Sohlberg and the Gift (25 page)

“Well . . . that was unexpected,” said Dr. Nansen. “Do you mind Chief Inspector if my colleague and I have a few moments to talk about this together as doktors?”

“No. Of course not.”

Sohlberg exited the office and sat on a small and uncomfortable couch. He could not tell what was going on behind closed doors. But he had the strongest feeling that Nansen was convincing Jorfald to stay the course and allow him to have further contact with Patient # 1022. Ten minutes later the door opened and he was invited back inside. He took a seat next to Nansen and said:

“So . . . what’s the verdict?”

Dr. Jorfald shrugged his immense meaty shoulders with resignation. He spoke with the poignant despondency of a doctor who finally realizes the limitations of his profession. “
We
would rather end this experiment. But today’s incident made me and Doktor Nansen realize that all of the therapy and drugs
we’ve
given to Ludvik Helland have failed . . . they’ve done little to end his delusions.
We
. . . .”

Jorfald lapsed into silence and without missing a beat Nansen picked up where he left off. “We noticed how our patient calmed down when he spoke with you . . . he was almost another man when you allowed him his say.”

Sohlberg agreed: “My thoughts exactly.”

“So
we’ve
decided,” said Jorfald, “to study how your participation in Ludvik Helland’s psychosis will affect him . . . and you.
We
find it fascinating when an authority figure such as yourself wants to go along with the delusions of a psychotic.”

Without a trace of irony Sohlberg said:

“You’d be surprised how often we have to go along with other people’s delusions . . . especially when we’re investigating a homicide. Almost everyone lies to us . . . with outright lies or half-truths . . . or even worse . . . by omission. You’d be surprised how even the most upstanding of citizens will lie. If we challenged people’s lies and delusions at the start of an investigation we’d get nowhere fast in a homicide.”

”Alright then,” said Jorfald. “
We’ll
see you tomorrow morning at ten-thirty for your first meeting with Ludvik Helland.”

Jorfald stood up and stretched out his hand in order to shake Sohlberg’s hand in a not too subtle hint for Sohlberg to get out of his office.

~ ~ ~

Later that evening Sohlberg and his wife had dinner together—another weekday rarity in their marriage.

“So how was your trip to the insane asylum?”

“Interesting and productive.”

“Anything you care to talk about now that you’ve told me a little about your exciting journey of a knight-errant who’s made promises to some young damsel in distress?”

He averted her penetrating gaze and sharp words. Fru Sohlberg was far more formidable than Bergitta Nansen. He merely muttered, “I’m going back there tomorrow.”

“So you’re calling in sick again at work?”

“Already did that.”

“And you don’t think they’re going to find that suspicious?”

“Why should they?”

“You’ve never taken a sick day in your life.”

“I told them that the bleach fumes must’ve weakened my lungs . . . that I then caught a bug that you brought over from one of your patients at the clinic.”

“That’s it? . . . They won’t believe a word.”

“That’s why I scheduled an appointment later tomorrow to see Doktor Thyssen.”

“How clever. You get one of my friends at the clinic to cover for you.”

“One of the many perks of being married to you . . . my Love.”

“Hah!”

~ ~ ~

As usual insomnia plagued Sohlberg. He stayed up late reading Colin Thubron in bed long after Fru Sohlberg had gone to sleep. Sohlberg devoured the Colin Thubron travel masterpiece
The Lost Heart of Asia.
The superbly written account of Thubron’s 7000 mile trip from China to Turkey thrilled and satisfied Sohlberg. He loved to travel as an adult and had gone far and wide as a child and teenager with his parents. When he began feeling sleepy the peripatetic detective postponed sleep because he worried about having nightmares in which he was trapped inside the Dove Center asylum.

At 2:11 A.M. a heavy thud woke Sohlberg up from a deep sleep. He was sure that he had been woken up by a car door slamming shut. Or perhaps a car’s chained-up tires had slapped the snow and ice hard as the car sped on the flat portion of Måkeveien. With a soft groan Sohlberg left the warm comfort of bed because he thought that perhaps someone was again injured out in the street. A few weeks ago a speeding and intoxicated young man had slid out of control going downhill on Vargveien and smashed at 50 mph into a parked car.

Sohlberg was about to part the bedroom’s heavy curtains to look down on Måkeveien but his training and paranoid intuition took over. He reached under the bed for his .38 revolver and then tiptoed downstairs. Inside the guest bathroom he stood on the toilet bowl so he could look out of a long horizontal window. The double-pane window sat high up on the wall and it had no curtains.

A dark BMW had parked on Måkeveien—less than 40 yards from the intersection with Vargveien. The car looked much like the one that had followed him on the Rv159 highway to Lillestrøm when he went to visit the former and now incapacitated Chief Inspector Bjørn Nygård. An odd tingling sensation spread from Sohlberg’s hands and arms to his shoulders and then to his neck and head. The car had not been there at 9:30 P.M. when Sohlberg had checked all the downstairs windows and doors to make sure that they were locked. At the time a blue Audi had been parked in the same spot now taken by the BMW.

The Audi . . . it just didn’t belong here.

Sohlberg had not recognized the Audi as one that belonged to his neighbors. Three years ago he had followed the advise of Georg Klimt—one of the Russian “security” consultants—who suggested that each Oslo detective memorize the make and color and first three license plate numbers (or letters) of every car that belonged to every neighbor within 200 yards of each detective’s home. Sohlberg remembered seeing a man and a woman in the Audi. But he had assumed that the passenger was one of his neighbors who was being dropped off. Sohlberg also knew that the BMW had been there a short time because it was not covered by snow.

Did this BMW driver relieve the Audi driver?

Am I under surveillance by a team?

Sohlberg was about to dismiss his paranoia and climb down from the toilet seat when he saw a bright light flicker in the driver’s side of the BMW.

Someone just lit a cigarette!

After standing and spying for 30 minutes Sohlberg knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was indeed under surveillance. The driver never got out of the car. The shadowy driver lit a new cigarette about every 10 minutes. A steady cloud of tobacco smoke snaked out of the car’s rear passenger window which the driver had cracked open.

At first an enraged Sohlberg felt like confronting the driver but that would alert whoever had ordered the surveillance. No. It was far better—if not frustrating in the extreme—to bide his time and slowly find out who was behind the surveillance that Sohlberg had long suspected.

An old but always reliable pair of Steiner
Nachtjäger
binoculars easily gave Sohlberg the license plates for the BMW as well as a good idea of what the driver would look like in daylight. Sohlberg’s anger subsided and sleep finally came courtesy of a melatonin pill that he took at 3:30 A.M.

Chapter 11/Elleve

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 11,

OR NINE DAYS AFTER THE DAY

Two hours of sleep left Sohlberg in a foul mood that only dissipated after a hot shower. He plotted multiple ways on finding out who was spying on him. After breakfast Sohlberg packed his wife’s lunch and walked her down the front yard steps to their detached two-car garage. The shed was off to the side of Måkeveien because that was the only space on the long hillside lot where a garage could fit. He glanced discreetly: the BMW and its driver had not left.

After kissing his wife and wishing her a good day Sohlberg went back to the house and dialed on his private cell phone.

“Good morning.”

“Glad to hear you’re still alive,” said Fru Sivertsen. “You must be deathly ill to have called in sick twice in a row.”

“There have been developments. I need to find out who’s the registered owner of a car.”

“Fine. Give me the plates. I’m on my way to the Zoo right now. As soon as I get there I will text message you with the results.”

He gave her the license and then said:

“Thank you for helping. Everyone you sent me to has been very helpful.”

“Good. Anything else?”

“Yes. But you don’t have to do this if you feel you could ever be found out.”

“A person’s secret deeds can always be found out. The issue is . . . can I take the heat? . . . And the answer is yes.”

“But you could get fired.”

“Unlikely. But my pension is vested. They can’t touch it.”

“What if they charge you with something?”

“They won’t. I know where a lot of skeletons are buried. I can pull down a lot of high-flying careers. Or call a dozen spouses and let them know what their other half did away from home. In some cases they even did it at home . . . with the babysitter!” Fru Sivertsen giggled.

“Remind me to send you a nice Christmas gift.”

“My boy. You need not worry. I know you very well. Quite the straight arrow you are.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen you with the younger good-looking women at the Zoo.”

“And?”

“You don’t even look their way. Don’t even give them the time of day. I know you. We’re quite alike. Hopeless romantics who’d never even come close to cheating.”

“You should tell Fru Sohlberg.”

“No need. She knows you quite well. Now . . . what’s the job to be done?”

“Get inside Ivar Thorsen’s e-mail and voice-mail. Find out who he’s been in contact with during the last four weeks . . . look for anything or anyone unusual.”

“Like . . . anyone related to the Janne Eide case?”

“Exactly. Or look for coded messages . . . like something about him picking up cookies or a cake . . . or look for very very short messages. Those are always the most suspicious. For example . . . anything like ‘
Call me now
’ or ‘
Meet me at two
’.”

“Good. Will do.”

“Fru Sivertsen . . . is there any chance you could get caught?”

“Only if they really really tried looking to see if anyone was poking into his stuff.”

“Be careful.”

“Always. Actually . . . I’m going to have one of my young computer wizards down at I.T. do this. He’s a genius at hacking.”

“Is he good?”

“Oh yes. After he got assigned to testify at a rape-homicide that was going to trial I called his school to verify his attendance and grades. I didn’t want some clever defense lawyer sandbagging us by discovering that . . . for example he had never gone to that school. You know . . . that happened a few years ago. Anyway . . . I found out that he had indeed gone to the school but I dug deeper.”