Lethal Investments

46

An hour later he was running down the stairs with no more than a fleeting glance at Reidun Rosendal’s flat, then onwards and out. His face was closed and stern as he shot across the street and into the block of flats. Stopped to look at his watch. Past eleven o’clock. That didn’t help. He hared up the stairs and was hardly out of breath at the top. Undid the padlock sealing the door to Arvid Johansen’s flat and went in. Switched on all the lights. Scoured the room. Opened whole rows of cupboard doors until he found what he was looking for. The binoculars. They were heavy and black. So, quite old. With standard 7x50 magnification. He hung the battered leather strap around his neck, grabbed the faded armchair and dragged it to the window. Deliberated. Johansen had been a big man. Bigger than he was. But how big? He looked around, kicked a pile of porn magazines away from the sofa. Porn magazines, of course. He took off the binoculars, piled up the magazines. Placed the whole heap on the armchair seat and perched on top, removed a few, sat down again. That was better. Raised the binoculars and looked through the window. Dark outside, but the gate was illuminated and the wooden fence was clear enough. Still the wrong angle. He twisted the chair into various positions, sat down, got up, re-adjusted the chair. This was repeated several more times until he was satisfied.

That was how he, Arvid Johansen, had sat. Gunnarstranda searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one and lit up. He reconstructed the scene. The woman had opened the curtains. And what had happened? Some time had passed. Johansen had probably got excited, seen the two making love, then Sigurd left. What had the old boy done? Given himself a hand job? Smoked? Got up to eat perhaps; the show was over, after all. He had said he went to sleep in the chair later.

Fine, the show’s over, what now? Johansen stomps into the kitchen, eats a slice of bread, goes back.

Gunnarstranda stood up, went to the kitchen. Walked back. Looked out.

So, it’s a quarter past six. It’s daylight out there. Sigurd Klavestad jumps over the fence and hangs around the gate for a while, according to his statement. He is seen by the hippie couple returning home from a party in a taxi. They unlock the gate, but don’t lock up after them. So the gate is open. Johansen watches. What does he see? Right, he sees someone coming. Someone he later manages to track down. This person comes in their own car. Gunnarstranda grinned. Smacked his forehead, a habit from his boyhood days. Of course Johansen must have jotted down the car registration number! The registration number of the murderer’s car. So obvious, so hit-you-in-the-face obvious. The number and then a telephone call to the vehicle licensing agency!

But where did he write it down? The policeman wheeled round. Crossed the room. Opened a drawer. Here. Pencils. Biros. But no paper. He cast around, thinking. No paper. No pad or notebook. Nothing to write on. Just a pile of porn mags. Of course. Gunnarstranda’s fingers quivered. Of course! The porn mags. He smiled. Lifted the pile on to the table. Bent down to the floor, looked for more magazines, crawled around on all fours, peered under the sofa. No. There were only these ones. He sat down, got up again, switched on a wall lamp, sat down again and started slowly leafing through the top magazine.