The Man In The Window

Chapter 9

'It'sme.' The loud, clear telephone voice of Police Inspector Gunnarstranda cutthrough the quiet winter- morning air. There was that hint of tetchiness thatFrank Frølich had learned to treat with forbearance.

'Right,'he answered, pressing the mobile phone to his ear and tightening his scarf asthe cold snow swept across the bridge and held him in its grip again. 'FrognerPark,' he explained. His fingers were frozen. He squeezed the phone tight andburied both it and his hand deeper in the scarf. 'I've just crossed the bridgeover the lake,' he added, walking down the last avenue, leading to the metalgate and Kirkeveien. He blinked. The contrasts became clear in the light of themorning sun which hung low and was blinding. In the park, where Oslo Highways'salting lorries never came, the snow was still white, not greyish-brown andcompressed as it was everywhere else in town.

'I'mon foot, of course,' Frølich continued laconically. He knew that at this veryminute his boss would be fidgeting with a cigarette, walking around in circlesout of agitation because Gunnarstranda never knew how to control the stream ofenergy that was surging through his limbs. Frølich knew that Gunnarstrandawould not be in the slightest bit interested in the fact that he had slept atEva-Britt's – yesterday was Friday and after a huge, painful row he had feltobliged to spend the night with her – or that he had accepted a wager with Eva-Britt's daughter, Julie, that he would lose five kilos before the winterholidays, a bet that he intended to win, for the simple reason that he was sickof the girl's bullying. He had also decided to walk to work every day in thebelief that walking in the freezing cold accelerated calorie consumption, sothe colder the better. Frølich's personal experience of Vigeland's sculpturesin the morning sun would have not have interested his boss, either. Frank likedto contemplate the rigid statues that seemed to have been frozen in motion,either throwing or wrestling. He seemed to be moving in a surrealisticlandscape of forms, particularly because the low temperatures gave thefrozen-metaphor an extra subtlety on a day like this.

'Wehave a body,' Gunnarstranda said.

'Where?'

'Turnright at the metal gate, toddle down Thomas Heftyes gate and you'll see us.'

Andthen the line went dead. It was so cold that his nostrils were stuck together.Frølich buried the lower half of his face under the thick woollen scarf; hisbreath formed condensation and left tiny beads of ice on the wool. He felt likea wandering tree trunk in his thick woollen jumper, thick jacket and long johnsunder his trousers. On his feet he wore army boots which squeaked at every stephe took on the hard-packed snow.

Tenminutes later, after turning down Thomas Heftyes gate, he found the road almostdeserted. There were very few curious onlookers, which could have been for anumber of reasons: the cold; the late onset of daylight in January; or the factthat a swarm of police cars in front of a building does not necessarilyinterest the better inhabitants of West Oslo early on a Saturday morning.

FrankFrølich walked past Inspector Gunnarstranda's new Skoda Octavia and wriggledhis way through the road blocks, but came to an involuntary halt at the sightof the body in the shop window. The dead man was naked, a white body sitting inan armchair – between an old wooden globe and a light blue chest covered withfaded decorative flowers. A woman in white overalls was busy covering thewindow with grey paper. Through a covered section of the window Frank couldmake out the outline of Inspector Gunnarstranda's face. They nodded to eachother and Gunnarstranda's glasses caught the morning sun.

Thefront door was still closed. A sign with yellowish- white plastic letters on ablue felt background gave the opening times. The shop was closed on Saturdays.

Frølichfollowed the flow of forensics officers towards the staircase, where he foundthe back door into the shop open. The room inside was no longer warm. Theconstant traffic in and out caused the breath of all those inside to freeze.Uniformed police and forensics officers in white nylon suits were going throughthe premises with a fine-tooth comb. Gunnarstranda was crouched in front of thelow shop window studying the body in the chair.

Awoman was briefing him: 'The chair hasn't moved,' she said, pointing. 'It'sbeen on display for a good while, I suppose. Someone dragged the body from overthere…' She pointed to the back of the room… and put him on show here.'

'Oneor more?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Impossibleto say.'

'Butcould a single person have done this?'

Thewoman just shrugged. 'Haven't the slightest.'

The womanand Frank Frølich exchanged looks. He hadn't seen her for three weeks when shehad slept at his place.

Theylowered their eyes, both of them, at the same time.

'Butyou must have an idea,' grunted Gunnarstranda with irritation.

Shestared into space, giving herself time to think.

'Hi,Anna,' Frank said. She looked up, and again they had eye contact for twoseconds, which was at once picked up by Gunnarstranda and occasioned an angryshake of the head.

'Yes,I do,' Anna said quickly, and added: 'It could have been one person, could havebeen more. In fact, it is impossible to say much more than that at the presentmoment.'

Gunnarstrandagot to his feet.

Adramatic lock of Anna's hair stuck out from under the white hood, bisecting herforehead and giving her a passionate, Mediterranean appearance.

Fr0lichlooked away and concentrated on the corpse, the shop window, the coagulatedblood down the chair leg and the dark stain on the carpet. He tried to imaginethe shock he himself would have had if he had been passing by at daybreak. Butfor the blood, the dead man would have looked like a papier mâché figure. Hisskin was white, and something akin to frost had settled in the wrinkles andhollows of the body. 'Well, a decent age,' Frølich mumbled, studying the deadman's mask-like face.

'Seventy-nineyears old – according to his bank card,' Anna said, a hundred per cent formalnow.

'Acut?' Frølich asked, pointing to a red stripe around the dead man's neck.

'Tookme in, too,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But it's thread.'

Frankrealized at that moment: red cotton tightened around the man's neck.

'Graffition the forehead?' Frølich asked.

'Crosses,'Anna said. 'Put there with a pen.' She turned around and indicated a smallcylindrical object on the shop floor. 'Probably that one – it's an indeliblepen and the right colour.'

Gunnarstrandanodded and once again turned to the corpse, pointing. Frølich followed hisboss's gaze, to the blood-stained chest area. Someone had written numbers andletters in blue on the dead man's chest – in the middle between the nipples,which were both covered in bushy hair.

Gunnarstrandastood up. 'That's what we need to look at when they do the autopsy.'

Frølich'seye fell on the wooden globe and the misshapen carving of Africa. Large swathesof the African continent were unlabelled.

Gunnarstrandawalked between the tables and chairs with Frølich behind him. 'Antiques,'Frølich muttered, pointing to a red upholstered chair, and called out to Anna:'Can I touch this?'

Shelooked up. 'Nice to see you again,' she whispered and disappeared through thedoor to the little office.

Frølichcouldn't think of anything to say.

Gunnarstrandayawned out loud. 'I'm tired now,' he mumbled. 'Yttergjerde,' he shouted to auniformed officer leaning against a door frame at the back of the shop.Yttergjerde shuffled over.

'TellFrølich our thoughts about a break-in,' Gunnarstranda said.

Yttergjerdeshook his head. 'No alarm activated, no window panes smashed, not a single markon the woodwork around the doors – on top of that, nothing seems to have beenstolen.' He nodded towards the counter by the door leading to the street.'Wallet intact in his jacket, cash till untouched.'

Frølichwent over to the cash till. It was one of the antique variety with a patternhammered into the metal and a jungle of buttons and levers at the front.

Yttergjerdewas a man with unusually long arms and large hands. He pointed a big, fat finger:'Two doors,' he went on. 'The front door beside the shop window over there ispretty secure. There's a security grille in front.' Yttergjerde pointed to thesecond door: 'That way leads to the staircase. It was unlocked when wearrived.'

Gunnarstrandapulled out a roll-up from his coat pocket and began to fiddle with it. Frølichnoticed that it had been fiddled with before; it was disintegrating.

Yttergjerdewent towards them. 'There was one thing I forgot to say,' he mumbled. 'A womanwho delivers newspapers discovered the body. She's wondering if she can go.'

Yttergjerdeindicated a motionless figure with spikey hair and a fringe above a pair ofglasses as round as saucers. She was standing with her hands buried deep in thepockets of a ski suit.

'Takeher name and address,' Gunnarstranda said curtly.

'Theold boy – the corpse – Reidar Folke Jespersen owned the shop,' Yttergjerdewhispered. 'He and the woman… his missus…' he gestured to the ceiling. 'Theylive in the flat.' He flicked his head back. 'The floor above.'

Gunnarstrandanodded pensively. 'Priest?'

'Camehalf an hour ago and is still up there,' Yttergjerde nodded.

'Thewoman…' Yttergjerde continued to whisper; '… Her face went grey with shock. Shehad to lie down, but that was before the priest came.'

Yttergjerdejoined the woman who had found the body.

Frølichyawned and went for a walk to look for Anna. Eventually he found her. She wascoming out of the little office at the back of the shop.

'Yes?'she said.

'Niceto see you again, too,' Frank said, feeling foolish.

Shelooked at him askance. 'Interested in the crime scene?' she asked with a faintsmile.

'Yes,of course.'

'Keepyour ears open,' she grinned, and grimaced as Gunnarstranda's brusque voicecarried from the little office. 'Frølich!'

'Yes?'

'Here,'Gunnarstranda muttered with annoyance, pointing to the floor in front of thedesk. The carpet had soaked up a lot of blood. Beside the blood lay a bayonetwith red stains on the blade.

FrankFrølich exchanged glances with Anna before looking down at the bayonet. Notlong afterwards they were interrupted by a solemn-looking uniformed policeofficer standing in the doorway and motioning towards Gunnarstranda. 'We have aKarsten Jespersen here,' the policeman gabbled. 'And he insists on coming in.'

Theman who met them on the stairs was pale and his chin twitched; they were tics,obvious signs of a nervous affliction. He seemed to be trying to shake tinyinsects off his cheek.

'Gunnarstranda,'the policeman said by way of introduction, leaning his head back to survey theman. 'Police Inspector, Murder Squad.'

KarstenJespersen was wearing a corduroy suit under a winter coat. He was tall and lean,thinning on top, with a small, narrow mouth and an obvious receding chin, whichseemed to disappear in a concertina of wrinkles and folds of skin every timehis body recoiled from the periodic convulsions of his lower face.

'Well,'the policeman said, looking around the harrow stairwell. 'Is there somewhere wecan sit?' he asked.

KarstenJespersen composed himself and nodded towards the office door in the shop. 'Wehave an office in there.'

InspectorGunnarstranda sadly shook his head. 'I'm afraid we cannot allow anyone to enterthe crime scene.'

Jespersenstood staring at him, puzzled.

'Iunderstand your father lived in this building?'

KarstenJespersen looked up at the stairs, as though considering something. 'I supposeyou can come with me,' he said at last, and forged ahead. The footsteps of thethree men marching upstairs resounded between the walls. On reaching thelanding, Jespersen ransacked his pockets for keys. 'Just a moment,' hemurmured. 'You see…' At last he found a bunch of keys, pulled them out andfumbled for the right key: 'Ingrid, my father's wife – I've had a few wordswith her on the phone.'

Frølichsent an understanding nod to Jespersen, who disappeared into the flat, closing thedoor behind him with care. The landing was about three metres broad. Originallythere had been two doors leading into two flats, but door number two had beenclosed off. There was no door handle and it was painted the same colour as thewalls. An ailing green plant in a terracotta pot had been placed in the recessin front of the door.

'Thewhole floor to themselves,' Frølich mumbled.

'Thewidow – Ingrid – must have broken down,' Gunnarstranda mumbled in a low voice.

ThenKarsten Jespersen appeared in the doorway. 'Come in,' he mumbled softly, asthough frightened someone would hear him. 'There's a lady from the medicalcentre here, and the priest. But we won't be disturbed in my old room.' He heldthe door open and gave an embarrassed cough. 'Would you mind taking off yourboots?'

Gunnarstrandaunzipped his old snow over-boots and shook them off. Under them he was wearingpolished leather shoes. He stood and watched Frølich breathing hard as he kneltdown in his thick winter gear. With tangled hair hanging over his forehead, heloosened the laces of his army boots, pulled them off and revealed two oddwoollen socks. Jespersen opened the door and they could hear low voices in thedistance.

Gunnarstrandatook stock. A mirror dominated the hallway. It went from floor to ceiling, in agilt wooden frame. There were patches where the surface was flaking off. Themirror reflected three framed photographs adorning the facing wall.Gunnarstranda turned to study the pictures. They were photographs of erectyoung men in canvas and frieze breeches with bold curls over their foreheadsand Sten guns hanging loose from their shoulders. 'The Palace Square…liberation,' Gunnarstranda said to the man in the door. 'Anyone from the familythere?'

KarstenJespersen nodded. 'My father,' he said, pointing to a young athlete standing atease in front of the Royal Palace.

Gunnarstrandastudied the photograph. 'Of course,' he said, taking off his glasses to inspectthe man's features close up. 'I can see that now.'

'Shallwe…?' Jespersen held the door open.

Theypadded through a room furnished with heavy wooden furniture and beyond to asliding door which the young man opened. They went through another room, past ahuge dining room table. On the wall was a large painting with anational-romantic motif: a fjord, shafts of sunlight shining down on themountains and a farm where a dairy maid dressed in national costume wascarrying buckets slung from a yoke over her shoulders.

Theman in the corduroy suit led them on to a further sliding door. He hesitatedbefore opening it, turned towards them and cleared his throat: 'Well, here – iswhere I grew up.'

Gunnarstrandafollowed Jespersen in. The room was three metres by three metres, a crossbetween a boy's room and a bachelor's pad. There was a desk beneath the windowalong one wall. A sofa bed was the other item of furniture in the room. Familyphotographs on the wall above it. Jespersen sat on the swivel chair by thedesk. 'Please, do sit down,' he said, indicating the low sofa.

Gunnarstrandastayed on his feet.

Frølichhad to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the door frame when he joined them.The room seemed cramped all of a sudden. Frølich's jacket, doubtless size XXL,stuck to him like a boy's blazer on a wine barrel. The face hiding behind thebedraggled beard was, as always, a model of expressionless composure. He waswearing a striped sweater under the jacket. He slumped down onto the sofa. Whenhe crossed his legs, his feet collided with the wall opposite.

Gunnarstrandastared at Frølich, then at Karsten Jespersen.

'Fireaway,' Jespersen said in a low whisper of a voice.

TheInspector turned, made a show of stepping over Frølich's denim-clad legs andmarched out through the door and back to the dining room from where he shouted:'Has the family lived here long?'

'Aslong as I can remember,' Jespersen answered, getting up with alacrity and goingto the door. 'Since some time in the fifties.' He eyed the detective nervously:'Don't you want to come in here?'

'No,'Gunnarstranda answered. He stood contemplating the large painting with themotifs of fjord and milkmaid. The picture frame was broad and gilt withcarvings. He turned and took a chair from the table. 'I'll sit here; you sit inthere – so that we can shout to each other.'

Jespersenstood in the doorway. His face had taken on a sad expression. The continuousnervous twitches around his jaw made his chin tremble.

'Whatdo you do?' the policeman asked.

'Irun the shop – downstairs.'

'Andyour father?'

'Hetakes – took care of the administrative side.'

'Andthat means?'

'Accounts,budget – we have a warehouse…'

'Goon,' Gunnarstranda said, composed, as the other man fell into a reverie.

'Yes,we have the shop here and, in Ensjo, a warehouse and an office.'

'I'dlike to take a look at the warehouse.'

'Noproblem. It's in Bertrand Narvesens vei.'

Gunnarstrandanodded slowly. 'But I could do with a key,' he thought out loud.

Jespersengave a start. 'Now?'

'Haveyou any objection to me searching the place?'

'Ofcourse not.' Jespersen let go of the door frame, shrugged his shoulders andcrossed the floor. He sat down on one of the chairs by the table, with his backto the painting and opposite the policeman. He rummaged through his pockets,pulled out the bunch of keys and found a short Yale key, which he took off thering. 'You just have to unlock…'

Gunnarstrandaaccepted the key and put it in his pocket. 'And you sell antiques, second-handgoods?'

Jespersengave a deep sigh, rested his temples on both hands and sat with his head bowedand his eyes fixed firmly on the table. 'This is just so awful,' he said atlength. 'I seem to be wading through cotton wool. I ought to have checked ifanything had been stolen downstairs…'

'Youcan do that when we've done…'

Jespersen,bewildered, stared back. His head quivered until he lowered his gaze, discovereda stain on the polished table and rubbed it with his forefinger. 'The one thingI know for sure is that he's dead,' he murmured.

'Hewas killed,' Gunnarstranda said. 'It's our job to determine the facts of thecase,' he added after reflection, and cleared his throat. 'But you and yourfamily will of course be kept fully informed.' He straightened his back andcrossed his legs.

FrankFrølich had managed to struggle out of the cramped boy's room and joined themnow. He settled carefully into a seat at the table, wriggled out of hisenormous jacket and took out his notebook.

Gunnarstrandainclined his head and said: 'It makes everything much harder for the bereavedwhen sad news has to be followed by a criminal investigation. But I hope youand your family will have some understanding of our role in this.'

Karsten,faraway, nodded.

Gunnarstrandacleared his throat. 'What branch are you in?'

'Howdo you mean?'

'Whatkind of antiques do you sell?'

'Exclusiveitems for the most part.'

'Andthat means?'

'Theydon't have to be a special style or design. It's all about the object as such,whether it's in good condition, whether it has appeal. It might be a Remingtontypewriter from the 1920s or a well-preserved tea table from Victorian times.We judge each case on its merits…'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'What about books?'

'No.'

'Isaw Thackeray on one of the shelves we were passing.'

Jespersenindulged himself in a little gesture. 'You saw them? That was observant. Yes,indeed,' he nodded. 'But the books in this house are Ingrid's. She's fond ofreading. In general, though, we do not deal with books… there is no money inthem – for us at least. We're not running an antiquarian bookshop.'

'Howdo you acquire your objects?'

'Buyingjob lots, auctions… importing… well… brokering might be a more precise term.We're in the upmarket sector.'

'Andthat is?'

'What?'Jespersen said, puzzled.

'Whatis the upmarket sector?'

'Couldbe anything, in fact. We are just as likely to stock goods from England orGermany as from

Gudbrandsdalen.'

'Whatabout exports?'

'Nothing.'

'Howold was your father?'

'Seventy-nine.He would have been eighty in March.'

'Andhe enjoyed rude health?'

'Ohyes – like a man of fifty, working every day.'

'Fitman.'

KarstenJespersen pursed his lips in a sardonic grimace. 'You could say that.'

'Hadhe any plans for slowing down?'

'No.'

Theanswer was forthright. Without qualification. The two policemen exchangedglances.

'Afamily business?'

'Youcould say that.'

'Ishis death a loss to the operation?'

'Ofcourse.'

'Whobuys the goods for the shop? You? Your father?'

'Ido.'

'Youalone?'

KarstenJespersen inclined his head and added: 'It goes without saying that he wasinvolved in the buying, but he always consulted me. By and large, I get on wellwith customers. That was more or less how we divided the work.'

'Whatsort of man was your father?'

Jespersenraised his head and sent him a quizzical look.

Gunnarstrandagestured with his hands: 'Was he a kind man? A firm man? Someone with enemies?''Of course not.'

'Didhe have any enemies?'

'Nonethat I can think of, offhand.'

'Anyoneat loggerheads with your father?'

'Severalpeople – even I was at loggerheads with him in a way.'

'How?'

'Itwas his nature. You know, the type who always wanted the last word.'

'Inprivate too?'

'Inprivate and in business.'

'What'syour position now? Will you take over?'

'Iwould assume so – the shop is a limited company, and so from an administrativepoint of view the settlement of a deceased's estate has less significance.' Hecoughed. 'But I'm the only person who can run the shop – who can run it,' hemumbled, repeating himself and gazing into the air, lost in thought.

'Whatdid you think about your father not wanting to retire?'

'You'rewondering if he didn't have full confidence in me?' Karsten forced a wry grin.

Gunnarstrandadid not answer.

'Youcould look at it like that,' the other man said. 'Part of the picture has to dowith me. I'm tied to the business – but I also have a sideline to take careof…' He coughed with embarrassment. 'I'm trying to do a bit of writing -freelance – and that takes time.'

'Freelance?'

'Iwrite small articles for weeklies… now and then I try my hand at short stories,too. That sort of thing requires time and dedication.'

'Doyou write under your own name?'

'Yes,I do.'

'Soyou were happy that your father was still going strong and didn't retire?'

Jespersensighed. 'What can I say? Of course he made a valuable contribution, but Isuppose he should have done something else.' He hesitated. 'People in theirlatter years should – rest, enjoy life in other ways – but not him; I think hewas happy, I mean… he enjoyed rude health, as you put it.'

Gunnarstrandanodded his head slowly.

'Noone would have dreamt of asking him to retire,' Jespersen added. 'He lovedworking.'

'Canyou put a name to anyone who was at loggerheads with your father?'

'Itwould be easier to put a name to those who weren't. My father was determinedand… stubborn.' Jespersen found the word he was searching for.

'So yourfather was difficult, quarrelsome?'

'Iwould prefer to say he was a resolute person. A strong person. Forgive me, butit feels odd to talk about him in this way.'

'Helived in this flat, together with your mother?'

Jespersennodded and scowled with embarrassment. 'She isn't my mother; she's my father'swife.'

'Yourmother? Is she alive?'

'No…She died when I was small,' he added when the police officers said nothing.'Dad married Ingrid more than twenty years ago, and, in fact, she is only sevenyears older than me. I'm sure you will understand that your mention of Ingridas my mother sounds odd.'

'Haveyou any brothers or sisters?'

Jespersenshook his head.

'Soyou're the sole heir?'

'Ingridwill inherit as well, of course, and the beneficiaries in the will, if thereare any.'

'Butyou don't know anything about that?'

'Aboutwhat?'

'Aboutwhether he wrote a will.'

'Idon't think he did. At any rate, I haven't heard anything about a will. But I cangive you the telephone number of the solicitor he used. She should know.'

'Wasyour father a wealthy man?'

'Whatdo you mean by wealthy?'

'Wasit well known that he had money?'

Jespersen'sface quivered. 'I can't believe that. He had a pension – he didn't get much ofa wage. He split the profit with my two uncles – Arvid and Emmanuel. There werethree owners, three brothers… and then there must be a bit of money in hisaccount, this flat…'

'Lotsof valuable objects?'

'Hmm,'Jespersen smiled, the dealer's lop-sided smile: 'Must be the odd bijou there…'

'Theassets, or the inheritance, are basically the chattels in the flat and the shopthen?'

'Ihaven't given it a lot of thought…'

'Butdon't you have some idea of your father's assets?'

'Well…I would assume the assets are the flat and the chattels, as you call them, abit of art and, well – money in various bank accounts.'

Thepoliceman changed the subject: 'We understood that the first thing IngridJespersen did, after confirming the dead man's identity, was to ring you?'

'Yes.I came here as soon as I could.'

Gunnarstrandanodded slowly.

'Sherang us earlier in the night as well.' Jespersen put on an apologetic smile.'Ingrid wanted to get hold of me – in fact. She woke up when she realized Dadwas not in his bed. Her first thought was that there was a break-in downstairs,in the shop, that is. But Susanne, my wife, calmed her down. Then she went backto sleep.'

Gunnarstrandaobserved him and summarized what the man had just said: 'She woke up on her ownlast night, rang to speak to you, but talked to your wife, who sent her back tobed. What time was it when she rang?'

'Halfpast two.'

Gunnarstrandastared into space. 'We're going to talk to fru Jespersen about these eventstoo, but why did she ring you in the middle of the night?'

'There'sbeen a spate of burglaries around here. In fact we have…' Jespersen heaved adeep sigh '… been waiting for something like this.'

Gunnarstrandacoughed. 'For what?'

'Break-ins.'

Thetwo policemen eyed him.

KarstenJespersen tentatively cleared his throat.

Gunnarstrandawaited a bit longer before asking: 'Have you put any specific measures in placein the shop to prevent burglaries?'

'Wehave the obligatory security shutters in the windows facing the street, and ofcourse we have an alarm. I suppose what was new was Dad doing his occasionalround of inspection.'

'Noalarm went off last night.'

'No,'Jespersen said after some hesitation.

'Wheredo you think your father was when Ingrid woke up alone?'

'That'spretty obvious, isn't it? He was downstairs.' Jespersen tapped the tip of his forefingeron the table. 'Downstairs, in the shop.'

'Inthe middle of the night?'

'Ofcourse.'

'Butwouldn't it be unusual for your father to be rushing around downstairs in themiddle of the night. After all, he was almost eighty.'

'Myfather was an unusual person.'

Gunnarstrandanodded, deep in thought. At length he looked over at Karsten Jespersen, who wasstaring blankly into the air. 'Where were you?' the policeman enquired.

'Hm?'

'Wherewere you when Ingrid phoned last night?'

Jespersenwas still staring blankly into the air. 'It's quite odd,' he said in a softvoice. 'My father's dead in the room beneath us. Not easy to disentangle, myfeelings I mean, grief and bereavement…' He went quiet, took a deep breath,then heaved a sigh and continued: 'Ingrid, my father's wife, here with apriest. Me, sitting here with the police – round the table where we had dinneryesterday, having a nice time, and now sitting here and trying – not just torecall the image of my father, but to pass this image on to you.'

Hefolded his hands on the table. 'I can feel an atmosphere here now – a feelingof… perhaps it's not hostility as such, perhaps it's more a business-likeefficiency. But what is dawning on me now is that while I have been trying todetermine what it is I feel deep down, in the chaos I have within me, what Ihave been dreading, as long as we have been talking is precisely that question:Where were you? Where was I? All of a sudden the answer to that questionhas taken on a sort of meaning, a significance, the impact of which I had neverimagined.'

Hewent quiet. The policemen exchanged glances. Jespersen sat chewing his lowerlip and thinking. He didn't give the impression that he was going to continue.

Gunnarstrandabroke the silence. He coughed, which caused the other man to raise his head.'Where were you?' the policeman repeated, looking him straight in the eye.

'Iwas at home. It wasn't the first time we had received calls of this kind.Susanne knew that Ingrid would have nagged and nagged to haul me out of bed andcome here. Ingrid is a little highly strung and besides she has a morbid fearof something happening to my father.'

'Didyou hear the phone?'

'No.I was asleep.'

'Soyou didn't discuss Ingrid's call then – afterwards?'

'No,that is, we talked about it early this morning.'

'But,your wife, she wasn't alarmed by Ingrid's fears when she called last night. Didshe dismiss them as nonsense?'

'Ofcourse not, but Ingrid was… Ingrid is… she's a little hysterical at times.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Do you know if your father had been receiving threats from anyone oflate?'

'No,that is…'

'Yes?'

Jespersenlaid both hands flat on the table. 'It's a somewhat delicate matter,' hestarted.

Gunnarstrandanodded politely.

'Wehad a man in Ensja – who worked at the warehouse. A man who was with us for aslong as I can remember – Jonny.'

'Jonny- what?'

'Hisname is Jonny Stokmo. Something happened a few weeks ago. I don't know what itwas. Something happened which led to my father dismissing him on the spot.'

'Hewas given the boot?'

'Jonnyhad to leave that day, after being employed, well, for years.'

'Sothis antagonism is quite recent?'

'I'veno idea. Neither of them would talk about it. But I assume it must have beenvery serious and very private. Otherwise, I would have known what happened.'

'DidStokmo come to you about this?'

'No.'

Therewas a long silence until Jespersen continued: 'That was why I thought thisstate of affairs – the row – was a private matter, between them. Otherwise Iwould have known what it was about.'

'Doyou know if Stokmo threatened your father?'

'No.All I know is that Jonny was standing outside the front door last night.'

'When?''Half an hour before my father came home at seven.'

Gunnarstrandanodded slowly to himself.

'Sevenp.m.?' Frølich asked with raised pen.

'Bitlater, about a quarter past.'

'Whatis Stokmo living off now?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Idon't know… he has a son who runs a kind of workshop in Torshov. He might beworking there.'

Silencefell again. Frank Frølich cleared his throat. He flicked through his notebook.'You say…' he mumbled. 'You say your father had guests here yesterday. Who werethey?'

'Itwasn't a party. It was dinner. We were invited, I mean, me, my wife and thechildren.'

'Howlong were you here?'

'Well,it began just after seven. My father arrived late, at about a quarter past. Wewent home at around eleven.'

'Wherehad he been until seven in the evening?'

'InEnsjo, at the office.'

'Areyou sure?'

'Yes,he was seldom anywhere else.'

'Didhe usually work late?'

'Hewas always working.'

'Soit wasn't unusual for him to work late?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Itwas neither usual nor unusual. He did work late on occasion. But Ingrid cantell you more about this sort of thing than I can.'

Gunnarstrandasat staring, in silence. 'Do you stock a lot of weapons in this shop?'

'Afew. And that's one of the most important reasons for having security shutters.Antique weapons are sought-after collectors' items.'

'Whatsort of weapons?'

'Amusket, a halberd, a few front-loading revolvers, a variety of edged weapons…'

'Abayonet?'

'Two.Why?'

They wereinterrupted as a door was thrust open and a patter of feet followed. A smallboy came running in. He must have been three or four years old, wearing bluedungarees and a jumper with stains down the front. He came to a sudden halt atthe sight of the people around the table, but after a few moments' hesitationmarched up to Karsten Jespersen, who stared at him in bewilderment. The boy hadblond curls and a round, open face with a runny nose. He stuffed severalfingers from his left hand in his mouth as he pressed against his father'sknee. 'Grandad's dead,' he told Gunnarstranda.

'Lookslike Susanne has come, too,' Jespersen said in apology and turned to the boy:'Where's Mummy?'

Thelittle boy ignored him. He lifted his right arm to shake hands withGunnarstranda. 'Min,' said the little boy.

'Benjamin,'Jespersen said, winking at the policeman.

'JustMin,' the boy called Benjamin said, wafting his hand in front of Gunnarstrandaagain.

'Showme,' the father said. 'Have you got a coin?' Jespersen's smile was stiff,strained, and he held out an authoritative hand. 'Are you going to give Daddythe coin?' 'Grandad's dead,' the boy repeated, turning to his father with greatbig, round eyes. 'All dead.'

'Yes,'Jespersen said, winking conspiratorially at the two policemen. 'Are you goingto let Daddy see your coin?'

Theboy shook his head.

'Areyou going to show Daddy?'

'No,'said the boy.

'Ithink we've finished for the time being,' Gunnarstranda said, addressing FrankFrølich.

'Areyou going to give Daddy the coin?'

'No!'the boy screamed with a voice that cut through the air like the whine of a saw.

Thelook in Jespersen's eyes was ominous. 'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?'He made another grab at the little boy's hand.

'No!'the boy cried with the same piercing scream. 'Daddy's stupid.'

'Thecoin!' his father repeated sharply, grabbing the little boy's hand and forcinghis fingers open, one by one. The boy struggled. His fingers were white and hewas crying. His hand lurched. Something like a brooch or a hatpin shot out ofhis hand onto the floor.

'Shhhnow,' Jespersen said and was all smiles again. 'It wasn't a coin, was it! Itwasn't money!'

KarstenJespersen took the badge and held it up in front of Benjamin. It was made ofdark metal with an elaborate motif. The boy had stopped crying. He rubbed hiseyes.

Thetwo policemen looked at each other.

'Giveme,' said the boy and made a grab for the badge. The father withdrew his handas quick as lightning and laughed aloud, making his chin twitch.

Theboy let out another squeal.

'Takeit then,' the father yelled in irritation, giving him the badge.

Theboy burst into a low whine and took it.

'Shallwe go?' Karsten Jespersen said and stood up.

Onthe way out Gunnarstranda stopped in front of a large glass cabinet displayingthe spines of blue and brown leather-bound books. Jespersen was courteous enoughto stop and wait. The little boy ran out through the nearest door.

Frølichalso stood and gazed at a number of small, white figures in a glass case on thewall. At first he thought it was the usual ornaments, but he had a shock whenhe saw what the figures were doing. It was Chinese and pornographic: men andwomen embroiled in sexual games, carved with infinite care. But it did not stopthere: a woman was enthusiastically copulating with a zebra; another woman washaving sex with a turtle. One of the carvings was of two grinning men coiled upand posing as they masturbated each other. The figures left nothing to theimagination and were carved with an intricacy of detail that Frølich had neverseen before.

'MyGod,' he mumbled.

KarstenJespersen sent him a condescending look. 'Collectors' items,' he sighed andadded: 'Ivory. One, by the way, is made of rhino horn.'

'Arethey antiques?'

'Ofcourse.' Jespersen went to the cabinet and pointed to the woman and the turtle.'That one is a thousand years old.'

Frankielooked at him. Jespersen was standing with his arms folded on his chest and hadan impatient expression on his quivering face.

'Whatdo these things symbolize?' the policeman asked.

'Ibeg your pardon?'

'Thesymbolism,' Frank Frølich enquired.

Jespersensplayed his palms. 'It's art. They don't have any significance.'

'Butthese motifs,' Frølich insisted, pointing to the woman and the turtle. 'Theymust symbolize something.'

Jespersen,irritated: 'They don't have any significance. Either you think they'rebeautiful, or you don't.'

Frankstudied the figurines again. There was no doubting that they were beautiful.The sexuality was portrayed in a humorous way, emphasizing the aesthetics ofthe human body – however fanciful the sexual act. The ornament that Jespersenhad indicated was carved from rhino horn and portrayed athletes performinggroup sex. A number of very happy-looking people were intertwined in sexualgymnastics that, from a physiological perspective, scarcely seemed feasible.This means, he thought, I know next to nothing about China.

'Arethey yours?' he asked Jespersen.

'No,they belong here, to the house.'

'Arethey worth much?'

'Ofcourse.'

'Howmuch would you say?' He straightened up as a middle-aged woman opened a doorand entered.

'Thereyou are,' she said to Jespersen. 'You'll have to look after your children, Ican't…' She stopped in mid- flow when she saw the two police officers.

Gunnarstrandaproffered his hand. 'Inspector Gunnarstranda. Murder Squad.'

Thewoman shook his hand. Frølich could see that she had been attractive once, andthat she still looked good, even though her face was marked with tiny wrinklesand age lines. For a few seconds Frølich was unsure what it was that made herso appealing – the clean-cut face under the fashionable haircut or the figureand the terrific legs. It was the latter, he decided, her body – her back wasarched like a schoolgirl's – and the dress, which was tight in the rightplaces.

Jespersenwas about to say something. But Gunnarstranda got in first: 'Ingrid FolkeJespersen?'

Shenodded.

'MayI offer my condolences?'

Shenodded again and stared calmly into the eyes of her contemporary. Frank noticedthat he did not release her hand.

Frølichstepped forward and proffered his hand: 'Frank Frølich.'

'Wewere just on our way out,' Inspector Gunnarstranda said by way of reassurance. Butshe didn't hear what he was saying. The two policemen followed her eyes. Shewas staring at Karsten Jespersen and her eyes were filling. 'Karsten,' shewhispered in a quiet, sorrow- filled voice. There was despair in her almostinaudible outburst. She was staring at her husband's son, who stiffly returnedher gaze. He was struggling to control his feelings. She let hers flow. KarstenJespersen was at the centre of everyone's attention: the woman and the men hungon his lips as if he were going to say a timely word.

'He'sjealous of your Thackeray books,' Jespersen stuttered, pointing toGunnarstranda.

Threeheads turned to the Inspector, who contemplated the widow and her stepson for along time before he took it upon himself to bring the silence to an end.'Right,' said Gunnarstranda, without any elaboration, angling his head towardsthe glass cabinet: 'I couldn't find Barry Lyndon.'

'Ialways thought the film was better,' the woman in the doorway said in response.

Thedramatic silence still hung in the air. No one said anything. Everyone waslooking at her. 'Well, you're right,' she said at length. 'Barry Lyndonis missing. To Reidar's great annoyance. He was a perfectionist, you know, andcould never understand that I wanted a series of books that was incomplete.'

'Haveyou got a couple of minutes?' the Police Inspector asked.

'Reidarhad very little time for reading,' she added, seemingly lost in thought.

Thesilence had changed. The unspoken words and the tension between her and herstepson were no longer there.

'Idon't feel like talking very much now,' Ingrid whispered. 'I'm worn out. Ihardly slept last night.'

'Wecan come back tomorrow,' Gunnarstranda replied. 'Just a couple of things,though. Did your husband go to bed last night?'

Sheshook her head. 'I woke up when I became aware that he wasn't there… I think. Ihad taken a sleeping tablet.'

'Whendid you go to bed?'

'Betweeneleven and half past.'

'Yourang…' Gunnarstranda tossed his head towards Jespersen.

'Yes,'she said. 'Last night, when I woke up. But. Karsten was not at home.'

Ingridand Karsten Jespersen stood eyeing each other.

'Iwas asleep,' Karsten said at length. |

'Irealized,' she said. Her eyes were shiny and her lips quivered. She wanted tosay more, but hesitated.

Gunnarstrandabroke the silence: 'Why did you ring?'

'Ipanicked. Reidar wasn't here.'

Thepoliceman studied her. 'Did you hear any noises from the shop?'

'Idon't know,' she said.

Gunnarstrandalet her answer hang in the air. He interlaced his fingers behind his back, butshe didn't expand.

'Youthink you heard something?' the Inspector asked finally. 'I don't know,' sherepeated, and started to concentrate on cleaning her fingernails. She had smallhands; they were pale, with chunky rings on two of the fingers. The nails hadonce been rust-red, but now the varnish was flaking off. 'I panicked,' sheadded in a distant voice. 'Can't understand what got into me.'

'Whydid you panic?'

'BecauseReidar was nowhere around.' Her lips began to tremble again – and tears were inher dark eyes. She wiped her face with her hand.

Jespersenstepped forward and cleared his throat with authority. However, the Inspectorraised his palm to restrain him.

'Afteryou rang Karsten Jespersen did you go back to sleep?'

'No,'she said quickly. Something had happened to her. The police officer's questionsabout her deceased husband seemed to have caused her to lose composure. Theapparent calm façade that commanded her face when she strode into the room hadbeen translucent, like the shiny surface of a calm forest lake. Now, with thesurface ruffled, you could discern the vulnerability which lay hidden beneath.'I lay awake until the traffic started moving in the streets,' she said. 'Thismorning… early, very early, while it was still dark.' She paused and eyed herstepson, who returned her look. Frølich did not quite know how to interpretthese signals between them.

'Andthen?' Gunnarstranda interrupted.

IngridJespersen turned to him. 'Then I decided that I had just been havingnightmares, that I had imagined all the sounds and everything. So then…'

She closedher eyes.

'Yes?'

Shepointed downstairs. 'I was on the point of falling asleep when…'

'Hewas seen by a passer-by,' Gunnarstranda said. 'I was given to understand thatyou joined our colleague

Yttergjerdein the shop and identified your late husband.'

'Yes.'

Allthree of them stared at her. She was staring at a point in the distant cornerof the room and scratching the varnish off her nails.

'Theshop door was open,' Gunnarstranda said.

Shenodded.

'Whohad the keys to the shop?'

'Myfather and I,' Jespersen interrupted.

'Ialso have keys,' she said in a tired voice.

Gunnarstrandaturned to the son. 'Any others?'

Hereflected.

'MaybeArvid and Emmanuel,' Ingrid Jespersen said.

Karstenreflected. 'It's possible,' he said at length. 'Yes, indeed,' he concluded.'They definitely have keys, both of them.'

'Andthey are?' Gunnarstranda asked the widow.

'Reidar'stwo brothers,' she answered.

'Did yourhusband have a habit of leaving the door unlocked when he was in the shop inthe evening?'

'Noidea,' she said.

'Whenthe police arrived, the shop was dark,' the policeman said. 'Did he usuallyswitch off the lights when he was in the shop after opening hours?'

'Ifhe had had a light on, it would have been in the office, at the back of theshop,' interjected Karsten Jespersen.

Ingridhurried over to the armchair beside the bookcase. She sat down and vigorouslyadjusted the hem of her skirt which had ridden up so far that her knees werevisible as she took a seat. 'The strange thing is that I knew what had happenedstraightaway. Since the phone calls were from the police.'

Frølichwatched Jespersen. He was observing Ingrid with a fixed expression in his eyes.

'Iknow I'm pathetic,' she went on. 'But it was so terrible…' She wiped her eyeswith her fingers once again and sniffed.

Jespersen'sface was red – from anger, Frølich surmised, as the man asked Gunnarstranda:'Had enough yet?'

Theshort policeman sent him a blank look. 'Not quite,' he said.

'Isaw that he was dead,' she said. 'I don't know what I was thinking. I justwanted to get away.'

Gunnarstrandaobserved her. 'Thank you,' he said. 'I have to instruct you to keep anythingyou saw in the shop to yourself,' he said, calmly bringing things to a close.

'Thesame constraint of silence applies to you,' he said to Karsten Jespersen. 'Itis regrettable,' the policeman said formally, 'but those are the rules. I'mafraid we will have to…' He paused, then said: 'We will do whatever we can notto intrude and I hope you will bear with us.'

Chapter 10

Inthe autopsy room Frank Frølich was, as always, almost overpowered by the poorlyventilated air. He breathed through his mouth as he searched for a chair. Inthe end he gave up and joined the others scrutinizing the body of Reidar FolkeJespersen. The white corpse lay stretched out on a metal table beneath thesurgical lamp. Frølich fixed his gaze on the other two, Dr Schwenke andInspector Gunnarstranda.

'Andthe material around his neck?' Gunnarstranda enquired.

'Sewingthread,' Schwenke said. 'Cotton. Looks like it anyway.' In the light he held upthe snipped thread with a pair of scissors and added: 'Description: red, tiedin a reef knot.'

Gunnarstrandahad clasped his hands behind his back and appeared transfixed, as thoughreading a letter from a divorce lawyer. The lab assistant took out a scalpeland sent an expectant look from the dead man to Dr Schwenke, who was putting onplastic gloves. Schwenke winked at Frølich. 'Rembrandt, isn't it? Men in blackaround the corpse. Just wait and in a moment I'll be pulling red tubes out ofhis arms.' Schwenke parted the wrinkled skin on the corpse's stomach and pokedhis fingers in the relatively clean cut under the right nipple. 'A single stabwound,' he muttered and ran his fingers across the other injuries. 'Otherwise,there are superficial scratches.' The wound gaped open. In the middle of theman's chest, numbers and letters had been written with a blue pen. Blood andscratches made it difficult to read the writing.

TheProfessor carefully scraped away the blood covering the writing. 'They looklike numbers, don't they?' Schwenke said, running his fingers over one of theinscriptions. 'This squiggle is a number one. But the first symbol is a letter,J for Jorgen.'

'Jone-nine-five,' Frølich read out.

'Indeed.'Schwenke was in agreement.

'Acode?' Gunnarstranda wondered, resigned, and repeated: 'J one-nine-five.' ToSchwenke he said: 'What about the crosses on his forehead?'

'Threecrosses. And the same colour. Must be the same ink as on the chest.'

Frølichstooped over the dead man's forehead.

Schwenkestraightened up. 'Same cut in the clothing which is soaked in blood. So he waskilled wearing clothes,' he concluded with a wry smile, and spoke severalmedical terms into the Dictaphone. Thereafter he said to the policemen in a lowvoice: 'The graffiti was added afterwards.'

Frølichmade way for the woman who was taking photographs of the dead man on theautopsy table. Schwenke was still talking into the Dictaphone.

Gunnarstrandastood with his eyes fixed on the dead man's chest. 'A code,' he mumbled tohimself, rapt in thought. 'The perpetrator takes the trouble to undress theman, write the code on the body and display it in the window.'

Theymade way for the lab assistant who was washing the corpse.

'Satanists,'Schwenke interjected from the right. He sent Frølich a good-natured wink.

'Whatare you talking about now?' Gunnarstranda asked in an irritated tone.

'Iwas just joking.' Schwenke sent Frølich another wink. 'But there is somethingritualistic about this, isn't there? Soon only masons and Satanists will haverituals.' He chuckled. 'Hanging from sewing thread, with three crosses on hisforehead. All that was missing was a fish sticking out of his gob.' Schwenkelaughed louder. 'Perhaps that's what we will find now,' he said, going over tothe table where the assistant had finished. He flourished the scalpel beforemaking the\classic cut, from the neck down the stomach, left of the navel anddown to the edge of the pubis.

Hemoved to the side as the assistant began to cut through the dead man's ribs. Itsounded as though someone was cracking thick roots in wet mud. Frølich had tolean against the wall, as always.

'Queasy,Frølich?' Schwenke asked, in cheery mood. At a signal from the assistant heturned round, folded back the softer tissue and took a good hold before raisingthe sternum.

Schwenkelifted out the internal organs and placed them all on the organ table. Theassistant hosed them down very thoroughly. Frølich avoided the jets of water andonce again breathed through his mouth because of the nauseous stench fillingthe room.

'Well,what do you know,' Schwenke mumbled. 'What do you know!'

Gunnarstrandawoke up: 'What?'

Schwenke:'The question is how long he would have lasted.'

'Why'sthat?'

Schwenkepointed to the man's intestines. 'There.'

'Andwhat's that?'

'Akidney riddled with cancer.'

'Ican't see any cancer.'

'Andthis?' Schwenke held up something which looked like a half-chewed, regurgitatedblood orange. 'Does this look like cancer?'

'Allright. But he must have felt it, mustn't he?'

'Idon't know. This type of cancer is hard to detect. If I'm not much mistaken, ithas spread to his lungs.'

'Hewas dying?'

'Lookslike it.'

'Buthe might not have known?'

'Well,we don't know that. I don't have the man's records. Check with his doctor andthe usual hospitals. What I'm saying is that finding this type of cancer duringan autopsy is not uncommon.'

Gunnarstrandanodded pensively. 'And the wound?' he asked at length. 'The angle?'

Schwenkestudied the passage of the weapon through the dead man's internal organs. 'Itlooks like it was an upward thrust from an acute angle. A punctured lung. Vitalblood vessels ruptured.'

'Butjust one stab?' 'A single stab wound,' Schwenke confirmed, working on the deadman's abdominal organs.

Frølichlooked away, at Gunnarstranda, who was intently studying Schwenke's hands atwork. 'Is there anything else you can tell me?' the Inspector barked.

Schwenkelooked up: 'Like what?'

'Forgetit!' Gunnarstranda rummaged furiously through his pockets.

'Nosmoking in here,' Schwenke said.

'Am Ismoking?' asked the policeman\in an irritated tone of voice, holding out two emptyhands.

Schwenkestood up and beamed a guilty smile. 'Sorry. Well – there must have been quite afountain of blood as the blade cut into blood vessels under a fair amount ofpressure,' he mumbled and added: 'But then you said the crime scene was surprisinglyclean. I assume he fell straight to the floor. But,' he continued, 'since theclothing is drenched in blood, the perpetrator's garments must have got prettyred, too.'

'Causeof death?'

'Nineto one it's the stab wound. But I can tell you more in a couple of hours.'

'Timeof death?'

Schwenketurned. 'Death is a process, Gunnarstranda. Life is not some digital mechanismthat stops working.'

'Butyou can say something about when…'

'The brainmight be dead, but there can still be life in the digestive wall and whiteblood corpuscles,' Schwenke interrupted.

'… hewas stabbed and fell to the floor, can't you?' the policeman continuedundeterred.

'We'llhave to see what his body temperature was when we arrived and measure itagainst the temperature taken by the window, then we'll have to examine thefood in his stomach, find out what his last meal was and when he ate it. Theproblem is the room he was in was freezing. If the temperature of the brain isthe same as in the room, the thermometer can't tell us anything. Besides, rigormortis has not subsided yet. My understanding was that your forensics peoplehad a struggle with his limbs when they brought him in. Do you know what his lastmeal was?'

'Reindeersteak,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Somewhere between seven-thirty and ten o'clocklast night.'

Schwenkelooked up from the dead man's stomach. 'With chanterelle sauce,' he added.'Washed down with red wine. I would guess Spanish, tempranillo, a Rioja.'

Schwenkegrinned when he saw Frølich's expression. 'Just joking.' He became serious andreflected. 'We don't know how cold it was in the room and that might causeproblems.'

Chapter 11

Afterthe autopsy they drove back in silence to Police HQ in Gronland and settled in theiroffice. Frølich logged on to the computer network and wrote his report.Gunnarstranda noted down the cryptic message written on the dead man's chest.He stood up and poured himself the dregs of the coffee in the flask. It wascold. He grimaced, went to the sink by the door and poured it down the drain.He repeated the grimace in front of the mirror. 'At times my teeth irritateme,' he said. 'You can see the crowns so clearly. And the older you get, theclearer they are. If I reach seventy, I'll look like a row of teeth someonehung a body on.'

Frølichstraightened up. 'Let me have a look,' Frølich said.

Gunnarstrandaturned to him and spread his lips wide in a way which made the other man startwith surprise. 'You look like a row of teeth with a body on,' Frølichconfirmed.

'Itwas a joke,' he tried to explain to the older policeman, who was still glaringat him.

Gunnarstrandaturned away, went back to his chair and lifted up the slip of paper with thecode on.

'Mightbe a road number' Frølich suggested.

'Aroad starting with a J?'

'Itdoesn't have to be a J. It might have been a U once. In England they call majorroads A-roads, such as Ai, Az…'

'Butan A isn't a U.'

'No,but there must be roads beginning with a U, just as there are roads beginningwith an A, or an E. We say Europavei, don't we?'

'Thisis a J,' retorted Gunnarstranda. 'It's not an A or an E. It says J-onehundred and ninety-five. If you think that's a road, then find out if thereare any roads in the world starting with a J or a U. That's fine by me, exceptfor one thing: there isn't a road like that in Oslo, there isn't one in Norwayeven, and we have no authority outside Oslo's city limits.'

'Couldbe a perfume,' said Frølich, still persevering. 'There's a perfume called4711.'

Gunnarstrandalifted the piece of paper into the air and tapped the numbers with hisforefinger. 'What does it say here?' he asked in a menacingly gentle voice.

'Fine,'Frølich said, acquiescent. 'But we have to think of a few ideas if we're goingto have any chance of discovering what the symbols mean. It's calledbrainstorming – you suggest something and one thing leads to another.'

'Oh,really?'

'Thiscode could mean anything at all – it could be a trademark, an abbreviation, acode…'

'Indeed.'

'Butthese scribbles could also be a red herring,' Frølich said. 'A code that isintended to confuse.'

Doubtful,Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'What kind of person would stab an old man, leavehim bleeding to death and be so cold-blooded as to remain in that room with thehuge window looking out onto the street, coldblooded enough to strip the manwhen at last he dies, cold-blooded enough to take a pen and leave messages onthe dead man's body to confuse us and then place his body in the shop window?'Gunnarstranda said. 'No, it must have been planned.' He regarded the otherpoliceman for a few moments before carrying on: 'Just think of the risk. The window,the writing, and as Schwenke says, the man must have been covered in blood fromhead to toe. If the intention was to confuse, it could have been done in other,easier ways.'

'Suchas?'

'Well,think of Charles Manson – he was the one who wrote Helter Skelter inblood over the walls of the pad belonging to… to… to…'

For afew seconds Frølich was fascinated by the dry flicking sounds Gunnarstranda wasmaking with his fingers, but then he helped him out: 'Sharon Tate, RomanPolanski's wife.'

'Right,something like that.' Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro. 'Themurderer could have painted a skull on an old coat-of-arms in there, pissed onthe body, whatever he wanted.'

'Thewife,' Frølich said in a low voice.

'Hm?'

'Thewife lives in the first-floor flat. She can nip upstairs, have a shower andwash, wash her clothes. She serves us up all this stuff about not sleeping atnight…'

'She'salmost thirty years younger than the old boy,'

Gunnarstrandasaid. 'The odds are she's having it off with someone.'

'Thewife has a lover?'

Gunnarstranda:'This bollocks about ringing Karsten Jespersen in the middle of the night. Ifshe killed her husband, she rings the son for two reasons: to corroborate thebreak-in story and to get a kind of alibi.'

'Isthat the main lead?' Frølich asked.

'Itis a lead at any rate. I'd like to know who she's having it off with…'

'Ifhe exists,' Frølich objected with a smile.

'Heexists. It's a dead cert.'

'Howdo you know?'

'Youcan see it a mile off.'

'Amile off? She's over fifty!'

'Doesthat mean to say that you begrudge people over fifty a sex life?'

Frølichwas on thin ice: 'I didn't mean it like that…'

Gunnarstranda,sarcastic: 'No?'

'I meantthat things like that…' Frølich went quiet and glanced over at his boss who hada deadpan expression on his face.

'Whatsort of things?'

'ForGod's sake,' Frølich burst out, his nerves on edge. 'It's all tied up withhormones, isn't it! Working late tonight, darling… and infidelity. That's forpeople in their thirties, isn't it?'

'Workinglate tonight, darling?' Gunnarstranda queried with a frown. 'Do I detect areason for your not changing your marital status?'

'Forgetit,' Frølich said.

'No,the point is that I saw his wife and my immediate thought was she was having itoff with someone. Why didn't you think that?'

'Ihave no idea…' Frølich mused. 'She seemed a bit… I don't know… she seemedrefined.'

'Refined?'

'Yes,'Frølich nodded. 'Refined and nice.'

'Honestly,Frølich, do you think a man of eighty…?'

'Doesthat mean to say you begrudge people over seventy a sex life?' Frølich parried.

'Ibet you a hundred kroner,' Gunnarstranda said, responding to the other'spatronizing tone. 'No,' he went on. 'I'm not going to bet. I will personallypresent you with a hundred kroner if we do not turn up a little soul- mate forthis lady before the case is over.'

'Alittle soulmate is not the same as a lover.'

'Alover. A hundred kroner. Sight unseen.'

Later,when Frølich had gone, Gunnarstranda sat looking at the telephone. The lasttime Gunnarstranda had met Tove Granaas, she had invited him out for a meal. Itwas the third time he had dined out with a woman on his own in as many years.Police Inspector Gunnarstranda did not wish to humiliate himself by counting uphow many years it had been. But it was a long time.

Tovehad taken him to a sushi restaurant by Lapsetorvet. Gunnarstranda was one ofthose people who had never tried that sort of food. He admitted that freely.But he had no intention of playing either the narrow-minded or the ignorantpeasant. Thus he gave Tove a free hand when she ordered. The meal was not acomplete disaster. True enough he dropped some rice in the soya sauce, and trueenough he had difficulty getting his teeth through some of the pieces of rawfish in the sushi, but the taste itself was nigh on a religious experience. Theheated saki tasted like moonshine with sugar in, and went straight to his head,just like moonshine. They were sitting next to a group of Japanese men who hadordered the most adventurous dish on the menu. All sorts of fried and flambéthings arrived at their table. Then the cook left the kitchen, went over to theJapanese table and made a huge spectacle with knives and food. But even theJapanese got drunk on the rice wine. One of the men gave the Inspector a coursein using chopsticks. Afterwards he thought that, all in all, the evening had beena success. Even though he staggered out of the restaurant, even though he wasunable to remember all the things he had said. Nor even where or how Tove andhe parted company. But in some mysterious way he did remember arranging arepeat performance.

Now,however, with this murder enquiry hanging over him, he had to accept that theplanned evening with Tove would not come to anything.

Hechecked his watch. Tove worked as a ward sister. It was late afternoon. He tooka chance on her being at home.

Hisnerves were ajitter at the thought of ringing. As he picked up the receiver,his hand was shaking

'Hello,'came her cheerful answer.

'Hello,'he said with a nervous smile to himself in the window. 'Can you hear who itis?'

'Ican. Thank you for the nice evening.'

'Yes,it was… good.'

'Itcertainly was,' she said.

'Aman has been murdered,' he said without pausing.

'Sowe'll have to wait for the anchovies?'

'Theanchovies?'

'Yourwords. You called the food we ate anchovies and the saki firewater.' 'Did I?'

'Butwe had a great time. What shall we do instead?'

Gunnarstrandacleared his throat. 'I hadn't given that any thought,' he confessed.

ToveGranaas grinned. 'Coffee,' she said. 'I'm sure you'll have enough time for acup of coffee.'

Chapter 12

ArvidFolke Jespersen lived in Uranienborg, just off Oslo city centre, in one ofthose old flats with a view which were so often home to elderly inhabitantsborn in the area, if their offspring hadn't managed to sell it, lock, stock andbarrel, to an advertising agency.

Itwas late afternoon when Frank Frølich idly contemplated the front entrance fromhis car. He switched on his mobile phone, called Eva-Britt and cancelled theplans for the evening, although he needn't have done. Even though she was veryannoyed, it felt like freedom to evade TV entertainment and the other sadpastimes into which they had slipped. He sat in the car for a while staringinto space. A few days ago he had seen The Getaway again – SamPeckinpah's original film with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. The funny thingwas that Doc's wife was the spitting image of Anna. The black hair, the browneyes and the long, slender limbs. It was true that Anna had more meat on her,but otherwise they were strangely similar. What he could not get out of hishead was whether this was chance – meeting Anna again today. It was odd, almostas though seeing the film had been part of a greater scheme. But, he toldhimself, you have no real reason to ring her and you have a lot on your platewith Eva-Britt. With a heavy sigh he struggled out of the car and up the stepsto the old man waiting for him.

'Ofcourse I'll try to help as much as I can,' said Arvid Folke Jespersen, lettingFrølich into a flat with the stale odour of dust and old books. Like asecond-hand bookshop, he thought, taking off his winter boots after someexertion. A little grunt came from behind a curtain. Arvid pushed the curtainto the side. Among a multitude of shoes lay a basket full of old rugs. In thebasket was a small tremulous dog. It had a bandage wrapped around its body.'Goodness, you have hurt yourself, haven't you?' Frølich said to the dog whichlay trembling with its ears flattened against its head.

'Silviehas two broken ribs,' Arvid said, opening the living-room door. 'She has torest, poor thing.'

Frølichfollowed Arvid into a room with a high ceiling and elegant furniture. The dustcollected in balls along the skirting boards. Thick curtains took up most ofthe space by the windows and let scant light into the room. They seatedthemselves at a table on which there was a tray of coffee cups, a coffee flask,a sugar bowl, glasses and bottles.

'Eventhough he was the eldest, I had always thought that Reidar would outlive me,'Frølich's host said dourly. He was wearing a suit with a broad stripe and had awatch chain in his waistcoat pocket. Around his neck he had tied a dark redsilk scarf. 'He survived everything, Reidar did. He was even shot down overGermany in 1944, but escaped without a scratch. Reidar only seemed to growolder on the outside; I suppose I must have thought he was immortal. Would youlike a glass of port with your coffee?'

Frølichshook his head.

'You'requite right,' Arvid sighed, holding an empty glass in front of his eyes. Hefound a stain and wiped it with his handkerchief before pouring himself adrink. 'I have port now instead of cognac; port is milder.'

Frølichleaned forward and reached for a bulbous, yellow thermal coffee flask. As hetouched the lid, it burst open with a damp pop. He poured himself some coffee.'But how do you see his murder? It's one thing being surprised by yourbrother's death, but a murder…'

Arvidshook his head. 'Mm,' he mumbled. 'It's beyond me.'

'IfReidar had caught a burglar red-handed, what do you think he would have done?'

Arvidput the bottle of port down on the table and considered. 'I wouldn't begin toknow. Nowadays there are so many desperate drug addicts and so on. People youjust can't work out. You know much more about this than me, of course. ButReidar was aware of this too. He read newspapers and watched TV like everyoneelse.'

'Howdo you think he would have reacted? Would he have kept out of the way, would hehave talked to the person, or…?

'Ithink he would have kept out of the way or – maybe not. Reidar was a verydetermined character. Once he had an idea in his head, it took a lot todissuade him. Personally, I am a bit different, I'm a little cautious and don'tlike tense atmospheres. I know I would have kept out of the way or stayedquiet. Reidar never seemed to be afraid, or he became like that, I suppose. Hehad to maintain this image of himself. Of course, he might have told thisintruder to clear off, or threatened him in some other way.' Arvid took a sipfrom his glass. 'A terrible business,' he mumbled. 'Terrible business…'

Frølichsipped at his coffee, which was thin, light brown. Two grains of coffee floatedaround on the surface. One of them went in his mouth. After he had taken itout, it stuck to the tip of his forefinger. 'Is it long since you last saw yourbrother?' the police officer asked, discreetly wiping the coffee grain onto thesaucer.

Theman on the other side of the table gave a start, as though awakened from profoundthoughts. 'No, no, he was round here yesterday, with Emmanuel. That reminds me,I promised to ring him. Would you please remind me? Mention it before youleave?'

'Whendid he come here?'

'Atabout twelve, maybe just after.'

'About?'

'Yes,he may have come a few minutes later. I think we had been waiting for a while.'

'Andwhen did he leave?'

'Hemust have been here for just under an hour.'

'Howdid he seem?'

Arvidstroked his chin. 'He was not himself at all; he seemed quite off-kilter.'

Frølich'seyebrows rose in surprise.

'Yes.You saw Silvie, my poor dog. He tried to kill her. It was fortunate that thingsturned out as they did.'

'Hetried to kill your dog?'

Arvidnodded. 'I know it sounds crazy – Reidar kicked her. A lot of internal bleedingand two broken ribs. It was a miracle she survived.'

'Didhe kick her that hard? Did she bite him?'

'No,Reidar just wasn't himself. He seemed quite agitated. I don't think I've seenhim like that before. When I think of how he behaved with the dog, I daren'timagine what would have happened if there had been a break-in. Has Karstenworked out what was stolen?'

Frølichconsulted his notepad before saying anything. 'Why was he agitated? Had youbeen quarrelling?'

'Goodnessme, no. That is, we were discussing business. You understand, there are threeof us: Emmanuel and Reidar and I. We three own the shares; well, we've all beeninvolved with the shop. Emmanuel and me, too, but now we've accepted that we'reold and have retired, both of us. Reidar never wanted to stop working.'

'Hm,now he doesn't have any choice,' Frølich said dryly. He was at once aware ofhow inappropriate this comment might seem and hastened to add: 'This was aspecial occasion then – this business meeting of yours?'

'Businessis right. The shop is up for sale and we have some purchasers, a marriedcouple. They came, too. A herr Kirkenazr and his wife. I think they're marriedanyway. They've got rings. This man knows a fair bit about antiques, and shedoes, too, of course.'

'Sothere was a row?'

Arvidshook his head. 'Not a row. Disagreement is a better word.'

'Whatsort of disagreement?'

'Aboutthe deal. Emmanuel and I are more than happy with the offer made, but…' 'Butnot Reidar?'

'Yes.I thought he wanted to sell. Reidar has never said no to more money but, on theother hand, he has never tolerated the rest of us having opinions. Reidar was abit odd like that, you know. He was the eldest and always had to call theshots. Well, we suspected, Emmanuel and I, that he would jump up and down abit, but we had never imagined that he would get himself into such a lather.That was after the buyers had gone. The plan was that we would discuss theoffer, but we didn't get round to it.'

Arvidsat sunk in deep thought as he twirled his port wine glass between his fingers.'In fact that was the last time I saw him.'

'Washe well?'

Arvidraised both eyebrows.

'Wasyour brother ill?'

Arvidopened his mouth in a soundless laugh. 'Reidar has never been ill. Are youtrying to tell me he died from an illness?'

Frølichshook his head and poured himself more coffee. 'And now you and Emmanuel arethe sole owners?'

'Hmm,I suppose Ingrid will take over now. She can pay off Karsten and take Reidar'sshare. Great lady, Ingrid is, very good-looking.'

'She'smuch younger than him.'

'Right.He was an old goat, Reidar was, no doubt about that.'

'You'resure the wife will take Reidar's share?'

'Iwould assume so.'

FrankFrølich waited.

'It'sKarsten's big problem that Reidar and Ingrid had joint ownership.'

'Whatdo you mean by that?'

'Eh?'

"…Karsten's big problem…'

Arvidsmiled mirthlessly. 'One would assume that Karsten would have preferred tohandle things on his own…'

'Youmean Karsten wanted to be the sole beneficiary?'

'That'snot so improbable, is it?'

'Idon't know,' Frølich said. 'Are you suggesting there's an inheritance disputehere?'

Arvidstared at him for quite some time before asking in a monotone: 'What do youmean?'

Frølichobserved him. Perhaps the suggestion of a disagreement between the widow andthe murdered man's son had been meant seriously. The old man seemed to havewoken up and realized he was talking to a policeman, and therefore ought toconsider what he was saying. It was a familiar reaction. Frølich repeated: 'Isthere an inheritance dispute as a result of your brother's death?'

'Idon't know.'

'SoI've misunderstood what you said about Karsten's big problem?'-

Arvidwent quiet. He seemed befuddled.

'Whatdid you mean?' Frølich repeated.

'I meantthat… I've got myself tied in knots now. I don't want to put anyone in adifficult spot, do I? Karsten and Ingrid are good friends. The wolf in sheep'sclothing – if such a thing exists – the person who is most upset that Karstenis not the sole heir – is probably Susanne, Karsten's wife. This happens in allfamilies, though. You know…'

'Fine.'Frølich cut him short. 'But is the ownership of the shop a cut-and-driedmatter?'

'Iassume so – so long as a will does not appear, I would expect Ingrid to takeover from Reidar.'

'Willyou try to get her to agree to work with…?'

'Kirkenær.It's written as it sounds: K-I-R.'

'I'vegot it,' Frølich said with a flourish of his pen to move the man on.

'Whatwas it you asked again?'

'Whethershe would agree to what Reidar rejected – the sale of the shop.'

'Ofcourse.'

'Andhis son, Karsten?'

'Whatabout Karsten?'

'Well,he works there, doesn't he? In the shop?'

'Wehad aired the proposal with Karsten beforehand, and I believe he was happy withit.'

'Buthe would lose his job, wouldn't he?'

'It'squestionable how important the job is to him. You see, Karsten has otherambitions. He works as a writer on the side. That's what he does when there areno customers in the shop, sitting in the backroom, banging away on thetypewriter. When we talked about the sale, he was far from hostile to theidea.'

'Doyou think that was why Reidar turned down the deal? Because he wanted toprotect Karsten's interests – his son's job in the shop.'

'No,I don't think so,' Arvid said bluntly.

'Youseem very sure,' the detective said, peering up.

'IfReidar had refused for Karsten's sake, he wouldn't have made a secret of it.Reidar was not the reticent kind.'

'But whydo you think Reidar would not agree to the sale?'

'Sothat he would have one over us, I think. And because he couldn't stand the ideaof not working. That's perhaps the most important reason. Reidar never acceptedthat he was getting old. Reidar was a man who denied the existence of death.'

Frølichjotted down the last phrase and sat for a few seconds formulating his nextquestion: 'Jonny Stokmo. I've heard he was employed by the shop.'

'Heisn't any longer.'

'Hewas given the boot by Reidar. Why was that?'

'Morelike the opposite,' said Arvid with a faint smile. 'I would guess – I don'thave a clue really – but I would guess that it was Jonny being difficult. He'sa hard nut, you know. There was nothing personal between Reidar and Jonny. Theyare two proud men. It was a kind of affair of honour.'

'Butwhat did they quarrel about?'

'Godknows. I don't, anyway.'

'WasReidar the type to have lots of enemies?'

Arvidgrinned. 'If you're thinking about the business with Jonny, then it was justchildish. Reidar must have said or done something. We reckoned that time wouldpass and Jonny would come back with his tail between his legs.'

'Whyantiques?' Frølich asked politely.

'Morecoffee?'

'No,thank you.' Frølich sat looking at the man as he poured himself another port.Two curly white hairs stood out on the tip of his bluish-purple nose. Frølichrepeated the question.

'Oh,it's a long story. It started with paper.' Folke Jespersen folded his handsover his stomach.

'Paper?'

'Yes,in those days none of us had any education. Emmanuel did an apprenticeship as abricklayer. By the way, he built the house next door, which you passed as youcame up the hill. Not on his own, of course. He was just one of many. And Ibegan at a bank which disappeared long ago. Reidar was the brightest of us, buthe was the one with least education. He worked as a newspaper boy onAftenposten. As a young man, Reidar had idealistic tendencies. For a longtime he was one of those few foolish types who think they can get rich byhonest means.'

Frølichlooked up and was met by a good-natured smile from the opposite side of thetable. 'For example, it always irritated Reidar that things were thrown away,and then he found out that newspaper companies threw away those rolls of paper- that is, they had to change rolls on the presses and afterwards there were afew metres of paper left on the roll, quite a lot actually, because newspaperis so thin, of course. There was perhaps that much on the roll.' Arviddemonstrated with his fingers. 'Waste paper; a pile of excellent raw materialswhich were just chucked out.'

Frølichnodded.

Warmingto the topic, Arvid leaned forward in his chair: 'And no one gave a damn aboutthis wasted paper. Reidar got it for free; he undertook to remove it and thenewspapers were happy. And at that time, you know, paper was in short supply inmany places in the world.'

'Hesold the paper on?'

FolkeJespersen nodded. 'A business grew out of it. He earned money from waste. Thenhe moved on to antiques.'

'Whobought the paper?'

'Anyonewho needed it. There were newspaper businesses in South America, in Africanstates…'

Frølichnodded. 'But then he turned to antiques?'

'Exactly.'Arvid nodded.

'Why?'

'Well…'Arvid straightened up again. 'There were several reasons, I suppose. But themost important were financial. The paper had to be re-mounted – in other words,put on a new roll so that it could be used for newspaper production. As long asReidar got the paper free, the production and transport costs could be covered,but one day the free paper came to an end. And then there was an economicdownturn – this was before the exploitation of the rain forests. Nowadays theymake paper from eucalyptus trees in the jungle and cheap Russian timber…Anyway, it stopped.'

'Butwhy antiques?'

Arvidcocked his head.

'Why notsomething else?' Frølich asked. 'Why antiques of all things?'

Arvidshrugged and spread his hands. 'You tell me,' he said with a grin.

Frølichobserved him in silence. Arvid sipped his port and smiled behind the glass. 'Ithink, firstly, it had something to do with Reidar's love for objects, fineobjects,' he said. 'Then there was Margrethe – Karsten's mother, who died along time ago – she was a terrible snob. She liked to surround herself withbeautiful, expensive things. On top of that, Reidar had this idea of makingmoney from waste, that is, from the things that others throw away. He was aheadof his time, Reidar was. Now it's recycling and reclaiming and re-I don't knowwhat. But you're right. It must have begun with something specific. I don'tremember what. All of a sudden Reidar began to buy and sell curios, and then itturned out that all three of us were making good money out of it. But how itactually started? I do not remember.'

Frølichjotted down: Why antiques? Arvid F.J. doesn't give an answer. He chewedon his pencil thoughtfully, and asked:

'Didyou contact your brother later that day?'

'Whichbrother?'

'Reidar.Did you get in touch at any point afterwards?'

Arvidslowly shook his head.

Frølichformed a tentative smile, unsure how to express himself. 'That's a bit strange,isn't it?' he suggested in a soft voice.

'Oh?'

'Yes,he had spoiled your deal, injured your dog…'

'Ididn't contact him.'

'DidEmmanuel?'

'You'llhave to ask Emmanuel.'

Frølichobserved the man on the other side of the table. All of a sudden he seemedsulky and very distant. 'You and Emmanuel didn't hatch any other specific planswith regard to Reidar that day?'

'Whatdo you mean by hatch?'

'Imean,' Frølich said, putting his notes down. 'If I had met this kind ofresistance from my sister – I don't have a brother – I think I would have triedto talk to her. That's quite natural, I imagine.'

'Ofcourse we made plans.'

'Yes?But you didn't carry them out?'

'No.'

'Soyou didn't try to contact Reidar?'

'No.'

Frølichpicked up his notepad. 'This is a little awkward,' he said warily. 'But it'spart of the job I have been assigned. I have to ask you where you were onFriday night.'

'Iwas here.'

'Inthis flat? On your own?'

'Mydog – Silvie – was here.'

'Isthere anyone who can confirm that?'

'Doyou think I would be capable of murdering my own brother?'

Frølichpulled a guilt-stricken grimace. 'I apologize, but this is a question I need tohave answered.'

'Idon't think anyone can confirm it, no.'

'Didanyone ring you?'

Jespersenshook his head.

'Didyou take the dog for a walk? Did anyone see you?' 'Silvie does her dailybusiness in the box on the veranda…

'Howlong were you at the vet's?'

'Itwas already dark. I must have got back at about five or half past, I suppose.'

'Fine,'Frølich mumbled, looking up. 'There is one last thing I was wondering. Does thenumber one hundred and ninety-five mean anything to you?

'Onehundred and ninety-five…?' Arvid turned his head gravely from side to side.'No. Don't think so.'

'Doyou think the number had any significance for your brother?'

'Haven'ta clue,' Jespersen said, tossing his hands in the air. 'Why do you ask?'

Frølichdidn't answer.

ArvidFolke Jespersen was lost in thought. 'One hundred and ninety-five,' he mumbled.'No, I really have no idea. Sorry.'

Chapter 13

Thatsame afternoon Inspector Gunnarstranda drove straight to Folke Jespersen'swarehouse in Bertrand Narvesens vei. The key he had requisitioned from KarstenJespersen worked like a charm. He stepped over the high doorsill and wentinside. The spring-loaded door closed with a bang, creating an echo in theroom. He looked around. There were tables and chairs piled up, rocking chairs,trunks, cases, cupboards, clock machinery in wonderful, exquisitely madecasings. He stood scanning the walls until his gaze fell on a window high up.There was a light on. He walked down the corridor leading through the clutter.A staircase led up to a landing in front of a door. He turned on the landingand cast an eye over the antiques. Between two cupboards with rusty hinges henoticed a cast-iron coke-burning stove beside a stained wood carving of a negroboy. Inspector Gunnarstranda wondered if these items might be worth anything. Afortune maybe, but for all he knew – nothing.

Heopened the door and went into an ante-room which appeared to function as akitchen and dining room. Through another door and into an office. Gunnarstrandastudied the table. It was big and heavy, English style; the wood was dark,almost red. The table top was polished and bare apart from a smallish plasticdesk pad and an old-fashioned-looking lamp. He advanced further into the roomand caught a reflection of himself in a wide mirror with a wooden frame. Hestopped to have a look and adjusted his scant hair, then turned to let his eyeswander from the desk to the window sill, on which stood a telephone, and afiling cabinet. The top of the cabinet was a complete mess: a bust of BjørnstjerneBjørnson, a Nobel Prize winner, towered over lots of other things. Someone hadput a Stetson hat on Bjørnson's head. It suited him. There was a portable radioon its side, a cassette player from the seventies, a hole-punch, a stapler, aroll of tape, a box of paper clips and a pile of loose papers. Gunnarstrandalooked from the filing cabinet to the desk and back again. Why were the staplerand the hole-punch on the filing cabinet and not on the desk?

Hemoved towards a grandfather clock next to the mirror. A quarter past ten, itsaid. None of its machinery was working. The weights hanging inside the caselooked like pine cones. He walked back to the desk and sat in the swivel chair,an expensive number made of wood and upholstered in leather. It wascomfortable. The Inspector swung from side to side as he alternated betweenstudying the filing cabinet and the desk. He pulled out the top drawer. It wasfull to overflowing with pens, pencils, rubbers, correction tape, bottles ofTipp-Ex, rulers and lots of loose, ancient-looking rubber stamps. He picked outone at random, turned it upside- down and peered from under his glasses to readthe mirror-image letters:

REIDAR FOLKE JESPERSEN

OSLO

Anotherstamp had a big letter 'B' for second-class post. On a third he read:

CONFIDENTIAL

Heslammed the drawer shut and opened the next. This one was full of screwdrivers,spanners and various kinds of pliers. In the corner of the drawer there was anold tea caddy without a lid. He read the label: Ridgeway's. In the caddy werescrews, used nails, nuts and hooks.

Gunnarstrandaopened the next drawer. It contained a folded white tablecloth and a bottle,half full. He took out the bottle and read the label: Bristol Cream. Afterpulling off the cork, he had a sniff. A potent aroma. He sat looking into theair and musing. Sherry, he thought, and tried to remember if he had ever boughtsherry. Perhaps once or twice. Sherry was not a drink he liked. He put thebottle back.

Itwas warm inside the office. Extra hot in his thick winter coat. He stood up,went to the window and felt the electric radiator. It was on full, burning-hot.Outside it was dark. Between two buildings he caught sight of a road behind awire fence. Two figures in winter coats ambled towards a car and got in. Thecar lights were switched on and it drove out of view. Soon the car reappearedbetween the two buildings. The rear lights cast a red glow across the banks ofsnow. He moved away, went to the door and opened it. The ante-room to theoffice contained a kitchen sink area and a pale wooden dining table. In thesink there were two stem glasses. The dregs had dried at the bottom. He stoopeddown and smelt. There was a residual scent of fortified wine. It had to be thesame smell as in the bottle. He craned his head towards the office. Slowly hewalked back to the office where he sat down again in the splendid swivel chair.He opened the bottom drawer.

Thetable has been cleared, he thought, and looked at all the desk items piledup on the window sill and on the top of the filing cabinet.

Someonespreads out a cloth and puts two glasses on the table, he thought.Someone drinks sherry. Reidar Folke Jespersen and another person drink sherry.Another person. A woman. It had to be a woman. The cloth. The sherry. Hetook his mobile phone from his coat pocket and tapped in a number. The chaircreaked in time with the dial tone in his ear. He told the woman who answeredthe reason for his call and gave her the address. After putting the phone back,he took out a ballpoint pen from an inside pocket. With the pen he closed thedrawer containing the bottle and the cloth. Then, also with the pen, he pushedthe desk pad to one side. Underneath was a faded business envelope and underthe envelope a photograph. The policeman stared; it was a faded black and whitephotograph – a picture of a woman with thick, dark hair cascading over hershoulders. She had a knowing smile on her face; it was as though she had caughthim in the act and was mildly reproving him. She was young, no more thantwenty-five years old, maybe younger, with a conspicuous mole on her rightcheek, midway between jawbone and lower lip.

Thepoliceman scrutinized the photograph for a long time. He angled his head andtried to imagine the same face after the ravages of the passing years, withless strength in the cheek muscles, furrows on either side of her mouth and ashadowy hollow in that indefinable area from the nostrils and corners of themouth where the cheeks fan out flatly. He tried to imagine her with deeper-seteyes, perhaps with age-related bags under the eyes, wrinkles around her mouth. Buthe was quite sure. This was a woman he had never seen. He pushed the pen underthe photograph and flipped it over. There was something written on the back:four words in a line, looped writing, in pencil, written many years ago: BecauseI love you.

Gunnarstrandagave a jump when he heard the echo of the front door slamming downstairs. Hegot to his feet and scuttled out to the staircase. There he saw a head herecognized. It was Karsten Jespersen and he was pushing a sack trolley.Jespersen had not seen the policeman. He was pushing the trolley in front ofhim and didn't stop until he reached the back of the warehouse. There he parkedthe trolley and began to manoeuvre a wardrobe covered in carvings. 'Hello!' thepolice officer shouted.

Jespersenstarted and spun on his heel.

'Whatare you up to?' Gunnarstranda shouted.

'That'swhat I was going to ask you,' Jespersen said calmly. 'This is privateproperty.'

Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'Out,' he ordered.

'Whatdid you say?'

'Thisarea will be sealed off and searched in a little while. We're looking forevidence. You will have to wait. What are you doing with the trolley?'

'Pickingsomething up,' Jespersen said unhelpfully.

'What?'

'That'smy business.'

'Whatwere you going to pick up?'

'Somethingthat was mine.'

'Right,'the Inspector said, still annoyed. 'I'm not going to get mixed up in yourinheritance rows. But you are kindly requested to wait.' He descended thestairs with authority. 'Out.'

Jespersendid not move. A swathe of antique objects separated them.

'Comeon,' the policeman said, impatient now.

Jespersencoughed. 'My father gave me this wardrobe,' he said after a pause.

'You'llhave to take that up with others, not with me. Don't touch anything. Justleave. You and the other beneficiaries will be informed when this property canbe released.'

'Butsurely it doesn't matter…'

'Out!'

KarstenJespersen's chin quivered out of control. His mouth was contorted in a grimace.'You can't treat me in this way,' he hissed as he slunk towards the exit.

'Takethe sack trolley with you,' the inspector said tersely.

AToyota van stood outside with the motor running. Someone was sitting in it.Gunnarstranda went closer. A strapping woman sat in the passenger seat. Sherolled down the window. 'The wardrobe,' she shouted to

KarstenJespersen. 'Where's the wardrobe?'

Thedetective officer bent down to the window and reached in his gloved hand.'Susanne Jespersen?'

She didn'tseem to register his existence. Her head was bent towards Karsten. 'Thewardrobe?' she said to her husband as he opened the sliding door and lifted thetrolley in. Her next outburst was drowned in the noise of the side door beingslammed shut. Her head moved as her eyes followed her husband. 'Can't you doanything?'

'Wouldit suit you to appear at Police HQ tomorrow morning at eleven to give astatement?' Gunnarstranda said to the back of her head. She had twisted herwhole body round to face Jespersen who was sitting in the driver's seat. 'What?Are we going to leave here empty- handed? Answer me, you oaf!'

Jespersensat sullenly with his body bent over the steering wheel. He ignored her and putthe van into gear. 'Eleven o'clock!' shouted the Inspector as the van droveoff. His shout was drowned in the roar of the engine and the cursing andswearing from the cab. Gunnarstranda peered up at the sky. Snow was falling. Asnowflake landed on the left-hand lens of his glasses, but didn't melt. He lookedat his feet. The snowflakes lay on the tarmac like down. It was the kind ofsnow that did not stick and form drifts, the kind that fluttered away when youtrudged through it, the kind that would disappoint all the children withsledges. Inspector Gunnarstranda walked back to the warehouse to wait forforensics.

Twohours later Gunnarstranda met Tove Granaas in

CafeJustisen. After coming through the tinkling door, she stood scouring the caféfor him. Gunnarstranda rose from his seat in the corner. Tove returned hissmile. She was wearing a grey-white woollen poncho and a beret of the samecolour. He was about to say she looked elegant, but it didn't come out. Insteadhe waved to a waitress. He ordered another beer for himself and a coffee forher. They sat chatting about inconsequential matters; he knew this was apreamble. Tove Granaas would never be satisfied with talking about the workingday; sooner or later she would home in on them.

Hehad been waiting for quite a long time when the question finally came.Gunnarstranda raised his eyes and looked up at the row of pictures by theOslo-born Hermansen as he examined his emotions. That particular question wouldhave annoyed and alienated him if it had come from anyone else. He was somewhatsurprised not to feel annoyance. He straightened the tablecloth and downed thelast of his half-litre before making his reluctant admission: 'Yes, I think itis difficult to talk about Edel.'

Toveraised her cup and swirled the dregs of her coffee around and up the side; thenshe leaned back in her chair. The hands holding the cup were slim, the nailsshort and unvarnished. She wasn't wearing any rings. A small gold watch on aslim band adorned her left wrist. She took her time, studying the tablecloth,until she looked up and waited for them to have eye-contact again, and asked:

'Why?'

Tohis surprise, Gunnarstranda heard himself say: 'I find it difficult to come toterms with this kind of sentimentality.'

'Sentimentality?'

'Herdeath has become something which we shared – it is very private. In a way, itwould feel like a betrayal to change or modify anything of what we shared.'

Tovestudied the cloth again. 'Who said you should change or modify anything?'

Hesent her a weak smile. 'Taboo may be a better word. It feels like ataboo to evaluate or… re-work what she and I had together.'

'Talking?Is that re-working?'

Hereflected before answering: 'I would have to search for words, weigh them.Talking about her is bound to be an evaluation.'

'Whereis the boundary?' she asked with a lop-sided smile. 'Somewhere this sensitivityhas to stop, doesn't it? Some of your past must be your own. Some of it must beprivate enough or sturdy enough to be… evaluated. After all you're sitting herewith me,' she said.

Helooked up. She wasn't smiling any more, but looking into his eyes.

Hecleared his throat. 'What do you mean?'

'Well,you don't invite me out to avoid getting to know me, do you?'

'You'revery direct.'

'Ofcourse.'

Itwas Tove who broke the silence. 'You are also very direct.'

'ButI'm not sure where you're going.'

Sheput down her cup and leaned forward. 'You say you don't want to betray your latewife,' she said. 'Betrayal: that was your word. Are you betraying her byinviting me out?'

'Ofcourse not.'

'Ifyour late wife is hanging over us, is there a chance you will betray her thenext time we meet?'

'No,you misunderstand,' he said. 'I mean the years – the time I had with Edel – theyears and the things I experienced with her are not something I can easilyshare with others. You and I…,' He stopped with a wry smile on his face.

'What'sthe matter?'

'Nothing,except that I am well over fifty and that…' He shook his head from side toside.

'Andthat I'm also over fifty and we're talking like two teenagers?' Tove suggested.

Henodded. 'Yes, perhaps that's it.'

'Whatabout your husband?' asked the Inspector.

'Doyou mean my ex-husband?'

Henodded.

'Hethinks birdsong is edible, and that he will be happy if he can eat it.'

'Really?'

'He'scrazy,' she explained.

Theyexchanged looks. 'Are you disappointed?' she asked.

'Am Idisappointed?'

'Yes,you seem disappointed.'

'I'mnot disappointed,' he said. 'But you don't need to paint a negative image ofyour ex-husband, not for my sake.'

Tovesmiled. 'I'm good friends with Torstein. He is thus far in my life the bestfriend I have and have had. And I'm the first to complain that he's crazy.'

'Inwhat way is he crazy?'

'He'sa realist, a mathematician – very talented as well – perhaps a little tootalented. What I call crazy – apart from such cracked ideas as eating birdsong- is that he's trying to develop a theory about super-sensory phenomena.'

'Arealist researching super-sensory phenomena?'

'Yes,by preference, ghosts.' She smiled. 'The thing about ghosts is – they like tohang around cemeteries, don't they? And they show themselves at night. Sothey're not there during the day. Torstein's theory is based on the notion thatwhen a dead person's essence or soul leaves the flesh – the body- and becomes a ghost, then ghostly activities tend to take place in cemeteriesat night – or ghosts haunt the places where they met their tragic death. WhatTorstein devotes his mathematical talent to is finding a mathematical formula.He is searching for the points around the cemetery or the haunted zone – andthe time-segments during the day – that demarcate ghostly activity. In otherwords, whatever it is that regulates the energy of the ghosts. Imagine you're aghost – the idea is you are active within certain limits: this is where Ispook, this far and no further; I don't haunt areas outside these limits.Torstein's theory is based on the notion that if ghosts are active in specifiedareas and at specified times, then it is his task to find these limits. And hisaim is to position himself on the boundary and drive the ghost mad, that is, totease the ghost.'

Shewent quiet.

'You'rekidding?'

'No.Torstein has filled several files with his calculations.'

Gunnarstrandacleared his throat and ogled his empty beer glass. He didn't know what to say.

Tove stifleda chuckle. 'Torstein's real aim,' she said, 'which is the basis of hisapplication for a scholarship, is to find energy; he believes there have to beenergy fields at these points that delimit ghosts' activity, and this energy iswhat most occupies his interest. He believes that if he can solve the mysteryof this energy, he will be able to solve the parapsychological enigma.'

Shelapsed back into silence. Her eyes were both expectant and brimming withmischief. 'It is only after living with him for fifteen years that you realizehe's crazy. The problem is that he appears to be able to think and actnormally, but something isn't right – and then you end up with border valuesfor ghosts.'

Gunnarstrandapulled a face. 'I think I understand you,' he said. 'I think I understand.'

Hewaved an arm in the air to attract the waitress's attention. 'Bill,' he said.

'You'renot getting away so easily,' she said.

Hestared at her.

'Investigationor no investigation – you can make time for the cinema.' She delved into herbag with a hand and pulled out two tickets.

'Isee,' he wavered and then took one of the tickets. 'What's it about?'

Shelooked up with a smile: 'Ghosts.'

Chapter 14

FrankFrølich rang the bell by Ingrid Jespersen's door at half past eight in themorning. She explained over the intercom that she wasn't up yet. 'I can wait,'Frølich said obligingly.

'Infact I am up,' she said. 'But I'm only wearing my dressing gown.'

Frølichbent his knees to be able to speak through the two-way loudspeaker. 'That'sfine,' he said. 'I'll wait.'

'Butit's so cold outside,' she said. 'You can wait indoors.'

'That'skind of you,' Frølich said, an image of Mr Bean flashing through his mindbecause his knees were splayed and he was talking to the wall.

'Thedoor's open,' she said and pressed the button to buzz him in.

Shekept Frølich waiting twenty minutes. He found himself a chair in the kitchenand soon confirmed that the lady had the same taste as Eva-Britt as far asfitted kitchens were concerned. The cupboard doors were coordinated and manywere made of glass. When Ingrid came out of the bathroom, there was a strongfragrance of perfume. Even though the bags under her eyes were still big anddark, her face seemed less strained today. 'I don't sleep well,' she explained.'I keep thinking that he died downstairs and I might have been lying awakewhile he was bleeding to death…' She looked around. 'But we can't sit here.'

Shetook him to a living room in a wing of the flat he didn't remember seeing onthe previous visit. She cleared away a glass and an empty bottle of wine fromthe round table. 'I haven't turned to drink,' she assured him. 'But I get sotwitchy in the evening. The flat's so big.'

Henodded.

'Ilook in all the cupboards and check under all the beds before I go to bed. Ilock all the rooms which have keys. I'm afraid someone might be there.'

Henodded again.

'Idaren't take sleeping pills because I'm afraid I won't wake up if…'

Frølichwaited for her to continue.

Shesent him an apologetic smile and nervously stroked the back of her hand withtwo fingers.

'If…what?'

Sheshuddered. 'If someone came.'

'Who?'he asked.

'Mm?'

'Whowould come?'

Shestared stiffly in front of her.

Hewaited.

'I'mconsidering moving into a hotel,' she said at length.

Frølichstill said nothing.

'AndI get such a guilty conscience, I mean… being frightened for myself when Reidaris the one who is dead. Do you understand?'

FrankFrølich nodded.

Sheleaned towards him and looked into his eyes. 'I don't know if he was attackedor…'

Frølichheld eye-contact and waited for her to go on.

'Idon't know if I'm in danger, do I?'

'Whywould you be in any danger?'

Sheshivered. She glared at him. 'It was a break-in, wasn't it?'

Frølichsaid nothing.

'Iwant to know if I'm in danger!' she snarled.

'Areyou frightened of being attacked here at home?'

'ShouldI be?' she retorted. 'Can you tell me?'

FrankFrølich cleared his throat and considered his words. 'We have no reason tosuspect that anyone in your husband's circle is in any danger,' he said. 'If,on the other hand, you feel threatened…'

'ButI don't know anything!' she interrupted. 'You're not telling me anything!'

'Doyou feel threatened?' he repeated.

Shelowered her eyes, silent.

Hesat watching her. Black suited her. Furthermore there was a patch oftransparent, patterned material at the front of her dress. The white skinunderneath the black made her look incredibly sexy. Her figure was lithe,graceful. She reminded him of something. She had the same effortless control ofher limbs that cats have, he thought, and tried not to reveal this suddeninterest in her feminine charms. But at once he was clear that she had notnoticed anything; she was in another world, immersed in thought. She brokeloose with a shudder and folded her arms in front of her chest – as thoughremembering in a flash that he was present.

'Originallyyou were a professional dancer, weren't you?' he asked.

Shedidn't seem to hear. 'I think I'm going to move,' she said in a distant voice.'Yes indeed, I will move.'

Frølichtried for a couple of seconds to put himself in her position. He wondered if heshould repeat what he had said and tell her that there was no reason to feelthreatened. 'Do you know if your husband had any reason to feel threatened?' heasked.

'No,'she said.

'Do youwish us to adopt any special measures, to give you protection?'

Shestared at him.

'Ifthat would reassure you…'

'Doyou think I'm being ridiculous?'

'Notat all. It's an offer. We're happy to discuss measures that might improve yoursituation.'

'No,'she said. 'I don't need any protection.'

Frølichobserved her for a moment before repeating: 'Originally you were a professionaldancer, weren't you?'

'Oh,that's many years ago,' she said wearily. 'But as a matter of fact you'reright. I used to dance ballet. Then I taught for a few years, working as adancing teacher, not far from here. I had a little room in Frognerveien.There's a restaurant there now, and a coffee bar. I often have my lunch there,from time to time anyway. It's nice to sit there, you know. Nice to think abouthow things change over time, isn't it? It's been a supermarket too, if you canremember the chain of shops called IRMA. They took the place over from me. But,as I said, that came to an end, the dance school that is. I got fed up and withmy lack of economic sense it could only go one way.'

'Andyou've never been involved in the antiques business?'

'Notat all.' She half-smiled. 'I'm an old-fashioned housewife. Boring.'

'Don'tsay that,' Frølich said and caught himself thinking how to make a move on her.A seam in her stockings led his attentions upwards. Her dress was tight on hersupple hips. He coughed and pulled himself together: 'What made your husband sointerested in antiques?'

'He'salways been interested', she said, 'in a sense of form, aesthetics – at leastthat was what brought us together. My sister was working for local governmentin the seventies. She had a job as a secretary in Oslo Auctions, down inBrugata, you know, where fine ladies can pawn wedding rings if they have aburning need for a dram…' She opened her palms. 'Unbelievably, that was how wemet.'

'Pawningsomething?'

'No.Through my sister. Reidar bought up the pawned goods that had not been redeemed.You know, if you pawn something, it has to be redeemed within a certain time.If it isn't, it is sold off at the auction. Reidar bought clocks and oldjewellery and violins and I don't know what. My sister and I were invited to aparty there once; that is, she was invited, but Ragnhild, my sister, got theheebie-jeebies. She was nervous because Reidar was a widower and so much older.I went as a chaperone and because I was kind of interested in design and so on,well, one thing led to another.'

Frølichgrabbed at the chance and bent down to pick up his notepad. The widow seemed tobe keen to answer questions now. 'So antiques brought you together?'

'Iusually say form, or design. A word like antiques seems so dusty. By theway, you should know that for Reidar antiques were all about good taste.'

Frølichnodded and chewed the top of his biro before saying: 'He didn't dabble in thesecond-hand market, as some people call it?'

'Youshould be glad that Reidar didn't hear you using the word,' she said in acareworn tone. 'Second-hand – he hated the word. No, the objects we surroundourselves with signal who we are,' she explained in a matter- of-fact way.

Fr0lichnodded again.

'That'sthe problem with us Norwegians,' she continued with sudden passion. 'We don'tunderstand the significance of being surrounded by beauty. Look at ourchurches. They are so boring. Yes, I know it is all tied up with theReformation and Protestantism and the idea that gold and glitter are said todetract from the message. That's right, isn't it? But I believe… that if we hadhad cathedrals in this country, I'm sure we would have had a healthierrelationship with religion. The things you like, the things you surroundyourself with, say something about the person,' she added.

Frølichcoughed politely and circled his pen in the air to excuse his lack of interestin cathedrals and to get to the point. 'You ate here – on the evening beforethe murder,' he said cautiously.

Ingridnodded, but didn't say anything.

'Karstenand Susanne – plus grandchildren – ate with you two?'

'Youthink I'm skirting the issue,' Ingrid answered. 'But in order to understand myhusband you have to understand his feeling for form.'

Frølichtook a deep breath. 'It's also very important for us to know what happened onthe days leading up to his death. Can you give me your version of events onFriday?'

'Reidargot up early,' she began and faltered.

'Whattime?' Frølich said to move her on.

Itstartled her. 'At about half past seven, I think. He went to work before I gotup. After that I didn't hear or see anything of him until seven or half past inthe evening – when he came home and dinner was waiting.'

'Andyou were at home the whole time?'

'No, Imust have got back here at about two or half past. I went shopping.'

'Shopping?'

Shenodded and repeated: 'Shopping.'

Frølichwatched her, but she showed no signs of wanting to expand. He met her eyes:'Just a general shopping trip – you weren't looking for anything inparticular?'

Shestared back. 'Of course, but is that of any interest?'

Heshrugged.

'Iwent to GlasMagasinet amongst other places.' She fell quiet and did not appearto want to enlarge on her trip. He said: 'When did you go shopping?'

'Atabout half past eleven in the morning.'

'Andwhat did you do before – until half past eleven?'

'Ihad a shower, read the paper… and at ten, maybe five minutes past, I went downto see Karsten in the shop. He opens the shop at ten, you see, and we usuallyhave a cup of coffee together in the morning.'

'Youand Karsten Jespersen?'

'Yes,if there are not many customers. There were none around, so we chatted over acup of coffee.' She pursed her lips as though reflecting. 'For three quartersof an hour perhaps. He had Benjamin with him. The kindergarten had a planningday, I think. Benjamin flitted around, doing drawings. I came back upstairs,put on warmer clothes to go out and left at some time between eleven and halfpast…'

Frølichwondered if he should ask what she and the dead man's son talked about, but hedecided against it. Instead he asked:

'Didyou find anything?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Didyou find anything when you were out shopping?'

'Oh yes.'

Frølichwaited for her to go on. He waited in vain.

'Andduring the day,' he asked, 'did you hear from your husband at all?'

'Yes,he rang,' she said.

'Here?'

'Hm?'

'Didhe ring here?'

'Ofcourse,' she snapped. 'Where else?' 'Well… Frølich stared at her. 'He couldhave called you while you were out shopping,' he suggested. 'On your mobile.'

'Herang me here.'

'When?'Frølich asked.

'In theafternoon, around three. As a rule he comes home at about four. And Karsten andSusanne were coming here that day. But he called a bit before three and said hewould be late. He said he would be home at about seven.'

'Didhe say why?'

'No.'

'Wasthat strange?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Well,was it unusual for him to be late or did he never tell you why he had been heldup?'

'No,I knew it was something to do with business. He might have been talking to hisbrothers – Arvid and Emmanuel. Arvid lives in Uranienborg and Emmanuel lives along way out, in Bserum.' She sighed. 'I'm dreading talking to Arvid andEmmanuel. I know they have rung, but I can't bring myself to answer the phone.'

'Butdo you remember exactly when Reidar returned home?'

'At aquarter past seven. I checked the time. You know Jonny Stokmo was here at tenpast? Perhaps you don't know who he is? Well, Jonny is a man who works withReidar, and he didn't want to come inside and wait, but as dinner was ready andwe were waiting I kept looking out of the window for Reidar, and I saw Jonnywaiting for Reidar too. That did worry me a bit. I mean it was so cold, almostminus twenty.'

'Thetwo of them worked together?'

'Jonnyis Jonny,' Ingrid smiled. 'Jonny is… well, you were interested in how Reidarstarted in antiques. I think Reidar and Jonny's father set out together, a longtime ago.'

Shenodded as she read the expression on Frølich's face. 'Jonny's father workedwith Reidar, but that was before I met him. I've never met Jonny's father – hedied before Reidar and I got married.'

Frølichfinished making his notes before looking up at the widow in the chair. 'Andwhat did Stokmo want when he came round here?'

'Noidea. I asked him in, but I think he felt there were too many people here, withKarsten and Susanne and the young children. At any rate, he said he didn't havetime. Yet he waited outside in the street.'

'Andwhen your husband came?'

'Isuppose they talked.'

Frølichnodded.

'Whatwas the relationship between your husband and Jonny Stokmo?' he asked atlength.

'Umm…'Ingrid deliberated, but ended up shrugging her shoulders.

'Iask because I've heard that Jonny Stokmo was sacked,' Frølich said, looking herstraight in the eye, and added, 'on your husband's say-so.'

Ingridknitted her brows in astonishment. 'Given the boot? Are you sure? No…' Sheshook her head. 'I find that difficult to believe. But why would Reidar keepthat from me – I mean, if there was some disagreement between them?'

Frølichshrugged: 'I couldn't say.' He looked at his notes and went on. 'So, Reidararrived back just before half past seven, and what happened then?'

'Weate.'

'Whatdid you eat?'

'Reindeersteak.'

'Whatwas the atmosphere like around the table?'

'Whatdo you mean by atmosphere?'

'Well,was it as usual, open or strained?'

Ingridpaused for a couple of seconds. 'Just as usual,' she concluded. 'Most of theattention was focused on Reidar's grandchildren, of course. It was a typicalfamily meal.'

'WasJonny Stokmo's name mentioned?'

Shepondered. 'No, I don't think it was, that is… I mentioned to Reidar that he hadbeen here, that was all. But that was before we started eating.'

'Anythingbusiness-related mentioned?'

'Karstenand Reidar had their usual chat, but that was after the meal. They talkedtogether on their own.'

'Ontheir own?'

'Yes,Susanne helped me to clear the table and put things in the dishwasher. Thechildren floated around – and the two men sat on their own with a cognac. Isuppose they were talking about money or politics, that's what they usuallydo.'

'Butthe atmosphere was very relaxed, or…'

Shegave a pensive nod. 'There was one phone call, there may have been more, butReidar answered it. He seemed very angry.' 'Did you hear what was said?'

Sheshook her head slowly.

'Whenwas that?'

'Atabout half past ten, I think. Karsten and Susanne were on the point of leaving,yes, it must have been half past ten. The little one was asleep. Benjamin wasgrumpy, beyond himself. He usually goes to bed at nine.'

'Theyleft at half past ten?'

Ingridnodded. 'Perhaps closer to eleven. I didn't look at my watch, but I sat aroundin the living room and relaxed before the late-night news. I watched the newsat eleven.'

'AndReidar?'

'Hemay have been on the phone, I don't know.'

'Youdon't know what he was doing?'

'No.'

'Hadhe gone down to the shop?'

'No,he was sitting and reading or doing something else. I went to the bathroomafter the news and I heard him moving about. And afterwards I went to bed andwe talked for a bit.'

'Didhe normally go to bed after you?'

'No,in fact he didn't, and that was what we were talking about… I asked him if hewas coming to bed.' She went quiet.

Frølichwaited. She was clearly finding it more difficult to speak. A sudden, shrillelectronic sound cut through the silence. It was his mobile phone. He sent the womanin the chair an apologetic smile and searched for his phone. Ingrid dried thecorner of her eye with a finger. Frølich checked the display. It was a textmessage from Eva-Britt: Could you pick up some nice fish on the way home?He could feel his irritation mounting. The word: home. He switched offthe phone and put it in his jacket pocket. As soon as he had done that, Ingridstood up. 'Excuse me,' she said, disappearing through the door. Frølich couldhear her tearing paper off a roll. He heard her blowing her nose. Soonafterwards she returned with a handful of white tissues. She sat down with astrained smile. The rims of her eyes were red and moist. 'He said he wanted tosit up reading,' she said, fighting to hold back the tears. A teardrop found itsway to the tip of her nose. She wiped it away.

'Andyou went to sleep?'

Shenodded. 'I took a sleeping pill, an Apodorm.'

'Whywas that?'

'Icouldn't settle. I took a pill to get off.'

'Butyou woke up later in the night?'

Ingridwas staring into space.

'Youwoke up?' Frølich repeated.

'Itseems like a dream sometimes,' she said, wiping her nose again. 'Now it seemslike a dream.'

'Whatseems like a dream?'

'ThatI woke up.'

'You rangKarsten Jespersen at half past two that night,' Frølich said patiently.

'Ithought someone was in the room.'

Frølichraised both eyebrows.

'Thefloor was wet, you see.'

'Wet?'

'Yes,wet patches from melted snow, like when someone has come in without removingtheir shoes and left snow behind them. I saw it, too: the remains of the snow,the zigzag pattern, the rough pattern of a shoe sole.'

Frølichstared at her. The silence endured. The middle- aged woman sat stiffly staringin front of her. She seemed to be studying a point on the floor. Most probablyshe was contemplating something within her. She wiped tears from her noseagain. 'I was petrified,' she said. 'I've never been so frightened in my life.I was sure someone was standing there, watching me in the dark. I didn't daremove a muscle.'

Thesilence enveloped them again.

Frølich'sattention was focused on his own winter boots. The snow that tended to attachitself to the laces had melted now, and at the extreme tip of one lace a dropof water had collected but refused to let go and fall onto the floor.

'Wasanyone there?' he asked brightly.

Sheshook her head.

'Whydo you think it was wet?'

'Reidar…'she began, but stopped to fight back the tears.

'HadReidar been watching you sleep?' Frølich asked.

'Itsounds so awful when you say it… but it couldn't have been anyone else,' shesaid. 'There wasn't a sound.'

'Andyou're sure there was snow and water on the floor? It wasn't something you hadbeen dreaming?'

'Ididn't dream I wiped it up.'

'Youwiped it up? When?'

'WhenI got up.'

'Andwhen was that?'

'Itmust have been just after half two.' She blew her nose on the paper towel. 'Iwas so tired that night, and I may be mixing things up because of the sleepingpill. But I was out of my mind with fear and couldn't get back to sleep. I hadto know if there was someone in the room, so in the end I switched on thelight…'

'Isee.'

'Yes,I'd been lying there for a while – and when the light came on, it didn't seemso bad.'

'Whichlight was that?'

'Thebedside lamp. I can show you. Come…'

Shegot to her feet and Frølich followed her. There was still a strong waft ofperfume. He couldn't take his eyes off her lithe hips, and again he was struckby the gracefulness of her movements. 'Did you both sleep in the same room?' heasked, embarrassed.

'Weshare a bed. We've always shared a bed.'

Shecame to a sudden halt in the doorway to the bedroom. They collided. The contactsent an echo deep into his solar plexus, but she didn't seem to register it.

Frølichwas sweating because she was standing so close to him. He apologized with asmile and stepped forward to scrutinize the room. There was a green bedspread overthe double bed. A lush green plant stood on a pedestal beside an armchair infront of the window which let in diffuse light through white blinds. The wallswere green and a painting with loud colours adorned the wall behind thebedhead. Frølich was unable to make sense of the motif in the painting, butdiscovered that he liked it. As he viewed the painting and the high, narrowbookshelf lined with paperbacks and magazines, he felt like a voyeur,especially because he soon found himself imagining what position she lay inwhen she was reading, what nightclothes she wore, the material, the colour…

'Thatone,' she said, bringing him back to reality. On either side of the bed therewas a wooden table. On each table there was a small, round lamp with a widelampshade. She went round the bed and switched on one of the lamps. 'Likethat,' she said, standing lethargically by the large bed.

'Andthe snow?'

'Here,'she said, taking two steps forward and pointing, 'Here… and here.'

Frølichscratched his nose with the pen. 'Did you wash the floor afterwards?'

'Ofcourse.' She looked at him askance.

'Iwas just wondering if we should have carried out a forensic examination here.'

'My God,don't cordon off my bedroom,' she said in a hushed voice, alarmed.

'Yousaid you were frightened,' Frølich said. 'As I said, we have no reason tobelieve that either you or anyone else is in danger. We assume that the murderof your husband was motivated by personal circumstances. However, if you areconcerned, you should take account of these feelings. If you so desire, we arehappy to take measures which…'

'No,'she interrupted. 'Out of the question. I want to live here. This is my flat.'

'Ofcourse,' Fr0lich said. 'I'm just saying this to accommodate your…'

'No,'she repeated, shaking her head.

'Whatdid you think when you woke up and your husband was not beside you?' 'I thoughtit must have been Reidar in the bedroom after an evening walk, to picksomething up, a piece of paper or…' She got up and walked calmly round the bed.'Here,' she pointed again. 'There too – that was wet.'

Theywent back to the chairs where they had been sitting. 'And then?' Frølich asked.'What happened then?'

'Igot out of bed, went into the living room and round the flat looking forReidar. But, of course, he wasn't there.'

'Whatdid you think then?'

'Idon't know what I thought, I was terrified. I called Karsten,' she said.

'Whydid you do that?'

'Iwanted to ask him to come over. I was scared something had happened to Reidar.'

Frølichsaid nothing.

'Ididn't hear a sound. The whole house was silent.'

Frølichnodded. He looked down at his foot, placed his heel on the same wet patch onthe floor and watched another round drop of water forming at the end of thedrenched shoelace. 'Mm, you made a phone call.'

'Yes,it rang for a long time, well, after all, it was the middle of the night -until at last she picked up the phone. Susanne…' Ingrid pulled a face. 'Isuppose she thought I was deranged…'

'Whatdid you say to her?'

'Iasked to speak to Karsten.'

'Andwhat answer did you receive?'

'Thathe was not at home.'

'Howdid you interpret that?' 'I regretted the way I had expressed myself. I shouldhave taken a more pedagogic approach. I didn't think when I was ringing that itwas the middle of the night. You know, Susanne is quite special. Now and thenshe gives the impression that she is jealous. I…' She paused.

'Yes,'Frølich tilted his head and waited patiently.

'Iknow this might sound a bit odd, but in fact I think Susanne is frightenedabout me and Karsten…'

'So yourinterpretation was that she didn't want to wake her husband because she fearedyour intentions?'

'Iknow it sounds sick.'

'Didshe have any reason to be jealous?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Didshe have any reason to be jealous?' Frølich repeated with identical intonation.

'Ofcourse not. Susanne is special. I don't know how else to express it.'

Frølichcould feel that he was not sweating any more. Nevertheless he had to make aneffort to look into Ingrid Jespersen's eyes, instead of stealing glances at herrounded breasts or her hips. In fact, he could understand Susanne. 'Whathappened after that?' he asked.

'Isaid that I was worried about Reidar and asked her to tell Karsten when he camehome.'

'Andthen?'

'Iwent back to bed.'

'Butyou had a look around the flat?'

'Ofcourse, I wondered where Reidar was…'

'Didyou see these puddles of melted snow anywhere else?' 'In the hall.'

'Butnowhere else in the flat?'

'No.'

'Sosomeone had walked straight from the hall to the bedroom?'

'Ithought Reidar had been in to see me or to take something from a cupboard.'

'Whenyou found the flat empty – didn't it occur to you that Reidar might be in theshop downstairs?'

'Yes,it did, of course. I couldn't sleep, I just lay thinking hundreds of thoughts,imagining all the places he might be, what the snow on the floor might mean… Ilay awake until I heard the sounds of the morning traffic.'

'Whydidn't you go down and check?'

'Tobe honest, I didn't dare. I was petrified. When the police rang the doorbell,naturally I thought it was Reidar.' A shudder ran through her body and shecrossed her arms.

'Didyou hear anything unusual?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

Frølichobserved her without saying a word. Her eyes were glazed. She coughed.

'Didyou hear anything during the night?' the detective officer repeated. 'Noises,someone walking down the stairs…'

'Downthe stairs?'

'Noises,'Frølich said impatiently. 'Footsteps, doors closing, anything.'

'Idon't think so.'

'Don'tthink so?' Frølich gazed into her eyes. The irises were green and looked liketwo precious stones on a background of white felt in a display case.

'No,'she said with conviction. 'Nothing.'

'Hm?'

'I amsure I didn't hear anything.'

'Butyou had to have a think about it.'

'Don'tyou believe me?' she erupted.

'Ofcourse. It is just that we need to know every detail, and there may be thingswhich you overlook or consider inconsequential, things which we can make senseof. And when I asked…'

'Ididn't hear any noises!' she interrupted angrily.

'Right.'

Theysat looking at each other.

Frølichjotted down: Interviewee is evasive when asked if she heard any noises.

'Theoverwhelming probability then is that the person who killed your husband did itbefore you woke up?' he reasoned out loud.

Shetrembled again. 'I don't know anything about that!' she exclaimed.

'Butyou didn't hear any noises?'

'Iwas in a coma, knocked out, I had taken a sleeping pill! Loads of things couldhave happened without my realizing.'

'Fine,'Frølich said. 'There was one thing I was wondering about,' he mumbled with theballpoint in his mouth. 'You said the person who was in your bedroom might havebeen Reidar. Were all the doors closed and locked when you woke up?'

Ingridleapt to her feet. 'As I said, the whole thing seems like a nightmare now. Ireally don't know. The bedroom door may have been open, but…'

Shepaced to and fro before sitting down again. Frølich revelled in the sightthrough half-closed eyes.

'Butwhen you got up for the first time, and you were petrified, didn't you checkthe front door?'

'Ithink so. I'm not sure.'

'Wasit locked?'

'Idon't know. I think so. Yes, of course it was. I get so confused…'

'Soif someone had been in here – he must have been long gone?'

Shesent him a suspicious glance. 'What do you mean now?'

'Sinceyou didn't hear anything, the person who left snow on the floor must have goneby the time you woke up – isn't that right?'

Shegave him another wary look. 'Of course. I didn't understand what you meant.'

Frølichstudied her again. He thought: Is she lying? There was definitelysomething bothering her. The interview had not gone smoothly. 'Is thereanything missing from the bedroom?' he asked. 'Has anything been stolen?'

'No.That's one of the things that makes me think it was Reidar who came in to seeme.'

'Wasyour husband in good health?' the policeman asked.

Shebreathed out. 'I wish we all enjoyed the good health he had!'

'Sohe didn't have any complaints of any kind?'

'Whatdo you mean?' 'He didn't complain about pains in his back, or kidneys, orlegs…'

'No.'

Frølichnodded to himself. 'Does the number one hundred and ninety-five mean anythingto you?'

Hehad held the question back, wondering how to phrase it. Now he was happy withthe way it had come out, but it fell on stony ground. She shook her head andshrugged.

'Nothing?'

'No.'

'Nothingthat connects your husband with this number – one hundred and ninety-five?'

'Sorry,'she said. 'Nothing I can think of.'

'Inthere…' Frølich motioned towards the bedroom she had shown him. 'In yourbedroom, have you washed the floors?'

'Yes…'

Frølichthought. 'We could just have a quick look…'

IngridJespersen heaved a deep sigh.

'Well,let me see,' he mumbled, getting to his feet. 'I suppose it isn't reallynecessary.'

Chapter 15

'Youcan relax,' Gunnarstranda reassured him. 'We'll keep an eye on Ingrid Jespersen.Round the clock.' He yawned. 'But whether there's any point is another matter.I'm more interested in getting an inventory of registered items in their shop.Karsten Jespersen can go through the list,' he continued and added: 'To see ifanything has been stolen.' Gunnarstranda stretched and yawned again. 'But itcan't be a burglary. That's out of the question. The only thief we havestumbled across so far is Karsten Jespersen. But that's the classic inheritancesquabble.' The Detective Inspector rose to his feet, went to the desk, openedthe top drawer and took out his darts.

'Whodo you want?' Frølich asked, going through the various newspaper cuttings onhis green desk pad.

'What'sthe choice?'

Frølichstudied the cuttings. 'Director of Public Prosecutions, Minister of Justice,Pamela Anderson and various celebs.'

'Asuper-model who plays the devil in a film about ghosts?'

'No.Why?'

'Afilm I saw yesterday,' Gunnarstranda said and went on: 'Which celebs?'

Frølichshook his head. 'None you know. They do TV shows on Saturday nights.'

'Oneof them,' Gunnarstranda said, taking the page from the newspaper. He pinned thepage to the board and took five steps back. 'Nose,' he said, throwing a dartwhich hit the celebrity in the middle of the eye.

'Notbad,' Frølich said.

'Nose,'Gunnarstranda repeated, threw and hit the woman on the chin.

Frølichgave an appreciative nod. 'What do we think about Ingrid Jespersen's storyabout the uninvited bedroom guest, snow melting on the floor and so on?'

'Mightbe true,' Gunnarstranda said, taking aim.

'Howcan it be true if it wasn't her old man?'

'Thekeys.'

'Whichkeys?'

'Nose.'

Thedart missed the page and Gunnarstranda winced. He said: 'There weren't any keysthere.'

'Where?'

'Inthe pockets of the dead man or in the shop.' He turned to Frølich. 'When theold man went down to the shop he must have unlocked the door, mustn't he? Andhe must have made sure he had the key on him so that he could return to theflat, don't you think? If there are no keys to be found, the perpetrator musthave taken them and so the same person could easily have got into Reidar FolkeJespersen's flat.' He threw the last dart, which hit the smiling celebrity rightin the mouth.

'Whywould he steal the dead man's keys if he wasn't going to use them? Anyway, themissing keys are a good enough reason to keep a watchful eye on IngridJespersen.'

'Youdon't think it was the dead man who left the snow on the floor then?'

'Yes,I do. The soles of his shoes had thick tread. But then this business with thekeys is a mystery!'

Gunnarstrandawent to the board, released the darts, went back five steps and took aim.'Right eye!'

Missed.He said: 'Ingrid Jespersen says she went to bed between eleven and half past.At that time Reidar was in the flat. She sleeps until half past two and iswoken by what she alleges is an uninvited guest in the bedroom…'

'No.'Frølich shook his head. 'She was alone, but she thinks Reidar popped in. Themost probable explanation is that Folke Jespersen went for an evening walk. Hecame back to the flat, but realized that he needed to go down to the shop andthere must have been something he wanted from the bedroom, the keys to the shopfor all we know, and so he went into the bedroom. He still had snow on hisshoes. Then he went down to the shop, met the murderer and was killed. Myproblem is that I feel she is holding something back. When I pushed her, shewent very odd. But what she is holding back – I have no idea. Anyway, sheinsists she lay awake from half past two until seven in the morning and did nothear a sound. According to Schwenke, Jespersen was killed between eleven p.m.and three a.m. If it was Jespersen who left the snow on her floor, she musthave been woken up by the sounds of the murder. Anyway, that would fitSchwenke's timescale.'

Gunnarstrandatook aim.

'Talkingabout the keys…' Frølich said, 'Karsten Jespersen unlocked the flat for us.'

Gunnarstrandathrew, but missed the eye. 'I suppose we ought to ask him if he used his ownkeys.'

'Butthat's a bit strange, isn't it?' Frølich said. 'Karsten having keys to theflat?'

'Idon't think it's so strange him having keys. After all, the dead man was hisfather. Don't you have a key to your mother's place?'

'Yes,but my mother lives on her own. Karsten's father had re-married.'

Theylooked at each other. 'Well, I suppose it doesn't have to mean anything,'Frølich concluded, adding: 'According to Ingrid, Karsten's wife said he wasn'tat home at half past two in the morning. And the guy has keys to the flat.'

'We'llhave to ask anyway,' Gunnarstranda said, going over to the board and pullingout the darts. 'Even if Karsten Jespersen was at home and asleep, it doesn'thurt to ask.'

Chapter 16

DetectiveInspector Gunnarstranda was shown into Movinckel's office – the solicitor for ReidarFolke Jespersen – by a young woman. Here he was received by an even youngerwoman. When she stood up, it turned out she was a little shorter than him. Shehad short, cropped hair and a round face without a single wrinkle. Her skin waswhite with rosy red cheeks like his image of dairymaids. When she smiled, sherevealed a row of white teeth dominated by two large top incisors. She waswearing dark flared slacks and a yellow cardigan. 'You seem surprised,' shesaid.

'Andyou seem young,' Gunnarstranda said, looking around. It didn't look much like asolicitor's office. It was decorated with luxuriant ivy and a number ofvarieties of the ficus plant on the window sills. On the walls hung art postersin pastel colours: Ferdinand Finne from Galleri F15 and Carl Larssonfrom the same Moss gallery.

'Youdidn't think an elderly man would choose a young solicitor? A woman? Well,you're right,' she said. 'He didn't. Herr Folke Jespersen originally chose myfather. When I took over my father's practice, he was one of the customers whotook a risk and stayed with me.'

Shemotioned with her hand to the chair" in front of the desk. 'How can I helpyou?'

Gunnarstrandatook a seat and crossed his legs. 'I was wondering if Reidar Folke Jespersenleft a will.'

Shelooked down. 'No,' she answered at length.

'Youhesitate?'

Sherevealed her teeth again. Her face seemed to have been cut out of a pumpkin,thought Gunnarstranda. She seemed to be bursting with a milky-white freshness.She had to belong to that breed of people who do not feel well until they havebeen out jogging in the morning. 'You hesitate,' he repeated.

'Yes,'she said, her lips still parted in a pumpkin-smile. 'He had a will until theday before he died.'

Gunnarstrandasucked his teeth and stretched out his legs.

'Ican understand your reaction,' she said thoughtfully and looked down. 'Ofcourse, a case like this is somewhat delicate.'

'Whathappened?' asked the policeman, impatient to move on.

'Hephoned me on the afternoon of Friday the thirteenth wanting to revoke hiswill.'

'Phoned?'the policeman asked darkly.

'Indeed,'she said. 'That's part of what makes it delicate. Perhaps the probate courtwill have to step in here.'

'You'repositive it was him on the phone?'

'Nodoubt about it. It was him.'

'Whendid he call?'

'Lateafternoon. A bit before five, I think.'

'Andhow did you answer?'

'Theway I answered you. Of course it was fine, but officially he should have comehere in person and presented his request.'

'Whatdid he say?'

'Hesaid he didn't have time.'

'Didn'thave time?'

'Yes.'

'Howdid you interpret that?'

'Ithink he was ill.'

Gunnarstrandaangled his head and waited.

'I don'tthink he had much time left,' she went on.

'Didhe ever talk to you about any illness?'

Shesent him a faint smile, as though she had remembered something funny.

'Never.But some time in the autumn – October or November – I met him in Bygdøy allé.He rushed up to me and seemed – erm – ill and very old. He was holding a leaf -from a tree – must have been either maple or chestnut…'

'Didit have fingers?'

'Fingers?'

'Wasit like a large hand with fingers?'

'Yes,it was.'

'Thenit was a horse chestnut.'

'Hm,well, at any rate, the point is that he stopped me. He didn't say hello, he wasexcited, almost like a boy. "Look," he shouted. "Have you everseen such a large leaf?" I stood gaping at him and didn't quite know whatto say – to me the leaf could have been any leaf in the autumn, yellowing ofcourse, and quite big. "Yes,"I said. "It is a nice leaf." He beamed like a young boy."Isn't it!" he grinned and said: "I'll have to go home and showit to Ingrid." With that he toddled off up the street and home.'

Gunnarstrandasat staring into the beyond with a lined brow. 'And this incident made youthink he was ill?'

Witha grave expression, she nodded her head. 'I watched him disappear. This proudman who all of a sudden seemed shaky and bent, and then this outburst. I'dnever seen him like that, neither before nor after. It was like he was runninghome to mummy. I remember thinking: he hasn't got long to live now.'

'Sohe was ill.'

'Notjust ill, but at death's door.' She frowned. 'He seemed frail, on his lastlegs.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'And the will?'

'It'shere, but officially it has been revoked and won't be presented to thebeneficiaries.'

'Whenwas it made?'

'Along time ago, before my time. He was here last summer and went through thewording with me, on his own. That was all. But we didn't make any changes.'

'Didhe seem ill then?'

'No,'she smiled. 'Just old.'

'Didhe give any reason for revoking the will?'

'No.'She shook her head.

'Andthe request – it wasn't accompanied by any comments, such as why he chose toring you at that precise moment?'

Herlips parted in another smile. 'I'm afraid not. I thought you would ask. He wentstraight to the point. All I did was to ask him if he wanted to make anotherwill. But he said no.'

'Withoutoffering any explanation?' 'That's right.'

'Andthen?' asked Gunnarstranda, impatiently. 'The will?' she asked and said: 'It's veryshort. Nothing earth-shattering in it. I think you'll be disappointed.'

'Letme be the judge of that.'

Withoutanother word the solicitor moved away some papers and opened a yellowingenvelope on the table. 'Here you are. Feel free,' she said, passing him thedocument.

Chapter 17

Eva-Brittserved fried Arctic char and made a lot of fuss about the trouble she had goneto in order to lay her hands on some. At first he ignored the cutting remarks,but he didn't escape. She attacked his complacency, and went on with her usualrant about his lack of commitment to the relationship, and his escapism whichmanifested itself in indifference since he had not even bothered to buy fish onthe way home as she had asked. Of course, she had known he would forgeteverything and had therefore done the shopping herself. He studied hernoticeboard for the duration of the tirade. Home, he thought to himself,contemplating the postcard he had once sent her from a course in Bergen, therow of Beaujolais nouveau wine labels, the other cards from her friends, allwith the conspicuously similar Mediterranean beach scenes, and right at thebottom a few words of wisdom signed by Piet Hein. He knew he would explode ifhe made an effort to answer. Her goal was to vent all her pent-up frustrationbefore the meal, an objective which he was generous enough to let her achievewithout any interruptions so that he could have the first beer of the eveningwithout her starting up again.

Afterthey had eaten Frank Frølich sat thinking about Ingrid Jespersen. He couldn'tget the thought out of his head that she had lived for a quarter of a centurywith a man who was a quarter of a century older than her. He and Eva-Brittoccupied their fixed places in her living room – in front of her new widescreenTV. He turned the volume right down and zapped between channels. But he hadpicked a bad time. There were advertisements or crap series about young celebson every channel. On Eurosport there was a boxing match between two roly-polywelterweights waddling around the ring. Every time he pressed the remote controlthe TV screen flashed, sending bluish-green tints along the walls towardsEva-Britt who was curled up in her new, white armchair from Ikea. She wasimmersed in a book by a writer called Melissa Banks and immune to his boredom.Frank switched off the television.

'Whydo women decide to marry older men?' he asked.

Eva-Brittraised her head and sent him a distant look.

'Iwas just wondering why young women marry older men.'

'Infact I'm older than you,' Eva-Britt said. 'Eight months.'

'Mm…'He considered how to express himself. 'Do you remember Rita?'

Eva-Brittlooked up from her book again. 'Rita?'

'Shewas in the year above us at school.'

'Oh,her.' Eva-Britt flicked through the book absent-mindedly, helping herself to abiscuit from the dish on the table and taking a nibble.

'Shewas with… Anders, the dark-haired guy… almost five years older than her…'

'Mm.'Eva-Britt smiled at something she was reading.

'Therewas always such a terrible to-do at parties. No one wanted to invite him whileRita was always nagging and pushing for him to be invited. Do you rememberthat?'

Eva-Brittwas munching the biscuit.

'Weren'tyou in love with Anders, too?'

'Hey?'She looked up.

'Therewas something between you and him. At one party…'

Eva-Brittput the book down. Frank could see her ear- lobes going pink. 'What are yougoing on about now?'

'Iwas wondering why women choose older men.'

'I'mnot in the slightest bit interested in older men!'

'Did Isay you were?'

'You'retalking about things that happened many years ago!'

Franksighed. 'When you're with Trude, the only thing you talk about is yourschooldays,' he countered. 'Teachers, crushes and all the so-called crazythings you did to celebrate the end of school!'

Shetook a deep breath. There was an ominous hard look in her eyes. He didn't havethe stamina for her to crank it up again so late in the evening. Time to row tothe shore, he thought with a diplomatic smile. 'You see, I've interviewed thiswoman who is twenty-five years younger than her husband. I mean, she'sattractive, elegant and all that, but she chose such an old man. I don'tunderstand.'

'That'sbecause you're thinking the wrong way around. Women don't choose older men.It's older men who chase younger women!' 'Mm,' he sighed, trying to imagineIngrid Jespersen being courted by older men. What did she have in common withthe dead man, except for an interest in design, he wondered. The same taste inmusic? Friends? She had been interested in literature – he hadn't. On the otherhand, the son was interested in literature – Karsten.

Eva-Britthad opened her book again, but was looking at him with gentler eyes now. 'Doesit have to be a mystery? It could be true love,' she suggested silkily.

Hegave an ironic smile. 'True love?'

Shesent him a meaningful glance from over the top of the book. 'Like ours.'

Heside-stepped the provocation and said: 'If it wasn't true love – like ours -what could it be?'

'Ishe rich?'

'Presumeso.'

'Hasshe got a difficult relationship with her father… I mean… are her parentsdivorced… or is her father a sailor?'

'Ihave no idea.'

'Moneyand/or no father figure,' Eva-Britt suggested, searching for the right page inher book. 'Young girls, on the other hand,' she smiled, tucking her legsbeneath her on the chair, 'young girls choose slightly older boys because theyhave fewer pimples, broader shoulders and are a bit more experienced thancertain other boys.'

FrankFrølich switched the television back on.

'Areyou bored?' she asked.

Helifted the remote control and pressed. 'Bored? No…'

Chapter 18

Thepick-up arm refused to lift. The sound in the loudspeakers was reminiscent of wornwindscreen wipers rubbing against a dry windscreen. At last Gunnarstranda gotout of his chair, went over to the record player, activated the lever to raisethe arm and blew away the dust that had gathered on the stylus. Then he loweredthe stylus down. The old Tandberg speakers emitted scratching sounds until thefirst guitar notes of Peggy Lee's 'Love is Just Around the Corner' stole intothe room. Gunnarstranda stood for a few reflective moments by the window. Heheld his hand against the glass and felt the cold penetrating the pane. Then healmost pressed his face against the glass to read the temperature on theoutside thermometer with the fading blue numbers. Minus 23. Down on thepavement in Bergensgata a woman wearing a coat walked into the yellow glare ofthe streetlamp. She was taking a lean setter for its evening walk. The dog didnot enjoy the cold weather. Its movements, which would normally be supple andbouncy, were reluctant and stiff; its head and tail trailed along the ground.The woman seemed to be dragging it along. The policeman watched them for alittle while until he sat back at his desk. He stared down at the scrap ofpaper on which he had jotted the code that been written in pen on the murderedman's chest. He rested his head on his hands without taking his eyes off thenumbers. In the end he grabbed the almost full bottle of Ballantine's which wason the tray beside the typewriter and twisted off the cork. He poured twocentimetres of whisky into a tumbler. As he raised the glass to drink, thetelephone rang. He took the receiver.

'Isthat you?' It was Yttergjerde's voice.

Gunnarstrandaswallowed and felt the spirit burn its way down to his stomach. 'What did yousay?' he rasped.

'You'reusually so abrupt on the phone,' Yttergjerde said. 'I was beginning to wonderif there was something wrong.'

'Whatdo you want?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'She'sgot a man,' Yttergjerde said.

'Name?'

'EyolfStrømsted. Runs a dance school. Looks like that anyway. This evening there wasa salsa course and African dance. You should have seen it, a black man with adrum and about fifty Norwegian women shaking their butts.'

'Andour lady?'

'Atfirst I thought she was on the course, but she went straight to this guywearing yellow pants and a silver shirt. He had a microphone round his neck,the kind of loop thing in front of his mouth that TV hosts have. He gyrated andjigged through the dancers, and when he screamed into the mike, you could hearhim in the speakers along with the music – what are you listening to you by theway?'

Gunnarstrandalooked across at the record player. 'A singer. Jazz ballads.'

'Notquite the same beat, no, this was salsa. When she arrived, there was a bit of acommotion because the guy had to get someone else to take over.'

'Didshe see you? Were you in the same room?'

'Therewere loads of people there. She didn't see me.'

'Goon.'

'Theywent outside to the car and drove off. So I followed them. They parked in thecar lot outside the Munch museum. Sort of discreet, under the trees by thefence around Toyen Park. And there I watched them sitting and smooching foralmost forty minutes, so I guess it must have been more than smooching. Shedrove the guy back to the dance school and went home.'

'Andyou?'

'Whenthe widow had gone, I was off duty and went back to the dance school. At lastthe guy came out and locked up. He walked home. Lives in Jacob Aalls gate, inMajorstua. That's where I found his name. He shot up the stairs about fiveminutes ago.'

'Goodwork, Yttergjerde. It's cold. You should go home and get warm.'

'I'mnever cold,' whinnied Yttergjerde. 'In this freezing weather people take codliver oil and vitamins, but there's no point – what counts is eating spicyfood. You should remember that. Just add three or four cloves of garlic to youreggs for breakfast, and red chilli peppers, best if they're so hot you can'tbreathe and break out into sweat. With that kind of firepower on board yourhands will never be cold. You can walk around in minus 2o with your shirt offand still the steam will be coming off you. Not one germ, not one virus, willget a hold inside your mouth. Your breath will kill healthy potted plants. Youbecome immortal, man, immortal.'

'Yes,yes,' said Gunnarstranda.

'Yes,'said Yttergjerde.

'Sleeptight,' Gunnarstranda said and put down the telephone before his colleaguecould give him the recipe for a good night's sleep. He took the tumbler and drankthe rest of the whisky. Then he picked up the ballpoint pen and drew a triangleon the scrap of paper. In the two bottom corners he wrote the names Ingrid andReidar Folke Jespersen. In the top corner he wrote Eyolf Strømsted. Finally, heput three crosses under the triangle. Three crosses, and he was careful to drawthem like those on the forehead of Jespersen's body.

Chapter 19

WhenFrølich entered the office, Gunnarstranda was engrossed in the Aftenposten.'Anything about us in there?' he enquired.

Gunnarstrandashook his head.

'Andthe will?' Frølich asked.

Gunnarstrandalowered his paper. 'Disappointing. Just a list of specific items of property -Karsten would get some wardrobe, that sort of thing. The old boy doesn't sayanything about anyone being cut out or favoured. No secret beneficiaries,nothing. There's just a list of about twenty to thirty items and who will getthem – that is to say: Ingrid and Karsten.'

'What'sthe upshot of him revoking the will?'

'Itmeans his estate will be thrown into one big pot. Ingrid will get half of thebroth plus her share of the old boy's legacy. Karsten will be paid off. That'sall. The revocation of the will just means that Karsten and Ingrid have toargue about who gets what.'

'Butwhy change such a crappy will a few hours before he is murdered?'

Gunnarstrandasighed in response. 'Yet another mystery in our files.'

'Whatsort of things were on the list?'

'Wardrobes,pornographic Chinese carvings, that sort of thing. I wrote it all down. Whatabout you?'

Frølichsighed and rubbed his eyes. 'I've interviewed every single occupant of theirblock,' he said, consulting his notes. 'Interested?'

'Giveme the edited highlights.'

'Onthe ground floor only shops. As far as the first floor is concerned, it'soccupied by Ingrid Jespersen. On the second there's a married couple in oneflat – herr and fru Holmgren. Both between fifty and sixty. He works for a toolagency. She's his secretary. They didn't hear a thing on Friday. They werewatching TV and went to bed at about half past twelve. The man's mother, AslaugHolmgren, lives in the adjacent flat. She's almost eighty, same age as the deadman, and she thinks Reidar Folke Jespersen was an arrogant, snobbishbuffoon, but had nothing to tell us about the evening in question. Herhearing isn't so good, and she usually goes to bed after watching a seriesabout the FIB, as she called them. She didn't approve of NRK putting on crimeprogrammes so late. Also, she wanted Oberinspektor Derrick back on TVand thought we police could learn a lot from it. Said she went to bed at elevenand didn't hear a thing.'

InspectorGunnarstranda chewed his lower lip, deep in thought. 'And that's all the peoplewho live in the building?' he asked.

'I crossedthe street too,' Frølich said. 'Got a nibble there. A mysterious car.'

'Ohyes?'

'Itried to work out who would have had a view of the shop. Since the killing tookplace at night, in practice that meant quite a lot of flats.'

'What sortof people?'

'Cross-sectionof Oslo 3: a typographer who works on a newspaper - Vart Land. He liveson his own with a dog. Then there's a young couple – he's a cameraman with TVNorge; she works for Dagbladet. I spoke to a publishing editor who saidshe would also ask her children. She has two teenagers who weren't there at thetime. She thought she had seen a taxi parked outside the antiques shop for atleast an hour – that's what she maintained anyway.'

'Ataxi?'

Frølichnodded. 'And that's the only hot tip so far. A taxi – I asked whether the rooflight was on or not. It was. She said she thought it was strange that thetaxi's engine was running, or that it was there for so long.'

'Howlong?'

'Atleast an hour, she guessed. The problem is that this was early evening, beforeten – she said. Seems she had been working late – she had been to a meeting anddidn't get home until eight, half an hour after Jespersen arrived. She wasn'tsure whether the taxi was already there when she got in. But after taking ashower she looked through the window and saw it parked beneath her flat withthe engine running. At least three quarters of an hour later she looked againand the same car was still there.'

'Hadshe…?'

'I'mcoming to that,' Frølich interrupted. 'She looked out again later – beforegoing to bed. There was a Mercedes taxi parked in the road. She thought thetaxi with the engine running – the one she had seen before – had also been aMercedes. But the car she saw on her way to bed – its engine wasn't running.'

'Colour?'

'Dark.'

Thetwo detectives stared at each other.

'Itcould have been three different taxis,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Every second taxiin Oslo is a Mercedes – at least. And this is one of the most densely populatedareas of the city.'

'Twomen live in the top flat,' Frølich continued. 'One of them works in local radioand calls himself "Terje Telemonster". Perhaps you've heard of theguy? He rings people up and is a kind of telephone terrorist. If the victimworks in a hotel he rings and says he's on night duty and has been locked in abroom cupboard and he's starving, or he rings the emergency doctor and sayshe's on top of his wife and can't get his ding-a-ling out of her muff. Veryfunny guy.'

'Soundsextremely funny,' Gunnarstranda said, deadpan.

'It'spopular anyway. And he lives with a sort of drag artist, a guy who's intoEgyptian stuff. He does belly- dancing. And male belly dancers are a bitspecial.'

'Well?Had they seen anything?'

'Nothing.The taxi was all I managed to turn up,' Frølich summarized.

'Whatimpression did people have of our old man?'

'Anonymous,elderly. Those who knew who he was connected him with the shop. Only Holmgrenand his wife knew he was married to Ingrid. Several people recognize her -because she's kept herself in shape.' Frølich grinned and mimicked them: 'Oh,is that who you mean? The good-looking one, no spring chicken, but she keepsherself in good shape.'

'Great,'Gunnarstranda mumbled.

'Theman who lived alone, with a dog, asked if I knew anything about the personstealing his newspaper. He seemed a bit manic – had put a wide-angle lens inthe door to see who was stealing his newspaper every morning.'

'Observant?'

'Ithought that too, but the problem is that all his attention is focused on thedoor. He couldn't tell me anything about activity in the street. And thiscouple – the man working for TV Norge and the woman for Dagbladet - hadbeen out to a seafood evening and didn't come back until five o'clock in themorning.'

'Anddidn't see anything?'

'Zilch.They returned in a taxi, but neither of them noticed any parked cars when theycame home. I have the licence number of the taxi they came home in. The TVcameraman had kept the receipt, so I'll talk to the taxi driver – he may haveseen something. But the two of them had been pretty pissed and staggered intobed without noticing the shop window across the street or anything. By the way,they were able to confirm that the window was never lit at night.'

Gunnarstrandawiped his upper lip. 'I came across something the son – Karsten – has written,'he mumbled, wiping his lip again.

'Where?'

'Istumbled across an article in an old journal – amazing what you hang ontoreally,' Gunnarstranda said. 'A back-copy of Farmand.''

'Farmand?'

'Anold organ for reactionary intellectuals, a journal that died a death many yearsago.'

'Whatdid he write about?'

'Theprison system.'

'MyGod. Is he any good? At writing?'

Gunnarstrandaopened the top drawer of his desk and rummaged. 'There was quite an interestingbit about a man who went mental in solitary confinement, but the rest was…'Gunnarstranda shrugged, produced a pair of tweezers from the drawer, stood upand went to the mirror hanging on the wall beside the door and continued: '…banal reflections on the treatment of criminals, but strangely enough there wasnone of the usual harping on about custody and human rights.'

'Musthave been editorial guidelines,' Frølich said. 'If the journal was reactionary,as you say.'

Gunnarstrandatook a concentrated hold on the tweezers and pulled out a hair from hisnostril. He scrutinized his catch carefully. 'Must have been,' he conceded. 'Ithink you may well be right.'

Chapter 20

'Where can I hangmy coat?' Susanne Jespersen asked, removing a dark, fur-lined garment which shepassed to Frank Frølich. She looked around. 'What have you done with thatimpudent boss of yours?'

Frølichstood for a few moments wondering what he should do with the heavy outdoorcoat. In the end he made up his mind, moved a few things off the little tablein front of the sofa and put it there.

'I'vebeen to see the solicitor,' Susanne Jespersen said. 'He's not allowed to treatus like this, so there will be repercussions. Mark my words!'

'Ofcourse,' Frølich mumbled. He knew he had put his notepad somewhere. He had hadit in his hands, used it when he was writing the report. But he didn't have aclue where it was now.

'I'vebeen finding out about your boss,' Susanne ranted on. 'And I happen to know heis not flavour of the month. I have contacts in high places. And I won't put upwith much more from him. You can tell him that from me!'

'Right,'Frølich said, scanning his own and his boss's desks. No notepad in sight.

Susannestudied herself in the mirror and straightened the belt she had put around herwaist. 'We'll go and collect our personal property. After all, Karsten is theshop in person. We'll take the property that belongs to us, we will. Don'tthink this despotic gnome will frighten us away! Got that'

'Absolutely,'Frølich said, rubbing his nose. 'I took her coat…'he muttered to himself.

'Andon top of that I have to take a day off work, postpone important meetings, butit won't happen again. I've been making enquiries, I have, and I know you needa court order!'

Frølichfound it under the coat. He lifted it up and there was his notepad.

'Yousee, I've got you there, haven't I!'

'Pleasetake a seat,' Frølich said, pointing to an uncluttered chair.

'As Ithought! But now that poor me has made the effort to come here, I may as wellstay,' Susanne Jespersen said. 'Get it over with,' she added, folding her armsabove the handbag resting on her lap.

'Exactly,'Frølich said. The telephone rang. 'Excuse me,' he said, walking over toGunnarstranda's desk and lifting the receiver. 'Gunnarstranda's phone.' Hewatched Susanne Jespersen with his mind elsewhere. She studied herself in themirror on the wall, adjusted her long hair, plunged into her handbag and pulledout a lipstick which she ran across her lips.

'Yes,she's arrived,' Frølich said. 'Yes, I'll remember that,' he said and cradledthe receiver.

Susannesat down. She pulled a face. Frølich thought at first she was havingconvulsions – until he recalled her putting on lipstick. For a moment he wonderedhow old she was. Thirty-five, he thought, between thirty-five and forty, but noolder than forty. She was a bit plump and round-shouldered, with thin lips. Nowthat she had painted them red, they looked like a smudged brushstroke on anotherwise grey painting.

'Yourmother-in-law rang you in the middle of the night?'

'Oh,my God,' Susanne sighed, resigned. 'I assume you mean my late father-in-law'spartner – Ingrid Folke Jespersen, nee Rasmussen. And, yes, it is correct thatshe gave me a buzz.…' Susanne pronounced the final words with a pinchedexpression around her mouth. 'Ingrid Folke Jespersen, nee Rasmussen, doesn'tphone, you see, she doesn't ring either, she gives you a buzz – and shedoes that whenever it suits her, at six, five, four, three or two o'clock atnight. And she was so scared?'

'Soshe did ring?'

'Karsten!I'm so scared! Come and hold me, Karsten!'

Frølichcalmly observed her. 'Are you suggesting that she and your husband are havingan affair?' he asked in a cold voice.

'Howdare you!'

'Answerthe question,' Frølich said with force.

SusanneJespersen lost her composure. 'No, I do not mean to suggest anything of thekind.'

Frølichfelt some silence would be appropriate. So he took his time noting down heranswer.

'Butshe's an insufferable nag. And sometimes she seems to be trying to catchKarsten on his own. For that reason I did not wake him when she rang thatnight…' Susanne was on the point of slipping into the role as her old self whenshe added in an angrier tone: 'But I don't regret it! After all, it was halfpast two in the morning. Like other people, she has to understand that youcan't ring in the middle of the night, even though your husband's bed is empty.What would I do if Karsten went out on the town or came home late – ringeverybody I know? Eh?'

Frølichregarded the woman sitting on the chair. Imagine being married to her, hethought gloomily. Imagine waking up with her in the morning! Every single morning.Imagine coming home to her after a long, tiring day. He caught himselfextending Karsten his sympathies as he said:

'Soyour husband was at home asleep all night?'

'Yes.'

'Haveyou or your husband a key to the flat in Thomas Heftyes gate?'

'Karstenhas,' she said. 'It's where he grew up, isn't it!'

'Butyou haven't?'

Sheshook her head.

'Youlet Karsten sleep when she rang. What did she say on the phone – word forword?'

'Shesaid: "Susanne, it's me, Ingrid. Could you ask Karsten to come over?Reidar's not here and I'm scared.'"

'Didyou have the impression she was as scared as she maintained?'

Susannerecoiled and poisoned daggers took up residence in her eyes. 'Do you mean…?'

'No,'Frølich said firmly. 'I don't mean anything of the kind. Just describe how youperceived the situation?' 'Well, I was out of it. This was half past two atnight. I had been in bed only two or three hours. But I remember what she said.I was pretty shaken myself!'

'Andwhat did you answer?'

'Isaid I would say she'd rung.'

'Yes?'

'Shesaid something about a break-in and being scared…'

Frølichwaited for her to go on.

'Idon't remember every word. There was something about her being worried about abreak-in. I couldn't be bothered to listen. They had been talking about break-ins all evening – I mean the evening before, when we were at their place.'

'Theytalked about break-ins?'

'Yes,it was a terrible evening – so depressing. Do you know what we talked about?How tender the steak was. We talked about food and how the shop downstairsmight be burgled.'

'Wasthis a departure from the norm?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Well,was it always so boring or was there a particular atmosphere that evening?'

'Therewas a particular atmosphere. Ingrid seemed very nervous – she is not usually.Reidar was just sullen. But he always is.'

'Whatdo you mean she seemed nervous?'

Susannethought back. 'She knocked a glass of wine over the table cloth. She seemedhyper and clumsy. Nerves, nothing more, nothing less.'

Frølichjotted this down.

'Thething is I thought the way Ingrid spoke that night – being scared about abreak-in – it all seemed, well, a little convenient.'

'Convenient?'

'Yes,a little conspicuous, as though she were using it as a pretext to get Karstenup in the middle of the night. I said he wasn't at home and put down thephone.'

'Doyou mean that Ingrid is interested in your husband?'

'Ididn't say that!'

'Myunderstanding was that Ingrid had a better relationship with your husband thanwith you!'

'That'strue enough. It's a good observation. Exactly. You said it.'

'What'sthe reason for that?'

'Areyou asking me?'

'Whatdo your husband and Ingrid talk about?'

'Books!'

'Youdon't say. Books.'

'Karstenhas a talent, he can write, you know. He's done talks on the radio and writtenarticles for the newspaper. But, Ingrid, she just reads novels. And she has gotit into her head that they have something in common.'

'Thatevening,' Frølich said with emphasis. 'That evening when you were visitingReidar, do you know if anything unusual happened, if someone came to the dooror if someone rang?'

'Therewere a number of phone calls.'

'Anumber?'

'Yes,I saw Reidar talking on the phone, but I have no interest in who people phone…''So Reidar was making the calls?'

'I'veno idea. I saw him talking on the phone. That was all.'

'Howmany calls were there?'

'One,maybe two, perhaps three. I wasn't following.'

'Butyou must know if it was one or three calls?'

'Therewere more than one. That's all I can say.'

'Fine,'Frølich said, and hastened to add before she could continue: 'Ingrid rang youin the middle of the night, but she rang you later too – in the morning.'

'Yes,at half past seven. But then Karsten answered the phone. Oh God, I regrettaking the children – with Grandad lying there, dead!'

'Infact I met your boy. Nice boy.'

'Hm,'Susanne grunted.

'Didyou like your father-in-law?'

'Yes,'came the firm response from the woman on the chair.

'Really?'

'Isometimes helped him with the annual accounts. I can do that – accountancy. Idon't have a problem with numbers. You can say what you like, but Reidar FolkeJespersen was a decent person, solid.'

'Doyou think he had many enemies?'

'Hehad friends and enemies. I was a friend. But enemies? No doubt. That doesn'tbother me, though. I looked upon him as a friend.'

'So youconsidered him…' Frølich searched for words. 'You considered him to be in goodhealth?'

Susannebent forward. 'That man would have outlived us all,' she said. 'The lot of us.''If I say the numbers one-nine-five, does that mean anything to you?'

Sherolled her shoulders.

'Nothingyou connect with these numbers? The whole number? Single digits? No relevanceto your father-in- law? Accounts? Tax? Anything at all?'

Susannestared into space. 'No idea,' she said at last.

'Andyour husband? Was there a good relationship between father and son?' Frølichimmediately regretted the question. A suspicious, conspiratorial glint cameinto the eyes of his witness the moment he said the last word.

'Ofcourse,' Susanne said, and added: 'Are there really no other officers to put onthis case? After all, it is a murder and has to be cleared up.'

'Thankyou,' Frølich said, standing up and passing her coat. 'I have no furtherquestions for the time being.'

Chapter 21

EmmanuelFolke Jespersen lived in a cul-de-sac in Haslum. Cars were parkedhiggledy-piggledy alongside the fences, packed in a thick blanket of snow. Thesnow- ploughs had snaked their way through. Inspector Gunnarstranda parked in agap between two well- wrapped cars. There was a line of four red terracedhouses. Each house had a handkerchief of a garden in front of the door. A blackand white cat, tranquil and picturesque, sat on the front doorstep. The stephad been swept; the piassava broom was blue and the shaft decorated with rosesin Norwegian style. As soon as Gunnarstranda put his foot on the little stepand rang the bell, the cat rose and brushed against his left trouser leg.

Thedoor was opened by a chubby, young woman with curly hair and glasses. 'Oh,there you are,' she laughed, a little disorientated, as the cat slipped in.'Are you the man from the police?' she asked, holding the door open forGunnarstranda, who nodded. 'My grandfather's in the living room.'

Softviolin music resonated from somewhere inside as Gunnarstranda hung his coat onthe peg the woman showed him. 'I'll be off soon,' she assured him. 'I justpromised to lend a hand.'

Thepoliceman followed her down a narrow corridor.

Theypassed a staircase to the first floor and continued into a smallish roomfurnished with a piano and an English-style leather three piece suite. Theviolin music came from an old stereo cabinet positioned beneath the window – acomfortable arm's length away from Emmanuel Folke Jespersen, who struggled tohis feet and extended his hand in greeting.

Jespersenhad two squinting eyes set in a round face dominated by a heavy jaw. His hairwas completely white and shone like a Christmas tree decoration.

'I'llbe off then,' the young woman said to Folke Jespersen after pouring coffee forhim and the policeman.

'Right,'the man said, glancing across the table where a flower-patterned coffee flask,cups and a plate of biscuits had been placed. Jespersen pulled out a slimcigarillo from the breast pocket of his pink shirt. 'Mind if I smoke?'

'Notat all,' Gunnarstranda answered, pulling out his own roll-up tobacco andputting it on the table. Again he screwed up his eyes against the low wintersun bursting in through the window. 'I can't sit here,' he said and moved tothe opposite corner of the sofa.

Emmanuelturned and raised his arm in salute to the young woman closing the door behindher. 'Grandchild,' he said in explanation. 'Kristin. Great girl. Helpful.' Heflicked a lighter and puffed the cigarillo into life. Through the loudspeakersthe music swelled to a crescendo.

'Beautiful,'Gunnarstranda said.

'Oneof the new rising stars,' Jespersen explained, blowing a smoke ring, whichquivered, rose in the sunlight and slowly disintegrated. He picked up the CDsleeve lying on the table between them. 'She looks good, too – unbelievablybeautiful, these young lady violinists. They almost play more on their sexualitythan on their music.'

Gunnarstrandatook the sleeve. The photograph on the front was of a dark-haired beauty posingwith a violin against a sinister background – an urban night scene with darkshadows. Her clothes were provocative and her make-up voluptuous, and shestared at him with moist, parted lips. 'A few years ago I would have thoughtshe was a glamour model, but can you be sure?' he motioned towards thespeakers. 'Is it really her playing?'

EmmanuelFolke Jespersen nodded, amused, and rolled the cigarillo between his fingers.'Indeed, and not just that, apparently at concerts she stands in a swimmingcostume and plays. Imagine that. That's the way it is now. A gifted violinisthas to wear a bikini to make it!'

Gunnarstrandanodded: 'It reminds me of…' he began, but paused as Jespersen waved hiscigarillo to point out the violinist's virtuosity. Gunnarstranda listened outof courtesy until the orchestra came back in. He went on: 'When I was a youngpoliceman – that must have been in… I can't remember exactly when, but it's along time ago. I was up north. A lady moved up from Oslo and opened ahairdressing salon in her cellar, but she didn't get any customers until shebegan cutting people's hair in just her swimsuit.'

'Well,there you go… coffee?' Jespersen held up the flask.

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'There were single men and schoolboys and swingers, long queues of menwho went to have their hair cut, some of them had their hair cut several timesa week! No surprises there, she was a good-looking girl, but when the priestwent down for a haircut, the women in the district went into action.'

Jespersengave a deep guffaw. 'Did you have a haircut?'

'No,I was sent there because there were allegations that she had started doing bitsand bobs in the salon, and sometimes without even a swimsuit on.' Gunnarstrandapassed back the CD sleeve. 'So there's nothing new about swimsuits in the foodchain,' he concluded, stretching out his legs and making gestures ofappreciation as the music flowed out of the speakers: 'She can certainly play.'

'Schubert,'Jespersen said. 'He was Reidar's favourite composer, by the way.'

'Youdon't say?'

'Yes,he had a side he didn't show to everyone. How should I put it? His soft side -he reserved it for a small band of people.'

'Butyou were one of them?'

Jespersenanswered with a shrug and blew another, less successful, smoke ring towards theceiling.

Gunnarstrandaheld his coffee cup and raised it. 'You three had a chat the other day… I wastold you met at your brother's place, at Arvid's.' He took a sip of coffee andthen put down the cup.

'Yes,and it was sad. To part on such terms.'

'Whatterms?' 'We had a little dispute, and Reidar was upset. It was a shame – thatwe couldn't make up before he died.'

'Adispute?'

'Thiscouple, Iselin and Hermann, they want to buy the shop. Which I think iswonderful. I mean we're – all three of us – getting on and it would be nice tohave a lump sum and be finished with everything.'

'Youdidn't agree on the price?'

Jespersennodded his head gravely. 'Reidar did not want to sell.'

'Whynot?'

'Ihave no idea.'

'Hadhe had a sudden change of heart, or was he never involved in the sale?'

'Heknew about it. He hadn't been openly hostile until then, just undecided. Thatwas why we had the meeting.'

'Yousay you don't know why he turned down the offer. Could it have been to protecthis son? Karsten works there, doesn't he?'

Theman tilted his head, as though reflecting. 'Of course it's a possibility…' hemurmured. 'Although it doesn't seem altogether probable. Well, I don't knowwhy. Reidar was so unpredictable, you know. He…' Jespersen shook his headagain. 'To understand my hesitation you need to have known Reidar.' He pantedas he changed position in the chair, put out his arm and turned the volume downlow.

Thetwo of them exchanged looks. Jespersen bent forward in the chair. 'Reidardidn't give a shit about Karsten,' he stated. 'Reidar…' Jespersen leanedfurther forward, as though to create confidentiality.

Thepoliceman followed suit.

'Reidarwas old school,' Jespersen said. 'Do you understand?'

Gunnarstrandadidn't answer.

'Reidardid things during the war about which neither you nor I want to know. Reidarwas not a warm-hearted person. He was much too hard on Karsten. You can seethat. The boy's crushed. He shakes like a whelp in a thunderstorm. But Karstenis an adult now, with a good marriage, and Karsten and Susanne have enoughmoney. She makes good money, you know – chief accountant and all that. ButReidar – he's never bothered about Karsten's interests. And Karsten? He's neverbeen interested in the shop – not really. He's worked there all these yearsbecause he's scared of his father. What Karsten wants is to have a career, as awriter.'

Jespersenstraightened up and puffed on his cigarillo.

'Hashe had any success?'

'Doingwhat?'

'Journalism.'

'Well…he's written a few reports on things he knows about – a few very interestingarticles about Sotheby's in London and that sort of thing. I remember he had anarticle accepted about the Queen Mother's jewels. That must have been… I wonderif it wasn't in the Aftenposten magazine.'

'Youdon't say?'

'Yes,but it's a while ago. In the main he's translated cartoons.' Jespersen grinnedwith the cigarillo in the corner of his mouth: 'Drop the shooter, youcharlatan! Ugh! Argh!' The latter was too much for Jespersen. His face wentpuce and he had a severe coughing fit.

Gunnarstrandawaited politely. 'I get the same myself,' he said with sympathy when the otherman's breathing was back to normal. 'I suppose it has something to do withsmoking.'

'Yes,it may play a part,' Jespersen replied. 'There's not much bloody pointstopping, though, when you're over seventy, is there? I've stopped inhaling.That's fine, so long as the cigarillo is strong enough.'

'Hm,I still inhale,' the policeman conceded.

'AndI cheat a bit, too.'

'Butback to Karsten,' Gunnarstranda interrupted. 'Wouldn't he have seen the sale asa kind of threat? I mean if a job he had been clinging to for years were to besnatched from him?'

Jespersensent the other man an amused scowl – to show that he had seen through thepoliceman's questioning technique – then shook his head again. 'I don't thinkso, in fact. I think he would look upon it as a kind of – a kind of release.'

'Andyou?' enquired the Inspector.

'Me?'

'Itmust have been sad for you that the deal went down the Swanee.'

Jespersennodded. 'Not so sad,' he said guardedly.

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Notso sad that I would hurt my brother.'

Gunnarstrandanodded to himself and looked around in the ensuing silence. The piano wasblack, one of the old stand-up types, a Briichner. Above the piano hung alandscape painting of a meadow of flowers with a daisy as the central focus. Apicture of boats adorned the other wall. There was a storm and a sailing boatwas, symbolically, half a length behind a steam ship going at full speed. 'Whatsort of relationship did you have with your brother?' he asked.

'Close,but also distant,' Jespersen growled, circling the cigarillo in the ashtray toget rid of the ash. 'We each had our own families, but we kept in regularcontact. Close but distant is quite an accurate description.'

'Youmet in your other brother's flat – Arvid's?'

'Yes.And we had invited our buyers as well, a pleasant married couple. They know allabout antiques, and we thought everything was hunky-dory, and then along comesReidar… I could smell trouble as soon as I saw his face. He was in a terriblemood.'

'Washe surprised?'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'Washe surprised… by… the situation, the two buyers? Hadn't he been involved in theprocess?'

'Yes,we were all agreed on the sale, but in fact it was Arvid who stepped into thebreach.' Jespersen searched for words. 'Who was the driving force.'

'Drivingforce?'

'Yes,who did the brunt of the work.'

'Soyour brother, Reidar, was kept out?'

Jespersenshook his head. 'No, it's not right to put it like that. Both Reidar and I leftthe actual sales pitch to Arvid.'

'So Reidarwasn't against the sale?'

'No,that's what's so strange. I think something must have happened that day. Thatwas why he dug his heels in – he was just in a bad mood.'

Gunnarstrandatook his tobacco pouch and began to roll himself a cigarette. 'Just grumpy?'

Jespersensplayed his arms. 'Something must have happened. I saw he was furious themoment he arrived. And then I regretted the whole arrangement -I mean thebuyers were there before Reidar came. You know, that meant he was the last toarrive, a kind of outsider, and I don't think he liked that very much.'Jespersen put on a weak smile. 'I know he didn't like it at all.' Heshook his head in despair. 'The man hated being put last.'

'Whatdo you think put him in such a bad mood?'

'Ihaven't the foggiest. Perhaps he'd had a row with Ingrid. But…' Jespersen shookhis head. 'That happened very seldom. No, I don't know.'

'Howdo you see their relationship? I mean their marriage. Your brother was mucholder than her.'

'Youmean whether she…?'

'Yes,whether she flirted with other men.'

Jespersenshook his head gravely. 'Have you met her?'

'Ofcourse. But you know her better than me.'

'She'sthe loyal type,' Jespersen affirmed. 'She's always been light-headed, likeddancing, you know, but loyal, very loyal.'

'Soyou don't think she has someone?'

Jespersengave a shy smile. 'No, that…' He shook his head. 'No,' he concluded.

'But,Reidar, was he angry during the meeting?'

'No.He didn't say much, well, while the buyers were there, but as soon as they hadgone, all hell broke loose.'

'Inwhat way?'

'Herejected the whole proposal without any discussion, without even wantingto enter into any discussion, although that was nothing unusual actually, butwhat was new was the rest. When we started arguing he got so angry that hekicked Arvid's little dog.' Jespersen grinned. 'I've never seen Reidar reactlike that, I mean, it was so childish, to smash things and so on, it's whatyoung sweethearts do when they're jealous.' He shook his head. 'It was verystrange.'

'Hedidn't give a hint of what was to come when he arrived?'

Jespersenshook his head. 'That's what's so weird. Because he wasn't play-acting. Arvid,you see, was knocked sideways by what happened to the dog. And it wasimpossible to go on with our discussions. The meeting had been torpedoed.Afterwards I wondered if that had been Reidar's intention.'

'Whatdo you mean by that – his intention?'

'Well,to bring the meeting to a close, get out and away from us. You see we stood upto him. We were not going to give in, Arvid and I. And it was when we appliedpressure, two against one, that he kicked the animal.'

Gunnarstrandaran his fingers across his lips. 'I see,' he murmured and looked around. 'Youlike crosswords?'

'Yes.'Jespersen followed Gunnarstranda's gaze to the bookcase where there were rowsand rows of crossword books and reference works. 'I can see you are adetective…' He nodded, and pointed to the magazines under the table: 'Yes,indeed, all my grandchildren come here with magazines and newspapers.Crosswords and puzzles, they're my passion. What about it?'

Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'I was just wondering. You see I have a puzzle I'm still tryingto solve, but I can't crack it.'

'Comeon then,' Jespersen ventured.

Gunnarstrandalooked him in the eye and said: 'There are four symbols. The first is J forJorgen. Then there's a number, one. Then nine and lastly five: J – one hundredand ninety five.'

Jespersencocked his head. 'Hm,' he sighed. 'Have to think about that one.'

'Dothat,' the policeman said and went on: 'Did you contact Reidar later?'

'Mm…there are no other clues… there are only four symbols – the letter J and a oneand a nine and a five?'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'J one-nine-five – that's all there is.' He repeated: 'Did you contacthim?'

'Itried. I rang him.'

'Whenwas that?'

'Atabout six, early evening. I tried a couple of times, first at home, but Ingrid saidhe would be late home – he had rung home to tell her. Then I rang the Ensjonumber, but no one answered.'

'Whatsort of time?'

'Atabout half past six. I don't remember exactly.'

'Mm?'Gunnarstranda lit one of his roll-ups. 'When did you try next?'

'Halfpast ten in the evening. Reidar said he didn't want to discuss the matter.Karsten and the family were there and he kept things brief.'

'Didyou visit him later?'

Jespersenstared glumly at the policeman and gave an emphatic shake of his head.

'No,I did not.'

'Whendid you go to bed?'

Jespersenconsidered the question. 'At one, maybe half past.'

'Andyou were alone in the house?'

Theman nodded.

'Howdid you find out about the murder?'

'Irang the next day. A priest answered. The one who was with Ingrid.'

Gunnarstrandainhaled and focused for a few moments on the cigarette glow. 'I'm sorry, butI'm afraid I have to ask you these questions,' he apologized and for a secondtheir eyes met. Emmanuel Folke Jespersen understood. At that moment he was asad man with heavy jowls, a large stomach, doleful eyes and an extinguishedcigarillo in his hand.

Aftercalling on Emmanuel Folke Jespersen, on the way back to Oslo, Gunnarstrandatook a detour via Roa. He drove down Griniveien, but turned off beforeSorkedalsveien, into Røahagan, one of the typical West Oslo streets where theold houses set in large grounds have been cut up and divided over the years, sothat an ever-increasing and more status-conscious middle class can build kitschpalaces in what once had been shaded apple orchards. Karsten and SusanneJespersen's house was red, an obviously ex-functionalist house, built in the1930s, and converted out of all recognition. The Police Inspector stoodhesitating for a while in the drive. Many years ago a colleague and he haddeveloped a secret code. They had given interviewees their own labels when theytalked about them in the presence of others. A woman could be LH; a man mightbe LTP. These codes were used so that witnesses and interviewees would notunderstand the internal messages they were sending to each other, but alsobecause this kind of categorization is important when you are trying toestablish an overview. LH stood for lognhals (liar), LTP stood forliker trynet pa'n (like the look of him). They had devised a list of suchcodes and used them to great effect.

Gunnarstrandaand Frølich had never worked in that way. The reason, Gunnarstranda thought,was that they were on the same wavelength. Now and then, though, he and Frølichwere way off beam. At that moment he was trying to make sense of somethingwhich he knew his younger colleague would overlook, on purpose or otherwise.Police Inspector Gunnarstranda took the view that people built up the armourthat would benefit them most at all times. He was very conscious that thistheory of a self-serving morality had its weaknesses, and so he was constantlytrying to test and refine his own conclusions by adopting new angles. The problemhere, standing outside Karsten Jespersen's house, was that he could not makesense of one single signal. He knew that a detached house in the west of Osloat today's prices would be unaffordable for many. On the other hand, hecouldn't begin to guess how Karsten and Susanne had acquired this house. Forall he knew, it could be the house where Susanne had grown up. Nevertheless,for the time being, the house's geographical location was quite irrelevant. Hestudied the house front. The steps by the main door were made of brick, but thefoundations were poor. Many years of ground frost had caused the steps to moveand introduced cracks which had been forced open by snow and ice. But thecracked brickwork showed no signs of collapse. As the house was among the oldeston this road, there were none of the fake status symbols the newer buildingscame with: rough wood cladding, grass roofs or Dutch glass tiles. Since therewasn't a car in the drive either, the façade of Karsten Jespersen's residencewas as plain and impenetrable as the man himself. He wondered then if this wasan important conclusion, whether Jespersen's anonymity was conspicuous andtherefore genuinely worthy of his fuller attention.

Whenat last he rang the bell, it was a long time before the door was answered.

'Idropped by on the off-chance that you were at home,' Gunnarstranda said withgood grace. 'As we've closed your shop.'

Fromthe hallway they went straight into Karsten Jespersen's workroom. Veryappropriate, Gunnarstranda thought wryly. But the room seemed pleasant. Therewere full shelves of books reaching up to the ceiling. An old brown writingdesk stood in front of the window. On it an old-fashioned, black typewriter, aRoyal, a sharp contrast to two enormous loudspeaker columns on the oppositewall. Gunnarstranda turned with satisfaction to the immense hi-fi system, andthought that there he might find an expression of this man's deeper emotions.The low but very wide amplifier rested on a slab of polished marble-like stone.The speaker columns were triangular and almost touched the ceiling. In front ofthe speakers were two modern designer chairs with adjustable backs.

'I'vecome by to ask what you discussed with your father on the evening before he waskilled,' Gunnarstranda explained, after taking a seat in one of the recliningchairs.

Jespersensat at the desk. 'Did I talk to my father that evening?' he asked tentatively.

'Whenyou went to your father's house for dinner.'

'Oh… well,just chat, general chitter-chatter – over the meal. We talked about food andwhether children should eat everything on the plate – that sort of thing.'

'Andafterwards? I was told you and your father had a cognac on your own.'

'That'sright, we did. For the most part we talked about the shop – I wondered aboutprices for various items and we discussed them.'

'Whatsort of items?'

Jespersenpulled out a drawer from the desk and rested one foot on it. 'A table, an olduniform, two glasses from Nastetangen. They were new acquisitions and – they'reall down in the office.'

'Whichoffice?'

'Myoffice. In the shop.'

'Andthis was the only thing you talked about?'

'Thiswasn't such a little thing. You don't price antiques in two minutes. Isuggested we took our drinks down to the shop so that he could see the thingsfor himself, but he wasn't in the mood. And that was not so strange. After all,it was a Friday. He said he would have a look in the morning, the day after,that is, Saturday…'

'Couldthat be why he went downstairs after you and your family had left that evening?Might he have gone to the shop to look at these items?'

'Possible,'Jespersen said. 'I don't know.'

'Whydo you think he went downstairs?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Hemust have wanted to check the items – since they had just arrived…'

'Buthe didn't want to go down with you when you suggested, did he?'

'True,so it is perhaps a little odd that he went downstairs later that evening. Idon't know. He was always so unpredictable.'

'Butwhat did you think when you first heard he had been found dead in the shop?What did you think he had been doing there?'

'Isuppose I thought he'd been checking everything was all right, that the doors werelocked, or he just wanted to get something. I didn't give it a lot of thought.'

'Butif we were to work on the reason why he went downstairs, how many options arethere?'

'Ireckon he must have gone to check the doors. I cannot imagine he was so keen toinspect the few items I had been talking about. After all, he'd said he woulddo that the following day.'

'Doyou think he might have arranged a meeting with his killer?' Gunnarstrandaasked.

Jespersenstared back.

'Doesthat sound bizarre?'

'No,but it means that it wasn't a burglary, doesn't it?'

'There'sno sign of a break-in anywhere, but we don't know yet if anything has beentaken.'

'Ifyou would let me in, I could tell you on the spot whether anything has beenstolen or not.'

Gunnarstrandastretched out his legs and adjusted the back of the chair. It was verycomfortable. 'We can't do things in that way. Not yet at any rate. We have tofinish the forensic examination of the room. You'll get a list of the objectswe log in the shop, then you can have a look.'

'Butwhy…?'

Gunnarstrandainterrupted him. 'Because the shop is a crime scene. There is nothing todiscuss.'

Jespersenwent silent.

'You usea typewriter?' the policeman asked, pointing to the black machine on the table.'Not a computer?'

Jespersenshook his head. 'Typewriter and fountain pen. They have style. I couldn'timagine writing in any other way.'

'Butit's ancient.' The policeman nodded towards the machine. 'No correction key,nothing.'

'That'show Hemingway wrote,' Jespersen said.

Gunnarstrandaconsidered this riposte and made a mental note of a new crack in the man's greyfaçade. 'What else did your father talk about?' he asked.

'Otherwise?'Jespersen shrugged. 'I don't actually remember.'

'Didhe mention a meeting he had with his two brothers?' 'Yes, he did mention it.That's right.'

'Whatdid he say?'

'Almostnothing. He said he had turned up at Arvid's and had put an end to the sale ofthe shop.'

'Andyou'd forgotten that?'

Jespersengrimaced. His chin quivered with tiny tics. 'No,' he said. 'I hadn't forgotten,but it… well…'

Gunnarstrandasaid nothing and waited.

KarstenJespersen rested his head in the palm of his hand, as though pondering how hecould express what he had on his mind. 'If you had met my father when he wasalive,' he began, peering at the ceiling. 'You see I knew about these… these…'He waved his hand in the air while searching for words; '… these salenegotiations. Arvid had talked to me. I suppose he and Emmanuel were frightenedI would be against selling since I run the shop…'

Gunnarstrandasaid nothing and waited.

'ButI wasn't – against it, that is. I can open a shop in my living room if I want.My goodness, I have the contacts…'

Hesat and reflected.

'Soyou didn't object to the sale of the shop?'

'Notat all. But when my father went on the attack as he did. This was late atnight. We were sitting with a cognac, I was telling him about these engravedglasses, the uniform complete with medals and ribbons, and he just scowled andsaid – as if he were pouring a bucket of water over my head: I've torpedoedthe sale of the shop. Do you want to ring Arvid and console him? It wasalmost comical…' 'Were those the words he used?'

'Yes.He knew Arvid had been talking to me about these matters. He said those actualwords, and that he was angry with me. He must have thought I had gone behindhis back or something like that.'

'Butwhat did you say?'

'Notvery much. In fact, he was the one who should have informed me about thesenegotiations, not Arvid. My father had known about the process the whole time.Until then he hadn't objected. So I said that for me it didn't matter whetherthe shop was sold or not, which was the truth. If he and Emmanuel and Arvidsold up, I would manage anyway – and in the end I told him that Arvid hadsounded me out about any objections I might have had about the sale. And I saidthat I had told Arvid what I had just told him. Finally I said it was strangethat Arvid should be the person to inform me. After that we didn't talk aboutthe matter any more.'

'Youfinished your conversation?'

'No,we talked, but not a word about Arvid or Emmanuel or the sale.'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'Howwas he that evening? Different in any way?'

'No,he was his usual grumpy self.' Karsten gave a faint smile. 'By and large hetended to be bad-tempered.'

'Whywas that?'

'Hm?'

'Hewasn't ill? I mean he may have been bad-tempered because he was ill.'

Jespersensmiled. 'My father was not often ill.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'In fact he was ill,' he said.

'Yourfather had tumours on the kidneys. The pathologist's verdict is that he hadmalignant cancer. The chances are he didn't know himself.' Gunnarstrandacoughed. 'So the question is whether he talked to you about any illness?'

'Never.'Jespersen stared into space. 'Cancer?' he echoed in a hollow voice.

Gunnarstrandacleared his throat. 'Well, back to the evening before he was killed. Did hetalk on the phone while you were there?'

'Hemight have received the odd call, but he didn't make any himself.'

'Doyou know who he talked to?'

'No,no idea. My mind was on other things. The children were beginning to get tired…Imagine him having cancer!'

Fromhis inside pocket Gunnarstranda took the old photograph he had found under the padon Reidar Jespersen's desk. 'Do you know her?' he asked.

Jespersenheld the picture, studied it and shrugged his shoulders. 'No idea,' he said andhanded back the photograph.

'Neverseen this person?'

'Never.'

'Ifound it in your father's papers. Thought it might be your mother.'

'Mymother?' Jespersen shook his head and smiled. 'No. My mother was blonde – quitedifferent from this woman.'

Jespersengot to his feet and wandered over to the wall between the loudspeakers. He tookdown a picture in a glass frame. He held the photograph in one hand and theframe in the other. 'See for yourself,' he said, passing both to the Inspector.

Jespersen'smother was a woman with short, blonde hair. He thought he could recognizeKarsten Jespersen's chin and eyes. The picture had been taken in Bygdøy. Shewas sitting on a chair in a café. The Fram museum building towered up behind.Gunnarstranda suddenly regretted not having shown the photograph around before.'I thought it would be your mother,' he reflected. 'It occurred to me that Ihadn't seen pictures of her – your mother.'

Jespersencoughed. 'It's not that strange that you haven't seen pictures of her. I don'tthink Ingrid would have approved of a picture of my mother on the wall. Ingridis great, but she drew the line there. There are lots of photos of my mother inthe flat, but in albums.'

KarstenJespersen put the photograph of his mother back on the wall.

Chapter 22

'Whathave you had in this? Tar?' Frølich was trying to rinse their cups in the sink beforeserving coffee from the machine. Gunnarstranda's china cup, purloined from acanteen a long time ago, was almost dark brown on the inside from coffeetannin. His own cup was a green, arty ceramics number which he had been givenfor Christmas by the same Anna who was recording all the objects at the crimescene. Frølich stood thinking about Anna and the night they had shared afterthe Christmas dinner almost four weeks ago. Frank Frølich had not often beenunfaithful to Eva-Britt. When it had happened on the odd occasion, he was fullof remorse and abject fear of sexual diseases or an unwanted pregnancy. But hedidn't have this feeling after the night with Anna. As the water from the tapswirled round Gunnarstranda's filthy cup, without making it any cleaner than ithad been five minutes earlier, he was thinking he might give her a call tochase up the inventory of items in Reidar Folke Jespersen's shop. He looked athis reflection. 'But why?' he asked himself. 'Why would you want to do that?'

'Eh?'Gunnarstranda said from his chair. He was leafing through the evening editionof Aftenposten.

'What?'Frølich asked.

'Youwere the one who spoke,' Gunnarstranda answered with his nose in the paper.

Frølichstraightened up and knew why he wanted to meet her. She had not hinted at theirjoint escapade one single time. Although there had been that little glint inher eyes when they had met in Jespersen's antiques shop. He poured coffee intoboth of their cups. 'I was saying Jonny Stokmo's telephone is dead,' he toldGunnarstranda and placed the full cup of coffee in front of him. 'Stokmo'sdisappeared, vanished off the face of the earth.'

'Allthe more reason to check him out.'

'Wecan start with his son – this scrapdealer in Torshov,' Frølich said, pulling aface as he sipped the black coffee. 'You or me?' he asked.

'Me,'Gunnarstranda said, looking up. 'What do you reckon about the brothers? Havethey got a motive?' He folded the newspaper.

Frølich,who was still thinking about Anna and how her hair had tickled his nose onenight four weeks ago, tried to repress the thought and instead put on aconcentrated expression for Gunnarstranda, who looked up at him from an angle.

'What'sup?'

'Reidarand Ingrid owned everything in joint names,' a composed Frølich reasoned. 'Noone has objected to that. The Marriage Settlement Office in Brannaysund has notregistered any separate property either for her or for her late husband. Thewill has been revoked. In practice, if Ingrid Jespersen can sit tight on theold boy's possessions…' He left the rest of his reasoning in the air.

'Shecan't. Karsten Jespersen has a right to his inheritance,' Gunnarstranda said.'He is not her child. He has a right to part of the settlement.'

'Butsuppose we imagine that Ingrid has free rein over the old boy's share of thebusiness,' Frølich said. 'She has actually admitted that she wants to get ridof it. In other words, now Reidar is dead the sale should go through without ahitch.'

'Doyou mean that gives the two brothers a motive?'

'Imean it would be stupid to overlook that motive,' Frølich said. 'The man whostood in the way of the sale is now off the scene. The two brothers each own athird. Furthermore, everyone insists that Karsten is not interested in theshop. However…' said Frølich, 'we don't know who will take over the shop.There's bound to be some discussion between Karsten and the widow – and the twoof them seem to get on like a house on fire. From an inheritance point of view,Karsten has a right to a percentage of the assets, and its size is calculatedon the basis of Reidar's half of the joint property. Inasmuch as Ingrid andReidar had joint ownership, it will be Ingrid rather than Karsten who benefitsfrom Reidar's death.'

'Wedon't know anything about Karsten's late mother,' Gunnarstranda said.

'What?'

'Karstenalso has a right to part of the inheritance through her. We don't know if thatbaton changeover has been effected. Looking at all the things we don't know,I think the distribution of the deceased's estate seems so complicated that Idoubt…'

Gunnarstrandapaused.

'Whatdo you doubt?'

Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'I don't know. At any rate it's difficult to see a motive basedon the inheritance issue alone.'

'Perhapswe should chase up the shop inventory,' Frølich said upon reflection.

'Why'sthat?'

Frølichstared into the distance, in a dream. 'Well, I can take care of that at somepoint.'

'Ican't imagine the brothers would bump off Reidar because he delayed the sale ofthe shop,' Gunnarstranda said sceptically.

'Delayed?'

'Yes.The two brothers were in the majority. Reidar would have been outvoted.'

'Butnow you're ignoring the dynamics of their relationship,' Frølich interrupted.'This is a closed circle of family members,' he continued. 'These threebrothers know each other inside out. Reidar is the leading light, the man whoalways calls the shots, who has always called the shots, and who bullies theothers into doing what he commands. An offer flutters in through the door.Result: the other two brothers see the chance of a fat pension – and Reidaropposes it. The other two are used to giving in to Reidar. Isn't it a little conspicuousthat the eldest brother is killed?'

'Everythingis conspicuous, given the right circumstances,' Gunnarstranda replied.

'Andin the middle of all this we have the son, Karsten – he's sick of working for apittance under his father…'

'We knownothing about that!'

'ButKarsten has grown up in the shadow of a macho man. Think about that. That boyhas never been allowed to be afraid. I'm sure that when he was afraid ofshadows behind the door as a small boy he…'

Gunnarstrandaleaned back and waited for the continuation. It didn't come.

'Yes?'enquired Gunnarstranda.

'You'veseen him with your own eyes. Karsten is a wreck!'

'Sowhat?'

'Thetwo brothers know that only Reidar stands between them and the sale. NeitherKarsten nor Ingrid will oppose the sale. For the two brothers…'

'Allthey needed to do was raise their hands at a board meeting,' Gunnarstrandasaid. 'They were in the majority, weren't they!'

'Butwe know that Reidar let the murderer into the shop,' Frølich persisted.

'Buthe could have let lots of other people into the shop, and not necessarily thebrothers.' Gunnarstranda peered up at his tall colleague: 'There's anotherthing you're forgetting. You told me about Arvid's dog – Silvie. Doesn't thatsuggest the man is too soft?'

'No,if we take the dog into account, it would reinforce Arvid's motivation. Afterall Reidar tried to kick it to death.'

'Idon't think so. The dog was one of those poofie types, wasn't it?'

Frølichknitted both eyebrows.

Gunnarstrandathrew his arms into the air and searched for words: 'Yes, it was… a little ratwith fur. Only ageing prostitutes and homosexuals own dogs like that, don'tthey?'

Frølicheyeballed his boss, speechless. 'My grandmother had a dog like that,' hestammered.

'Allright,' Gunnarstranda said, in retreat, pursing his lips and creasing his faceinto an indescribable expression. 'I'm sure Arvid is a perfectly normal fellow,but I don't think we should get hung up on Reidar Folke Jespersen'sinheritance. The only point of interest for us is that the man revoked whatseemed an undistinguished will just before he was bumped off.' He coughed andgazed ahead of him for a few moments. 'In any case, it is too early to focus toomuch attention on the brothers. The one I met – Emmanuel – might perhaps becredited with scribbling a riddle on the body, but he is no fighting man. Hecould only just raise his body to reach for the ashtray.'

Hestole another glance at Frølich. 'Afraid of shadows behind the door?' he asked.

'Allchildren are frightened of the dark.'

'Whatshadows behind the door?'

'Shadows,things you're afraid of.'

'Butbehind the door? Can you see shadows through a closed door?'

Frølichstared at him. 'Under the bed – is that better?'

Gunnarstrandathrew up his arms in resignation: 'By all means.' He cleared his throat andstood up. 'Well, have to make tracks,' he mumbled and grabbed his coat.

Chapter 23

Gunnarstrandastrolled down Vogts gate searching for the workshop run by Stokmo's son. Heflipped a few bits of plastic dangling down at face height to the side – thiswas an invention whose purpose he could not begin to understand. Were thesestrips supposed to signify something or were they an aid for blind people tofind their way in winter? There was ice on the pavement. He squeezed himself upagainst the wall as the tram passed. Finally he found the right house number.However, since there was no sign over the entrance, he stood hesitating beforegoing into the back yard. He passed a dirty fork- lift truck with a petrol tankbehind the seat and he stopped to eye a rusty iron staircase running diagonallyup the end wall of the two-storey building. Every step consisted of threeparallel grooves, yet a slippery sausage of ice had attached itself to the edgeof most of the steps. Gunnarstranda took a good grip of the hand rail on theway up. The window was dark. He peeped in through the pane and found himselffacing an old Singer sewing machine on a workbench. Behind it, a toboggan layon its side on the floor, and along the walls were cardboard boxes filled withunidentifiable scrap. At the back of the room he could make out the shape of adoor. He pulled at the external door. It was locked. He straightened up andscoured the area. The view was limited to the houses around the back yard. Theywere old buildings; the plaster was crumbling off all of them. The lower partof the walls in the yard was half-timbered. A tram rattled past, and a carhooted its horn in the street. Down in the yard there were two abandonedwashing machines stacked on top of a pile of pipes. A wide door opened into aworkshop containing gas cylinders for welding apparatus and huge wire-cutterson coiled cables. Gunnarstranda pulled his coat tighter around him and pickedhis way down the steps with care. The snow had drifted up the walls. Clumps ofwhite snow hung from the plaster. It looked like there had been a snowballfight. He peered in through the half-open workshop door. No one around. Hecontinued round the corner into the yard and found out why the snow was stuckhigh up on the wall. A Norlett snow-blower was positioned beneath a wire glasswindow. Inside, there was light.

Threeheads turned towards the door as he opened it. Two men wearing oil-stainedoveralls sat at a table along one wall, with their packed lunches and Thermosflasks between them. The third man in the room, a fierce-looking individualwith a bushy moustache, sat behind a desk. On his head he was wearing aback-to- front baseball cap, inscribed with SAMVIRKE ASSURANCE.

'I'mlooking for Jonny Stokmo,' Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda said.

'He'snot here!' said the man with the moustache good-naturedly, raising a cup to hismouth. The cup was furnished with the same legend as the cap. He slurped hiscoffee.

'Butyou know the name?' the policeman said.

Oneof the overalled men grinned, revealing two teeth in his top set, like a mousesniffing in the air. The lenses of his glasses were impenetrable.

Themoustachioed man took his time to put down the cup before exchanging glanceswith the other two and starting to grin as well. 'Bloody hell,' he sighed,sucking the coffee off his moustache. His outburst set the third man off.'Grill them,' he whinnied. 'Grill them with spices.'

Theman with the moustache ignored him. 'Would you like some coffee?' he asked thepoliceman. 'Don't listen to Moses,' he said, inclining his head towards the manwith the whinny. 'He's crazy.'

'Barkingmad,' said the man with the glasses and the mouse-teeth.

'Half-baked,'replied Moses.

Theman at the desk eyed Moses. 'What are you going on about?' he asked. 'No onecan understand a word!' The moustache gestured towards Gunnarstranda.

Thelatter perceived this as a suitable moment to reveal his identity. 'PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda,' he said. 'Murder Squad.'

'Oh,shit,' answered the man at the desk, smiling into his moustache.

'Steamthem in butter,' said Moses, causing the man with the mouse-teeth to sniggerand slap his thigh. 'Steam them in butter,' the man with the mouse-teethrepeated. 'With macaroni.' 'No – pickle them,' Moses said. 'Put them in barrels- in cod-liver oil and salt in the 69 position.'

'Mosesis trying to think up horrible ways to eat cod,' the man with the moustacheexplained. 'Pull yourself together now, you halfwit,' he said to Moses.

'Thinkof something else for dinner,' the man with the mouse-teeth said.

'Anyonehere know Jonny Stokmo?'

'That'smy father,' the man with the moustache said, taking off his cap and revealing ashiny pate surrounded by a wreath of grey hair gathered into a long ponytail.

'Ineed an urgent chat with your father,' Gunnarstranda said.

'Understand,'said Junior. 'Just a shame that he doesn't. What do you reckon, Moses?'

'Atthe farm,' Moses said.

'Christ,you are crazy,' the man with the moustache replied, swivelling his chairtowards Gunnarstranda. 'To hear the truth, listen to drunks and nutters.'

'Where'sthe farm?' Gunnarstranda asked in a soft voice.

Juniorswivelled round on the chair and took a newspaper from the table. 'You lookyounger in the photo,' he said, showing him the paper.

Gunnarstrandacontemplated the picture of himself.

'You'vegot hair here,' Junior said.

Gunnarstrandahad always been irritated by the photograph the newspaper used. He had justreturned from a holiday in southern Europe. In the picture he was frowning likean idiot. His face was as red as a lobster, he had bags under his eyes andbecause he was so short he was looking up at the camera. 'Where's the farm?' herepeated with authority.

'Doyou know Bendik Fleming?' the moustachioed man asked.

Gunnarstrandanodded slowly.

'Hesends his regards,' the moustachioed man said.

Gunnarstrandanodded again: 'That's a long time ago. I think…' Gunnarstranda ruminated. 'Itmust have been in '92,' he said at length. 'I think he went down for a coupleof years…'

'No problemwith your memory,' the man with the mouse-teeth said, taking a slice of breadfrom his lunch box with black, oil-stained hands. He bit off a large chunk andbegan to chew, with thoughtful eyes.

'Howis Bendik?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Drinksa lot.'

'That'snot so good,' Gunnarstranda said with sympathy.

'Buthe doesn't turn nasty any more when he's drunk. He laughs.'

'Betterthan killing people,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Send him my regards,' he added andcleared his throat.

All threeof them stared at him.

'Hasn'tyour father got a telephone?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Yeshe has, but he's switched it off – a mobile.'

'Why'she switched it off?'

'Iimagine he suspects you will ring,' the man with the moustache grinned.

'Where'sthe farm?' Gunnarstranda repeated gently.

Theman called Moses slipped off the table he was sitting on, crossed the floor andpointed to a framed aerial photograph hanging on the opposite wall: a farm fromthe air. 'There,' he said, grinning at his boss behind the desk.

Gunnarstrandachecked his watch. He would be eating out in a short time. So he asked StokmoJunior if he would mind drawing him a map.

Twohours later he opened the door to Hansken, a restaurant where Tove Granaas waswaiting for him, engrossed in a book.

Gunnarstranda'sfirst, and somewhat less private, encounter with Tove had taken place at ameeting of the local garden association. The theme advertised on the posters hadbeen lilies. Since he had known the speaker, and had neither wanted to meet himnor believed the man could teach him anything new, he would probably havestayed at home that evening too, had the chairman not rung him a few hoursbefore and reminded him about the meeting. Old Bohren, the speaker, was anarrogant, retired bureaucrat who loved to provoke the policeman into trivialrows over botanical phenomena.

Hehad told the chairman of the garden association there was no point in trying toget him to join; he already subscribed to the magazine, and the chairman knewthis very well. Becoming a member was quite out of the question, a point whichhe had made perfectly clear a month before when giving an association slideshow about indicator plants in lime soil.

NeverthelessGunnarstranda trotted along to the gymnasium where folding tables with therequisite plastic chairs stood in rows alongside the wall bars. He arrivedthrough the emergency exit doors, nodded to the left and right and found a freeseat in the far corner. Most of the audience arrived in pairs at such meetings.In fact, it didn't bother him to sit on his own, he thought, so long as he gotaway from Bohren – the pompous pensioner from the Department of Justice wholoved the sound of his own voice. He was anxiously keeping an eye on theentrance when an arm bearing a coffee flask entered his field of vision. 'Isthis seat free?' she asked. But before Gunnarstranda could find his voice, shehad sat down.

'Niceto see you again,' she said. He knew he had seen her before and searched thearchives of his memory.

'Youquestioned me concerning a murder,' she explained, on noticing his reaction.'At work,' she added.

'Tove,'he stammered, once again falling for her smile. 'Tove Granaas.'

'Imagineyou not recognizing me when we last met.'

Gunnarstrandawas embarrassed to think of her in the audience at his talk. 'Did you come tothe last meeting?'

Herhand woke him from his reverie again. 'I've been stalking you,' she said. 'As amurder squad detective, you're almost a celebrity.'

A manat the neighbouring table raised his cup and signalled that it was empty. Shegrabbed the flask in front of her and passed it to him in one movement. A lightwaft of perfume brushed his cheek as she whirled back. In her plain knittedsweater and jeans there was something summery about her. Her hands were smallwith strong fingers and short nails. Hands that have seen work, he thought.When he looked up again, her attentive eyes were still there. She supported herhead on her hands and talked about the problems of growing narcissi. 'I putthem in a proper bed, set the bulbs in autumn, but something always goes wrongand they never come up.'

'Poordrainage. Dig a deep hole and fill it with leca pellets or sand.'

'Howdeep?'

'Deepenough for the bulbs to be three bulb lengths under the ground.'

'Youmake it sound so easy.'

'Putlots in every hole, lots of bulbs, fifteen, twenty, then there'll be abeautiful clump of them.' In his enthusiasm he bent over the table and beforehe could compose himself, he heard his own voice say: 'I can help you.'

Oncethe words were said, he could have bitten off his tongue.

'Well,it's too late now anyway,' she answered. 'As it's winter.' Gunnarstranda gulpedwith gratitude. 'You can get them started indoors and put them out when theground is frost-free,' he consoled her.

Alittle later they saw Bohren come in, without a tie, but with a ridiculousneckerchief around his neck. With his long body supported on a stick, he stoodsurveying the room with displeasure. The policeman knew he was being watched.But as soon as he felt Bohren's eyes on him, he looked away.

'There'sBohren,' Tove said in a loud voice.

Hestared right at them, but made no move.

Gunnarstrandanodded slowly.

Themeasured gaze the pensioner returned was microscopic. The retired departmenthead twisted gently and hobbled off into the room, away from them.

'Ihope I haven't taken his seat?' Tove whispered, in a conspiratorial voice.

'ForGod's sake, stay where you are,' Gunnarstranda whispered back in the samehushed tones. And for the third time in an unusually short time she gave hisarm a light squeeze.

Sincethen neither of them had been to any meetings at the local garden association.However, they had been to the restaurant three times.

AsGunnarstranda sat down and met her smile, he was looking forward to theconversation as much as the meal.

Chapter 24

Companyhalt, Frølich thought, remembering forced marches in full army kit many yearsbefore. The rain falling down from the sky, uniform soaked, stiff, cold, hisreluctance to move a single muscle. The only way out had been to wait, standstill and wait until the sky or an officer announced a change in theirsituation. Now: Eva- Britt and he were at the restaurant. Even though they hadfinished eating some time ago, even though he had a hundred things to do, itbehoved him to wait calmly. It was a ritual the two of them had lapsed intobecause Eva-Britt had always hated hurrying. But it was also a ritual he wasbeginning to loathe from the bottom of his heart. There were two similarfeelings competing for the upper hand behind his calm exterior: the feeling ofstress imposed by inactivity and the feeling of annoyance because he allowedhimself to be cowed by her need for contentment. He stretched his legs, rippedthe foil off the third or fourth toothpick and looked around. At the adjacenttable sat a young chrome-dome listening to a woman of the same age whogesticulated with both hands when she talked. Frølich had picked up that shewas a waitress. She was telling stories about insufferable customers tochrome-dome, who was stifling a yawn and fiddling with a toothpick, too.

Frølich'seyes searched the room and at length they settled on Eva-Britt's face. She hadbeen talking without stop for quite some time. Frank had no idea what she wastalking about.

'Howdid I end up here?' he thought and drained his glass with enforced patiencewhile watching the talking face; the lower lip he had once longed to nibble topieces, the eyes he had compared with a dash of the Mediterranean, enclosedbehind the lowered eyelids. He asked himself the question: 'How did weend up here?'

A fewyears ago it would have been both natural and feasible to stop this babblingwith a kiss. Today she would be angry, offended and ashamed on his behalf. Andhe may well have knocked the glasses over in the attempt.

Hethought of her navel, the hollow in her stomach, the rounding of her stomachwhen she stretched in the morning. They were images that had to be sought out,which no longer fell into place of their own accord.

'Where'sthe spark gone?' he thought, looking at one long leg under the table.Knee-length boots, Eva-Britt's trademark, the plinth to carry her body.Footwear emphasizing the erotic mystery that women's legs point towards andmen's eyes seek out.

Now heno longer felt any spark. And he imagined she would also have the same feelingof emptiness. 'Why do we pretend?' he wondered.

Theyhad eaten a fillet of lumpsucker fish. The waiter took their plates. And atlong last she was quiet as the man cleared the table. For that fragment of asecond he detected panic in Eva-Britt's eyes. As soon as the waiter had gone,she started up again. Now she was having a go at TV hosts and the banalityflourishing in new TV series.

'Isn'tthat right?' she asked, and for one split second he caught a hint of aggressionin her eyes. She may have thought she had caught him letting his mind wander.

'Wehad all this in the discussion on TV last night, didn't we?' he answeredslowly. 'The topic was done to death.'

Shewas hurt. Because the answer was too brutal, he thought. In other words, beinguninterested, or not feigning interest, is too brutal. However, he could feelhis irritation growing and hardening because she was hurt by his sense that hewas wasting his time. Eva-Britt was hurt, never angry, but she would not allowherself to reveal too much of the hurt. Instead she fled into a self-constructed state of mind, a sort of wasteland where she did not perceive theessence of a change in mood and the substance of an atmosphere – Eva-Britt'sdemilitarized zone. Here the important thing was to be disarming, to findneutral ground as soon as possible. As usual she blew out her cheeks. 'I amjust so full,' she said, imitating a beach ball. 'All blob!' This wordwas supposed to represent the inflated cheeks. 'All blob!'

FrankFrølich gave a leaden nod.

'Thatfish almost exploded my taste buds!'

Frølichnodded again as the waiter came with coffee and liqueurs. As she sipped hercognac, she rolled her tongue around her mouth. 'Mm,' she said, smacking herlips. 'Mm, mm, now I think my taste buds are going berserk.'

Frølichnodded.

'Thelast time we were here, we had snails for starters. Do you remember? And ravioliwith sage and pure butter, un-ex-pur-gat-ed fat, and afterwards filet mignon!'

Frølichnodded.

'Iwas so full. I just sat like this…'

Hercheeks bulged.

Frølichsub-vocalized the words.

'Allblob!'

Henodded again. Afterwards he looked out of the window because he knew she wouldbe extra hurt if he checked the time too obviously. The jeweller's clock glowedon the other side of the street. It said ten minutes past ten.

Hemanaged to negotiate himself an hour at work, but on condition that he wentback to hers afterwards. At midnight he was back. Eva-Britt had just finishedin the bathroom. Since she was wearing a nightdress, Julie must have gone tobed. He was tired and took a hot shower. When he had finished she was alreadyin bed. She was lying under the duvet, naked and warm. As soon as he joinedher, she grabbed his sex with both hands. They made love in a variety ofpositions for a long time, but he was fantasizing about Anna. Afterwards heslept like a log, still dreaming about Anna. He dreamt she was lying on top ofhim, like in the early hours almost a month ago. In the dream she sat up, butwhen he met her gaze, she had Ingrid Jespersen's face. He shuddered and wokeup. It was the middle of the night. He had an erection. For some minutes he laystaring into the darkened bedroom before rolling on top of Eva-Britt again andfondling her into consciousness. That morning he had breakfast in bed.Eva-Britt gave him a warm, gentle smile and said it was fine if they livedapart so long as they were able to work positively at the relationship.

Hedrove Julie to school before heading for the Swedish border. A new, harshwinter day was dawning. The flawless snow-covered fields of 0stfold reposedbetween swathes of forest and road. The sky was a blue parchment. The treesextended their thick branches into the air and might have looked like Chinesescript had it not been for the frost; statues dressed in white armour of rimeand ice crystals.

Aftertaking the wrong road several times, he eventually found the ice-covered lake.Occasional tips of yellow stubble protruded through the snow in a field where aflock of crows was holding court. Judging from the activity, it seemed to be arather tedious affair they were discussing. The snow glittered and reflectedthe dazzling light; wonderful weather for skiing if it hadn't been so cold.Smoke was coming from the chimney in what had to be Jonny Stokmo's farm.Frølich turned off, up the little incline towards the white house and passed alow barn before swinging into the yard. Beneath the bridge leading to the barnstood a Belarus tractor fitted with a snowplough. Obviously a gasket wasleaking somewhere because the snow under the engine was black with oil. Abarrel of diesel stood on its end beside a Mazda pick-up truck with rustingjoints. Frølich turned to the farmhouse and caught a movement behind thewindow. At once the front door opened. A man with a checked shirt and two endsof a moustache extending down to his chin appeared on the step.

Theroom smelt of a mixture of sweat, resin, tobacco smoke and rancid frying fat.The walls were bare, the floor covered with lino. Jonny Stokmo bent down andchecked the cylindrical wood-burning stove to see if it was time to add morefuel, then closed the door again. Frølich decided not to take off his shoeswhen he saw Stokmo was wearing winter boots. 'They're miserable bastards,'Stokmo said in answer to Frølich's question about whether he knew the FolkeJespersen family.

Hehad sat himself down on a rocking chair in front of the TV set. Frølich headedtowards a sofa on the opposite side of the coffee table covered in newspapersand full ashtrays. Stokmo mumbled:

'They'dhave the shirt off your back. I may once have had a high opinion of Reidar, butthat's got to be a bloody long time ago. He was just like them.'

'Likewhom?' Frølich interrupted and took out his worn, old notepad.

'Likethose two slobs, his brothers. That's them, and his boy, Karsten. He'sone of them. My father knew Reidar well. I never did, and now they'vekilled the poor sod. Have you wondered what they're fighting about? A cornershop. Hell, it's nothing more than a kiosk crammed with old lumber. Have youthought about that? That shop is nothing, a pile of crap, apart from a fewthings Reidar nicked from other people, or rubbish others rejected. Do youunderstand? They're miserable bastards!' Stokmo pulled a grimace beneath histruck- driver moustache. 'Perhaps I shouldn't say this, you being a policeman,but I'm going to be honest and tell you who Reidar was: a bloody rag-and-boneman who got himself a good-looking tart and a flat in West Oslo. But that's notwhat you'll hear. No, Reidar Folke Jespersen was a businessman, big guy withwhite hair and beard, once on first-name terms with our famous resistancefighter, Max Manus, and went around wearing a black beret on Independence Day!You should have seen the old codger, carrying a briefcase down the stairs tothe kiosk that was his pride and joy. Just imagine it. Reidar was an old manwho thought he could live for ever by doing two workouts a week on a cycletrainer. I saw it with my own eyes, for Christ's sake, and I was the onlyperson who did a stroke of work – who do you think drove to the houses of thebloody deceased or to demo jobs to carry away old desks, corner cabinets or oldwood burners, and clean them up for auction or some flea market?'

'Buthe did keep the family going. His son must have received some sort of income…'

'Karsten'spushing fifty. What do you think he does in the shop with two customers a day?He's sitting in the backroom in the shop writing pornographic novels andso-called true stories for magazines. It's not the shop that keeps Karstengoing, it's the missus that keeps Karsten going. She's head of accounts for abig firm in Oppegard.'

'DidKarsten work for free?'

Stokmoshook his head. 'You have to understand that nothing was normal about Reidar. Hewas eighty years old, but refused to hand over the shop to his son. Think aboutthat!'

'Butwhy?' Frølich asked.

'Someposh tart from Frogner,' Stokmo said bitterly, 'might turn up and pay athousand for a rotten bit of wood, and Reidar was the one who pocketed thekroner, no VAT, black. I'm telling you Reidar was a miserable bastard!'

'Youmean he was greedy?'

'Theword greedy doesn't quite cover it,' Stokmo snarled. 'Look around here,' hesaid, encompassing the room with a swing of his strong workman's hand. 'This isnothing much, a smallholding, but anything that has any value in this houseReidar haggled off my father and sold as an antique. Once I picked up an oldworkbench from a carpenter's workshop up in Gran, then I found a matching stooland I thought of putting it in the cart shed, but before I could get it here,Reidar had sold it as an antique dining table, sold it for ten thousand kroner- of which I got nothing, not one ore. I have seen Reidar sell an old motorbikehelmet and claim it was a rice bowl from the Congo. That's the Reidar I knew.Loved money and himself.'

Frølichsent Stokmo a calm look of appraisal. Neither spoke for a few seconds.

'Theword greedy,' Stokmo repeated, 'does not cover it.'

'Butyou,' the policeman said slowly, looking up from his notepad. 'You earned anincome from the shop.'

'Yes.'

'Drivinggoods around, second-hand goods?'

'Second-handgoods and antiques. As I said, clearing houses after the death of the owner orones up for demolition, that sort of thing. Reidar had a chat on the phone andif he needed me, I jumped in the truck and was there.'

'Soit wasn't fixed work?'

'No.'

'Butthen it finished?'

'Shownthe door three weeks ago.'

'Whywas that?'

Stokmohesitated for a few moments. Then came the answer: 'That is a privatematter.'

'Itcan't be private when one of the parties is dead.'

'Itwas about money – everything is about money – especially where the FolkeJespersen family is concerned.'

'You'llhave to be a bit more precise than that.'

'Henever paid me what he owed. And I'd had enough.'

'Andyou left?'

'Left?I didn't go when the sack of shit phoned me.'

'Somesay it was the other way around. That Reidar gave you the boot?'

Stokmosneered. 'Can you see what I mean? They're miserable bastards, the whole lot ofthem.'

'SoReidar didn't give you the boot?'

Stokmo'seyebrows shot in the air and he clenched both fists. 'Are you hard of hearing?'

Frølichregarded him coolly until the aggressive expression softened. 'Were youemployed by them or did they buy your services?'

Stokmorelaxed again and demonstrated this by crossing his legs. 'Reidar FolkeJespersen would have spotted a 5o-øre coin on the opposite side of the street,'he said. 'Do you think a man like that would pay the employer's contribution tosocial security? The answer is no. I was never employed. I sent him invoices.'

'You saidthey were fighting about the shop,' Frølich continued, flicking a page over inhis notepad.

'As Isaid, they were quarrelling about this tiny shop. Everyone wanted a slice ofthe cake and everyone wanted to earn something from junk. But they didn't paymy invoices.'

'Howwould Reidar's brothers earn anything from the shop?'

'Theyown the whole caboodle, don't they? The three of them. Now there are two. Andit was a limited company, so Ingrid is out of the picture. Smart move, you see.By croaking Reidar they got rid of the missus at the same time. So now thereare Karsten, Arvid and Emmanuel left. Now just wait and see if a will turns up,and if it does, you've got your murderer.' Stokmo gave a sly grin and stood up.Then he plodded over to the chest of wood next to the kitchen door, took outtwo birch logs, sauntered over to the stove and went down on his knees. Frølichwatched him place his hands around the logs, make a hole in the glow with thelog before forcing the wood into the stove, closing the door and adjusting thedraught.

Inhis mind Frølich tried to follow Stokmo's reasoning, but gave up. He said: 'Butif the shop isn't worth anything, as you say, then this theory doesn't holdwater.'

Stokmostood up. His eyes flashed. 'What theory?'

'Thetheory that one of the heirs might kill Reidar to inherit the shop.'

Stokmosat back in the rocking chair, took out a packet of tobacco from his breastpocket and rolled himself, a cigarette. 'That's the tragedy of it, isn't it? Thesepeople are fighting over nothing. It's like watching the heirs to one of thefarms round here. Brothers and sisters stop talking, they get into brawls andfeud over tiny strips of land which produce bugger-all. In a couple of years,when we're part of the EU, all these smallholdings will be closed down andabandoned, but still they knock ten bells out of each other. Do you rememberthat case up in Skedsmo, a few years ago, where a whole family was killed,mother, father and daughter? It's like that. Reidar was running a second-handshop, for Christ's sake, a hole in the wall, less than fifty square metres andthey didn't have enough money to settle old debts. That's what they werefighting over, what they killed for.'

'Howmuch did he owe you?'

'That'sprivate.'

'Butyou think he had enough money to pay you?'

'Nocomment.'

'Hm?'

'Isaid: no comment.'

Frølichsat up straight in his chair. 'This is a police interview, Stokmo, not a pressconference.'

Stokmodidn't answer.

Frølichnodded. 'What do you think? Did Reidar have a large fortune?' 'I don't imagineso.'

'Hemust have had money in the bank,' Frølich opined.

Stokmoshrugged his shoulders.

'Butyou were there on the evening he was killed?'

Stokmonodded.

'Whatwere you doing there?'

'Iwanted to talk to Reidar.'

'Whatabout?'

'Aboutdebts.'

'Didyou talk to him?'

'No.'

Frølichjotted down the answers and looked up from the pad. He said nothing.

Atlast Stokmo lit the cigarette he had rolled. He inhaled the smoke deep into hislungs and kept it in. Then he sat forwards in the chair, his hands cuppedaround the cigarette, staring ahead with vacant eyes, while holding his breath.

Frølichwondered how long Stokmo would manage to stay silent. The man leaned back andalmost seemed lost in his own thoughts as he rocked backwards and forwards inthe chair. The creaking of the runners against the lino floor, as well as thecrackle of burning birch accompanied by the chug of the draught on the woodburner were the only sounds in the room. All of a sudden, Stokmo sat up with astart, as though waking from a dream. 'Was there anything else?' he asked.

'Iwant to know what happened when you met Reidar that night,' Frølich said.

'Hearrived in a taxi and I asked for my money. He told me to go to hell and wentinside and up to the missus.'

'Hadyou been waiting outside?'

'Iwent up to the flat first, but he wasn't there and his missus said she wasexpecting him any minute.'

'Whatdid you do when he went in?'

'Ileft.'

'Wheredid you go?'

'To alady I know.'

'Who?'

'She'scalled Carina. Lives in Thereses gate.'

'Howlong did you stay there?'

'Don'tremember. We were busy for a few hours. I went to my son's place. I sleep therewhen I'm in town. I slept at his and came back here the day after.'

'Whendid you arrive at your son's house?'

'Iwould guess at around eleven.'

'Didyou try to get in touch with Reidar again?'

'Dependswhat you mean.'

Frølichraised both eyebrows.

'Itried early in the morning.'

'When?'

'Iwent at eight – to Ensjo. They have a warehouse and an office there.'

Stokmowent quiet.

'You waitedfor him in Ensj0 at eight o'clock on Saturday morning?'

'That'swhat I said.'

'Washe as unsympathetic then too?'

'Hewasn't there at all. I waited until eleven. Sat waiting in my car for threehours. He didn't bloody turn up.' 'Are you sure?'

'Doyou think I would sit here and lie? He wasn't there. That was why I triedThomas Heftyes gate in the evening.'

'Wheredid you go in the intervening time?'

'Iwent to Karl-Erik, my son. I gave him a hand until about five. Afterwards wehad something to eat and then I went to Reidar's place.'

'Wasyour son at home when you went there – after you'd been to Thomas Heftyesgate?'

'Thinkso.'

'Whatdo you mean think} Didn't you talk?'

'No. Iheard a woman in his flat. He lives over the workshop. I suppose you've beenthere – in Torshov – since you found your way here without asking fordirections. I usually spend the night in the back room in the office shed whenhe has this lady staying. I went there and snored through till the nextmorning.'

'Youmet Folke Jespersen at about a quarter past seven. You left him and went tothis Carina. What's her surname?'

'Youtell me,' Stokmo mumbled and thought aloud: 'Smidt? Smestad? Something beginningwith S. I don't remember.'

'Haveyou got her telephone number?'

'Yes.And the address.'

'Allright. You went to this Carina then and stayed there until about a quarter toeleven?'

'Possible.'

'Andyou arrived at the workshop in Torshov when? Eleven?' 'More or less.'

'Andyou went to bed straightaway?'

'Iprobably had a smoke first, read the paper for a bit»

'Whendid you go to bed?'

Stokmoshrugged. 'Didn't look at my watch.'

'Butyou didn't talk to anyone?'

'No.'

'Didyou go back to Jespersen's that night?'

'No,I told you!'

Frølichstudied him, but didn't quite know what to believe. 'Did you see your son thenext morning?'

'ForGod's sake, this was a Saturday, wasn't it! And he had this woman with him.'

'Inother words…'

'Inother words I don't have an alibi, as you call it!' Stokmo snapped.

'Whyare you so aggressive?' Frølich wanted to know.

'I'mnot aggressive. I'm just bloody sick of all this beating round the bush. I stoppedhaving anything to do with Reidar because I have had him and his family up tohere!' He illustrated with a hand to his throat, and went on: 'But I wanted mymoney and I was stupid enough to go and get it.'

Heslammed his fist down on the table. Frølich watched him. There was no room foranything else but fury in the man's black expression. He tried to imagine thisman being given the cold shoulder by an eighty-year-old, but abandoned thisline of thought and instead asked:

'Yousaid there was a connection between Reidar and your father, didn't you?' 'Theywere old pals.'

'Sothe connection between Reidar and you was through your father?'

'Yes.Have you finished now? I have to chop more wood now – and have a crap.'

Frølichpondered. 'I'm not sure I have what I need. So there's a very good chance wewill have to talk again.'

'Thenyou'd better get it over with now.'

'Howmuch did Reidar owe you?'

Stokmosent him a dismissive grin.

Frølichstood up, went to the window and gazed across the partially snow-covered fieldstretching down to the frozen lake. The ridge of a barn roof was visible abovethe crest of a hill on the opposite side. A herd of deer had collected undersome trees. They were grazing on hay. Someone had put a bale out in the snow.It was a very harmonious, idyllic winter landscape. 'It's very nice here, bythe way,' he said to the man in the rocking chair. 'If I lived here, I don'tthink I would be so angry all the time.'

Stokmodidn't answer.

'Whatdo you associate with the number one hundred and ninety-five?' Frølich askedfrom the window.

'Thesame as I associate with the numbers one or seven or fifty-two. Nothing.'

Frølichstudied him. 'Hmm,' he said. 'You've got previous convictions, haven't you?'

Hehad waited a long time to deliver this blow because he knew it would hit themark. Stokmo's shoulders slumped; he scowled and had the eyes of a huntedanimal.

Theystared at each other: Frank Frølich reclining against the wall and Jonny Stokmocowed in the chair.

'Itdoesn't look good you hiding out here, as you were one of the last to see FolkeJespersen alive.'

'Itwas…'

'Shutup,' Frølich said coldly. 'You've admitted you had a score to settle with FolkeJespersen. You were one of the last people to see him alive. You don't have analibi for the time of his death. And your story is damned thin.'

Stokmostared at the floor.

'I'vegiven you this opportunity and I won't be coming this way again. Have you gotanything to add to your statement?'

Stokmoslowly shook his head.

'I'minstructing you to make yourself available at all times,' Frølich said in a lowvoice. 'You might be required to appear at the drop of a hat. If I call you andfail to get an answer, just once, I'll send two men round to pick you up andput you on remand. Have you got that?'

Stokmonodded.

Frølichchecked his watch. 'Until then,' he said, 'try and rustle up someone who canconfirm your version of events on the night of 13th January.'

Chapter 25

The carpark in Vestre cemetery was quite full and Gunnarstranda was late. The breatharound his mouth was frozen as he went to grab the large handle of the heavychapel door. But before he could pull it open, it was gently pushed open fromthe inside. An official from the firm of undertakers, dressed in black, let himin.

…a man who lived a long and eventful life,' the metallic voice of the priestechoed through the loudspeakers around the chapel. Gunnarstranda entered withas little noise as possible and sat on the chair closest to the aisle in thelast row. He noticed the gaze of another official and nodded courteously. Theman stared back. Reidar Folke Jespersen's coffin was white with decorated brasshandles, and it was placed on the catafalque in front of the altar. The littlecanopy over the coffin was decorated with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. Along ribbon from one of the wreaths was draped down the aisle. Gunnarstrandainched off his gloves. It was warm in the chapel, but most of those attendingwere still wearing their thick winter coats. His glasses steamed up. He tookthem off and wiped them with a handkerchief while gazing up and taking in thesight of the frescoes on the walls. He put his glasses back on and scanned theassembled mourners. In the front row he could see the back of KarstenJespersen's head and Ingrid, the widow. Three small children who couldn't sitstill kept jumping off their chairs and were being hauled back by a resoluteSusanne Jespersen. She sent frustrated looks to her husband, Karsten, whoappeared to be oblivious of her – his gaze was firmly directed towards theseasoned priest conducting the service.

'Asa very young man Reidar Folke Jespersen was no stranger to death and terror in thiswar-ravaged country of ours,' the voice intoned through the microphone. Thepriest was in his forties and spoke the dialect of southern Vestland. The firstthree rows were full while the other mourners were scattered around. He locatedthe heads of the other two Folke Jespersen brothers, and he continued to searchfor Jonny Stokmo, but could not see him. His gaze rested on the coffin and hewas reminded of how the dead man had looked – first displayed in his own shopwindow and then on Professor Schwenke's autopsy table.

Thedoor directly behind him opened and he swivelled round on his chair. It was awoman. She also took a seat in the back row, but on the other side of theaisle. Her chair scraped as she sat down. Gunnarstranda stole furtive glances.She was wearing a thick sheepskin jacket down to the middle of her thighs. Inher lap she was holding one red rose wrapped in transparent plastic. Her hairwas short, blonde, and her hairstyle underlined her young age and chiselledfeatures. Her hair stood up; it was brushed back and looked as though she hadbeen caught in a gale. She was a beauty – a ray of sunshine from a window highup in the wall cut through the room and fell on her, gently setting off thecontours of her face. She swallowed. The policeman realized that she sensed hewas staring at her and he looked down. The priest was talking about how FolkeJespersen enjoyed mountain walks and unsullied nature. Gunnarstranda stifled ayawn. The grandchildren in the front row were fed up with the whole thing andtheir spoilt, angry voices were beginning to become audible as they argued withtheir mother. Susanne's whispered, almost hissed, reprimands carried to theback row. Gunnarstranda became aware of an electric charge in the air andpeered to the left. The woman who had been staring at him looked down at once.

Whenthe priest had finished, Karsten Jespersen got up to speak. He fixed his eyeson a point in the ceiling, clasped his hands behind his back and talked aboutDad in a formal way, free of any pomposity. His chin trembleduncontrollably. He made a lot of his father's famous deeds during the war andhis own pride.

Therewere several speakers. An elderly man with a sharp profile stood to attentionbefore the coffin and paid tribute. When the priest looked to see if anyoneelse wanted to say something, Gunnarstranda decided to withdraw before the end.In a flash he noticed that the young beauty had risen to her feet. She stoodfor a few moments, expectant, then strode up the aisle with a light spring inher step and a red scarf flapping from her shoulder. She laid the rose onReidar Folke Jespersen's coffin, curtseyed and stood still. The official fromthe firm of undertakers gestured for her to move forward to the microphone. Butthe woman took no notice of him.

Shestood in the same place, silent, composed, with her back to the room and withbowed head, as though meditating. After standing in this position for sometime, she spun round and strode back with her eyes firmly fixed ahead of her.

Gunnarstrandaobserved her face. There was something familiar about that chin and those lips.

KarstenJespersen, the widow, Ingrid, and the forceful children's mother turned, all ofthem, and in amazement watched the woman walk out of the chapel. When the heavydoor slammed, they turned round. Gunnarstranda got to his feet and made for thedoor.

Thecold hit his cheeks as soon as he was outside. He was blinded by the light fromthe low sun. With his hand shielding his eyes, he looked for the woman, withoutany success. He put on his gloves and stalked down the steps, annoyed to havelost her. 'You don't have a phone on you by any chance, do you?' asked a voicefrom behind him. Gunnarstranda turned on his heels. 'Why's that?' he answeredin a soft voice.

Shehad been leaning against the wall beside the church door. The muffled sounds ofthe organ and the psalms carried out to them. She took a step forward, andtrembled as she lit a cigarette she was holding between long, white fingers. Afat, black ring graced her left thumb. 'I was thinking of calling a taxi,' sheanswered with a light shiver.

'Whereare you going?'

Shelooked up. 'Have you got a car?'

Thepoliceman nodded.

'Torshov.'

'Fine.Come with me,' Gunnarstranda said, leading the way to the car park.

When,soon afterwards, they were settled in the car, the cold had already managed toform a couple of frost flowers on the front windscreen. Gunnarstranda startedthe engine, put the de-froster on full, rubbed his hands and fumbled in hispockets for a cigarette. The woman sat stiffly beside him in the passengerseat, without saying a word. Gunnarstranda noticed she had thrown away hercigarette. For a brief moment he considered smoking, then decided to put hisroll-up back.

Bythe time the car had reached the intersection between Skoyenveien andSorkedalsveien, the warm air had cleared a half moon in the windscreen andimproved visibility. A tram passed. The red light was slow to change.

InspectorGunnarstranda used the wait to offer his hand. 'Gunnarstranda,' he said.

'Wyller,'she replied, looking with condescension at the hand the Inspector left hangingin the air for few seconds before she took it. 'Haven't you got a Christianname?' he asked.

'Haven'tyou?' She smiled at her own banter without evincing any pleasure from it andstared tight-lipped out of the window.

'I'ma policeman,' Gunnarstranda said as the lights changed to green.

She,to the side window: 'And I'm an actress.'

'Didyou know Folke Jespersen?'

'Pleaseshut up,' she said curtly.

Gunnarstrandasmiled to himself.

Theysat in silence. He bore right at Smestad and joined Ring 3. Not until they hadpassed the toll station by the research stations did she open her mouth: 'Youcan drop me by Ullevål stadium. Anywhere.'

'I'lldrive you home,' Gunnarstranda insisted.

'Why?'

'I'minvestigating the murder of Folke Jespersen.'

Shewent quiet.

'He knewmy father,' she said at length, in a reflective rather than a friendly way.

'Who?'

'Folke.He knew my father.'

'Whois your father?'

'He'sdead.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Where do you live?'

'Hegermannsgate.'

'By thebull fountain?'

'Furtherdown. Towards Marcus Thranes gate, Ring 2…'

Gunnarstrandaslowed down for the lights at Ullevål stadium. He indicated right. The sun wasnow so low in the sky that you could only make out the outline of people in thestreet. The policeman flipped down the sun-shield and leaned back to seebetter.

'Howdid they come across each other?'

'Who?'

'Jespersenand your father?'

'Theywere friends.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'What's your Christian name?'

'I havetwo.'

'Me,too,' said the policeman.

'Whichone do you want?'

'Both.'

'Imean which of my two Christian names do you want?'

'Theone you like best.'

Hehad to brake again. She grabbed the dashboard and smiled as she said it: 'Hege.'

Gunnarstrandatasted the name: 'Hege Wyller,' he muttered. 'And your father?'

'HaraldWyller.'

Gunnarstrandashot her a sceptical glance. There was no time for more than a glance – he wasdoing 80 kilometres an hour.

Shestared ahead, smiling, as though she had thought of something amusing.

'Andyou're an actress?'

Shenodded.

Theydrove on in silence. As they approached Hegermanns gate, Gunnarstranda askedagain: 'How well did you know Folke Jespersen?'

'I didn'tknow him.'

'Butyou placed a rose on his coffin.'

'Don'tyou think he deserved it?'

Gunnarstrandadidn't answer.

'There,'she said, pointing. 'In front of the drive, behind the red Toyota.'

Gunnarstrandaslowed down. She immediately put her hand on the door handle.

'Whenwas the last time you saw Folke Jespersen alive?' Gunnarstranda wanted to know.

Shestiffened for an instant, but opened the door a little anyway.

'When?'the policeman repeated.

'Idon't remember.'

'Wasit a long time ago?'

'Yes.'

Sheopened the door wide and got out. Gunnarstranda also moved to get out. 'Bye,'she said and slammed the door. Gunnarstranda stood up; he had one foot on theground, the other on the sill. He followed her with his eyes. She headed forthe front door in the brick façade. As she unlocked the door she threw a lastlook at the policeman. They observed each other for two brief seconds beforeshe disappeared inside.

Gunnarstrandaleft the car and walked slowly to the same door. Next to one of the bells hefound her name engraved in white on a small, black nameplate: GROHEGE WYLLER.

Chapter 26

'One,two, cha-cha-cha, one, two, cha-cha-cha!' There were just two people practisingin the room which smelt strongly of stale gymnasium. The man pirouetting in theroom had his back arched like a bullfighter's. He was wearing a short, baggywoollen sweater over a yellow leotard. He was medium height with longish, curlyhair and a very athletic build. He was twirling round a young girl of maybeseventeen or eighteen who was trying to follow his movements. The music comingout of the speakers of a stereo-rack on the floor was easily drowned by theman's screaming voice. 'One, two, cha-cha-cha!' The man stamped his feet hardon the floor. 'Oh, come on!' he screamed, theatrically tossing his head andcreating a swirl of glamorous locks around his head. 'Don't be so sluggish andslow! Pick up your feet!' The girl was wearing a gym outfit and legwarmers. Herblonde hair, which she had tied up in a ponytail, was beginning to come awayfrom the elastic band. The man let go of her and demonstrated the dance stepsonce again. He studied his body in the mirror. The man's thigh and buttockmuscles stood out through the leotard. For a brief second he exchanged glanceswith Frank Frølich, who was checking his wristwatch. He had been sitting on abench in the large hall for twenty minutes. The young girl seemed so exhaustednow that he guessed the lesson would soon be over.

Fiveminutes later the two men were alone in the hall.

'EyolfStrømsted?' Frølich asked, reaching out his hand. 'This is about IngridJespersen,' he said after introducing himself.

'MyGod, what a situation,' Strømsted said, wiping the sweat from his face.

'Wehave reason to believe that you're on very good terms with Ingrid Jespersen,'Frølich said.

'That'sone way of putting it,' parried Strømsted with a fixed frontal gaze.

'I'mpart of a team investigating the murder of her husband,' Frølich said andnothing more.

Strømstedheld his rigid stare.

Frølichtook his time. He was looking for the right words.

'Weknow you and Ingrid Jespersen are on very intimate terms.'

'Andwhose claim is that?' Strømsted said in a measured voice. 'Is it hers?'

'Infact we have seen you together.' Frølich stood up and rummaged in his bag. 'Ihave a few photos which would support what I'm saying, but…' He abandoned thesearch. 'I don't seem to have them with me, but you and the widow have beenseen in somewhat intimate circumstances in a parked car the night after ReidarFolke Jespersen was found dead.'

Strømstedwas breathing hard.

'Whendid you last meet her?' Frølich asked gently.

'OnSunday. We drove to the car park outside the Munch museum.'

'Andbefore that?'

'The Friday…13th January.'

Frølichtook notes and peered up. 'Could you tell me what happened that Friday?'

'Shedropped by to see me between half past eleven and twelve – in the morning. Halfan hour later we went to bed. We had a cup of tea and chatted for a bit first.That's what we always do – every Friday.'

Frølichlooked up when the other man paused.

Strømstedhad a steely expression on his face. 'Perhaps half an hour later her husbandrang. He rang while we were fucking. How great is that!' the man grinned.

'Whatdid you say?'

'Whilewe were fucking.'

Frølichsent the man with the curls a stern look. The forehead under the curls wassweaty.

'Andwho rang?'

'Herold man. The murder victim. Reidar Folke Jespersen.'

'Whatdid he want?'

'Totalk to his wife.'

'Anddid he?'

'Yesindeed.'

Strømstedwas still staring ahead. Into the mirror on the opposite wall. They exchangedlooks in the mirror.

'Hasthis relationship been going on for a long time?'

'Muchtoo long!'

'Whatdo you mean by that?'

Strømstedran his fingers through his curly locks. 'I suppose it means I think thissituation is quite dreadful.'

'Whichsituation?'

'Tohave to stand here answering your embarrassing questions when a pupil can comein the door at any moment.'

'Howlong has this relationship been going on?'

'Aboutthree years.'

'Haveyou ever met Folke Jespersen?' Frølich enquired.

'Once.Many years ago when I was dancing with Ingrid.'

'Haveyou seen him since?'

'Never.'Strømsted wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and pulled at the frontof his sweater. He wafted it to let air in. 'What's the time?' he asked.

'Fivepast,' Frølich said.

'Anotherpupil will be here any minute.'

'That'sfine. Did you meet Folke Jespersen that Friday?'

Strømstedblenched. 'Meet her husband? No.' He dried his face with the towel again. As hetook it away, he grinned. His upper lip abutted a wide row of impeccable teeth.It was a winning, though also a much practised, smile. Frølich was clear thatthis man could easily make women go weak at the knees.

'Howlong was Ingrid with you?'

'Untiljust after three.'

'Whatdid you do after his call?'

Strømstedgrinned. 'What do you think?'

'Justanswer the question.' 'We carried on.' Strømsted sent him a provocative glower.'She was sucking me off,' he said with a fixed smile.

'Didyou talk about the phone call?'

'Itwasn't so easy for her to talk at that point.'

Frølich,remaining patient, took a deep breath.

Strømstedstared ahead, thoughtful, open-mouthed.

'Hmm,I'm sorry. This situation isn't exactly easy. What we talked about? What wetalked about was her husband. For the most part we talked about how much heknew, how long he had known and what the consequences would be.'

'Whatdo you mean by that?'

'Bywhat?'

'Whatthe consequences would be? Of his phone call?'

Strømstedflashed a faint, dreamy smile. 'She'd been caught being unfaithful, hadn't she!So she was pondering the future of her marriage. She was quite distraught.'

'Herhusband didn't usually phone her then?'

'Areyou insane?'

'Soher husband had exposed her activities with this phone call? That's what you'resaying?'

'Yes.'

'Doyou think she wanted to get out of her marriage?'

'Whatdo you mean by that?'

Frølich:'Do you think she was sorry she had been caught? Was there a risk of adivorce?'

'Hmm,'Strømsted said. 'Well, you can imagine. Her husband rings while she… while she…I suppose it must have knocked her off her perch, as they say – in this case,quite literally.' His upper lip spread to reveal his teeth again. Frølich couldfeel that he was beginning to dislike this smile.

'Ithink she was dreading the evening,' Strømsted said in a more earnest tone.

'Whywas that?'

'Justimagine it, being caught like that, and then having to go home to your husbandand spend the whole evening with him.'

'Whydid he ring?'

'Hewanted to put a stop to our activities.'

'Doyou know that for certain?'

'Yes,she told me what he had said. It was a very brief conversation.'

'Whatdid you do – later that evening?' Frølich asked.

'I wasat home.'

'Cananyone confirm that you were at home?'

Strømstedstood up and strolled towards the mirror on the opposite wall. He grabbed thewall bar and raised his right leg in one supple movement. It was a classicdance step, a classic pose. 'Is this the moment of truth?' he asked in anexaggerated, theatrical voice while observing Frølich in the mirror. 'Will youlet me go if, Mr Policeman, if I answer yes?'

Frølichlooked at his image in the mirror. He was all the dancer was not. His grey hairwas unkempt and lifeless. His beard made him look down in the mouth. His bodywas too big and too heavy.

EyolfStrømsted was a statue. Muscles and sinews wreathed the man's body like yarnaround a ball. The man's curly hair emphasized the almost feminine features ofhis clean-shaven face.

'Doesthat mean the answer is no?' the policeman asked blithely.

Strømstedtook pleasure in the sight of his own body as he lowered his leg without anyhurry and continued the slow movement into a glide and the splits. 'Of coursenot,' he said to his own image. 'I realized after the phone call that IngridJespersen may not have been the smartest move I have ever made.' He grinned:'And yes indeed. You can have it confirmed any time you like. I was at home allevening and all night.'

Chapter 27

Thenext morning Gunnarstranda tried to call Ingrid Jespersen on the telephone,without any success. Then he read through reports and was able to establish,after going through Frølich's interview of the widow, that firstly she wassomewhat reluctant to pick up the phone and secondly that she liked to take herlunch in a café with which she had been connected earlier.

Ittook him a further three calls and a few enquiries before, at half past twelve,he was able to park his almost new Skoda Octavia in Frognerveien and stroll thefew metres to the café, open the door and hand his winter coat to theVietnamese-looking woman in the cloakroom. He checked himself over in the mirrorbehind the attendant, straightened his sparse hair and turned to study thescene. 'Only one person?' asked a woman dressed in dark clothes, the headwaitress. 'I'm afraid so,' answered the policeman defensively. 'But I wasthinking of joining Ingrid Jespersen.' He motioned towards a window table whereIngrid, engrossed in a newspaper, was eating pasta.

'MayI join you?' he asked, although she did not catch what he had said at once.When she peered up she did not seem at all put out. 'Sit down? Of course.' Sheextended an open hand to the unoccupied chair. Slowly she folded the paper. Itwas Verdens Gang. A youthful photograph of Reidar Folke Jespersendisappeared. 'I've read that you have some leads.'

Gunnarstrandasmiled and shook his head to the waiter who came with the menu. 'Just coffee,'he said and added: 'Black.'

ToIngrid: 'I suppose you must have gathered that we are keeping all our optionsopen?'

Shenodded. 'How did you know I was here?'

'Becausewe're keeping all our options open,' he replied lightly.

Takenaback, she grimaced. 'Well, I must say…' She stared down at her meal, butseemed to have lost her appetite. 'Are you having me followed?'

Gunnarstrandatook the cup of coffee without a word and stirred it with a faraway look. Thewaiter stretched out a hand for Ingrid's plate with a questioning look. 'Thankyou. I've had enough,' she said. The policeman was stirring his coffee as hewatched the waiter retreat.

'Areyou following me?' Ingrid Jespersen repeated.

'We'relooking after you as well as we can.'

'But…'

'Doyou know the name Eyolf Strømsted?' he interrupted.

Ingridlowered her eyes. She went quiet. Gunnarstranda leaned back in his chair.

'Isthat what they call shooting from the hip?' she asked, her eyes still downcast.

Noresponse from Gunnarstranda.

'Orwhat?' she went on, with renewed energy in her voice, and raising her head. Hereyes seemed tired, but aggressive at the same time.

'It'sa question,' Gunnarstranda said with composure. 'Either you answer it or youdon't. Make sure the answer is honest.'

'Lookingafter…' Ingrid muttered. 'Isn't it simply spying on people?'

Gunnarstrandadidn't answer. Instead he sipped his coffee.

'Weknow each other,' she said in a more controlled tone of voice. 'We know eachother very well. But I presume you know that.'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'Wego way back… he's… he was once a pupil of mine. He used to be a dancer.'

'Howlong have you two been having an affair?'

'Forthree years.'

'That'squite a long time, isn't it?'

'Thereare some that last longer, unknown to anyone.'

'Thatgoes without saying.'

Ingridreached down and scratched her leg. 'My God, I'm so hot…' Gunnarstranda noticedshe had a determined furrow between her eyebrows. It made her look severe.'Have you got any plans?' he asked.

Shestraightened up.

'Whatdo you mean?'

Gunnarstrandalooked into her eyes: 'I was wondering what Strømsted means to you. Is he anerotic dalliance or does he mean much more?'

'Muchmore?' She lowered her gaze and rested her head on her hand. 'Isn't it enoughthat we have stayed together for three years?'

'Iwould like you to answer the question.'

'Whetherhe's an erotic dalliance or more? Does whether I distinguish between eroticismand love tell you anything about who I am?'

Gunnarstrandapatiently sipped his coffee.

'Do youknow what I've heard?' she said, gazing out of the window. 'I've heard thathowever wild your desire there will always be a concomitant feeling ofemptiness.'

Composed,she turned to him again.

'Sex,'she began, pausing for a few seconds before taking the plunge. 'Sex is aboutbodies, a physical phenomenon which can be calculated and defined, amathematical curve with growth, with peaks and troughs. Sexuality exists byvirtue of its form.'

Theyexchanged glances. The policeman said nothing. She had not yet finished.

'Sexualityis man-made, and like all man-made things it has deficiencies. Sex contains ananticipation of something else and more. All physical matter is bound to reachsaturation point – just because it has physical limits. That applies to sextoo. Therefore it is the nature of eroticism that you become sated, either withthe partner or with the sexual act.'

Raptin thought, she gazed across the room, and then continued: 'On the other hand,there is an energy which does not depend on physical proximity. The emotional,psychological longing which two people feel for each other is a genuine form oflove. Longing is love that knows no boundaries. Longing can never be destroyedor fade away or die.'

Gunnarstrandaobserved her over the rim of his cup. It was as though she had been giving alecture learned by rote, and at this moment she was recalling the times whenshe used to swot for school. He had to swallow hard. Her words had conjured upan image of Edel. He cleared his throat to make his voice heard, so strong hadthe sensation been that she had been talking directly to him. 'That was wellput,' he conceded and coughed again. 'And I may well have heard somethingsimilar. But is it like that? Most people would rather try to unite theseaspects of their love life. At any rate, those who choose a partner for lifethrough marriage.'

'Butif it isn't possible?'

'What?'

'Forsome it may be impossible to unite the physical with the emotional.' Then sheadded: 'For Reidar it was like that.'

'Reidar?'the policeman said. 'I thought you were talking about yourself.'

Sheshook her head. 'I don't know what I think about this. I've never had aconsistent policy on such things. But I have long wondered why I should havehad to live in abstinence for seven years.'

'Washe impotent?'

'Impotent?'She sent him another weary smile. 'Do you realize you are trying to justifymany years of imbalance with one word? Was he impotent, you ask, and youapparently expect me to clarify the situation with a yes or a no.Well, what sort of clarification? Have you considered at all what it is you'reasking? Fine, let me take you at your word. I can say yes. Yes, inrecent years

Reidarwas not capable of performing the physical activity with me which is requiredto make a child. And so what? Does that make our love less pure or…' shecontemplated the ceiling as she searched for words… 'less tender, less warm? Idon't think so. You didn't object when I claimed there was a distinctionbetween eroticism and longing. They were his words. Reidar said it so often,and I have thought about those words so many times that I know the reasoningoff by heart. Reidar didn't have any hormonal problems. The distinction betweensexuality and longing was an intellectual standpoint on his part. He wasfinished with eroticism. He didn't want to make love to me, to use a cliché.For a long time I thought he despised me, that he found me unattractive orloathsome. But of course he didn't. Reidar was so straightforward, souncomplicated – that he told the truth. When he grew older, he made adistinction between physical love and psychological longing. He despised theone and prized the other.'

'Butwhat does it mean?'

Sheshook her head in desperation. 'What does it mean? It means you know somethingabout me no one else does. It means you have made me declare my love for myhusband. It means I feel sordid!'

'Didhe have any other women?'

'No.Not at all.'

'Didhe use prostitutes?'

'Hewould rather have died than go to a prostitute.'

'Whodid he long for?'

'Well,you tell me.' Ingrid had a faraway look in her eyes, and a furrowed brow. 'Iwould guess he longed for the wife who died, my predecessor.'

'Didhe say that in so many words?'

'No.He never admitted it, if that's what you're asking. It's my guess. On the otherhand, it's based on many years of practical experience. All in all, my marriagewas a fiasco.'

'Afiasco?'

'The wordmay be an exaggeration. Let's just say you can rely on my assessment.'

'Whatabout your current relationship? Which category of love does that fall under -eroticism or longing?'

'Idon't think the same way as Reidar. I do what I feel is right. And, for me,meeting Eyolf feels right.'

'Butthen my earlier question is very pertinent: Have you two got any plans?'

Sheshook her head. 'No, we have no plans.'

'Haveyou split up?'

'No,but…' She shrugged her shoulders. 'I assume we will continue as before.'

'Andwhat is that supposed to mean?'

Shepulled a wry grin. 'Inspector…'

Heraised a hand to stop her. 'What is that supposed to mean?' he repeated withemphasis.

Shewas at a loss for a few moments.

'We'llmeet once a week.'

'Where?'

'Inhis flat. He lives in Jacob Aalls gate. But you already know that.' Shebreathed in and steadied herself. 'Now I think about it, I suppose he could cometo my place as Reidar is… no longer there.' She looked into his eyes,provocatively.

Henodded slowly. 'Well, you wouldn't have to resort to car parks…'

Shesat up in her chair, glared at the table for a while before raising her eyes tomeet his. She was flushed, he realized, flushed with anger.

'I'minvestigating a murder,' he said gently. 'What you and Strømsted do in vehiclesin Oslo car parks does not interest me.'

'Ohno? Why are there people spying on us then?' she snapped.

'BecauseI want to solve a crime, a task which entails needing to know more about youand your acquaintances. Also we don't know why your husband was murdered andtherefore we need to be close at hand. But- above all I want to know what youand your husband were doing on the days before the murder. Did you meetStrømsted during this time?'

'Yes.'

'When?'

'Thesame day. I visited Eyolf on Friday the 13th.' She looked down as thoughcollecting her strength before staring provocatively into the policeman's eyesagain, with a malicious little smile. 'We went to bed at some time betweentwelve and one, and stayed there… for a couple of hours. I dozed off whileEyolf made us lunch. We had pasta. Penne all'arrabbiata. His is better than theone they serve here, in fact. And I left at about three. Happy?'

'Iwill be soon,' the policeman said, leaning over and resting his elbows on thetable. 'You didn't say anything about this in your earlier statement.'

Shedidn't answer.

Gunnarstrandamused. He was questioning her, but you weren't supposed to question suspects incafes. Too late to stop now, though. He said:

'Doesthis mean you will change your statement?'

Shestared at him. 'Are you taking my statement here?'

'Youcould pop into Gronlandsleiret today after five. Your new statement will beready in reception. You only have to sign. Read it through first. If there isanything which does not accord with what really happened, leave it and get intouch with me immediately.'

'Right.'

'Immediatelymeans that very instant!'

'I'vegot the point.'

'Theday after your husband was found dead in the shop window, you went to thisdancing school run by your lover. You took him out and he had to find aninstructor to step in for him. You drove to the car park between the Munchmuseum and the Botanical Gardens – why?'

'Because,'she said dismissively, and pinched her mouth shut.

Gunnarstrandagave a lop-sided smile. 'You mean this is private?'

'Ofcourse.'

'Iwill repeat the question and you are requested to answer: Why did you visitEyolf Strømsted on the Sunday in question?'

'Becausewe have the relationship we do,' she growled. 'I needed to be near him.' 'Butwhy in a car park?'

'Whynot?'

Theysat eyeing each other in silence. 'I'm sorry if you're not satisfied,' she saidat last. 'But that's my answer to the question.'

'Whatdid you say to Reidar when he rang?'

'What?'

Gunnarstranda'seyes flashed. 'You heard what I said. I know Reidar rang when you and Strømstedwere in bed that Friday.'

Sheclosed her eyes and blanched as though he had slapped her. 'Has Eyolf…?'

'Answerme,' the policeman insisted with force.

'Idon't like to talk about this,' she whispered.

'Answerme.'

'Hedemanded that I…'

Gunnarstrandadrummed his fingers with impatience.

Shebreathed in and gazed out of the window. The policeman followed her gaze. Awoman in a tight-fitting winter coat got out of a car and slipped into ahairdresser's on the other side of the street.

'Itwas typical Reidar,' Ingrid said. 'He was efficient in everything he did. Herang me up, presumably to show me he knew. He asked me to stop meeting Eyolf.That was all.'

'Heasked you?'

'Well,it was more of a demand.'

'Whatdid you say?'

'Nothing.He rang off.'

'Butwhat did he say when you were alone – later in the evening?' 'We didn't talkabout the matter.'

'That'sodd.'

'Youdidn't know Reidar. I neither wanted nor dared to broach the subject.'

'Youhad been caught in the act.'

'Yes.'She ran a finger under one eye, moved.

'Itmight have given you a motive.'

'Motive?'She said with a resigned smile. 'Why on earth would it give me a motive? In fact,I was ready to break with Eyolf.'

'Thatstands and falls on how far you are telling the truth.'

Anotherweary smile. 'What do you think, Inspector Gunnarstranda? Do you think I'm tellingthe truth? I know you have discussed this case with others.'

'Letme put it this way,' the detective countered sharply. 'If you fail to presentevidence or information which has a bearing on the case, it will not count inyour favour.' He took a deep breath. 'You maintain you were on the point ofbreaking up with Eyolf Strømsted on that Friday, but how does that tally withthe fact that you met him a short while after?'

'Ineeded it. I needed to meet him again.'

'Why?'

'Becausemy husband had been killed, because I felt alone, because I needed someone tohold me. Is that so damned difficult to understand?'

'Notat all, but there could also be other reasons for meeting him, reasons whichyou are withholding.'

Sheshook her head with vehemence.

'Youand Reidar might have had a row on Friday night when you were alone.'

Shewas quiet.

'Ifyou had a row – there are many outcomes one could envisage.'

Shewas still quiet.

'Didyou have a row that evening?'

'No.'

'Thefact that you have a relationship with another man is not something I canignore in the investigation.'

'Iunderstand that.'

'ThenI'm sure you'll understand that we will have to come back to this matter.'

'Idon't know if I will understand.'

'Whydo you think Reidar did not go to bed that night?'

'Ihave no idea,' she snarled. 'Perhaps you do.'

'Ican only form hypotheses – and have them confirmed or confounded.'

'Ididn't have a row with Reidar.'

'WasStrømsted's name mentioned either by you or your husband that evening?'

'No.'

'Ialso find that very unusual.'

'Sorry,but I can't do anything about that. Eyolf's name was not mentioned at all.'

'You'vealready had to change your statement once. I'm asking you one more time: Wasyour infidelity discussed by you and your husband that evening?'

'Theanswer is no,' she said stiffly, in a low voice and with downcast eyes.

Thepoliceman watched her. 'Do you know if

Strømstedhas other lovers?' he asked quietly.

'You'dbetter ask him, not me.'

'Buthe's been your lover for a long time. You must have had thoughts of thatnature, about whether he meets other people.'

'Ofcourse. I assume he meets other women – on the odd occasion. But whether hesleeps with them… I have chosen not to speculate.'

'Helives with someone,' Gunnarstranda said.

For afraction of a second her eyes bulged, then she looked down, swallowed, shookher head again and gave a disdainful laugh. 'He definitely does not, that muchI do know.'

Thepoliceman, surprised, smiled gently. 'You didn't know he lived with someone?'

'Idon't believe you.'

'Whythe doubt?'

'I'vebeen visiting him every week for three years. I've never so much as seen a pairof knickers or a packet of tampons in that house, no high-heeled shoes…'

'Hasn'the got a double bed?'

'Allmen have double beds.'

'Isthat so?' Gunnarstranda swallowed, then pursed his lips, as though he hadlearned something new, and asked: 'Why do you think he didn't take you to hisplace on Sunday evening when you turned up at the dance class? Why do you thinkyou ended up in a car park?'

'Thisis none of your business.'

'Helives with a man,' Gunnarstranda stated baldly.

Ingridrecoiled. She stared out of the window, folded her trembling hands and after aglance down at the table jumped up and snatched her bag. Without another wordshe turned and strode out between the tables. Inspector Gunnarstranda watchedher. The Vietnamese-looking cloakroom attendant searched through a row ofwinter coats, took one off a hanger and passed it with a smile to IngridJespersen, who donned it with her back to the detective. She spun on her heeland marched out. As she passed the window where Gunnarstranda was sitting, hereyes were fixed in front of her and she didn't even grace him with a look. Atthat moment she slipped on a patch of ice and fell sideways. She landed on herhip and one arm. A young man with a long fringe ran up to her. She waved himaway and struggled up on one knee. It wasn't easy – the soles of her shoes weresmooth and had no tread. The back of her dark coat was white with snow. She hadsnow in her hair. She had snow up her nylons. She stood supporting herself on aparking meter for a few moments. Two small children on the opposite side of thestreet pointed and laughed. It was all over in less than thirty seconds. Notonce did she look in the policeman's direction. When Gunnarstranda finallymanaged to compose himself, the same waiter was standing there. He wasflourishing a slip of paper. 'I've prepared the bill for you,' he said in asoft voice and placed it on the table.

Chapter 28

Frølichwas lumbering down the corridor when he saw Gunnarstranda switch off the lightand close the door behind him. He joined Gunnarstranda back in his office. Theacrid smell of many smoked cigarettes hung in the room like the fusty smell ofcarriages on the 0stfold railway line.

Frølichtook a seat and put his feet up on the desk, then flicked through IngridJespersen's revised statement.

Gunnarstrandawas smoking a cigarette by the partly opened window and said: 'By the way acomplaint has been lodged against us.'

'Us?'

'Well,me, to be precise,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Someone has claimed I've been smoking insmoke-free zones.' He flipped over the long-necked ashtray behind his chair andlooked down into it. 'It wasn't you, was it?' he asked.

Frølichturned round. 'Me? No.'

'Thecomplaint was anonymous.'

'Doesit matter who complains? You could smoke outside, like all the others.'

'I dosmoke outside.'

'Andyou smoke in here.'

'Areyou sure you weren't the one who complained?'

'Yes.'

'Hm.'Gunnarstranda sat down, placed the cigarette on the rim of the long-necked ashtrayand focused on Frølich, who was still studying the report. 'Suppose it's Ingridwho did her husband in,' Frølich began. 'Her infidelity has been rumbled.Reidar rings her – catches her in the act – threatens her and tells her tofinish with the guy. What would he threaten her with? Divorce? But she'sfifty-four and he's eighty.'

'Seventy-nine,'Gunnarstranda corrected.

'OK,'Frølich said. 'What I don't understand is why she would be afraid that heradultery would come to light. What could he threaten her with? Or what has sheto lose by being divorced? Her share of the inheritance?'

Gunnarstrandalooked at him with unseeing eyes. 'Yes,' he said. 'She would lose theinheritance, but that's not an immediate issue. Divorce would give her halfanyway.'

Frølichput down the papers. 'Imagine the atmosphere,' he exclaimed. 'The meal musthave been a pretty quiet affair. Reidar's son and family are there while thetwo of them are sending each other signals – but when Karsten, his wife andchildren leave, Ingrid is bound to have discussed the matter with her husband!'

'Why?'

Frølichsighed with despair. 'But she had to, didn't she! They have to go to bed. Theyhave to share intimacies…'

'Wedon't know that.'

'I'mnot thinking of sex. But there is something intimate about going to bed atnight. They share a bed. He – Jespersen – has caught his wife with another man.Strømsted is young and virile – a man his wife must have chosen because shewants sex from the relationship. Think about it! Jespersen is close on eightyand impotent. His wife's choice of a lover is like a slap in the face. Ofcourse they must have talked about her infidelity that night!'

'Notnecessarily.'

Frølich,perplexed: 'You don't think they talked?'

'Idon't think they necessarily discussed her infidelity,' Gunnarstranda said.

'Whynot?'

'Thereare things we choose not to talk about.'

'Butthis is adultery.'

'Iknow it's adultery, but you and Reidar Folke Jespersen may not have the samemoral code.'

'Code?'

Gunnarstrandawaved him on. 'Oh, never mind. Go on. Where were you?'

'Myguess is they started rowing. I think she became aggressive when he refused totalk to her – or when he stuck to his guns and insisted she stopped meeting theother man. Because she had been unfaithful he refused to sleep in the same bed.I assume he went down to the shop to sleep there. She couldn't put up with hissulking and followed – down to the shop where the row continued – and in theend she grabbed a bayonet hanging on the wall and stabbed him!' Frølichillustrated with stabbing motions in the air.

'Sleepin the shop? Why didn't he go to one of the many sofas in the flat?'

'All right,he didn't go downstairs to sleep, he went to the shop to look at the thingsKarsten had been talking about, or to check the door was locked – or just tosit and meditate for all I know. It doesn't change anything. She ended upstabbing him!'

'Andthen?'

'Hm?'

'Whathappened then?' Gunnarstranda asked with interest.

'Well,she undressed him, scribbled those things on his chest and forehead and draggedthe body to the shop window. We know all this…'

'Yes,but go on. What happened then?'

'Well,then she goes up to her room – and then she panics. She fakes a kind of nervousbreakdown and tries to work out how she can get off the hook.' Frølich throwshis arms in the air. 'The upshot is she phones Karsten to foist this break-infantasy on everyone around her.'

'Andthen?' Gunnarstranda urges his colleague on with a flourish of the hand.

'Shecould have rung her lover,' Frølich says with triumph in his voice. 'If shereally was frightened, she should have phoned her lover. But she doesn't; sherings Reidar's son. Why would she do that – if it wasn't to establish analibi…?'

'Butthen?'

Frølich:'Yes, things go wrong. She's rebuffed by Karsten's wife – Susanne – as it ishalf past two at night. She sits up until the morning biting her nails. But bya stroke of good fortune this paper girl shows up. So she doesn't have todiscover the body. Nor does she have to ring the police.'

'Thereare some flaws in your theory.'

'Fine,but at least it is a theory. And when I asked her whether she had heard anynoises that night, she went ashen. I'm sure she's holding something back.Absolutely certain.'

'Possible,'conceded the inspector, thinking. They stared at each other as Gunnarstrandaadded: 'However, why put the body in the shop window?'

Frølichreflected. 'That's a question we'll have to ask all the suspects,' he said.'It's irrelevant as a counterargument to the theory.'

'Irrelevant?The wife displaying her murdered husband in the shop window is illogical. Ifshe were trying to cover up the murder and claim it was the result of abreak-in, the logical thing to do would be to leave the body on the shop floor- dressed. It would be logical to damage the door frame or smash a window -much more logical than stripping the body and dragging it to the window.'

Theysat gazing into the air.

'Hemay have threatened her with divorce and loss of the inheritance,' Frølich saidat length. 'That would explain why he revoked the original will. It would alsoexplain why he didn't suggest a new will to the solicitor.' Frølich jumped tohis feet with excitement. 'Of course. It's obvious. That's how it was! He useddivorce and the inheritance to put pressure on his wife.'

Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'We've already been through the inheritance business.'

'Well…'Frølich was thinking aloud. 'She must have gone for the old goat for money fromthe very outset. Women who marry old men do it for money – everyone says that.Assuming this goes for her too, she's stuck it out for almost twenty-five yearswaiting for riches, and now, all of a sudden, this dream of paradise isjeopardized by her infidelity. That's why she kills Reidar, so that he doesn'thave time to leave the money to others in a new will.'

'Twoarguments in contra,' Gunnarstranda said. 'First of all, the likelihood iswe're not talking big money here. The couple lived in an expensive apartment inFrogner – and I imagine they were quite well off, but there is nothing tosuggest that Jespersen was a man of great wealth. The second is that I don'tbelieve Ingrid Jespersen is the type to marry a man for his money. Anotherthing I'm also a little uncertain about is whether her infidelity undulybothered Reidar.'

'Hemade the phone call,' Frølich objected. 'He ordered his wife to stop meetingStrømsted.'

'That'strue, but we shouldn't forget that Reidar had lived with this age differencefor a very long time. Do you remember what I said when I first met Ingrid? Itook it for granted that she had a lover – why would Reidar see things anydifferently? My guess is he assumed she would take lovers from time to time.'

Frølichconsidered what Gunnarstranda had said, but also found a counter-argument: 'IfJespersen accepted that his wife would go with other men, he wouldn't havebothered to ring her on precisely that day, would he?'

'Wedon't know why he rang. Perhaps he rang to give her a shock, to show her heknew about the relationship,' Gunnarstranda said darkly, 'to tell her to gether act together. Something may…

'Possible,'Frølich interrupted. 'But it's not without significance that he rings his wifewhen she is in the process of cheating on him and that he rings his solicitor afew hours later to retract a will, which, whatever you say, favours her in someshape or form. The strange thing is that he is killed afterwards. Furthermore,you're overlooking the dirty dog himself: Strømsted. He may be involved.'

'Something,'Gunnarstranda continued undeterred, 'may have happened which caused or provokedthe telephone call from Reidar to Strømsted.'

'Butwhat could that have been?'

Theywere interrupted by the telephone. Gunnarstranda grabbed it, listened for acouple of seconds and said: 'Excellent, Yttergjerde. Stay on their tail.'

'Troublein paradise,' he said, putting down the receiver. 'That was Yttergjerde. Ingridis having another tete-a-tete with Eyolf. Driving round in the car.'

'Co-ordinatingstatements?' Frølich suggested.

'Seemedlike they were having a row.'

Thetwo men exchanged looks.

'Theydo have a relationship, which we have uncovered. It would be strange if theyweren't talking.'

Frølichscratched his beard. 'It's not strange that she's angry,' he said. 'Strømstedadmitted the relationship to me, whereas she lied when I talked to her.'

'It'llbe interesting to see if she signs her new statement,' Gunnarstranda, said,putting on a thoughtful expression. 'This Strømsted person has a long-termrelationship with a man. While he is humping Ingrid Jespersen once a week -why?' The Detective Inspector supplied his own answer: 'I suppose to satisfyhis bisexual orientation. If he's crazy about Ingrid, he wouldn't be livingwith someone else, would he?'

'Youmean because Strømsted lives with someone he cannot be the murderer?' Frølichasked, and said: 'We don't know much about the feelings between the two of them- for all we know he could be screwing her to get a few kroner from the shop…'

Gunnarstranda'sbrow was still furrowed.

'Theydrove all the way to Toyen Park the day after,' Frølich said quietly. 'Both ofthem live in the best area of Oslo. Why would they drive all the way to ToyenPark if it wasn't to hide from us and get their stories straight?' He openedhis palms. 'And now they're doing it again.'

'Ithink you have a point. Toyen is a fair distance away…'

'Whydid they go all the way to Toyen if it hadn't been to lose Yttergjerde?'Excited, Frølich sprang to his feet. 'Even if they couldn't go to Strømsted'splace, because of his partner, they could have gone to Ingrid's. But why didn'tthey? Well, first of all there are police outside the house. And second of allthey would have to have sex in the flat above the crime scene. Imagine thenight of the murder: Ingrid checked all the doors in the house. If she was inthis together with Strømsted, she's the Trojan horse.'

Gunnarstrandasighed. 'If Ingrid's the Trojan horse and lets in the murderer, why does shetell us the story about the snow on the floor? If she let him in, why didn'tshe keep her mouth shut about the puddles? After all, the puddles mean someonewas in the house!'

'Butwhat if she woke up panic-stricken and phoned Karsten, only to receive asurprise visit from the murderer afterwards…'

'Thenshe's not a Trojan horse any more,' Gunnarstranda countered.

'No,but if that's how it was, then she invents the story about the snow on thefloor as a red herring! The snow is meant to suggest that somebody had beeninside the house before she woke up, while the truth was that a guestcame after she had made the call.'

'Ofcourse that's possible…'

'Strømstedmay even have killed the old man without her knowing,' Frølich suggested,getting excited. 'Strømsted kills Reidar. Then he takes the keys from the body,goes up to the first floor, lets himself in, meets her, tells her what he hasdone and…'

'Twoarguments in contra,' Gunnarstranda cut in.

Frølichwas breathing hard.

'Firstof all, Strømsted immediately told you about the call from Reidar whichinterrupted the love-in he was having with Ingrid. He needn't have done that.In other words he was serving up a motive on a silver platter. That may suggesthe has nothing to hide. Secondly…' Gunnarstranda paused.

Frølichsat and observed him.

'There'sstill the problem of the shop window and the scribble on the man's body.'

'Whoeverkilled Reidar, that aspect of the case is going to be a problem,' Frølich said,dismissing the objection with some irritation.

'Fairenough,' Gunnarstranda assented. 'But deep down I know I believe one thing:there was a logic to what someone did with the body! In addition, it seems asif the relationship between Ingrid Jespersen and Strømsted the dance teacher isnot straightforward. He's cohabiting with another homosexual man. IngridJespersen didn't seem to "know" anything about this gayrelationship.' Gunnarstranda formed the quotation marks with his forefingers.'You should have seen the way she flounced out of the café. It was worthy of anOscar. Fittingly enough, she took a nose-dive right in front of me.'

'Shedoesn't seem the kind to fall flat on her face.'

'Perhapsnot, but I'm not sure I believe that she didn't know about Strømsted'sorientation. I've never met a woman who hasn't intuited a gay man. Think aboutit: Ingrid Jespersen has been humping this man once a week for years, in hispartner's flat! It's very unlikely that she didn't know he was gay.'

'He'sbi, not gay.'

'Yttergjerdesaid he waggled his bum like Olympic long distance-walkers!'

Frølichraised both eyebrows. 'You don't say,' he mumbled. 'I can't tell gays andheteros apart. Especially not when they're walkers. I would never have guessedStrømsted was bisexual.'

'Youaren't a woman!'

'Areyou?'

'Well…'

Frølichgrinned.

Gunnarstrandachanged the subject. 'That's enough of that, but she must have known. Ingridmay be behind the murder, but for the time being I think it would be unwise toput all our eggs in that basket. Bearing in mind that Strømsted lives with aman, I think it very unlikely that he would kill for her sake.'

'Sothat's it?'

'Itis, as always, about finding out who did what when,' Gunnarstranda saidwearily. He flicked the sheets of paper in his hand with a finger: 'We have totalk to his partner and find out whether he can substantiate the alibi. Butfirst we'll have to see whether the widow will sign this statement or whethershe'll show up at all.' He turned and selected another document. 'This is thereport on the forensic examination of the office in Bertrand Narvesens vei.There are fingerprints on both of the sherry glasses I found. Reidar drank fromone of them. Someone else drank from the other.'

'Who,do you think?

Gunnarstrandagrinned. 'We don't have any records on whoever it was. I have a feeling a womanvisited him. And it wasn't his wife.'

Chapter 29

Gunnarstrandatook the route through the city centre. He stood watching the children skatingon the ice rink around the fountain in Spikersuppa to disco music. Thefloodlighting cast a sharp, white light and converted the scene into a settingfor a film production; the spray of snow the skates sent up looked like icingsugar. Two blonde women in their twenties floundered on the ice, doing precariouspirouettes and giggling to each other, excited by being in the spotlight.

Gunnarstrandacontinued along Lille Grensen, turned into Akersgata and ambled through theParliament area and on to Cafe Justisen where he drank a leisurely cup ofcoffee, read two tabloid newspapers and listened to words of wisdom fromregular customers. A freshly groomed tramp dressed in Salvation Army clothessat down at a window table with a grunt. The waitress, who was very attractive,Served beer, potatoes and a fried egg. 'Have you washed your hands, Roger?' sheasked in a firm voice, like a mother. 'I'm as clean as a Pentecostalist inPhiladelphia,' Roger sighed, and wolfed down the food and beer.

Gunnarstrandathought about the reply as the café door slammed shut behind him. Outside, ithad grown dark as he strolled down to Storgata to catch the tram to pay a visitto Gro Hege Wyller.

Shehesitated when he introduced himself through the intercom. But in the end thefront-door lock buzzed. On the way up he inadvertently kicked a metal railingalongside the steps and it emitted a hollow ring.

Shedidn't seem surprised to see him. 'Thought you would be back,' she said,holding the door open.

Gunnarstrandawalked past her and into a one-room flat which bore all the hallmarks of ayoung woman with economic restraints starting out: a once-spacious flat dividedand portioned up into smaller units. The part that Gro Hege Wyller occupied hadperhaps been a servant girl's room before or the pantry. The bedsit was just shyof thirty square metres and the ceiling was high. A short mezzanine floor hadbeen built over the sitting room section – a sofa and an armchair over whichshe had thrown some large, purple cloths. The floor functioned as a bed.Cushions and corners of a sheet were visible up there. Three pairs of knickersand black tights were drying on the radiator beneath the window.

Shestood by the door sizing him up. Her jeans were worn and skin-tight. They hungperilously low from her hips and revealed a deep navel decorated with a silverpearl.

PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda sat down in the armchair without any ceremony. On thetable there was a portable 10-inch TV with the aerial extended. 'When was thelast time you saw Reidar Folke Jespersen?' he asked gently.

'Theday before he died,' she replied.

'Thursdayor Friday?'

'Friday13th January.'

Theyexchanged looks. She held his stare, which made Gunnarstranda decide not to commenton the change to her previous statement, which this answer represented. 'Whatwas the purpose of your meeting?'

'Work.'

'Hadyou worked for him before?'

'Yes.'

'Officework?'

'No.'

Gunnarstrandawaited.

'A monthlyassignment. As a rule we had a fixed time,' she went on and slid down onto thesofa under the low mezzanine floor. In Ensjo – Bertrand Narvesens vei.'

Hegedrew a foot up beneath her on the sofa.

'Youboth drank sherry,' Gunnarstranda stated.

'Yes,I drank sherry and listened to Schubert.'

'Andthat was work?'

'Twothousand kroners' worth. An hour's gig.' She made an exaggerated flourish withher hand and rolled her eyes. Then added: 'As you can see, I needed the money.'

'Didyou prostitute yourself?'

Shesighed and gravely shook her head to emphasize how stupid she thought thequestion sounded. 'No,' she said. 'I have never prostituted myself. And itwould never enter my head to do so.'

'Striptease?'

Shesent him a condescending look and shook her head. 'Do I look that cheap?'

Thepoliceman bided his time. 'Well, what did you do?'

'I'man actress. I perform theatre.' She smiled at the policeman's facialexpression. 'Folke paid me to appear in a play which he had written anddirected. Folke never tried it on with me. Never.'

'Whydo you call him Folke?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Noidea. I don't like Reidar. Reidar just sounds silly.'

'Howlong have you been doing this?'

'What?'

'Thisplay-acting stuff.'

'Ayear and a half.'

'Whatsort of man was Folke Jespersen?' Gunnarstranda asked.

Shedeliberated before answering. 'Nice. A decent guy,' she concluded. 'He was old- impotent – which he talked about without any inhibitions. We became veryclose – by playing the same roles time after time. But he didn't want to beclose to me in a physical way.'

'Andyou?'

'Idon't know,' she answered, leaning forwards with her hands folded -concentrated. 'But I would maintain that the feelings we had for each otherwere… a kind of love,' she said, focusing on some point in the far distance. 'Asmall, pallid love which we re-played again and again in that little room, foran hour or two – after intervals of many weeks.'

Gunnarstrandawaited. She wasn't finished.

'Hewas… knowledgeable, had a sense of irony, was mysterious and…'

Shefaltered.

'And…?'the policeman asked.

'Hewas captivated by me. That's important: he was captivated by me.'

Asilence descended over them.

'Hewas proper,' she added. 'Always well turned out. He smelt of coffee andcigarettes and… a particular scent…' Her lips quivered with emotion for amoment.

'Howcome you were performing your play on this day of all days?'

'Idon't know.'

'Whythis day of all days?' he repeated slowly.

'Idon't know. It wasn't supposed to have been then.'

'Pardon?'Gunnarstranda's voice deserted him as he leaned forward with sudden interest.

'Itwasn't supposed to have been then. Relax, you seem so hyper.'

'Whatdo you mean? It hadn't been planned for that day?'

'No,he called me.'

'When?'

'Herang at about – between two and half past. He asked if we could bring thearrangement forward. In fact, the meeting had been set for the 23rd.'

'Didthat often happen – that he would ring you and re-schedule?'

Sheshook her head. 'Never.'

Gunnarstrandaleaned back. His fingers were trembling. 'He never re-scheduled once overeighteen months, never changed an arrangement?'

'Right.'

'Didhe give a reason this time?'

'No.'

Thepoliceman waited.

'Ididn't ask,' she said.

'Whynot?'

'BecauseI was happy he had asked me to come.'

Gunnarstrandaregarded her with scepticism. 'But what kind of play was it?'

'Iplayed a woman and had two chunks of dialogue.'

'Andit took you an hour to say two chunks?'

'Itwas theatre – improvisation. I had fixed lines, two things that had to be said everytime – however our conversations developed. There were several conversations,the same framework, the same point of departure, a play that was repeated againand again – but which finished in a different way every time. The two chunkswere two fixed points in a larger, unrehearsed performance. But the lines wereso important that I was only taken on after an audition. 'Yes,' she nodded andgrinned at the policeman's open mouth. 'I went to an audition… You think I'mkidding, don't you? But this was serious.'

'Soit was just rubbish that your father knew Folke Jespersen?'

'Itwasn't rubbish. It was a lie.'

'Well,what were the lines you were given?'

Shereclined in the sofa. 'The scene was the same every time. He covered the tablewith a white cloth and put out two glasses of sherry. On the window sill therewas an old cassette player with a terrible sound…'

Impatient,Gunnarstranda waved her on.

'…and he sits there…' She pointed to a chair next to her desk. She got to herfeet, crossed the floor, went to the front door and stood with her back toit.'… I knock…' she said, tapping on the door behind her. She continued: '… Iwalk in… and we start any old conversation.

Oh,and I'm wearing a red dress – I can show you it… and a dark wig.'

'Awig?'

'Yes,a wig. Long, black hair down to my shoulders.'

'Anythingelse?'

'Abeauty spot.' She indicated her left cheek. 'A mole, painted on, here…'

Thepoliceman breathed out, whistled. 'A mole on the cheek,' he repeated.

Shenodded.

'Andthe lines?' he asked, impatient, following her with his eyes as she floppedonto the sofa.

Shespoke with her eyes closed, as though it cost her an enormous effort: 'When the essence of life is reduced to memories – they are always fragments ofthe good things that have happened. It is these which survive and make memoryyour greatest asset – the ability to remember, not only to retrace your steps,but also to hold onto your soul and who you are.'

'Andyou had to say that every time?'

Shenodded. 'At some point during the hour I said those words – very often I brokethem up. One clause first, the next whenever it fitted. It became a game – hewaited for the following part, put obstacles in my path and plunged the conversationinto directions which made a conclusion difficult. It was theatre – tough,demanding – but theatre.'

Theinspector flipped over a blank page in his notepad, and passed her the pen andthe pad. 'Write it down,' he requested. 'The dialogue.'

Shetook the pen and paper, and wrote. She was left- handed and held the pen in asomewhat awkward manner.

'Wasthere anything else?' he asked when she had finished.

Shehunched her shoulders. 'A lot was left to me – how I started the conversationwhen I entered – what sort of mood, state of mind I was in. Sometimes it couldgo off at a complete tangent – almost. But all within the same framework – thesherry, Schubert…'

Shefaltered.

'Schubert?'

'Yes,it was always Schubert's eighth on the cassette player – the Unfinished.'

'Whatwas the topic of conversation that day?'

'Forgiveness.'

'Uhuh,'Gunnarstranda said impatiently.

'Wetalked about forgiveness, discussed forgiveness as a phenomenon.'

'Wereany names mentioned?'

'Noneat all.'

'Wereany specific events mentioned?'

'Notfrom his side, if that's what you're wondering.'

'Buthe wanted to be forgiven by you?'

Shenodded.

'Whatfor? Why did he want to be forgiven?'

'It wasnever clear. Apart from…'

Gunnarstrandawas waiting with bated breath, but she said nothing. She looked away. Hecleared his throat. 'Have you any idea what the purpose of this performancewas?'

'Ispeculated at the beginning, of course. But, as time went on, it gave me…' Shepaused.

Gunnarstrandastared at her.

'Isuppose it was fairly obvious. He wanted me to be someone else, a woman hedreamed about, but he never attained. I'm not so keen on that sort of thing.'

'Whynot?'

Shegave him a doleful smile. 'He was dreaming about an unattainable woman, but hehad me. A part of my personality which existed at that moment, in that room. Atthe start he asked me to pretend to be another woman, but – initially I thoughtthat was how it would work, that I would be his secret dream of a woman Ididn't know, but it didn't turn out like that. No,' she burst out and shook herhead in desperation, as though what she was going to say was stupid.

'Sayit,' the detective exhorted.

'OnceI was ill. It must have been six or seven meetings back, about six months ago -I had flu – a temperature of almost 40 and I had to cry off.' She smiled. 'Hewent berserk. I had found a substitute, another actress – excellent, but Folkewouldn't take her. He wanted me.' She looked up. 'Do you understand?' sheasked. 'It was me he wanted! No one else but me. Even though I wore the sameoutfit, the same wig, it wasn't her any longer, it was me!'

Gunnarstrandastood up and paced to and fro in the small bedsit. He stopped by the window andlooked out onto the trees lining the road, their heavy, leafless branchesstretching into the air.

'Butthe forgiveness must have had something to do with her,' came the delicatevoice behind him.

ThePolice Inspector turned around.

'Ihad to forgive him on her behalf. I think he once did something nasty to her,and never managed to make amends.'

Gunnarstranda,sunk in thought, nodded. 'And the last time this happened was the eveningbefore he was killed. What was the other chunk of dialogue?'

Heturned, walked around the chair and caught her eye, but she was still lookingaway.

'Whatwas the last piece of dialogue?'

Shehesitated.

Gunnarstrandaglanced at her. 'Who was the woman on whose behalf you were supposed to forgivehim?'

Sheshook her head. 'I haven't a clue.'

Hesighed. 'Come on, you must know. You had to play someone. You're an actress.You must have asked him about the role!'

'Ireally don't have a clue who she is.'

'Butit must have been tempting to ask – a woman with long hair, the mole, and yourfigure I suppose, your features,' Gunnarstranda said and added with intrigue inhis voice, 'I'll tell you something. I've got a photo of her.'

Gro HegeWyller blenched. The look she sent the policeman was troubled, riddled withdoubt, and there was a forced rigidity about her body he had not seen untilnow.

'Youlook like her,' Gunnarstranda said without emotion. 'I noticed – at thefuneral.'

'Idon't believe you,' she mumbled and, in a rather firmer voice, re-stated herview: 'You're bluffing.'

Gunnarstrandasat back in his chair. He crossed his legs and let her uncertainty rumble aboutinside her.

'Whyshould I lie?' he said at last.

'Whereis the photo?'

Hetapped his breast pocket. 'Here.'

'Letme see then!'

Gunnarstrandahesitated.

'Aren'tI allowed to see it?'

'Whydo you want to?'

'Letme see the picture,' she repeated peremptorily.

Gunnarstrandabeamed a mischievous smile. 'Are you wondering whether you mastered the role,whether you got her likeness?'

'No,'she said with emphasis.

'Sure?'Gunnarstranda smiled coldly. 'But there were two bits of dialogue. They musthave something to do with the woman?'

'MayI see if I tell you the other line?' she cut in.

'Allright.'

'Ilove you.'

'Ibeg your pardon?'

'Thatwas the other bit of dialogue: I love you.' She sat with her eyesclosed, in another world. Again there was something about the contours of herprofile, how the light met the lustre of her skin that rendered the policemanspeechless, and he sat spellbound as she slowly opened her eyes. They exchangedglances. 'And the photo?' she asked.

Heput his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph he had found inJespersen's office. He concealed it in his hand and gave a tentative cough:'Are you sure you want to see it?'

Againthey exchanged looks. He looked into her blue eyes; for a few seconds theyrevealed a vulnerability which made him swallow hard, and he could see that shehad noticed, that she was pained by it, he noticed the moment she looked awayand whispered: 'No… perhaps it's best not to.'

Hedidn't move.

'Well,'she said in bewilderment. 'Is that it?'

'Didyou feel,' he began, running two fingers across his lips. 'Did you feelanything was different on that day?'

'Mm,it was different every single time, but he seemed perhaps a little… sad,' shefaltered.

'Sadin what way?'

'Hestarted to cry,' she said. 'Not much, a little. And that has never happenedbefore. I don't know. I think he seemed sadder than usual, quieter, a bitdistracted.'

Gunnarstrandastudied her. She was somewhere else. When, finally, she did look up, sheappeared to be emerging from water. She blinked to focus on him. 'What happenedafterwards?' he asked in a low voice, putting the photograph back in hispocket.

'Weshared a taxi.'

Gunnarstrandawaited.

'Fromthe warehouse,' she said. 'From Ensjo.'

'Whereto?'

'Here.'

'Bothof you?'

'Igot out here, he went on. Back home, I assume.'

'Whorang for the taxi?'

'Hedid.'

'Andyou didn't notice anything outside the building in Bertrand Narvesens vei whenyou came out?

Sheglanced quickly over her shoulder. 'What do you mean now?'

'Idon't mean anything. I'm asking – and your reaction tells me you did noticesomething.'

Shedidn't answer.

Thepoliceman got to his feet, pushed the table to the side and crouched down infront of the woman on the sofa. 'You have nothing to lose,' he whispered. 'Andyou have nothing to gain. Once you've said A you have to say B – that's the waythe game works. Believe me, I know the rules, I've been playing it half of mylife. Don't lie to me. Was the driver someone you knew?'

Shecast down her eyes. 'How do you mean?'

'Don'tgive me the How do you mean?' Gunnarstranda barked withirritation. 'Answer my question. Did you know the driver?'

'Icame by taxi.'

'Answermy damn question!'

'Hisname's Richard. He lives in this building – but he drives a taxi.' She added,annoyed: 'I am not lying.'

Gunnarstrandareleased a little sigh and sat back in the chair. 'Did you ask this taxi driverto take you there – to Jespersen's warehouse in Bertrand Narvesens vei – or wasit just a coincidence that his taxi turned up when you needed a lift?'

'Iasked him if he felt like taking me – he was here when Folke rang.'

'Hewas here – with you?'

'Yes.'

'Youand this taxi driver here, alone?' 'Yes.'

'Butwhy didn't you say that at once?'

'Idon't know.'

'Areyou a couple?'

'No.'

Thepolice officer regarded her with a sceptical expression.

Sheignored him.

'Richard- what's his surname?'

'Ekholt.His name is Richard Ekholt. He does the evening and night shifts. I once got alift with him and he gave me his card and I've used him a few times since -when it's hard to get hold of a taxi, late at night and so on, it's great to beable to ring someone you know. Yes, I've done it a few times. And now he's gotit into his head that he's in love.'

'Didyou see Ekholt again later that day?'

Shesaid nothing.

Gunnarstrandastroked his lips nervously. 'I assure you it is relevant to the case.'

'Somethinghappened, something which means I do not wish to meet him again.'

'Whathappened?'

'Idon't feel like talking about it.'

Gunnarstrandastudied her. 'Did he hurt you?' he asked gently.

'Notas such.'

Gunnarstrandawaited.

'Hewasn't nice – on the way there he was bad-tempered and quarrelsome – and whenwe arrived he began to paw me and tried to take my clothes off. I had to run.

It wasslippery and bloody cold.' She stared at Gunnarstranda as though she wererevisiting the scene. 'He went ballistic. I think he was jealous because heknew I was meeting another man.'

'Wheredid you go?'

'ToFolke. The key was in the postbox, as always. Fortunately I managed to unlockthe door and slam it shut before he…'

'Youweren't hurt?'

'No.I was furious though.'

'Didyou mention this incident to Jespersen?'

'Yes- it became part of the play. Forgiveness,' she said with a blank expression,looking at her desk. The policeman watched her – without speaking.

'Ihad a shock afterwards. You see, I never thought he would wait for me, but whenI came out, there he was,' she said at length. 'When Folke and I went out tothe taxi, Richard's car was in the same place. He was sitting inside and I'msure he followed us back here.'

'Howcan you be so sure?'

'Iwas about to open the door here – I had been dropped off and Folke went on. Ihad the key in my bag and was rummaging around for it when Richard drove past,following Folke's taxi.'

'Areyou sure he was following?'

'Yes.'

'Didyou report it?'

'Report?'

'Himharassing you in the car?'

'Nothingto report. The incident showed him up for what he was.'

Heput his hand in his inside pocket, took out a biro and asked: 'Have you got anypaper?'

Shelooked around.

'Nevermind,' he mumbled and took the newspaper from the table. In the margin he wrotethe code that had been scribbled on the chest of the dead man and showed it toher. 'Does this mean anything to you?'

'Areyou sure that's the letter?' she asked.

Heflinched. 'Why?'

'Ithink the number of Richard's taxi is 195,' she said. 'But there's an A infront – not a J.'

Chapter 30

WhenInspector Gunnarstranda came home that evening, he stood contemplating thegoldfish swimming around in a bowl that was more green than transparent.However, he managed to withstand the baleful eyes of the fish. He went to thekitchen and fried two eggs and half a packet of bacon, which he devoured alongwith two slices of toast and a glass of milk. Thereafter he took a hot shower beforesitting down in front of his desk and reading through the case reports. Finallyhe went to the old seaman's trunk from which he took one of the bottles ofwhisky. He poured himself a glass which he emptied while writing the report onhis visit to Gro Hege Wyller. Only when he had read it through did he go to thetelephone.

FrankFrølich answered with a yawn.

'It'sme.'

'Doyou know how late it is,' Frølich said.

'Doyou remember one of the people in Thomas Heftyes gate talking about a taxibeing parked outside with the engine running?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Yes,'Frølich yawned. 'She works for Egmont, publishers of children's books.'

'Ithink the driver's name is Richard Ekholt.'

'Uhuh.''I'm going to call him in for questioning. But it would be good if you couldcheck the man's record and ask around the central taxi switchboard or use somereliable informers with good contacts in that sort of area.'

'Informers?'

'Ekholtdoes night shifts. He's bound to know several of our regular customers. On topof that, his taxi number is 195. Were you asleep?'

'Whatdid you say just now?'

'Iasked if you had been asleep.'

'Yousaid something about a number.'

'RichardEkholt's taxi is number A195.'

'Bloodyhell!'

'A195,Frølich, not J. An A is not the same as a J.'

'Butthat can't be chance.'

'Everyday you and I survive is chance. The fact that one of your father's cells wonthe fight for your mother's egg and created you is chance. It's chance that peoplelive on earth and not on Mars. Were you asleep?'

'Howcan you ask? Do you know how late it is?'

'No,but I can hear music in the background.'

'Ididn't say I was in bed.'

'Anythingelse?'

'GlennMoseng rang in.'

'Andwho is Glenn Moseng?'

'Heruns a coffee and waffle place in Jacob Aalls gate. And the best bit is thatthe café faces the building where Ingrid's lover – Strømsted – lives. ThisGlenn Moseng recognized Folke Jespersen's picture in the paper. Our dead manwas sitting in the café from about nine to some time between eleven and twelveon 13th January.'

Gunnarstrandalet out a whistle.

'Stokmois telling the truth,' Frølich went on. 'Reidar Jespersen didn't go straight towork; he went to this café to wait for his wife.'

'Buthe didn't stop her when she appeared,' Gunnarstranda answered, flopping into achair with the telephone in his hand. 'What did our man do there – at thewaffle café?'

'Hedrank coffee and read newspapers – for two hours, at least.'

Gunnarstrandaconsidered this information in silence.

Frølich,more animated: 'He quarrels with his brothers and then calls his wife while sheis with the lover. We always come back to the wife and the lover,' Frølich continued,with enthusiasm. 'Motive and the opportunity.'

'Anythingelse?' Gunnarstranda asked, stifling a yawn.

'Igot hold of Jonny Stokmo's girlfriend. Carina. She's a prostituteoperating from a flat in Thereses gate. She confirmed that he had been therethat night. But she can't remember the exact time he left.'

'Notthe exact time?'

'No,Stokmo had dropped by without warning. But she had an appointment with some TVceleb at midnight and she got shot of Stokmo early, as she put it. She had timeto take a shower and clear up before this celeb rang the bell. So it is notimpossible that Stokmo went to bed at eleven as he claims.'

Gunnarstrandayawned. 'Looks like we have something to work on tomorrow.' He noticed theaccusatory gaze from Kalfatrus the goldfish and felt his conscience prick.

Assoon as he had finished the conversation, he set about draining the goldfishbowl. He had to go through a number of cupboards before he found Edel's winesiphon. Equipped with this and a bucket, he put the tube into the bowl. Hesucked up some water and pulled a face of disgust, then spat it into thebucket. He let the water run until there was five centimetres left in the bowl.Then he took hold of a jug and a thermometer. Kalfatrus was swimming round thebottom of the bowl with an accusatory expression on his face. 'It's old FolkeJespersen's fault,' Gunnarstranda apologized.

Atthat moment the telephone rang.

Heseized the receiver and yelled: 'Yes!'

'Thisis Karsten Jespersen speaking.'

'Ohyes?'

'Sorryto ring so late. But I've been through the inventory of registered items – fromthe shop.'

'And?'

'Nothingof any value seems to be missing.'

'Whatdo you mean?'

'There'sonly one thing missing in fact. A uniform.'

'Auniform?'

'Yes,it was in a brown cardboard box in my office.'

'Whatsort of uniform was it?'

'I'mnot sure. It hadn't been unpacked. The box was addressed to my father. Imentioned it to him on the last evening. It was one of the things we talkedabout.'

Gunnarstranda'seyes swept the table, hunting for a cigarette. He patted his pockets. 'Iremember,' he mumbled. 'You've mentioned it before, the uniform, and it's noton the inventory we gave you?'

'No.'

'Noteven expressed in vague terms? A box of clothes or military paraphernalia orsomething like that?'

'No.There's nothing.'

'Andyou hadn't unpacked it? How do you know there was a uniform in the box?'

'Ididn't have time to do anything, but I did cut open the box. There was auniform inside, you know, woollen material, a military colour, bluish.'

'Bluish?Navy blue? Grey-blue?' Gunnarstranda asked, locating a cigarette end in theashtray on the edge of the desk and lighting it.

'Grey-blue.'

'Moreair force than navy then?'

'Ihave no idea.'

'Itwasn't a tram conductor's uniform? Even the officers in parliament wearuniforms.'

'Itwas military; there were stripes and decorations. But I didn't give it morethan a cursory glance. I mentioned to my father that it had arrived, and thetwo glasses from Nostetangen too – they are on the list – but he didn't seemvery interested.'

'Sodo you think he went down to the shop that evening to have a look at theuniform?'

'Can'timagine him doing that.'

Gunnarstrandainhaled greedily and said: 'You don't know if the uniform had any particularvalue?'

'As Isaid, I didn't get a chance to see,' Karsten Jespersen said.

'Whosent the box?'

'Ihave no idea. Don't remember. Don't think there was a sender's address.'

'Butwouldn't it be very odd if someone sent a uniform to your father anonymously?'

'Mm…'

'Itwas anonymous, wasn't it?'

'Idon't remember. I didn't pay any attention to it.'

'Didyou tell your father?'

'Tellmy father what?'

'Thatthere was no sender's address.'

'Yes,I think I did. Or I may have said a uniform had arrived, but I hadn't checked itover. It seemed to be complete with trousers and jacket…'

'Isthe box still there?'

'No,there's no cardboard box on the inventory.'

'So auniform and a cardboard box are missing?' Gunnarstranda tried to imagine the twomen sitting alone with coffee and cognac, crabby children all over the placeand things unspoken in the air: 'He received a number of calls that evening.Perhaps the man who sent the uniform rang?'

'That'scertainly a possibility,' Karsten Jespersen admitted. 'But it's hard to know.'

'OK,'Gunnarstranda said. 'Thank you for ringing. You've been a great help.'

Afterputting down the receiver, he stood still for a few seconds and nervouslystroked his lips with his fingers. He came to with a start and went to thekitchen to fill the jug with water. Taking great care, he poured the tepidwater into the goldfish bowl. Then he opened the packet of fish food andsprinkled a little food onto the surface of the water. 'Dried fly larvae andsmoked spiders' legs,' he muttered to the fish nibbling at the food. 'Food fitfor a king.'

Gunnarstrandahelped himself to another whisky, sat down and turned over a piece of paperfrom the pile in front of him on the table. On the topmost sheet lay a copy ofthe photograph which had been hidden under Reidar Folke Jespersen's desk pad.This time the woman seemed to be laughing – at him.

Chapter 31

Nextday Frank Frølich got up straight from his breakfast table to search for thedriver of taxi number A195 while Gunnarstranda spent a long day at the office goingthrough statements, copying reports and making a number of by and largefruitless telephone calls. By the evening the Inspector had packed his thingsand set off for Stokmo's Metal Service in Torshov. The windows in the workshopwere dark, but the windows of the flat on the first floor shone a welcomingyellow light into the yard. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda stared up at thesky, which was grey with polluted wintry mist, then shivered and grabbed themetal rail on his way up the slippery steps. He had to bang three times beforeKarl-Erik Stokmo, wearing a track suit and battered trainers, – opened the doorand said: 'Come in.'

Theflat smelled of food. A slim woman of around thirty sat in the sitting room infront of the television with a plate of what looked like fish au gratin on herlap. The screen was showing a TV Shop advertisement of a man spraying somethingchemical on filthy garden furniture and wiping it clean with a cloth.

Gunnarstrandanodded to her. She was barefoot and wearing skin-tight, white jogging pants anda black singlet. Her skin was unnaturally brown for the time of the year; sheboasted a blue-black tattoo on each upper arm and when she smiled you could seea canine was missing. She sneaked into the kitchen when the two men sat down.

On TVShop a bodybuilder was demonstrating a training machine. Karl-Erik Stokmo tookthe remote control and turned down the volume. Gunnarstranda got straight tothe point: 'Your father doesn't have an alibi for the night of the murder.' Gunnarstrandaadded: 'That is unfortunate. Your father says he went to bed at eleven onFriday night in the backroom of your workshop.' The policeman tossed his headto the side: 'Down there.'

Stokmoleaned back in the Stressless chair, raised his legs and placed them on thefoot stool.

'Washe here at eleven that night?'

Stokmosighed. 'I would guess so.'

'Guesseswon't do. Can you swear that your father came here and slept through the nightin your backroom?'

'No,'Stokmo said. 'I know he was here, but we neither spoke to each other nor saweach other.'

'Youcan't say then when he arrived or when he left?'

'ButI know he was here,' the man repeated. 'Lillian!' he yelled in the direction ofthe kitchen.

Thewoman opened the kitchen door and stood in the doorway. She had two yellowwashing-up gloves on. They could hear the water running in the sink somewherebehind her.

'Didyou notice when Dad got here on Friday?' Stokmo asked.

The womanstared at Gunnarstranda. 'I heard the motor start up – the following morning,'she said.

'That'sright,' Stokmo said. 'That was his.'

'Whattime would that have been?'

Thewoman rubbed her chin against one shoulder. 'In the morning, before we got up.'

'Beforeor after twelve?'

'Beforetwelve – I would guess. No?' Her look questioned Stokmo and he also had toshrug his shoulders.

'Butdid the two of you see him or the vehicle – with your own eyes?'

Stokmoshook his head.

Gunnarstrandastared after the woman as she hurried into the kitchen to turn off the water.Then she reappeared in the doorway. 'No,' she said. 'But I'm certain it was hispick-up.'

Stokmonodded. 'Silencer's gone. You can hear the old banger anywhere.'

'Youwould have heard the pick-up if it had been used in the night?'

Thetwo of them looked at each other and in the end both shrugged.

'Didyou hear anything like his pick-up that night?'

Bothshook their heads.

'Great,'Gunnarstranda said, looking up at the woman who showed her missing canineagain. She said: 'You're the one who knows Bendik, aren't you?'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'Good,'she said, shutting herself in the kitchen once again.

Stokmocleared his throat. 'She and Bendik used to live together,' he explained.

'Andnow she lives here, I can see.' Gunnarstranda surveyed the room. On TV Shopthere was a bikini-clad woman with an impeccable figure demonstrating the sametraining machine.

Therewas almost nothing on the walls, just a turtle shell over the kitchen door. Abrown eagle with a white head was painted on it. He looked at the eagle. Itsone eye looked back. 'Do you know why your father was so angry with FolkeJespersen?' he asked Stokmo.

'Iwould guess it's about my grandfather. He helped people over the border duringthe war.'

'MayI?' Gunnarstranda asked, taking out his pouch of tobacco.

Stokmonodded and took a cigarette from a packet of Prince lying on the table. 'I'veheard Jespersen ran an illegal press in Oslo – printed leaflets with news fromLondon and that kind of thing. But someone informed on him and he had to fleethe country.'

'I'veheard that, too,' Gunnarstranda said, lighting his cigarette.

'Well,it was my grandfather who took Folke Jespersen to Sweden.' Stokmo inhaled andcrossed his legs. 'Towards the end of the war my grandfather was caught by aGerman border patrol - die Grepo. The soldiers almost shot him. Hepanicked and ran into the forest. The Nazis shouted and ordered him to stop,but he had panicked because he was carrying a gun. When the Nazis shouted, mygrandfather had drawn his gun, but fell headlong over a large tree root. Henose-dived into a bog – the hand with the gun buried in the mud. With his hand coveredin mud he let go of the gun and stood up – unarmed. He was searched, but theydidn't find anything – he had a guardian angel, didn't he! – and my grandfathersaid he was out picking blueberries. He was allowed to go but instructed toreport to Halden the day after.' Stokmo flicked ash off the cigarette and blewout smoke through puckered lips.

'Didhe show up?'

'Hedid. And he managed to avoid suspicion. And this is the crux, you see. Becausemy grandfather got off lightly, rumours began to circulate. It's a long story:he was well paid by the people he had secreted out of the country and hadreceived a lot of presents. They were things he had hidden away. I don't knowhow much there was, but it was worth a good deal. Many of the Jews who weretaken across the border were rich, you know, goldsmiths and jewellers, and theywere generous. But just after the war there were stories about Jewish refugeesbeing robbed by greedy border guides and so on. There were also rumours aboutmy grandfather because some people were suspicious that he had got off solightly. For that reason he didn't dare do anything with these presents afterthe war. Folke Jespersen took on the job of selling these things – of being themiddleman.'

Gunnarstrandawas rolling himself a cigarette. 'Uhuh,' he said, lighting up with a Zippo. 'Sothe rumours were that your grandfather was working for the Germans?'

Stokmogave a rueful nod.

Gunnarstrandainhaled. He mused: 'He helped people to cross the border and had a dubiousreputation, I can see that. But the animosity between your grandfather andJespersen – where does that stem from?'

Stokmostubbed out his cigarette and leaned back. 'I was talking to my dad a couple ofweeks ago,' he began.

'Yes?'

'Iknew a lot already. But the story about the arrest in Halden is new. Also aboutFolke Jespersen selling the presents he got. You see, my father didn't knowabout that either or about the silver and so on that had been hidden awayduring the war. But he found some old papers not so long ago – amongst themdeals made between my grandfather and Folke Jespersen. The papers tell you howmuch Folke Jespersen owes. According to my dad those debts were never paid. Hethinks Folke Jespersen swindled grandfather out of a stack of money.'

'How?'

'Jespersenagreed to sell things, which he did, but he never settled up with mygrandfather.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'I see,' he mumbled.

'I don'tgive a shit by and large, but my dad, Jonny, has really gone to town on thisbusiness. I think it has something to do with the bullying he received when hewas younger, you know, the stories about him being the son of a Nazi spy andall that. It's the personal stuff that frightens me. You see, my dad demandedmoney off Folke Jespersen and the time I'm talking about they were almost ateach other's throats.'

'Fighting?'

'FolkeJespersen's version is that the goods were stolen from the Jews during the war.That is just awful. First of all, it was my grandfather who took FolkeJespersen to Sweden, and the two of them worked together for years afterwards.But once the man was dead Reidar Folke Jespersen claims my grandfather was anasshole. That's what makes my dad think Folke Jespersen was blackmailing hisdad. My grandfather never did anything to force Folke Jespersen to pay up. Popsthinks that Folke Jespersen had a kind of hold over my grandfather – that hethreatened to spread all sorts of shit and lies about Grandad robbing Jewsduring the war and spying for the Germans.'

Gunnarstrandanodded thoughtfully.

'Yourfather must have been furious with Reidar Jespersen,' he concluded. 'What meansmost to your father? What does he want to avenge: lost money or lost honour -or both?'

Stokmoshrugged. 'As I said, I don't give a shit about this business. But I thinkhonour has priority over money here.'

'Soundssensible,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But this story gives your father a motive.'

'Youhave to think logically. Why would my father kill Folke Jespersen? Now theman's dead, my grandfather will never have his name cleared, and Pops won'treceive satisfaction either.'

'Well,your father might have lost control. That sort of thing has happened before.You said yourself that this was personal for your father.'

'Buthe's no kid,' the other objected. 'He would never be crazy enough to do FolkeJespersen any physical harm.'

Gunnarstrandagot to his feet. The kitchen had gone quiet.

'Buthe's under suspicion?' Stokmo asked, standing up as well. The two men went tothe hall. Gunnarstranda put on his coat. 'He'll have to make a statement. Thatmeans he's a witness.' He turned to a mirror on the wall, three square mirrors,one on top of the other. His body was divided into three sections: head andneck, upper torso and trousers. He buttoned up his winter coat and adjusted hishair. 'He'll have to put his trust in the truth and us,' he summed up, andopened the door.

Ashe was driving home ten minutes later, to take a shower and change clothesbefore going to the theatre with Tove Granaas, Frølich rang.

Gunnarstrandaasked the younger man to wait while he pulled into the kerb and parked just infront of Bentse bridge.

'I'vejust been talking to a Dr Lauritsen in the oncological department at Ullevålhospital,' Frølich said.

'Iknow her,' Gunnarstranda said.

'Youknow her?'

'GretheLauritsen dealt with my wife at the time.'

'Oh.'

'Well?'Gunnarstranda said, unruffled. 'Folke Jespersen must have been her patient,too, I suppose.'

'Somethinglike that,' Frølich said. 'At any rate she told Folke Jespersen he had invasivecancer. But the interesting bit is the timing.'

'Ohyes?'

'Fridaythe 13th once again, boss. Folke Jespersen rang Dr Lauritsen at four to hearthe results of the tests. She didn't want to say anything on the phone at firstand asked him to make an appointment. But then he got angry and began to hassleher. His questions were so direct she had to admit the cancer was malignant andaggressive. She made an appointment for him which he never kept.'

'Howaggressive was the cancer?'

'Shegave the old man two months to live, maximum. He found that out half an hourbefore he rang his solicitor and revoked his will.'

Chapter 32

Awoman was standing in front of the post office cashpoint in Egertorget. Frølichjoined the queue and passed the time watching the young man singing and playingguitar in front of the metro subway. He had always wondered how fragileinstruments fared in such freezing temperatures, let alone this guitarist'snails. He was wearing fingerless gloves and walked, shivering, aroundloudspeakers mounted on a shopping trolley while singing to a sparse audience:two sage-like drug addicts and the bouncer from the Tre Brodre bar.

Thewoman by the cashpoint had finished and turned round abruptly. 'Hi,' she saidand gasped with pain as she grabbed her back, dropping her bag in the process.Frølich caught it in mid-air. It was Anna. She stood bent double, laughing andgasping.

'What'sup?' he asked.

'Myback,' she said, panting for breath. 'I've got such a bad pain in my back. Youstartled me. You were a bit close behind me.'

'Oh,'Frølich said. They stood facing each other for a few moments. She was wearing athick, brightly coloured woollen jacket and faded jeans. She wriggled herfingers up the sleeve of her jacket. Frølich instantly became aware of thefreezing cold.

'Thanksfor the list,' he said. That was all that occurred to him.

'List?'she said, puzzled.

'Theitems you recorded in the antiques shop,' he said with an embarrassed smile.

'Oh,not at all,' she said with a grin.

Frølichrealized that the street musician was singing 'The Streets of London'. A nicevoice. From behind Frølich a red-faced man wearing a coat and woollen hat brokein and asked in a brusque manner if he was queueing for the cashpoint.

Frølichlet him through. 'It's cold,' he said to Anna, putting down her plastic bag.There was a bottle inside which would have caused it to topple over. He restedthe bag against his leg. 'Shall we go somewhere and sit down?'

Slowlyand carefully, she craned her neck up to see the Freia clock above the MammaRosa restaurant.

Hecould have bitten off his tongue and tried to smooth over his boldness bysaying: 'Perhaps time is a bit tight?'

Shewent for it. 'In fact, I was on my way to visit someone at hospital – Akerhospital.'

Shedidn't say who she was going to visit, and he couldn't bring himself to ask.'Another time then perhaps?'

'Ithink so,' she said with a light shiver. 'We'll sort something out.'

'When?'

'Abeer after work one day?'

Henodded. The non-specific 'one day' was a little discouraging and non-committal.On the other hand, he didn't have anything any more concrete to suggesthimself.

Theystrolled down Akersgata, past the Aftenposten and Dagbladetnewspaper buildings. He carried her bag. They walked at a slow pace. 'Coughingis the worst,' she said. 'Laughing is fine – for my back.'

They triedto speed up and run the last few metres in order to catch the bus coming roundthe corner from Apotekergata.

'Careful,'he said as they hobbled along.

Shegrinned at herself.

Asshe was standing on the step of the bus, he realized they hadn't agreed a timeor place. He shouted after her: 'Where?'

Thedoor shut with a thud. It made them burst into laughter as they exchanged looksthrough the glass door.

Shemouthed an answer, pointing to herself and pretending to hold a telephone againsther ear.

'Me?'Frølich shouted. 'Shall I phone you?' But the bus had already gone. He wasshouting questions into thin air.

Chapter 33

Gunnarstrandacollected Tove Granaas at half past seven. He had decided in advance that he wouldnot get out of the car. He had been quite precise about that on the telephone.He had said: 'Come down when you see the car in the drive.' Tove rented thefirst floor of a house in Sæter, a white detached Swiss-style chalet in themiddle of a garden full of old apple trees which, as a result of incorrect andinsufficent pruning, looked like piles of twigs on poles. Tove complained thatthe apples were always small and riddled with maggots. On trees like those,apples would be small and riddled with maggots. Gunnarstranda knew that. But ofcourse he didn't say so. If he did, he would end up doing the pruning, forwhich he had neither the energy nor the enthusiasm. The house owners were acouple in their fifties: the kind who go caravanning along the Swedish coastand take an evening constitutional in matching barbecueing outfits. 'The womanruns and hides whenever I come home from work so that she doesn't have to greetme,' Tove had said. 'We've got nothing in common.'

'Canyou have a conversation?'

'Wetalk when they increase the rent, but that's the husband's job. He hates it,but dare not fail her. The wife hides under the stairs before he rings, and assoon as I open the door, she starts prompting him. With all the whispering andhissing going on you would think someone had left a leaky bottle of pop outsomewhere.'

Howevereccentric the house owners were, Gunnarstranda had no desire to meet them. Hewas too old to wait outside a woman's door, ringing her bell like a schoolboy.But when he turned into the drive and raised his head he could see Tovestanding in the window waving. Three minutes later she was in the car.

Beneaththem the town twinkled like the reflection of a starry sky as they drove aroundthe bends in Kongsveien. Gunnarstranda switched on the radio. They were luckywith the programme producer – it was someone who liked quiet music. As theyapproached Ibsen multi-storey car park, Billie Holiday was singing 'I love you,Porgy', but once inside there was just noise coming from the loudspeakers.

Toveglanced at him. 'You're the only person I know who does not have either acassette or a CD player in their car,' she said.

Gunnarstrandaturned down the old car radio with its shiny knobs. 'I bought it in '72,' hesaid. 'Just because you change your car doesn't mean you have to change yourradio.'

Asthey strolled past a row of parked cars towards the lift Gunnarstranda said,'The problem is there is no decent radio any more. Years ago you could readwhat was on in the newspaper and choose a programme. You could look forward tosomething special, a discussion presented by a writer you respected, or maybe awonderful voice, like Aase Bye reading Hans E. Kinck's short story "WhiteAnemones on the Mountainside".' He held the door open for her as they wentin to the waiting area by the lifts. 'The thing is you used to be able to timeyour afternoon coffee so that you didn't miss grand radio moments,' he went on.'But now it's all one big impenetrable barrage of sound. The radio announcersbabble away about themselves, broadcast their ignorance diluted with pop songs,then they call it morning radio, afternoon on z or traffic round-up. Butif there were a pearl in all of that, something worthy of a couple of moments'concentration, respect or reflection, it would pass you by – unless you werelucky enough to be sitting in your car at the exact moment it and the voicetraversed the ether. But presumably it is just me who has been left behind.'

'Presumably,'she smiled and went quiet when they were joined in front of the lifts byanother couple. The lift door opened. All four went in. They exchanged a glancein the mirror.

Shestaunchly hooked her arm through his as they strolled down Kristian IVs gateand went through the glass doors into Det Norske Teatret. They stood lookingaround the theatre foyer. 'We're early,' Gunnarstranda said.

'Areyou nervous?' she asked in a low voice – without letting go of his arm.

'What?'

'Areyou nervous?' she repeated.

Gunnarstrandacoughed and studied himself in the mirror he was standing beside. 'Why do youask?'

'Youseem stiff and a bit stand-offish.'

'I'mnot nervous.'

'Isbeing with me unpleasant?'

'No.'He cleared his throat and added: 'It's nice.'

Shelet go of his arm and instead stood in front of him and angled her head. 'Shallwe do something else? Cinema or a beer in a darkened pub?'

'No,the theatre is fine. But perhaps we could talk about something else.'

Shehooked her arm under his and led him towards a group of unoccupied chairs inthe foyer. She waved to another woman across the room. 'I haven't seen her forseveral years,' Tove whispered. 'This is where your old friends are – in thetheatre. And I never knew.'

'Allgrey hair in here,' he answered.

'Yourmind's elsewhere, isn't it!' she stated. 'What were you thinking about justthen?'

'Numbersand letters.'

'Mannaseeds?'

'Andthat means?'

'I'dlike an aperitif,' she exclaimed. 'Could you get me a sherry?'

Heshuddered. 'I'll have red wine – can't stand sherry. What did you say aboutseeds?' He passed her his gloves and slid a hand in his inside pocket for hiswallet.

'Mannaseeds,' she repeated and explained: 'I assume if they are sown, you get thebread that rained down on the Israelites in the wilderness.'

'Butwhat made you say that?'

'Itwas what I was thinking when you said numbers and letters. My grandmother wasvery religious, you see. On top of the kitchen cupboard she always kept a bowlfull of small bits of paper, thousands of them. There were numbers and lettersprinted on them: Ez 5,4 or Luk 8,iz. Quotations from the Bible, the Book ofEzekiel…'

Gunnarstrandafroze. 'Of course,' he whispered.

'Yes,right – manna in the wilderness. The Bible quotation of the day. I think shewas a Pentecostalist.'

'Fromthe Bible,' sighed Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda, slumping down onto thebench.

'What'sup with you?'

'Jfor John. Nineteen, five.'

'St.John's Gospel, chapter 19, verse 5,' Tove said with a mischievous smile. 'Whathappened to the sherry?'

'BristolCream,' Gunnarstranda said, preoccupied. 'Do you like it?'

Shenodded. 'Whatever. I don't know any brandnames of sherry.'

'Thenlet's go to the Library bar – in the Bristol Hotel – it's just across thestreet,' Gunnarstranda said gently. 'Then you can have the whole bottle if youwant…'

'Oneglass is enough,' she said. 'Why should we leave here?'

'BecauseI want to get my paws on a Bible.'

When,five minutes later in the Library bar at the Bristol Hotel, they discoveredthere wasn't a single seat free, Gunnarstranda began to stroke his lipsnervously. 'Bloody hell,' he mumbled.

'Relax,'she said with a smile.

'Ishould…'

'You'vegot a Bible at home, haven't you?' She turned to the window from where theycould see the entrance to the theatre. 'I'm sure the play is as dull asditchwater.'

'What?John Gabriel Borkman? I thought Ibsen was right up your street?' hemumbled.

'Notin our other Norwegian language,' she said. 'Translating Ibsen into nynorsk isthe height of all that I consider idiotic in Norwegian culture.'

Sheslipped her arm into his. 'Let's go to your place,' she said, meeting his eyes.'If you dare.'

WhileGunnarstranda was searching for one of his three Norwegian Bibles on theshelving system he had made in the shoe cupboard in the hall, Tove was standingin the living-room doorway studying the TV with the screen facing the wall, theold botanical prints over the armchair, the old carved standard lamp and thewall itself, covered in books of various heights, hardbacks mixed withpaperbacks, lots of magazines and pamphlets and books pushed in everywhere,making the shelf look like an overpopulated block of flats in a flamboyantghetto. She read the spines, observed the portrait of Edel without a word andallowed her eyes to wander over to the goldfish bowl. 'So this is your pet?'she burst out.

TheInspector had found two Bibles which he placed on the work desk under thewindow. He flipped through both before looking up. 'I haven't got any sherry,'he said. 'But I have some good whisky.'

Sheturned, interested. 'Where?'

'Inthe wooden chest.' He nodded towards the seaman's trunk by the fireplace.

'Here?'She opened the lid and regarded the tightly packed bottles in the chest.'You've got enough whisky,' she mumbled, lifting out one bottle after the otherand reading the labels. 'Which one would you like?'

'Onethat's already open,' Gunnarstranda answered, his finger following the lines inthe bible. 'Luke… John,' he muttered.

Tovedecided on a quarter-full bottle of Ballantine's, went into the kitchen, foundtwo tumblers and poured.

Gunnarstrandatook the glass she passed him, rapt in thought.

'Here,'he said, pointing.

'Whatdoes it say?'

'Jesusand Pontius Pilate.'

'Skal,'Tove said. 'To my grandmother.'

'AndPontius Pilate,' Gunnarstranda added.

Tovesighed, looking at the whisky tumbler with appreciation.

'PontiusPilate washes his hands – and the people put a crown of thorns on Jesus's head.The three crosses on the dead man's forehead. The Crown of Thorns! Red threadaround the neck, the purple robe.' Gunnarstranda gazed into the distance,pensive, and asked: 'But why?'

'You'rethe cop,' Tove said. She pulled books down from the shelf and studied thetitles while he flicked through the Bible and read. After a while she pouredherself another whisky and asked if he wanted any.

Gunnarstrandapeered up and shook his head. He hadn't touched his glass while he was reading.'This is interesting,' he mumbled. 'There are four gospels. But there are onlythree that describe this precise incident. Luke is the odd one out…'

Hethumbed through to show her.

'Ibelieve you,' Tove said, taking another sip. 'Damned good whisky, this.'

'Lukedoesn't mention the incident at all, not the purple robe nor the crown of thornsnor the jeering. Luke brings in Herod instead. In general, Luke appears to beon the wrong track. Whereas the other three all agree that Jesus was given apurple robe…'

'Thered thread,' Tove interrupted. 'You've already said that.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Three of them also agree on the crown of thorns and Jesus being shownto the crowds to be mocked. But here John is the odd one out.' Tove peered intothe bottom of the glass, to confirm that it was empty yet again. 'I think I'llhave another,' she said, taking the bottle. 'Skal,' she said.

Gunnarstrandaraised his glass, sipped and read aloud: 'And the soldiers plaited a crownof thorns and put it on his head, and they threw a purple robe around him, andsaid "Hail, King of the Jews!" And they hit him in the face. Pilatetherefore went out again and said to them, "Look, I bring him to you sothat you may know I find no fault in him.'" Gunnarstranda looked up andcontinued: 'Here's the relevant quotation, John, 19:5: "Then Jesuscame out, wearing the crown of thorns and the purple robe. And he said to them:See the man!'"

Tovewalked along the bookshelf with her glass in hand. Gunnarstranda stood up inhis excitement and articulated his thoughts: 'Only John has that line. If thereis a reason for the killer quoting John and not Mark, or Matthew, it must bebecause John has that phrase: "See the man!"

Toveturned a fraction, a genial smile on her face, and sipped her whisky beforereturning to the bookshelf.

'Butthen the question is…' the Inspector continued, concentrating, 'What does thephrase mean? And who said it?'

'Pilate,'Tove answered. 'It's Pontius Pilate talking.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Pontius Pilate says he finds no fault in him, and then he shows thehumiliated prisoner and says: See! See him!' Gunnarstranda frowned. 'But ingrammar, if the pronoun be appears after the proper noun Jesus itwould be normal to interpret the sentence as meaning it is the prisoner, Jesus,who utters the words.'

'Right,'she said without a flicker of interest.

'Thequestion is: Who does the writer of this message identify with?!' Gunnarstrandaread the quotation from the Bible again: 'Then Jesus came out, wearing thecrown of thorns and the purple robe. And he said to them: See the man! Soit is not clear who says it or what it means.'

'Washe crucified?' Tove asked with somewhat slurred speech.

'Jesus?'

'No,the antiquarian!'

'Hewas an antiques dealer, not an antiquarian. No, Folke Jespersen was not crucified,'Gunnarstranda mumbled fastidiously. 'There were no wounds on the hands or feet- so it must be the exhibiting of him and the quotation which are important.The method of death is irrelevant. The situation, the quotation and thehumiliation must be the relevant points. But if Pilate said the line it is asthough he is begging for Jesus; he seems to be imploring the crowds to come totheir senses: Look – now he has been humiliated, show mercy! But if Jesus saidthe words, then the line contains a great many levels. After all he claims tobe the son of God, immortal and all that, and he is saying: 'See me, see theman!'

Tovestifled an outburst of laughter.

'What?'Gunnarstranda asked, disorientated.

'Ihope you won't be damaged by this,' she giggled. 'I hope you won't becomereligious.' She laughed out loud.

Bewildered,Gunnarstranda stared at her. 'Oooh, dear me,' she said, recovering. 'That mustbe the whisky. It's just so good. I think I might have one more.'

'Butit may be something to do with guilt,' Gunnarstranda reasoned as Tove pouredthem both another. 'This incident – where Pilate does not want to execute Jesusand offers to release him, but the crowd chooses the other one… what's hisname?'

'Barabbas,'Tove said, lowering her face over the goldfish. 'Bar a bass,' she said,changing the stress. 'Bass is a type of fish, isn't it?'

'That'sit, Barrabas, and Pilate, who washes his hands of the whole business. It mightall be tied up with – guilt.'

Toveleered. 'What's his name?'

'Whoare you talking about?'

'Thefish.'

'Thefourth wise man.'

'Thefourth?'

'Thereare three wise men in the Bible. This is the fourth.'

'Yourfish?' Tove's face was one big question mark. 'Oh, my God, I can already feelthe whisky,' she grinned.

'Kalfatrus,'Gunnarstranda said.

'Pardon?'

Gunnarstrandasmiled.

'Thereyou are, you see,' she said. 'You can laugh!' They grinned, both ofthem.

'Sorry,'she said. 'I'm stopping you thinking.' She took two unsteady steps towards thebottle. 'You think; I'll take care of this.'

'Wherewas I?'

'Youwere talking about guilt.'

'Yes,Pilate says the man is innocent. It's confusing…' Gunnarstranda furrowed hisbrow. 'The sentence in the Bible may be a reference to the discussionsurrounding the Jesus figure. Is he really the son of God, a God or a man? As aking he is mocked. The concept of king – you know, the Jews' idea of a Messiahwas a kind of all-powerful emperor who smashes the enemy and proclaims himselfking, but then this Jesus figure comes along with his "king"metaphors and uses the concept in a sort of spiritual sense. So the sentence isto do with the relationship between the concepts of king, God, man and father.But the question is whether the fact that he is exhibited in the shop window issignificant or whether it is the issue of guilt itself – after all, the sectionwith Pilate is a legal procedure…'

'Skal,'Tove said.

Gunnarstrandatook a sip. 'What about if all the elements are involved here: law, guilt,public humiliation, God's image.'

'Patricide,'Tove said.

Gunnarstrandalooked up. She was holding the bottle between thumb and first finger anddangling it in the air. 'Empty,' she said.

'Whatdid you say?' he asked.

'Empty,'she said.

'Beforethat.'

'You'renot that drunk.'

Hegrinned. 'Find yourself another bottle.'

'Excellent,'she said, bending down to take another bottle from the travel chest. 'What wasI saying?'

'Youmentioned the word patricide. But what would motivate Karsten Jespersento bump his father off?'

'Revenge,'Tove said, opening a new bottle. She raised it and studied the label.'Glenlivet. That's sure to be expensive, and good.'

'Whatsort of revenge?'

'You'rethe policeman.'

Gunnarstrandadrained his glass and rubbed his face in his hands.

Tovefell back onto the sofa. She kicked off her shoes and placed a slim, nylon-cladleg on the table. 'My God, I'm glad you've finished with that Bible stuff,' shesighed and sat watching him with a grin on her face. 'You live here, so Isuppose it's best to ask.' She put the bottle and the glass on the table andstarted rummaging through her bag. 'Do you mind if I smoke?'

Chapter 34

Thatnight Frank Frølich dreamed about Linn although it had to be at least fifteen yearssince he had last seen her. In the dream they were in her chalet. Outside thewindow twittering birds were frenetically busy. He was lying on his side in bedand could feel the sun warming his feet. A sweet smell of summer wafted inthrough the half-open window. Linn had rolled over. He lay admiring her tautstomach muscles. The sun cast a clearly defined shadow from the crosspieces inthe window across the bed. Her hair cascaded over the pillow. A tendril from anivy plant stretched down towards the floor and touched a pile of underclothes.And then he was no longer in the chalet, he was in a spinney and it was autumn.The air was keen. They had a view of a small lake and the beech leaves on thefar side had turned yellow with an orange glow; the reflection in the darkwater was so detailed that the reflected image seemed sharper than reality. Nowit wasn't Linn he was with, but Eva-Britt. She stole a glance at him with alock of hair in her mouth as she threw an armful of birch leaves at him. They weredry. Instead of falling to the ground they were picked up by a gust of wind androse in the air; they became smaller and smaller until they were fine specks inthe sky and disappeared. He turned away from her and saw a bookshelf. Hecouldn't read the titles on the spines. The shelf was too far away. Instead hecaught sight of a picture of a motor cycle on the door, a Harley- Davidson FatBoy ridden by a dark-haired woman with bare breasts and long legs in tightjeans. It was Anna. He woke up and found himself lying in his own bed. No Linn,no Eva-Britt. Just a pile of his clothes lying on the floor. On the cupboarddoor hung the old poster of the Harley-Davidson Fat Boy – without Anna.

Inthe end he swung a leg down onto the floor and sat looking at his sorry figurein the mirror. Thank God no one nags me in the morning.

Anhour later he opened the front door and left. It had turned milder, around zerodegrees, and it had snowed in the night. The snow ploughs had packed all theparked cars into a cloak of wet snow. The rhythmic stroke of a spade at worktold him that a determined office worker was set on using his car to go to theoffice. But when the engine started, the tone was muffled. The air was likewool. Sounds had to drag themselves through the deadening layer of thickfalling snow. Frank wished it were summer and that he could wake up one morningwith the sun warming his feet.

Onarriving at the bar in the Hotel Continental, he found himself a seat on one ofthe leather sofas at the back of the room. By and large the customers in thebar were men who worked in industry and took off Hugo Boss overcoats. However,ferociously made-up, fur- coated mothers also frequented the place, draggingalong ungainly teenage daughters sporting large breasts, sulky lower lips andwell-rehearsed doe-eyed glances aimed at the most affluent-looking men. Frankordered coffee. It was served in a pot. Soon afterwards a man in a red jacketbounced into the hotel foyer. One of the women behind the counter pointed toFrank Frølich, who stood up and shook hands. Hermann Kirkenær had short, curlyhair that was beginning to thin on top. He was unshaven and had a ring in hisleft ear. Once seated, he was served a glass of Coke by the woman who hadpointed out the policeman.

Kirkenærsaid that he and his wife lived in Tønsberg, but they stayed at the Continentalwhen they had business in town, like today, when they had three viewings.

'You'regoing to move to Oslo, I believe?'

'Yes,'Kirkenær said, looking over Frølich's shoulder. A tall woman with long hair andwatchful eyes stood waiting beside the policeman.

'Iselin,'Kirkenær said. 'Meet Frank Frølich.'

Herhand was dry and warm; she had long fingers. She was wearing a short jacket anda skirt which covered her knees.

Shetook a seat on the sofa beside Kirkenær. Her broad mouth was marred by a nastysore on her lower lip. Frølich lowered his eyes when she transfixed him with adeep stare.

'InspectorFrølich is investigating Reidar Folke Jespersen's murder,' Kirkenær explained.

'Itwas so brutal,' Iselin Varås said with sympathy.

'Iselin'sreactions are always open-hearted,' Kirkenær said, his sarcasm barelyconcealed, before going on to address the woman with intonation that laysomewhere in the jarring range between spiteful and arrogant: 'It is a verysweet characteristic, but what the police want to know in fact is whether wehad any contact with Reidar before Arvid's meeting on Friday the 13th.'

IselinVarås was holding a stick of lip salve in her hand. She pressed it cautiouslyagainst her cold sore.

'Wemust have exchanged a few words,' she said. 'You had met Reidar, hadn't you? Ihadn't seen him before.'

'Thething was we communicate with Arvid – his brother,' Kirkenær said. 'We wrote tomany – I mean several shops. At first we addressed ourselves to Reidar, but itwas Arvid – the brother – who contacted us, who reacted to the letter, if I canput it like that.'

Ifthe letter went to Reidar, the brothers must have talked about it, Frølichconcluded, and leaned back as the waitress came to the table with a bottle ofFerris mineral water and leisurely poured it into Iselin's glass. Iselinwatched the water foam in the glass and said: 'Reidar is the official owner.'When the waitress had gone, she raised her glass to toast with Frølich. Heinclined his coffee cup out of politeness.

'Infact, they've been very positive, all three of them. Arvid even said he wasvery happy we had approached them,' she said and put down the glass. She tookhold of her hair with both hands and swiftly formed a thick ponytail which sheheld in place with an elastic band.

'Theyhaven't said no yet,' Kirkenær continued. 'And of course one can…'

'Hermann,'she interrupted with a maternal tone.

'What?'

'Theman's dead, Hermann,' she said, glaring reprovingly at him. Then she dabbed thelip-salve on her sore again.

Theman didn't like being brushed aside like this.

Shewent on, undaunted: 'We'll leave it up to them to re-establish contact. It'snews to us that Reidar Folke Jespersen was against the sale. We thought allthree of them were agreed, but with the situation being as it is…'

'All thatwas missing was the signatures on the contract,' Kirkenær interrupted, sendingher a furious look.

'Whenyou met the brothers, you didn't pick up a hint of discord between them?'

Bothshook their heads.

'I'mpositive about that,' she emphasized, rolling the lip-salve between herfingers. 'And I'm certain he didn't say anything while we were there.' Shesmiled and shared a look with her husband, perhaps a mutual experience ofsomething amusing. 'Arvid may well have said something.'

'Old Arvidis besotted with Iselin,' Hermann Kirkenær said brightly, and continued in away calculated to ensure she would also catch his drift: 'You see, I'm marriedto a woman who flourishes in the company of older men.'

'Nothingwrong with a woman enjoying feeling attractive, is there?' she said, with atentative dab to her cold sore with her first finger.

'Providingthat she doesn't offer herself.'

Thecomment was direct and personal. Frølich studied the paintings on the walls. Hethought of Eva-Britt and how she could on occasion annoy him. The thought ofwhat that annoyance could lead to in others' company brought him out in asweat.

IselinVarås spoke with a voice she was clearly struggling to control: 'I've been toldHermann can be so nice.'

Thesilence that followed was unpleasant. Iselin concentrated on her glass ofmineral water.

'You'reinto antiques, I understand,' Frølich said to ease the atmosphere.

Kirkenærdidn't speak.

Sheraised her eyes and nodded.

'Whythis shop in particular?'

Iselincleared her throat. 'A general evaluation based on the current state of theindustry.'

'Manybusinesses are unprofessional,' Kirkenær added.

'Hencethe difficulty of starting from rock bottom,' she said, and it was obvious thecold sore bothered her. She had taken off the top of the lip-salve again.'We're on the lookout for an established business in one of the town's moreprestigious districts,' she went on. 'You know, you buy the reputation aswell.'

'Haveyou had your feelers out anywhere else?'

Kirkenærnodded.

'Whatsort of reputation are you buying off the Folke Jespersen brothers?'

Thetwo of them looked at each other. 'You answer,' she said.

Heflung out his arms. 'They sell good things,' he said.

'Goodtaste,' she added. 'They have good taste.'

Frølichlifted up his coffee cup. It was empty. He put it down.

'Whyrisk everything on this?' he asked.

At aloss to know what to say, they stared at him.

'Whatdid you do before?' Frølich asked.

'Teacher,'she said. 'I'm a qualified language and art history teacher.' She looked acrossat her husband with a smile. 'Your turn.'

'Guess,'he said to Frølich, who shrugged.

Kirkenærprovided the answer himself. 'Cars.'

'Carsalesman, shall we say,' she amended, with light irony. 'Hermann is of the firmconviction that salesmanship is what it's all about, not the sale item. Astandpoint which means he doesn't have to call himself a car salesman.'

'She'sa kind of expert on the subject,' he interceded. 'An art historian.'

'Whatsort of cars?' Frølich asked.

'Expensiveones. Mercedes, BMW, the biggest and the most expensive.'

'OK,'Frølich said, becoming irritated by the mud- slinging that was going on.'There's one thing I was wondering about: this meeting at Arvid's flat, why wasit held at all?'

Theyexchanged glances. 'You tell me,' Kirkenær said.

'Wehad to conclude the deal,' she said. 'The arrangement was that all threebrothers would meet us, hear our ideas and be convinced.'

'Sothe price wasn't a relevant topic of conversation at the meeting?'

'No,'Kirkenær said. 'The price had been agreed.'

'Reidaralready knew about the plans for the sale then and knew what your offer was…'

Bothnodded. 'Neither the meeting nor its purpose would have come as a surprise toanyone,' Kirkenær said. 'And I cannot recall a negative response from any ofthem, either,' he added.

'Youdidn't propose any new conditions, anything which might have caused ReidarFolke Jespersen to change his attitude?'

'Notat all,' said Kirkenær.

'Mightthe two brothers have held anything back from you?'

Husbandand wife exchanged looks. Iselin slowly hunched her shoulders. Kirkenæranswered: 'It's possible, in theory. But you'll have to ask them. To me…' Heglanced at the woman nodding in assent. 'To us it didn't seem as if he feltanything surprising or unfamiliar had come up at the meeting.'

'Ifhe was intent on rejecting a deal, he must have reached that conclusion beforehe appeared,' Iselin added.

'Didyou get in touch with any of the brothers after the meeting?'

'Wetalked to Arvid,' she said, still playing with the cold sore.

'When?'

'Werang Arvid the same afternoon, didn't we? And he said we should let thingssettle for a day or two and then everything would fall into place.'

'Hedidn't say anything to you about Reidar being against the sale?'

'No.'

'Canyou remember what he said word for word?'

Iselincoughed. 'That is what he said verbatim: I think we should let thingssettle for a few days and then everything will fall into place.'

'Whatdid you think?'

Sheshrugged. 'I was a little… how shall I put it?… I began to get cold feet. So Iasked if anything was the matter. Arvid said a small cloud had appeared on thehorizon, but it would be gone before the day was over.'

Frølichscrutinized her. 'A cloud which would be gone before the day was over?'

'That'swhat he said.'

'Andwhen was this?'

'Itwas the same day we met. It must have been about four in the afternoon, Iimagine.'

'Andafterwards? Have you talked since?'

'He rangthe day after, before we knew anything about the murder. It was in the morning.He told me that his brother Reidar was dead. So they would have to sort outlegal formalities amongst themselves before there could be any talk ofconcluding a deal. And he asked me if we had the patience to wait.'

Bothwere now staring at Frølich. 'Did you?' he asked.

Kirkenær,puzzled, said: 'Did you what?'

'Havethe patience to wait?'

Theyexchanged glances and smiled. 'That's what we're doing now,' she said. 'We'rewaiting.'

'Howlong are you prepared to wait?'

Theyeyed each other for a long time before Iselin turned to Frølich with a resignedexpression on her face. 'That's precisely what we've been discussing,' shesaid. 'And I don't think it's going to be very much longer.'

Chapter 35

EmmanuelFolke Jespersen was thinking. Gunnarstranda endured the long silence by gazingout of the window. His thoughts drifted to Tove while his eyes rested on theview from Jespersen's terrace. The rime frost lay like a layer of melted sugarover the roofs and the veranda railings. The low winter sun hit the window atan angle and showed up grease stains and fingerprints on the glass. Emmanuelfidgeted with the photograph between his fingers, rubbed his eyes, laboriouslyraised one leg and tried to cross it over the other, but then gave up.

Gunnarstrandalet his mind wander. A few hours earlier he had woken up in the same bed as awoman for the first time in ages. He leaned back and gazed at the rays of sun hittingthe opposite side of the room. The light appeared to shimmer; the heatradiating from the fireplace made the sunlight restless.

Therewas no doubt that Emmanuel had seen the woman in the photgraph before, butGunnarstranda recognized that it would take time to elicit an admission. Atfirst Jespersen took a deep breath as he spread his lips into a melancholyacknowledgement, an expression which he allowed to subside before it had fullydeveloped, and with his face set in a weird grimace, he met the PoliceInspector's eyes for two long seconds. Then his lower lip shot forward and witha shake of the head he announced that the photograph of the woman with the moleon the cheek meant nothing to him at all.

'I'vebeen talking to Arvid,' Jespersen said at last. 'He said you police were keento find out why Reidar became an antique dealer…'

Thetable was awash with weeklies and other magazines. In the middle towered a pileof books including a large crossword dictionary and Aschehoug & Gyldendal'sone-volume encyclopaedia. A third book was so creased it was impossible to readthe title on the spine. The man's black and white cat had curled up on acushion on the sofa between them.

Emmanueltook another look at the photograph, shook his head and placed it on the pileof books on the table with care. 'No,' he said with a deep sigh and stroked hischin. 'Such a good-looking lady would have stuck in my memory.'

Gunnarstrandagave a weary smile. 'Perhaps you know why your brother became an antiquedealer?' he asked without bothering to conceal a certain forbearance.

Aftergrabbing a good wedge of his trousers, Jespersen finally succeeded in crossinghis legs. With one hand resting on his knee, he stole a furtive glance at thepicture.

Gunnarstrandabent forward across the table and played with the photograph.

'Ithink Reidar was carrying around a great void inside himself. Perhaps that waswhy – he went for antiques. If he didn't own things he was… he was nothing.'Jespersen threw out his arms as if to emphasize: 'A void. Reidar was obsessedwith collecting.'

'Trophies?'

'Yes,I suppose you can call them trophies. I think he almost lived through objects;he was the objects he owned.' Jespersen glanced down at the picture and said:'I think it was Reidar's greatest nightmare – almost as though he was trying tojustify his existence through possessions. I think that deep down there was aforbidden area, perhaps a wound from some blow, event or experience – at anyrate something which caused his life to take the course it did.' Emmanuelclosed his eyes and went quiet, as though deep in reflection, then went on: 'Onthe other hand, Reidar may not have been unique in this respect. I've oftenthought that we're all like that, that we all have a fundamental suspicionof ourselves. Do you understand? If we dare to put morning routines andwork to one side – in other words, the ritual side of life: cleaningteeth, job, meals, celebrating Christmas and Easter, and as far as I amconcerned, the time we spend in the freemasons' lodge, conversations with otherpeople too – we probably all find ourselves being brought up short at somepoint, don't we? Wherever – in a shop or at home in an armchair. We may hearsomething said or recognize something from our childhood, a smell or a sound oran atmosphere – and we stop and realize – or can see at a deep level what wehave become – the unvarnished truth – and we have to close our eyes and repressthe realization – because we can see right through the shield we hide behind,the bonds of friendship, our social life. We stand there with closed eyes andwant to flee, perhaps because it is painful to come to a halt, to turn round orto get a grip on this hurt. We soldier on with life as it is, without broodingany further – without – without grabbing the chance we have to make a changethere and then. Do you think I'm waffling?'

'Notat all,' Gunnarstranda said. 'I think you're right. Many people will have to confronttheir dreams sooner or later – hold an annual general assembly on themselves,if we can put it like that. But I suppose some get round to it quicker thanothers. Many may never experience it.' He straightened the photograph andbrushed down his trousers. 'Go on.'

'Well,watching your brother like this – as a victim… you have to remember thatReidar was my big brother, my model, a person with an aura of irrefutableauthority – watching him like this…'

PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda waited politely as Jespersen searched for words.

'Itwas very difficult because he understood what I was thinking. Perhaps he didn'tnotice the concern behind it, but he noticed the change. He understoodintuitively that he had been seen through, that he had been unmasked.But I'm not sure that he understood what I had found out in specific terms. Hejust noticed the change in the atmosphere between us – he noticed that I feltsorry for him. Which he was incapable of forgiving.'

'Forgiving?'

Jespersennodded. 'Forgiving.'

'Whycouldn't he forgive?'

'Perhapsit was something to do with his internal void, whatever it was he was fleeingfrom by building this armour around himself. But also because the balancebetween us had been upset. When he was unmasked – the word isappropriate here – I saw through this somewhat abnormal urge to be fit andactive, to own – to build a fortress of objects around himself, he wasunable to maintain the same hold over me as a brother, of course. He just didnot like dealing with me.'

Gunnarstrandasupported his chin on his bony index finger and said: 'You must have had yourown ideas about what this collecting of objects and feverish hyperactivity wasmeant to redress, I suppose. Was there some ulterior ideology? Was it trauma asa result of horrendous experiences? Was it repressed memories of some kind?'

'Well,yes, I have thought about it a bit…'

Gunnarstrandabent forward in his chair. The cat, sitting on the sofa next to Emmanuel FolkeJespersen, twitched its head. It purred softly, stretched its rear legs andreposed on the cushion like an Egyptian queen. Its eyes were open but it wasn'tawake; it blinked and slowly lowered its head onto its front paws. 'Tell me,'Gunnarstranda whispered in his excitement.

'Atfirst I thought he was tormented by memories of people who were asleep when heblew them into smithereens.'

'Sabotagemissions?'

Jespersenstared into the distance without speaking. 'God knows, he must have had a lotof terrible things on his conscience. Death and…' He faltered. 'But I found outit couldn't be anything like that.'

Ontenterhooks, the policeman cleared his throat.

Jespersenwas breathing heavily and leaned his head back. The cat blinked again – andJespersen gazed at the ceiling and stroked his chin with a low rasping sound.'What is it they say…?'

'Whosays?'

'TheFrench. What is it they say when they're looking for the key to a mystery…?'

Gunnarstrandalooked down at the photograph on the blue encyclopaedia. The winter sun,shining through the window onto the table, fell onto the picture and made itgleam like an old, matt mirror. 'Cherchez la femme,^, hewhispered.

Emmanuel,his eyes still on a point on the ceiling, drew a deep sigh and repeated: Cherchezla femme.'

Gunnarstrandaswallowed, took the photograph and held it up. 'OK.' He sighed and took theplunge: 'What's her name?'

Chapter 36

Themost knowledgeable person in Police Inspector Gunnarstranda's circle ofacquaintances was his brother- in-law. The problem was that it was getting moreand more difficult to talk to the man as the years went by. For one thing, itwas difficult to meet him without thinking about Edel. And for another, theconversation dragged for both of them as it seemed the distress of meeting wasmutual. It always cost the Inspector quite some effort to get in touch. But nowhe had an excuse. Shortly after lunch he picked up the receiver and dialled thenumber.

Hisbrother-in-law asked for time to think. For some unknown reason he seemed to bein a positive frame of mind; he almost seemed glad to hear the policeman'svoice.

Theyarranged to meet after work.

At halfpast three the Inspector took his swimming things from the cupboard by thedoor, went out and caught the tram to the pool in Oslo West. Gunnarstrandaalways wore a bathing cap in public baths. If he didn't, his hair would trailafter him like a wet sail after a boat. Tove Granaas had not yet commented onthe way he combed his hair. But he knew a comment was not far off. He hadbought his swimming trunks fifteen years ago, on Fuerteventura. He bought newgoggles and a new nose-clip every year.

He stoodfor a few seconds looking at the green surface before bending his knees anddiving in. He glided through without moving his legs – and noted with surprisethat the water was not so cold – until his bathing cap, goggles and nose-clipemerged into the air. Then he swam 2.5 lengths, backwards and forwards, breaststroke, concentrating on his breathing and every single turn. Once that wascompleted, swimming leisurely on his back, he looked up at the clock to checkhis time. Two minutes faster than the previous swim, but still four minutesslower than his personal best.

Finallyhe hoisted himself out of the water, had a quick shower and went into thesauna. If there was room he always lay on the top bench. On this occasion therewas room. The hot, dry air burned his palate. So as not to scorch himself onthe wood he was careful to spread out his towel. But first of all he nodded tothe others sitting there, then bent down for the ladle in a bucket on the floorand poured water on the stove. Four other men were there. A young,vulnerable-looking man in his early twenties, gawping at the others' sexualorgans, was most interested in an athlete in his early forties – Will W – whomGunnarstranda had arrested three times for GBH and extortion. Will gave the policemana measured nod and continued to stroke his muscles with circumspection and wipethe sweat off his forehead with a towel. The other two men were elderly, partof a crowd which had been larger, and they often talked about their latecompanions. Today their attentions were turned to someone called Per who,according to them, had won the war single-handedly. They talked about Ronny,who was bullied when they went to Lakkegata School because he had gone to bedwith his sister. They talked about Francis who had worked all his life in theNorwegian Parliament and had even disciplined the Prime Minister. Gunnarstrandalay back on the bench listening and waiting for his brother-in-law.

Itwas just after seven in the evening when he wandered back through his officedoor. He had been given three names to choose from. The first was a journalistin Trondheim who had written a number of popular science books about the area.The second a knowledgeable layman who could produce the most astonishing new factsfrom subjects which most considered exhausted long ago. According to hisbrother-in-law the snag here was that the man had links with neo-Nazi groups.Gunnarstranda opted to take his chances with the third name on the pad – aretired history professor.

Hesat down on his office chair and drank a cup of coffee which his stomach toldhim he ought not to drink. He pulled out the lowest drawer with his foot. Withthe phone to his ear and his foot on the drawer, he listened to the phoneringing and contemplated the point where his black sock met his blue longjohns.

'Yes,'said a woman's reedy voice.

'Myname is Gunnarstranda,' the policeman said. 'I work for the Oslo policeauthorities. Have I got through to Professor Engelschøn?'

'Yes…Roar!' the voice shouted after a brief pause, and the policeman heard thereceiver being put down on a table. 'Roar! A call from the police!'

Itwas quiet and Gunnarstranda could hear heavy footsteps running over creakingparquet flooring.

'Engelschøn,'said a hoarse voice.

Gunnarstrandaintroduced himself.

'Delightedto meet you,' Engelschøn said expectantly.

'I'vebeen told you are the person in Norway who knows most about the resistancemovement during the German Occupation,' Gunnarstranda said, looking at the oldphotograph on the desk.

'Byno means,' Engelschøn said, and repeated himself: 'By no means.'

'I'mtrying to trace a woman,' the police officer said.

'Well,you police should be in a better position to do that than me.'

'Thisis connected with the period of the Occupation,' Gunnarstranda explained. 'Thewoman is Norwegian, but was supposed to be married to a gentleman of someprominence during the war. She was christened Amalie and her maiden name wasBruun with two 'u's, Amalie Bruun.'

ProfessorEngelschøn's house was the type of residence estate agents splash money on toadvertise in newspapers. The house was in Snarøya. The roof ridge which toweredover the trees bore two chimneys and overlooked a 1930s tarred, wooden housewith intricately worked windows and pillars by the front door. The buildingreminded Gunnarstranda of Frognerseteren Restaurant and large farms inGudbrandsdal valley.

Yetthe house was different from most others in the district. There were nolow-slung Italian cars next to it. There were no sleek setters running aroundin the garden, and there were no security company signs hanging over theentrance issuing dire warnings. In general there were no signs of the vulgarnouveau-riche culture which was hemming in the few remaining habitations withsoul in and around the capital. The drive was covered with snow. Just onenarrow, winding path had been cleared through the carpet of snow, stretchingfrom the broad doorsteps to a rusty post box. The latter was secured with wireto a fence post which had been cemented in a long time ago. The steps weresnow-free. A snow shovel and a piassava broom stood against the wall. The drystems of a creeper clung tight to the round wooden pillars, waiting for thechance to transform the entrance into a green portal in the summer.

Hewas shown in by a stooped elderly lady with her hair in a bun who peered at himthrough two thick lenses.

Thefirst thing that met Gunnarstranda when he entered was an aroma of green soap,lavender and lightly salted cod. It was a smell that took him back to hisyouth. At once he could see before him his mother's fat legs beneath her apronas she melted egg butter for the fish, and he saw the quiet nook in the flat wherethe black oak dining table was placed, between the stove and his father'sbookshelf. As he stood there, struck by his confrontation with a smell from hischildhood years, his eyes wandered around the house interior.

Twoarmchairs had pride of place in front of an old

TV.Some knitting had been casually discarded on one of the chairs. A pair ofglasses with a broad black frame lay on the coffee table. Beside them anashtray emblazoned with the design belonging to a long since forgotten brand ofcigarette – Abdullah. A curved briar pipe with a chipped mouthpiece restedagainst the rim of the ashtray. On the wall, family pictures in oval frameshung around an embroidered motif of Norwegian nature: two elk drinking waterfrom a pool in the wood. A wall clock struck a muffled chime to indicate thatit was half past eight as Professor Engelschøn lumbered towards him.

Theprofessor took him into a study in which every single square centimetre of wallspace was covered with books. A computer with a flickering screensaver shone onto a desk awash with paper. Engelschøn's hair was grey and bristly and combedup rather than back. His complexion was pale and marked with deep furrows. Theheavy chin hung like a digger's bucket under the sullen mouth. From behind hisdesk, his glasses down his nose, he resembled a protrudent bloodhound guardinga consignment of bones and meat from the slaughterhouse.

'Infact the woman you are searching for is rather interesting,' he growled in hishoarse voice and cleared his throat. 'I have found several pictures of her.Bruun was indeed her maiden name, Amalie Bruun. It was no easy task, but youput me on the trail. In 1944 she married Klaus Fromm, who was, as you pointedout, German. But not just any German. He was a judge, stationed here in Norwayduring the war.'

Gunnarstrandawhistled softly.

'KlausFromm's details in the NSDAP and SS go back to 1934 when he was twenty-fouryears old.'

Gunnarstrandafrowned as he did the arithmetic and said: 'And you're sure of this?'

Engelschønlowered his glasses. The look he sent was cool and judgemental. 'Whorecommended me, did you say?'

Gunnarstrandadismissed this question with a wave. 'What you've told me is something of asurprise, but we can come back to that. If this man Fromm was twenty- four in1934, he would be ninety now – assuming he's alive.'

'Well,that's possible. I haven't been able to find that out. Do you smoke?'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'ThankGod,' the professor said and clamped his teeth round the mouthpiece of a Ronsonpipe he produced from a drawer in the desk. He talked out of the corner of hismouth as he attempted to light up: 'Klaus Fromm had military and legal training,and in the late 1930s was appointed judge at the SS courts in Berlin. He cameto Oslo in May 1940 where he took up a higher position in what was known as theSS und Polizeigericht Nord – which was a court that was in fact meant forGermans, but also sentenced Norwegian resistance fighters.' Engelschøn spread asweet aroma of pipe tobacco around the room.

'Judge,'Gunnarstranda mumbled, lost in thought. 'What sort of rank would that be – inGerman?'

'Hewas an SS Obersturmbannführer.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. Encouraged, he lit his roll-up and inhaled greedily. The atmosphere ofthis room was one of the most appealing he had come across for a long time.

'AnObersturmbannführer corresponds to a lieu- tenant-colonel,' Engelschønexplained.

'Ahigh rank, in other words.'

'Indeed.'

'Butthe title of judge sounds somehow civilian. How high-ranking was he inpractical terms?'

'Howmuch do you know about the SS?' Engelschøn asked from his desk.

'Elitesoldiers. And I suppose the story of Hitler's paranoia. The Night of the LongKnives.'

Engelschønnodded. 'The SS was founded as a reaction to the growth of the SA, theSturmabteilung. Röhm was the man in charge of the SA. And the more it grew, thegreater the danger that it would challenge Hitler's authority – at least thatwas what he thought. In 1933 there had been 300,000 Brown Shirts under Röhm.That was why Hitler ordered the murders of a large number of SA officers in1934 – the Night of the Long Knives, as you said. Thereafter, the SA wasfinished and the SS grew exponentially. The name Waffen-SS first came intoofficial use in March 1940. Then this police division that Fromm worked in wasestablished – along with a Totenkopfdivision which was responsible for guardduties and the administration of the concentration camps.'

'Butuntil then hadn't the SS consisted of policemen?'

'Yes,indeed,' Engelschøn confirmed. He rummaged around the table, stood up and tooka sheet of white paper from the printer on a stool beneath the window.

Hesketched out a little organizational diagram on the sheet. 'The SS wasadministered by Himmler,' he explained. 'Himmler was the Minister of InternalAffairs in 1936 and the police were incorporated into the SS. The police had twosections: the Ordnungspolizei and the Sicherheitspolizei. This last-mentionedsecurity organization was sub-divided into two further sections: the criminalpolice department, Kriminalpolizei or Kripo, and a secret state police,Gestapo. However, in addition to these there was a special police force – theSS Verfügungstruppe – which was closely linked with Hitler himself. You mayhave heard of Hitler's bodyguards – the Stabwache; they were subsumed underthis Verfügungstruppe. Afterwards Hitler's bodyguards were re-named LeibstandarteSS Adolf Hitler. The difference between the Leibstandarte and the rest of theSS was that the soldiers had sworn personal allegiance to Hitler, which ofcourse was done because direct allegiance to the Führer weakened Himmler'sinfluence and power within the SS.'

'SoHitler didn't trust Himmler?'

'Shallwe say that Hitler was aware that his authority could be swayed? As I'm certainyou know, he was the victim of several assassination attempts. At any rate hemade sure that the Verfügungstruppe constituted the cornerstone of everydivision that carried the name Waffen-SS. But the reorganization of 1940 wasimplemented first and foremost with the growth rate of the organization inmind. In total the Waffen-SS consisted of thirty-eight divisions. Can youimagine that? Hm? Of course, you know the Germans were dab hands atorganization.'

ProfessorEngelschøn sat down again. 'Did I answer the question?' he asked and providedthe answer himself: 'No, I didn't. Klaus Fromm bore the rank of Obersturmbannführer,but did not work in the field.'

'Aneminence grise,' Gunnarstranda suggested, watching the lengthening columnof cigarette ash and concentrating on not letting it fall.

'Yes.At least a man with civilian and military power.' The professor used themouthpiece of the pipe to shove an ashtray across the ocean of papersseparating them. Then he picked up the photograph the policeman had found underJespersen's desk pad. He studied it thoughtfully while tapping the pipe againsthis temple. 'But Amalie,' he broke off, 'Amalie, nee Bruun, grew up here inOslo. She lived in Armauer Hansens gate 19 until she was married. She and Frommgot married on 12th November 1944. The ceremony took place in Kristinelundveien22 – in what came to be known as 'Brydevilla' – where the SS court wasaccommodated during the occupation. Here,' the professor said, peering at thepapers before holding up an A4 sheet: 'A copy of the marriage certificate:Klaus Dietrich Fromm married to Amalie Bruun.'

'In1944. So he was thirty-four years old. How old was she?'

'Amaliewas born in the maternity clinic of the Rikshospital on 3rd July 1921 – so shewas twenty-three when she got married.'

'Elevenyears younger than Fromm.'

'Yes,that sort of thing was not so unusual before…'

'Butin the case I'm working on…' Gunnarstranda said, trying to blow a smoke ringbut failing, 'there is another man I have reason to believe…' he started,staring at the ceiling before repeating himself: 'I have reason to believe thatthis man had a relationship or was in love with Amalie Bruun at some point… andhe was also twenty-three years old in 1944…'

'Isthat right?'

'Sothis man was the same age as her. A well-known resistance fighter.'

Theprofessor glared across the table. Gunnarstranda was reminded of dogs fightingover bones and scraps of meat. 'Who?' Engelschøn barked.

'ReidarFolke Jespersen.'

Engelschønnodded. 'He was one of Linge's boys, wasn't he? No, he wasn't,' he addedhurriedly, took the pipe out of his mouth and studied the ceiling. 'ReidarFolke Jespersen, no, he didn't work with Linge. He – yes, that was it – he wasa saboteur. One of the toughest and most notorious in fact, though I'm sure youknew that, didn't you?'

Gunnarstrandashook his head.

'Trustme, Reidar Folke Jespersen was a man with a lot… a lot of blood on hishands.'

'Hewas killed just recently, a few days ago. I'm working on the case.'

'Yes,I read about it, about the murder. But I didn't connect…' Professor Engelschønwore a worried frown. 'You think Folke Jespersen was in Amalie Bruun's circle?That would be… well…'

Gunnarstrandawaited patiently while the professor searched for the right word.

'Sensational,'said the professor at length.

Gunnarstrandaopened both palms again. 'She and Jespersen may have been childhood sweetheartsfor all I know. After all Oslo was not a big city. Well, forget it. It's AmalieI'm interested in.'

'Hm.'The professor shook his shoulders and began to riffle through the pile offolders in front of him. 'I had a photo of the married couple here,' hemumbled, lifting up the papers. Eventually he held out a large photograph.'Here you can see a picture you'll find interesting – it's of an elegant Germansoirée.' The photograph was taken in a large hall or room. There were uniformedmen together with women wearing long dresses. Some perched on chairs, others onsofas, and there were two men leaning against a mantelpiece in the background.'Lots of shiny brass,' Gunnarstranda commented.

'Indeed,lots of fine folk…' The professor rose to his feet and, with stooped back,scurried round the table. He bent down and held a quivering, nicotine-stained,fat finger over the photograph. 'That one… that's General Wilhelm Rediess, thechief of police in Norway, and that one… that's SS Oberfiihrer Otto Baum on avisit from Berlin… so it must have been an important occasion. Baum ended up asthe C-in-C of the 16th Panzer division. He was one of the most decoratedofficers in the war. Look at all his medals – the photo's not that sharp, butyou can see the Knight's Cross and the Iron Cross 1st class. You can imagine,can't you! And him. There you can see…'

Gunnarstrandanodded: 'Is that Terboven?'

'Ofcourse, and he's sitting beside your friend – Amalie Bruun.'

Gunnarstrandaadjusted his glasses. Even though the woman's face in the picture was partlyturned away from the photographer, he recognized her by the mole on her cheekand the high forehead. He guessed she would have been the centre of this party- being as beautiful as she was – courted by these important men. He perceiveda kind of determined wantonness in the look she gave the photographer. But herchin was longer and firmer than he had imagined. This was no shrinking violet -she was self-confident, she was witty and she dominated social gatherings.

Theprofessor's trembling finger pointed to the right: 'Can you see the one withthe side-parting and the thick lips…?'

'Yes?'

'That'sFromm, her husband – and he does indeed look fromm in this photo – it'sGerman for pious. He must have just delivered a couple of death sentences.'

'Ithink he looks like the writer, Sigurd Hoel,' Gunnarstranda said and added:'With those round glasses…'

ProfessorEngelschøn furrowed his brow for a few seconds. 'Well…' he mumbled, clearly notconvinced, and pointed to a man and a woman on the right of the picture. 'Andhim, the one sitting next to the other blonde, him, you see, that's Müller -the German propaganda boss in Norway – and the one joining in the flirting,that's Carlo Otte himself, the man responsible for running the German economyin Norway.'

'VeritableVIP lounge.'

'Indeed.No small fry here.' The professor chuckled.

'Asyou can see, finding information about Amalie Bruun was not difficult. She hadgood connections, let's put it like that.' He toddled around the desk and satdown.

'And youhave no idea what the occasion here was?'

'No.But there is a sense it is some kind of delegation, with the visitor fromBerlin, Otto Baum, there.'

'Buthow did she – a girl of twenty-three – get here, get into such circles?'

'I'mnot sure when this photo was taken, but I assume it must have been some time inlate '43, or early '44,' Engelschøn chuckled, puffing on his pipe. 'One of thereasons for my conclusion is that I have seen Baum's list of decorations. Andin this photo he's missing a couple of medals that he was awarded in 1944 -so…' Engelschøn straightened up, '… the photo must have been taken at least sixmonths before she married Fromm. Hence she is probably his escort at thisparty, I imagine. But how…' Professor Engelschøn chewed his lip. 'How peoplefind each other and get married is of course like the birds and bees, but theydid find each other. You know they worked together?'

'Workedtogether?'

'Atany rate she was employed as a secretary in the German administration. It'snothing new for work colleagues to be united in the bonds of matrimony.'

Gunnarstrandastudied the photograph – the Germans with the insignia on their shoulders andself- assured expressions on their faces. He scrutinized Fromm. There wassomething that caught his eye. He stared at Fromm again. It was the samefeeling you have when you are trying to remember a name that has slipped yourmind. There was something about the way he stood that drew his gaze. But he hadno idea what. The feeling was unpleasant. So he decided to study Amalie Bruuninstead. He tried to imagine this woman being the centre of attention when theformalities were over and the band struck up. He asked: 'Was she an avowedNazi?'

'Ihaven't a clue. But there's nothing to suggest she was a member of theNorwegian Nazi party, the Nasjonal Samling, if that's what you're wondering.'

Gunnarstrandasat gazing at the picture. His eyes were still drawn to Fromm.

'Shehad worked for a newspaper, Aftenposten, amongst other places, beforeshe started her job with the Germans.'

'Aftenposten?'

'Ibeg your pardon?' The professor was taken aback by Gunnarstranda's exclamation.

Gunnarstranda'slips were trembling. 'When did she work for Aftenposten?'

Engelschønshrugged. 'Until some point in '40 or '41. She was making use of her formaltraining – yes, you can guess what her qualifications were. Your lady had takenexams in German commercial correspondence – and she began shortly afterwards asan office help in the Ministry of Justice, but she packed it in and went towork for the German administration. But it's impossible to know why – I wouldguess her knowledge of German played some part in it.'

Hetook another look at the photograph and suggested: 'She's very presentable…that may well have had some significance.'

'Soshe had a background in journalism?'

'Notat all. She was office-trained. In those days women journalists were rare. Iwould presume she had had an office job.'

Gunnarstrandapassed back the photograph. He sat looking into the distance as he planned hisnext question: 'What happened to these people after the war?'

'Well,good point… I suppose the same as other Germans. They were arrested, deported,some went back home. Some became lawyers – that I do know – in Germany. Thepropaganda boss, Müller, became a property developer. As far as Fromm isconcerned, I have no idea what happened to him. But all the judges working inBrydevilla were arrested and put on trial here. But, you know, the NorwegianHigh Court decided that SS und Polizeigericht Nord had to be considered amilitary court in line with the Wehrmacht's own courts, so the judges could notbe punished as they were only doing their jobs, so to speak. However…'

Theprofessor scratched his head.

'Yes?'

'Therewas a case they tried to pin on these judges, you know. Well, you're too youngto remember much from the war, but I am not. In February 1945 – just threemonths before the German capitulation – some Norwegian hostages were shot in areprisal execution…'

'Whywas that?'

'Hostageswere often being shot in fact, but this time the underground movementliquidated a Norwegian Nazi – Major General Marthinsen – the boss of thesecurity police in the Nasjonal Samling. A number of Norwegian hostages wereexecuted afterwards…

Engelschønstood gazing at the floor, lost in thought. He mumbled: 'One of them was thebrother of a boy in my class. I went to Ila school, you see. And that was the worstschool day of the whole war. Everyone knew, all the pupils, the teachers,everyone knew that Jonas's brother had been taken from his flat and shot. ButJonas didn't say a word about it. He sat quietly gazing into the air. None ofus said anything…'

Engelschønshuddered as though he were shaking off something nasty, then trudged back tohis chair behind the desk. 'Yes, well,' he said, heaving a deep sigh. 'The endof the story was that it was decided that these court martial judges had notcontravened international law.'

'Allthe judges were acquitted?'

'Yes,but this legal issue was not resolved until 1948. Fromm may have been in prisonall that time.' The professor shuffled over to his untidy work station, satdown by the computer and typed something in. 'It will be harder to find… howlong the man was in prison,' he declared, swinging round on the swivel chair.

'AndAmalie?'

'Unknown.'

'Shedisappeared?'

'Well…I doubt it. If she had disappeared, the police would have investigated and thatwould have been recorded in the sources to which I have access.'

'Butyou don't have anything about her?'

'No.'

'Butthe treason trials? After all she was working for the Germans.'

'Membersof the Nasjonal Samling were punished after the war, not people who worked forthe Germans.'

'Whatdo you think happened?'

Engelschønshrugged his shoulders. 'As a woman she may be part of our bad conscience. Afew German spouses were deported to Germany. Or she may have been sent toHovedøya – the women's internment camp.'

'Imprisoned?'

'Strictlyspeaking, women's camps were not prisons – but institutions established for thesafety of the Teuton tarts, as they were called. But this case is a littlespecial… because Fromm's case had to be appraised in the light of internationallaw. Either she was deported to Germany or she stayed here. I have to confessit is very difficult to say anything concrete about this.'

'Buther husband, Fromm? You have no idea what happened to him?'

'Hewas released, wasn't he!' Engelschøn shook his head. 'What happened to him? Itmay be possible to find out, but…'

'Try,'Gunnarstranda urged, taking the photograph of the German soirée. He scrutinizedFromm again without quite knowing why. 'It wouldn't be possible to borrow thisphoto, would it?'

Chapter 37

'That'snice,' said Eva-Britt from another world as the stereo played the gentleopening tones of Nils Moldvær's Khmer. Frølich got to his feet and turnedup the volume. Even though the woodburning stove in the corner was as hot as itcould be, there was a cold draught coming from the large living-room window.The radiator under the window sill was unable to deal with the cold air. Hestood for a few moments meditating in front of the window as he looked out onthe illuminated ring road – yellow and snake-like – as it twisted its waythrough the winter landscape. Cars lost colour under the floodlighting. Ashower of sparks moved down the mountainside. It was the electrical currentcollector of a late-night metro carriage scraping against ice. The moon, whichearlier in the evening had hung like a large, yellow rice-paper lantern overthe mountain ridges of Østmark, now looked like a bucket of white paint spiltover a watery surface.

Heturned and watched Eva-Britt.

Hewas nettled that she had come. She would always sit and wait when she visitedhim. If she wanted something, she would wait until he got it for her. Would youbelieve it, he said to himself. We have been sleeping together for years andshe still sees herself as a stranger in my flat.

Shewas studying the Ikea catalogue from an angle, with a sneer playing around herlips as she quickly flicked from page to page. She looked like someone sittingon a tram reading a tabloid. He caught himself wishing it wasn't her sittingthere.

Whenthe telephone rang they exchanged glances.

'Willyou answer it?' she asked from the chair.

'Giveme a good reason not to,' he retorted wearily.

Eva-Brittsat up and looked towards the bedroom door, and then at her watch. Sheconspicuously lowered her arm with the wristwatch. The telephone stoppedringing soon afterwards.

'I won,'she said, skimming though the catalogue. He watched her cross her legs andsnuggle back into the large armchair, knowing very well that she was beingobserved. A second later her mobile phone began to ring. They exchanged looksagain.

'Willyou answer it?' he asked.

Shestared from his telephone to her bag, the source of the ringing. Displeased,she frowned. 'If it's for you, I have no idea where you are,' she said withconviction, nimbly got to her feet and dug out her mobile from the bag by thedoor. He followed her with his eyes.

'Yes,'she said with arched back and mobile to her ear. 'No, he's…'

Sheturned to him and mouthed: 'Your boss…'

Hesat smiling at her.

'Ihave no idea…' she said, listening.

Frølichhad to grin when he heard Gunnarstranda's shouted orders crackle out into theroom. Eva-Britt's eyes were beginning to glaze over and she pulled a face as ifsomeone were forcing cod liver oil down her throat. She took three ominous,stiff-legged, aggressive steps forward and threw the mobile to him without aword.

Frølichcaught it in mid-air. 'Hi,' he said.

'Thisis a wild goose chase,' Gunnarstranda said, skipping the preamble. 'You talkedto Arvid Jespersen about his brother's career, didn't you? About why he startedout as an antique dealer? Right?'

'Yes,I did,' Frølich said. 'But…'

'AndArvid said something about newspaper production, right?'

'No,not production. Reidar took the waste paper off the print rolls from a numberof newspapers and…'

'Yes,yes,' Gunnarstranda interrupted. 'And these rolls were pieced together. Where?'

'Don'tknow.'

'Andthey were sold on. Who to?'

'Don'tknow either.'

'Butthe nitwit must have said!' Gunnarstranda's voice was cracking with annoyance.

'Takeit easy,' Frølich said heavily. 'The paper was sold to printers in African andSouth American states. But why are you so fired up about this?'

'Ihave another connection with South America, Frølich.'

Therewas the dry click of a lighter at the other end of the line as Gunnarstrandatook out a cigarette and lit up. 'Back to Arvid and this newspaper story. Didhe mention a person by the name of Fromm?'

'No,I'm positive about that.'

'Mm,have you got any plans for tomorrow?'

Frølichlooked across at Eva-Britt who had demonstratively planted herself in front ofhis large living-room window, with her back to him. The clock showed it waspast midnight. 'I'll do whatever you ask. You know that.'

'Great.I want you to go to Reidar Folke Jespersen's office in Bertrand Narvesens vei.If no one's there, I want you to go through the records in the office in ThomasHeftyes gate with a fine-tooth comb.'

'Whatare we looking for?'

'One ormore letters, or copies of letters, from a gentleman by the name of KlausFromm. Klaus with a "k" and Fromm with two "m"s.'

'Howfar back?'

'Asfar as there are records.'

'Anythingelse?'

'No.'

'Anythingelse you want to say?'

'Checkthe years when they were selling paper, in other words the '40s and the '50s.'

Frølichsighed. 'Anything else?'

'Doyou think Reidar Folke Jespersen might have been a Nazi?'

Frølichbroke off a protracted yawn. 'Are you crazy?'

'No,'said Gunnarstranda. 'But why is it crazy?'

'Jespersenwas running an illegal printing press in Oslo until 1943 when an informer gavehim away and he had to escape to Sweden. From there he went to a training campin Scotland where he was shown how to carry out sabotage. He was sent onseveral jobs to Norway – sabotage and…' 'Liquidations,' Gunnarstranda addedlaconically. 'Right, my mind is at rest. Sleep well.'

Frølichput Eva-Britt's mobile on the table. He breathed in, got up and stood in thecosy heat radiating from the stove, observing her averted back while nodding tothe beat of the music: a long guitar solo, throbbing drums and the pure flow ofa synth meandering through the room. From the kitchen came the nauseous burntsmell of coffee that had been on the warming plate for two hours too long.

Shestarted to turn round. Frank wondered what expression she would have on herface. Whether this was going to be an evening of rows and grumpy faces.

'Yougave that idiot my telephone number,' she proclaimed.

Frølichdid not answer.

Thesubdued combination of heavy rock and modern jazz was still oozing from theloudspeakers when his telephone rang.

Heand Eva-Britt exchanged looks.

'Hewon't give up,' she muttered darkly.

Frølichknew. It had been in the air for a long time. This evening they were going tohave a row.

Hestrode over to pick up the telephone.

'RichardEkholt,' the voice said.

Frølichhad seen a picture of Ekholt, a photograph showing an ice hockey player in theFuruset team many seasons ago, a club strip and a face with black stubble andshort, black hair – with a fringe. The voice matched the image.

'It'slate,' Frank Frølich said calmly.

'Ihear you've been asking after me.'

'Cometo the station tomorrow and we can talk.'

'Don'tring off,' the voice demanded.

'I'mgoing to,' Frølich insisted. 'Phone us tomorrow.'

'One-nine-five.'

Therewas a rippling sound in the receiver. The ripple of laughter, Frølich realized.The man was laughing at him.

'Likea password, eh? That's so good…' The stranger was wheezing and groaning withlaughter: 'One-nine- five.' The laughter continued. It sounded like thecreaking of a rocking chair. A low snort on the line told him that Ekholt wasgasping for breath. He continued: 'That's so good… a hundred and ninety-five.'

Frølichmet Eva-Britt's eyes. She was looking daggers at him.

Thevoice on the line whispered: 'I know something. You've been asking after me, haven'tyou? I'm ready now – to talk.'

Frølichwas still watching Eva-Britt, who tilted her head in an aloof manner, as thoughto signal that she knew what he was thinking. Frølich had had enough of hersulkiness. 'Can you come here, to my place?' he asked Ekholt.

Eva-Britttossed her head in the air.

'No,you have to come here,' the voice said, now clear and composed.

Liberation,thought Frølich, and asked: 'Where are you?'

Thevoice on the line hissed. Frølich tried to identify the other sounds he couldhear, the background noise.

Therewas another voice. At least one. 'Are you in a pub?' he asked.

'Justlisten,' Ekholt said. 'Come in one hour's time – on your own, to town.'

Frølichlooked across at Eva-Britt again. She was shaking her head – slow, heavy,ominous movements.

'Thisis the only chance you'll get!' The voice seemed neither inebriated nordesperate now, but unemotional and business-like.

Frølichcould feel that he Wasn't quite in tune with the mood shifts. The other end ofthe line was silent now, no voices in the background, no noise. He said: 'Howcan I know whether you are who you say you are?'

'Youhave my number? My mobile number?'

'Yes.'

'Ringme and I'll answer.'

'Wait.'Frank found the telephone number on the notepad sticking up out of the pocketof his leather jacket hanging on the hook. 'Ring off,' he continued. 'Then I'llcall you.'

'Justa moment,' the voice said and Frølich heard a hand being placed over themouthpiece. Something I'm not supposed to hear, he thought, and tried to workout what was going on.

'Ineed to know who you are,' Frølich said. 'Ring off.'

Hestood looking at the telephone for a few instants before making a move.

'You'renot going out now, are you?' Eva-Britt said in a gentle yet forbidding tone.

'Ijust have to call this number…'

'Ittook me three hours to get a babysitter,' she said.

'It'sweeks since we've had time to ourselves – all on our own. And I've killedmyself to get it. You're not going to go and stay out all night, are you?'

Frølichtapped in the number.

'Yes,this is Richard,' said the voice.

Frølichstared at Eva-Britt who stood with her arms crossed, waiting.

'Whereshall we meet?' he asked brightly.

FrankFrølich left the raised intersection known as the traffic machine, drove downEuropaveien, around Bjørvika, past the old customs house and along Langkaia,one of the quays. It was deserted, it was night-time and still. His watchshowed 1.33 as he approached the roundabout by Revierkaia. Frølich felt aresigned tiredness sneaking up on him as he was unable to identify a soul onthe street. A nagging feeling of doubt throbbed at the back of his mind: thethought that he had been duped.

Hethrust his hand in his pocket for his mobile. He was going to put it on theseat, but changed his mind and stuffed it back. Then he slowed down and let thecar roll in neutral until it came to a halt alongside the fence that separatedthe road from the last strip of quayside. He switched off the engine andwaited.

Afteralmost a quarter of an hour he got out of the car. With his hands in his jacketpockets he ambled back towards the roundabout. It was like a film. A streetlamp cast a pale circle of light over the agreed meeting place and at the sametime created a transparent wall against the darkness of the night. The lightwas reflected in the windows of the ticket booths situated halfway along theroad leading to the ships bound for Denmark. The water in Bjørvika was frozen -solid black ice with white waves of drifting snow. The ice caught and reflectedthe flickering lights of Oslo town centre behind the harbour front. It had tobe at least minus 20. Frølich shivered, breathed into his scarf and tried toremember which film it was this scene brought to mind. Scattered lights fromthe buildings along Festningskaia gleamed on the roofs of the parked cars. Hesauntered on, out of the glare of a street lamp and into the next. The cold bitinto his legs, feet, ears, hands. He wondered what he had done with his gloves.Left them on the seat in the car, he supposed. He twisted his wrist to see thetime. Five minutes more, maximum, he thought. The only cars to be seen wereparked in a line, a bit further down, near the traffic lights in Festningskaia.

Apartfrom the noise of the traffic moving in and out of the tunnel, everything wasquiet. He leaned his head back and breathed out, into the light from the streetlamp. A circular rainbow in his icy breath stood out against the light. Hebreathed out again. Another rainbow. A game from his boyhood. The cold began toeat into his toenails. He jogged on the spot and beat his arms against hischest. It was now almost ten minutes past the agreed time. He took his mobilefrom his inside pocket and with stiff fingers tapped in Richard Ekholt'snumber. He was trembling, but pricked up his ears when he heard a telephoneringing. He ducked – a reflex reaction. He moved away from the street lamp andpressed the off button. The silence was now as threatening as the sound of thetelephone he had just heard.

Hiseyes scanned the area. Not a soul in sight anywhere. It was obvious – if anyonehad wanted to hurt him, they could have finished him off a long time ago. Helooked down at his mobile. Tried to memorize the ring tone that had carried inthe night air. It had been some distance away, but how far? He slowly raised histhumb and held it over the key that rang the last dialled number. He pressedand stood listening. Soon the muffled tone rang out. Frølich started moving. Hefollowed the sound. Increased the tempo, stopped, held his breath and listened.The sound was closer, but still there was no one around. He loped across thedeserted roundabout. A disembodied voice broke the telephone connection andinformed him in metallic tones that the person he was ringing was not availableat the moment. He glanced down at the mobile and pressed the same key asbefore. The display showed the number he was ringing. There was the ring toneagain. He spotted the line of parked cars. The sound was coming from one ofthem. The silhouettes of the buildings along the quayside were visible throughthe rear window of the nearest car. The phone had to be in there. Hedisconnected. The silence reminded him that he was alone and that what he wasdoing was wrong. He imagined American films in which cars exploded when anignition key was turned. He repressed the fantasy and instead saw a strangerputting his phone down on the seat and getting out of the car to meet him. Butwhere was this man now? For a brief instant he considered callingGunnarstranda, but moved towards the car. He didn't feel the cold now; he wassweating.

Thecar was a dark Mercedes with a cut-off ski rack on the roof. A taxi,thought Frølich. Just a metal holder – a taxi with the licence plateremoved. He went to the left to walk in a large circle around the car,which no longer seemed anonymous or abandoned, but large and menacing. Hestopped about five metres from the car. When he went alongside, he noticed theside window had been smashed. What he had at first assumed to be ice was thewindow itself, a white sheet of splintered glass. The front windscreen was alsoshattered. What he had thought to be bits of ice on the car bonnet werefragments of glass. He walked on a few metres and could see the bonnet clearly.There was something on top. It was too dark to make out the precise shape. Hecrouched down to see better. Then he realized what it was: a foot. Someone wassitting in the driver's seat. Someone had kicked out the front windscreen andtheir foot was still there. Frølich straightened up and rang the duty officer atPolice HQ.

Chapter 38

Gunnarstrandaasked the driver to pull in by the fence just before the roundabout. As soon asthe taxi came to a halt, a uniformed police officer came over and stooped down.Gunnarstranda rolled down the window on his side. 'It's me,' he said to theofficer, who nodded and withdrew.

Gunnarstrandarolled the window up and turned to Tove. 'Once again, I'm very sorry,' he said.

'Relax,'she said, stifling a yawn. 'It was me who insisted on getting up.' She forced atired smile when the taxi driver involuntarily looked up into the mirror. 'Imean, I insisted on coming here with you,' she corrected herself and observedthe scene on the other side of the roundabout where two police cars weresending blue lightning into the night sky. 'That looks exciting.'

'Itwas exciting at any rate,' Gunnarstranda said without emotion, leaning forwardbetween the two front seats and passing the driver a 500 kroner note. 'I getoff here, but she's going home,' he said, turning to Tove who shook her headindulgently. 'You old-fashioned man, you.'

'Thankyou for a nice evening,' he said, meeting her eyes.

Shetook his hand. 'Thank you.' 'Well, I'll have to be off,' he said, turninground in the seat and looking out. Another car with a blue flashing light hadarrived. 'Yes, it's getting busy here,' he said.

Shesqueezed his hand again.

'Yes,take care then,' he said.

'Youhave to open the door first,' she said.

'Mm, that'sright,' he said and looked for the handle. At that moment the driver got outand opened the door from outside.

Gunnarstrandagot out, buttoned up his coat and stood watching the taxi drive away. As heturned, he noticed at least five men look away that instant, some with a smileon their lips.

Frølichtowered over the other four. 'Had I known you had company, I could have waiteduntil morning,' Frølich said with concern.

Gunnarstrandaresponded with a grunt.

'Butsince it was Richard Ekholt who was killed, I thought you would want to see thecrime scene.'

Twoother police officers moved aside as they approached the parked car withsmashed windows. A covered body lay on a stretcher on the ground. 'Sure it'sEkholt?'

'Ninety-nine-point-nineper cent.'

'Andhe was strangled?'

'Lookslike it. Someone sitting on the back seat put a nylon rope around his neck andpulled. Ekholt went wild and kicked out the front windscreen and a side windowbefore he died.'

'The taxilicence plate?'

Gunnarstrandapeered through the smashed glass.

'Itwas on the back seat.'

'Couldhe have taken it off himself?'

Frølichshrugged.

'Purseand money gone,' Frølich said. 'But not the telephone. A mobile under the pedals.The killer may not have seen it.'

'Whendid he ring you?'

'Betweentwelve and one at night.'

Gunnarstrandayawned.

'Hetalked about his licence number,' Frølich said. 'He said a hundred and ninetyfive and was killing himself laughing.'

'Ahundred and ninety five?'

'Yes.'

'Notnineteen and five?'

Frølichshook his head.

'Andwhen did you find his body?'

'Fiveminutes before I rang you. At ten to two.'

Gunnarstrandawandered around the car.

'Almosthad a shock,' Frølich said by way of conversation. 'When a lady answered yourphone.'

Gunnarstrandasaid nothing.

'Butthat's just great. Seemed a nice lady…'

'Didhe appear to be on his own when he rang?' Gunnarstranda interrupted.

'Ekholt?There was some noise. I thought he must have been in a pub.'

'Hewasn't talking to anyone?'

'Possible.I had the impression he was holding his hand over the phone, on one occasionanyway.'

Gunnarstrandanodded and yawned.

'Wasthat your lady friend?' Frølich asked with caution. 'The one in the taxi?'

Gunnarstrandastared up at him with vacant eyes. 'Could he have rung from here?'

'Fromthe car?' Frølich ruminated. 'I thought I heard several sounds, backgroundnoises, music maybe.'

'Butit wasn't a CD player you heard or the car radio?'

'Ihave no idea,' Frølich said.

'Howlong did it take you to get here?'

'Fortyminutes.' Frølich added as an apology: 'Eva- Britt was at my place. And she wasnot best pleased when she had to go back home.'

'Isee,' Gunnarstranda said, lost in thought.

'Iwaited for about a quarter of an hour in the car without seeing anyone.' Aftersome reflection, he said, 'And I found the body ten minutes later.'

'Ifit was Ekholt you spoke to, he was killed between twelve-thirty andone-fifty-five?'

'Thatsounds about right, yes.'

'Tomorrowwe have a briefing with Fristad, the public prosecutor,' Gunnarstrandainterposed, taking a swift glance at his watch. 'At nine. In six hours' time.'He looked up at the sky. Then watched all the officers busy at the crime scene.'I'm sure we're in the way here. You should go home and get yourself someshut-eye.'

Chapter 39

Gunnarstrandaarrived home at five o'clock in the morning. He slept until half past eight,got up, dressed and began to scrape ice off the car windows at five to nine.The meeting with the public prosecutor, Fristad, was supposed to be in fiveminutes. He ran through the case in his mind. Fristad was an academic with achildish attitude regarding his own status and therefore always took advantageof the academics' privilege of arriving a quarter of an-hour late.

Gunnarstrandalit a cigarette while the engine warmed up and the defroster cleared the frontwindscreen. He tried to go through all the points that had some connection withEkholt, but realized he couldn't think clearly. Instead he switched on the carradio and heard there was chaos on all roads leading into Oslo because of ademonstration by taxi drivers. He took his mobile from his pocket, rangFristad's office and warned them he would be late. Soon afterwards he switchedoff the engine, locked the car door and strolled down to Advokat Dehlis plassto catch the first convenient bus.

Fristadwas seated, as always, and stretched out a welcoming arm to a blue chair by theconference table. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda organized the pile of reportson the table in front of him, put on his rectangular mail-order glasses andbegan to hold forth in a low voice: 'The murdered man, Reidar Folke Jespersen,was placed in a chair in the shop window of his own antiques business. He waskilled in an office behind the shop. His body was stripped naked and draggedacross the shop floor and put in the window. The killer had tied red threadaround the man's neck. The corpse was discovered by a passing newspaper girl,Helga Krisvik, on Saturday 14th January at six-thirty a.m. She is a housewife,works part-time and has been eliminated from further enquiries.'

'Sufferingfrom shock?' Fristad was chewing his glasses.

'Weassume so, yes,' Gunnarstranda continued dryly. 'As to the deceased's lastmovements, we have managed to ascertain the following: Jespersen got up at hisusual time on Friday 13th January. He left home at the usual time – but withoutsaying goodbye to his wife who was in the shower. A little later, that is, atapproximately nine o'clock, he turned up at a café in Jakob Aalls gate where hedrank coffee and mineral water, and read a number of magazines. The owner -Glenn Moseng – had seen him once before, but was unsure when. Folke Jesperseninsisted on sitting at the only window table in the café, from which he had aview of the block of apartments where a certain Eyolf Strømsted, who is, or atleast was, his wife's lover, lived. The owner is not sure when FolkeJespersen left the place, but we know he had been sitting there for a very longtime – several hours. At a few minutes after twelve he appears at Arvid FolkeJespersen's flat where Emmanuel Folke Jespersen is also waiting – both of hisbrothers. A married couple, the Kirkenaers, are also there and they make aformal presentation of their offer to buy the shop owned by the threebrothers.'

Fristadrocked back on the chair behind the desk and drummed the tips of his fingersagainst each other. 'And what is happening in the shop while all this is goingon?'

'Well,Karsten Jespersen – the murdered man's son – opened the shop at ten. He wasn'ton his own. It was a planning day at the kindergarten, so he had his son,Benjamin, with him in the shop. Later Ingrid Jespersen arrived with a pot ofcoffee and two cups. There were no customers. The two of them sat talking whilethe little boy played and did drawings until a quarter past eleven.'

Fristadnodded with closed eyes. 'Has Karsten got the hots for the widow? I meanthey're about the same age, aren't they?'

'Theyget on well in each other's company; they have a few common interests.'

'Arethey bonking?'

Gunnarstrandalooked up.

Fristadgave an apologetic smile. 'I read in one of your reports that the victim wasimpotent. Were the son and the widow bonking?'

Gunnarstranda,poker-faced: 'I didn't ask.'

'Butdo you think so?'

Gunnarstranda:'Perhaps we should concentrate on my account of events first?'

Fristadnodded: 'Right…' he said with emphasis. 'Right… widow leaves son to sleep withthis guy with the crazy name, Streamstead…' 'Strømsted…'

'Right.And the poor eighty-year-old cuckold sits waiting for the bitch to visit a realman to get her weekly fill…

Gunnarstrandastared at Fristad as though he were waiting for a phase to pass.

'Goon,' Fristad said gaily. 'Keep going.'

'Inthe meantime Reidar Folke Jespersen joins his brothers…'

'Yes,right…'

Gunnarstrandalooked up, silent.

Fristadwaved the policeman on.

'Weknow that the Kirkensers give their assurance that the Folke Jespersens'life-work will be carried on, and make a concrete offer for the shop, theshop's name and the warehouse – I believe it's called goodwill…'

'Yes,right, goodwill…'

'Butthey don't negotiate at this juncture. The couple make a kind of assessment ofthe shop's worth and give an overview of their plans before leaving the brothersto their own discussions. That's when Reidar Folke Jespersen is supposed tohave been unsympathetic and aggressive.'

'Whythe anger?'

'Ithink there was a lot of history. The man should have retired ten to twelveyears ago. He lords it over the others; he is the eldest brother. According toone brother, Emmanuel, Reidar perceived the initiative to sell the shop as aconspiracy against himself.'

'Right…but this business with the wife and lover, could that be a factor?'

'Well,of course it's possible,' Gunnarstranda conceded. 'According to the brothersand the couple, Reidar Folke Jespersen had been given prior information aboutthe background for the meeting. Well, it's hard to know what exactly annoyedhim about the negotiations. We do know however that after leaving the brothershe rang the wife's lover…'

'Yes,I read that. Pretty strong stuff, eh? The scorned spouse ringing while the twoof them are humping away…' Fristad guffawed through moist lips.

'True.At any rate Folke Jespersen didn't argue or have a row with the wife's lover onthe phone. He just asked to speak to his wife and gave her an ultimatum.'

'Nomore fucking around, eh,' Fristad said in English.

'Quiteso. At 2.30 p.m. at the latest he rings a young freelance actress by the nameof Gro Hege Wyller and brings forward a meeting with her. This change of planis in itself worthy of note. They had been due to meet on 23rd January, butinstead he asks her to come that day, Friday 13th January.'

'Right- and this was to the tune of The Way We Were?'

'Yes,Gro Hege Wyller dresses up and pretends to be a figure we have to assume is awoman from Folke Jespersen's past. Wyller acts out a play with him – a kind ofritual with improvisation, sherry and Schubert.'

'Nosex?' Fristad asked in English.

'Nevergave it a thought.'

Fristadgrinned. 'Are you a puritan, Gunnarstranda?'

Thepolice officer sighed. 'Ingrid Jespersen has confirmed that Reidar FolkeJespersen was not – as you yourself pointed out – sexually active. FrokenWyller maintains that Jespersen talked about this without any inhibitions. Itis my impression that the old man was finished with these things.'

'No jarof Viagra in grandad's medicine cabinet?' Fristad gave another moist guffaw.

DetectiveInspector Gunnarstranda took a deep breath.

'Sorry,'Fristad said.

'NowI've forgotten where I was,' said Gunnarstranda, irritated.

'Thephoto,' Fristad hastened to say. 'Wyller's role model. Who's the woman in thephoto?'

'Hername's Amalie Bruun, but her relationship with Folke Jespersen is not entirelyclear.'

'ButI suppose he must have been in love with her once upon a time?'

'Therelationship isn't clear.' Gunnarstranda, wearied, took off his glasses.

'Right,yes, well, on to the taxi murder. I assume that is the next line ofinvestigation, isn't it? Frank Frølich's somewhat dramatic nocturnal ramblethrough Bjørvika.'

Gunnarstrandastared blankly at the papers on the table.

'No,'he said. 'Let's take one thing at a time. Before Wyller comes to the dead man'soffice, Folke Jespersen rings his solicitor and asks her to revoke his will.'

'Isthat relevant?' asked a strained Fristad.

'It'srelevant to the extent that Jespersen is now focused on his own death forreasons yet to be clarified.'

'Butwhat effect does the revoking of the will have on the beneficiaries?'

Gunnarstrandaraised a hand to restrain the other man. 'Just a minute,' he said. 'Dr GretheLauritsen, who is the cancer specialist at Ullevål Hospital, says FolkeJespersen rang her that day. He was given the results of some tests anddiscovered that he had malignant cancer, which the pathologists confirmed, bythe way.'

'Doyou think that was why he revoked the will?'

'Wedon't know why. But we do know that very little time passed between his phonecall to Ullevål Hospital and then to his solicitor.'

'Butwhat are the consequences of his revoking the will?'

'Thereare hardly any consequences at all because he didn't make a new will. Accordingto the solicitor – and I have read the voided will myself – the man's lastwishes were simply a division of goods, who would get what after the inheritancehad been split along financial lines. We know Karsten Jespersen was interestedin a specific wardrobe, but I find it hard to believe he would kill his fatherfor the wardrobe.'

'Odd,'Fristad concluded. 'Bloody odd,' he repeated, gazing at the table.

'Thereare two big mysteries concerning the man's last hours,' Gunnarstranda said.'And they are the calls to Wyller and to the solicitor.'

'Butif he had found out he was going to die?'

'Thenhe should have come up with a new will if he had gone to the trouble ofcancelling the first. But he didn't.'

Fristadbrushed his jacket sleeve with his hand. 'Fine, go on.'

Gunnarstrandabreathed in. 'As will become evident, Gro Hege Wyller's statement is central.Richard Ekholt lives in the same block as Wyller…'

'Lived,'corrected Fristad.

'Iknow he's dead,' Gunnarstranda said in a low, menacing voice. 'Would you stopinterrupting me?'

Fristadopened his palms and said nothing.

'Well,Ekholt was an acquaintance of Wyller's and apparently interested in her – butthey didn't start a relationship. Ekholt drove Wyller to Ensjø. Here he tried to force her to have sex with him inthe car, but failed – according to her.'

'Doyou believe that?'

'I can'tsee why she would make up the story. She ran off and found the key to thewarehouse in a post box on the wall; this was a regular arrangement. Sheunlocked the door and got to Folke Jespersen's office at 5.15 p.m. Sheperformed this… this assignment of hers… and rang for a taxi just over an hourlater. It arrived at 6.42. We have a print-out of that. When they got into thecar, Wyller noticed that Ekholt was still sitting in his car parked outside thebuilding. He must have been waiting for her the whole time. But she left inFolke Jespersen's taxi. She says she consciously avoided Ekholt because of thebrutal incident that had taken place before.'

'Right…'Fristad waved Gunnarstranda on.

'Ekholtfollowed the taxi taking them to town. Wyller says she noticed his taxi whenshe was dropped outside her bed-sit. She also says that Ekholt followed FolkeJespersen's taxi home.'

Gunnarstrandastood up and went over to the Imsdal spring-Water dispenser next to the mirror.'My mouth has gone dry,' he mumbled, releasing water into a plastic beaker.

'Andeveryone agrees that Folke Jespersen went home in the taxi – and it stoppedoutside his house in Thomas Heftyes gate at 7.15?'

Gunnarstrandadrank another beaker of water and stared thoughtfully at the bottom. 'Everyoneagrees.'

'Andthis man from the woods was waiting for him – Jonny Stokmo?'

'Yes.'

'He'san old friend of ours, isn't he?'

'Yes,he is. Two convictions: one for receiving stolen goods and one for sellingcontraband.'

'Whatwas the unsettled score about?

Gunnarstrandasat down again. 'Frølich questioned Stokmo. But Stokmo was vague and evasiveabout the outstanding issues between him and the dead man. The only thingStokmo would say was that money came into the picture. We do know that theytalked before Folke Jespersen went upstairs to his flat.'

'Butyou've spoken to the son?'

'StokmoJunior claims the bad blood between them is a matter of honour and goes back tothe war and Jonny Stokmo's father – Harry Stokmo – who was alleged to have beenswindled out of a lot of money by Jespersen. Harry Stokmo led refugees acrossthe border during the war and he…' Gunnarstranda wriggled two index fingers tosuggest quotation marks… 'received gifts from Jews he guided over theborder to Sweden. Folke Jespersen, it seems, assumed the goods were stolenbecause Stokmo didn't dare to put them up for sale after the war. FolkeJespersen took them and sold them, but neglected to settle up with Stokmo.Jonny found this out a short time ago – via some old receipts, etc. – and thatwas why he had demanded a settlement from Folke Jespersen on behalf of hisdeceased father.'

'Doyou believe Stokmo Junior?'

Gunnarstrandagave a tired smile. 'Why not? If this story has any truth to it, it gives JonnyStokmo a motive, and that gives us a handy line of enquiry. Why would Karl-ErikStokmo invent a motive for his father? Anyway, we'll have to question Jonnyagain. The son's statement is not worth much more than hearsay.'

'Right…Make a note of that,' Fristad said.

'Ofwhat?'

'Thatwe need to check the story.'

Gunnarstrandasent him an old-fashioned look.

'Yes?'Fristad said.

'Doyou want to do my job?'

Fristadcleared his throat. The silence was oppressive.

'Andthen?' Fristad faked a casual cough.

Gunnarstrandatook a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. 'Folke Jespersen went up tohis wife, son, daughter-in-law and two grandchildren.'

'AndStokmo?'

'Weknow that night he visited a prostitute calling herself Carina. She has beenchecked out. Stokmo left this woman at about an hour before midnight. She hadto clear up and get ready for the next customer at midnight. Stokmo claims hedrove to Torshov and went to bed at about eleven in a room behind his son'sworkshop. He didn't see or talk to anyone. And this was a Friday.'

'Lies,in other words.'

'Letus say that Stokmo may have arrived at Thomas Heftyes gate shortly afterIngrid went to bed on her own. We can also say, with certainty, that Stokmo hadno alibi for the moment of death.'

Theyeyed each other. Fristad roared with laughter. 'I know what you mean. Stokmo'san interesting one, isn't he!'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'Andup in Folke Jespersen's flat they quarrelled over the evening meal?'

'No.'

'Butdid they quarrel after the meal?'

'No -according to the widow, who maintains she went to bed as normal except that shewas alone. She took a sleeping pill and woke up in the middle of the night notknowing what it was that awoke her.'

'Ifshe killed her husband, she wasn't very creative about procuring herself analibi.'

'Let'sfocus on the murder,' Gunnarstranda continued blithely. 'It's most probablethat Reidar knew his killer. Either he arranged to meet him in the shop or hewas in the shop for other reasons when his killer came. But as the murderappears to have been planned, the most likely scenario is that the victimarranged to meet his killer in the shop.'

Gunnarstrandalooked up. The public prosecutor was sitting quietly with closed eyes, asthough he were meditating.

'Weknow that Folke Jespersen was busy on the phone all afternoon and evening. GroHege Wyller said he received at least one call in his office, but he may havemade many more before she arrived. The widow said there were several calls forhim during the evening. However, we have not managed to find out who thecallers were. The only person who has admitted calling is his brother Emmanuel.He says he phoned late in the evening, but Reidar didn't want to talk to him.'

Fristadnodded to himself. His glasses fell on to his chest and he put them back.'Anything else?'

'Accordingto the prospective purchaser – Kirkenær – Arvid was supposed to have rung toremove the small cloud on the horizon.'

'Didhe?'

'What?Ring or remove the small cloud?' Gunnarstranda asked dryly. 'No, Kirkenær saidArvid had tried to get through to his brother, but without success.'

Thetwo men sat facing each other, ruminating, until the policeman resumed: 'FolkeJespersen was killed by a single stab from an antique bayonet which was ondisplay in the shop. The choice of weapon is an indication that the murder wasnot premeditated. Provided that the killer had not known about the bayonet andhad not planned to use it. Nevertheless, we have to assume the stabbing wascarried out by a strong person. The blade penetrated deep into the man's body,puncturing one lung and grazing some vital arteries – the forensics report saysthe killer held the victim and the bayonet until he was sure the victim wasdead. So there was no struggle. The murder victim was stabbed, held tight andthen let down gently onto the floor. There are no marks on the body to suggesthe was dropped. He was let down gently and left where he was. The crime sceneinvestigators made one vital point. There was not very much blood on the floorand so the assumption is that the killer's clothes must have been drenched withblood.'

Fristadnodded and his glasses fell onto his chest.

'KarstenJespersen has gone through the registered items in the shop and a uniform ismissing. It appears this had been sent to the shop anonymously a few days beforethe murder. The uniform was still in the box on the Friday when the man waskilled. If Karsten Jespersen is telling the truth – we have only his word forit that this uniform exists – then there is the possibility that the killerdonned the trousers and jacket, put his own soiled clothing in the box and madehis escape. So, if the killer sent the uniform to have a change of clothing inthe shop, it tends to suggest it was premeditated murder.'

'Doesn'tthat seem terribly complicated?'

'Premeditatedmurder is always complicated.'

Fristadnodded. 'But wouldn't a soldier wandering around attract a lot of attention?'

'Itwas very cold out. The killer could easily have hidden the uniform under awinter coat.'

'Atany rate the uniform offers a logical explanation for why no witnesses observeda man with bloodstained clothing,' Fristad said to himself. 'Has KarstenJespersen any documentation to prove the existence of a uniform? Has he got areceipt from the post office?'

Gunnarstrandalooked up. 'Would that stand up in court?'

Fristadsplayed his arms wide in a gesture of ignorance.

Gunnarstrandawent on: 'The killer then stripped the body.'

'Andthe bayonet?'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'As I said, it was on display in the shop – it belonged to a rifle usedby an English soldier during the Napoleonic wars. We've got it, but there areno fingerprints on either it or the gun. At the time of the murder the shop wasin the dark, as every other night. By the way, we have an indelible pen – thebog- standard type sold in stationers up and down the country. We assume thekiller brought it with him, because it was used to write this strange messageon the body. The message also indicates that the murder was planned – if a mantakes a pen with him to write something on the body, it suggests premeditation.By the by, there are no prints on the pen either.'

'Andthis was the famous J for Jorgen, one hundred and ninety-five?'

'Jfor John. Nineteen. Five.'

'All right,all right. We have the taxi licensing number.'

'Let'stake one thing at a time.'

'Fine.When did the murder take place?'

'Somewherebetween eleven-thirty in the evening and three in the morning.'

'Andthere were no keys in the dead man's pockets?' 'No keys. Cigarettes, yes. Alighter, coins, but no keys.'

'Itake it no one else knows this?'

'Justyou, Frølich and I know that the keys are missing.'

'Iread that the widow says there was snow on the floor when she woke up.'

'Yes- if she's telling the truth. One possible scenario is that the killer, whostill had snow sticking to the soles of his shoes, took the keys from the deadman, went upstairs, let himself into Folke Jespersen's flat, entered the bedroomand then left again.'

'Others?'

'Myguess is that the snow on the floor was left by Folke Jespersen after anevening walk before he was killed.'

'Whydo you think that?'

'Becausethe killer can hardly have had any snow on his shoes if he had changed into theuniform after wrestling with the body to get it into the shop window. Inaddition, the tread on the dead man's shoe soles was quite deep.'

'Butthe killer took the keys, you said? Why would he do that if he didn't usethem?'

'Themissing keys are a mystery. Either they have not disappeared and are stilllying somewhere in the flat or the killer had something else in mind when hestole the keys.'

'Youdon't think the killer was in the flat?'

'Ifan intruder crept into Ingrid Jespersen's bedroom, it would only have been tosee her sleeping and then to leave – or to take something she knows nothingabout, something she doesn't miss, in all probability something belonging toher husband. In short, the snow on the floor makes sense if Folke Jespersenpopped in to see her.'

Fristadcleared his throat to ask a question, but Gunnarstranda was quicker: 'That'sone possibility. Another is that Ingrid Jespersen made up the whole story aboutthe snow on the floor.'

'Whywould she do that?'

'Well,you tell me. I find it difficult to believe that she would make it up. Unlessit was to give credence to the theory in our eyes that the killer pinched thekeys.'

Theysent each other a look. 'On the other hand,' Fristad reasoned, 'if the widowinvented this business about the snow on the floor…' He left the sentencehanging in the air.

Gunnarstrandanodded.

Fristadcompleted his reasoning: 'Then it is very probable that she invented thebreak-in story because she was the one who killed her husband.'

'Yourconclusion could be right, but the argumentation may be wide of the mark,' thePolice Inspector concluded. 'I lean to the view that the husband left the snowon the floor.'

Thepublic prosecutor and the police officer eyed each across the table again. 'Butwhat do you think, Gunnarstranda? What does your gut instinct tell you? Did thewidow bump off her husband?'

'Motive?'Gunnarstranda wondered aloud.

'Money,sex, heat of the moment,' Fristad said. 'Young woman marries much older man. Heturns down a stack of money by rejecting the offer proposed by his brothers andKirkenær. On top of that he puts an end to his wife's bedroom romps with thelover. These two factors cause a row. The widow is not short of motives!'

'Opportunity?'Gunnarstranda mused.

'Ofcourse she's the one with the opportunity to bump her old man off whenever.'

'Onher own or with help?'

'Withthe lover; she holds him, the lover stabs.'

'Thelover has an alibi.'

'Bloodyhell,' Fristad whispered in a hoarse voice. 'What sort of alibi?'

'Helives with a man – Sjur Flateby, who maintains that Strømsted was never out ofhis bed that night.'

'For me,as a prosecutor, that alibi does not stand up. A partner's statement is thesame as a spouse's – worthless.'

'Iagree. But it's better that the partner admits the lie in a statement to usthan you destroy the man in a court of law.'

'Doesthis guy know Strømsted is shagging the widow?'

Gunnarstrandashrugged. 'He may have an inkling – as he was asked about Strømsted's movementsthat night.'

'Tellthe partner about the infidelity and see how long Strømsted sticks to hisalibi. Although the widow may have done it on her own.'

'Possible.But we mustn't forget the others. Jonny Stokmo hasn't got an alibi, either.'

'What'shis motive though?' Fristad asked. 'No money was taken, just this damn uniform,and we only have Karsten Jespersen's word for it that it exists. If Stokmokilled…'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'The problem with Stokmo is that he doesn't stand to gain from FolkeJespersen's death. He doesn't get any money and his father's name isn'tcleared. If Stokmo killed Folke Jespersen he must have done it in rage or hemust have had a different motive from this story about his father's besmirchedhonour. Problem number two: the Stokmo theory doesn't square with premeditatedmurder. If Stokmo planned the murder, why didn't he have a plan to clear hisfather's name at the same time?'

'Isee,' Fristad said heavily.

'Furthermore,there are the two brothers,' Gunnarstranda said. 'They have no end of motives.'

'Butdo they have the opportunity? I think I read in one report that they are ill,overweight and have difficulty standing up.'

'Theyhave all the opportunity they need,' Gunnarstranda objected. 'They're old andwhite-haired like the victim. They own the shop with their brother. They canmove around the shop without anyone raising an eyebrow. They have keys to theshop. They might have got in and waited for Reidar to come down. They don'thave watertight alibis either – both claim they were tucked up in their beds -alone.'

'Arethey physically capable?'

'Ofwhat?'

'Killingtheir brother.'

'Nowyou're applying normative assessments, Fristad.

Therule is we stick to facts, motive and opportunity.'

'Fine.Go on.'

'Accordingto these purchasers – Kirkenazr and Varås – Arvid Jespersen said to them,before Reidar was killed, that…' Gunnarstranda formed quotation marks with hisfingers… 'that there was a small cloud on the horizon which had to be removed.'

Fristadsmiled. 'That sounds damned conspiratorial.'

'Itdoes.'

'Fine.The brothers may have done it,' Fristad concluded.

'Thewidow rang Karsten Jespersen when she woke up that night. But Susanne Jespersensaid Karsten wasn't at home.'

'Butdoes that mean the son was on the ground floor killing his father? His wife swearshe was in bed asleep when the widow rang,' Fristad said with a frown.

'Theletter and the numbers only make sense if the son is the murderer.'

Fristadshook his head. 'If you're right that the coded message has something to dowith St John's Gospel, well, we may perhaps be able to conclude something ofthat nature. But then you're overlooking the fact that a taxi was waitingoutside with its engine running.'

Gunnarstrandasighed. 'I'm not overlooking that. The point is that we don't know if it wasthe same car that was seen every time. One witness saw a Mercedes taxi parkedoutside the shop, but it was at least four hours before the murder wascommitted.'

'Butthe taxi licence number was 195.'

'Thewitness didn't say that.'

'Whatare you trying to say now, Gunnarstranda?'

Thepoliceman cleared his throat and braced himself: 'We know that Richard Ekholtdrove a taxi with the number 195. But the witness who saw a mysterious taxi inThomas Heftyes gate could not identify it – it was not necessarily Ekholt'svehicle. And we don't know if Ekholt parked in Thomas Heftyes gate…'

'Butwe do know that Ekholt followed Folke Jespersen that night!'

'Yes,we do.' Gunnarstranda smiled at the public prosecutor. He knew how much the manliked to destroy mere circumstantial evidence. 'The fact that Ekholt followedthe murder victim in his taxi might suggest that it was Ekholt's vehicleparked in Thomas Heftyes gate an hour later. The fact that Ekholt had set hiscap at Gro Hege Wyller and might have been jealous of Folke Jespersenthat evening might suggest a motive. The fact that Ekholt followed FolkeJespersen might suggest that he is involved in the murder. Ekholt'slicence number might even suggest a connection with the writing on thedead man's chest – since the numbers coincide. The strongest indicationthat Ekholt is involved is the fact that he rang Frank Frølich last nightgiving the number one hundred and ninety-five as a kind of password sothat Frølich would take notice of him. However, unhappily, Ekholt is dead. Ifhe had any involvement in the murder, we will have to turn to other witnessesto have this substantiated. We have plenty of circumstantial evidence, but…'

In aspirit of generosity Gunnarstranda opened the palms of his hands to allowFristad the last word:

'Butnot a scrap of bloody proof,' Fristad rounded off sourly.

'Youwould like this taxi-driver to be involved, wouldn't you?' the policeman asked,lighting a cigarette he had in some miraculous way placed between his lips.

'Nosmoking in here,' Fristad said.

Gunnarstrandainhaled, half-opened the box of matches and held it in his hand.

'Yes,and I still believe it – that this taxi-driver is involved. If you don't stubout that cigarette, you'll receive an official warning.'

Gunnarstrandainhaled again and flicked ash into the half-open matchbox. 'Let's assume thereis a link,' he said. 'We suspect a motive, which is that Ekholt has deludedhimself into thinking that Gro Hege Wyller is his girlfriend. He gets a shockbecause he thinks she's having a relationship with the old man. Ekholt feelsrejected and trampled on, and therefore follows the old codger to have it outwith him. That's more or less what we think, isn't it?' He took another drag.'If what we think is right, if Ekholt lay in wait for the old man when he wasalone in the shop, why would he put the man in the shop window and write histaxi number on his chest?'

'Buggeredif I know!' Fristad said, gesticulating with his arms. 'It's your job to knowthat! And now I'm getting nervous because you have the cheek to pollute myoffice with that stinking cigarette. Are you aware that I have a secretary whois prone to taking a fortnight off for an allergy'

'Relax,'the policeman said, putting the half-smoked cigarette into the matchbox andclosing it. 'While we're considering whether Ekholt might have killedJespersen, we must not forget our trump cards. The first is that the murder wasplanned, and the second is that Folke Jespersen must have let the murderer inand so he most probably knew him. I doubt whether Folke Jespersen knew thetaxi-driver.'

'Butif Ekholt had stood banging on the window, Folke Jespersen might have let himin,' Fristad countered. 'Ekholt was a taxi driver. He was wearing a uniform. Hemight have pretended he was enquiring after a customer…'

'Youknow best what line you will take in court,' Gunnarstranda answered, raisinghis palms. 'And we haven't even started to talk about the son's motives. Iwould like to discuss the inscription on the man's chest…'

Atthat moment they were interrupted; the door was thrust open and Frank Frølichwalked in.

Frankfelt quite stressed after running the gauntlet of tabloid journalists on hisway to Fristad's office. Getting into the public prosecutor's room gave thesame liberating feeling you had when you sheltered from a heavy downpour undera large spruce. Fristad and Gunnarstranda, each seated on a blue swivel chair,were silent and deep in thought.

'Itsmells of smoke in here,' Frølich said, sniffing.

'Yousee,' Fristad said accusingly and shook his head in irritation atGunnarstranda. 'You see. Now you've done it.'

'Bloodyhell,' Frølich breathed out. 'The press are going wild about this taxi murder.'

Gunnarstrandaswung round on his chair towards- Frølich. 'They were saying on the radio thatthe taxi drivers in town had gone bananas,' he mumbled. 'It's the usual whinge.Screaming on about the crazy times we live in and the lack of security for taxidrivers. Early today there were a hundred taxis honking their horns outsideparliament. Every bloody office worker in town got to work late – even thoseworking here and in the Department of Justice. There was a jam right out toGardemoen airport.' Then he added, 'The killing might be connected to our case,but it's not a foregone conclusion.'

'Themobile phone under the pedals,' Fristad said. 'The call to Frølich and the codenumber 195…'

Gunnarstrandamade a weighing motion with his hands: 'Licence plate or chapter and verse inthe Bible. The choice is yours.'

Fristadstopped swinging on his chair and stamped both feet on the floor withirritation. 'But he rang and said the number. The man driving taxi number…'

'Yes,OK,' Gunnarstranda interrupted, annoyed. 'But you have to remember that Frølichhas been searching for the driver of taxi number 195 for several days! He mighthave said the number just to identify himself.' He turned to Frølich: 'Did theman say anything about the writing on the dead body?'

'No,'Frølich confirmed. 'He just said the number. A hundred and ninety-five.'

'Nothingelse?'

'No,apart from…'

'Fromwhat?'

'WhatI told you. That he knew something. I don't think he was alone when he rang.'

Theother two men stared at Frølich, who gave an apologetic smile: 'He may havebeen in a pub or a café. I could hear quite a bit of noise. Background noise.And sometimes he seemed to be covering the phone with his hand.'

'Ekholtmay have been in conversation with someone while he was talking,' Gunnarstrandaexplained to the public prosecutor, who pulled an expressive grimace.

Frølichhunched his shoulders. 'I'm not sure. But the thought went through my mind.'

'Whocould it have been?' Fristad mused. 'Gro Hege Wyller?'

Frølichshook his head. 'If there was someone, it was a man.'

'Isthis relevant?' Fristad asked.

'Sincehe was found murdered an hour later, it's relevant,' Gunnarstranda answered.

'Buthow can we explain the fact that Ekholt was killed after talking to Frølich?'Fristad barked.

'Noidea,' Gunnarstranda said with a shrug.

'Butthis murder must be connected with the murder of the antiques dealer!'

'Mustit?'

'Hesaid he knew something, didn't he!'

'Everyoneknows something. You do, and so do I!'

'Butit would be perverse to believe anything else except that the murders areconnected!'

Gunnarstrandashrugged. 'Well.' 'But you've got to be able to see that!' Fristad continued ina milder tone.

'Notnecessarily.'

'Notnecessarily? He drives a taxi with number 195. The numbers are written on thedead body and he even rings the police in fits of laughter as he says the numbers!'

'Justdescribe what happened,' Gunnarstranda suggested stonily.

'Whathappened? Ekholt went into the shop, he grabbed a bayonet and stabbed the manbecause he thought the old goat was humping his woman!'

Gunnarstrandaand Frølich watched Fristad with interest. He had stood up and was standing bythe table as he opened and clenched his fists in quick succession.

'Yes?'Gunnarstranda said, impatient.

'Yes,then he stripped the man, painted the number on his chest and sat the man in anarmchair in the shop window.'

'Why?'

'Why?I don't bloody well know why.'

'Andthen?'

'Andthen what?'

'Thekeys.'

'Yes,'Fristad said, calmer now. 'He took the keys, went up to the first floor and…'

Frølichgrinned.

Fristadsat back – crestfallen.

'Thatstory's no good,' Frølich said. 'To me it seems more logical that it was someonewho wanted to put the body on show. And, if that's right, I reckon the codedmessage is a reference to the Bible.'

'Butwhy was Ekholt killed?' Fristad mused aloud.

'Hemay have been robbed and killed by a customer,' Gunnarstranda said in a softvoice.

'Youdon't believe that yourself, Gunnarstranda.'

'Allthe taxi drivers in town do.'

'Butwe believe the two murders are connected, don't we?'

'Ifthere's a connection between the murders of Folke Jespersen and Ekholt,' thePolice Inspector said, getting up to pack his papers away, 'it has to bebecause Ekholt knew something about the first murder. But we have no proof thatthere is a link. Anyway, Frølich and I cannot investigate the murder ofEkholt.'

Frølichcoughed and said: 'I bet Richard Ekholt was killed because he saw the firstmurder!'

'Ifthat bet is accepted, the odds will be poor,' Gunnarstranda said with a grin.

Fristadlooked up: 'So you agree there's a link.'

'Ididn't say that. But this murder must be investigated on its own terms. A wholeprofession in this town is demanding it.'

Fristad,dejected, watched Gunnarstranda packing his papers. 'What's your next move onthis case?'

'I'llkeep at it,' Gunnarstranda said brightly. 'I'm working my way back throughFolke Jespersen's life.'

'Howfar have you got?'

'Iexpect to finish 1944 in a couple of hours,' Gunnarstranda answered, foldinghis glasses and putting them in his inside pocket.

Chapter 40

FrankFrølich looked at his wristwatch. It showed a quarter past three. He glancedover at the front door of Reidar Folke Jespersen's warehouse in BertrandNarvesens vei. He switched off the engine, pulled the handbrake and steppedout. The door was not locked and the light was on in the huge storage area.'Hello,' the policeman shouted as the door slammed behind him. 'Hello,' heshouted again, moving down the corridor between all the objects.

'Overhere,' answered a familiar voice. Anna was standing between two stacks ofchairs. She was holding a large writing pad in her hands.

'Didyou make it then?' he asked.

'What?'she asked, confused.

'Yourvisit. To Aker Hospital.'

'Oh,that.' She nodded. 'And you?'

'Idid what I had to do, yes.'

Theystood looking at each other in silence. A lock of black hair fell forwards. Shewound it behind her ear with two fingers.

'Andthat was good,' he said, feeling foolish and unimaginative.

'Andyou?' she said. 'I mean what are you doing here?' 'Have to go through thefiles, if there are any.'

'Thereare two filing cabinets.'

'Where?'

Shepointed to the staircase running up the wall to a door in the middle. 'Up there- on the first floor.' She assumed a sympathetic expression. 'The office isthere. But there's a lot of paper. Enough for a doctoral thesis.'

Frølichsighed and looked at his watch. 'The evening is still young,' he said withforced irony.

Shesmiled back. 'The evening hasn't begun,' she said.

Itwas cold in the warehouse. Icy breath came out of their mouths as they spoke.He noticed that her fingers round the biro were pink with cold. 'And you?' heasked shyly.

Shelifted the pad. 'I'm making an inventory.'

'Imean your back. How is your back?'

'Fine,'she said. 'Do you know what helps? Reflexology. Yesterday I sat in a chairwhile my feet were massaged for a whole hour. Wonderful. In the end I fellasleep.'

'Bloodycold in here,' he said.

Shenodded and blew on her fingers. 'It's warm up there. What are you looking for?'

Heshrugged. 'No idea.'

Sheblinked. 'You don't know what you're after?'

Heturned to the staircase and tried a witty riposte: 'I never know what I'mafter.'

'Attimes you do,' she protested through half-closed eyes.

Theyeyed each other again. He could feel his cheeks burning. 'Yes,' he sighed,moving towards the stairs. 'I'd better go and look.'

Hestopped on the top step. Anna closed a wardrobe door and wrote something down. Shemust have felt his gaze because she peered up. They stared at each other.

Hewent into Jespersen's office. It was boiling. He stood with his back to thedoor and cursed himself for being thick-headed and clumsy and incapable ofstriking up a conversation.

Hehad been intending to ring her. Now that they had bumped into each other hehadn't a clue what to say to her. He traipsed over to Folke Jespersen's filingcabinet and opened the top drawer. A packed row of hanging files stuffed fullwith yellowing papers fought for space. He automatically took out an armful offiles, carried them all to the desk, sat down and began to leaf through thepapers. It was difficult to concentrate. He was thinking about Anna downstairs.He was thinking about his deficient social skills. Half an hour later he hadtaken off his sweater and jacket. One pile had become two and he was halfwaythrough one drawer. He glanced at the door and wondered whether to go out andtalk to her. No, he told himself. You'll just make a fool of yourself.

Afteran hour he heard a door slam. He checked his watch. It was past four. She hadgone for the evening. He heaved a deep sigh and blamed himself yet again fornot taking the chance when he had it.

Hestood up, ambled through the kitchenette and onto the landing at the top of thestaircase. The large hall was in darkness. The outlines of cupboards, chairsand indefinable junk stood out in the dim light from the row of windows high upon the wall. For the first time in many years he envied people who smoked.

Byten minutes past eight he had studied the paperwork from six out of eightdrawers in total. So far the search had been futile. He was worn out and neededfresh air. He opened the window a fraction.

Fromthe open window he heard the outside door close with a bang. He stood up andstaggered through the kitchenette out onto the landing.

Itwas Anna. She was on her way up the staircase. With a six-pack of Frydenlunddraught beer under her arm. She peered up and dangled the beer. 'Hope you don'thave any other pressing engagements this evening?'

Theydivided the rest of the files between them and talked about seventies music,taking turns to suggest bands and songs which the other had to identify anddate. If you couldn't answer, you weren't allowed to ask for clues. Anna waskneeling on the floor, flicking through the papers and drinking beer. 'EdgarBroughton Band,' she said just as he found the piece of paper he was lookingfor.

'Whatdid you call that lot?'

Shelooked up, sure he hadn't a clue. 'The Edgar Broughton Band.'

Hewas reading the piece of paper he had just found. 'I went to the EdgarBroughton Band gig in Chateau Neuf in either '72 or '73. I was in the eighthclass.'

'Proof,'she demanded.

'InsideOut,' he said. 'LP from '72.' He waved the piece of paper. 'We're done,' hesaid.

Whenhe asked her if she wanted to go to his place and listen to records, she wasstanding, conveniently, with her back to him. She was looking out of thewindow, at the moon, and left the question unanswered. They locked the doorbehind them, and he left his car in the car park. They strolled towards themetro station. The quality of conversation was variable. At times it wasserious.

Shecommented that they were going to the wrong platform.

'Wrong?'Frølich asked.

'Ifwe're going to town, we need to be on the other side.'

'Ifwe're going to my place, we have to take the train coming,' he said, pointingto the Lambertseter train roaring out of the tunnel.

Whenthey alighted, both were in earnest mood and walking side by side, hardlyexchanging a word. It was only when they were alone in the lift that he got totaste her lips. She pulled his neck down to her with both hands. They stoodlost in dreams. They didn't let go until the lift started to descend again.

Theylistened to 'Heartattack and Vine' by Tom Waits while they made love.Afterwards he fell asleep but woke up when she pulled the duvet over them.Naked, they lay gazing at the sky through the large window in his bedroom.Visibility was sharp and clear. Red blotting paper covered almost the entiremoon.

'Crazy,'he said.

'Lunareclipse,' she said in a barely audible voice.

'Isit?' He drew her closer to him and pressed his chin into her rounded shoulder.

'Yourbeard's soft,' she said. 'I would never have believed your beard would be sosoft.'

Hewhispered: 'I've never seen a lunar eclipse before.'

'Youmay never see one so clear again,' she said. 'Conditions are very unusualtonight. Soon it'll be total.'

Heintertwined his fingers through hers.

'Infact I should be by Tryvann Lake watching it through a telescope,' she said. 'Ihad arranged to meet a group of college friends.'

'Doyou meet college friends to watch eclipses?'

'Astronomywas one of my courses.'

'Ifyou want, we can take a taxi.'

'Ican see it brilliantly from here.'

Theylay close. Her back against his chest, her thighs against his. She stirred herfeet, like a cat when it is getting comfortable, he thought, breathing in herhair and staring up at the sky. There was a tiny crescent of yellow stillvisible behind the pale red blotting paper.

Hefelt he had to do as she did, to whisper: 'That's the shadow of the earth,isn't it? Why is it red and not black?'

'Sunlightpassing through the earth's atmosphere, which filters out most of the blue. Redis what's left.'

'Nice.'

'Thereare thousands of people at Tryvann. They'll talk about it on TV. People allover Norway wrap themselves up, go out and stare at the sky. Right now we tinyhumans everywhere are captivated by what is going on above us.'

'Nowonder,' he said. 'The earth's shadow, as it were; the sun shining on the earthwhile the shadow covers the moon. That's a pretty big deal.'

'It'sGod moving,' she whispered and pressed her cheek against his hand.

Chapter 41

Onceagain Police Inspector Gunnarstranda drove to Haslum and the well-maintainedsuburban terraced houses to pay Emmanuel Folke Jespersen a visit. This time hehad not warned him of his impending arrival. Hence the reaction when he rangthe doorbell was a little slow in coming. He looked up at the frosty, blue skywhich presaged another cold snap. He breathed in and at length heard the soundsof an elderly man tottering painfully to the front door. 'You again,' EmmanuelFolke Jespersen said when at long last he opened the door. 'Don't you ever gettired?'

Heturned and trudged ahead of the policeman into the flat. Panting, he paused inthe doorway to the living room as the detective slipped off his over-shoes.

Emmanuelslumped back into his wide armchair and looked around. 'Don't have any coffee,'he mumbled. 'Don't have any biscuits…' He took the remote control from thecoffee table and raised it. 'We'll have to make do with Schubert.'

'Howdid they meet?' Gunnarstranda asked as the first sweet violin tones spilledinto the room. 'Do you have any idea?'

'Who?'Emmanuel asked. 'Amalie and her husband Klaus Fromm.'

Jespersenthrew his arms into the air. 'My God, you're persistent, and efficient.' He letout a deep sigh. 'Klaus Fromm was his name, that's right. And Amalie…'

'I'mannoyed that you have withheld this information from us,' Gunnarstrandainterrupted with severity.

Emmanuelshook his head. 'Withheld? No. I know almost nothing about Fromm. And the namehad completely escaped me. I know a little more about Amalie. She was Reidar'schildhood sweetheart.'

Hepointed the remote control at the stereo and lowered the volume. 'Reidar andAmalie were always together from very young. They were the same age. And they didn'tlive very far from each other – in St Hanshaugen. Arvid and Reidar and I – welived over a shop in Geitmyrsveien, next to the sharp bend, you know the one,above Diakonhjemmet, the hospital. Amalie's family lived in a block closer toUllevål. And they became lovers.' Emmanuel splayed his hands. 'It happensnowadays, too. But I don't know that we used the word lovers. Thingschange over time. What is certain is that Reidar spent more time with Amaliethan with his friends. Amalie was Reidar's great love. They were inseparable.Like two magnets, they attracted each other and there was nothing they could doabout it, it seemed.'

Emmanuelfolded his hands over his stomach and leaned back. 'When you were leaving lasttime, I wondered whether I should tell you what I'm going to tell you now. ButI decided you would have to make some progress first, at least winkle out thename of her husband. In a nutshell, if what I'm going to tell you should turnout to be relevant to your case, I thought you would first have to prove itsrelevance. Perhaps that can't be done – proving relevance. But at least youhave proved how hard-working you are. I can't help you much with the story ofAmalie's marriage. But I do know how they met. Amalie's family had connections inGermany. Her father may have studied there or they may have had distantrelatives. I have no idea. Our family always went to Tjøme in the summer;Amalie and family went to Germany. She met her husband-to-be one summer, either'38 or '39. He was mature – much older than her. You can imagine it. I supposeFromm had more to offer her than Reidar. And after that summer things werenever the same between Amalie and Reidar. She finished it. But then there werethose opposite poles, they were fatally attracted, and she was engaged toanother man from another country.'

'KlausFromm?'

'Ofcourse. The love between Amalie and this man was my brother's great tormentduring his younger years.'

Gunnarstrandawrithed with annoyance. 'And you just kept your mouth shut about this?'

Emmanuelstared at the policeman with disdain: 'When she returned after the summerholiday – I think it must have been in '38 – the tragedy was, you see, thatAmalie and Reidar continued to be a kind of couple. While she couldn't quitelet go of him, it was clear that things were not as they had been once. Sheeven wore a ring – can you imagine! Engaged to an older man living in Germany.Well, I don't know what to say. It was this magnetism between them thatdestroyed everything. Instead of two of them there were now three.'

'Thislady betrayed your brother and got engaged to a German, whom she later married.Your brother risked his life fighting against the Germans.'

'Lifecan be like that,' Emmanuel said diplomatically.

'It'sincomprehensible.'

'Mozartdied a pauper. A lot of things are incomprehensible, Inspector.'

'Somethings can be explained too.'

'Likewhat?'

'YesterdayI had an officer go through the files in Bertrand Narvesens vei. He found a strangedocument. It's an invoice issued in 1953. It was made out to a newspaper inBuenos Aires and addressed to a gentleman by the name of Klaus Fromm.'

Emmanuelfrowned. 'Why is that so incomprehensible?'

Thedetective took a deep breath. 'I cannot comprehend how your brother could dobusiness with Amalie's husband after the war!'

Emmanuelwas breathing heavily. 'There's nothing to comprehend. Reidar was adown-to-earth pragmatist, through and through. He was no uncompromising Hamlet!He was Reidar Folke Jespersen. The war was over. There was no one to kill anymore, nothing to fear any longer. What sense was there in remaining enemies -least of all with Klaus Fromm? What was the point of continuing hostilitiesafter the war?'

'Ican't make what you are telling me add up,' Gunnarstranda interruptedobstinately.

Emmanuelpursed his lips with exasperation. 'And why not?'

'KlausFromm was not just anyone. He was part of the German Occupation Forces inNorway. He signed the death certificates of innocent men – in retaliationagainst your brother's actions. This man was the personification of every man'shatred for the occupying power. Amalie Bruun chose this man. Your brother musthave perceived this as offensive.'

'Andhow can you claim that?'

'It'sobvious. She betrayed your brother and instead chose someone who representedeverything he was fighting against, everything he put his life at risk tocrush. She couldn't have done anything worse to him.'

'Andyou have the audacity to express an opinion about this?' Emmanuel's eyes wereflashing with anger. 'You have the audacity to set yourself up as a judge overtwo people's love for each other, people you don't know?'

Gunnarstrandasat down and crossed his legs, struggling to keep his composure. 'But am Imistaken in anything I have said?' he asked in a gentler tone. 'Didn't she dowhat I said? Didn't she choose to marry Klaus Fromm? Wasn't he a judge duringthe war, in the most hated building in Norway, second only to the Nazi prison,Mollergata 19?'

'Yes,'Emmanuel said. 'She did all that. But does that mean you have a right to judgeher?'

'MaybeI don't, but your brother must have felt he had that right.'

Emmanuelstared blankly at the policeman for a few moments. 'You're forgetting thatAmalie and Klaus

Frommloved each other. What do you think they should have done?'

Thepoliceman fell quiet.

'Shouldshe have taken my brother when she loved someone else? Have you ever thoughtwhat view of humanity you are defending? Should Amalie Bruun have lived on herown – gone into a nunnery just because she loved a German, a man who was bornin the wrong place on the planet'

'KlausFromm was a murderer.'

'No, hewas no murderer.' Emmanuel shook his head with vigour. 'My brother was amurderer. Klaus Fromm was a German soldier doing an office job.'

'Hewas a judge, not an office worker, and he could have chosen different work.'

'Couldhe? The post in Norway was the job he was given – a job he chose to be near thewoman he loved, to whom he was engaged.' Emmanuel leaned forward across thetable. 'I understand your frustration. But the world is not always easy tounderstand. Sometimes things happen as they happen. The marriage between Amalieand Fromm would have been nothing out of the ordinary – had it not been for thewar. Fates and dramas such as those Amalie, Fromm and Reidar experienced areenacted all over the world a hundred times every day. But on this occasion itwent wrong. It was the war that destroyed Amalie and Fromm and Reidar. Youcan't blame any of them. There is no dishonour in love. People who fall in loveare innocent, whoever they love and for whatever reason they love.'

Gunnarstrandaclenched his teeth in annoyance: 'You say she met Fromm in 1938. At that timeFromm had been a member of the NSDAP for four or five years. I know he has anSS record from at least 1934. The rosy idealized picture you were painting doesnot stand up. Amalie Bruun was, it is true, seventeen or eighteen when theymet, but she threw herself into the arms of a man who in all probability wasalready a murderer, at the very least an avowed fascist!'

'Butare you going to blame this young girl for that?' Emmanuel threw his arms intothe air in desperation. 'Even Chamberlain had a naive view of the German Nazis.And he was the English Prime Minister. How can you demand political awarenessfrom a woman in love – a teenager? In Norway we had a free press and not justthat – the general public refused to accept the true nature of the Nazis'aggressive expansionism and demands for Lebensraum in the 1930s. Amalie was ayoung girl who fell in love with a man; that was all. What do you expect of ateenager? You know that Reidar began his resistance work by printing an illegalnewspaper, down at old Hammerborg, don't you? Well, do you know who wrote inthat newspaper?'

Emmanuelpaused for theatrical effect. 'You don't,' he said in triumph. 'You don't knowwho clattered away on the typewriter – the King's appeals, news from London -who crept down in the evenings, risking life and limb to write in the rag? Youdon't know. It was Amalie Bruun. She worked in the German administration, butshe was a patriot. She risked her life for her country. It wasn't her bloodyfault she was in love with a man who was not my brother!'

Emmanuelbanged a clenched fist down on the table and sat gasping for air after hisoutburst.

PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda gazed thoughtfully at the plump man leaning against thetable and struggling to wipe away the sweat. 'Well, I'll give you that,' hesaid. 'I'm sure you're right, and as for what Amalie Bruun and the German feltfor each other, it's neither my job nor anyone else's to pass judgement. But Ido know that your brother never forgot Amalie Bruun.'

'Noone would ever be able to forget Amalie Bruun. I haven't forgotten her either -even though I never had a relationship with the woman. You have to remember onething,' Emmanuel said with solemnity. 'Amalie was an unusual woman, withregards to both beauty and intelligence. It's not so strange to yearn, is it?What about yourself? I've heard you lost your wife and you're a widower. Don'tyou yearn?'

'Keepme out of this!' Gunnarstranda snarled.

Emmanuelshook his head gravely. 'Well,' he said. 'Since you're not mature enough onthat score, let me give you an instance from the drama of my own life instead.On 4th October 1951 I observed a dark-haired beauty on platform 4 of the old0stbane station. I walked past and we had eye-contact for four seconds. Not aweek has gone by since then, not a single week in fifty years, when I haven'tthought about the woman – on platform 4 – but I have never seen her again. Thememory of the dark-haired woman is one of many instances when I took the wrongdecision and allowed fate to lead me astray. I'm sorry, Inspector Gunnar-stranda. The fact that my brother still had yearnings for

AmalieBruun is of no importance. It's neither here nor there.'

'Lasttime you told me that Reidar was obsessed with ownership.'

'Owningthings, not people.'

'Doyou think he was always able to distinguish?'

'Yes.'

'Ithink you're hiding something.'

'DearInspector, have you ever heard the expression: let sleeping dogs lie?'

'Iknow you're holding back a matter of vital importance!'

Emmanuelwiped away more sweat. 'I'm holding back nothing.'

'Yes,you are,' the policeman said. 'The events in this love triangle must have beenquite exceptional. Fromm came to Norway in 1940. Reidar was betrayed and fledthe country in 1943. Amalie and Fromm got married in the autumn of 1944. In theperiod from 1940 to 1943 the eternal triangle is played out, a drama which youin your detachment flick onto the floor like a dollop of butter. But what areyou actually saying? Yes, you do imply elements of jealousy, lies, grudges,envy, illegal activities, silence, secrets, deception – a whole cauldron ofturbulence and passions which according to you stop bubbling and boiling assoon as peace is announced. For me this is totally incomprehensible. But whydoes it fail to make sense up here?' The policeman tapped his temple and wenton to answer his own question: 'Because I have the feeling some information ismissing, the information that would allow me to understand what actuallyhappened.

Butyou were there. You saw them. You talked to them. There's something you'reholding back. There's something you know that I don't.'

'Whyare you so damned sure?'

'Ican sense it.'

'There'snothing.'

'Theremust be something.'

'Thereality of war is surreal at the best of times. You cannot comprehend war withpeace as a reference point.'

'Well,'the policeman said, leaning forward in his chair, 'I can accept the story ofAmalie's summer love at the end of the thirties. I'll buy the whole of thestory about her meeting a virile man who was older, charming, worldly-wise,intelligent and who wielded power. I can understand her falling for him andrejecting the like- aged Reidar of whom she might have had more than enough. Ican also understand your brother and feel sympathy for his spurned love. I cansee the heavy cross of fate they have to bear. I can even accept that she iscaught between two lovers. I know that sort of thing happens: two men fightingover a woman. I can understand Amalie Bruun's unhappiness – in the middle of anirreconcilable conflict – being torn between her love for her husband andloyalty to her country. But then there is this insurmountable hurdle, themystery of why your brother maintained contact with Klaus Fromm after the war.'

'KlausFromm was an editor and newspaper proprietor. He bought the ends of paper rollsthat Reidar was given by Norwegian newspapers like…'

'Iknow the story,' Gunnarstranda interrupted curtly.

Emmanuel,bewildered, gaped at him.

'Ialso know about his receiving stolen goods from a man by the name of Stokmo whosmuggled Jews across the border. Some say it was these stolen goods thatprovided the basis for the business you and your brother lived off.'Gunnarstranda raised a hand in the air to prevent the other man from sayinganything. 'Don't say a word,' he added in a frosty tone. 'The case has beenshelved anyway. I can see that your guilty conscience makes you wary when anold flatfoot like me comes round digging up your past. I can see that, but Idon't accept it. I am not appealing to your moral code now. I am merely askingyou to show me respect. You see, I know it cannot be a coincidence that Frommand your brother maintained their links. You're holding something back.'

Emmanuelraised his hand and placed it on his chest. 'Hand on heart, Inspector. There isnothing in all this business that I'm consciously holding back!'

Thepoliceman scrutinized him – this sweaty, short- winded man with a look ofsuffering on his face. 'If,' he began. 'If you've told me everything you know,there must be something, some detail that has slipped your mind. Somethingimportant.'

'There'snothing. Your phone's ringing.'

Gunnarstrandastarted. He stuck a hand in his jacket pocket for his mobile phone.

'I'vejust been to see Eyolf Strømsted's partner,' Frølich said. 'Sjur Flateby. Doyou know what he does for a living? He's a vet.'

'So?'

'Youshould see his patients. While I was in the waiting room, there were two nymphparakeets, a guinea pig and a forest cat with a bitten-off tail.'

Gunnarstrandastood up and grimaced an apology to Emmanuel before going into the hall tospeak undisturbed. 'How did it go?'

'Hedidn't say a word.'

'Didyou tell him his partner has been humping Jespersen's widow once a week forthree years?'

'Yes,I did, but he's sticking to his story. He and Eyolf were fondling and smoochingin bed until late into the night of Friday the 13th. They fell asleep fromexhaustion at half past five in the morning.'

'Whatdo you think? Is it lies?'

'Noidea. I'm in the dark on this one. I also said that his statement would not betaken into account, but he didn't say anything then either.'

'Didhis face drop when you told him about the widow's sex life?'

'Notat all. That's why I'm in the dark. He said he and Eyolf were keen to havefreedom in their relationship and all that stuff. They've been living togetherfor just one year. And he's always known about Eyolf and Ingrid Jespersen. Hesaid they were both trying to find themselves. Then he began to talk aboutmen's search for their sexual identity. This was Eyolf's big problem. It wasall a bit too glib for my taste.'

'OK,'Gunnarstranda said, ready to finish the conversation.

'Thereis one more thing,' Frølich interjected.

'Comeon then.'

'Someonehas broken the seal on the shop door.'

'Whichshop?'

'Theantiques shop in Thomas Heftyes gate. The seal's broken.'

'Break-in?'

'No,someone had a key. Our police ribbon and seal have gone.'

'I'llmeet you there in…' Gunnarstranda checked his watch.'… In half an hour,' hesaid and rang off.

Emmanuel'scat had taken his place on the sofa. 'What happened to Amalie after the war?'the policeman asked from the doorway.

'Ihave no idea.'

'KlausFromm was imprisoned after the war. What did his wife do?'

'Ihave no idea.'

'Butthat's damned funny – since you know other sides of the story.'

EmmanuelFolke Jespersen shook his head gravely. 'Peace was a happy time – but alsochaos. I didn't think about Amalie much after the war. I hadn't given her athought until you showed me the photo.'

'Onceagain I think we're moving into an area where you find it convenient to holdback the truth.'

'Ihave no idea what happened to her. Ask me in court and you'll get the sameanswer.'

'Haveyou seen her since then?'

'No.I've seen neither her nor Fromm since 8th May 1945-'

Chapter 42

Gunnarstrandatook Drammensveien into town. It was a bad decision. The queue of vehicles wasslow-moving. He turned off at Skoyen where the traffic was just as congested.In Bygdøy allé he got stuck behind a bus that spewed out clouds of black dieselexhaust every time it braked. Evening was beginning to draw in. A frozen,stooped figure trudged along the pavement. Further ahead dark silhouettes stoodwaiting in shelters. Gunnarstranda was twenty minutes late when he turned leftinto Thomas Heftyes gate. He parked outside the window of the antiques shop,got out and waved to Frølich who came hurrying towards the car.

Gunnarstrandapeered round for other police officers. 'Bloody hell,' he said in a low mumble.

'What'sup?' Frølich asked nervously.

Gunnarstrandaran his eyes up the dark street.

'Whatare you looking for?'

'What'sup? You can see as well as I can what's up. Not one of our officers is here.'

Frølichshifted feet, ill at ease. 'Hm,' he said. 'You may be right.'

'There'sno one here,' Gunnarstranda stated.

'Theymust be…'

'Youcan see for yourself there's no one here. Hell,' the

Inspectorsnapped and plunged into his jacket pocket for his mobile phone.

'Whoare you ringing?'

Gunnarstrandadidn't answer.

Carswere parked on both sides of the road. Three youths ventured out of their localwatering hole and stood on the steps shivering in the cold. Gunnarstranda'sphone rang for a long time.

'Yes,'Yttergjerde said at the other end, at last.

'Thereare no officers outside Ingrid Jespersen's place,' Gunnarstranda growled.

'Thoughtyou would ring,' Yttergjerde said.

'Whyis there no one here?'

'Orders,'Yttergjerde replied.

'Whose?'

'Chief's.New priority apparently.'

'Whatare you doing instead?'

'Taximurder.'

Gunnarstrandarang off. 'You knew,' he said to Frølich.

'Me?'

Gunnarstrandaeyed him in silence.

'Ofcourse I knew, but everyone knows you're scrabbling around with this photo of awoman from the war years. As a result it's difficult to make the case that weneed someone to keep an eye on Ingrid Jespersen.'

'Hasanyone asked you?'

'No.'

'Howdo you know then?'

'Iwas told we could keep an eye on her ourselves…'

'Whatdo they need all these officers for?' Gunnar- stranda interrupted and againstared into space.

'Questioning.All our witnesses have to be questioned about Richard Ekholt's movements.'

Gunnarstrandaexamined the main door to the shop. 'This seal is fine,' he mumbled, moving tothe entrance to the flats. The door to the staircase was unlocked. They stoppedin front of the door that led into the shop. The Oslo Police HQ seal had beenripped off and removed. The same applied to the police ribbons across theentrance. They stood contemplating the door for a few seconds. 'Doesn't look asif it has been damaged anyway,' Frølich concluded.

'Whoreported this?'

'AslaugHolmgren. An elderly lady living at the top. She rang Karsten Jespersenwondering whether the shop was going to open since the police had removedtheir… barriers.' Frølich made air quotation marks with his fingers, '…as she called them. Karsten Jespersen rang me. I came here and found what yousee here.'

'Youdon't think Karsten Jespersen went into his father's shop?'

'Neitherhe nor Ingrid Jespersen have been in there, they claim.'

'Haveyou been in?'

'Notyet.' Frølich dug deep in his pockets for a variety of keys. 'I was waiting foryou to come.'

Heunlocked the door.

Theroom was dark. They went in. Frølich switched on the light. The shop lookedmuch the same as before except that there were no forensics or crime-sceneofficers present. Gunnarstranda stood in the doorway watching Frølich open theoffice door, peep in and prowl around the shop. Frølich peered under the table,behind chairs, glanced at the shop window, thrust his hands into his pocketsand turned to Gunnarstranda. 'Doesn't look like anyone has been here,' he concludedcalmly. 'My guess is some young lads were up to their tricks.'

Gunnarstrandastood ruminating. 'When were our officers ordered away?'

'Yesterday,I suppose.'

'Youdon't know?'

'I'mpretty sure it was yesterday.'

Gunnarstrandawent on ruminating.

'I'vegot quite a bit of paperwork to do,' Frølich said, waiting.

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'You go,' he said. 'I need to think.'

WhenFrølich had gone, he switched off the light in the shop and ambled into thelittle office. He paused in the doorway for a few seconds contemplating thedesk with the ancient, black typewriter and the small radio and the simplehotplate on an old washstand with a marble surface.

Behindthe desk was an old wooden swivel chair. He sat down. Beside the typewriterthere was a beautiful wine glass covered in engravings. Gunnarstranda took outa roll of plastic gloves from his pocket, put one of the gloves on, then heldthe glass between his fingers and twirled it. The engravings were of animals: afox and a hare. A fairy tale, he thought. He put down the glass, leanedforward, placed both elbows on the desk and rested his head on his hands. Whilesitting and meditating with his eyes half-closed, his eyes roamed from wall towall: the old washstand, the typewriter, the telephone, the ink pot, thehotplate with the old-fashioned cloth- covered lead. He followed the lead withhis eyes. At one end, next to the wall, something caught his attention. Therewas something glistening beneath the wall-socket.

Gunnarstrandarose to his feet, walked around the desk and knelt down to see better. It was afragment of glass. He took the glass, stood up and held it to the light. It wasa piece of crystal with engraved lines on. He stared at the wine glass on thedesk. He bent down and compared the engravings.

Theconclusion was obvious: someone had been inside. Someone had used the key toenter the shop. The same person had managed to smash one of two very valuableglasses.

Chapter 43

Latethat evening there was a knock on Gunnarstranda's office door. It wasYttergjerde.

'Isaw the light,' Yttergjerde stammered.

Gunnarstrandaswivelled round on his chair. 'Have you got the time to come here?' hecommented sarcastically. 'I thought you were working on the taxi case.'

Yttergjerdewaved some loose sheets of paper. 'What the heck do you think these are?'

'Claimsfor overtime?' Gunnarstranda taunted.

'Thelist of calls from Ekholt's mobile phone.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'So you can prove that he rang Frank Frølich now?'

'Yes.'

'Andthat Frølich rang Ekholt?'

'Yes,'said Yttergjerde.

'Greatnews,' Frølich grunted from the sofa where he had been sitting reading thelatest Donald Duck comic.

Gunnarstrandayawned.

'Don'tpretend you're not interested in this list,' Yttergjerde sneered and checkedthe papers. 'There are a helluva lot of calls to a lady who turns out to livein Hegermanns gate…'

'Gro HegeWyller,' Gunnarstranda said. 'You don't need to tell us. We know she didn'tring back.' 'Right,' Yttergjerde said with a grin. 'Like a copy?' He waved thecopies.

Gunnarstrandatook one. He sat studying the list. 'I know that number,' he muttered tohimself, stretching out an arm, lifting up the receiver and tapping in thenumber.

Theother two men watched him. Gunnarstranda recoiled when the answer came. Then heslammed down the phone. It was as though someone had run an electric currentthrough his lean body. The tired figure slumped over the telephone became abundle of energy and jumped up from the chair. Suddenly Gunnarstranda's sullenface split into a dazzling white smile.

'Whathappened?' Yttergjerde asked with caution.

'Irang the wrong number.'

'Whodid you ring?' Frølich asked.

Gunnarstrandaswung round to face him. 'Are you coming?' he asked.

'Whereto?'

'Nationalarchives.'

Frølichstared at him in amazement. 'You rang the national archives?'

Gunnarstrandashook his smiling head. 'No. But I reckon we will have to ring them. I wouldguess they are closed.'

Frølichpulled on his military boots. 'But who did you ring?' he asked, grabbing hisleather jacket.

'TheHotel Continental.'

Ittook a few hours to get in after closing time. The librarian assigned to themby the Permanent Secretary could not understand why the visit could not waituntil the following morning. He seemed a desiccated old stick and had to conferwith his line manager before he would meet them. Where his skin was not frozenor pink, he had red hair and freckles. He had pulled on a grey duffel coat overhis striped pyjama bottoms. He drove up in a Ford Sierra with a ski box on theroof and let the engine idle while he unlocked the door and showed them intothe library with the micro-fiche readers. It was almost midnight.

Ittook another half an hour to find the right film.

Frølichwas hungry. When Gunnarstranda announced they were going to make an arrest,disappointment was the first thing he felt. An arrest meant he would have towait – for food. Frølich scratched his beard and tried to work out where thenearest McDonald's was.

'Look,'Gunnarstranda said, straightening up.

Frølichbent down and looked into the machine that was reading the micro-film. Hestared at a certificate of some kind. Illegible rounded handwriting. 'What isit?'

'It'sa marriage certificate.'

'Ican see that. But whose?'

'AmalieBruun's parents.'

'Andthat's why we can arrest them? Are you mad?'

'Ihope not.' Gunnarstranda was grinning. 'Now I feel like a smoke, Frølich.'

'Ifeel like something to eat.'

'Startsmoking, Frølich, and you'll forget about food.'

'You alwaysfeel like smoking. Now come down off your high horse. What is it on thatcertificate that means we can make an arrest?'

'Havea look,' Gunnarstrada said with a smile.

'I amhaving a look. Please tell me at what.'

'Thebrides's maiden name. The name of Amalie Bruun's mother.