The Man in the Window (24 page)

Chapter 31

The Sleeping Dog

    Next day Frank Frølich got up straight from his breakfast table to search for the driver of taxi number A195 while Gunnarstranda spent a long day at the office going through statements, copying reports and making a number of by and large fruitless telephone calls. By the evening the Inspector had packed his things and set off for Stokmo's Metal Service in Torshov. The windows in the workshop were dark, but the windows of the flat on the first floor shone a welcoming yellow light into the yard. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda stared up at the sky, which was grey with polluted wintry mist, then shivered and grabbed the metal rail on his way up the slippery steps. He had to bang three times before Karl-Erik Stokmo, wearing a track suit and battered trainers, - opened the door and said: 'Come in.'

    The flat smelled of food. A slim woman of around thirty sat in the sitting room in front of the television with a plate of what looked like fish au gratin on her lap. The screen was showing a TV Shop advertisement of a man spraying something chemical on filthy garden furniture and wiping it clean with a cloth.

    Gunnarstranda nodded to her. She was barefoot and wearing skin-tight, white jogging pants and a black singlet. Her skin was unnaturally brown for the time of the year; she boasted a blue-black tattoo on each upper arm and when she smiled you could see a canine was missing. She sneaked into the kitchen when the two men sat down.

    On TV Shop a bodybuilder was demonstrating a training machine. Karl-Erik Stokmo took the remote control and turned down the volume. Gunnarstranda got straight to the point: 'Your father doesn't have an alibi for the night of the murder.' Gunnarstranda added: 'That is unfortunate. Your father says he went to bed at eleven on Friday night in the backroom of your workshop.' The policeman tossed his head to the side: 'Down there.'

    Stokmo leaned back in the Stressless chair, raised his legs and placed them on the foot stool.

    'Was he here at eleven that night?'

    Stokmo sighed. 'I would guess so.'

    'Guesses won't do. Can you swear that your father came here and slept through the night in your backroom?'

    'No,' Stokmo said. 'I know he was here, but we neither spoke to each other nor saw each other.'

    'You can't say then when he arrived or when he left?'

    'But I know he was here,' the man repeated. 'Lillian!' he yelled in the direction of the kitchen.

    The woman opened the kitchen door and stood in the doorway. She had two yellow washing-up gloves on. They could hear the water running in the sink somewhere behind her.

    'Did you notice when Dad got here on Friday?' Stokmo asked.

    The woman stared at Gunnarstranda. 'I heard the motor start up - the following morning,' she said.

    'That's right,' Stokmo said. 'That was his.'

    'What time would that have been?'

    The woman rubbed her chin against one shoulder. 'In the morning, before we got up.'

    'Before or after twelve?'

    'Before twelve - I would guess. No?' Her look questioned Stokmo and he also had to shrug his shoulders.

    'But did the two of you see him or the vehicle - with your own eyes?'

    Stokmo shook his head.

    Gunnarstranda stared 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 his pick-up.'

    Stokmo nodded. 'Silencer's gone. You can hear the old banger anywhere.'

    'You would have heard the pick-up if it had been used in the night?'

    The two of them looked at each other and in the end both shrugged.

    'Did you hear anything like his pick-up that night?'

    Both shook their heads.

    'Great,' Gunnarstranda said, looking up at the woman who showed her missing canine again. She said: 'You're the one who knows Bendik, aren't you?'

    Gunnarstranda nodded.

    'Good,' she said, shutting herself in the kitchen once again.

    Stokmo cleared his throat. 'She and Bendik used to live together,' he explained.

    'And now she lives here, I can see.' Gunnarstranda surveyed the room. On TV Shop there was a bikini-clad woman with an impeccable figure demonstrating the same training machine.

    There was almost nothing on the walls, just a turtle shell over the kitchen door. A brown eagle with a white head was painted on it. He looked at the eagle. Its one eye looked back. 'Do you know why your father was so angry with Folke Jespersen?' he asked Stokmo.

    'I would guess it's about my grandfather. He helped people over the border during the war.'

    'May I?' Gunnarstranda asked, taking out his pouch of tobacco.

    Stokmo nodded and took a cigarette from a packet of Prince lying on the table. 'I've heard Jespersen ran an illegal press in Oslo - printed leaflets with news from London and that kind of thing. But someone informed on him and he had to flee the country.'

    'I've heard that, too,' Gunnarstranda said, lighting his cigarette.

    'Well, it was my grandfather who took Folke Jespersen to Sweden.' Stokmo inhaled and crossed his legs. 'Towards the end of the war my grandfather was caught by a German border patrol -
die Grepo.
The soldiers almost shot him. He panicked 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, my grandfather had drawn his gun, but fell headlong over a large tree root. He nose-dived into a bog - the hand with the gun buried in the mud. With his hand covered in mud he let go of the gun and stood up - unarmed. He was searched, but they didn't find anything - he had a guardian angel, didn't he! - and my grandfather said he was out picking blueberries. He was allowed to go but instructed to report to Halden the day after.' Stokmo flicked ash off the cigarette and blew out smoke through puckered lips.

    'Did he show up?'

    'He did. And he managed to avoid suspicion. And this is the crux, you see. Because my 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 had received a lot of presents. They were things he had hidden away. I don't know how much there was, but it was worth a good deal. Many of the Jews who were taken across the border were rich, you know, goldsmiths and jewellers, and they were generous. But just after the war there were stories about Jewish refugees being robbed by greedy border guides and so on. There were also rumours about my grandfather because some people were suspicious that he had got off so lightly. For that reason he didn't dare do anything with these presents after the war. Folke Jespersen took on the job of selling these things - of being the middleman.'

    Gunnarstranda was rolling himself a cigarette. 'Uhuh,' he said, lighting up with a Zippo. 'So the rumours were that your grandfather was working for the Germans?'

    Stokmo gave a rueful nod.

    Gunnarstranda inhaled. He mused: 'He helped people to cross the border and had a dubious reputation, I can see that. But the animosity between your grandfather and Jespersen - where does that stem from?'

    Stokmo stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back. 'I was talking to my dad a couple of weeks ago,' he began.

    'Yes?'

    'I knew a lot already. But the story about the arrest in Halden is new. Also about Folke Jespersen selling the presents he got. You see, my father didn't know about that either or about the silver and so on that had been hidden away during the war. But he found some old papers not so long ago - amongst them deals made between my grandfather and Folke Jespersen. The papers tell you how much Folke Jespersen owes. According to my dad those debts were never paid. He thinks Folke Jespersen swindled grandfather out of a stack of money.'

    'How?'

    'Jespersen agreed to sell things, which he did, but he never settled up with my grandfather.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'I see,' he mumbled.

    'I don't give a shit by and large, but my dad, Jonny, has really gone to town on this business. I think it has something to do with the bullying he received when he was younger, you know, the stories about him being the son of a Nazi spy and all that. It's the personal stuff that frightens me. You see, my dad demanded money off Folke Jespersen and the time I'm talking about they were almost at each other's throats.'

    'Fighting?'

    'Folke Jespersen'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 Folke Jespersen 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 an asshole. That's what makes my dad think Folke Jespersen was blackmailing his dad. My grandfather never did anything to force Folke Jespersen to pay up. Pops thinks that Folke Jespersen had a kind of hold over my grandfather - that he threatened to spread all sorts of shit and lies about Grandad robbing Jews during the war and spying for the Germans.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded thoughtfully.

    'Your father must have been furious with Reidar Jespersen,' he concluded. 'What means most to your father? What does he want to avenge: lost money or lost honour - or both?'

    Stokmo shrugged. 'As I said, I don't give a shit about this business. But I think honour has priority over money here.'

    'Sounds sensible,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But this story gives your father a motive.'

    'You have to think logically. Why would my father kill Folke Jespersen? Now the man's dead, my grandfather will never have his name cleared, and Pops won't receive 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.'

    'But he's no kid,' the other objected. 'He would never be crazy enough to do Folke Jespersen any physical harm.'

    Gunnarstranda got to his feet. The kitchen had gone quiet.

    'But he's under suspicion?' Stokmo asked, standing up as well. The two men went to the hall. Gunnarstranda put on his coat. 'He'll have to make a statement. That means 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 and neck, upper torso and trousers. He buttoned up his winter coat and adjusted his hair. 'He'll have to put his trust in the truth and us,' he summed up, and opened the door.

        As he was driving home ten minutes later, to take a shower and change clothes before going to the theatre with Tove Granaas, Frølich rang.

    Gunnarstranda asked the younger man to wait while he pulled into the kerb and parked just in front of Bentse bridge.

    'I've just been talking to a Dr Lauritsen in the oncological department at Ullevål hospital,' Frølich said.

    'I know her,' Gunnarstranda said.

    'You know her?'

    'Grethe Lauritsen dealt with my wife at the time.'

    'Oh.'

    'Well?' Gunnarstranda said, unruffled. 'Folke Jespersen must have been her patient, too, I suppose.'

    'Something like that,' Frølich said. 'At any rate she told Folke Jespersen he had invasive cancer. But the interesting bit is the timing.'

    'Oh yes?'

    'Friday the 13th once again, boss. Folke Jespersen rang Dr Lauritsen at four to hear the results of the tests. She didn't want to say anything on the phone at first and asked him to make an appointment. But then he got angry and began to hassle her. His questions were so direct she had to admit the cancer was malignant and aggressive. She made an appointment for him which he never kept.'

    'How aggressive was the cancer?'

    'She gave the old man two months to live, maximum. He found that out half an hour before he rang his solicitor and revoked his will.'

Chapter 32

Brief Encounter

    A woman was standing in front of the post office cashpoint in Egertorget. Frølich joined the queue and passed the time watching the young man singing and playing guitar in front of the metro subway. He had always wondered how fragile instruments fared in such freezing temperatures, let alone this guitarist's nails. He was wearing fingerless gloves and walked, shivering, around loudspeakers mounted on a shopping trolley while singing to a sparse audience: two sage-like drug addicts and the bouncer from the Tre Brodre bar.

    The woman by the cashpoint had finished and turned round abruptly. 'Hi,' she said and 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 and gasping.

    'What's up?' he asked.

    'My back,' she said, panting for breath. 'I've got such a bad pain in my back. You startled me. You were a bit close behind me.'

    'Oh,' Frølich said. They stood facing each other for a few moments. She was wearing a thick, brightly coloured woollen jacket and faded jeans. She wriggled her fingers up the sleeve of her jacket. Frølich instantly became aware of the freezing cold.

    'Thanks for the list,' he said. That was all that occurred to him.

    'List?' she said, puzzled.

    'The items you recorded in the antiques shop,' he said with an embarrassed smile.

    'Oh, not at all,' she said with a grin.

    Frølich realized that the street musician was singing 'The Streets of London'. A nice voice. From behind Frølich a red-faced man wearing a coat and woollen hat broke in and asked in a brusque manner if he was queueing for the cashpoint.

    Frølich let 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 rested the bag against his leg. 'Shall we go somewhere and sit down?'

    Slowly and carefully, she craned her neck up to see the Freia clock above the Mamma Rosa restaurant.

    He could have bitten off his tongue and tried to smooth over his boldness by saying: 'Perhaps time is a bit tight?'

    She went for it. 'In fact, I was on my way to visit someone at hospital - Aker hospital.'

    She didn't say who she was going to visit, and he couldn't bring himself to ask. 'Another time then perhaps?'

    'I think so,' she said with a light shiver. 'We'll sort something out.'

    'When?'

    'A beer after work one day?'

    He nodded. 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 suggest himself.

    They strolled down Akersgata, past the
Aftenposten
and
Dagbladet
newspaper buildings. He carried her bag. They walked at a slow pace. 'Coughing is the worst,' she said. 'Laughing is fine - for my back.'

    They tried to speed up and run the last few metres in order to catch the bus coming round the corner from Apotekergata.

    'Careful,' he said as they hobbled along.

    She grinned at herself.

    As she was standing on the step of the bus, he realized they hadn't agreed a time or place. He shouted after her: 'Where?'

    The door shut with a thud. It made them burst into laughter as they exchanged looks through the glass door.

    She mouthed an answer, pointing to herself and pretending to hold a telephone against her ear.

    'Me?' Frølich shouted. 'Shall I phone you?' But the bus had already gone. He was shouting questions into thin air.