‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
Orjan Mjones hangs up and puts a despondent hard line through the name of Jan Ivar Fossbakk. Above him four other names have already been crossed out: Benjamin Rokke, Syver Odegard, Idun Skorpen-Wold and Sverre Magnus Vereide. Mjones leans back and stretches out his arms, turning his head from side to side so the bones creak.
He gets up, shuffles across the shiny floor and enters the kitchen. From the fridge he takes out a carton of milk, finds a clean glass in the top cupboard and fills it up. He downs the milk in a couple of big gulps. He has more ticket inspectors to call, a task he never would have started if he didn’t know that they are trained to recognise faces.
Mjones returns to the living room and sits down at the circular table where his laptop is open. Lying next to it is the list Terje Eggen was kind enough to provide him with which gives him the ticket inspectors’ names, their mobile numbers and the specific train line they were working on the day in question. Mjones picks up the sheet and finds the next name on the list. Nils Petter Kittelsen.
‘Hello, yes?’
‘Inspector Stian Henriksen, Oslo Police,’ Mjones says, in a commanding and grave voice.
‘P-police?’ Kittelsen stutters. ‘Has anything happened?’
‘I’m sorry for disturbing you on a Friday evening, but I’m investigating a murder which took place in Oslo yesterday.’
‘I–I see?’
‘We have reason to believe that the killer left Oslo on the train to Bergen, the train you are responsible for, around lunchtime yesterday. We’re trying to find out where the killer got off, and I hope that you can help.’
Mjones hears Kittelsen swallow. ‘I’ll do my best.’
Mjones looks down at the picture of Thorleif Brenden.
‘The man we’re looking for is approximately thirty-five years old, he’s just under six foot tall, and he was wearing dark-blue shorts, a white T-shirt and probably a hat or a cap when he left Oslo Central Station yesterday. Do you recall seeing a man who fits that description?’
There is silence for a while.
‘I really couldn’t say.’
‘Think carefully. It’s very important.’
‘I’m thinking,’ Kittelsen says intently, as he breathes hard into the mobile. Then he sighs despondently. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I saw him.’
‘He may not have been on your train,’ Mjones says, trying to hide his disappointment. He takes the tip off the black felt-tip pen.
‘Was he wearing sunglasses?’ Kittelsen suddenly asks.
Mjones stops and looks at the picture of Brenden. ‘He was.’
‘And a black baseball cap?’
‘He might well have been. Did you see him?’
‘I think I might have,’ Kittelsen says, eager now. ‘Pale skin, a goatee?’
‘That’s him!’ Mjones exclaims, unable to suppress the elation in his voice. ‘Do you remember where he got off?’
Another silence.
‘There are so many passengers,’ Kittelsen says, defensively.
‘I know. But please try.’
‘I’m sorry, I-’
‘Do you remember if he was on the train for a short period or a long time?’
Another pause for thought.
‘He was there for some time, certainly.’
‘How long, do you think?’
‘A couple of hours, at least.’
‘Okay. More than three hours? Four hours?’
‘I don’t know,’ Kittelsen says, despairing at himself. ‘I’m quite sure that I saw him when we stopped at Fla, but I don’t think he was there when we got to Finse.’
‘How many stations are there between Fla and Finse?’
‘Six,’ Kittelsen replies immediately.
‘Okay. That gives us something to go on. Thank you so much, Mr Kittelsen. You’ve been a great help.’
‘Don’t mention it.’