Sister Read online

  PRAISE FOR KJELL OLA DAHL

  ‘Absorbing, heart-rending and perfectly plotted’ Denzil Meyrick

  ‘Kjell Ola Dahl’s novels are superb. If you haven’t read one, you need to – right now’ William Ryan

  ‘Dahl ratchets up the tension from the first pages and never lets go’ The Times

  ‘More than gripping’ European Literature Network

  ‘Utterly convincing’ Publishers Weekly

  ‘If you have never sampled Dahl, now is the time to try’ Daily Mail

  ‘Impossible to put down’ Guardian

  ‘The perfect example of why Nordic Noir has become such a popular genre’ Reader’s Digest

  ‘Skilful blend of police procedural and psychological insight’ Crime Fiction Lover

  ‘Fiercely powerful and convincing’ LoveReading

  ‘Further cements Dahl as the Godfather of Nordic Noir, reminding readers why they fell in love with the genre in the first place’ Culture Fly

  ‘Kjell Ola Dahl’s fine style and intricate plotting are superb. He keeps firm hold of the story, never letting go of the tension … a dark and complex story, and convincing characters presented in excellent prose’ Crime Review

  ‘Dahl is such a talented writer whose writing is powerful and so convincing … The only fault being the crime gets solved and life moves on!’ New Books Magazine

  ‘Suspenseful, beautifully and clearly written, with a sure-footed plot, this is a book that thrills’ Live and Deadly

  ‘Dahl writes wonderfully and it’s clear why he is regarded so highly’ Have Books Will Read

  ‘This is a dark, emotive and twisty mystery that has been tightly woven, full of surprises and lovable characters – such a fab treat for fans of Nordic Noir!’ Chillers, Killers & Thrillers

  ‘Twisty and incredibly well-written story, full of suspense and intrigue and it had me glued to the pages!’ Novel Deelights

  ‘Full of plot, twists and tales, this kept me intrigued from the first to the last page … Clever, twisty’ Harry’s Book Club

  ‘Extremely gripping … fast paced and exceptionally tense’ Misti Moo Book Reviews

  ‘If you like novels where the story is gripping and the writing is so good that you actually feel like you are in the place it is set then I would highly recommend Kjell Ola Dahl’ A Crime Reader’s Blog

  ‘A gripping story with an unexpected outcome. Highly recommend’ Gemma’s Book Review

  ‘I found myself burning through the pages to the highly satisfying conclusion. Highly Recommended’ Bookie Wookie

  ‘This is good old-fashioned storytelling at its best … Excellent’ Beverley Has Read

  ‘Kjell Ola Dahl has once again gripped me from start to finish, hooking me whole-heartedly with his beautiful writing and complex plot’ Ronnie Turner

  ‘Kjell Ola’s writing is amazing as it keeps you tense throughout and you just never know where it is going to end’ The Secret World of a Book Blogger

  ‘The aspect of this novel I found most compelling was the author’s style of writing. I could hear his voice clearly and I loved it’ Books, Life and Everything

  ‘A fast-paced, well-plotted story … Each move is planned, no loose ends are left to ponder over, and the intimacy between the characters and the reader makes you want to come back for more’ Cheryll MM’s Book Blog

  ‘Kjell’s style of writing is relaxed and allows you to get to know the characters, but don’t be fooled, it had my heart pumping … I promise you will be hooked!’ Wrong Side of Forty

  ‘A compelling and complex book that will have you chomping down on your nails, waiting to see what happens … Brilliant stuff’ Jen Med’s Book Review

  ‘A complex, tightly plotted noir crime book, full of tension, suspense, twists and atmosphere’ Emma’s Bookish Corner

  ‘I can most certainly see why this author is considered one of the godfathers of Nordic Noir. He spins his tale with ease and keeps you guessing up until the very end. Intricately plotted … with a satisfying ending’ Where the Reader Grows

  ‘I was gripped’ Portable Magic

  ‘The author’s style of writing and pace is very easy to read … If you are a fan of Nordic Noir or like intriguing crime mysteries then you will love this’ Over the Rainbow Book Blog

  ‘An engrossing and beautifully crafted novel … it is a book that captivated me from the very first page through to the startling finale. Highly recommended’ Hair Past a Freckle

  ‘Thrilling and complex … an enthralling read’ The Quiet Knitter

  ‘I loved the plot in this book and the writing style was excellent! … A thorough enjoyable read’ Donna’s Book Blog

  ‘I thought Dahl got the pacing of the novel just right, hooking me into the story from the very first page’ My Bookish Blogspot

  SISTER

  KJELL OLA DAHL

  Translated by Don Bartlett

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  PART 1

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  PART 2

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND TRANSLATOR

  COPYRIGHT

  SISTER

  PART 1

  1

  A number was nailed to the corner of the house wall. He slowed down, leaned forward and glanced to the side and up as he drove past. There was no light in the windows or any other sign of life. He carried on. Rounded first one bend, then another. A place to turn came into sight. A tractor
trail leading into the woods. Frank Frølich braked, reversed into it a few metres, pulled out and drove back, past the house again. This time he noticed the gable of another building behind the main house. He continued for a short distance, still unsure how he should go about this, and came level with a wider turning area beside the remains of a brick construction. It looked like a disused petrol station. He pulled off the road and stopped. Made up his mind. Did a U-turn and drove back. Came to a halt by the bus stop near the drive of what appeared to be an abandoned smallholding. He switched off the ignition. Opened the door and got out. There was complete silence. No traffic. A line of trees along the road screened the property. Through the trees, he could see no neighbouring houses. The deserted house stood about twenty metres from the road, in front of a dilapidated outbuilding. He strolled up the narrow drive. The house was chalet style, with one and a half floors, old and run-down. The white paint was flaking off and there were green stains down the wood panelling. Two upper-floor windows were boarded up. The original front door had been replaced with a newer type. The posts supporting the porch roof were rotten at the bottom, where they rested on a concrete plinth. No name-plate on the door, but the number on the house wall didn’t lie.

  He couldn’t see a doorbell anywhere. But a sheep bell hung from a blue nylon cord beside the door.

  He rang it.

  No response.

  He rang the bell again. Pressed his fingers against the door. Locked.

  He turned away from the front door and stared at the tumbledown outbuilding. It looked as though a gigantic thumb had pushed the roof down in the middle. One end-wall was bulging under the pressure. Presumably the stanchions had started to give way. Tiles had fallen off. Some of the gaps in the roof had been repaired with corrugated-iron sheets. An optimist had attached a ratchet strap between a post in the entrance and a telephone mast. Probably as a kind of preventative measure against the increasing tilt on one side. An opening in the longer wall was covered with a green tarpaulin. It hung like a huge curtain, with a plank nailed fast lengthwise under the eaves.

  He crossed the yard, lifted a corner of the tarpaulin and pulled it aside. The opening was revealed; it was dark inside. He stepped in. The tarpaulin fell back. He stood waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dim light. There were stacks of beer crates and several cardboard boxes. He had found what he was looking for: beer and cigarettes. He took some photographs with his mobile phone. The pictures would probably be evidence enough for his employer – a food wholesaler. The works manager suspected the driver who lived here of siphoning off goods. This stock suggested she was right.

  He crouched down under the tarpaulin again, ambled back to the car, got in and drove towards Moss to find the motorway back to Oslo. This job had been easier than he had imagined. Quick, not much effort involved. All he had to do now was write a report and attach the photographs.

  By the slip road onto the motorway there was a shopping centre. He followed an impulse, braked, headed down to the centre and found a place to park. For ages he had been planning to swim a couple of times a week. But to do that he needed a swimming costume, and now he had the time to buy one.

  The broad glass doors slid open. It was early in the day. Not many customers. He walked down the main avenue with shops on both sides. Passed a café. Green eyes behind heavy eyelids checked him over as he walked past. She was in her thirties and wore her red hair in a bob, like a helmet.

  It turned out to be too early in the year for swimwear. The assistant in the sports shop tried to sell him some running tights instead. Frølich politely declined.

  He walked back the same way and made eye contact with the woman in the café from a distance. She started tidying up behind the counter, so as to appear busier than she actually was, he imagined. A thought struck him. People usually say, when planning a holiday in a big town: if you are choosing somewhere to eat you should go for a place where there are already lots of customers. No one was sitting in this café.

  She had finely drawn lips and a hint of a cleft chin. A young Catherine Deneuve maybe. The top of a tattoo licked at her neck.

  He stood at the counter and asked what the menu of the day was. She recommended a tapas salad, which she could make up using whatever ingredients she had at her disposal in the kitchen. She assured him that she was good and smiled self-ironically, revealing shiny white teeth in a broad mouth, which made him want to see the smile again. He said: ‘I’ll try that then.’ Immediately she left to make the salad. There was a languorous sensuality about her body. She moved from the counter to a fridge and back again, rhythmically, lissomly, as though dancing. Since there was no one else in the café he saw no reason not to start a conversation. He told her that in fact he had come to buy a swimming costume, but the sports shop didn’t have its summer stock in yet; did she know anywhere else that sold swimwear?

  She looked up with Mona Lisa eyes and almost imperceptibly shook her head. After another sashay she told him she was a naturist, and with that she channelled the conversation into an intimate zone, one where he felt unsure of himself; he wondered whether she was trying to kill off the conversation. But after serving a salad consisting of cherry tomatoes, cos lettuce, salami, roasted pine kernels and slices of parmesan with freshly baked bread, she came over to his table and asked if everything was alright. He said, as was indeed the truth, that it was the best meal he had eaten for a long time. She asked him where he was from. He answered, and gradually they moved on to more personal topics, with the result that, as he was driving to Oslo, she was on his mind and he caught himself coming up with new questions he would have liked to ask her. The conversation had rattled along with no longueurs. What a shame she lived so far away.

  That evening he sat with a laptop on his knees, trying to write a report to the works manager at the food wholesaler’s while studying the photographs on his mobile. The majority of the shots he had taken of the stolen goods were dark and grainy. He put aside the laptop, fetched a beer and hunkered down in front of a serial on TV, having decided that he would repeat the trip the following day. This time he would be able to make use of the digital Canon and flash he had invested in when he started up his business, but which he hadn’t taken many photographs with so far.

  2

  The next day he knew where to go and headed out on the E6 south of Oslo. He maintained a good speed and came off at Vestby, took the Oslo road to Hølen and continued to the slip road onto the R120, where he turned off and drove in the direction of the smallholding. There weren’t any cars in the yard today, either. The house seemed just as abandoned. He parked by the bus stop, walked up to the house, stood at the front door and, to be on the safe side, rang the bell. Pushed at the door. Locked. Then he slipped under the tarpaulin covering the opening in the tilting barn. He took some pictures with the proper camera and flash this time. Checked the display to make sure the quality of the photographs was good enough, then got back in the car and drove to the shopping centre.

  As soon as he was through the automatic doors he feared he was on a wild-goose chase. The café was packed, and she was nowhere to be seen. But as he turned to leave she appeared behind him and said:

  ‘Hi. Back again, are you? That’s nice.’

  He asked her straight out whether she was doing anything that evening. She was. Presumably she read the disappointment in his eyes because she hastened to ask if he had found the swimming costume he was after. He shook his head. Then she flashed him a smile and said he could go swimming with her at the weekend.

  A swim at the beginning of March, he thought, and nodded. Perhaps she was an ice swimmer. He asked where he should pick her up.

  ‘Just a mo,’ she said, went back to the counter, dealt with a couple of customers and returned a few minutes later with a map she had drawn. She was renting a house in Skjeberg.

  ‘By the way, my name’s Matilde.’

  ‘Frank,’ he said, choosing not to mention that most people called him Frankie.


  He was keen to hear how she pronounced his name, if they ever got as far as calling each other by their first names, that is.

  3

  On Saturday the rain was falling in sheets. A sombre atmosphere lay over the countryside as he drove his Mini Cooper south. Black tarmac and black ploughed fields stole the light, and the rain collected in small lakes on the biggest of them. Bare branches were outlined against the sky. The ground hadn’t started to send up green shoots, either.

  He was going to Skjeberg Bay, not far from Høysand. There were plenty of summer cabins and older detached houses between the rocks. Matilde lived in one of the smallest. It nestled there, with a drive and a handkerchief of a garden behind a white picket fence. As he turned in to park in front of the cabin, the worst of the rain had passed. She was sitting on the terrace in front of the door, barefoot, wearing jeans and a loose sweater. In one hand she held an umbrella, in the other a lit cigarette. Beside her sat a border collie, which meekly stood up to be stroked when he mounted the steps.

  They stood smiling at each other for a few seconds.

  ‘Crap weather,’ he said.

  She said nothing, just went in and held the door open.

  It was like walking into a room from the 1950s. The sofa looked as if it had been bought from the furniture catalogues of the time, and there was kitsch on the walls: flea-market art – a gipsy girl stretched out on a divan beside a seaman in a sou’wester with a crooked pipe in the corner of his mouth. Above the dining table was a retro wall light with a miniature bulb shining from behind a heart-shaped lampshade. The most modern object in the room was a small Bluetooth speaker on the teak table in front of the sofa. From it came muted country-and-western music. The room had an open kitchen and Matilde was already sashaying between the fridge and the hotplates. The dog sat in front of the wood burner, watching him as he crouched down beside her record collection. Vinyl albums, most of them classics from the golden age. Every One of Us by Eric Burdon and the Animals, Trilogy by Emerson, Lake & Palmer, B.B. King’s Live at the Regal and, further along, gems such as Exile on Main Street, Wave, Spectrum and Heavy Weather. The LPs were wedged onto a shelf beside a Tandberg Sølvsuper 10, with inbuilt speakers in a wooden cabinet, and a record-player with a strobe light on the side of the turntable.