The Fourth Man by K.O. Dahl Page B

wristwatch. ‘A couple of hours ago.’
    ‘Home?’
    ‘She wasn’t well. So she went home.’ The powerful jaw split into a big white smile. ‘On the Master’s course we’re allowed to use her office. She’s great like that.’
    ‘Was it serious?’
    ‘Haven’t a clue. No, I don’t think so. Reidun is rarely ill.’
    Reidun Vestli had packed up and gone off a couple of hours ago. Elisabeth packed up and went off a couple of hours ago.
    Frølich said: ‘I really need to talk to her. We had an appointment.’
    Reidun Vestli’s office was tidy; the only object to disturb the impression of meticulous order was the quilted anorak the student had slung over the table in the corner. The woman behind the computer looked as if she belonged to the office.
    ‘You can try her home phone number, if it’s important.’
    ‘Yes, of course. You don’t have the number by any chance?’
    The student had a ponder. ‘Reidun is one of the few professors who has a business card,’ she said, pulling out a drawer in the desk. ‘I know she usually has a few lying around. Here we are.’ The powerful chin broke into another smile as she passed him the card.
    He studied the business card on the way down in the lift. Reidun Vestli lived in Lysejordet.
    He called her home number as soon as he was back in his car. It rang five times. No one answered. Then the little pause which indicated that you were being transferred. So she wasn’t at home. It rang twice more before she answered.
    ‘This is Reidun.’ The voice was clear; in the background, a low whistle. Frølich knew what that meant. It meant that she was in a car.
    ‘This is Frank Frølich. I would like to talk to you.’
    Silence.
    ‘It’s about Elisabeth Faremo.’
    The conversation was broken off.
    He stared down at the display. This was a conversation he had dreaded, but for Reidun Vestli it must have been worse. The panic-stricken refusal to speak made him ring again, instantly. The number rang and rang. Then the answer service took over.
    He was fed up. Pissed off. Right now the situation seemed totally ridiculous. He could hear Gunnarstranda’s voice in his head as he drove home. A set-up! Of course it is, Frølich!
    He had opted to take a whole load of accumulated time off because … why had he, actually? Because Elisabeth Faremo was covering up for her brother? Or was he doing it to hide, to bury his head in shame?
    A young man had been killed. But Elisabeth could have been telling the truth. Why couldn’t what she said have been true? Elisabeth had always sneaked out of his flat at night. What might have happened was this: Elisabeth had gone home. She had sat up for a few hours with her brother and then all of a sudden the police ring at her door. Except for the tip-off. The problem was that he knew nothing about the tip-off. Who had tipped off the police and what was their motive?
    He automatically steered a course homewards. It was a dark winter afternoon and rush hour. He had taken time off. Nothing to do. What does a Norwegian man do when he has nothing to do? He has a drink – or five. Frank Frølich headed for the shopping centre in Manglerud.

10
     
    He set out on his pub crawl. Had a couple of lagers at a bar registered under the name of Olympen Restaurant and known locally as the Lompa, the Rose of Grønland. The place was half full. Most of the customers were of the jaded variety, who lived nearby and went to the Lompa to have profound conversations with their beer glasses. Frank Frølich sat alone at a table watching the people around him. Lean men, most so rigid from years of hard drinking that they looked as if they were balancing on stilts when they walked into the toilet. When he moved on, it was to find a bar to prop himself up on. He went to Oslo main station, to platform two in the old Østbanehalle. The place was packed. Travellers. Commuters on their way home waiting for the next train. Men and women from Moss and Ski with their suitcases,