Death on Pilot Hill

Dag Svendsen yelled as if his strong manly voice could magically carry itself over the air to the nearest police station. He always shouted when he realized that he really should have a telephone.

But who could afford a telephone?

He had never owned a telephone or other such luxuries. Never. He did not even own a phone in the 1990s when he and his late wife made a bundle selling off most of the farm. The Svendsens did not even own a car until 1971 and then they only bought a dilapidated 1939 Mercedes Benz sedan.

Of course that was the old Norway. The Norway of Scrimp and Save. The Good Old Days when people sacrificed much to have little. When you worked hard and did not put on airs. But the new Norway was a whole other planet for him. Everything was different nowadays in Norway. And so expensive!

Since 1970 a flood of oil revenues from the North Sea had poured massive wealth into the nation and changed the people forever. Now everyone had too much money and good homes and clothes and vacations and cars and telephones and even the tiny new portable cell phones that supposedly took pictures and searched the Internet just like a computer.

Dag Svendsen took out his old Zeiss binoculars to get a good look at the frivolous person who drove such an ostentatious and enormous vehicle which certainly did not look like any European car. Although he could not determine if the driver was a man or a woman Herr Svendsen was certain that the driver was all alone this time.

Odd how the driver sometimes came with someone else who was much shorter.

Odd how the driver sometimes stayed in the truck for a long time or walked out into the woods for more than an hour.

The trees along his driveway blocked a good view of the driver. The Oslo police would later doubt his accuracy when he wrote down the license plate’s last two numbers. The police doubted such an old man was a credible witness and therefore they did not write down the two license plate numbers that he had observed.

“Herr Svendsen,” said the young Police Constable who took his statement the following day on Saturday June 5th, “you are eighty-three years old. You seem confused as to exactly what day of the week you first saw the white pickup truck.”

“Listen to me young man. I may not know the days of the week any more. But that’s because I’m all alone. . my wife died four years ago. . I’m retired. Every day looks and feels like the other day. They all seem the same. It’s different when you have to go to work or school. Then you are very aware of the days. . you carefully count the days until Saturday or a holiday. . or your next payday or vacation.”

“So be it Herr Svendsen. But you cannot tell me the day of the week when you first saw the white pickup truck.”

“No. But my neighbor can tell you. Go ask her. Herr and Fru Dahl and I have spoken about all the stupid people who park at our dead end. . Young people who drink and smoke marijuana. . and others who come here to do you know what. . they’ve even left their underwear on the street.

“Disgusting!. .

“So why don’t you ask her or her husband when that white vehicle first parked here. Her husband saw it when he came home early one afternoon from work. She. . like me. . got fed up with the driver coming here in the mornings and afternoons. She even let her dogs out to chase the driver away one or two days ago.”

“We will talk with your neighbor. Now. . did you see a boy in the car?”

“Boy? I don’t know if it was a boy or girl. . or an adult. I told you I sometimes saw the driver and a smaller or shorter passenger. Dark shadows. . that’s all I saw from here with my binoculars.”

“That’s it?”

“I could’ve walked down my driveway to see their faces but I thought they’d just drive away if I got close to them. You see I can’t walk back up my steep driveway. . what with my knees and hips. . the arthritis has ruined them.”

“I see.”

“Do you? I don’t think so. Anyway. . I told you that the driver parked down there almost every day right after school started and then at around one in the afternoon. . and sometimes at odd hours of the night. The car was there yesterday at nine in the morning for about thirty minutes after school started. . it came back and parked there for an hour later that afternoon. . from about twelve thirty to one forty-five. ”

“Mr. Svendsen. . what school are you talking about?”

“The elementary school. . the only one nearby. . Grindbakken skole. . Pilot Hill School. . on Maltrostveien.”

“How did you know that the driver came here after school started?”

“Simple. I looked at my watch and wrote down the times on a piece of scrap paper. The driver usually came down here at nine in the morning and at one in the afternoon. You think I am senile. . but I know when school starts and ends because my neighbors the Dahls have two children in that school. . she drives to drop them off every morning at school and pick them up every afternoon. Of course it’s not like in the old days when every rich and poor kid walked to school. . even in winter. Now parents chauffeur the tykes. Ridiculous.”

“Times have changed Mr. Svendsen.”

“Not for the better. Mark my words. Not for the better.”

Chapter 3

SEPTEMBER 4, OR THREE MONTHS

AFTER THE DAY JUNE 4

Chief Inspector Trygve Nilsen looked forward to spending the weekend with his wife and children at the hytte that he had bought earlier that summer at a foreclosure. He gave a five-minute presentation to his superiors. Then he barely paid any attention to what the other police chief inspectors discussed during their weekly meeting with their boss the Police Commissioner for the Oslo district.

The only words in Trygve Nilsen’s ears during the meeting with other chief inspectors that morning were those of the realtor from the nearby town of Dovre:

“It’s a steal I tell you! A steal!. . The family put a second and a third mortgage on their farm when Citibank offered them a ‘great way’ to cut down their debt on Citibank credit cards.

“The poor fools believed them.

“Of course that was in the old days before the crash in oh-eight. No way you’d get any Norwegian bankers lending on a second or third mortgage up here in Oppland County. Only real dumb American banks based in London. . or greedy banks from Spain. That’s Euro-Union craziness for you. Anyway. . you’re getting a real deal.”

Nilsen looked forward to driving the 200 miles up north to his hyyte and 12-acre farm in his brand new Jaguar XJ. Life was very good after the 2008 financial crash if you had a government job. He had just gotten a huge pay raise and he spent a lot of time at work thinking about all of the additional perks and benefits and promotions that would keep coming his way as a Politiforstebetjent or Police Chief Inspector in the Oslo district.

“Nilsen,” said his boss Ivar Thorsen at the end of the meeting while the conference room emptied out. “A word.”

“Yes sir?”

Nilsen barely listened to his boss because all he could think about was the lovely traditional country cabin in the meadow and its rustic simplicity and how impressive it would look when he added a fresh coat of red paint that coming weekend.

“Nilsen did you hear me?”

“Sorry sir. . I just have a lot on my plate. . very difficult investigations sir.”

“As I said. . there’s one you need to pay close attention to. . ”

“Yes sir. Which one?”

“The one with the boy.”

“The Karl Haugen boy? Any reason in pArcticular sir?”

“Ja! I was playing bridge yesterday with Politioverbetjent Brudelie. . Police Superintendent Brudelie. And he