Sohlberg and the Gift (20 page)

As soon as Sohlberg left the apartment Fru Mahar resumed her soft wailing.

~ ~ ~

Sohlberg decided that he’d visit Astrid Isaksen and her aunt before heading to the Zoo. He walked a short distance to the building where Astrid Isaksen’s aunt lived on Tøyengata. As he went up the poorly lit stairwell Sohlberg hoped that his surprise visit would land him a productive interview with Astrid Isaksen’s aunt or Astrid herself. He had a lot of questions and needed answers soon—preferably yesterday.

“Hey!” said a gruff voice from below. “I need to talk to you.”

Sohlberg froze. He walked up a few more steps but the man called out again:

“I know who you are. I need to talk to you.”

Fearing that he’d walk into an ambush by local Muslim hoodlums Sohlberg instead said, “Come up here then.”

Heavy and ominous footsteps echoed in the stairwell.

“Oh,” said Sohlberg with relief. “It’s you.”

“Who did you think I was? . . . It’s just me . . . the building manager.”

“Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Chief Inspector . . . you never left me your business card . . . I wanted to talk to you about the lady in three-c.”

“Gjertrud Isaksen? . . . The one whose niece Astrid lives with her?”

“Yes. She left town yesterday with her niece.”

“What? . . . Are you sure?”

“They were all packed up. Said they were going to spend the holidays in Hovden.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! I helped the boyfriend bring down their luggage.”

“The aunt’s boyfriend was with them?”

“Yes. He was going on the trip with them. They were all very excited about their first time at the ski resort. They got into his car and took off.”

“Do you know where they were going in Hovden?”

“They said something about Hovdestøylen Hotel and Lodge. Astrid was so happy that she was going to have her own room.”

“Really? . . . A double room?” said Sohlberg. He was surprised that the boyfriend or Astrid’s aunt could afford the luxury hotel which was 180 miles west of Oslo. He had once stayed at the lodge during a law firm outing right after graduating from law school. Even with his generous starting salary as a new lawyer Sohlberg had thought that the cost of the hotel was exorbitant. He had also been shocked by the price of lift tickets at the ski resorts around Hovden. The prices ranged from very expensive to ridiculous.

“Imagine that,” said the apartment manager. “They’re poor as church mice . . . but off they go on vacations to Hovden. Said they’d be back by the fifth of January.”

“When did they leave?”

“Around noon.”

Sohlberg frowned.

“Anything wrong Chief Inspector?”

A clever plan unfolded instantly in Sohlberg’s mind. “I . . . I wouldn’t want to come back here and have their door kicked down.”

“What do you mean?” said the apartment manager who winced as if he himself was being kicked down.

“I came here to do a safety check. I need to make sure that Gjertrud Isaksen and her niece Astrid are okay.”

“But I saw them. They looked alright.”

“Yes. But I have to put in my report that
I
personally saw that they are okay.” Sohlberg turned as if he was about to leave the building. “Too bad. If I could only take a peek at their apartment to make sure the place hasn’t been ransacked or shows signs of any trouble. . . . Well . . . I hate ruining your door . . . but I’ll have to come back with a couple of constables.”

“Wait! There’s no need to bust the door. The building owner will go nuts. I have a master key. I can open the door and let you in Chief Inspector.”

“That’s a good idea. You can stay at the door so you can’t be accused by anyone of trespass or invasion of privacy.”

The manager took the bait and he opened the door and remained in the hallway. Sohlberg took a quick look at the cold apartment. His breath frosted in the air. The austere decor in the living/dining room reminded him of the minimalist lifestyle that he enjoyed while in college and law school. He went straight to the only bathroom and saw a brightly colored comb that probably belonged to Astrid. He plucked four long blonde hairs from the comb and put them in a small plastic sandwich bag that he carried for the impromptu collection of evidence. Two of the hairs came with the root.

“Everything looking okay?” shouted the nervous apartment manager.

“So far so good. Almost done.”

After a careful look to discover anything unusual in the aunt’s small but clean bedroom Sohlberg jaunted over to an even tinier bedroom not much bigger than a closet. He ran his fingers over the pillow and picked up more long blonde hairs—each about 16 inches long. He put them in a separate bag and headed for the front door.

“Everything seems in order.”

“Thank God because the owner is a nasty old man . . . an old communist who inherited this and two more buildings from his parents. . . . He talks about class warfare and class injustice and how he loves the working classes but he’d deduct the door from my paycheck in a jiffy if you kicked the door in while the tenants were gone.”

“I understand. Discretion always pays off. . . .”

The apartment manager tilted his head in deep thought over Sohlberg’s statement. He screwed his eyes and scratched his scraggly beard. His eyes slowly brightened as Sohlberg’s suggestion sank in. “Yes . . . that’s right. No one need know about this . . . eh . . . Chief Inspector?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Sohlberg walked to a nearby Pakistani store where he bought two manila envelopes. He used his private cell phone to call a courier company that he had often used as a lawyer. He separated the hair samples into six sandwich bags while he waited for the driver. Three of the bags contained hair from the comb in the bathroom. The other three bags had hair from the bedroom pillow. He put a pair of bags with bedroom hair and bathroom hair into one envelope that he addressed to Bio-Synthesis and he put another pair of bags with bedroom and bathroom hair into the other envelope that he addressed to Genelex.

During his lawyer days Sohlberg had used both American companies to perform DNA analysis. He jotted down brief and identical instructions to each company and slipped the notes into each envelope. He then placed in his inside jacket pocket the other pair of bags with Astrid Isaksen’s hair for future testing in Norway at the crime lab.

Ten minutes later Sohlberg saw the courier’s bright yellow car pull up in front of the store. He walked out to the street and glanced around to make sure no one watched him. He handed the courier two envelopes for immediate delivery to the DHL international delivery offices located north of Oslo in the town of Skedsmokorset which is halfway to the Oslo International Airport.

“Are you going straight to the D.H.L. offices near the airport?”

“Yes,” said the driver.

“Very good,” said an ecstatic Sohlberg. He grinned over the fact that the hair samples would be in the USA within 24 hours and that he would have a DNA profile for his mystery visitor within 48 hours from the two private American laboratories. The speedy lab work would cost him at least $ 2000 US Dollars. His happiness turned sour as soon as Sohlberg thought about how he would explain the expense to his wife when the credit card statement arrived at the end of December.

How would he explain to Emma Sohlberg that the Oslo Police would never reimburse him or that he would never ask to be reimbursed on his private mission for justice?

What am I getting into?

A somewhat worried Sohlberg headed back to the Zoo. He surreptitiously slipped a handwritten note to Fru Sivertsen. His note asked her to confirm whether Astrid Isaksen and the aunt and boyfriend had indeed left for Hovden and the luxury lodge which had nightly room rates far exceeding what the boyfriend or Astrid’s aunt earned in a month. An hour later Sohlberg received the text message that he feared from Fru Sivertsen on his private cell phone:

isaksens@ hovdestøylen hotel+lodge w/ jon næss
.

Sohlberg ran Jon Næss on the www.skattelister.no website from his personal cell phone. He was not surprised to find out that the boyfriend had as small a salary as the aunt. Cleaning NSB train compartments didn’t pay well although the boyfriend and aunt would eventually receive generous pensions.

Questions and doubts stormed Sohlberg’s mind.

Who is paying for the prolonged 4-week stay at the luxury hotel?

Just who is really behind Astrid Isaksen?

Is she safe?

~ ~ ~

Ulvøya Island felt like another planet. His late evening commute on the tram might as well have been on an intergalactic space ship hurtling across time and space and other dimensions. The quiet and well-kept homes along Måkeveien stood in sharp contrast to the terrible murder of the teenaged Pakistani girl in seedy Grønland. Ulvøya’s cozy and elegant houses snuggled under the pure and white snow that glistened everywhere as a twinkling blanket. The homes’ warm inviting lights at the windows reminded Sohlberg that he had to leave work behind as soon as he arrived at his house.

At the corner with Vargveien he stopped and looked up the gentle hill and stared at his house. Fru Sohlberg must have heard him driving because she came to the living room window and looked out.

Fru Sohlberg waved and waited for him at the door as he trudged through the last of the snow drifts. They hugged and kissed and walked to the living room.

“Let me heat up your dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Was that girl your case? . . . I saw it on the t.v.”

“Yes. Awful.”

“They said the father is most probable suspect.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. There’s an uncle.”

“Horrible!” shouted Fru Sohlberg. “A fourteen year old girl. Murdered in an honor killing in downtown Oslo. . . . Why did they kill her? . . . The reporter mentioned something about her father finding out that she had a cell phone that a Norwegian boy in school had given her . . . that the two kids were sexting each other . . . that they even traded nude pictures of themselves. That was no reason to kill her.”

“I agree. But that’s their culture. Their religion.”

“Are you defending her relatives?”

“No. But you see . . . I have to understand whoever did the honor killing. Whether it’s the father or the uncle or another relative. I can’t judge my perps. I have to understand them. I have to understand their life . . . as much if not more than I have to understand my victim’s life. Understand them . . . know them . . . and if I can . . . see the world from their perspective. That’s how I get them to trust me . . . then to confess . . . or to trip up with major lies that point to their guilt.”

“You think you’ll get a confession?”

“Yes. It’ll take hours . . . who knows . . . it could take days.”

“So I won’t be seeing you. . . .”

“Actually you will. At least for a short time tomorrow.”