Lethal Investments

8

‘So you’re quite sure she locked the door after you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you check?’

‘No, I heard it.’

‘You’re sure it was that? Not a window banging or something?’

‘I’m sure. It was the lock.’

‘Hm.’

Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda supported his head on one hand. In the other, he held a cigarette which he tapped on the ashtray to remove the end. Frank watched in amazement as the thick, blue smoke wafted up to the man’s eyes, without it seeming to affect him.

A young man sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. He was in his mid-twenties and had long, black hair tied up in a pony tail. Frank observed him from the side. A small, child-like nose protruded from a cheek partially covered by a new, dark, downy beard. On his temple there was a plaster which was not large enough to cover a brownish-red scab. His clothes, which were all dark, hung off his slim figure. He was a well-formed young man who seemed neither muscular nor particularly fit.

Frank realized he would have trouble writing down everything that was said. For that reason he switched on the tape recorder and swivelled his chair back to his computer screen. Ready to write down whatever he succeeded in catching.

‘How long were you down in the yard?’ he heard Gunnarstranda ask.

‘I don’t know.’ The man cleared his throat nervously. ‘Ten minutes tops.’

Frank Frølich wrote down the answer. For a second the muffled tapping on the keyboard was the only sound in the room.

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know? You must have made a hell of a racket if you were fiddling around down there for ten minutes, just imagine!’

The young man cleared his throat and gulped again. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

Frank gave up writing. Heard his chair creak as he swivelled round towards them. Watched Gunnarstranda stub out his cigarette, get up and walk around the table. He squatted down and supported himself on his thighs. ‘You’re frightened,’ he confirmed and continued in a soft voice. ‘You’re trembling.’

The young man looked away.

The thick, blue smoke wreathed in the light of the desk lamp.

‘Why did you climb over the fence?’

‘I’ve told you. I wanted to go home!’

‘Why didn’t you ring her so that she could open the door for you?’

‘Because…’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Gunnarstranda turned abruptly. Sat back down.

‘Why did you come to the station?’

‘Why?’

‘Yes, how did you find out about the murder?’

‘I read about it.’

‘There were no names or addresses in the papers.’

‘I had a feeling.’

‘Feeling?’

‘She didn’t answer the phone. I rang and rang, and she didn’t pick up. I had to know if it was her.’

‘And so you didn’t know her before?’

‘No.’

‘You got to know her on Saturday then?’

The young man’s breathing was laboured. He didn’t answer.

‘Please answer the question.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Thank you, I am aware of that.’

Silence descended once again. A faint buzz in the room, that was all, the buzz of Frank’s PC.

‘How many times did you make love?’

No answer.

‘Answer the question. How many times did you make love?’

‘Twice.’

‘Any form of protection?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a condom?’

‘No, I assumed she had… she had a coil or something like that.’

‘In these times of AIDS?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have a condom.’

‘So you go out on the pull and leave the practical details to women?’

‘I wasn’t on the pull.’

‘But you screwed her!’

Silence.

‘Answer for Christ’s sake.’

The man in black drew a large breath.

‘OK, you weren’t on the pull that night. What happened?’

‘We met, as I said, we chatted, drank wine… and… well… we decided to go to her place.’

‘Where did you meet?’

‘At a restaurant called Scarlet.’ He hesitated. ‘Yes, it’s called Scarlet. I’d never been there before, I didn’t know her, had never seen her before, she was sitting on her own… we danced… and… well… so I sat with her… and…’

‘Was she alone there?’

‘Think so.’

‘What do you mean think?’

‘It seemed so.’

‘She was sitting alone and waiting to be picked up?’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean no? She was alone, wasn’t she.’

‘Yes.’

‘But she wasn’t alone after all?’

‘She was alone, but it wasn’t like that.’

‘What was it like then?’

‘She didn’t dance with anyone in particular.’

‘Ah! So she danced with several men?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you kept your eye on her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you danced with her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now you sit here and claim you weren’t on the pull! You’re lying!’

Gunnarstranda had pushed the swivel chair away from the desk. Moved back and forth, impatient.

The young man sat impassive, looking ahead with a fixed gaze.

‘Why did you go there on Saturday?’

‘Don’t know. It was a Saturday. I could have gone anywhere. I was walking through town.’

‘And what happened afterwards?’

‘Well, we started talking, getting to know each other, like.’

‘OK. What happened at her place?’

‘Mm… we slept together.’

‘How was it?’

Silence.

‘I’m asking you how it was. What did you do?’

‘We…’

‘Did she offer herself?’

‘Offer herself?’

‘Did she get undressed and lie on the bed with her legs apart?’

‘No… we… ’

‘Come on, tell me what happened!’

‘You’re talking about a dead person!’

‘As I told you, I am well aware of how dead she is!’

Gunnarstranda pushed off with his feet and rolled into the desk with a bang. Leaned forwards: ‘For Christ’s sake tell me what happened after you came in the door!’

‘I put my arms around her.’

‘Where?’

‘We kissed.’

‘Where did you hold her?’

‘I stroked her buttocks.’

‘And then?’

‘Then we lay down.’

‘Dressed?’

‘I undressed her.’

‘And she screamed!’

‘Screamed?’

‘Yes, she screamed and said no. Isn’t that right?’

‘No, it is not!’

Gunnarstranda banged his fist on the desk. ‘It’s not right? She didn’t scream? She screamed and screamed until you had to shut her screaming bloody gob, didn’t you!’

‘No!’

‘Have a look at this then!’

Gunnarstranda got up and slung the photograph of Reidun Rosendal’s mutilated body on the desk.

The young man took the photograph and shot a quick glimpse. Frank was unable to interpret the man’s reaction. Dead bodies are not attractive, he thought. Not this version, either. All the blood with the stained knife handle between her breasts.

‘Can you see the tie?’ Gunnarstranda asked in a hushed voice.

The man shook his head in disbelief.

‘It’s sticking out under the edge of the shower cap.’

The man nodded, but didn’t give the photograph a second look. He turned it over.

‘That’s your tie, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t kill her!’

‘Is it your tie?’

‘I didn’t do it!’

‘Is it your tie?’

‘You lot can’t accuse me of something I didn’t do!’

‘Answer my question! Is this your tie or not?’

‘Yes, it bloody is. It is my sodding tie!’

All of a sudden the man stood up. And threw the photograph down on the table.

Not a sound. Gunnarstranda had moved his chair back from the desk again. A circumspect cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. He stared. Put the roll-up aside and inched the chair forward. ‘Do you often lose your temper, Sigurd?’

The aggressive posture was gone immediately. His thin legs trembled. He groped behind him to find his chair. Sat down.

‘I haven’t lost my temper.’

The young figure stared ahead, silent and confused.

‘I asked if you often lost your temper.’

The young man looked away.

‘On the rare occasions you lose your temper, Sigurd, you get very angry, don’t you?’

He shrugged.

‘Did you eat anything that night?’

‘Yes… we had a few slices of bread… and fried eggs.’

‘When was that?’

‘I didn’t keep an eye on my watch.’

‘Was it after the first screw?’

The man nodded.

‘What was she like as a screw?’

The man hesitated.

‘Active?’

Silence.

‘Or did she lie there like a sack of potatoes and allow herself to be despoiled?’

The man didn’t answer.

‘You like girls to offer a bit of resistance, do you, Sigurd?’

No reaction.

‘Answer me when I’m talking to you, lad!’

‘You’re ridiculing a person who is no longer with us!’

‘OK.’

Frank watched Gunnarstranda get up and throw his hands in the air. Pace round the room for a while. ‘So you ate bread,’ he recapped. ‘And you fried eggs.’

Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Who cut the bread?’ he asked at length.

‘Me.’

Gunnarstranda walked back to the desk. Plunged a hand into the desk drawer and pulled out a knife. Frank watched him intentionally allow the light from the Anglepoise to glint on the polished steel. The steel blade was curved in such a way it had a kind of abdomen.

The room went quiet as Gunnarstranda carefully placed the knife on the table. The blade scraped the edge of the table making a dry rasp.

Frank heard Sigurd swallow.

Gunnarstranda slowly took a seat. ‘Pick up the knife, Sigurd,’ he demanded in a gentle voice.

The man swallowed again. His legs stirred with unease.

Gunnarstranda leaned on the desk with both elbows. ‘Pick up the knife,’ he repeated.

Sigurd stared up at the ceiling. For a long time.

‘Pick up the knife!’

The policeman’s voice resounded between the walls like a whiplash.

‘No!’ came the whispered reply. The young man took a deep breath. Swallowed. Tried to collect himself to say something.

‘Why?’ he tried, but had to snort hard to clear the congestion in his nose. ‘Why?’ he began again. Then had to stop once more. ‘Why can’t you leave her in peace?’

Gunnarstranda took the knife and started playing with it. Cleaned his nails with the point. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with a solicitor, Sigurd?’

Frank observed Sigurd’s head sink and come to rest against the edge of the desk.

‘Did you jab her with the knife, Sigurd?’

The latter didn’t answer.

Frank met Gunnarstranda’s resigned eyes. Nodded and switched off the tape recorder.

‘Frølich,’ Gunnarstranda said in a harsh voice. ‘Chuck the man back in his cell.’