Lethal Investments

19

It was very odd. The old man made no attempt to disguise what he was doing. Not at all. They headed upwards, along Christies gate, towards Lilleborg Church and on to Torshov Park.

Frank Frølich knew where this was leading, he knew where Klavestad lived. So he trailed a fair way behind. For now the task was clear. Tail the tail. And the young man with the hair had all his attention focused on the old codger behind him. Sigurd Klavestad kept turning round, didn’t run, but walked faster, apprehensive. At the bottom of Ole Bulls gate he stopped and faced the man, who froze in his tracks. The distance between them was a touch under a hundred metres. Frank Frølich tried to pretend he was waiting for a bus, strode over to the published schedule, stared at the arrival times and scowled at his watch. Nothing happened. The two of them just watched each other. Until Klavestad began to walk slowly towards Johansen. Who didn’t move, just poked around with his stick. The distance shrank by twenty metres. Sigurd stopped. Frank Frølich stuffed both hands in his pockets and mooched around the timetable. Nothing happened. Two pairs of eyes glaring at each other.

Until Sigurd finally turned. Took a few steps. The old man followed. Klavestad spun round. Again Johansen froze in his tracks. Frølich yawned and checked his watch again. Ten minutes had passed. Sigurd was still staring at this man he didn’t know. Then slowly turned round again. Went on now without looking back. Though faster. Johansen had to pick up speed. They walked along Torshov Park until they were there.

Journey’s end.

Frank strolled at a leisurely pace. Right first time. The door had closed behind Sigurd. The man with the hat and stick stood by the front door studying the name plates.

Soon the policeman found refuge behind a rotary dryer. From there he loped across the road to the block opposite where Klavestad lived. This could have been quite tricky had it not been for a telephone booth hidden amongst some dense bushes.

He slipped in and flicked slowly through the frayed yellow scraps of paper that had once been telephone directories. A blue, a brown and a red wire protruded from the line left bereft of a purpose. The remains of the receiver lay scattered on the ground.

Frank leaned towards the glass and observed the man on the opposite side of the street. He was completely nuts. Talking to himself, scrutinizing the doorbells, shuffling to and fro in front of the entrance. A bent old fellow, his legs and stick jabbing the ground, to and fro outside the door. My God, Frank thought, shaking his head and tut-tutting. You are completely bonkers!