The Fourth Man by K.O. Dahl

‘I’m not hassling anyone. I never do. You’re the one following me. You’re the one doing the hassling. We both know that the main suspects left court free men and your name was used in the trial to achieve that outcome. That means – if you have to have it spelt out for you – you cannot continue with this investigation. I’ll investigate the murder of Arnfinn Haga now without your help. If I were you, I would do two things: first, take a week off to avoid a blemish on your record. Next, I would have a chat with the girl. You owe that to yourself and your future, and not least the girl herself – if she really does have honourable intentions. And now you’ll have to excuse me. I have a job to do.’
    Frank Frølich watched him go. Gunnarstranda’s open coat flapped like a cape in his wake.
    Time off? Suspension? The words ricocheted through his brain. The blood in his ears pounded. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a mobile phone.
    He rang Elisabeth Faremo’s number. There was no answer.
    He stood looking at the phone. Nothing. Because she didn’t answer. That had never happened before. He tried again. Again no answer. He tried a third time. Her phone was switched off.

8
     
    Three hours later he had treated himself to a week off and was sitting in his car on the road up to Ekeberg Ridge. He drove onto the roof which formed the car park for the flats beneath. A staircase led downwards, beside the building complex. One landing for every floor. Every landing led to two entrances. He found the door to Jonny and Elisabeth Faremo’s flat. Rang the bell but nothing happened. He listened. No padding feet could be heard behind the door. Everything was dead, dark and still. The only thing to be heard was the engine of a crane which barely drowned the usual drone of traffic in the streets below. The icy air, which until now had wrapped itself around his body like a cool skin, suddenly penetrated his clothes and made him shiver.
    He rang again. The skin on his forefinger went white as he pressed the bell.
    He stamped his feet to keep warm, went to the side to find a window to look through.
    ‘Are you looking for someone?’
    An elderly man with a stoop, stick and beret was standing on the staircase landing staring at him.
    ‘Faremo,’ Frølich said.
    The man took out a bunch of keys and tried to find the correct one. ‘Him or the lady?’
    ‘Both actually.’
    The man put the key in the lock of the neighbouring flat. ‘She went off about half an hour ago. Probably going on holiday. Had a rucksack and suitcase with her. I haven’t seen Jonny for several days.’ The man opened the door.
    ‘Did she take a taxi?’
    ‘No, she just went down there.’ The man pointed with his stick. ‘Took the bus, I suppose.’
    ‘Did you see her get on the bus?’
    ‘No. Why are you so interested?’
    Frølich was about to show his ID, but refrained. ‘We were meant to meet,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘Pretty important. That was half an hour ago.’
    ‘Oh yes,’ the man said, moving to go indoors.
    Frølich waited.
    The man kept mumbling, ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ then finally closed the door.
    Frølich plodded slowly back up the stairs to his car. As he was about to get in, a silver-grey Saab 95 rolled up and parked in one of the reserved spaces. He put the key in his pocket and observed the other car. The driver was taking his time. Finally the door opened. A man got out: white, about 1 metre 90 tall, strong – either from intensive training or anabolic steroids – wearing green military trousers, Gore-Tex mountain climbing boots, a short leather jacket, brown leather gloves, sunglasses and a black cap. Frølich had never seen him in real life, but he knew instantly who he was and walked over towards him.
    They were the same height, but Frølich probably couldn’t lift as much in the bench press as this action-hero clone. Nevertheless, when Faremo took off his sunglasses he immediately recognized