Lethal Investments

42

He drove halfway on to the pavement at the corner of Markveien. Strolled up the street. A crowd of people had collected in the area around Foss School. But they were not pressing. Straggly bunches of youths mostly. Groups of twos and threes chatting. Shivering in the cold weather and laughing nervously to each other. If you didn’t cast curious glances over towards the square by the bridge.

A few journalists nodded to him. Frank recognized Ivar Bøgerud, a former student friend who was leaning against a tree on the slope down to the river. Bøgerud was puffing at a roll-up and deep in conversation with some skirt from another paper. Ivar had acquired a centre parting since they last met, Frank confirmed, and nodded to him. Strangely enough, the guy didn’t seem particularly interested in latching on to the detective on his way down. Had learned the ropes, he thought. Waiting until there is enough to ladle from the source.

He pushed through. Was exhausted. Almost collided with Bernt Kampenhaug. Same sunglasses, same crackly radio. Loads of teeth under the glasses.

‘Wasn’t exactly a high-quality fish we caught in the river this time, Frølich!’

Frølich smiled back politely and continued towards the bundle lying on the river path. Further away, a dog lay on the ground, dead as well. The man was partly covered by a plastic sheet. An older man, that much was obvious. Overshoes, brown trousers and a battered coat. The wet clothes gleamed in the sharp light. It could be Johansen lying there. But the man’s face was hidden under the plastic.

‘Was it gruesome?’ he asked, with a thumb.

‘Too early to say anything.’

Kampenhaug had a look around. ‘Someone had dragged the body half on to the bank, and when we came there was just a dog here.’

He angled the radio aerial towards the dead dog. It had been shot. A long, pink tongue hung like a tie from the half-open jaws. The shiny coat was disfigured by a red wound in the stomach. A civilian with a bobble hat was kneeling over it.

Frank stared back at the corpse on the river bank. Two black reinforced plastic overshoes pointed heavenwards.

‘Wondered perhaps if he was the witness we were after,’ he mumbled. ‘Arvid Johansen. A pensioner.’

‘So I heard. Well, it’s not easy to recognize that face!’

Kampenhaug bent down and pulled back a corner of the sheet. Frank turned away. Kampenhaug grinned. Replaced the sheet and straightened up. ‘The dog was obstructing the investigation,’ he sniggered. Addressed the civilian and called in a louder voice. ‘Did you hear that?’

Then marched the few metres over to the man and kicked him in the back. ‘Next time you buy a dog make sure you keep it on a lead.’

The man turned his head. A tear-streaked face looked up at them. Glasses, dull eyes and terrible teeth. Frank had seen the face before. But couldn’t put his finger on where. A junkie. Doped up. Eyes that swam beneath his fringe. The junkie grunted. ‘Bastard pigs.’

Kampenhaug stooped down. The doped-up face was reflected against a green background in his mirror glasses. Kampenhaug smiled and his hand twitched. The man fell in a heap. Blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Frank said nothing, spun round and stared at the path and the slope to the river. Not more than a kilometre away from Arvid Johansen’s home, probably a lot less. Ten-minute walk. Again he looked at the barely moving water. Tried to imagine someone falling in here. Faced the crowd to locate the woman for whom Kampenhaug was playing tough.

Macho Man’s overalls rustled as he stood up. He stretched his legs to allow the material to slip back into place, joined Frank and stood scratching his groin.

‘Take a size bigger,’ Frank said. ‘You’re too old to impress women.’

‘Quartermaster hasn’t got any bigger ones.’

The radio crackled and Macho Man bent down in a macho way. Frank spotted her. Red hair, tired face, green eye make-up. Bare feet in high-heeled shoes. Pointed tits beneath a tight-fitting acrylic roll-neck sweater.

Bernt came back. ‘A milcher,’ he whispered. ‘Finest Norwegian Ayrshire.’

His teeth flashed white under the green sunglasses. Lots of small red marks bedecked his chin and neck.

‘You’ll have to change the blades in your razor,’ Frank replied, but on seeing this sudden change of topic was too much for him, added: ‘Ask for her name and address. You can say you’ll be back for a statement.’

‘Too right,’ Kampenhaug whispered. Adjusted his bollocks in his ardour.

Idiot, thought Frank. Left him, stepped over the barrier and slowly ambled up the footpath. Impossible to say whether the dead man had fallen in. The path stretched upwards like an idyll. Nevertheless, he must have fallen in close to here.

Despite the injuries to the old man’s face, Frank was convinced it was Johansen. The overshoes, the coat, though they weren’t what did it. He just knew. Johansen was dead. Provided that the dead man’s fingerprints were readable, Professor Schwenke would be able to compare them with those on file. If not, they would use other medical data and ultimately establish the man’s identity. But in reality it was no more than a formality. Gunnarstranda would receive a report saying that Arvid Johansen had drowned. There would be a bit about injuries to the head that could have been caused by a fall or a third party with intent.

He stared back at the bridge. Kampenhaug had clambered over the barrier and was talking to the milkmaid who was running her hand through her red hair and shifting weight from one high heel to the other.

‘Hello, Frølich.’

Ivar Bøgerud. The emissary of the tabloid press. Noted that the guy called him by his surname. That was new.

Frank shrugged. ‘You’ll have to take a risk and talk to the boss himself,’ he said, nodding towards Kampenhaug. ‘I don’t know anything.’

Bøgerud smoked. ‘Informed sources’, he puffed, ‘tell me that the cops have shot an old man taking a dog for a walk.’

‘When did you ever start checking a good story?’

‘Sunday newspaper, Frølich. Since we’re competing with the church we have to bang on the tables with cold facts.’

Ivar Bøgerud’s expression was devoid of humour. He had pulled out an old notebook. ‘What was the message on the radio?’

‘Old man dead in water.’

Frank stared down at Kampenhaug, who had now left the redhead in peace. The man was drifting around with the radio by his face and his sleeves rolled up.

Bøgerud flicked his cigarette in an arc and took notes.

‘The man could have fallen in by accident, but so early in the process you can’t rule out a criminal act.’

They strolled up the road. Round the school.

‘Of course the police are interested in contacting anyone who might have seen or heard anything unusual along the river banks from Beier bridge to Foss in the last few days.’

‘The shot?’

Bøgerud had stopped writing.

‘Rumours as with every police call-out.’

‘There was a dead dog lying there, Frølich!’

‘The story’s covered under the Press’s Code of Ethics. You know, role of the press and all that shit.’

‘Was the dog shot by the police?’

‘Talk to Kampenhaug.’

Bøgerud nodded. ‘Informed sources tell me you’ve arrested a suspect.’

Frank considered. ‘We are in contact with a dog owner who was beside the dead animal when it was found. The man will be questioned as a witness in the usual way.’

‘Is it usual for the police to knock witnesses unconscious while they’re being questioned?’

Frank sighed. Headed for his car.

‘We saw what happened, Frølich!’

Frank opened the car door.

‘Was the dog or the owner at any point deemed to be a threat to the police?’

The detective addressed the journalist. ‘Ivar,’ he began, weary. Changed his mind: ‘Bøgerud! This is not my case. I know nothing about the dog or whether it was shot at all or who shot it! The dog is dead. An old man was found floating in the river Akerselva. That’s all I know. Talk to Kampenhaug. He’s in charge here, and he knows everything that happened. All right?’

‘You stood two metres away from the police officer who attacked the dog owner. Have you any comment to make?’

Frank looked Bøgerud in the eyes. Which did not deviate. Lips that tightened. Am I like that as well? he wondered, sighed with resignation and got into the car. Closed the door in the journalist’s face.

He switched on the ignition. Glanced briefly up at Bøgerud who had a camera in his hand. My God, he despaired. The flash went off in his face. What a shit day! What a truly shit job!