Lethal Investments

9

Eva-Britt had got out at Ullevål Stadium. It was early morning. The worst of the traffic was over and Frank Frølich was in a good mood. The drive through Smestad had been pretty smooth and it was barely nine when he parked in front of a relatively new office block in Drammensveien by Lysaker. He just took a notepad and a few pencils with him.

The building stood out. A piece of commercial architecture inspired by Eskimo igloo architecture and pre-Christian temple styles. The name of the creative force behind the whole thing adorned parts of the façade.

The automatic doors slid open and he entered a hallway. The floor was tiled with honed and polished natural stone in a variety of hues. This arrangement had doubtless cost serious money, but it was also intended to give an impression of unity from a distance. The walls were painted white. At chest level, a varnished golden dado rail ran around the whole room.

Opposite the entrance was a large reception area. With huge ceiling-to-floor glass panes reminiscent of the Oslo Underground. In the middle of the opening, between the large panes, stood a receptionist, a woman who attracted everyone’s attention. She was probably around thirty years old. Dressed as an office clerk in a kind of uniform, a skirt and jacket in a greyish-blue woollen material. Her hair was thick and brown with a red sheen that made him think of a car bonnet. As he approached, his gaze focused on a distinct black birthmark in the hollow between her chin and her broad mouth.

She nodded to him and spoke into the telephone receiver on her shoulder while her hands busied themselves with other things. They were strong. Nails were short, no varnish.

He leaned over to the counter as she pressed a few buttons and finished speaking.

‘Software Partners are here, aren’t they?’

‘Third floor.’

She seemed uncomfortable in her office clothes. They clung too tight. The result was a physical ungainliness that was not at all necessary. She hesitated and was about to pick up the telephone again.

‘Don’t bother!’

He motioned towards the telephone.

‘I’ll find my own way there.’

As the lift doors opened, he walked straight into a large open-plan office where he was instantly met. So the woman with the birthmark had rung after all.

‘You are the police officer, I presume?’

‘Mhm.’ Frank shook his hand.

‘Øyvind Bregård,’ the man bowed. ‘I’m Head of Finance in this outfit.’

He was a tall, well-built fellow of around forty. The outstretched hand was not markedly large, but his chest, arms and thighs had undoubtedly been built up with weight-training. His head seemed strangely small in comparison with the robust body. Formidable bristles under his nose. Moustache. Shaped into two arcs, one on each side and blond like his short hair. Behind him sat a blonde, somewhat plump, lady in front of a screen.

‘And this is…?’

Frank took a step towards her with his arm held out. She stood up so quickly her chair was sent flying. Curtsied in a flurry of confusion. Her hand was as limp as a rubber glove and hung in mid-air when he released it.

‘Lisa Stenersen.’

The name was delivered at second attempt after a nervous cough. Broad, flat shoes made her seem tubby, short. But her beautiful blonde hair was a perfect frame for round cheeks and a double chin.

Frank Frølich turned back and noticed a tiny ring in the weightlifter’s left ear.

Silence.

‘Well?’

Bregård rocked on his feet to and fro, not at ease.

‘Perhaps we should find somewhere to talk,’ Frank obligingly suggested.

The Finance Manager nodded and led the way to a door at the other end of the room.

The man’s office was sparsely furnished. A desk, and not much more. But the chair that accompanied it was a classic. Velour material, head rest and an inbuilt tilting mechanism. A chair that was ideal for planning the year’s fly-fishing, for tipping back and putting your feet on the desk. Otherwise there was nothing apart from a wobbly stool which the policeman placed by the wall to have something to lean against. Pink walls. Decorated with advertisements for computer equipment. Pretty glossy stuff. A babe, full-length, pulling on fishnet stockings and supporting her legs on a computer. Unusually attractive legs. And unusually thick hair on her head.

Bregård sat down in the swivel chair. Now wearing narrow, rectangular rimless glasses.

Frank tore his eyes away from the fishnet thighs. ‘This is about, as I’m sure you know…’

‘Reidun,’ Bregård interrupted with several nods. ‘I’ve understood as much.’

Frank smiled. Jotted down ‘ASSHOLE’ in capital letters on his notepad and went on to draw Kilroy behind a wooden fence.

‘Reidun Rosendal was employed as a saleswoman?’

Bregård nodded.

‘From what I’ve been told, you sell computer technology?’

‘Administrative systems, office solutions.’

The man pulled a drawer out of his desk and rummaged in it. ‘We’re about to embark on a fairly large expansion programme.’

The words tumbled out staccato as he searched through the drawer. Finally he lifted out a pile of brochures, passed it to the police officer and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Reidun was part of that, too. Finding distributors and interested parties for the expansion. And of course selling standard services,’ he added, folded his hands in a business-like fashion on the table in front of him.

Frank flicked aimlessly through the brochures. Colour bar graphs and fine words about profitability. The moustachioed face of the man before him smiled up at him from the glossy middle-page spread. Nice pic. The policeman compared the photograph with the man on the other side of the table. The ring in his ear was not visible in the photograph. And he was more formally dressed than in real life. The picture revealed a classic office worker in a white shirt, tie and grey jacket. The same glasses as now. The Finance Manager was giving a thumbs-up the way Allied pilots did during the Second World War. ‘Trust me’ the speech bubble above his head said.

‘Did anyone else work in the sales department other than Reidun?’

‘Svennebye, our Head of Marketing. And me.’

He opened his palms wide. ‘We’re a small enterprise, lots of overlapping. Engelsviken, the manager here, also does sales work if he has time.’

‘How many employees are there?’

‘In all, five; sorry, four. There were five of us with Reidun.’

The policeman picked up the brochures. ‘So the company is planning to grow?’

‘It will become very big,’ Bregård corrected immodestly. ‘We’re in the process of acquiring new distributors all over the country in fact.’

‘Anything home-grown?’

‘No, we have a foreign agency.’

He tilted back in the chair. Spread his fingers and lightly tapped tips against each other. ‘It’s all in the name. Software Partners. The company has been built on that concept and will grow by linking up with joint venture collaborators.’

Frank nodded. ‘With regard to Reidun…’

Bregård waited, composed.

‘Do you know a restaurant called Scarlet?’

Bregård’s eyes went walkabout. He leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the desk. Stroked his moustache.

‘Scarlet?’ Ran the name over his tongue. ‘Yes… indeed… in fact I’ve been there.’

‘Long time ago?’

‘Probably a few weeks back.’

‘You weren’t there last Saturday?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you on Saturday?’

‘At home.’

The detective allowed the silence to linger, then said:

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘In fact, I spent Saturday evening on my own!’

‘Watching TV?’

‘No.’

‘There’s just crap on the box, isn’t there,’ Frank posited, testing for a reaction. ‘I never watch TV, either. I tie flies.’

The Finance Manager stared across the desk, without making a comment.

‘When I tie flies I listen to the radio.’ The detective scribbled on his pad. ‘Lots of good music on a fair number of stations. Much better than tired TV family entertainment. Don’t you think?’

Indulgent smile from Bregård. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘You weren’t listening to the radio on Saturday by any chance, were you?’

The smile vanished. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Married?’

The man shook his head.

Frank stretched out his legs and slipped off his worn-out boots. A faint aroma of stale socks filled the room. Bregård’s face went stiff. Frank followed the man’s eyes and identified a hole in the toe of one sock. A bony little toe poked out, inhaling fresh air. He splayed his toes. Made a mental note that he ought to cut his toenails.

‘Girlfriend?’ he asked.

The man didn’t understand.

Frank sighed. ‘I asked if you had a girlfriend!’

‘No,’ he answered with irritation.

‘What were you actually doing on Saturday, Bregård?’

‘I was at home!’

Face of rebuttal. ‘I didn’t watch TV, didn’t listen to the radio. I went to bed early.’

Frølich nodded.

‘Went to bed early because I had to be up early on Sunday.’

The detective frowned, one raised eyebrow.

‘For a long walk through the fields.’

‘Isn’t it too wet underfoot now?’

‘It’s wet, but I go anyway.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone,’ Bregård stated with a nod.

‘Often?’

‘Yes, often.’

Frank eyed him. Tanned features. Muscles. Wouldn’t be unusual to meet this guy in the forest. Not at all. Just a change of clothes. A thick jumper instead of the white cotton shirt, green walking trousers instead of fashionable jeans. Walking boots and thick socks. Yep, the guy probably was the outdoor type. Whether he had been hiking on the Sunday morning in question was quite another matter. Frank decided to change the topic:

‘Did you know her well? Reidun, that is.’

Bregård hummed and hawed.

‘You worked together for six months,’ Frølich pressed. ‘Did you get to know her?’

‘A bit.’

The guy was in two minds about something.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, heaving a resigned sigh. Fidgeted uneasily and placed his hands on the desk. ‘This is too awful!’

He got to his feet, walked over to the window and stared out. Broad shoulders, slim waist and unusually powerful thighs.

‘On Friday she was here with us!’

He said something else that was drowned in an intense grimace. His facial expression was reminiscent of a character from a TV drama. Hands clenching and unclenching in an over-animated fashion. Emotional toss of his head at the same time. There was something over the top about all of this. Something feigned that was uncomfortable to watch.

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Friday afternoon. I invited her out, but there must have been a problem.’

The detective waited. But the man was keeping the rest to himself.

‘So you two had been out together before?’

‘On occasion.’

‘Were you a couple?’

‘A couple?’

The guy turned, scented something. Frank took a deep breath and returned a cold stare. ‘Have you been with her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you been to bed with her, shall we say?’

The man returned to his chair and sat down. Surly now. ‘Yes, I have slept with her.’

Dismissive expression.

‘Did you often sleep with her?’

‘You’ve got what you wanted now, for Christ’s sake! Do you want to know how long we were at it as well?’

Love and Geography, Frank thought. The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson play in which a man is forever fussing around and yelling about his maps while neglecting his family.

‘Was it a relationship?’ he asked in a friendly tone.

‘No! We were not in a relationship.’

‘So it’s a while since you last slept together?’

Bregård didn’t answer.

‘Or could you just ring and order a quickie when it was convenient?’

Bregård slowly removed his glasses. His fingers were not trembling. But he looked daggers across the table. ‘You can count yourself lucky you’re here on official business. Otherwise I would…’

‘Oh, right!’

Frank shrugged his comment aside and lifted his notepad to remind the man what they were doing. He went on: ‘When you asked if she wanted to join you on Friday, and she turned you down, do you think she had another date?’

‘You mean, was there someone else?’

He had calmed down. Swivelled round on the chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall where the woman with the hair was still trying to roll up her fishnet stockings. She was standing with her back half turned to the camera. And a silver tanga up her ass like a thread. The head with all that hair faced the photographer and she was pursing her lips into a kiss.

Bregård had fallen into a reverie. ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘She didn’t have another date.’

The detective held his gaze. ‘In other words, she was keeping you at a distance?’

Bregård formed his mouth into a resigned smile. Didn’t answer.

‘What was she like?’

The smile dissolved. His eyes were two black dots.

‘You mean, was she hot?’

The detective paused, waited. The idiot wasn’t finished yet. His face was agitated. He gripped the desk with white knuckles.

‘She liked it from behind,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you take a wander down to the red-light area and buy yourself a bit of skirt? That would be a lot better than taking notes on what others get up to!’

Frank felt his lips moving into a patient smile. ‘When Reidun Rosendal was not being taken from behind, or the front, but was working here with you, what did she like? What was she like as a person?’

‘Clothes,’ the man suggested mechanically. The outburst was over. Bregård was caught in the same melancholy as a moment before. He stared dreamily into middle distance again. ‘I think she loved clothes… and her dog. Of course she couldn’t keep it in her bed-sit, so it was at her mother’s place, in Vestland. By the way, she always talked about her home area, the south-west coast.’

‘Wasn’t she happy in Oslo?’

‘I think she was happy enough. It was just the way she was.’

He snapped his fingers to find a suitable description. ‘She was… herself!’

He was satisfied. ‘She was herself,’ he repeated with a nod.

‘You said she loved clothes, what was her style?’

‘No special style.’

He breathed in. ‘All-rounder. If you get my drift. She could wear anything. One day she looked like a schoolgirl, the next she wiggled her hips like a jailbird’s dream. She… I suppose that was what made her a bit special, maybe.’

Jailbird, he jotted that down and looked up. ‘Yes?’

Bregård was gazing into space. No more putting on an act. ‘She was… no,’ he broke off. ‘It just sounds so flat in retrospect.’

Frank Frølich waited, but the man had dried up. His profile was pale and somewhat featureless. One of the bristles in his moustache had dislodged itself and was wedged between his lips, which were thin and bloodless.

‘Who did she have most contact with here?’

‘Sonja.’

The man with the moustache swivelled back and gave a resigned sigh. ‘Sonja Hager. She’ll be here soon.’

Frank pulled his boots back on. Taking his time. Tying them up, tight. Stood up. Bregård was still seated and rocking his chair. His mind elsewhere. Frank left. Turned in the doorway. Bregård was absentmindedly rolling a biro between his fingers.

‘If you should think of something that might be helpful,’ the detective said in a friendly tone of voice, ‘get in touch with us.’

He didn’t wait for an answer, just about-faced and went back to the large room with the lift doors.