Cockroaches(4)

Torhus read the fax once more before putting it down.

Atle Molnes, former Christian Democrat politician, former chairman of the Finance Committee, was now a former everything else as well. It was so incredible that he was forced to glance over at Aker Hotel to see if anyone was standing behind the curtains. Reasonably enough, the sender was the Norwegian Embassy in Bangkok. Torhus swore. Why did this have to happen now of all times, in Bangkok of all places? Should he inform Secretary of State Askildsen first? No, he would find out soon enough. Torhus looked at his watch and lifted the telephone receiver to call the Minister of Foreign Affairs.


Bjarne Møller tapped gently on the door and opened it. The voices in the meeting room fell quiet, and the faces turned toward him.

“This is Bjarne Møller, head of Crime Squad,” said the Police Commissioner, motioning him to take a seat. “Møller, this is Secretary of State Bjørn Askildsen from the Prime Minister’s office and HR Director Dagfinn Torhus from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

Møller nodded, pulled out a chair and tried to maneuver his unbelievably long legs under the large, oval oak table. He thought he had seen Askildsen’s sleek young face on TV. The Prime Minister’s office? It had to be serious trouble.

“Great you could make it at such short notice,” the Secretary of State said, rolling his rrrs and drumming the table nervously with his fingers. “Commissioner, could you give a brief résumé of what we’ve been discussing.”

Møller had received a call from the Police Commissioner twenty minutes before. Without any explanation, she had given him fifteen minutes to make his way to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

“Atle Molnes has been found dead, probably murdered, in Bangkok,” the Police Commissioner began.

Møller saw Director Torhus roll his eyes behind his steel-rimmed glasses, and after he had been given the rest of the story he understood his reaction. You would definitely have to be a policeman to state that a man who had been found with a knife protruding from one side of his spine, through a lung and into the heart, had “probably” been murdered.

“He was found in a hotel room by a woman—”

“In a brothel,” the man with the steel glasses interrupted. “By a prostitute.”

“I’ve had a chat with my colleague in Bangkok,” the Police Commissioner said. “A fair-minded man. He’s promised to keep a lid on the matter for a while.”

Møller’s first instinct had been to ask why they should wait before going public with the murder. Immediate press coverage often produced tip-offs for the police, as people’s memories were clear and the evidence was still fresh. But something told him this question would be regarded as very naive. Instead he asked how long they counted on being able to keep a lid on this sort of matter.

“Long enough for us to establish a palatable version of events, I hope,” the Secretary of State said. “The present one won’t do, you see.”

The present one? So the real version had been considered and rejected. As a relatively new politiavdelingssjef—or PAS—Møller had so far been spared any dealings with politicians, but he knew the higher up the service you went, the harder it was to keep them at arm’s length.

“I appreciate that the present version is uncomfortable, but what do you mean by it ‘won’t do’?”

The Police Commissioner gave Møller an admonitory look.

The Secretary of State looked unimpressed. “We haven’t got much time, Møller, but let me give you a swift course in practical politics. Everything I say now is of course strictly confidential.”

Askildsen instinctively adjusted the knot of his tie, a movement Møller recognized from his television interviews. “Well, for the first time in postwar history we have a center party with a reasonable chance of survival. Not because there is any parliamentary basis for it, but because the Prime Minister happens to be on the way to becoming one of the country’s least unpopular politicians.”

The Police Commissioner and the Director from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs smiled.

“However, his popularity rests on the same fragile foundation that is the stock-in-trade for all politicians: trust. The most important thing is not to be likeable or charismatic, it is to enjoy trust. Do you know why Gro Harlem Brundtland was such a popular prime minister, Møller?”

Møller had no idea.

“Not because she was a charmer, but because people were confident that she was the person she claimed to be. Trust, that’s the key word.”