normally takes place around September/October time. It looks like Hilde has just done the same. Why else would the boat still be attached to her car?’

Svendsen pulled over.

He twisted in his seat, eyes on O’Neil. ‘Ryan is correct. Unless it’s a particularly good summer, they are mostly out by now. I took mine out three weeks ago to store at home. It’s to stop ice or algae forming that might damage the hull. I do all the maintenance over the winter.’

O’Neil was making connections but Ryan shared his own thoughts anyway. ‘If Anders Freberg
was
murdered, it’s reasonable to assume that the hijackers went after Jack because they thought the information had already been passed on, otherwise they would have shut up shop long ago. But we know it wasn’t. Where better to hide something than on board a vessel moored in a locked pontoon?’

‘Drive, Knut!’ O’Neil said.

Svendsen turned the car around and sped off the way they had come. Engaging his blue light to aid their passage, he spoke into the service radio clipped to his uniform, letting Control know what was happening so they could pass it on to Nystrom. O’Neil was hoping that Ryan’s keen observation would be the key that would unlock the case. They were running out of options otherwise.

She smiled at him. ‘I knew we’d make a good team.’

Ryan caught the eyes of Svendsen in the rear-view
Oops! His Norwegian helper didn’t like that.
‘Won’t this roller-skate go any faster?’ he asked. ‘We need to get a wriggle on.’

O’Neil nudged him with her elbow. ‘Stop teasing,’ she whispered.

Twenty minutes later, they came full circle, arriving back at Freberg’s home. As they entered the driveway, Ryan caught a glimpse of Hilde as she walked into the house from the side garden with a neighbour.

The police officers jumped out.

At O’Neil’s request, Svendsen stood guard by the boat while she and Ryan went inside to ask a few pertinent questions. When the neighbour, a young woman, realized that Ryan and O’Neil were British detectives who’d prefer the conversation to remain confidential, common sense kicked in. She shook hands with them and then excused herself, telling Hilde she’d catch up with her later.

As she hurried off, Ryan explained that they had not come to search the house, that the boat was the reason they had returned so quickly. He felt sorry for Hilde. Like Hilary, she was a woman who deserved to know the truth – for herself and her children – except in her case an accidental death verdict was about to be revoked and replaced with murder, if his suspicions were confirmed. He had an inkling she’d already worked that out.

‘Your boat?’ he asked. ‘When did you lift it from the water?’

‘On Friday. I’m giving it to Krystian, my son. I don’t use it any more. I haven’t since Anders died. We spent many hours aboard. It’s too painful for me to be there without him. Why is it important?’

‘We need to search it,’ Ryan said. ‘We think Anders left something there.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Please, Hilde. Let us check and we’ll be on our way.’

‘As you wish.’ Clearly, Hilde didn’t share their optimism.

Explaining the urgency, O’Neil led the way to the front door. Nodding to Svendsen as they descended the wooden steps on to the driveway she stood by and watched him drag the heavy-duty blue tarpaulin from the boat. Then Ryan took a deep breath and climbed aboard . . .

63

Ryan found something, but not quite what he’d hoped for: a few old maps, some boating equipment, Anders Freberg’s deck shoes, an oily sweater, sunglasses. The list of items said a lot about the man and even more about a wife who couldn’t bring herself to part with the personal stuff. With such a love of the sea, Ryan knew that, if things had been different, he and Anders Freberg would have got along.

After a few minutes searching, he struck lucky. Slipped in between a sheaf of nautical charts Hilde had left on the boat for her son, secured by dirty Blu-tack to a well-thumbed page, the note was short. It was addressed to Freberg’s eldest son. Lifting it by the corner, Ryan climbed down, bagged it in a transparent plastic envelope and gave it to Svendsen to translate.

Krystian

If you find this, then I’m already gone. I’ve been investigating a potential offshore disaster for many months. The motive is greed, corporate greed. It must be stopped. Not my company QiOil, I hasten to add. For several months, I’ve been troubled by it. I have a feeling – no, a premonition – that something bad will happen to me. Your mother may also be in great danger. I have arranged to meet a politibetjent from UK Special Branch intelligence soon. If I don’t get there, you may hear from him. Trust him. Jack Fenwick is a good man. He will be able to help you. Look after your mother and brother. I love you all.

Your loving father, Anders

Ryan nearly lost it when Hilde began weeping. The note contained only the briefest details, an idea where
not
to look that fell woefully short of his expectations, failing to point him in the direction of those responsible for Jack’s death. Anders Freberg was a highly paid professional who’d been scornful of Jack’s approach all those years ago. Something critical had led him to change his mind. Ryan was convinced that they were innocent men caught up in a situation they couldn’t live with. One thing was clear: Anders wasn’t about to blow the whistle on QiOil.

There was another company involved.

Ryan allowed Hilde to handle the note, to read it in her husband’s handwriting. The woman’s hands shook as she did so, followed by her shoulders and the rest of her body. So distraught was she, and so concerned was he that she’d collapse in a heap on the driveway, he put his arms around her and held her close, a show of compassion for a total stranger.