The Man in the Window (20 page)

Chapter 26

Pas de Deux

    'One, two, cha-cha-cha, one, two, cha-cha-cha!' There were just two people practising in the room which smelt strongly of stale gymnasium. The man pirouetting in the room had his back arched like a bullfighter's. He was wearing a short, baggy woollen sweater over a yellow leotard. He was medium height with longish, curly hair and a very athletic build. He was twirling round a young girl of maybe seventeen or eighteen who was trying to follow his movements. The music coming out of the speakers of a stereo-rack on the floor was easily drowned by the man's screaming voice. 'One, two, cha-cha-cha!' The man stamped his feet hard on the floor. 'Oh, come on!' he screamed, theatrically tossing his head and creating a swirl of glamorous locks around his head. 'Don't be so sluggish and slow! Pick up your feet!' The girl was wearing a gym outfit and legwarmers. Her blonde hair, which she had tied up in a ponytail, was beginning to come away from the elastic band. The man let go of her and demonstrated the dance steps once again. He studied his body in the mirror. The man's thigh and buttock muscles stood out through the leotard. For a brief second he exchanged glances with Frank Frølich, who was checking his wristwatch. He had been sitting on a bench in the large hall for twenty minutes. The young girl seemed so exhausted now that he guessed the lesson would soon be over.

    Five minutes later the two men were alone in the hall.

    'Eyolf Strømsted?' Frølich asked, reaching out his hand. 'This is about Ingrid Jespersen,' he said after introducing himself.

    'My God, what a situation,' Strømsted said, wiping the sweat from his face.

    'We have reason to believe that you're on very good terms with Ingrid Jespersen,' Frølich said.

    'That's one way of putting it,' parried Strømsted with a fixed frontal gaze.

    'I'm part of a team investigating the murder of her husband,' Frølich said and nothing more.

    Strømsted held his rigid stare.

    Frølich took his time. He was looking for the right words.

    'We know you and Ingrid Jespersen are on very intimate terms.'

    'And whose claim is that?' Strømsted said in a measured voice. 'Is it hers?'

    'In fact we have seen you together.' Frølich stood up and rummaged in his bag. 'I have a few photos which would support what I'm saying, but…' He abandoned the search. 'I don't seem to have them with me, but you and the widow have been seen in somewhat intimate circumstances in a parked car the night after Reidar Folke Jespersen was found dead.'

    Strømsted was breathing hard.

    'When did you last meet her?' Frølich asked gently.

    'On Sunday. We drove to the car park outside the Munch museum.'

    'And before that?'

    'The Friday… 13th January.'

    Frølich took notes and peered up. 'Could you tell me what happened that Friday?'

    'She dropped by to see me between half past eleven and twelve - in the morning. Half an 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.'

    Frølich looked up when the other man paused.

    Strømsted had a steely expression on his face. 'Perhaps half an hour later her husband rang. He rang while we were fucking. How great is that!' the man grinned.

    'What did you say?'

    'While we were fucking.'

    Frølich sent the man with the curls a stern look. The forehead under the curls was sweaty.

    'And who rang?'

    'Her old man. The murder victim. Reidar Folke Jespersen.'

    'What did he want?'

    'To talk to his wife.'

    'And did he?'

    'Yes indeed.'

    Strømsted was still staring ahead. Into the mirror on the opposite wall. They exchanged looks in the mirror.

    'Has this relationship been going on for a long time?'

    'Much too long!'

    'What do you mean by that?'

    Strømsted ran his fingers through his curly locks. 'I suppose it means I think this situation is quite dreadful.'

    'Which situation?'

    'To have to stand here answering your embarrassing questions when a pupil can come in the door at any moment.'

    'How long has this relationship been going on?'

    'About three years.'

    'Have you ever met Folke Jespersen?' Frølich enquired.

    'Once. Many years ago when I was dancing with Ingrid.'

    'Have you seen him since?'

    'Never.' Strømsted wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and pulled at the front of his sweater. He wafted it to let air in. 'What's the time?' he asked.

    'Five past,' Frølich said.

    'Another pupil will be here any minute.'

    'That's fine. Did you meet Folke Jespersen that Friday?'

    Strømsted blenched. 'Meet her husband? No.' He dried his face with the towel again. As he took 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 that this man could easily make women go weak at the knees.

    'How long was Ingrid with you?'

    'Until just after three.'

    'What did you do after his call?'

    Strømsted grinned. 'What do you think?'

    'Just answer the question.' 'We carried on.' Strømsted sent him a provocative glower. 'She was sucking me off,' he said with a fixed smile.

    'Did you talk about the phone call?'

    'It wasn't so easy for her to talk at that point.'

    Frølich, remaining patient, took a deep breath.

    Strømsted stared ahead, thoughtful, open-mouthed.

    'Hmm, I'm sorry. This situation isn't exactly easy. What we talked about? What we talked about was her husband. For the most part we talked about how much he knew, how long he had known and what the consequences would be.'

    'What do you mean by that?'

    'By what?'

    'What the consequences would be? Of his phone call?'

    Strømsted flashed 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.'

    'Her husband didn't usually phone her then?'

    'Are you insane?'

    'So her husband had exposed her activities with this phone call? That's what you're saying?'

    'Yes.'

    'Do you think she wanted to get out of her marriage?'

    'What do you mean by that?'

    Frølich: 'Do you think she was sorry she had been caught? Was there a risk of a divorce?'

    '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 could feel that he was beginning to dislike this smile.

    'I think she was dreading the evening,' Strømsted said in a more earnest tone.

    'Why was that?'

    'Just imagine it, being caught like that, and then having to go home to your husband and spend the whole evening with him.'

    'Why did he ring?'

    'He wanted to put a stop to our activities.'

    'Do you know that for certain?'

    'Yes, she told me what he had said. It was a very brief conversation.'

    'What did you do - later that evening?' Frølich asked.

    'I was at home.'

    'Can anyone confirm that you were at home?'

    Strømsted stood up and strolled towards the mirror on the opposite wall. He grabbed the wall bar and raised his right leg in one supple movement. It was a classic dance step, a classic pose. 'Is this the moment of truth?' he asked in an exaggerated, theatrical voice while observing Frølich in the mirror. 'Will you let me go if, Mr Policeman, if I answer yes?'

    Frølich looked at his image in the mirror. He was all the dancer was not. His grey hair was unkempt and lifeless. His beard made him look down in the mouth. His body was too big and too heavy.

    Eyolf Strømsted was a statue. Muscles and sinews wreathed the man's body like yarn around a ball. The man's curly hair emphasized the almost feminine features of his clean-shaven face.

    'Does that mean the answer is no?' the policeman asked blithely.

    Strømsted took pleasure in the sight of his own body as he lowered his leg without any hurry and continued the slow movement into a glide and the splits. 'Of course not,' he said to his own image. 'I realized after the phone call that Ingrid Jespersen 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 all evening and all night.'

Chapter 27

Lady in Snow

    The next 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 was somewhat reluctant to pick up the phone and secondly that she liked to take her lunch in a café with which she had been connected earlier.

    It took 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 the few metres to the café, open the door and hand his winter coat to the Vietnamese-looking woman in the cloakroom. He checked himself over in the mirror behind the attendant, straightened his sparse hair and turned to study the scene. 'Only one person?' asked a woman dressed in dark clothes, the head waitress. 'I'm afraid so,' answered the policeman defensively. 'But I was thinking of joining Ingrid Jespersen.' He motioned towards a window table where Ingrid, engrossed in a newspaper, was eating pasta.

    'May I 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.' She extended an open hand to the unoccupied chair. Slowly she folded the paper. It was
Verdens Gang.
A youthful photograph of Reidar Folke Jespersen disappeared. 'I've read that you have some leads.'

    Gunnarstranda smiled and shook his head to the waiter who came with the menu. 'Just coffee,' he said and added: 'Black.'

    To Ingrid: 'I suppose you must have gathered that we are keeping all our options open?'

    She nodded. 'How did you know I was here?'

    'Because we're keeping all our options open,' he replied lightly.

    Taken aback, she grimaced. 'Well, I must say…' She stared down at her meal, but seemed to have lost her appetite. 'Are you having me followed?'

    Gunnarstranda took the cup of coffee without a word and stirred it with a faraway look. The waiter stretched out a hand for Ingrid's plate with a questioning look. 'Thank you. I've had enough,' she said. The policeman was stirring his coffee as he watched the waiter retreat.

    'Are you following me?' Ingrid Jespersen repeated.

    'We're looking after you as well as we can.'

    'But…'

    'Do you know the name Eyolf Strømsted?' he interrupted.

    Ingrid lowered her eyes. She went quiet. Gunnarstranda leaned back in his chair.

    'Is that what they call shooting from the hip?' she asked, her eyes still downcast.

    No response from Gunnarstranda.

    'Or what?' she went on, with renewed energy in her voice, and raising her head. Her eyes seemed tired, but aggressive at the same time.

    'It's a question,' Gunnarstranda said with composure. 'Either you answer it or you don't. Make sure the answer is honest.'

    'Looking after…' Ingrid muttered. 'Isn't it simply spying on people?'

    Gunnarstranda didn't answer. Instead he sipped his coffee.

    'We know each other,' she said in a more controlled tone of voice. 'We know each other very well. But I presume you know that.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded.

    'We go way back… he's… he was once a pupil of mine. He used to be a dancer.'

    'How long have you two been having an affair?'

    'For three years.'

    'That's quite a long time, isn't it?'

    'There are some that last longer, unknown to anyone.'

    'That goes without saying.'

    Ingrid reached down and scratched her leg. 'My God, I'm so hot…' Gunnarstranda noticed she had a determined furrow between her eyebrows. It made her look severe. 'Have you got any plans?' he asked.

    She straightened up.

    'What do you mean?'

    Gunnarstranda looked into her eyes: 'I was wondering what Strømsted means to you. Is he an erotic dalliance or does he mean much more?'

    'Much more?' She lowered her gaze and rested her head on her hand. 'Isn't it enough that we have stayed together for three years?'

    'I would like you to answer the question.'

    'Whether he's an erotic dalliance or more? Does whether I distinguish between eroticism and love tell you anything about who I am?'

    Gunnarstranda patiently sipped his coffee.

    'Do you know what I've heard?' she said, gazing out of the window. 'I've heard that however wild your desire there will always be a concomitant feeling of emptiness.'

    Composed, she turned to him again.

    'Sex,' she began, pausing for a few seconds before taking the plunge. 'Sex is about bodies, a physical phenomenon which can be calculated and defined, a mathematical curve with growth, with peaks and troughs. Sexuality exists by virtue of its form.'

    They exchanged glances. The policeman said nothing. She had not yet finished.

    'Sexuality is man-made, and like all man-made things it has deficiencies. Sex contains an anticipation of something else and more. All physical matter is bound to reach saturation point - just because it has physical limits. That applies to sex too. Therefore it is the nature of eroticism that you become sated, either with the partner or with the sexual act.'

    Rapt in 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 of love. Longing is love that knows no boundaries. Longing can never be destroyed or fade away or die.'

    Gunnarstranda observed her over the rim of his cup. It was as though she had been giving a lecture learned by rote, and at this moment she was recalling the times when she used to swot for school. He had to swallow hard. Her words had conjured up an image of Edel. He cleared his throat to make his voice heard, so strong had the sensation been that she had been talking directly to him. 'That was well put,' he conceded and coughed again. 'And I may well have heard something similar. But is it like that? Most people would rather try to unite these aspects of their love life. At any rate, those who choose a partner for life through marriage.'

    'But if it isn't possible?'

    'What?'

    'For some it may be impossible to unite the physical with the emotional.' Then she added: 'For Reidar it was like that.'

    'Reidar?' the policeman said. 'I thought you were talking about yourself.'

    She shook her head. 'I don't know what I think about this. I've never had a consistent policy on such things. But I have long wondered why I should have had to live in abstinence for seven years.'

    'Was he impotent?'

    'Impotent?' She sent him another weary smile. 'Do you realize you are trying to justify many years of imbalance with one word? Was he impotent, you ask, and you apparently 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're asking? Fine, let me take you at your word. I can say
yes.
Yes, in recent years

    Reidar was not capable of performing the physical activity with me which is required to make a child. And so what? Does that make our love less pure or…' she contemplated the ceiling as she searched for words… 'less tender, less warm? I don't think so. You didn't object when I claimed there was a distinction between 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 reasoning off by heart. Reidar didn't have any hormonal problems. The distinction between sexuality and longing was an intellectual standpoint on his part. He was finished 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 or loathsome. But of course he didn't. Reidar was so straightforward, so uncomplicated - that he told the truth. When he grew older, he made a distinction between physical love and psychological longing. He despised the one and prized the other.'

    'But what does it mean?'

    She shook her head in desperation. 'What does it mean? It means you know something about me no one else does. It means you have made me declare my love for my husband. It means I feel sordid!'

    'Did he have any other women?'

    'No. Not at all.'

    'Did he use prostitutes?'

    'He would rather have died than go to a prostitute.'

    'Who did he long for?'

    'Well, you tell me.' Ingrid had a faraway look in her eyes, and a furrowed brow. 'I would guess he longed for the wife who died, my predecessor.'

    'Did he say that in so many words?'

    'No. He never admitted it, if that's what you're asking. It's my guess. On the other hand, it's based on many years of practical experience. All in all, my marriage was a fiasco.'

    'A fiasco?'

    'The word may be an exaggeration. Let's just say you can rely on my assessment.'

    'What about your current relationship? Which category of love does that fall under - eroticism or longing?'

    'I don't think the same way as Reidar. I do what I feel is right. And, for me, meeting Eyolf feels right.'

    'But then my earlier question is very pertinent: Have you two got any plans?'

    She shook her head. 'No, we have no plans.'

    'Have you split up?'

    'No, but…' She shrugged her shoulders. 'I assume we will continue as before.'

    'And what is that supposed to mean?'

    She pulled a wry grin. 'Inspector…'

    He raised a hand to stop her. 'What is that supposed to mean?' he repeated with emphasis.

    She was at a loss for a few moments.

    'We'll meet once a week.'

    'Where?'

    'In his flat. He lives in Jacob Aalls gate. But you already know that.' She breathed in and steadied herself. 'Now I think about it, I suppose he could come to my place as Reidar is… no longer there.' She looked into his eyes, provocatively.

    He nodded slowly. 'Well, you wouldn't have to resort to car parks…'

    She sat up in her chair, glared at the table for a while before raising her eyes to meet his. She was flushed, he realized, flushed with anger.

    'I'm investigating a murder,' he said gently. 'What you and Strømsted do in vehicles in Oslo car parks does not interest me.'

    'Oh no? Why are there people spying on us then?' she snapped.

    'Because I want to solve a crime, a task which entails needing to know more about you and your acquaintances. Also we don't know why your husband was murdered and therefore we need to be close at hand. But- above all I want to know what you and your husband were doing on the days before the murder. Did you meet Strømsted during this time?'

    'Yes.'

    'When?'

    'The same day. I visited Eyolf on Friday the 13th.' She looked down as though collecting her strength before staring provocatively into the policeman's eyes again, with a malicious little smile. 'We went to bed at some time between twelve and one, and stayed there… for a couple of hours. I dozed off while Eyolf made us lunch. We had pasta. Penne all'arrabbiata. His is better than the one they serve here, in fact. And I left at about three. Happy?'

    'I will be soon,' the policeman said, leaning over and resting his elbows on the table. 'You didn't say anything about this in your earlier statement.'

    She didn't answer.

    Gunnarstranda mused. He was questioning her, but you weren't supposed to question suspects in cafes. Too late to stop now, though. He said:

    'Does this mean you will change your statement?'

    She stared at him. 'Are you taking my statement here?'

    'You could pop into Gronlandsleiret today after five. Your new statement will be ready in reception. You only have to sign. Read it through first. If there is anything which does not accord with what really happened, leave it and get in touch with me immediately.'

    'Right.'

    'Immediately means that very instant!'

    'I've got the point.'

    'The day after your husband was found dead in the shop window, you went to this dancing school run by your lover. You took him out and he had to find an instructor to step in for him. You drove to the car park between the Munch museum and the Botanical Gardens - why?'

    'Because,' she said dismissively, and pinched her mouth shut.

    Gunnarstranda gave a lop-sided smile. 'You mean this is private?'

    'Of course.'

    'I will repeat the question and you are requested to answer: Why did you visit Eyolf Strømsted on the Sunday in question?'