The Silent Room Read online

  O’Neil was done. Conversation over.

  Incensed, Maguire stood up, his face turning beetroot. He seemed in two minds whether he dared challenge her authority any further. Shaking his head, he grabbed his jacket and made for the door.

  ‘John,’ she said before he reached it.

  He turned, looking daggers at her.

  ‘If I arrange a briefing in the future, be there!’

  ‘Or what … guv?’

  ‘I might let it slip that you’ve been buggering about, letting the side down, trying to shaft Ryan over a woman. That won’t do your reputation as a ladies’ man any good whatsoever. By the way, she’s available, so take your Sun newspaper and shove your complaint up your arse.’

  58

  Ryan and O’Neil had just missed a flight to Torp. He’d managed to get them on to a Ryanair flight out of Liverpool the following day, a two thirty departure that would get them to Norway by five twenty local time. Fortunately, by the time he arrived at her office with the notebooks, Maguire had slung his hook and was nowhere to be seen. The heavy atmosphere and O’Neil’s face said it all. The ‘word’ she’d promised to have with her DS hadn’t gone well.

  ‘Thrown his dolly out the pram, has he?’ Ryan handed over the evidence, feeling sorry for her. There was enough conflict in her job without it coming from within her own team.

  ‘What did you expect?’ She took the notebooks, hardly glancing at them. ‘Maybe now he’ll put in a decent shift.’ A big sigh. ‘Think I might be off his Christmas card list.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Ryan said. ‘Eventually.’

  ‘You reckon? It looked terminal to me.’

  Ryan tried not to smile. It was only two thirty and she looked done in. There was nothing worse than not being able to rely on a colleague.

  He’d been so lucky with Jack.

  Casting his eyes around the room, he noticed that the only chair available was behind Maguire’s empty desk. He thought better of using it, for her sake, not his. There was no point aggravating an already difficult situation should Maguire return. Ryan couldn’t give a damn either way but, with nowhere to park himself, he left her alone for a second. A moment later, he returned with a swivel chair from the office next door, sliding it across the floor so that they were facing one another over her desk.

  ‘Did you manage to talk to Freberg’s widow?’ he asked.

  O’Neil shook her head. ‘I was going to but changed my mind. For all we know, she doesn’t speak English.’

  ‘Depends what age she is. Anyone under sixty probably will; those above, I’m not convinced. Depends where they live too. City folk are more likely to speak a foreign language than someone yodelling from a wooden hut in the back end of beyond.’ He took in a raised eyebrow and laughed. ‘I’m kidding!’

  ‘Either way, we’d better find out before we get in touch. What age was her husband?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ That was the truthful answer. Ryan was certain that Newman hadn’t said. Or maybe he had and Ryan had been so shattered by news of Freberg’s death that he hadn’t listened. Rest In Peace: 1960–2013. ‘Unless those dates in Jack’s notebook relate to him, in which case he was fifty-three when he died. You want me to liaise with Norwegian police and ask them to approach his missus on our behalf? There’s one thing for sure, they and she will speak our language a damned sight better than we can speak theirs.’

  ‘Even if she does speak English, she may not be fluent.’

  ‘Yeah, we might still need an interpreter. Just as well you’ll have me.’

  ‘You speak Norwegian?’ O’Neil was seriously impressed.

  ‘Gä ut, gä hjem.’ Ryan kept a straight face. ‘Gan oot, gan yhem – they’re practically Geordies, guv.’

  The tension left O’Neil’s face, a wide smile replacing the frown she’d been wearing when he first walked in. ‘You had me going there,’ she laughed. ‘Talk to the police by all means; tell them we’re on our way and what time we’ll arrive. Maybe leave out the exact details until we’re face to face. I don’t want them jumping the gun until we’ve gathered our thoughts.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  It felt good to be on the same side, even better shafting Maguire, who was last seen sulking in the station canteen, dishing the dirt on O’Neil, according to Ryan’s source. If she found out, there would be hell to pay. Some pricks never learn.

  59

  They left early on Saturday morning, meeting at headquarters and taking her car. Traffic was heavy as they drove west over the A69, much of it a single carriageway. It was a beautiful day, bright sunshine and very little breeze. Ryan drove, O’Neil content to let him, leaving her free to drink in the stunning view of the surrounding countryside.

  For the first part of the journey, Ryan allowed the miles to roll by without much conversation. On the M6 south, he picked up speed. He was thinking of the times he’d been double-crewed with Jack on this very road, the laughs they’d had, the fights over who’d drive, whose shout it was for breakfast, whose choice of cuisine for dinner.

  ‘You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?’ O’Neil turned her head to face him. ‘Sorry, that was a silly question, Ryan. I don’t expect an answer but I want you to know that I’m a good listener, when you’re ready. You can talk to me.’

  ‘Thanks, guv. I think about him all the time.’ Ryan glanced at her. ‘We were like brothers, one I never had, an absent one he was gutted to lose. I can’t get used to the fact that he’s gone.’

  O’Neil looked away, regretting what she’d started.

  Ryan went quiet, hit by another wave of grief he hadn’t even begun to process, much less deal with. Maybe he never would. Jack’s murder had made him realize that he’d not come to terms with losing his father twenty-five years after the event. He envied those who had faith. For him, whatever form it took, death was a bloody black hole, a dark and empty space that sucked people up and never gave them back. Another funeral was his worst nightmare, an event he’d avoid, if only it wouldn’t be viewed as disrespectful. There were times he’d have preferred to have been a woman with a licence to cry – no stiff-upper-lip macho bollocks that made your throat sore and your head pound so hard it felt like it would explode. He was drowning in sorrow, slipping under the surface, and had forgotten how to swim.

  The flight from Liverpool was full. It touched down in Sandefjord, Torp a quarter of an hour ahead of schedule. Fifty minutes later, a Mercedes taxi dropped O’Neil and Ryan off in Tønsberg, immediately opposite the police station in Baglergaten. By quarter past six, they were ensconced in an office, being treated like royalty by two officers from the local constabulary keen to impress their important English visitors.

  The most senior, Politioverbetjent Eva Nystrom – a superintendent – was a woman with striking features and thick, almost white hair, worn short, and blue-grey eyes that cut right through you. She listened carefully as O’Neil outlined why they had made the long journey to Norway, rather than picking up the phone. She was testing the water, without going into much detail.

  ‘There was no criminal investigation into Freberg’s death?’ she asked. ‘Even in the initial stages?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, it was an unfortunate accident,’ Nystrom said. ‘It happens more regularly than we would like in our country. People don’t take care near water. It can be hazardous. Occasionally they slip and drown; if alcohol is taken, even more so. It creates many problems for us.’

  ‘Freberg was intoxicated?’ O’Neil asked.

  ‘A little … in Norway, we enjoy a glass of wine or beer in summer. Then we all think we can walk on water, no?’ She smiled, showing perfect teeth – clearly not a woman who took life or death too seriously. ‘An accidental drowning for sure,’ she continued. ‘I wouldn’t normally deal with a case like that. British Special Branch interest has sent you up the stairs to me. Your arrival has caused a lot of interest.’

  ‘We won’t take up much of your time,’ Ryan said. ‘We understand th
at the coroner pronounced death by misadventure. There was no doubt at all when his body was found?’

  ‘You know different?’ Nystrom’s second-in-command, Knut Svendsen, was mid-thirties, a sergeant, tall and fit. He’d been hanging on every word of the conversation, taking it all in. He’d seized upon the inference that all was not as it appeared to be. His concern and that of Nystrom was quickly gravitating towards suspicion.

  Ryan was still waiting for a response.

  ‘We are less sure of what happened than you appear to be.’ O’Neil chose her words carefully. ‘All we know is that, had he still been alive, we would’ve liked to interview him in connection with a very serious matter at home. We are hoping to speak to his wife to see if she can help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘The officers who dealt with the case noted that Freberg was depressed,’ Nystrom said.

  ‘We were aware of that.’ Ryan knew what it meant, too. No sweat, folks: just another saddo who couldn’t hack a high-pressure job taking the easy way out. No need to spend too much time looking for clues that aren’t there. Freberg could’ve been pushed. If there had been any suggestion in the background that he was a suicide risk, it wouldn’t exactly be written off, but the police wouldn’t look very far or tie up resources trying to find out. ‘We’re not suggesting he took his own life.’

  Nystrom held his gaze for a moment and then glanced at Svendsen. ‘Hent dokumentene, Knut. Jeg antar at våre gjester ikke har kommet hele denne veien for ingenting … ta med kaffe og kaker … ser ut til at de blir en stund.’ As he got up and left the room, she turned to the others. ‘I asked him to bring the documents for us and some coffee and cake. You have me intrigued.’

  ‘Thank you,’ O’Neil said. ‘That’s very kind.’

  A few minutes later Svendsen walked back in. No sign of coffee, but he had a blue folder under his arm. Opening it up, he laid it out on the desk for Nystrom’s attention. She studied the contents for a moment or two. The file was paper-thin, not enough inside to take her any longer.

  ‘No one saw him go into the water,’ she said.

  ‘Any injuries on him?’ O’Neil asked.

  Eva Nystrom scanned the file. ‘Nothing that he couldn’t have done going in: a nasty head injury here, where he struck the rocks.’ She pointed at the side of her head to indicate where.

  ‘Which could equally have come from a weapon,’ Ryan said.

  Nystrom shook her head. ‘Not according to our pathologist.’ She spoke to Svendsen, in her native tongue. ‘Vis dem webfilmen fra Verdens Ende.’

  Svendsen immediately logged on to his computer and hit the keys, bringing up an image from the Helgerød webcam. The screen showed the deep blue Skagerrak, vast waters that stretched from Norway to Sweden and the Denmark peninsula. Whitewashed rocks in the foreground were like a lunar landscape. The area was desolate. Ethereal. Very, very beautiful.

  Jack’s voice entered Ryan’s head: According to the UN, Norway has the highest standard of living in the world. Looking at the webcam picture and thinking about the crystal-clear waters and boats filled with smiling Norwegians he’d seen from the taxi on the way from the airport, he could see why.

  ‘According to this report,’ Nystrom tapped the file, ‘Freberg wasn’t any more drunk than you or I would be if we took a test now. No drugs in his system. No one saw anything. The only reason we searched at Verdens Ende was because his car was parked there. It’s quite a distance from his home, approximately half an hour by road.’

  ‘The car was locked when found?’ Ryan asked.

  ‘And unattended, yes.’

  ‘There was nothing in the vehicle to suggest he’d done away with himself?’ Ryan queried. ‘He didn’t leave his wallet, house keys, that kind of thing?’

  Nystrom smiled and raised an eyebrow to O’Neil. ‘We are lucky, you and I. We both have colleagues with quick brains.’

  Ryan blushed at the compliment.

  Nystrom was an experienced detective. It would not have passed her by that people who topped themselves did the oddest things. Suicide was a monumental gesture. Even so, those contemplating it often made things easier for loved ones left behind: putting car and house keys under the seat, leaving credit cards, mobiles, money and such. These were the clues that switched-on coppers looked for.

  She moved on. ‘The attending officers reported nothing of a personal nature in the car, no indication that he did not intend to return to the vehicle. His jacket was there. It was a hot day. His keys and a few kroner were still in his trouser pocket when the body was recovered.’

  O’Neil had heard enough. Thanking Eva Nystrom for her help, she checked the dead man’s address was current – a simple search by Svendsen on his computer – and stood up to leave. The door opened and coffee arrived. ‘It would be discourteous not to,’ Nystrom said, and they all sat down again. ‘Cake first, then Knut will take you to your hotel.’

  60

  It was dark, too late in the day to be visiting Anders Freberg’s widow unannounced. Ryan suggested they wait until morning. Before leaving the police station, Svendsen had bent over backwards to assist him, supplying stills of Freberg’s car parked at Verdens Ende, along with pictures of his body at the discovery site and on the slab at the morgue. There was so little written information available, he’d offered to translate for them and email it by morning, a level of cooperation the British detectives knew wouldn’t necessarily have been reciprocated had the roles been reversed.

  Ryan stifled a grin.

  Hospitality appeared to be Svendsen’s watchword. Absolutely nothing was too much trouble. Clearly, he had his eye on O’Neil. His tongue was practically hanging out.

  Good luck with that, mate.

  Still, who could blame him?

  Ryan glanced at her. That smile could melt ice. O’Neil – who could probably give the Norwegian ten years and some – was trying her level best to fend off the offer of transportation for as long as she needed it. She was out of luck. This virile young man thought he was in with a chance and wasn’t letting go. Neither was he taking no for an answer. He insisted on dropping them at their digs, despite being told that they would rather walk.

  It seemed churlish not to indulge him.

  The Thon Hotel Brygge was a mustard-coloured, traditional wooden structure, built on the harbourside, overlooking the sea. Ryan was in love, his tiredness melting away as he took in the fresh sea breeze, the sound of gulls overhead and the chatter of tourists and locals sitting outside having a drink.

  Home from home.

  ‘Fancy a pint?’ he said, watching Svendsen’s car drive away.

  ‘Better check in first.’ O’Neil looked at him. ‘Actually, no, I’ll do that. Have a seat in the lounge. Didn’t you want to call Caroline?’

  ‘If I can get a signal around here.’ He needn’t have worried, made a quick call and hung up.

  He waited, people-watching through the window for a while. When O’Neil didn’t show, he went looking and found her in reception. She was facing him, her back to the counter, one foot crossed over the other, head bowed, eyes on the floor. Deep in conversation, she had her mobile stuck to her ear, a wry smile on her face. He couldn’t help wondering who was on the other end, making her blush. He was about to back away when she looked up and saw him standing there.

  Now they were both red-faced.

  ‘I’ve got to go.’ She ended the call abruptly.

  She smiled at Ryan, an alluring expression on her face. Whoever she’d been talking to had altered her mood considerably. Unlike him, she seemed more relaxed, playful even. He tried not to let his resentment show.

  What was wrong with him?

  He’d only known her five minutes.

  ‘How’s things at home?’ She handed him a room key.

  ‘So-so.’ He couldn’t look her in the eye. ‘It’s going to take time, guv. Hilary’s holding up but, until she can bury Jack, she’ll never rest.’

  ‘And Caroline?’

  ‘She’s fine �
�� making herself useful. The kids love having her there.’

  Before she could respond, the receptionist appeared with an A4 sheet in her hand. She gave the document to O’Neil. She scanned it and passed it on. Ryan read it carefully. It was a copy of an itemized hotel bill in Jack’s name. At the bottom of page there was a signature: Anders Freberg.

  Ryan raised his head. ‘Links don’t come any better than this,’ he said.

  ‘It certainly ties Jack to Freberg. C’mon, I need some air. Let’s walk before we get that beer and a bite to eat.’

  ‘You’re talking my language. That cake was great, but I could do with something more substantial.’

  ‘Unless you’d rather eat first and walk later,’ O’Neil said.

  ‘No, guv, I’m happy either way. I’ve been sitting so long my bones are creaking.’

  Roz would’ve been in the bar by now.

  They turned left out of the hotel with the sea on their right and walked along to the marina. An occasional sailor himself, Ryan loved the sound of the rigging slapping against the masts as boats bobbed up and down in choppy water. ‘When I booked the hotel, the receptionist told me that Tønsberg is the oldest city in Norway,’ Ryan said, for no other reason than to make conversation with his temporary guv’nor. He pointed at the pontoon in front of them. ‘Locals call this the Båthavn.’

  ‘Boat haven?’ O’Neil said. ‘How lovely. Have you always been drawn to the sea?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘Maybe you have some Nordic blood in your veins.’

  Ryan smiled. ‘Don’t worry, guv. I’ll keep my plundering to the bare minimum. You’re safe with me.’

  O’Neil made a chopping gesture with both hands in front of her face à la Bruce Lee. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a black belt in several martial arts, so watch yourself.’

  Ryan feigned relief. In the few hours since he’d joined her team, he’d felt only good vibes. They had a chemistry that was hard to come by, one you couldn’t force. Bond was perhaps a more appropriate word to describe what was developing between them. Whatever it was or wasn’t, he’d experienced it with Jack from the get-go, a connection that turned into a deep and meaningful alliance.