Death on Pilot Hill (an inspector harold sohlberg mystery) Read online

  Death on Pilot Hill

  ( An Inspector Harold Sohlberg mystery )

  Jens Amundsen

  Jens Amundsen

  Death on Pilot Hill

  PART ONE: DEAD END

  A man can be destroyed but not defeated.

  — Ernest Hemingway

  Chapter 1

  MORNING OF THE DAY, FRIDAY, JUNE 4

  The world promised much to Karl Haugen, a shy 7-year old. He knew a lot for his age. He knew from first-hand experience that the world promised good and evil and that the world delivered good and evil in unexpected and unequal amounts. Life despite its shortness taught him that nothing was what it appeared to be. That’s why he liked to study icebergs.

  In the school gymnasium he turned to his school friend Einar Lund and said:

  “I wanted to do my project on icebergs. . not on red-eye tree frogs.”

  Icebergs reminded him of people in his life. They appeared to be one thing above the surface but deep below they were quite different if not dangerous. He knew all about icebergs and how one iceberg had ripped open the thick steel hull of the Titanic before sending it and more than 1,500 passengers to a frigid and watery grave. He definitely wanted to do his science fair exhibit on icebergs. After all the floating blocks of ice have always been an important part of the north Atlantic Ocean that his Viking ancestors sailed on for centuries. But his father and stepmother Agnes stopped him.

  “No. . don’t be silly,” said his stepmother a month ago when he first proposed a science project on icebergs. “Do it on frogs. Everyone in Norway prefers a science fair exhibit on something warm and cute from the tropics.”

  “Icebergs?” said his father later that evening. “No. It’s best to do it on the red-eye frogs that we have recently read about in the newspaper. They’re real cute. . like Agnes says. Don’t forget my boy. . people always like cute living things like frogs and not dead cold things like icebergs.”

  Karl hated switching from icebergs to frogs. But orders were orders at the Haugen household and now that his science project was done the thin little boy with glasses looked forward to spending most of the summer with his mother and her husband up in Namsos a small town north of Trondheim. Only three more weeks of school remained before school ended for eight weeks of heavenly summer vacations.

  “Karl. . you made a very good project,” said Inga Lund the mother of his friend and classmate Einar.

  “Thank you Mrs. Lund,” he said pleased but not surprised that everyone seemed to like the science project that his father and stepmother had chosen for him.

  Mrs. Lund smiled and pulled out her camera. She waved at them so that she could take a picture of him and Einar next to the pictures and drawings and written information that Karl and his stepmother had carefully glued to a tall poster. The poster and dozens of other exhibits rested precariously on a long table. Mrs. Lund aimed the camera and said:

  “Move a little to the right Karl so we can see the mini-jungle you made in the shoe box. . it looks so real with the trees and the river and the frog! Very good!”

  Karl Haugen smiled confidently as the flash came on for his picture. He felt happy at how the adult guests (almost 200 of them) had stopped to look at his exhibit and comment favorably on his project. Teachers and fellow schoolmates also reacted well to his red-eye tree frog project at the annual science fair that Grindbakken Skole always held toward the end of each school year. The second-grader wondered how long his happiness would last.

  “Thank you for coming,” shouted the principal at exactly 8:40 AM. “Five more minutes! Parents. . family. . and friends. . please say your goodbyes and get ready to leave in five minutes. . we want to begin our first class at nine o’clock sharp.”

  Everyone smiled and laughed and hugged and took pictures that would soon be posted on Facebook and other websites on the Internet. Everyone looked so happy and healthy and prosperous and loved. But the little boy knew that no life is perfect even if it seems to be so.

  Chapter 2

  AFTER THE SCIENCE FAIR,

  FRIDAY JUNE 4 AND SATURDAY JUNE 5

  On Friday June 4th at nine in the morning the old man prepared his coffee. He looked out of his living room window and he noticed the white pickup parked for a third time in as many days where his street Orreveien curled into a dead end.

  His family had lived for five generations on one of the many hills around Lake Bogstad. As an only child he inherited the large farm from his parents in 1952 when his widowed mother died. At the time the remote wooded hills northwest of Oslo felt like the end of the world.

  Holmenkollen was the nearest village and it was as close as he got to a city when he was a child. He and his parents never ventured into Oslo. They only watched the distant city lights at night from their vantage point on the “roof of Oslo”. The farms around Holmenkollen stand over Oslo at 500 meters (1,640 feet) above sea level. Over the decades the farmers watched with jealousy and fear as the night lights of distant Oslo slowly came closer and closer to them. The forest-clad hills of Holmenkollen were now merely suburbs of Oslo and highly desirable locations in the wealthy Vestre Aker borough of the city as a result of being less than 10 miles from downtown Oslo.

  The old man whispered to himself. “Why is that strange car parking there?. . Why do I have to be surrounded by all these professional people pretending to be rich people? Engineers. . lawyers. . strange people with too much money and time on their hands. . up to no good.”

  He deeply regretted his decision to sell large chunks of land to developers who had built luxury homes and condominiums all around his farm. In hindsight his worst decision was selling 40 acres in 1980 to the Norway Medical Association which then built the Soria Moria Hotel and Conference Center in 1983 at the site of the old Voksenkollen Sanatorium for rich people.

  The NMA’s modern luxury hotel complex was less than a half-mile northeast from his home and hotel guests frequently trespassed on his land and they enraged him whenever they went “exploring” in the woods that surround his modest cottage. The old man did not like anyone parking on Orreveien because it reminded him that he had sold off most of his inheritance. He was now surrounded by noisy and nosy neighbors and way too much traffic.

  Why had the mysterious driver parked the pickup truck for a third time that week on the circle of the dead end street? What was the driver doing there?

  Two days ago the driver had stopped at the same spot and let the engine run on idle for more than an hour. Who would waste precious gasoline like that?

  “What is that idiot doing?” he said loudly to himself. “Damn nuisance!”

  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 telep
hones 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 told me that. . ”

  “Oh yes. . how interesting,” said Nilsen from time to time while cringing inside. He hated the constant name-dropping that his boss used to show off about how close he was socially to the top brass in the Norwegian Police Service.

  “So Nilsen. . the long and short of it is that you need to call several press conferences. . go for maximum coverage in television and radio and newspapers and magazines.”

  “Issue the usual press releases? Give the ususal interviews and exclusives and off the record background?”

  “Ja. Make sure that you show in big graphs and charts how many officers and how many hours and how many resources we are dedicating to protect the little children at Grindbakken Skole. The school angle always gets parents interested and nervous. They always fall for it. Make big maps and then cross out in color markers all of the areas where your team has searched. You must make absolutely sure that it appears that you and your team are doing a lot of work on the case. . and spending a lot of money. . make sure that you put a lot of emphasis on how budget constraints are preventing you and your investigative team from doing everything possible.”

  “But why the boy? Any reason in pArcticular sir?”

  “Ja. The Minister of Justice wants the Prime Minister and the storting. . the parliament to approve a nine percent increase to our budget for the coming fiscal year. A cute little boy is after all the perfect post
er boy when lobbying for a budget increase for the police.”

  “I see.”

  “Nilsen. . do you know those folks at the Ministry of the Environment?”

  “No. What about them?”

  “They got a twelve percent increase to their budget when they showed pictures and video of those cute seal puppies choking and dying in Russian solvents and pollutants in the Arctic.”

  “Don’t worry boss. I know exactly what to do.”

  Chapter 4

  MIDSUMMER’S EVE, OR

  THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR, OR

  1 YEAR AND 19 DAYS AFTER THE DAY,

  FRIDAY, JUNE 4

  “Where’s my Daddy?”

  No one answered Karl Haugen.

  The blinding sunshine fell on his eyes. He wondered where he was and why he could not see his father. So much time had passed and yet Karl Haugen felt as if he had last seen his father just a few minutes ago. He had lost track of time.

  “Where’s my Daddy?”

  Silence.

  “I want to see my father!”

  The Norwegian storting or parliament met in session. The ruling party confidently looked forward to a thorough grilling by the opposition parties on the danger to Norwegian banks from potential defaults on the government debt of poorly managed European Union countries like Spain and Greece.

  After receiving recognition to speak Edvard Ruud stood up. He was the senior member of a small ultra right-wing opposition party that wanted to end immigration and other social engineering projects. Edvard Ruud stood silently for a long time before he said:

  “Mister Speaker. . although high finance and the well-being of international bankers seem to be the primary concern of the Prime Minister and his government. . can the Prime Minister and his Minister of Justice explain why the government’s police have gotten absolutely no results on finding a Norwegian child who’s been missing now for twelve months. . The child is Karl Haugen age seven. . an innocent boy who mysteriously disappeared from his school in the middle of the day.”