Sohlberg and the Gift Read Online Free PDF Page A

homicide Sohlberg promised himself that he would never ever abandon an investigation or be forced off a case.
     
     
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
     
     
    The snow fell in thick curtains that reduced visibility to a few feet. A pensive Sohlberg sat in the car and waited for the blinding storm to pass him. He again ran a search on the www.skattelister.no website. The search confirmed former Chief Inspector Bjørn Nygård’s financial status as belonging to the lower 20% of Norway’s gross income levels. That did not surprise Sohlberg. Early retirement from the police rarely yielded a large pension especially for an honest cop like Bjørn Nygård.
     
    The snow tapered off as the clouds stormed off. The sun made a glorious return appearance in the sky. Sohlberg continued his journey on the narrow and icy streets that wound their way around the low mountains that surround Lillestrøm. At one point he left the city limits by accident and wandered past expanses of lily-white snow fields chequered with dark hills crowned with old-growth strands of spruce and fir and hemlock.
     
    Beautiful . . . but I’m totally lost.
     
    Sohlberg eventually meandered back into town. He got lost two more times before he found the residence of Bjørn Nygård. A small garden surrounded the modest cottage from the 1950s. Of course the garden was nothing but a plot of deep gray snow. Sohlberg imagined a summer garden filled with a profusion of flowers. Regardless of the garden’s seasonal flora the humble residence and neighborhood matched the reported income of the former Chief Inspector in charge of the Janne Eide homicide.
     
    A woman’s voice boomed somewhere in the back of the house after Sohlberg rang the doorbell and knocked on the door. “Wait a minute . . . I’m coming! . . . You better not be trying to sell us magazines or other junk! And we don’t want any preaching. We want nothing!”
     
    A lacy curtain parted by a large window next to the front door. Sohlberg watched the woman’s suspicious rheumy eyes narrow when she saw the marked police car and then his blue police uniform.
     
    The door swung open.
     
    “Yes . . . what is it Officer?” said the frail woman in her seventies. Bowed down by age she looked up at Sohlberg and waved him inside to the hallway.
     
    “Thank you . . . I want to talk with Bjørn Nygård.”
     
    “What?” said the clearly perplexed woman.
     
    “Just some quick questions.”
     
    “Are you kidding me?”
     
    “Ma’am . . . are you his wife?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “Fru Nygård . . . please . . . I need to talk with him. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
     
    “No.”
     
    “Look . . . this is not a game. . . . Is he here?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “Well then . . . I want to see him.”
     
    “You can see him but you won’t get what you want . . . which by the way young man . . . exactly what do you want to talk to him about?”
     
    “An old case.”
     
    “I told you . . . you will never get what you want . . . now go away . . . this is ridiculous.”
     
    “Why? . . . Why do you say that?”
     
    “Because you’re a fool. A young fool. It figures you’re from Oslo.”
     
    “How do you know I’m from Oslo?”
     
    “I know all the police here in Lillestrøm. My two sons are police here . . . one’s an inspector just like you.”
     
    Sohlberg was glad that she had not asked for his name. “Fru Nygård . . . I just needed some help from your husband. I know what a great detective he was. . . .” Sohlberg took a risk and went for her undivided attention if not sympathy. “Look . . . I know he was unfairly forced out of the service.”
     
    “Well . . . well.”
     
    A grandfather clock ticked loudly somewhere nearby. Sohlberg heard someone stir in what sounded like a chair or sofa. Then a sigh and gentle snoring.
     
    “Come.”
     
    Sohlberg followed the bent woman. In the small living room a toothpick of a badly-dressed man slept open-mouthed on a sofa.
     
    “My