Lethal Investments (4 page)

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

‘Yes.’

‘Did you check?’

‘No, I heard it.’

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

‘I’m sure. It was the lock.’

‘Hm.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘I don’t know.’

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

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

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

The young man looked away.

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

‘Why did you climb over the fence?’

‘I’ve told you. I wanted to go home!’

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

‘Because . . .’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

Gunnarstranda turned abruptly. Sat back down.

‘Why did you come to the station?’

‘Why?’

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

‘I read about it.’

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

‘I had a feeling.’

‘Feeling?’

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

‘And so you didn’t know her before?’

‘No.’

‘You got to know her on Saturday then?’

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

‘Please answer the question.’

‘She’s dead.’

‘Thank you, I am aware of that.’

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

‘How many times did you make love?’

No answer.

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

‘Twice.’

‘Any form of protection?’

‘No.’

‘Not even a condom?’

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

‘In these times of AIDS?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have a condom.’

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

‘I wasn’t on the pull.’

‘But you screwed her!’

Silence.

‘Answer for Christ’s sake.’

The man in black drew a large breath.

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

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

‘Where did you meet?’

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

‘Was she alone there?’

‘Think so.’

‘What do you mean
think
?’

‘It seemed so.’

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

‘No.’

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

‘Yes.’

‘But she wasn’t alone after all?’

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

‘What was it like then?’

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

‘Ah! So she danced with several men?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you kept your eye on her?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you danced with her?’

‘Yes.’

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

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

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

‘Why did you go there on Saturday?’

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

‘And what happened afterwards?’

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

‘OK. What happened at her place?’

‘Mm . . . we slept together.’

‘How was it?’

Silence.

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

‘We . . .’

‘Did she offer herself?’

‘Offer herself?’

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

‘No . . . we . . . ’

‘Come on, tell me what happened!’

‘You’re talking about a dead person!’

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

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

‘I put my arms around her.’

‘Where?’

‘We kissed.’

‘Where did you hold her?’

‘I stroked her buttocks.’

‘And then?’

‘Then we lay down.’

‘Dressed?’

‘I undressed her.’

‘And she screamed!’

‘Screamed?’

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

‘No, it is not!’

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

‘No!’

‘Have a look at this then!’

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

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

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

The man shook his head in disbelief.

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

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

‘That’s your tie, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t kill her!’

‘Is it your tie?’

‘I didn’t do it!’

‘Is it your tie?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I haven’t lost my temper.’

The young figure stared ahead, silent and confused.

‘I asked if you often lost your temper.’

The young man looked away.

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

He shrugged.

‘Did you eat anything that night?’

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

‘When was that?’

‘I didn’t keep an eye on my watch.’

‘Was it after the first screw?’

The man nodded.

‘What was she like as a screw?’

The man hesitated.

‘Active?’

Silence.

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

The man didn’t answer.

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

No reaction.

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

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

‘OK.’

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

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

‘Me.’

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

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

Frank heard Sigurd swallow.

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

The man swallowed again. His legs stirred with unease.

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

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

‘Pick up the knife!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

The latter didn’t answer.

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

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

Eva-Britt had got out at Ullevål Stadium. It was early morning. The worst of the traffic was over and Frank Frølich was in a good mood. The drive through Smestad had been pretty smooth and it was barely nine when he parked in front of a relatively new office block in Drammensveien by Lysaker. He just took a notepad and a few pencils with him.

The building stood out. A piece of commercial architecture inspired by Eskimo igloo architecture and pre-Christian temple styles. The name of the creative force behind the whole thing adorned parts of the façade.

The automatic doors slid open and he entered a hallway. The floor was tiled with honed and polished natural stone in a variety of hues. This arrangement had doubtless cost serious money, but it was also intended to give an impression of unity from a distance. The walls were painted white. At chest level, a varnished golden dado rail ran around the whole room.

Opposite the entrance was a large reception area. With huge ceiling-to-floor glass panes reminiscent of the Oslo Underground. In the middle of the opening, between the large panes, stood a receptionist, a woman who attracted everyone’s attention. She was probably around thirty years old. Dressed as an office clerk in a kind of uniform, a skirt and jacket in a greyish-blue woollen material. Her hair was thick and brown with a red sheen that made him think of a car bonnet. As he approached, his gaze focused on a distinct black birthmark in the hollow between her chin and her broad mouth.

She nodded to him and spoke into the telephone receiver on her shoulder while her hands busied themselves with other things. They were strong. Nails were short, no varnish.

He leaned over to the counter as she pressed a few buttons and finished speaking.

‘Software Partners are here, aren’t they?’

‘Third floor.’

She seemed uncomfortable in her office clothes. They clung too tight. The result was a physical ungainliness that was not at all necessary. She hesitated and was about to pick up the telephone again.

‘Don’t bother!’

He motioned towards the telephone.

‘I’ll find my own way there.’

As the lift doors opened, he walked straight into a large open-plan office where he was instantly met. So the woman with the birthmark had rung after all.

‘You are the police officer, I presume?’

‘Mhm.’ Frank shook his hand.

‘Øyvind Bregård,’ the man bowed. ‘I’m Head of Finance in this outfit.’

He was a tall, well-built fellow of around forty. The outstretched hand was not markedly large, but his chest, arms and thighs had undoubtedly been built up with weight-training. His head seemed strangely small in comparison with the robust body. Formidable bristles under his nose. Moustache. Shaped into two arcs, one on each side and blond like his short hair. Behind him sat a blonde, somewhat plump, lady in front of a screen.

‘And this is . . . ?’

Frank took a step towards her with his arm held out. She stood up so quickly her chair was sent flying. Curtsied in a flurry of confusion. Her hand was as limp as a rubber glove and hung in mid-air when he released it.

‘Lisa Stenersen.’

The name was delivered at second attempt after a nervous cough. Broad, flat shoes made her seem tubby, short. But her beautiful blonde hair was a perfect frame for round cheeks and a double chin.

Frank Frølich turned back and noticed a tiny ring in the weightlifter’s left ear.

Silence.

‘Well?’

Bregård rocked on his feet to and fro, not at ease.

‘Perhaps we should find somewhere to talk,’ Frank obligingly suggested.

The Finance Manager nodded and led the way to a door at the other end of the room.

The man’s office was sparsely furnished. A desk, and not much more. But the chair that accompanied it was a classic. Velour material, head rest and an inbuilt tilting mechanism. A chair that was ideal for planning the year’s fly-fishing, for tipping back and putting your feet on the desk. Otherwise there was nothing apart from a wobbly stool which the policeman placed by the wall to have something to lean against. Pink walls. Decorated with advertisements for computer equipment. Pretty glossy stuff. A babe, full-length, pulling on fishnet stockings and supporting her legs on a computer. Unusually attractive legs. And unusually thick hair on her head.

Bregård sat down in the swivel chair. Now wearing narrow, rectangular rimless glasses.

Frank tore his eyes away from the fishnet thighs. ‘This is about, as I’m sure you know . . .’

‘Reidun,’ Bregård interrupted with several nods. ‘I’ve understood as much.’

Frank smiled. Jotted down ‘ASSHOLE’ in capital letters on his notepad and went on to draw Kilroy behind a wooden fence.

‘Reidun Rosendal was employed as a saleswoman?’

Bregård nodded.

‘From what I’ve been told, you sell computer technology?’

‘Administrative systems, office solutions.’

The man pulled a drawer out of his desk and rummaged in it. ‘We’re about to embark on a fairly large expansion programme.’

The words tumbled out staccato as he searched through the drawer. Finally he lifted out a pile of brochures, passed it to the police officer and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Reidun was part of that, too. Finding distributors and interested parties for the expansion. And of course selling standard services,’ he added, folded his hands in a business-like fashion on the table in front of him.

Frank flicked aimlessly through the brochures. Colour bar graphs and fine words about profitability. The moustachioed face of the man before him smiled up at him from the glossy middle-page spread. Nice pic. The policeman compared the photograph with the man on the other side of the table. The ring in his ear was not visible in the photograph. And he was more formally dressed than in real life. The picture revealed a classic office worker in a white shirt, tie and grey jacket. The same glasses as now. The Finance Manager was giving a thumbs-up the way Allied pilots did during the Second World War. ‘Trust me’ the speech bubble above his head said.

‘Did anyone else work in the sales department other than Reidun?’

‘Svennebye, our Head of Marketing. And me.’

He opened his palms wide. ‘We’re a small enterprise, lots of overlapping. Engelsviken, the manager here, also does sales work if he has time.’

‘How many employees are there?’

‘In all, five; sorry, four. There were five of us with Reidun.’

The policeman picked up the brochures. ‘So the company is planning to grow?’

‘It will become very big,’ Bregård corrected immodestly. ‘We’re in the process of acquiring new distributors all over the country in fact.’

‘Anything home-grown?’

‘No, we have a foreign agency.’

He tilted back in the chair. Spread his fingers and lightly tapped tips against each other. ‘It’s all in the name. Software Partners. The company has been built on that concept and will grow by linking up with joint venture collaborators.’

Frank nodded. ‘With regard to Reidun . . .’

Bregård waited, composed.

‘Do you know a restaurant called Scarlet?’

Bregård’s eyes went walkabout. He leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the desk. Stroked his moustache.

‘Scarlet?’ Ran the name over his tongue. ‘Yes . . . indeed . . . in fact I’ve been there.’

‘Long time ago?’

‘Probably a few weeks back.’

‘You weren’t there last Saturday?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you on Saturday?’

‘At home.’

The detective allowed the silence to linger, then said:

‘Can anyone confirm that?’

‘In fact, I spent Saturday evening on my own!’

‘Watching TV?’

‘No.’

‘There’s just crap on the box, isn’t there,’ Frank posited, testing for a reaction. ‘I never watch TV, either. I tie flies.’

The Finance Manager stared across the desk, without making a comment.

‘When I tie flies I listen to the radio.’ The detective scribbled on his pad. ‘Lots of good music on a fair number of stations. Much better than tired TV family entertainment. Don’t you think?’

Indulgent smile from Bregård. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’

‘You weren’t listening to the radio on Saturday by any chance, were you?’

The smile vanished. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘Married?’

The man shook his head.

Frank stretched out his legs and slipped off his worn-out boots. A faint aroma of stale socks filled the room. Bregård’s face went stiff. Frank followed the man’s eyes and identified a hole in the toe of one sock. A bony little toe poked out, inhaling fresh air. He splayed his toes. Made a mental note that he ought to cut his toenails.

‘Girlfriend?’ he asked.

The man didn’t understand.

Frank sighed. ‘I asked if you had a girlfriend!’

‘No,’ he answered with irritation.

‘What were you actually doing on Saturday, Bregård?’

‘I was at home!’

Face of rebuttal. ‘I didn’t watch TV, didn’t listen to the radio. I went to bed early.’

Frølich nodded.

‘Went to bed early because I had to be up early on Sunday.’

The detective frowned, one raised eyebrow.

‘For a long walk through the fields.’

‘Isn’t it too wet underfoot now?’

‘It’s wet, but I go anyway.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone,’ Bregård stated with a nod.

‘Often?’

‘Yes, often.’

Frank eyed him.
Tanned features. Muscles. Wouldn’t be unusual to meet this guy in the forest. Not at all. Just a change of clothes. A thick jumper instead of the white cotton shirt, green walking trousers instead of fashionable jeans. Walking boots and thick socks. Yep, the guy probably was the outdoor type. Whether he had been hiking on the Sunday morning in question was quite another matter
. Frank decided to change the topic:

‘Did you know her well? Reidun, that is.’

Bregård hummed and hawed.

‘You worked together for six months,’ Frølich pressed. ‘Did you get to know her?’

‘A bit.’

The guy was in two minds about something.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, heaving a resigned sigh. Fidgeted uneasily and placed his hands on the desk. ‘This is too awful!’

He got to his feet, walked over to the window and stared out. Broad shoulders, slim waist and unusually powerful thighs.

‘On Friday she was here with us!’

He said something else that was drowned in an intense grimace. His facial expression was reminiscent of a character from a TV drama. Hands clenching and unclenching in an over-animated fashion. Emotional toss of his head at the same time. There was something over the top about all of this. Something feigned that was uncomfortable to watch.

‘When did you see her last?’

‘Friday afternoon. I invited her out, but there must have been a problem.’

The detective waited. But the man was keeping the rest to himself.

‘So you two had been out together before?’

‘On occasion.’

‘Were you a couple?’

‘A couple?’

The guy turned, scented something. Frank took a deep breath and returned a cold stare. ‘Have you been with her?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Have you been to bed with her, shall we say?’

The man returned to his chair and sat down. Surly now. ‘Yes, I have slept with her.’

Dismissive expression.

‘Did you often sleep with her?’

‘You’ve got what you wanted now, for Christ’s sake! Do you want to know how long we were at it as well?’

Love and Geography
, Frank thought. The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson play in which a man is forever fussing around and yelling about his maps while neglecting his family.

‘Was it a relationship?’ he asked in a friendly tone.

‘No! We were not in a relationship.’

‘So it’s a while since you last slept together?’

Bregård didn’t answer.

‘Or could you just ring and order a quickie when it was convenient?’

Bregård slowly removed his glasses. His fingers were not trembling. But he looked daggers across the table. ‘You can count yourself lucky you’re here on official business. Otherwise I would . . .’

‘Oh, right!’

Frank shrugged his comment aside and lifted his notepad to remind the man what they were doing. He went on: ‘When you asked if she wanted to join you on Friday, and she turned you down, do you think she had another date?’

‘You mean, was there someone else?’

He had calmed down. Swivelled round on the chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall where the woman with the hair was still trying to roll up her fishnet stockings. She was standing with her back half turned to the camera. And a silver tanga up her ass like a thread. The head with all that hair faced the photographer and she was pursing her lips into a kiss.

Bregård had fallen into a reverie. ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘She didn’t have another date.’

The detective held his gaze. ‘In other words, she was keeping you at a distance?’

Bregård formed his mouth into a resigned smile. Didn’t answer.

‘What was she like?’

The smile dissolved. His eyes were two black dots.

‘You mean, was she hot?’

The detective paused, waited. The idiot wasn’t finished yet. His face was agitated. He gripped the desk with white knuckles.

‘She liked it from behind,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you take a wander down to the red-light area and buy yourself a bit of skirt? That would be a lot better than taking notes on what others get up to!’

Frank felt his lips moving into a patient smile. ‘When Reidun Rosendal was not being taken from behind, or the front, but was working here with you, what did she like? What was she like as a person?’

‘Clothes,’ the man suggested mechanically. The outburst was over. Bregård was caught in the same melancholy as a moment before. He stared dreamily into middle distance again. ‘I think she loved clothes . . . and her dog. Of course she couldn’t keep it in her bed-sit, so it was at her mother’s place, in Vestland. By the way, she always talked about her home area, the south-west coast.’

‘Wasn’t she happy in Oslo?’

‘I think she was happy enough. It was just the way she was.’