Death In Oslo

XV

Al Muffet carried his dead brother down into the cellar and put the body in an old chest that had presumably been in the house since it was built. It wasn’t long enough. Al had to put Fayed in sideways, bending his knees and neck, like a foetus. Having to pull and struggle with the body repulsed him, but he finally managed to force the lid down again. His brother’s suitcase was at the back of the cupboard under the stairs. Neither Fayed nor his belongings would be staying there for very long. The most important thing was to remove all traces before the girls came home from school. His daughters did not need to see their dead uncle. Nor their father being arrested. He had to send them away. He could make the excuse of an unexpected conference or an important meeting out of town, and arrange for them to stay with their dead mother’s sister in Boston. They were too young to stay at home on their own.

Then he would ring the police.

But first he had to make sure that the girls had somewhere to stay.

The biggest problem was the car that Fayed had hired. It took Al a long time to find the keys. They were under the bed. Maybe they had been lying on the bedside table, and had been knocked off when he was trying to get Fayed to tell what he knew about the disappearance of President Bentley.

Al Muffet sat on the steps outside his picturesque New England house with his face in his hands.

What have I done? What if I made a mistake? What if this is all due to an arbitrary and fatal misunderstanding? Why didn’t you say anything, Fayed? Couldn’t you just have answered me before it was too late?

He could drive the car into the old, dilapidated barn. The girls had no reason to go there; as far as he knew, no wild cats had had any kittens recently. Only kittens could tempt Louise into the barn, which was full of spiders and webs that normally scared the life out of her.

He wasn’t even able to cry. An icy claw was hooked somewhere just inside his breast bone, which made it difficult to think and impossible to speak.

But who would he speak to anyway? he thought, emotionally drained. Who could help him now?

He tried to straighten his back and take a deep breath.

The flag on the postbox had been raised.

Fayed had talked about a letter.

Letters.

He could barely manage to stand up. He should move the car, remove all traces of Fayed Muffasa, and then pull himself together so he could welcome his daughters home from school. It was three o’clock, and certainly Louise was going to be home early.

His legs could only just carry him as he walked down the drive. He looked around. There was no sign of human life anywhere, except the hum of a motor saw somewhere far in the distance.

He opened the postbox. Two bills and three identical envelopes.

Fayed Muffasa, c/o Al Muffet.

Then the address. Three identical, thickish envelopes that had been sent to Fayed, at Al’s address.

His mobile phone rang. He put the letters back in the postbox and stared at the display. Unknown number. No one had phoned him during this horrible day. He didn’t want to speak to anyone. He wasn’t sure that he even had a voice any more. He put the phone back into his breast pocket, took the letters from the postbox and started to walk slowly back towards the house.

The person who was calling didn’t give up.

He stopped when he got to the steps and sat down.

He had to galvanise his energy to move the damned car.

The telephone kept ringing and ringing. He couldn’t bear the noise any more; the high, shrill tone made him shiver. He pressed the button with the green phone.

‘Hello,’ he said. His voice was barely there. ‘Hello?’

‘Ali? Ali Shaeed?’

He said nothing.

‘Ali, it’s me. Helen Lardahl.’

‘Helen,’ he whispered. ‘How did…’

He hadn’t watched TV. He hadn’t listened to the radio. He hadn’t been near his computer. All he had done all day was despair over his dead brother and try to work out what kind of a life his girls would have after this.

Finally, he started to cry.

‘Ali, listen to me. I’m on a plane, crossing the Atlantic. That’s why the connection is bad.’

‘I didn’t let you down,’ he shouted. ‘I promised you I would never tell anyone, and I haven’t broken that promise.’

‘I believe you,’ she said calmly. ‘But you realise that we’re going to have to investigate this. And the first thing I want you to do is-’

‘It was my brother,’ he said. ‘My brother spoke to my mother on her deathbed, and…’

He stopped and held his breath. He could hear the hum of an engine in the distance. A cloud of dust rose behind the hillock with maple trees. A dull, rotating noise made him turn to the west. A helicopter was circling over the trees. The pilot was obviously looking for a place to land.

‘Listen to me,’ Helen Bentley said. ‘Listen to me!’

‘Yes,’ Al Muffet said and stood up. ‘I’m listening.’

‘The FBI are coming. Don’t be frightened. OK? They got their orders directly from me. They’re coming to talk to you. Tell them everything. If you’re not involved in this, everything will be fine. I promise you.’

A black car swung into the drive and drove slowly up towards the house.

‘Don’t be frightened, Ali. Just tell them what there is to tell.’

The phone was cut off.

The car stopped. Two dark-suited men got out. One smiled and held out his hand as he approached.

‘Al Muffet, I presume!’

Al took his hand, which was warm and firm.

‘I hear that you’re a friend of Madam President,’ the agent said and did not let go of his hand. ‘And a friend of the President’s is a friend of mine. Shall we go inside?’

‘I think,’ Al Muffet said, and swallowed, ‘I think that you should take care of these.’

He handed him the three envelopes. The man looked at them without giving anything away, and then took them by the corner between his fingers and indicated to his colleague to find a plastic bag.

‘Fayed Muffasa,’ he read quickly, his head cocked. Then he looked up. ‘Who’s that?’

‘My brother. He’s in a chest in the cellar. I killed him.’

The FBI agent looked at him, long and hard.

‘I think it’s best we go in,’ he said and patted Al Muffet on the shoulder. ‘Seems there’s a lot to sort out.’

The helicopter had landed and all was quiet again.