Norwegian by Night

‘Can I trust you?’

‘About what?’

Sigrid receives a call from the garage informing her that the part they ordered for her car had broken in the mail and that it would be another three days before she could pick it up, so did she need a loaner? Then the chief calls again in case there is anything he can do to help. And by then the morning energy has been sucked out of the room and turned to vapour, so Sigrid throws in the towel and announces, perhaps a bit too loudly, that she is leaving and going to visit the crime scene — where the phone doesn’t ring — to find a lead.

Anything to put her in a better mood.

She goes out the front door and turns right along the building to a car park behind a chain-linked fence. There are three squad cars — a Volvo S60, a Saab 95, a Passat — and one BMW custom police bike. The fleet is a rather odd mix.

Sigrid takes a deep breath of the late-morning air and listens carefully to the sound of no phone ringing, no superiors cajoling, no theories deduced from a smattering of facts, no journalists asking when the police will know the answer.

She was actually asked this yesterday, and the reporter wanted to use Skype for a video chat. Because, apparently, talking on the phone using words isn’t enough anymore.

The journalist looked young and… generic.

‘When we’re finished with the investigation,’ she’d told the young liberal from Dagbladet as gently as she could.

‘And when will that be?’

‘When we know the answer.’

‘But that’s circular. You’re avoiding the question,’ the pipsqueak had had the nerve to say.

It was tough being in command sometimes. It wasn’t so much the rules — like the rule that you can’t grab journalists by the ears and lead them out of the building like bad children — but rather the need to set a tone for the other officers.

More to calm herself than to accomplish anything valuable, Sigrid offered a little riddle she heard as a little girl.

‘Why is something always in the last place you look?’

It was clear to the girl, and to Petter, and to the three other officers who pretended not to be listening but were, that she was being condescended to. But what choice did she have? Reject the question? Sigrid was the chief.

‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘Because you stop looking once you find it.’

Then, because the girl had insisted on video to really connect with her subject, Sigrid winked.

Oh, how’d she love to take the motorcycle! Put on a white helmet. Open the visor. Take in the smell of summer pines and cut grass. Feel the splendid isolation, the momentary step into timelessness.

Maybe she should get a licence. Learn to ride. Find a new hobby, and settle into the reality that she might never meet a man and would certainly never have a family.

Have the maturity to face the life she actually has.

She takes the Volvo. It is comfortable and has leather seats. She rolls up the windows and turns on the air conditioner, and rolls out into unusually heavy traffic for the middle of the city. The radio occasionally crackles with news, but otherwise the day is quiet and bright. There is no sign of rain again — no clouds between the Volvo and eternity. Sigrid turns on talk radio for company as she waits for the traffic to clear.

There is a talk show called Doktor in which people from all across the country can ask questions about their health. It is a national program, and it takes Sigrid out of Oslo, back to the farm, as the calls come in. Her mind wanders.

There is an old man with a terrible cough. He is calling from a very remote village. He is alone and has no family. He lives with three cats he loves very much. They are his only friends. He tells the doctor that he can’t stop smoking. He knows he should. His health is getting worse, but he doesn’t have the strength. Recently, one of the cats has started to cough. He thinks it is his fault. Sigrid hears his voice crack with guilt and remorse, underscored by terrible loneliness. Can the doctor help them?

Sigrid turns off the radio. She runs her hands over the steering wheel. She reaches for the radio again, but does not turn it on. She sits in the car for several minutes, in heavy traffic, doing nothing.

Then she calls her father.

The phone rings at least a dozen times. Then the phone — an old and heavy one — is removed from the cradle and bumps a few times before arriving at her father’s ear. Before saying hello, her father says, ‘Sigrid. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I just wanted to call.’

‘Anything on your mind?’

‘I want to make sure you’re OK.’

‘My daughter. All sentimental.’

‘I’m as hard as you made me.’

Her father laughs a bit, which makes her smile, and then he coughs a bit, which takes her smile away.

‘Next time you come, I need some heavy work gloves. I don’t like the ones they sell here. Go to Clas Ohlson. They have good ones. And I want some more books. There’s a history of the Chinese I read about in Aftenposten. It was translated this year into Norwegian from the French. Bring me that.’

‘OK.’

There is silence on the line for a few moments that neither finds awkward. Eventually, Mr Odegard says, ‘Have you met a nice man yet?’

Sigrid nods. ‘I’d been meaning to tell you. I got married and had three sons.’

‘That’s wonderful news.’

‘Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They’re delightful, but have speech impediments and very short legs.’

‘The school years may be challenging.’

There is more silence on the line as Sigrid flicks on the indicator and approaches the block of apartments where the murder took place.

‘Where are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m going to the crime scene.’

‘Who else is there?’

‘No one. It’s closed off.’

Her father says, ‘Has it been busy until now? The crime scene?’

‘Yes. I suppose. We go back periodically when we need to reconsider something. Why do you ask?’

‘Do you have your gun?’

‘Why would I need a gun?’

‘Do me a favour. Carry your night stick in your hand.’

‘Now who’s being sentimental?’

‘Do it anyway.’

‘Why?’

Mr Odegard says, ‘A reporter says to a bank robber, “Why did you rob that bank?” The bank robber says, “Well, that’s where the money is.”’

‘Willie Sutton denied saying that.’

‘The point remains.’

‘Bye, Papa.’

‘Goodbye, Sigrid.’

There is an empty space a half-block up the street from the building, where Sigrid parks, takes her night stick from the trunk, and locks the doors. She carries it lightly and walks without haste so no one gets the idea that anything might be wrong.