Lethal Investments

44

Gunnarstranda could feel the coffee going down his throat and leaving a thin, unhealthy coating reminiscent of glue over his tongue and the inside of his mouth. It was getting late. He should be on his way home.

The whole of the Sunday had been spent on futile crap. Now it was the evening. Tomorrow was Monday. Things should be starting to happen. The thought of going home to the television failed to attract. He could do some reading, but he knew it would be difficult to concentrate. The pieces of the puzzle were churning round his head. The pieces that refused to fit. There was a piece missing. An important one. His brain was in a high gear, pushing pieces all ways to form a picture that made sense.

In front of him on the desk there was an open newspaper and the autopsy report for Sigurd Klavestad. Lots of mumbo-jumbo in Latin, rigor mortis etc, and other medical jargon. Gunnarstranda was informed that the man had once had jaundice. In addition, his last meal had consisted of bread, milk and red wine, of all things. A sharp object had sliced his carotid artery and damaged the medulla oblongata, the lower half of the brainstem. There was also bruising to the body, caused, it was assumed, by falling down the narrow stairs. Klavestad had died somewhere between three and four o’clock in the morning, before he had been called out.

Gunnarstranda glanced at his watch once more, lit another cigarette and chewed his thumb nail. Then he glowered at the newspaper lying open at the TV pages. He could take the car and go to Hoffsjefveien and collar Engelsviken, or perhaps the maid, give both of them a course on buttoning blouses and see what happens. But the thought of the drive at such a late hour also failed to attract.

The telephone rang.

‘Gunnarstranda.’

‘S’me,’ growled Frølich in a beery bass tone. In the background someone was giggling. The sound reminded him of how tired he was. ‘What is it?’ he asked wearily.

‘I’ve been for a walk.’

Frølich hiccupped.

‘A couple of hours ago, along the banks of the Akerselva.’

Another hiccup.

Gunnarstranda’s brow began to crease. He could hear Frølich whispering something, probably telling the lady to let him phone.

‘I was looking for some signs of where the old boy fell in the river. Between Foss and the bridge.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Nothing!’

Bloody hell. Is that what he’d rung to say?

‘Afterwards we went to Eva-Britt’s place, the friend I was with at Scarlet, you remember, she lives in a collective with, among others, Gunder who repaired your car.’

‘Get to the point. I’m not in a good mood!’

‘They live in this house by Gunder’s workshop, roughly where you noticed Brick’s office. That solicitor.’

‘To the point!’

‘I saw a young fella coming out. And after him a woman, a secretary. She ran out waving a piece of paper. Shouting his name: Joachim Bjerke.’

Gunnarstranda’s brain jerked into action.

‘Are you still there?’

‘Go on!’

‘The woman wanted to give him this bit of paper, but he wouldn’t take it. Just jumped into a fat BMW and shot off burning rubber. Could this be the Bjerke you’ve met?’

‘Description?’

‘Round thirty-five. One metre eighty, more or less. Slim. Prim features with a straight nose, piercing eyes and long fringe. Layered hair at the back. Made to measure, blue coat. Hollow back. Drives a dark blue BMW 528.’

‘That’s him,’ croaked Gunnarstranda, had to clear his throat to make his voice carry. A deep furrow was dissecting his forehead.

‘I just wanted to tell you.’

‘Good work, Frølich. You have no idea how damned good! Where are you?’

‘Home.’

‘OK. I’ll ring if there is anything.’

He rang off and sat for a few seconds staring into middle distance. Then got up. Walked slowly like a somnambulant to the hat shelf, to the coat rack. Removed his wallet. Opened it. Searched. Fingers trembling. He cursed. Wallet crammed with paper, old receipts, stamps and shopping lists. Where the hell was it? There. Red edge. Yellow and red writing. The business card he had been given by Joachim Bjerke, the self-important shit, Reidun Rosendal’s neighbour. He read aloud: ‘Ludo.’

Stopped. Eyes rose. ‘Ludo?’

He read the line underneath: Finance. Audits… Joachim Bjerke… Manager.

Lingered for a moment flicking a corner of the card.

Turned slowly. Made a beeline for the shelf above his desk. Pulled out a box file marked Reidun Rosendal, moistened his index finger and slowly leafed through, sheet by sheet. Reports and appendices. He knew what he wanted. The pile to the left was becoming fatter. At last. Not any old sheet, but greyish photocopy paper folded several times. Stuffed into his wallet the first time he was in the courthouse and had been overcome by hunger after sifting through paper for hours.

A list of Software Partners’ legal adversaries for last year. Seven names. But only one name shone up at him. The fourth. Scribbled in blue biro.

A/S Ludo.

Beside a small hand-drawn square. The square that indicated this was the company which had withdrawn its lawsuit against Software Partners.

He studied the list. Could feel himself smiling. The last piece. The picture was beginning to take shape. He sat down and stared out of the window, puzzled. A hazy grey veil shrouded the night sky. Why was Joachim Bjerke in conflict with Software Partners? Why had he kept this quiet from the police? And why had he withdrawn proceedings against Software Partners?’

After a while he fought to lift both legs on to the desk and lit a cigarette. Smoked and considered three questions, without coming to an answer. There was only one thing to do: visit Joachim and ask him. Gunnarstranda looked at his watch. No reason for his conscience to bother him. In a way he had promised them he would be returning.