‘They died?’ Harry asked.
‘We didn’t even bother to learn their names when they arrived. What was the point? It’s hard to understand, but as late as 1944 volunteers were still streaming to the Eastern Front, long after those of us who were there knew which way the war was going to go. They thought they were going to save Norway, the poor things.’
‘I understood you were no longer there in 1944?’
‘That’s right. I deserted. New Year’s Eve, 1942. I betrayed my country twice.’ Fauke smiled. ‘And ended up in the wrong camp both times.’
‘You fought for the Russians?’
‘In a way. I was a prisoner of war. We were starving to death. One morning they asked in German if anyone knew anything about telecommunications. I had a rough idea, so I put up my hand. It turned out that all the communications people in one of the regiments had died. Every single one! The next day I was operating a field telephone as we attacked my former comrades in Estonia. That was near Narva . . .’
Fauke raised his coffee mug, with both hands wrapped round it.
‘I lay on a hillock watching the Russians attack a German machine-gun post. They were just mown down by the Germans. One hundred and twenty men and four horses lay in heaps before the machine gun finally overheated. Then the remaining Russians killed them with bayonets to save ammunition. Half an hour, maximum, passed from the time the attack was launched until it finished. A hundred and twenty men dead. Then it was on to the next post. And the same procedure there.’
Harry could see the mug was shaking slightly.
‘I knew I was going to die. And for a cause I didn’t believe in. I didn’t believe in Stalin or Hitler.’
‘Why did you go to the Eastern Front if you didn’t believe in the cause?’
‘I was eighteen years old. I had grown up on a farm way up in Gudbrandsdalen where as a rule we never saw anyone except our nearest neighbours. We didn’t read papers, didn’t have any books – I knew nothing. All I knew about politics was what my father told me. We were the only ones left in the family; the rest emigrated to the USA in the twenties. My parents and the neighbouring farms on both sides were sworn Quisling supporters and members of the NS. I had two older brothers who I looked up to in absolutely all matters. They were part of Hirden, the uniformed political activists and it had been their task to recruit young people to the party at home, otherwise they would have volunteered to go to the front as well. That was what they told me at least. I only discovered later that their job was to recruit informers. But then it was too late as I was already on my way to the front.’
‘So you were converted at the front?’
‘I wouldn’t call it a conversion. Most of the volunteers thought mainly of Norway and little of politics. The turning point for me came when I realised I was fighting another country’s war. In fact, it was that simple. And actually it was no better fighting for the Russians. In June 1944 I had unloading duties on the quay in Tallinn, where I managed to sneak on board a Swedish Red Cross boat. I buried myself in the coke hold and hid there for three days. I had carbon monoxide poisoning, but I recovered in Stockholm. From there I travelled to the Norwegian border where I crossed on my own. It was August by then.’
‘Why on your own?’
‘The few people I had contact with in Sweden didn’t trust me; my story was a little too fantastic. That was fine, though. I didn’t trust anyone, either.’
He laughed aloud again. ‘So I lay low and coped in my own way. The border-crossing itself was child’s play. Believe me, going from Sweden to Norway during the war was considerably less dangerous than picking up food rations in Leningrad. More coffee?’
‘Please. Why didn’t you simply stay in Sweden?’
‘Good question. And one which I’ve asked myself many times.’
He ran a hand across his thin white hair.
‘I was obsessed by the thought of revenge, you see. I was young, and when you’re young you tend to have this delusion about the ideals of justice, you think it is something we humans are born with. I was a young man with internal conflicts when I was at the Eastern Front, and I behaved like a shit to many of my comrades. Despite that, or precisely because of it, I swore I would avenge all those who had sacrificed their lives for the lies they had fed us back home. And I would take revenge for my own ruined life which I thought would never be whole again. All I wanted was to settle a score with all those who had really betrayed our country. Nowadays psychologists would probably call it war psychosis and have me locked up immediately. Instead I went to Oslo, not knowing anyone or having a place to stay, carrying papers that would have me shot on the spot as a deserter. The day I arrived in Oslo by lorry I went up to Nordmarka. I slept under some spruce branches and ate nothing but berries for three days before they found me.’
‘The Resistance people?’
‘I understand from Even Juul that he told you the rest.’
‘Yes.’ Harry fidgeted with the mug. The killings. It was an incomprehensible action which meeting the man had not made any more comprehensible. It had been there all the time, at the front of his brain, ever since Harry saw Fauke standing there smiling in the doorway and he shook his hand. This man executed his parents and two brothers.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fauke said. ‘But I was a soldier who had been given orders to kill. If I hadn’t been given the orders, I wouldn’t have done it. But this I do know: my family were among the ranks of those who cheated our country.’
Fauke looked straight at Harry. His hands round the coffee mug were no longer shaking.
‘You’re wondering why I killed them all when my orders were to kill only one,’ he said. ‘The problem was they didn’t say which one. They left it to me to be the judge of life or death. And I couldn’t do it. So I killed them all. There was a guy at the front we called the redbreast. Like the bird, the robin redbreast. He had taught me that killing with the bayonet was the most humane method. The carotid artery runs from the heart to the brain and when you sever the link, the brain receives no oxygen and the victim is instantly brain-dead. The heart pumps three, maybe four times, but then it stops beating. The problem is that it is difficult. Gudbrand – that was his name – was a master of his art, but I struggled with my mother for what seemed an age and only managed to cause her flesh wounds. In the end I had to shoot her.’
Harry’s mouth was dry. ‘I see,’ he said.
The meaningless words hung in the air. Harry shoved the coffee mug across the table and pulled out a notebook from his leather jacket.
‘Perhaps we could talk about the men you were with in Sennheim?’
Sindre Fauke stood up immediately.
‘I apologise, Inspector. I hadn’t intended to present it so coldly and brutally. Let me just explain to you before we go on: I am not a brutal man. This is only my way of dealing with things. I needn’t have told you about it, but I did so because I cannot afford to duck the issue. That is also why I’m writing this book. I have to go through it every time the topic is brought up, explicitly or implicitly. To be absolutely sure that I am not hiding from it. The day I hide, fear will have won its first battle. I don’t know why it’s like this. A psychologist could probably explain it.’
He sighed.
‘But now I’ve said all I’m going to say on the matter. Which is probably already too much. More coffee?’
‘No, thank you,’ Harry said.
Fauke sat down again. He supported his chin on clenched fists.
‘OK. Sennheim. The hard kernel of the Norwegians. In fact, a mere five people, including me. And one of them, Daniel Gudeson, died the same night I deserted. So, four then: Edvard Mosken, Hallgrim Dale, Gudbrand Johansen and me. The only one I’ve seen since the war is Edvard Mosken, our section leader. That was the summer of 1945. He was given three years for treason. I don’t even know if the others survived. But let me tell you what I know about them.’
Harry turned over a fresh page in his notebook.
r /> 42
POT. 3 March 2000.
G-U-D-B-R-A-N-D J-O-H-A-N-S-E-N. HARRY TYPED THE letters with his index fingers. A country boy. According to Fauke, a nice, somewhat feeble character, whose idol and big-brother surrogate was Daniel Gudeson, who was shot during the night watch. Harry pressed ENTER and the program started.
He stared in the direction of the wall. At the wall. At a small picture of Sis. She was pulling a face; she always did when she was being photographed. One summer holiday many years ago. The shadow of the photographer was on her white T-shirt. Mum.
A little peep from the PC signalled that the search was over and he focused on the computer screen again.
The national registration office had two Gudbrand Johansens registered, but the birth dates showed they were under sixty. Sindre Fauke had spelled the names for him, so it was unlikely he had got them wrong. That could only mean either Johansen had changed his name, or he lived abroad, or he was dead.
Harry tried the next one. The section leader from Mjøndalen. The one with small children back home. E-d-v-a-r-d M-o-s-k-e-n. Disowned by his family because he had gone to the front. Double click on search.
The ceiling lights suddenly came on. Harry turned round.
‘You should switch on the lights when you’re working late.’ Kurt Meirik stood in the doorway with his finger on the switch. He came in and perched on the edge of the table.
‘What have you found out?’
‘That we’re looking for a man well over seventy. Who probably fought at the front.’
‘I mean about these neo-Nazis and Independence Day.’
‘Oh.’ There was a new peep from the PC. ‘I haven’t had time to look into that yet, Meirik.’
There were two Edvard Moskens on the screen. One was born in 1942, the other in 1921.
‘We’re having a department party next Saturday,’ Meirik said.
‘I’ve got the invitation in my pigeon-hole.’ Harry double-clicked on 1921 and the address of the older Mosken came up. He lived in Drammen.
‘Personnel said you hadn’t responded yet. I just wanted to make sure you were coming.’
‘Why’s that?’
Harry tapped Edvard Mosken’s ID number into Criminal Records. ‘We like people to get to know each other across departmental boundaries. I haven’t even seen you in the canteen once yet.’
‘I’m quite happy here in the office.’
No hits. He brought up the Central National Register for everyone who’d had formal dealings with the police for any reason. Not necessarily prosecuted – they might, for instance, have been arrested, reported or themselves been a victim of a criminal act.
‘It’s good to see you immersed in cases, but don’t wall yourself in here. Will I see you at the party, Harry?’
ENTER.
‘I’ll see. I have another arrangement I made a long time ago,’ Harry lied.
No hits again. While he was in the Central National Register he might as well put in the third name Fauke had given him. H-a-l-l-g-r-i-m D-a-l-e. An opportunist, in Fauke’s view. Relied on Hitler winning the war and rewarding those who had chosen the right side. Had already regretted it by the time he got to Sennheim, but it was too late to turn back. Harry had thought there was something vaguely familiar about the name when Fauke had said it, and now the same feeling resurfaced.
‘Let me put it a little stronger,’ Meirik said. ‘I am instructing you to come.’
Harry looked up. Meirik smiled.
‘A joke,’ he said. ‘But it would be nice to see you there. Have a good evening.’
‘Bye,’ Harry mumbled, returning to the screen. One Hallgrim Dale. Born 1922. ENTER.
The screen filled with text. One more page. And then another.
They didn’t all do well after the war then, Harry thought. Hallgrim Dale – place of residence: Schweigaards gate, Oslo – was what newspapers loved to describe as ‘no stranger to the police’. Harry’s eyes ran down the list. Vagrancy, drunkenness, harassment of neighbour, petty larceny, affray. A lot, but nothing of any real consequence. The most impressive thing was that he was still alive, Harry thought, as he noted down that he had been taken in to sober up as recently as last August. He found the Oslo telephone directory, looked up Dale’s number and rang. While he was waiting for an answer he searched the register and found the other Edvard Mosken, born in 1942. He had an address in Drammen, too. He took down the ID number and went back to Criminal Records.
‘This is a message from Telenor. You have reached a telephone number which is no longer in use. This is a me—’
Harry wasn’t surprised. He put down the phone.
Edvard Mosken Junior had been given a prison sentence. A long sentence; he was still inside. What for? Drugs, Harry guessed, and pressed ENTER. A third of all prisoners had been on a drugs charge. There. Yes indeed. Smuggling hash. Four kilos. Four years, unconditional sentence.
Harry yawned and stretched. Was he getting anywhere or was he just sitting here wasting time because the only other place he felt like going was Schrøder’s, and he didn’t feel like sitting there drinking coffee? What a shit day. He summed up: Gudbrand Johansen doesn’t exist, at least not in Norway; Edvard Mosken lives in Drammen and has a son with a drugs conviction; and Hallgrim Dale is a drunk and hardly the type to have half a million kroner to blow.
Harry rubbed his eyes.
Should he look up Fauke in the telephone directory to see if there was a number for Homenkollveien? He groaned.
She has a partner. And she has money. And class. In short: everything you don’t have.
He put Hallgrim Dale’s ID number into the Register. enter. The machine whirred and churned.
Long list. More of the same. Poor old alkie.
You both studied law. And she likes the Raga Rockers, too.
Wait a moment. On the last record, Dale was coded as ‘victim’. Had he been beaten up? enter.
Forget her. That’s it, now she was forgotten. Should he ring Ellen and ask if she fancied going to the cinema? Let her choose the film. No, he’d better go to Focus. Sweat it out.
It flashed at him from the screen.
HALLGRIM DALE. 151199. MURDER.
Harry took a deep breath. He was surprised, but why wasn’t he more surprised? He double-clicked on details. The computer droned and vibrated. But for once the convolutions of his brain were quicker than the computer, and by the time the picture came up he had already managed to place the name.
43
Focus Gym. 3 March 2000.
‘ELLEN HERE.’
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Who?’
‘Harry. And don’t pretend there are other men who ring you and say “it’s me”.’
‘You sod. Where are you? What’s that dreadful music?’
‘I’m at Focus.’
‘What?’
‘I’m cycling. Soon have done eight kilometres.’
‘Let me just get this absolutely straight, Harry: you’re sitting on a bike at Focus at the same time as talking on your mobile?’ She stressed the words ‘Focus’ and ‘mobile’.
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘Honestly, Harry.’
‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you all evening. Do you remember that murder case you and Tom Waaler had in November, name of Hallgrim Dale?’
‘Naturally. Kripos took over almost immediately. Why’s that?’
‘Not sure yet. It may have something to do with this ex-front man I’m after. What can you tell me?’
‘This is work, Harry. Ring me at the office on Monday.’
‘Just a little, Ellen. Come on.’
‘One of the cooks in Herbert’s Pizza found Dale in the back alley. He was lying between the large rubbish bins with his throat cut. The crime scene people found nada. The doctor who did the autopsy, by the way, thought that the cut around the throat was just fantastic. Surgical precision, he said.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
‘No idea. Might have been one of the neo-Nazis of course, but I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘If you kill someone right on your doorstep, you’re either foolhardy or just plain foolish. But everything about this murder seems so tidy, so thought through. There were no signs of a struggle, no clues, no witnesses. Everything suggests that the murderer knew exactly what he was doing.’
‘Motive?’
‘Hard to say. Dale certainly had debts, but hardly amounts worth squeezing out of him. As far as we know, he didn’t do drugs. We searched his flat – nothing there, apart from empty bottles. We talked to some of his drinking pals. For some reason or other he had taken up with these drinking ladies.’
‘Drinking ladies?’
‘Yes, the ones who stick to the soaks. You’ve seen them, you know what I mean.’
‘Yes indeed, but . . . drinking ladies.’
‘You always get hung up on the craziest things, Harry, and it can be very irritating. Do you know that? Perhaps you should —’
‘Sorry, Ellen. You’re forever right and I’ll do my best to improve. You were saying?’
‘There’s a lot of partner-swapping in alkie circles, so we can’t rule out a jealousy killing. Incidentally, do you know who we had in for questioning? Your old friend Sverre Olsen. The cook had seen him at Herbert’s Pizza around the time of the murder.’
‘And?’
‘Alibi. He’d been sitting there all day, had only been out for ten minutes to buy something. The shop assistant confirmed.’
‘He could have —’
‘Yes, you would have liked it to be him, but Harry . . .’
‘Dale might have had something other than money.’