Death In Oslo

VI

‘They’re starting to get really pissed off.’

‘Who?’‘The FBI. Or whoever all these Americans are.’ The Director General of the PST, Peter Salhus, wrinkled his nose.

‘What is it now?’ he asked in exasperation.

‘I get the impression it’s everything.’ Bastesen, the Chief of Oslo Police, shrugged and held out a cup of coffee. ‘Apparently there was an episode out at Gardermoen. First of all there was a misunderstanding about who was to collect the twenty or so agents who arrived this morning. And then…’ He chuckled, but as the corners of Salhus’ mouth didn’t even twitch, he covered his mouth with his hand, gave a discreet cough and then continued in a serious voice: ‘A rather zealous customs officer confiscated all their handguns, which, to be fair, is legally correct. What do they need weapons for in this country? These Secret Service guys are armed all the time, and see what difference that made! But apparently the customs officer was a bit… undiplomatic.’

The gym in the police HQ had no windows. The Chief of Police had already started to pull at his collar. Fifty people were sitting in deep concentration at desks placed in a horseshoe around a huge round table. Charts and maps were hanging from the stall bars. The technical equipment gave off a suffocating waft of dust that mixed with the remains of sweat and smelly trainers.

‘They’re not happy with their offices either.’ Bastesen emptied his coffee cup in one final gulp. ‘We’ve given them three offices on the second floor, the red zone, but they don’t appear to be using them. Which is no skin off my nose. And here we’ve got together your guys from PST, the best people from the NCIS and my men. It’s-’

‘And women,’ Salhus interrupted.

‘And women.’ Bastesen nodded. ‘It was more a figure of speech. My point is that we can’t let the Americans just do as they please and trample on everything. I don’t see how that will help the investigation. The language barrier alone would… And so far they have given us nothing. Tight as clams.’

‘The reports suggest that they’ve decided to set up shop at the embassy,’ Salhus said. ‘To be expected. The traffic in and out of Drammensveien has increased considerably, and all public services have been closed. They can do what they want in the embassy. I’m sure we would have done the same. And as for their lack of communication…’ He turned towards the Chief of Police. He wavered for a moment, then put his hand on Bastesen’s arm in an unexpected friendly gesture. ‘The Americans don’t give anything away unless it’s to their advantage,’ he continued. ‘And certainly not when they don’t trust the other party. Strictly speaking, I can understand why their trust and confidence in us is not optimal at the moment.’

Without waiting for a response, he stepped down from the raised platform in the far corner of the hall. He was still holding his cup of coffee when he stopped beside an overweight man in his forties, who was sitting with his chin cupped in his hands, staring at a computer screen.

‘Still nothing?’ Salhus asked in a quiet voice.

‘Nope.’

The officer rubbed his red eyes. He grabbed a bottle of mineral water and drank half of it before suppressing a burp and screwing the top back on.

‘I’ve watched all the videos three times. In slow motion, fast and real time. Nothing. No one comes and no one goes. The woman must have flown out the window.’

‘No,’ was Salhus’ measured response. ‘She didn’t do that. As you know, Secret Services had someone standing… here.’

An aerial photograph of the area around the Hotel Opera was hanging on the wall behind the monitor. Salhus pointed to the roof of the neighbouring building.

‘And all the equipment is in good working order? No one’s tampered with anything? No short circuits or loops?’

‘Well if there are, they’ve been bloody well perfectly done,’ sighed the policeman, scratching his neck. ‘Basically, we’ve found absolutely nothing. I don’t get it…’

He looked up, obviously distracted by the sharp clacking of heels across the floor. The atmosphere in the provisional incident room was subdued. Most people tiptoed around. Even the whir of the technical equipment was dampened by lined cases and rubber mats.

A red-haired woman hotfooted over the floor. She was waving a phone enthusiastically in her hand, as if she had won a prize.

‘Witnesses,’ she exclaimed when she reached the Chief of Police, who had followed Salhus and was watching the empty corridor on the ninth floor of the Hotel Opera. ‘People are finally starting to ring in with sightings, and lots of them!’

‘Witnesses?’ Bastesen repeated dubiously. ‘Witnesses to what?’

The woman took a deep breath, and tucked her red hair behind her ear. ‘The kidnapping,’ she panted.

The corpulent policeman stared at her, as if he was having difficulty understanding the language.

‘There are no witnesses,’ he said aggressively and pointed at the monitor. ‘There’s not a fucking person to be seen!’

‘Not there,’ the woman said. ‘Outside. Later, I mean. Outside the hotel.’

‘Where?’

Salhus put a hand on her shoulder, but removed it immediately when he detected a slight frown on the woman’s face.

‘A young woman,’ she said, more evenly now. ‘A Russ. She was sitting with a friend in the parking place on the fjord side of Central Station when two men and a woman who fits the description of Helen Bentley went past…’ she glanced around swiftly and then leant towards the aerial photograph, ‘from here. They got into a blue Ford.’

‘Hmmm,’ the Chief of Police muttered. ‘Well, well.’

He had crossed his arms and was staring blankly at the wall. Peter Salhus was pensively pulling his earlobe. The policeman sitting in front of the screen couldn’t hide his grin.

‘We believe, tra-la-la,’ he muttered.

‘And she’s not the only one,’ the woman added quickly. ‘She and her friend, that is. Last night one of the old boys was picked up, and when he was questioned this morning before being released, it turns out that he’d been in the same place at the same time. And he says exactly the same thing.’

‘Same time,’ Peter Salhus said, and let go of his ear. ‘And what time was that?’

‘Around four, the two girls said. The old alcoholic said ten past four, because he’d just looked at the clock. And then…’ She fumbled eagerly in her jacket pocket for her notebook. ‘Three witnesses have, independent of each other, phoned in to report sightings of a blue Ford with two men and a sleeping woman in a red jacket in it, heading towards Svinesund. They’ve been seen in…’ She leafed through her book. She was now surrounded by an audience. No one said anything. The woman with the red hair licked her finger and turned another page. ‘At a petrol station on the E6, close to Moss. In a lay-by outside Fredrikstad, and…’ she stopped abruptly and shook her head, ‘in Larvik,’ she finished off in disappointment. ‘In Larvik, which is not on the way to Sweden.’

‘Not really,’ said the monitor man and laughed.

‘But we’re used to that,’ Bastesen said. ‘Some witnesses have actually seen something and others just want attention, or have remembered incorrectly. It’s something to be going on, though. Let me see the reports.’

He gave the woman an encouraging pat on the shoulder and followed her out of the gym. Peter Salhus stayed standing where he was. He stared blankly at the monitor while the officer fast-forwarded to a picture of the door to the President’s suite at four a.m.

‘Nothing,’ the officer said and threw up his hands in exasperation. ‘Maybe it’s an episode of Star Trek and she just, like, beamed herself down to the car park?’

‘Rewind it to… When did the President come back to her room? Was it twenty past midnight?’

The man nodded and typed the time into the computer.

The President looked tired. She walked slowly and rubbed the back of her head as she stood waiting for the door to open. The fleeting smile that she gave to the two men with her did not reach her eyes. Then she nodded, said something to one of them, and went in. The door closed behind her. The agents walked towards the camera, got closer and closer, then disappeared from view. The corridor was empty again.

‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’ the policeman asked.

‘What?’ Peter Salhus straightened up.

‘Do these images say anything at all to you?’

Two Russ girls and an alky, Salhus thought to himself. Witnesses ringing in from petrol stations and lay-bys on both sides of the Oslo Fjord. They’ve all seen the same thing, independent of each other: a blue Ford, two men, and a woman in a red jacket.

He suddenly realised that more people would ring. And not just from the neighbouring counties. More witnesses would call in, some reliable, others attention-seekers, but they would all swear that they had seen two men and a woman in red in a blue Ford.

The realisation made his cheeks flush. The air was heavy and sticky. He loosened his tie and his breathing quickened.

‘Do these images say anything to you?’ the policeman repeated.

‘No,’ Peter Salhus replied. ‘They confuse me just as much as the rest of this case.’

And with that he stuffed his tie in his pocket and went in search of more coffee and a couple of paracetamol.