The Man in the Window (13 page)

    'I said that I was worried about Reidar and asked her to tell Karsten when he came home.'

    'And then?'

    'I went back to bed.'

    'But you had a look around the flat?'

    'Of course, I wondered where Reidar was…'

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

    'But nowhere else in the flat?'

    'No.'

    'So someone had walked straight from the hall to the bedroom?'

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

    'When you found the flat empty - didn't it occur to you that Reidar might be in the shop 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… I lay awake until I heard the sounds of the morning traffic.'

    'Why didn't you go down and check?'

    'To be 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 she crossed her arms.

    'Did you hear anything unusual?'

    'What do you mean?'

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

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

    'Down the stairs?'

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

    'I don't think so.'

    'Don't think so?' Frølich gazed into her eyes. The irises were green and looked like two precious stones on a background of white felt in a display case.

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

    'Hm?'

    'I am sure I didn't hear anything.'

    'But you had to have a think about it.'

    'Don't you believe me?' she erupted.

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

    'I didn't hear any noises!' she interrupted angrily.

    'Right.'

    They sat looking at each other.

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

    'The overwhelming probability then is that the person who killed your husband did it before you woke up?' he reasoned out loud.

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

    'But you didn't hear any noises?'

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

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

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

    She paced to and fro before sitting down again. Frølich revelled in the sight through half-closed eyes.

    'But when you got up for the first time, and you were petrified, didn't you check the front door?'

    'I think so. I'm not sure.'

    'Was it locked?'

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

    'So if someone had been in here - he must have been long gone?'

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

    'Since you didn't hear anything, the person who left snow on the floor must have gone by the time you woke up - isn't that right?'

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

    Frølich studied her again. He thought:
Is she lying?
There was definitely something bothering her. The interview had not gone smoothly. 'Is there anything 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 see me.'

    'Was your husband in good health?' the policeman asked.

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

    'So he didn't have any complaints of any kind?'

    'What do you mean?' 'He didn't complain about pains in his back, or kidneys, or legs…'

    'No.'

    Frølich nodded to himself. 'Does the number one hundred and ninety-five mean anything to you?'

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

    'Nothing?'

    'No.'

    'Nothing that connects your husband with this number - one hundred and ninety-five?'

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

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

    'Yes…'

    Frølich thought. 'We could just have a quick look…'

    Ingrid Jespersen heaved a deep sigh.

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

Chapter 15

Stray Keys

    'You can 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 if anything has been stolen.' Gunnarstranda stretched and yawned again. 'But it can't be a burglary. That's out of the question. The only thief we have stumbled across so far is Karsten Jespersen. But that's the classic inheritance squabble.' The Detective Inspector rose to his feet, went to the desk, opened the top drawer and took out his darts.

    'Who do you want?' Frølich asked, going through the various newspaper cuttings on his green desk pad.

    'What's the choice?'

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

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

    'No. Why?'

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

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

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

    'Not bad,' Frølich said.

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

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

    'Might be true,' Gunnarstranda said, taking aim.

    'How can it be true if it wasn't her old man?'

    'The keys.'

    'Which keys?'

    'Nose.'

    The dart missed the page and Gunnarstranda winced. He said: 'There weren't any keys there.'

    'Where?'

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

    'Why would he steal the dead man's keys if he wasn't going to use them? Anyway, the missing keys are a good enough reason to keep a watchful eye on Ingrid Jespersen.'

    'You don'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 the keys is a mystery!'

    Gunnarstranda went 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 is woken 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. The most probable explanation is that Folke Jespersen went for an evening walk. He came back to the flat, but realized that he needed to go down to the shop and there must have been something he wanted from the bedroom, the keys to the shop for all we know, and so he went into the bedroom. He still had snow on his shoes. Then he went down to the shop, met the murderer and was killed. My problem is that I feel she is holding something back. When I pushed her, she went very odd. But what she is holding back - I have no idea. Anyway, she insists she lay awake from half past two until seven in the morning and did not hear 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 must have been woken up by the sounds of the murder. Anyway, that would fit Schwenke's timescale.'

    Gunnarstranda took aim.

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

    Gunnarstranda threw, but missed the eye. 'I suppose we ought to ask him if he used his own keys.'

    'But that's a bit strange, isn't it?' Frølich said. 'Karsten having keys to the flat?'

    'I don't think it's so strange him having keys. After all, the dead man was his father. 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.'

    They looked 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't at home at half past two in the morning. And the guy has keys to the flat.'

    'We'll have to ask anyway,' Gunnarstranda said, going over to the board and pulling out the darts. 'Even if Karsten Jespersen was at home and asleep, it doesn't hurt to ask.'

Chapter 16

The Last Will and Testament

    Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda was shown into Movinckel's office - the solicitor for Reidar Folke Jespersen - by a young woman. Here he was received by an even younger woman. When she stood up, it turned out she was a little shorter than him. She had short, cropped hair and a round face without a single wrinkle. Her skin was white with rosy red cheeks like his image of dairymaids. When she smiled, she revealed a row of white teeth dominated by two large top incisors. She was wearing dark flared slacks and a yellow cardigan. 'You seem surprised,' she said.

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

    'You didn'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 my father. When I took over my father's practice, he was one of the customers who took a risk and stayed with me.'

    She motioned with her hand to the chair" in front of the desk. 'How can I help you?'

    Gunnarstranda took a seat and crossed his legs. 'I was wondering if Reidar Folke Jespersen left a will.'

    She looked down. 'No,' she answered at length.

    'You hesitate?'

    She revealed 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 have been 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 the day before he died.'

    Gunnarstranda sucked his teeth and stretched out his legs.

    'I can understand your reaction,' she said thoughtfully and looked down. 'Of course, a case like this is somewhat delicate.'

    'What happened?' asked the policeman, impatient to move on.

    'He phoned me on the afternoon of Friday the thirteenth wanting to revoke his will.'

    'Phoned?' the policeman asked darkly.

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

    'You're positive it was him on the phone?'

    'No doubt about it. It was him.'

    'When did he call?'

    'Late afternoon. A bit before five, I think.'

    'And how did you answer?'

    'The way I answered you. Of course it was fine, but officially he should have come here in person and presented his request.'

    'What did he say?'

    'He said he didn't have time.'

    'Didn't have time?'

    'Yes.'

    'How did you interpret that?'

    'I think he was ill.'

    Gunnarstranda angled his head and waited.

    'I don't think he had much time left,' she went on.

    'Did he ever talk to you about any illness?'

    She sent 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…'

    'Did it have fingers?'

    'Fingers?'

    'Was it like a large hand with fingers?'

    'Yes, it was.'

    'Then it was a horse chestnut.'

    'Hm, well, at any rate, the point is that he stopped me. He didn't say hello, he was excited, almost like a boy. "Look," he shouted. "Have you ever seen such a large leaf?" I stood gaping at him and didn't quite know what to say - to me the leaf could have been any leaf in the autumn, yellowing of course, 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 show it to Ingrid." With that he toddled off up the street and home.'

    Gunnarstranda sat staring into the beyond with a lined brow. 'And this incident made you think he was ill?'

    With a grave expression, she nodded her head. 'I watched him disappear. This proud man who all of a sudden seemed shaky and bent, and then this outburst. I'd never seen him like that, neither before nor after. It was like he was running home to mummy. I remember thinking: he hasn't got long to live now.'

    'So he was ill.'

    'Not just ill, but at death's door.' She frowned. 'He seemed frail, on his last legs.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'And the will?'

    'It's here, but officially it has been revoked and won't be presented to the beneficiaries.'

    'When was it made?'

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

    'Did he seem ill then?'

    'No,' she smiled. 'Just old.'

    'Did he give any reason for revoking the will?'

    'No.' She shook her head.

    'And the request - it wasn't accompanied by any comments, such as why he chose to ring you at that precise moment?'

    Her lips parted in another smile. 'I'm afraid not. I thought you would ask. He went straight to the point. All I did was to ask him if he wanted to make another will. But he said no.'

    'Without offering any explanation?' 'That's right.'

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

    'Let me be the judge of that.'

    Without another word the solicitor moved away some papers and opened a yellowing envelope on the table. 'Here you are. Feel free,' she said, passing him the document.