Lethal Investments (19 page)

Gunnarstranda got up.

‘Later the burglar comes along, the one with the Software Partners’ break-in on his conscience. The door’s open and he can walk right in.’

The little man sat down again. ‘For some reason he’s got it into his head that whatever he’s looking for is in Reidun’s flat. He finds the dead girl on the floor, but doesn’t give a damn about her. Starts looking, but then panics. It must be the morning, before Mia Bjerke has returned from her Sunday promenade with husband and child and decides to wash the stairs. The thief clears off without finding anything, but also without having a thorough look. So he is fairly desperate. Has to go back and finish the job. Which he did last night. The body has been removed and he feels safe. Things have calmed down and he can break in at his leisure and search for hours undisturbed.’

‘That can’t be right,’ Frank interrupted with a thick voice. Had to clear his throat. ‘Give me one good reason why this burglar would be passing that particular door on that particular morning with Reidun lying dead inside.’

‘I can give you several,’ Frølich’s colleague replied. ‘She could have arranged to meet him for all we know. Or the burglar may have some arrangement with the murderer. Perhaps he was tailing him. There are several possibilities. But that’s not the main point.’

He smiled. ‘The most important thing for us is to find what he was looking for. Then we’ve got him!’

Frank stared at him. The older policeman with the cigarette and coffee cup had blue bags under his eyes. The thread-like hair lay in unruly tufts across his balding head, his coat was creased and his face sallow under the grey stubble.

Goodness
, he thought.
Then we’ve got him!

He turned to the window and saw that day had broken. The sky above the street called Grønlandsleiret was blue.

Later Frank was better, but nowhere near in top form as he walked through the glass door and entered the restaurant known as Scarlet. The darkened room was completely still. Chairs hung from tables with their legs in the air. There was the sweet smell of beer and many smoked cigarettes.

He crossed the room, passed the small dance floor where Terje Engelsviken had inflicted punishment on himself a few hours earlier, and went over to the brown counter in front of the shelves lined with bottles. Behind the bar, beyond two swing doors to the kitchen, he could hear someone banging around.

‘Hello!’ he shouted.

A man appeared in the doorway. He leaned against one of the swing doors with an inquisitive yet unsympathetic expression on his round, unshaven face.

‘I’m looking for the owner.’

‘That’s me.’

‘Police.’

Frølich showed his ID. The man came from the door to the bar. Looked at the ID. His mood was serious.

‘What’s this about?’

The policeman lifted a chair from one of the tables and sat down. ‘A customer,’ he said casually and studied the man taking a half-litre glass from a plastic dishwasher tray on the bar. Drew off beer from a tap and kept scraping away the rolling mass of white froth. Ordinary sort of person. Knitted blue waistcoat over a plain blue shirt. About fifty. A round and slightly bloated restaurant face with perma-bags under his eyes, which were dull and expressionless until the content of the glass was brown and clear. ‘Fancy a beer?’ he asked, concentrating on his work.

Frank hesitated. ‘No, thanks.’

The man fished out a packet of cigarettes and a box of matches from his breast pocket. Put them all on a tray and joined the policeman at the table. Opened the packet and lit what smelt like a cigar.

‘Terje Engelsviken!’

The man nodded. ‘We know him,’ he answered, crossing one leg over the other in business-like fashion. ‘We call him the Kaiser. Gives generous tips,’ he explained.

‘Saturday, the 13th of April.’

The man deliberated. ‘Just a mo.’

He put the cigarette in the ashtray, got up and left.

The cigarette went out after four minutes. Two minutes later the man returned with a receipt. ‘This is dated the 15th of April,’ he said and sat down. ‘That means Engelsviken was here that Saturday. The receipt is for a sheet of glass we had to replace.’

A question formed on Frank Frølich’s furrowed brow.

‘He kicked in the glass,’ the man explained with a dry smile, pointing over his shoulder to the glass door. ‘Expensive business.’

‘When did he arrive?’

‘He usually comes at about eleven. He’s got a card, and comes right in. Doesn’t have to queue.’

‘And on that Saturday?’

The man rested his chin on his hands with a fresh cigarette, and cast his mind back. Took a last drag and crushed the butt in the ashtray. ‘I came here at twelve, so I can’t say when because he was already here.’

‘How so? Did you notice him or what?’

The man glowered. Then his eyes went blank. ‘What’s this about?’

The policeman didn’t answer.

‘For me Engelsviken’s a good customer, that’s all,’ the man continued and took a swig of his beer. Smacked his lips. ‘Nothing personal.’

‘Terje Engelsviken was here that Saturday. He told us,’ Frank lied, focusing on the man’s eyes. ‘Look at it this way: what you say confirms what we already know. But I’m interested to hear your version of events.’

The man nodded. ‘It was the same as always,’ he said, cracking a match in the ashtray. Began to poke around in his teeth with the sharpest fragment. ‘The usual mayhem.’

‘Who was he with?’

‘Don’t know. He’s all over the place. Feels comfortable, knows people. Sometimes he comes with someone but . . .’

He took something out of his mouth and examined it. ‘I don’t know. The Kaiser’s not the kind to refuse a drink, let me put it like that. And I suppose he had a skinful then, too.’

‘More than usual?’

‘Possibly. But it’s hard to say.’

‘Do you know the name Øyvind Bregård?’

‘No.’

‘Big fellow, bodybuilder type, blond hair, ring in the ear and a big moustache, droops down on both sides.’

The man nodded and chewed the matchstick. ‘A gent with a moustache. We know him. Pal of Engelsviken’s.’

‘Right. Was he here that Saturday?’

The man rolled the match from side to side in his mouth. ‘Don’t know,’ he said in the end. ‘I didn’t notice him anyway.’

Frank rummaged in his inside pocket. Passed the man the photograph of Reidun Rosendal. ‘Seen her?’

The man studied the picture. Tilted his head. Tried to rub off the brown stain that obscured the face. Gave up. ‘Hard to say,’ he mumbled. ‘Looks pretty standard, doesn’t she?’

‘She was here that Saturday.’

The man shot the policeman a glance, waiting.

‘She must have left the place between half past eleven and half twelve,’ the policeman said. ‘With a boyfriend. Slim, good-looking lad with his hair in a pony tail, I think, about twenty-five. Dressed appropriately. I mean, the artist type, black clothes and nose in the air.’

The man nodded. ‘That could fit,’ he mumbled, head bent back, stroking the stubble under his chin. ‘The time could well fit!’

‘Oh yes?’

‘I arrived at about twelve. Long queue. Not many people leaving. Straight after that there was a bit of a fuss. The Kaiser was stirring it. I had a peep to check how it was going, but everything was back to normal. Engelsviken was sitting by the bar and called out something to a long-haired bloke on his way out with a cool blonde.’

‘What kind of bloke?’

‘Well, nose in the air a bit, as you said. Long, black hair.’

‘Pony tail?’

‘No.’

‘Engelsviken yelled. Was that all that happened?’

‘Yep. The bloke gave him the finger, and left with the woman.’

‘Could it have been her?’

The man studied the picture again. ‘Possibly. I had my eyes on her bum. But it could have been this babe, yes, it could.’

‘Tall?’

‘Yes, long legs, black, tight-fitting clothes, mini-skirt.’

‘How tall?’

‘About one seventy-five.’

‘What was her hair like?’

‘Blonde.’

‘I mean, permed curls or what?’

The man looked at the picture of Reidun with permed curls.

‘No,’ he concluded. ‘This one had thick, blonde hair. Cut at a sharp angle over her ears.’

Reidun! Frank coughed. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, indeed, that’s why I remember. The woman had style, she was hot. The short hair and the figure.’

‘What did Engelsviken call out?’

‘Haven’t a clue. He was pissed off with them!’

‘And then?’

‘Nothing, it was all peaceful again. Some chick wrapped herself around Engelsviken to get him in a better mood. The woman was gone.’

‘But Engelsviken didn’t move?’

‘Right.’

‘And?’

The man smiled and stroked his mouth.

‘The receipt! Engelsviken held out until half past three. When we were closing up he was asleep. Seemed unconscious. The boys had to carry him out. This can happen.’

The man smiled apologetically. ‘Not that often, it’s true to say, but a few customers have a glass too many. We bundle them in a taxi as a rule. But we had our work cut out this time.’

He thumbed over his shoulder to the glass door again. ‘You see when they tried to take him through the doors he went berserk, put up a fight and smashed the whole door with a couple of kicks.’

He sighed. ‘Fantastic. Half past three in the morning and you can’t lock the door.’

‘And then?’

The man studied the day’s catch on the matchstick. Sucked it back. ‘I suppose I should have called your colleagues,’ he summarized. ‘The cops.’

He chewed the matchstick. ‘But I rang for his wife instead. She drove up in a fat Mercedes and stumped up four thousand for the glass. Four smooth one-thousand-krone notes straight from her purse, without a murmur.’

‘I was here yesterday,’ Frank said absentmindedly.

‘Hope you enjoyed it.’

‘Yes, I did,’ nodded the detective, and paused. Pulled himself together. ‘Engelsviken was here.’

The man didn’t answer at once. ‘I definitely wasn’t here,’ he replied, indifferent. Drained his glass.

‘Engelsviken was on the dance floor, alone, hitting himself in the face,’ the detective declared.

The owner stared at the empty tankard he was holding.

‘Have you ever seen him do anything like that?’

‘Never.’

‘Why would he hit himself in the face all those times?’ Frølich wondered aloud.

The owner smirked. ‘He might have been angry with someone.’

‘Then he must have been angry with himself.’

The owner put down his tankard and stood up.

‘Sounds like a good bet,’ he agreed, shook Frank’s hand and accompanied him to the door.

Outside the double glass doors Frølich stood thinking and staring at a rusty red rubbish bin. He was thinking about a long-haired guy giving Engelsviken the finger one Saturday evening shortly before twelve. Arvid Johansen had seen Sigurd and Reidun entering the flat at half past twelve. Reidun with short thick hair, around one seventy tall. It could fit.

He turned. Inside, behind the bar, the owner was drawing another beer. Frank tore himself away and hurried back to the car. It was a Saturday and he wanted to go home and sleep. Wonderful, he thought, a warm duvet, an Asterix comic to send him off and sleep – sleep – sleep until he woke up of his own accord in the afternoon and felt like a beer.

He had hardly articulated the thought when he was called over the radio.

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Too early to say anything.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Quartermaster hasn’t got any bigger ones.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hello, Frølich.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Old man dead in water.’

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

Bøgerud flicked his cigarette in an arc and took notes.

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

They strolled up the road. Round the school.

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

‘The shot?’

Bøgerud had stopped writing.

‘Rumours as with every police call-out.’

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

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

‘Was the dog shot by the police?’

‘Talk to Kampenhaug.’

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

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

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

Frank sighed. Headed for his car.

‘We saw what happened, Frølich!’

Frank opened the car door.

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

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

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

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

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