Death In Oslo

XVII

‘Who did you get the idea from?’

The policeman who was sitting in front of the monitor in the gym at the police HQ and who had spent more than a day and a half going through footage that showed nothing other than an empty corridor stared at Adam Stubo with scepticism. ‘It’s not logical,’ he added in an aggressive tone. ‘There can’t be anyone who would think that something interesting was recorded after the woman disappeared.’

‘Yes,’ replied Bastesen, Chief of Police. ‘It is completely logical, and it’s a huge blunder on our part that we didn’t think of it. But what’s done is done. So now let’s see what you can show us.’

Warren Scifford had eventually returned. It had taken Adam half an hour to get hold of him. The American didn’t answer his mobile phone and no one picked up the phone at the embassy. When he did show up, he just smiled and shrugged without giving any explanation as to where he’d been. He took off his coat on his way into the gym, where the air was now unbearable.

‘Fill me in,’ he said, grabbing an empty chair, which he pulled into the table and sat down on.

The policeman’s fingers leapt over the keyboard. The screen flickered grey, before the picture was clear. They had seen this part of the video many times before: two Secret Service agents walking towards the door of the presidential suite. One of them knocked on the door.

The digital clock on the top left-hand corner of the screen showed 07:18:23.

The agents stood there for a few seconds before one of them tried the door.

‘Strange that the door was open,’ muttered the policeman, fingers ready at the keyboard.

No one said anything.

The men went in and disappeared from the scope of the camera.

‘Just let the film run,’ Adam said quickly, and noted the time.

07:19:02.

07:19:58.

The two mean came tearing out.

‘That’s where we’ve stopped,’ the policeman said, exasperated. ‘That’s where I stopped and went back to twenty past twelve.’

‘Fifty-six seconds,’ Adam said. ‘They were in her room for fifty-six seconds before they came running out and raised the alarm.’

‘Under a minute to cover more than a hundred square metres,’ Bastesen mused and rubbed his chin. ‘That’s not much of a search.’

‘Would you please speak English,’ Warren requested without taking his eyes from the screen.

‘Sorry,’ Adam said. ‘As you can see, they can’t have done a very thorough search. They saw the apparently empty suite, read the note and that’s about it. Hang on. Look, look there!’

He bent down towards the screen and pointed. The policeman at the keyboard had fast-forwarded to a frame where a movement could be seen at the bottom of the screen.

‘A… a chambermaid?’

Warren squinted.

‘Chamber boy,’ Adam corrected. ‘If there is such a thing.’

The cleaner was a relatively young man. He was wearing a practical uniform and pushing a large trolley in front of him. It had shelves of shampoo bottles and other small items and a deep, apparently empty basket in front for dirty laundry. The man paused a moment before opening the door to the suite and going in, pushing the trolley in front of him.

‘07:23:41.’ Adam read the numbers slowly. ‘Do we have an overview of what was happening elsewhere at that time? In the rest of the hotel?’

‘Not a complete one, no,’ Bastesen said. ‘But I can safely say that it was generally… chaotic. The most important thing is that no one was watching the CCTV screens. There was a full alarm and we had problems with-’

‘Not even your people?’ Adam cut in, looking at Warren.

The American didn’t answer. His eyes were glued to the screen. The clock showed 07:25:32 when the cleaner came out again. He struggled to get the trolley over the threshold. The wheels were pressing down against it and the front of the trolley was stuck for a few seconds before he finally managed to push it out into the corridor.

The basket was full. A sheet or a large towel lay on top; one of the corners was hanging over the edge. The trolley approached the camera and the man’s face was clearly visible.

‘Does he work there?’ Adam asked quietly. ‘I mean, really work there. Is he an employee?’

Bastesen nodded. ‘We’ve got people on their way to pick him up now,’ he whispered. ‘But that man there…’ He pointed to the man who was behind the young Pakistani cleaner; a sturdy figure dressed in a dark suit with dark shoes. His hair was thick and short, and he had a hand pressed against the Pakistani boy’s back, as if to hurry him along. He was carrying something that resembled a small, foldable ladder. ‘We don’t know anything about him for the moment. But it’s only twenty minutes since we saw this for the first time, so the work…’

Adam wasn’t listening. He was staring at Warren Scifford. The American’s face was grey, and he had a thin layer of sweat on his forehead. He was biting his knuckles and still had not said a word.

‘Is something wrong?’ Adam asked.

‘Shit,’ Warren responded in anger, and then got up abruptly, almost tipping the chair over. He pulled his coat from the chair, hesitated for a moment and then repeated, loud enough for everyone in the room to hear, ‘Shit! Shit!’

He grabbed Adam hard by the arm. The sweat had made the curls in his fringe stick to his forehead.

‘I have to see the hotel room immediately. Now.’

He stormed over towards the door. Adam exchanged looks with the Chief of Police before shrugging and jogging after the American.

‘He didn’t say who it was who gave him the idea,’ the policeman by the computer said sulkily. ‘You know, to check the footage from later. Did you catch who that bloody genius was?’

The woman at the neighbouring table shrugged.

‘Now, at least, I’ve definitely earned a rest,’ the man said, and went in search of something that might resemble a bed.