Lethal Investments

32

It was early morning. Gunnarstranda had got up at half past six. In the usual sequence he had quickly devoured his portion of porridge, drunk two glasses of skimmed milk and consumed half a jug of hot coffee. Now he was sitting in a taxi on his way to Kampen, a suburb of Oslo. The driver’s tongue was going nineteen to the dozen. They had been through the whole repertoire. From the Olympic Winter Sports committee in Lillehammer to the Government, EU opposition in the Centre Party to the old dears who hadn’t twigged that they should be lying in bed gasping for air instead of trying to cross Vogtsgate on green.

Not that the police inspector cared. He just stared out of the window with his mind elsewhere.

Gunnarstranda asked the driver to pull over by the church in Kampen main square. He wanted to walk the last few metres. It was still early. Gunnarstranda liked the sleepy tranquillity that settled over the timber houses in Kampen. He liked to walk there, to breathe in the idyll of brightly coloured houses and the wooden fences that enclosed small gardens. An article he had read about Oslo came to mind as he strolled down towards the blocks of flats in Kjølberggata. It had been written by some dusty bureaucrat whose considered opinion was that it was possible to influence politicians’ decisions with sensible discussion. At any rate, the main gist was that Oslo’s most striking hallmark was its painted houses. Gunnarstranda had to concede the bright spark was right. Kampen was like a bouquet of flowers, even in April before the grass had turned green.

He was soon at his destination. Ambled in through the gate. The Skoda was nowhere to be seen. But there was a strong smell of paint coming from the yard. And shrill whining sounds from the garage. He walked round the garage and opened the little door at the back where the padlock hung open.

It wasn’t possible to see anything clearly. The outline of a light blue van could be glimpsed through a grey mist of paint and solvents. Something moved in the mist. Soon a black, oil-stained face appeared. The man bared a row of white teeth. Gunder.

‘Come in,’ he bawled.

The policeman instinctively retreated. Stepped back over the half-metre-high threshold and into the open air.

‘You can’t go in there without a mask,’ he gasped to the man who followed him out. The same friendly smile. Gunder’s eyes were large and white. Four flat wrinkles bedecked his forehead.

‘It’s the purest mountain air in there now,’ he claimed. ‘You should have been here an hour ago, then you might have had to cut your way through the fog!’

They stood in the yard, outside the garage with the crooked walls and corrugated tin roof that threatened to collapse.

Gunnarstranda said nothing and held out a lighter flame. The mechanic had poked a recycled dog-end the size of a fingernail between his lips and managed masterfully to light it without burning himself. They trudged through the yard and on to the dark drive. Gunder led the way. The man’s two worn-down black clogs hastened across the tarmac with a clatter. Round the street corner and across to the white Skoda parked by the kerb.

‘I changed the distributor cap because it was knackered. Changed the pins, the fan belt, plugs and two plug cables.’

The man was speaking with the dog-end glued to his lower lip.

‘The car’s only three years old!’ the policeman protested with his arms outstretched.

The mechanic in the stained overalls responded with a kindly look.

‘Three years?’ He motioned towards the Skoda. ‘You have to count the age of this crate in dog-years.’

Gunnarstranda scowled. ‘Is it all right?’

‘Now it is.’

‘How much?’

‘Invoice?’

Gunnarstranda frowned at Oil-Face, who was now sporting five wrinkles. Something was going on inside.

‘It’s all tied up with VAT.’

‘Tell me how much!’ Gunnarstranda remonstrated.

Oil-Face examined his hands. ‘Wouldn’t have been much of an invoice anyway,’ he sighed. ‘Six hundred!’

The policeman rolled back his shoulders and stuck a hand in his inside pocket. Took six hundred-krone notes from his wallet.

Oil-Face produced a friendly smile. ‘Bit of body rust,’ he said, stuffing the notes into the back pocket of his overalls. ‘Round the door handle.’

Gunnarstranda accepted the car key without a word.

‘I do body work as well,’ Oil-Face informed him.

The police inspector turned and went towards the car.

Oil-Face smiled and wandered back to the garage. ‘Just give me a buzz,’ he shouted as he rounded the corner. The car started with a roar. Gunnarstranda smiled with satisfaction, manoeuvred the car away from the kerb and drove a few metres. Stopped and got out. The engine was purring like a cat. He opened the rear bonnet. Perfect. New cables. New distributor cap. He was happy. Straightened up and closed the bonnet. Searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one, found the lighter, glanced up in the air and froze. Filthy windows with white lettering. Talk about a coincidence. Every other pane. SOLICITOR written on the glass. Wall. The name BRICK written in white letters. Wall, and then SOLICITOR again.

He switched off the ignition. Closed the door and strode across the street and into the gateway. Nice back garden. Evergreen thuja bushes in a tidy flowerbed. Table for scoffing packed lunch in a corner. Brass name plate. Perfect. Etched with acid into the metal: Brick, Solicitor. So this was where Engelsviken’s business manager lived.

The inspector stood and considered. Finally made up his mind. Turned and sauntered back to his car.