The Man in the Window (32 page)

    'They have all the opportunity they need,' Gunnarstranda objected. 'They're old and white-haired like the victim. They own the shop with their brother. They can move around the shop without anyone raising an eyebrow. They have keys to the shop. They might have got in and waited for Reidar to come down. They don't have watertight alibis either - both claim they were tucked up in their beds - alone.'

    'Are they physically capable?'

    'Of what?'

    'Killing their brother.'

    'Now you're applying normative assessments, Fristad.

    The rule is we stick to facts, motive and opportunity.'

    'Fine. Go on.'

    'According to these purchasers - Kirkenazr and Varås - Arvid Jespersen said to them, before Reidar was killed, that…' Gunnarstranda formed quotation marks with his fingers… 'that there was a small cloud on the horizon which had to be removed.'

    Fristad smiled. 'That sounds damned conspiratorial.'

    'It does.'

    'Fine. The brothers may have done it,' Fristad concluded.

    'The widow rang Karsten Jespersen when she woke up that night. But Susanne Jespersen said Karsten wasn't at home.'

    'But does that mean the son was on the ground floor killing his father? His wife swears he was in bed asleep when the widow rang,' Fristad said with a frown.

    'The letter and the numbers only make sense if the son is the murderer.'

    Fristad shook his head. 'If you're right that the coded message has something to do with St John's Gospel, well, we may perhaps be able to conclude something of that nature. But then you're overlooking the fact that a taxi was waiting outside with its engine running.'

    Gunnarstranda sighed. 'I'm not overlooking that. The point is that we don't know if it was the same car that was seen every time. One witness saw a Mercedes taxi parked outside the shop, but it was at least four hours before the murder was committed.'

    'But the taxi licence number was 195.'

    'The witness didn't say that.'

    'What are you trying to say now, Gunnarstranda?'

    The policeman cleared his throat and braced himself: 'We know that Richard Ekholt drove a taxi with the number 195. But the witness who saw a mysterious taxi in Thomas Heftyes gate could not identify it - it was not necessarily Ekholt's vehicle. And we don't know if Ekholt parked in Thomas Heftyes gate…'

    'But we do know that Ekholt followed Folke Jespersen that night!'

    'Yes, we do.' Gunnarstranda smiled at the public prosecutor. He knew how much the man liked to destroy mere circumstantial evidence. 'The fact that Ekholt followed the murder victim in his taxi
might
suggest that it was Ekholt's vehicle parked in Thomas Heftyes gate an hour later. The fact that Ekholt had set his cap at Gro Hege Wyller and
might
have been jealous of Folke Jespersen that evening
might
suggest a motive. The fact that Ekholt followed Folke Jespersen
might
suggest that he is involved in the murder. Ekholt's licence number
might
even suggest a connection with the writing on the dead man's chest - since the numbers coincide. The strongest
indication
that Ekholt is involved is the fact that he rang Frank Frølich last night giving the number
one hundred and ninety-five
as a kind of password so that Frølich would take notice of him. However, unhappily, Ekholt is dead. If he had any involvement in the murder, we will have to turn to other witnesses to have this substantiated. We have plenty of circumstantial evidence, but…'

    In a spirit of generosity Gunnarstranda opened the palms of his hands to allow Fristad the last word:

    'But not a scrap of bloody proof,' Fristad rounded off sourly.

    'You would like this taxi-driver to be involved, wouldn't you?' the policeman asked, lighting a cigarette he had in some miraculous way placed between his lips.

    'No smoking in here,' Fristad said.

    Gunnarstranda inhaled, half-opened the box of matches and held it in his hand.

    'Yes, and I still believe it - that this taxi-driver is involved. If you don't stub out that cigarette, you'll receive an official warning.'

    Gunnarstranda inhaled again and flicked ash into the half-open matchbox. 'Let's assume there is a link,' he said. 'We suspect a motive, which is that Ekholt has deluded himself into thinking that Gro Hege Wyller is his girlfriend. He gets a shock because he thinks she's having a relationship with the old man. Ekholt feels rejected and trampled on, and therefore follows the old codger to have it out with him. That's more or less what we think, isn't it?' He took another drag. 'If what we think is right, if Ekholt lay in wait for the old man when he was alone in the shop, why would he put the man in the shop window and write his taxi number on his chest?'

    'Buggered if I know!' Fristad said, gesticulating with his arms. 'It's your job to know that! And now I'm getting nervous because you have the cheek to pollute my office with that stinking cigarette. Are you aware that I have a secretary who is prone to taking a fortnight off for an allergy'

    'Relax,' the policeman said, putting the half-smoked cigarette into the matchbox and closing it. 'While we're considering whether Ekholt might have killed Jespersen, we must not forget our trump cards. The first is that the murder was planned, and the second is that Folke Jespersen must have let the murderer in and so he most probably knew him. I doubt whether Folke Jespersen knew the taxi-driver.'

    'But if Ekholt had stood banging on the window, Folke Jespersen might have let him in,' Fristad countered. 'Ekholt was a taxi driver. He was wearing a uniform. He might have pretended he was enquiring after a customer…'

    'You know best what line you will take in court,' Gunnarstranda answered, raising his palms. 'And we haven't even started to talk about the son's motives. I would like to discuss the inscription on the man's chest…'

    At that moment they were interrupted; the door was thrust open and Frank Frølich walked in.

      Frank felt quite stressed after running the gauntlet of tabloid journalists on his way to Fristad's office. Getting into the public prosecutor's room gave the same liberating feeling you had when you sheltered from a heavy downpour under a large spruce. Fristad and Gunnarstranda, each seated on a blue swivel chair, were silent and deep in thought.

    'It smells of smoke in here,' Frølich said, sniffing.

    'You see,' Fristad said accusingly and shook his head in irritation at Gunnarstranda. 'You see. Now you've done it.'

    'Bloody hell,' Frølich breathed out. 'The press are going wild about this taxi murder.'

    Gunnarstranda swung round on his chair towards- Frølich. 'They were saying on the radio that the taxi drivers in town had gone bananas,' he mumbled. 'It's the usual whinge. Screaming on about the crazy times we live in and the lack of security for taxi drivers. Early today there were a hundred taxis honking their horns outside parliament. Every bloody office worker in town got to work late - even those working here and in the Department of Justice. There was a jam right out to Gardemoen airport.' Then he added, 'The killing might be connected to our case, but it's not a foregone conclusion.'

    'The mobile phone under the pedals,' Fristad said. 'The call to Frølich and the code number 195…'

    Gunnarstranda made a weighing motion with his hands: 'Licence plate or chapter and verse in the Bible. The choice is yours.'

    Fristad stopped swinging on his chair and stamped both feet on the floor with irritation. 'But he rang and said the number. The man driving taxi number…'

    'Yes, OK,' Gunnarstranda interrupted, annoyed. 'But you have to remember that Frølich has been searching for the driver of taxi number 195 for several days! He might have said the number just to identify himself.' He turned to Frølich: 'Did the man say anything about the writing on the dead body?'

    'No,' Frølich confirmed. 'He just said the number. A hundred and ninety-five.'

    'Nothing else?'

    'No, apart from…'

    'From what?'

    'What I told you. That he knew something. I don't think he was alone when he rang.'

    The other two men stared at Frølich, who gave an apologetic smile: 'He may have been in a pub or a café. I could hear quite a bit of noise. Background noise. And sometimes he seemed to be covering the phone with his hand.'

    'Ekholt may have been in conversation with someone while he was talking,' Gunnarstranda explained to the public prosecutor, who pulled an expressive grimace.

    Frølich hunched his shoulders. 'I'm not sure. But the thought went through my mind.'

    'Who could it have been?' Fristad mused. 'Gro Hege Wyller?'

    Frølich shook his head. 'If there was someone, it was a man.'

    'Is this relevant?' Fristad asked.

    'Since he was found murdered an hour later, it's relevant,' Gunnarstranda answered.

    'But how can we explain the fact that Ekholt was killed after talking to Frølich?' Fristad barked.

    'No idea,' Gunnarstranda said with a shrug.

    'But this murder must be connected with the murder of the antiques dealer!'

    'Must it?'

    'He said he knew something, didn't he!'

    'Everyone knows something. You do, and so do I!'

    'But it would be perverse to believe anything else except that the murders are connected!'

    Gunnarstranda shrugged. 'Well.' 'But you've got to be able to see that!' Fristad continued in a milder tone.

    'Not necessarily.'

    'Not necessarily? He drives a taxi with number 195. The numbers are written on the dead body and he even rings the police in fits of laughter as he says the numbers!'

    'Just describe what happened,' Gunnarstranda suggested stonily.

    'What happened? Ekholt went into the shop, he grabbed a bayonet and stabbed the man because he thought the old goat was humping his woman!'

    Gunnarstranda and Frølich watched Fristad with interest. He had stood up and was standing by the table as he opened and clenched his fists in quick succession.

    'Yes?' Gunnarstranda said, impatient.

    'Yes, then he stripped the man, painted the number on his chest and sat the man in an armchair in the shop window.'

    'Why?'

    'Why? I don't bloody well know why.'

    'And then?'

    'And then what?'

    'The keys.'

    'Yes,' Fristad said, calmer now. 'He took the keys, went up to the first floor and…'

    Frølich grinned.

    Fristad sat back - crestfallen.

    'That story's no good,' Frølich said. 'To me it seems more logical that it was someone who wanted to put the body on show. And, if that's right, I reckon the coded message is a reference to the Bible.'

    'But why was Ekholt killed?' Fristad mused aloud.

    'He may have been robbed and killed by a customer,' Gunnarstranda said in a soft voice.

    'You don't believe that yourself, Gunnarstranda.'

    'All the taxi drivers in town do.'

    'But we believe the two murders are connected, don't we?'

    'If there's a connection between the murders of Folke Jespersen and Ekholt,' the Police Inspector said, getting up to pack his papers away, 'it has to be because Ekholt knew something about the first murder. But we have no proof that there is a link. Anyway, Frølich and I cannot investigate the murder of Ekholt.'

    Frølich coughed and said: 'I bet Richard Ekholt was killed because he saw the first murder!'

    'If that bet is accepted, the odds will be poor,' Gunnarstranda said with a grin.

    Fristad looked up: 'So you agree there's a link.'

    'I didn't say that. But this murder must be investigated on its own terms. A whole profession in this town is demanding it.'

    Fristad, dejected, watched Gunnarstranda packing his papers. 'What's your next move on this case?'

    'I'll keep at it,' Gunnarstranda said brightly. 'I'm working my way back through Folke Jespersen's life.'

    'How far have you got?'

    'I expect to finish 1944 in a couple of hours,' Gunnarstranda answered, folding his glasses and putting them in his inside pocket.

Chapter 40

From Thoughts to Deeds

    Frank Frølich looked at his wristwatch. It showed a quarter past three. He glanced over at the front door of Reidar Folke Jespersen's warehouse in Bertrand Narvesens vei. He switched off the engine, pulled the handbrake and stepped out. The door was not locked and the light was on in the huge storage area. 'Hello,' the policeman shouted as the door slammed behind him. 'Hello,' he shouted again, moving down the corridor between all the objects.

    'Over here,' answered a familiar voice. Anna was standing between two stacks of chairs. She was holding a large writing pad in her hands.

    'Did you make it then?' he asked.

    'What?' she asked, confused.

    'Your visit. To Aker Hospital.'

    'Oh, that.' She nodded. 'And you?'

    'I did what I had to do, yes.'

    They stood looking at each other in silence. A lock of black hair fell forwards. She wound it behind her ear with two fingers.

    'And that was good,' he said, feeling foolish and unimaginative.

    'And you?' she said. 'I mean what are you doing here?' 'Have to go through the files, if there are any.'

    'There are two filing cabinets.'

    'Where?'

    She pointed to the staircase running up the wall to a door in the middle. 'Up there - on the first floor.' She assumed a sympathetic expression. 'The office is there. But there's a lot of paper. Enough for a doctoral thesis.'

    Frølich sighed and looked at his watch. 'The evening is still young,' he said with forced irony.

    She smiled back. 'The evening hasn't begun,' she said.

    It was cold in the warehouse. Icy breath came out of their mouths as they spoke. He noticed that her fingers round the biro were pink with cold. 'And you?' he asked shyly.

    She lifted the pad. 'I'm making an inventory.'

    'I mean your back. How is your back?'

    'Fine,' she said. 'Do you know what helps? Reflexology. Yesterday I sat in a chair while my feet were massaged for a whole hour. Wonderful. In the end I fell asleep.'

    'Bloody cold in here,' he said.

    She nodded and blew on her fingers. 'It's warm up there. What are you looking for?'

    He shrugged. 'No idea.'

    She blinked. 'You don't know what you're after?'

    He turned to the staircase and tried a witty riposte: 'I never know what I'm after.'

    'At times you do,' she protested through half-closed eyes.

    They eyed each other again. He could feel his cheeks burning. 'Yes,' he sighed, moving towards the stairs. 'I'd better go and look.'

    He stopped on the top step. Anna closed a wardrobe door and wrote something down. She must have felt his gaze because she peered up. They stared at each other.

    He went into Jespersen's office. It was boiling. He stood with his back to the door and cursed himself for being thick-headed and clumsy and incapable of striking up a conversation.

    He had been intending to ring her. Now that they had bumped into each other he hadn't a clue what to say to her. He traipsed over to Folke Jespersen's filing cabinet and opened the top drawer. A packed row of hanging files stuffed full with yellowing papers fought for space. He automatically took out an armful of files, carried them all to the desk, sat down and began to leaf through the papers. It was difficult to concentrate. He was thinking about Anna downstairs. He was thinking about his deficient social skills. Half an hour later he had taken off his sweater and jacket. One pile had become two and he was halfway through one drawer. He glanced at the door and wondered whether to go out and talk to her. No, he told himself. You'll just make a fool of yourself.

    After an hour he heard a door slam. He checked his watch. It was past four. She had gone for the evening. He heaved a deep sigh and blamed himself yet again for not taking the chance when he had it.

    He stood up, ambled through the kitchenette and onto the landing at the top of the staircase. The large hall was in darkness. The outlines of cupboards, chairs and indefinable junk stood out in the dim light from the row of windows high up on the wall. For the first time in many years he envied people who smoked.

    By ten minutes past eight he had studied the paperwork from six out of eight drawers in total. So far the search had been futile. He was worn out and needed fresh air. He opened the window a fraction.

    From the open window he heard the outside door close with a bang. He stood up and staggered through the kitchenette out onto the landing.

    It was Anna. She was on her way up the staircase. With a six-pack of Frydenlund draught beer under her arm. She peered up and dangled the beer. 'Hope you don't have any other pressing engagements this evening?'

    They divided the rest of the files between them and talked about seventies music, taking turns to suggest bands and songs which the other had to identify and date. If you couldn't answer, you weren't allowed to ask for clues. Anna was kneeling on the floor, flicking through the papers and drinking beer. 'Edgar Broughton Band,' she said just as he found the piece of paper he was looking for.

    'What did you call that lot?'

    She looked up, sure he hadn't a clue. 'The Edgar Broughton Band.'

    He was reading the piece of paper he had just found. 'I went to the Edgar Broughton Band gig in Chateau Neuf in either '72 or '73. I was in the eighth class.'

    'Proof,' she demanded.

    
'Inside Out,'
he said. 'LP from '72.' He waved the piece of paper. 'We're done,' he said.

    When he asked her if she wanted to go to his place and listen to records, she was standing, conveniently, with her back to him. She was looking out of the window, at the moon, and left the question unanswered. They locked the door behind them, and he left his car in the car park. They strolled towards the metro station. The quality of conversation was variable. At times it was serious.

    She commented that they were going to the wrong platform.

    'Wrong?' Frølich asked.

    'If we're going to town, we need to be on the other side.'

    'If we're going to my place, we have to take the train coming,' he said, pointing to the Lambertseter train roaring out of the tunnel.

    When they alighted, both were in earnest mood and walking side by side, hardly exchanging a word. It was only when they were alone in the lift that he got to taste her lips. She pulled his neck down to her with both hands. They stood lost in dreams. They didn't let go until the lift started to descend again.

    They listened to 'Heartattack and Vine' by Tom Waits while they made love. Afterwards he fell asleep but woke up when she pulled the duvet over them. Naked, they lay gazing at the sky through the large window in his bedroom. Visibility was sharp and clear. Red blotting paper covered almost the entire moon.

    'Crazy,' he said.

    'Lunar eclipse,' she said in a barely audible voice.

    'Is it?' He drew her closer to him and pressed his chin into her rounded shoulder.

    'Your beard's soft,' she said. 'I would never have believed your beard would be so soft.'

    He whispered: 'I've never seen a lunar eclipse before.'

    'You may never see one so clear again,' she said. 'Conditions are very unusual tonight. Soon it'll be total.'

    He intertwined his fingers through hers.

    'In fact I should be by Tryvann Lake watching it through a telescope,' she said. 'I had arranged to meet a group of college friends.'

    'Do you meet college friends to watch eclipses?'

    'Astronomy was one of my courses.'

    'If you want, we can take a taxi.'

    'I can see it brilliantly from here.'

    They lay close. Her back against his chest, her thighs against his. She stirred her feet, like a cat when it is getting comfortable, he thought, breathing in her hair and staring up at the sky. There was a tiny crescent of yellow still visible behind the pale red blotting paper.

    He felt he had to do as she did, to whisper: 'That's the shadow of the earth, isn't it? Why is it red and not black?'

    'Sunlight passing through the earth's atmosphere, which filters out most of the blue. Red is what's left.'

    'Nice.'

    'There are thousands of people at Tryvann. They'll talk about it on TV. People all over Norway wrap themselves up, go out and stare at the sky. Right now we tiny humans everywhere are captivated by what is going on above us.'

    'No wonder,' he said. 'The earth's shadow, as it were; the sun shining on the earth while the shadow covers the moon. That's a pretty big deal.'

    'It's God moving,' she whispered and pressed her cheek against his hand.