Lethal Investments

36

Queueing always made Frank Frølich go soporific. It was like sitting on the tram. Your brain latched on to a thought you had filed away, you withdrew into yourself and patiently watched the world go by waiting until it was all over.

Not Eva-Britt. She thrived in queues, construed them as a social event and was already in conversation with two bald-headed guys from Oslo West. Both on top form. Loud young men with a strong need to tell everyone around them what they felt.

Eva-Britt screeched with laughter at the boys’ corny jokes, was treated to swigs of the beer they had brought along and an all-out charm attack. Clinging on to his arm, as if fearful she might get into deep water.

Frank listened with half an ear, gazing patiently into the distance. The red wine in his stomach dulled the inane chat of the society boys. He preferred to concentrate on the door ahead of them, which kept opening and closing without making any impression on the length of the queue. Some customers seemed to be more popular than others, he mused. Watched a couple who fitted in that category. A babe in tart costume inched her way out of a taxi, revealingly, legs first. Grabbed the outstretched hand of her escort with highlights in his hair. Both wriggled their way sideways through the queue, the woman with bashful, downcast eyes, as though she were walking topless on the beach. Both struggled in through the glass door where a self-assured bouncer with a tattoo on the back of his hand took care of them.

When Frank and Eva-Britt finally forced their way inside they had been waiting for three-quarters of an hour. The West End boys left them for two scantily clad girls beckoning and gesturing from a table by the dance floor. Frank and Eva-Britt found themselves a table at the back, a long way from the bar, but with a good view of the dance floor and the entrance. A free table cluttered with dead glasses and dirty plates.

It was difficult to talk. The music was so loud. Frank looked around and let Eva-Britt do the ordering from the menu. The room was dark, the dance floor spacious. A lot of attractive people. Men and women who could tell the difference between a backhand and a forehand on the centre court.

Eva-Britt wanted to know what he was going to drink.

‘Well, let’s see,’ he smiled, at a loss. ‘Anything that costs less than a thousand kroner a bottle.’

Eventually the table was cleared by a girl who rationed her eye-contact. She appeared to take their orders without being aware anyone was sitting there. However, the drinks came faster than expected.

Frank held the glass and considered whether to make a fuss. There was definitely not more than four decilitres of beer in the half-litre glass. Perhaps you would notice me if I chucked the beer in your face, he reflected, sending her a happy smile. At that moment something happened at the table with the West End kids. The boys got up and waggled their backsides as if they had just scored the winning goal in a final. The girls waved and shouted. It was a kind of ceremony. The group was welcoming a guest. Frank leaned back against the wall and sipped his beer. There was something familiar about this guest. The glittery suit. A middle-aged, bloated man on skinny legs. Grey suit that glittered when he moved.

He followed the man with his eyes. Moist, slightly wan face with a rigid smile. Strong voice that carried. The waitress was on the spot at once with champagne. Frank watched the man giving people around high fives. This person was well known. Very well known. He even got a hug from the waitress with the niggardly eyes.

Frank Frølich was in no doubt.

The West End table had become a cheery party. The new arrival was the focus of everyone’s attention and gesticulated as he spoke. He was so drunk he didn’t even notice when he knocked a glass off the table. After he came to the punch-line he tucked his lower lip under his teeth, raised his cheeks and guffawed. Everyone laughed. Fell over the table laughing.

The idiot seemed to be amusing, Frank thought, and started playing footsie with Eva-Britt. She was eating spaghetti with lots of sauce. Glanced up, winked and sucked pasta. Sexy lips. She looked down again. Kicked off a shoe under the table and put her foot in his lap. He looked down in his glass. Empty. He waved to the waitress who was still acting as if there weren’t any customers sitting around.

‘Another half-litre please!’

She was gone.

‘Hey!’

He caught her arm.

She stopped, half-turned.

‘The guy you hugged before, is that Terje Engelsviken?’

She turned right round. Viewed him with more interest. Nodded.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he smiled. ‘I just wasn’t sure.’

Eva-Britt’s eyes questioned him.

‘The guy taking off his jacket over there,’ Frank explained.

Both watched him struggle with his jacket, stagger backwards and knock over another glass. It was funny. The whole group howled with laughter again. Engelsviken laughed loudest. Raised the empty bottle and roared. The sound carried across the room. The waitress, who was now behind the bar, gave a nod of the head.

‘That’s how the big boys order drinks,’ Frank said.

‘Has he killed someone?’

Eva-Britt was sitting with her back to the group again and rotating her fork.

‘I don’t know.’

He studied Engelsviken as he lurched between tables. Slapped people’s backs on the way. Stopped and spoke to a man. Straightened up, threw back his head and laughed. Lurched onwards, round the corner to the gentlemen’s toilet.

Frank carefully removed the foot that was still resting on his thigh. ‘Just going to the loo,’ he mumbled and followed.

The toilet was large and light. There were white tiles on the floor and the air was perfumed with the faint smell of vomit.

The man in the silk suit stood combing his hair in front of a mirror. His knees were bent and he was going to a lot of trouble to comb his hair back with the right flick. Concentrated expression. Frank went to the urinal. He thought about Reidun Rosendal with the nice mouth. The man by the sink was sweaty and a bit too fat round the belly. Not exactly good-looking. But sociable. Obviously had a lot of friends. Could tell jokes and laugh out loud. So, someone who could dominate social groups. Like now. The dude was warbling a tune.

‘I’m just a gigolo,’ he crooned. ‘Just a gigolo.’

Out of key.

Someone flushed in one of the cubicles, unlocked the door, went to the sink to wet their hands. And was gone.

They were alone.

The policeman washed. Stood beside Engelsviken who was finally happy with the flick of his hair, put the comb in his back pocket and found his eyes in the mirror.

‘Engelsviken?’

The man nodded. Turned. The swollen face still had the vestiges of a forced smile hanging there.

‘Frank Frølich.’ Frank passed him his hand. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Reidun Rosendal.’