Lethal Investments

18

Gunnarstranda contemplated the ceiling of his office. Blinked, automatically raised his left arm and glanced at his watch. Two and a half hours’ sleep. Not bad. The headache was gone. On the other hand, he had a serious crick in his neck. His head had rested at too acute an angle on the arm rest of the old sofa. That would have to be enough. He threw off the tartan plaid, sat up and massaged his neck and throat while trying to keep his head straight. Felt the lack of sleep on his palate. Time for a coffee and a smoke.

Two hours later he was sitting in a police car on his way down Mosseveien. Thinking. The question was: how did the path young Klavestad chose lead to the centre of the drama that had taken place?

The probability that Reidun Rosendal was subjected to sexual abuse before the murder was minimal. Since her flat had not been broken into, Reidun must have let the murderer in through the front door. But what had happened then? And why all the mess inside when no one had heard anything?

The answer was obvious, he supposed. He just didn’t know what it was. That was the problem. To find the right answer he would have to ask the right question. And where is the right question? It’s there. It just isn’t formulated yet. You can see it there, you can’t grab it though, because it slips away, like a tiny beetle you try to catch in a wash basin.

If you can’t ask, then you have to observe. And Frølich is a canny observer.

He passed Katten beach and glanced down at the smooth, wet rock-faces. Deserted. Only one person there. A thin elderly male figure dressed in blue with a black cap on his head and a solitary gull wheeling above him. At the front waddled a plump, ageing cocker spaniel. Panting, it turned its head, with a saliva smile and a patient look at its owner, who was bringing up the rear.

Gunnarstranda left the main road, drove alone through the illuminated tunnel and bore towards Holmlia. Which manoeuvre resulted in him driving in circles. In the end he drew up under a white arrow-shaped sign. His annoyance at getting lost had caused a stabbing pain from the earlier headache to return. The sign showed rows of numbers. It pointed towards a cluster of apartment buildings and small wooden houses where cars were prohibited. He got out and started a methodical search for number 66.

Marketing Manager Svennebye lived in number 66. The detective rang and his wife tore open the door. She was a well-rounded lady. Must have been around fifty. Wearing a blue suit, plus glasses and earrings the same colour as her shoes, mauve.

If she had been excited when she opened the door she was all the more disappointed when she saw the figure on the doorstep. Stared down at him. Tried to make him feel like a maggot with her gaze. That was fine. It matched his mood. He stared up at her. Short reddish hair. Pointed nose, small mouth with unusually thin lips. Nonetheless she had managed to paint a thick layer of brash red lipstick over them. The half-open mouth revealed that one of her front teeth was the same colour as her lipstick. The red stood out against the white.

Gunnarstranda introduced himself and was then asked in, after a moment’s considered hesitation. She walked ahead. The tight skirt was taut across her rump and emphasized the excess weight she was carrying. Thick ankles. In the living room she parked herself on a high stool by something vaguely reminiscent of a bar. She chewed on half a celery stick dipped into what seemed to be mayonnaise, glanced down at the inspector and spoke.

‘I don’t remember having made any kind of approach to the police on this matter!’

It was a proclamation. She wiped her fingers on a cloth on the counter. Her voice was strident and suited her.

‘Has your husband gone missing like this before?’

‘Who says he’s gone missing?’ she screeched. The thin top lip followed after a brief delay and rubbed against the lipstick-coloured tooth.

A silence grew as the policeman kept his counsel. The faint noise of children playing between the buildings penetrated through to them. The woman turned, took another stick of celery, crunched it between her teeth and chewed with loud chomping noises. Then she touched her skirt with her fingers this time, as if to wipe them.

‘When did you last see your husband?’ asked Gunnarstranda when she had finished. He had not sat down; he stood with his hands in his coat pockets inside the door.

‘Monday morning, before he went to work.’

‘Did you have any reason to expect he would not return from work on Monday?’

‘None at all.’

‘No rows, no dramatic family events?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘He behaved as he always did before going to work?’

‘Yes.’

‘So let me ask you one more time! Has this happened before?’

Her lips quivered. She removed her glasses and the detective could see she had discarded her mask. Tried to hide the movement, but failed, so the tears made stripes down her over-made-up cheeks.

Gunnarstranda waited patiently, but one finger had started to tap against his left trouser leg. This poorly concealed impatience had a knock-on effect. She took out a handkerchief she had stuffed up her sleeve and feverishly dabbed around her eyes.

‘Has he gone on the booze?’

‘What?’

‘Has he gone on the booze?’

‘How dare you!’

‘Calm yourself now!’

He had taken a step forward. But without removing his hands from his pockets. ‘You are talking to a police officer,’ he spelt out coldly. ‘Of course something may have happened to your husband. But it is unlikely since you have not reported him missing. So there are three possibilities. Either he is with another woman, or else he is lying somewhere plastered, or he has done a runner from something. It’s as simple as that. If it had been a woman you would have known, and you would not have rung his office.’

He turned to the window, looked around the room. ‘I’m investigating a murder connected with his workplace. Either your husband’s disappearance has something to do with my investigation or it hasn’t. So I am asking you: Has he gone on the booze?’

At that moment they heard a key in the front door. The woman looked at her watch. ‘Trine and Lene,’ she whispered and screamed into the hall:

‘I’m in here!’

Her voice cracked. The last word sounded like a scream from a seagull that had just been shot.

Gunnarstranda walked towards the two teenage girls. ‘Perhaps you two could fill me in on your father’s disappearance,’ he said turning to the elder daughter.

She stared back, stunned.

Gunnarstranda introduced himself.

‘Has something happened to him?’ the younger one asked nervously.

The police officer ignored the question and zeroed in the central issue. ‘Is this the first time your father has gone missing like this?’

‘No,’ she blinked innocently. She had blue eyes, which unfortunately she had inherited from her mother. They weren’t deep. They were just squeezed between two folds of skin either side of her nose. Piggy eyes.

The girl’s mother slid down off the bar stool and anxiously rubbed her hands against her tight skirt.

‘When was the last time he went missing like this?’

‘It’s what you said!’ the mother interrupted before the daughter was able to answer. ‘Egil can’t take his booze.’

‘Why is he on a binge now?’

She shrugged by way of response.

‘It’s always happening,’ the elder daughter interjected, clearly embarrassed.

The three women huddled closer. It happened automatically, they formed a barricade and the police officer smelt hostility in the air. So he relaxed, twinkled his eyes good-naturedly and clambered up one of the stools at the strange bar. He couldn’t even reach down to the foot support. His legs hung in mid-air. This gave him an opportunity to smile and stretch out his legs.

The tight defence loosened. The two young girls exchanged glances and giggled at the man with the short legs.

The detective grabbed his chance and assumed a grave expression.

‘Is he normally away for two consecutive nights?’ he asked with a worried crease between his eyes. All three shook their heads.

The mother’s pale blue eyes suddenly went moist again. ‘That’s the whole point,’ she wailed, gripping her handkerchief tightly. ‘This has never happened before.’