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

  The chamber erupted in shouts and catcalls which did not deter Edvard Ruud.

  “Karl Haugen. . an innocent child and Norwegian citizen is. . in my opinion. . far more important than the foreign deadbeat countries that are always seeking bailouts and handouts from Norway and other countries whose citizens work hard and spend wisely.”

  The Prime Minister stood up and said, “Does the right honorable member from Namsos actually have a question for me?. . I lost track of his question in his long speech.”

  “Ja. I have three questions. Exactly when and how does your Minister of Justice plan on finding the little boy Karl Haugen and bringing him back home?. . Are the school children of Norway really safe when the police cannot find a little boy after one entire year of looking for him?. . Just what has been done to find Karl Haugen with all of the money and manpower that the Justice Minister asked for and got with his latest budget increase?”

  Oslo Police Commissioner Ivar Thorsen could not believe his luck in getting invited to the exclusive Oustoen Country Club on Ostoya Island about 15 miles southwest of downtown Oslo. His efforts had paid off. His mother had taught him well. She always said, “Hang around rich and powerful people. Then do what the rich and powerful people do.”

  “So,” said his boss, “you really play golf?”

  “Ja!”

  “Really? Alright then. You’re playing with me. Let’s go.”

  They teed off and played in the glorious summer weather. His boss was driving the cart to the second hole when his boss suddenly stopped and said:

  “We have a problem.”

  “I took care of it. No one will ever know.”

  “What? You did?”

  “You know. . our last mayor. . his mistress getting a no-bid contract worth millions.”

  “I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the missing boy.”

  “Karl Haugen?”

  “Yes. The little shit is causing a lot of trouble.”

  “I did what you told me to do. . to make it appear that we were doing something.”

  “That’s no longer good enough. You see. . unfortunately someone higher up has taken an interest in the case. He wants a final solution. . he won’t tolerate any longer for us to appear as if we’re doing something.”

  The two men played and moved on to the third hole.

  “Who is interested?”

  “The Minister of Justice and Police,” said his boss as he swung his four iron.

  “Oh,” he said somewhat in shock that the boss of his boss’s boss had taken an interest in the boy. He had never heard of a member of cabinet taking an interest in such a matter. Powerful people surely had more important things to care about.

  His wise mother had told him many many times, “The powerful only care about what’s good for them. Never forget that.” That’s what his mother had taught him and she knew very well how the world worked.

  Penniless his mother had come to Oslo to work at a bank executive’s home as a maid. The poor but pretty peasant girl from a small village near the border with Sweden was no fool. She knew how the world worked and she became very good friends with the bank executive and his wife and their son and she soon got pregnant and very lucky as a single mother with permanent employment. She got lots of benefits and gifts from the bank executive including tuition for her son’s university as well as a tidy retirement sum set aside for when she turned 55.

  At the fourth hole his boss knocked the ball in at par and said:

  “The Minister wants the situation with the boy resolved as soon as possible. . no later than December.”

  “That’s just six months from now.”

  “You have to do it. He’s planning on becoming the next Prime Minister. And that bit of news is utterly and completely confidential. You must tell absolutely no one about it. Understand?”

  “Ja. Of course.”

  The men played in silence and moved on to the fifth hole.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  His boss took out a seven iron. “Do whatever it takes.”

  “An arrest?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  “A confession?”

  “Whatever it takes. It’s your department. You’re the Politimeister. . the Police Commissioner and Chief of the Oslo district!”

  Ivar Thorsen was troubled and his game went from mediocre to horrible. His score reached pathetic levels for the next two holes. He felt sick over the situation that his boss had just put him into.

  If he failed then he would have to take the blame as well as any unpleasant consequences such as a forced early retirement.

  If he got results then someone else would take the credit.

  After much thought Thorsen slowly realized that it was okay if he didn’t get any of the credit before the public and the media and the government. This time he didn’t mind someone else taking the credit because the Minister of Justice or his boss or his boss’s boss would surely remember who had gotten things done.

  After they teed off for the ninth hole Thorsen said, “I really appreciate you telling me that the Minister is interested.”

  “I told you because I want no doubts or timid half-measures from you. This way there’s absolutely no doubt as to what you need to do. . and what the rewards and consequences will be if you succeed or fail.”

  Shivers went up and down Thorsen’s spine. “Any preferences on what I should do or how I should proceed?”

  “It’s your department! Just do it.”

  Ivar Thorsen couldn’t play at all. He spent a lot of time hacking away in the rough and cursed when he dug himself in deeper at a sand bunker. He finally reached the tee for the ninth hole that offered magnificent views of Oslofjord and the city of Oslo and the low mountains which ring Oslo to the north and west.

  His boss played a five iron superbly and he motioned for Thorsen to come over and his boss said in the friendliest voice:

  “I’ve noticed over the years that you have switched your hobbies many times.”

  “Ja. Why yes I have.”

  “Remind me. You started out as a Politireserven. . on the Police Reserve. . as a lowly reserve on probation. Right?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And then you became a Grade One Politibetjent. . a Police Constable. Right?”

  “Ja.”

  “Interesting. . that’s also when you took up horseback riding as a hobby. . because that was what your boss liked to do on weekends. Right?”

  “Ja,” said Thorsen uncomfortable and unsure where the conversation was going.

  “Then you switched hobbies as you went up the ranks to a Grade Two Politibetjent. . a Police Sergeant. . and then to a Grade Three Politibetjent. . a Police Inspector. As I remember from way back then you changed your hobbies to tennis and then to sailing each time that you got a new boss. Correct?”

  “Ja. I took lessons for my hobbies. They were fun.”

  “Oh I bet they were. And then you got promoted to a Politiforstebetjent. . a Police Chief Inspector and then to Politioverbetjent. . Police Superintendent. Right?”

  “Ja.”

  “And if I remember correctly that’s also when you again switched your hobbies to skiing and then to playing that board game. . Scrabble. Right?”

  “Ja. I love skiing and playing Scrabble.”

  “Just like your bosses.”

  “I. . ”

  “Then you switched to playing bridge before you became the Oslo Politidistrikt Politimeister. . the Police Chief for the Oslo district.”

  “Why yes. I love playing bridge just like you do. As you say. . the cards exercise the brain.”

  “And now you have switched to golf. . the hobby of my boss the Politidirektor. . the National Police Commissioner. . and his boss the Minister of Justice and Norge Politimester. . Norway’s Minister of Justice and Chief of Police.”

  “Ja. . but only because the golf range offered me real cheap lessons thanks to a coupon I got in the mail.”


  “Do me a favor.”

  “Ja sir?”

  “Stop taking golf classes.”

  “Of course sir.”

  “You need to quit golf.”

  “Ja. . why not?. . Ja. . I will.”

  “In the first place golf is a whole other game in a totally different category than from what you’ve ever played. Don’t you see?. . Golf requires skills and talent that you simply do not have. . no matter how many lessons you take or how much you practice. Understand?”

  “Ja. I see what you mean.”

  “Do you?. . Good. I’m also sure that you can now see why someone like you. . with so little talent and practice. . is playing so very badly today.”

  “Of course.”

  “What a shame that my boss the Politidirektor. . the National Police Commissioner invited you to the golf course where he and his boss the Minister of Justice are members. I don’t think that you see how you’ve embarrassed them with your atrocious playing and ridiculously vulgar polyester clothes and cheap clubs. I hope you will never again even think of accepting an invitation from any member of this club. Do you understand?

  “Ja. Of course.”

  “Also. . I understand that you got invited here today because you’ve been going to the same golf range as the Politidirektor. . the National Police Commissioner.”

  “A coincidence I can assure you.”

  “One that will never be repeated since you are quitting golf. Correct?”

  “Ja.”

  “Alright. I better hurry and play this hole. I see that my bosses the Politidirektor and the Minister of Justice are almost at the eleventh hole.”

  Thorsen went to get his wood to finish playing the ninth.

  “Oh no Thorsen. You’re leaving right now. Go back to the office. I’ll tell my bosses that you left because you just couldn’t play well and realized that you’re just not cut out for this game.”

  “Of course. Can you-”

  “No. I won’t be driving you back in the cart. You can walk yourself back to the club house.”

  “Ja. Thank you sir. Have a great game.”

  “I will especially now that we had our little talk.”

  Thorsen hid his shaking hands. He should have known that his boss was always watching his every move including his joining the golf range where the Minister happened to practice his golf swing. Thorsen had less than ten years to go before retirement and he could not afford to get demoted or even worse laterally transferred to Tromso up north or some other frozen wasteland halfway up to the North Pole like Spitsbergen in the Svalbard archipelago where one Politioverbetjent Police Superintendent committed suicide after being transferred there for the wrongful conviction of five innocent men.

  At the club house Thorsen was directed to the private ferry terminal where Thorsen almost passed out when he realized that his boss had kept his round-trip ticket. Thorsen had almost no cash and as a non-member he had to pay 150 kroner or almost $ 30 U.S. dollars for the one-mile ferry trip to the Snaroya terminal on the mainland where he had left his car.

  What would he do now that he had his marching orders?

  He realized that he would have to move people around in his department and even worse bring in someone smart to get results.

  “Never hire smart people to work for or around you,” his mother had told him. “They don’t take orders very well and they will always outshine you. Even worse they’ll get promoted and sooner or later take your job. No! No! No! Make sure that you always employ people as dumb or dumber than you. And my son you are not smart so you be very careful. Only hang around smart people as long as they help you.”

  Thorsen smiled at the thought of his clever mother. She was absolutely right. As a puppet he too could play the part of the puppet master and start pulling strings and moving his own puppets around. He would rearrange the chess pieces so that he had a chance of success.

  By the time the ferry got to the Snaroya terminal Thorsen knew exactly what he needed to do. First he would get flowers for his mother and go visit her in the afternoon and then he’d go have dinner with his good wife whom his mother had picked from the village. He remembered his mother always saying:

  “Us simple country people are winners because we are survivors. Peasants are born to survive! Remember this Ivar and you will do well.”

  “Daddy! Daddy! I want my Daddy!”

  The man looked at Karl Haugen and said, “Not now Karl.”

  “I want my Daddy!”

  The man shook his head. Children never failed to amaze him.

  “I’m going to take a nap as soon as we’re done,” she said.

  “Good.”

  “Are you going to take a nap?”

  “I doubt it.” Harald Sohlberg dried the plates and silverware that his wife rinsed and handed him from the kitchen sink. “I’ll read for a while. . then maybe take a walk in the old neighborhood. I just can’t sleep in the afternoon. Not even after my fifteen mile run this morning.”

  “If you don’t take a nap then that means that you are not going to have any sleep over a twenty-four hour period. Don’t forget. . we have a party with the Otterstads that doesn’t start until eight. They like to celebrate Saint Hans Aften. . St. John’s Eve. . until very very late.”

  “I know. They don’t even light their bal. . bonfire by the beach. . until after midnight.”

  “Then there’s all that food. You’ll get reflux if you eat late. . ”

  “I promise I won’t eat so much that I feel like throwing up in bed.”

  “You always say that and then you go ahead anyways and overeat like crazy. There’s going to be lots and lots of food. And that means lots of rommegrot. . sour cream porridge. They’ll probably be serving food until two or three in the morning. You know you always go crazy eating rommegrot. Remember when we went to my parents in Bergen after we met?. . You had almost four liters. . a gallon. . of my mother’s rommegrot.”

  He could almost smell and taste the pudding of sour cream with melted butter and brown sugar and cinnamon. “Ja! I still remember that. But I rarely have it any more. . this will be my once-in-a-year feasting on my favorite food. Besides. . it’s been ages since we celebrated Sankthans. . Midsummer’s Eve. It’s been what?. . Maybe fifteen years since we spent a Sankthans in Norway?. . It’s been at least five years since we’ve been in Oslo during the summer for more than a few days.”

  “True. I’m so happy we came back. Three weeks of summer vacation!”

  “Don’t forget though. I must do a presentation at headquarters before we can leave. Then we’ll be off to see your folks and enjoy lovely Bergen once again.”

  Fru Sohlberg handed him the last dish and noticed his eyes. “Won’t it feel strange going back to the Politidirektoratet. . the National Police Directorate?. . Are you nervous?”

  “Yes and no,” he said fully aware that his wife could read his face and gestures like an open book. Not even the best lie detector and voice stress machine could surpass her skills at accurately and instantly detecting his real feelings and thoughts. Sometimes he wondered if she and not he should have been the Politiforstebetjent (Police Chief Inspector) in the family. He had no doubts that Fru Sohlberg would probably have solved more crimes than Herr Sohlberg given her special talents.

  She turned and looked at him. “It must be strange if not difficult to have so many reminders of the past. . beginning with this house.”

  “Ja,” he said. “A remembrance of things past.”

  “Exactly. Like Proust. . the French author. . did you know that he wrote two million words in seven volumes based on a flood of memories that were unleashed by the smell and taste of the tea he used to drink and the little madeleine sponge cakes he used to eat as a child?”

  Sohlberg nodded. “Ja. . This house brings back my childhood. . and so many memories. . even those as a young adult.”

  During the past two days he had been embarrassed several times when she caught him lost in memories while he stared wistful
ly at different rooms of his old childhood home. He felt foolish at his sentimental longing for the good old days of his youth and yet he could not deny the powerful attraction that he had for the lovely waterfront home of glass-and-cedar where his parents and his brother had lived in as close to a perfect idyllic existence as possible thanks to his mother’s love and his father’s providing.

  She read his face and said, “Well. . you can’t be blamed for feeling nostalgic over the great childhood you had here with your parents.”

  “True,” said Sohlberg, “but it’s all in the past.”

  “Yes. The good and the bad. . even the worst of the bad is now far behind you. . ”

  “Ja. That’s true. Incredible how time has passed.”

  She dried her hands on the towel that he held. She pulled him closer with the towel and kissed him gently on the lips. “Please take a nap if you can.”

  Sohlberg smiled and watched her walk down the hallway and up the stairs. He drank the last of the sparkling mineral water of the third Farris bottle that he had consumed after returning from his early morning run. He then walked outside and past the towering pines down to the beach where his father had built a small guest cabin.

  His father had built the cabin and used it as an office after his refurbished industrial machinery business took off in the early 1980s. Of course the cabin and the sailboat and the floating dock and other luxuries came only after many years of struggling and economizing. Sohlberg remembered many cold winters with little heat in the house and simple paper shades for curtains when they moved into the house during his last two years in high school. Norway’s oil boom greatly prospered his father’s business in the 1980s and Sohlberg sometimes wondered if he should have gone into business with his father.

  “Me the businessman,” Sohlberg said to himself as he sat down before his father’s desk.

  In less than an hour Sohlberg had carefully organized and added up the receipts and invoices that he needed to present to Interpol as soon as possible. He wanted to quickly get reimbursed for more than $ 12,932 U.S. dollars that he had spent on airlines and taxis and hotels and meals on his recent round of traveling to Norway from the USA. He decided that he would send the reimbursement request by fax later that night to Lyon France. But he had to make absolutely sure that he added and included every item correctly because he knew better than to submit a wrong reimbursement request to the accountants and bookkeepers at Interpol. The bean counters always made him and other Interpol advisers and field agents feel that they were somehow defrauding Interpol even when submitting the most accurate of expense reports.