Frølichwas still watching Eva-Britt, who tilted her head in an aloof manner, as thoughto signal that she knew what he was thinking. Frølich had had enough of hersulkiness. 'Can you come here, to my place?' he asked Ekholt.
Eva-Britttossed her head in the air.
'No,you have to come here,' the voice said, now clear and composed.
Liberation,thought Frølich, and asked: 'Where are you?'
Thevoice on the line hissed. Frølich tried to identify the other sounds he couldhear, the background noise.
Therewas another voice. At least one. 'Are you in a pub?' he asked.
'Justlisten,' Ekholt said. 'Come in one hour's time – on your own, to town.'
Frølichlooked across at Eva-Britt again. She was shaking her head – slow, heavy,ominous movements.
'Thisis the only chance you'll get!' The voice seemed neither inebriated nordesperate now, but unemotional and business-like.
Frølichcould feel that he Wasn't quite in tune with the mood shifts. The other end ofthe line was silent now, no voices in the background, no noise. He said: 'Howcan I know whether you are who you say you are?'
'Youhave my number? My mobile number?'
'Yes.'
'Ringme and I'll answer.'
'Wait.'Frank found the telephone number on the notepad sticking up out of the pocketof his leather jacket hanging on the hook. 'Ring off,' he continued. 'Then I'llcall you.'
'Justa moment,' the voice said and Frølich heard a hand being placed over themouthpiece. Something I'm not supposed to hear, he thought, and tried to workout what was going on.
'Ineed to know who you are,' Frølich said. 'Ring off.'
Hestood looking at the telephone for a few instants before making a move.
'You'renot going out now, are you?' Eva-Britt said in a gentle yet forbidding tone.
'Ijust have to call this number…'
'Ittook me three hours to get a babysitter,' she said.
'It'sweeks since we've had time to ourselves – all on our own. And I've killedmyself to get it. You're not going to go and stay out all night, are you?'
Frølichtapped in the number.
'Yes,this is Richard,' said the voice.
Frølichstared at Eva-Britt who stood with her arms crossed, waiting.
'Whereshall we meet?' he asked brightly.
FrankFrølich left the raised intersection known as the traffic machine, drove downEuropaveien, around Bjørvika, past the old customs house and along Langkaia,one of the quays. It was deserted, it was night-time and still. His watchshowed 1.33 as he approached the roundabout by Revierkaia. Frølich felt aresigned tiredness sneaking up on him as he was unable to identify a soul onthe street. A nagging feeling of doubt throbbed at the back of his mind: thethought that he had been duped.
Hethrust his hand in his pocket for his mobile. He was going to put it on theseat, but changed his mind and stuffed it back. Then he slowed down and let thecar roll in neutral until it came to a halt alongside the fence that separatedthe road from the last strip of quayside. He switched off the engine andwaited.
Afteralmost a quarter of an hour he got out of the car. With his hands in his jacketpockets he ambled back towards the roundabout. It was like a film. A streetlamp cast a pale circle of light over the agreed meeting place and at the sametime created a transparent wall against the darkness of the night. The lightwas reflected in the windows of the ticket booths situated halfway along theroad leading to the ships bound for Denmark. The water in Bjørvika was frozen -solid black ice with white waves of drifting snow. The ice caught and reflectedthe flickering lights of Oslo town centre behind the harbour front. It had tobe at least minus 20. Frølich shivered, breathed into his scarf and tried toremember which film it was this scene brought to mind. Scattered lights fromthe buildings along Festningskaia gleamed on the roofs of the parked cars. Hesauntered on, out of the glare of a street lamp and into the next. The cold bitinto his legs, feet, ears, hands. He wondered what he had done with his gloves.Left them on the seat in the car, he supposed. He twisted his wrist to see thetime. Five minutes more, maximum, he thought. The only cars to be seen wereparked in a line, a bit further down, near the traffic lights in Festningskaia.
Apartfrom the noise of the traffic moving in and out of the tunnel, everything wasquiet. He leaned his head back and breathed out, into the light from the streetlamp. A circular rainbow in his icy breath stood out against the light. Hebreathed out again. Another rainbow. A game from his boyhood. The cold began toeat into his toenails. He jogged on the spot and beat his arms against hischest. It was now almost ten minutes past the agreed time. He took his mobilefrom his inside pocket and with stiff fingers tapped in Richard Ekholt'snumber. He was trembling, but pricked up his ears when he heard a telephoneringing. He ducked – a reflex reaction. He moved away from the street lamp andpressed the off button. The silence was now as threatening as the sound of thetelephone he had just heard.
Hiseyes scanned the area. Not a soul in sight anywhere. It was obvious – if anyonehad wanted to hurt him, they could have finished him off a long time ago. Helooked down at his mobile. Tried to memorize the ring tone that had carried inthe night air. It had been some distance away, but how far? He slowly raised histhumb and held it over the key that rang the last dialled number. He pressedand stood listening. Soon the muffled tone rang out. Frølich started moving. Hefollowed the sound. Increased the tempo, stopped, held his breath and listened.The sound was closer, but still there was no one around. He loped across thedeserted roundabout. A disembodied voice broke the telephone connection andinformed him in metallic tones that the person he was ringing was not availableat the moment. He glanced down at the mobile and pressed the same key asbefore. The display showed the number he was ringing. There was the ring toneagain. He spotted the line of parked cars. The sound was coming from one ofthem. The silhouettes of the buildings along the quayside were visible throughthe rear window of the nearest car. The phone had to be in there. Hedisconnected. The silence reminded him that he was alone and that what he wasdoing was wrong. He imagined American films in which cars exploded when anignition key was turned. He repressed the fantasy and instead saw a strangerputting his phone down on the seat and getting out of the car to meet him. Butwhere was this man now? For a brief instant he considered callingGunnarstranda, but moved towards the car. He didn't feel the cold now; he wassweating.
Thecar was a dark Mercedes with a cut-off ski rack on the roof. A taxi,thought Frølich. Just a metal holder – a taxi with the licence plateremoved. He went to the left to walk in a large circle around the car,which no longer seemed anonymous or abandoned, but large and menacing. Hestopped about five metres from the car. When he went alongside, he noticed theside window had been smashed. What he had at first assumed to be ice was thewindow itself, a white sheet of splintered glass. The front windscreen was alsoshattered. What he had thought to be bits of ice on the car bonnet werefragments of glass. He walked on a few metres and could see the bonnet clearly.There was something on top. It was too dark to make out the precise shape. Hecrouched down to see better. Then he realized what it was: a foot. Someone wassitting in the driver's seat. Someone had kicked out the front windscreen andtheir foot was still there. Frølich straightened up and rang the duty officer atPolice HQ.
Chapter 38
Gunnarstrandaasked the driver to pull in by the fence just before the roundabout. As soon asthe taxi came to a halt, a uniformed police officer came over and stooped down.Gunnarstranda rolled down the window on his side. 'It's me,' he said to theofficer, who nodded and withdrew.
Gunnarstrandarolled the window up and turned to Tove. 'Once again, I'm very sorry,' he said.