“They’re not concerned that you’re left shouldering all the responsibility?”
Tonje Wiig gave a wry smile. “That wasn’t what I meant. In fact I worked here as the chargé d’affaires for six months before they sent Molnes. I’m just saying I hope there will be a permanent arrangement as soon as possible.”
“So you’re counting on becoming the new ambassador.”
“Well.” She smiled mirthlessly. “That wouldn’t be unnatural. But you never know with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, I’m afraid.”
A shadow stole in and a cup appeared in front of Harry.
“Do you drink chaa ráwn?” Tonje Wiig asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, my apologies,” she laughed. “I forget so quickly that others are new here. Black Thai tea. I have afternoon tea here, you see. Even though, strictly speaking, it should be after two o’clock according to English tradition.”
Harry said yes, and the next time he looked down someone had filled his cup.
“I thought that kind of tradition died with the colonialists.”
“Thailand has never been a colony,” she smiled. “Neither of England nor of France, as its neighbors were. The Thais are very proud of that. A bit too proud, if you ask me. A bit of English influence never hurt anyone.”
Harry picked up a notepad and asked if the ambassador might conceivably have been embroiled in anything dubious.
“Dubious, Hole?”
He explained in concise terms what he meant by “dubious,” that in seventy percent of murders the victim was involved in something illegal.
“Illegal? Molnes?” She shook her head energetically. “He isn’t … wasn’t the type.”
“Do you know if he could have had any enemies?”
“Can’t imagine he would. He was very well liked. Why do you ask? Surely this can’t be an assassination?”
“We know very little at the moment, so we’re keeping all lines of inquiry open.”
Tonje Wiig explained that Molnes had gone straight to a meeting after lunch on the Tuesday he died. He hadn’t said where, but this was not unusual.
“He always had his mobile phone with him, so we could get in touch if something came up.”
Harry asked to see his office. Tonje Wiig had to unlock two further doors, installed “for security reasons.” The room was untouched, as Harry had requested before he left Oslo, and it was a mess of papers, files and souvenirs which hadn’t been put on shelves or hung on walls yet.
The Norwegian royal couple peered down majestically at them over the piles of paper and out of the window overlooking a green space that Wiig told him was Queen Sirikit Park.
Harry found a calendar, but there weren’t many notes on it. He checked the day of the murder. Man U, it said—Manchester United, unless he was much mistaken. Perhaps a football match he wanted to see, Harry thought, dutifully going through some drawers, but he soon realized one man searching the ambassador’s office without knowing what he was looking for was a hopeless task.
“I can’t see his mobile phone,” Harry said.
“As I mentioned—he always carried it with him.”
“We didn’t find a mobile at the crime scene. And I don’t think the murderer was a thief.”
Tonje Wiig shrugged. “Perhaps some of your Thai colleagues ‘confiscated’ it?”
Harry chose not to respond and instead asked if anyone had rung him at the embassy on the day in question. She was doubtful, but promised to look into it. Harry had a last look around the room.
“Who was the last person to see Molnes in the embassy?”
She tried to recall. “It must have been Sanphet, the chauffeur. He and the ambassador were very good friends. He’s taken this badly, so I gave him a few days off.”
“Why wasn’t he driving the ambassador on the day of the murder, if he’s a chauffeur?”
She shrugged again. “I wondered the same. The ambassador didn’t like driving in Bangkok on his own.”
“Mm. What can you tell me about the chauffeur?”
“Sanphet? He’s been here for as long as anyone can remember. He’s never been to Norway, but he can reel off all the towns. And the kings. Yes, and he loves Grieg. I don’t know if he has a record player at home, but I think he has all the records. He’s such a sweet old man.”
She angled her head and revealed her gums.
Harry asked if she knew where he could find Hilde Molnes.
“She’s at home. Dreadfully upset, I’m afraid. I think I would advise you to wait a bit before you talk to her.”
“Thank you for your advice, frøken Wiig, but waiting is a luxury we cannot afford. Would you be so kind as to ring her and tell her I’m on my way?”