The Man in the Window (4 page)

Chapter 6

The Night Owl

    Outside the warehouse where this scene was unfolding, Richard Ekholt stood leaning against a wire fence and thinking that the window in the building's façade looked like a half-closed eye. The eyelid was a roller blind and beneath it there was a strip of light. His eyes hurt from staring, but he couldn't tear them away.

    Even though he was very cold, Richard Ekholt was not aware that he was freezing. He was wearing a taxi driver's uniform and nothing over it. The Oslo Taxis logo was sewn on his left sleeve at the top. The uniform was creased, the trousers unpressed and the soiled jacket lapels bore dark, long-term coffee, hot dog and ketchup stains. On his feet he was wearing brown shoes unsuitable for freezing temperatures. When he noticed the woman's silhouette through the white blind, he closed his eyes for two brief seconds. But the feeling that arose from having his suspicions confirmed was a different pain, different from the jealousy he had felt hitherto. What he experienced was a paralysing hollowness, which was not relieved by turning away. For two brief seconds it felt as though the ground would hit him in the face before he found a fence to grab hold of.

    There was just one illuminated window in the row of darkened squares in the wall. Her body became a blurred shadow which soon became a razor-sharp silhouette against the white blind, only to lose its contours in an absurd piece of mute pantomime. The profile of the steep nose, the shape of the top lip and the wig stood out against the blind as she swung round at leisure and began to unbutton her dress. The silhouette was just as sharp as she wriggled one shoulder out and let her dress fall. Her shadow dissolved as, again, she swung around. Then he felt the sensation in his legs go, as though his body were being sucked hollow from seeing her shadow, a torso with straight shoulders and sharply defined breasts, melt into the form of grey mist, as though a film director were sitting somewhere protecting the audience from the spicy scenes. He neither registered the cold on his body nor the icy air in his nostrils. What he felt was the fleeting touch of her skin on his fingers the moment before she pulled away from him and ran out of the car. He staggered towards the door through which she had disappeared. Without taking his eyes off the bizarre shadow theatre going on behind the white blind, he staggered across the tarmac, the patches of ice and trampled snow until he slumped against the iron door which he knew was locked. Nevertheless, he pulled at the handle. He kicked the door. No sign of give. He backed away. How had she got in? he wondered. He searched for a bell, but there was nothing to be seen. She must have known the way, he thought.
She has been here before,
he thought. As though in a trance, he wobbled back to the taxi. All he could hear was the crunching of snow underfoot. He got in and glowered at the clock on the dashboard. Shouts from customers who wanted a taxi seeped through, but he didn't pay any attention; he didn't take his eyes off the minute hand on the clock. Soon he could see his own icy breath. After a while a layer of frozen condensation had covered the inside of the windscreen. His fingers went numb with cold, but all he could think of was her shadow through the blind.

    The minute hand moved with infinite slowness. Nevertheless, it crept round half a circuit without his noticing time was passing. It was almost impossible to i see out through the layer of ice covering the windscreen. He ground his teeth and blew on his fingers to allay the cold. Then he switched on the engine, revved up and put the defroster and heating on full. He held his hands in front of the heating ducts, which were soon letting lukewarm air into the car. His knuckles were red with cold, his fingers white and bloodless. The ice on the windscreen soon thawed, leaving small oval patches through which he could see. His fingers began to tingle. But his brain was still churning over her mysterious rendezvous. Whom had she dressed up for? She had been thinking about this man when she was putting on lipstick, when she leaned towards the mirror and put on eye-shadow. The concentrated hand that held the brush - like that - with him sitting in the same room. Her thoughts had been elsewhere, with another man. She had chosen a dress for another man. Already, in front of the mirror, she was practising this deception. She had not been going to do a job - no readings, no dance. She had been preparing herself for a lover. He clenched his fists and glared. There was still light in the window.

    The car began to warm up; the ice that had covered the windscreen disappeared, and when the switchboard finally received the call that had to be hers, he wondered whether he would be cheeky and take the job. But he refrained. He sat there, immobile. Soon afterwards a taxi pulled up a few metres away, with the roof light off. The taxi reversed and waited with the engine idling as the exhaust fumes danced in a line like a grey wad of cotton wool in the cold. His attention was still directed towards the window. That was why he didn't hear them coming at first.

    When he did notice them, he grabbed the door handle, then let it go. They came walking in a tight embrace. No. They were supporting each other. She, in her high heels, and he - that was when he discovered it was an elderly man. That became obvious when she opened the taxi door for him. He followed her figure with his eyes as she rounded the taxi on her unsteady heels and got in on the opposite side. The taxi set off and he put his car in gear. They took the ring road - illuminated, almost deserted so early in the evening. He stared at the back of her head in the car window. She did not turn round. She had no idea that she had been found out. His eyes stung as he followed them down towards Carl Berners Plass. They were approaching the lights on red and he hung back so that he would not be seen. He fixed his gaze on the man's white hair. When the taxi moved off, he did not notice where it was going. He only saw the back of the man's head in front of him. He tried to imagine what the man looked like. In his mind, he formulated the question:
Who are you?

    Slowing to a halt, he realized they had stopped outside her flat in Hegermanns gate. He braked, pulled into the kerb and switched on the roof light - an anonymous taxi in any street in town. Lowering his chin to his chest, he pretended to be making a note while registering her through his eyelashes. She moved to the side, gave the old man a hug as the door opened, set one foot on the road and manoeuvred her body out. The old man was looking ahead. He couldn't even be bothered to look at
her. The old man was still gazing into space as the car drove off.

    Richard Ekholt instantly switched off the roof light on his car and accelerated. She had crossed the pavement and was now standing in front of the entrance, searching for her key. She turned as he drove past. They exchanged glances. She gave a start and made a movement with her arm when she recognized him. But he drove on. She stared after him. He watched her in the rear-view mirror. The figure became smaller and smaller in the little mirror stained with grease and fingerprints, distorting her features into a hazy shadow. A shadow staring after him, | dejected. But he would take care of her later. First, the old boy. He signalled right and followed the taxi along Ringveien.

Chapter 7

The Glove

    Although Jonny Stokmo was small of stature, he was of stocky build; his hands were large and powerful and he had a loose-limbed, bouncing gait that bespoke strong muscles. The thinning hair was combed back as well as it could be and in this cold weather he kept his head hidden in the hood of his quilted anorak. He was smoking a cigarette. As always, it stuck out from the corner of his mouth, a small fag stained reddish-brown, filthy from his own saliva mixed with tobacco juice. He had a moustache which grew downwards in two thin strands either side of his mouth. It had been burnt away by repeated lightings over the right-hand corner of his mouth.

    He was waiting for Reidar Folke Jespersen. He paced to and fro on the pavement in Thomas Heftyes gate to keep warm. About half an hour before, he had talked to Ingrid Jespersen, who had said that she was expecting Reidar at any minute. His mind was in turmoil about the imminent meeting. He was unsure as to how he should express himself. On top of that, he was worried about how he should position himself; he would have to try to stand in such a way that he had eye contact with Reidar, who was taller than he was. He wondered whether to go on the attack or to be friendly, or somewhere in between. Perhaps he should be ice-cold, as Reidar usually was. He rehearsed We're
both adults
in his head, but disliked the choice of words. The last time Jonny Stokmo talked about being adult was when he talked to his ex-wife, Berit, on the telephone.

    
Reidar, I've been giving this a bit of thought
would signal that Jonny had reflected and was willing to see this business from the outside, also that he had considered Reidar's position in an objective light.
Reidar, I've, been giving this a bit of thought, and you have to understand there is only one solution
… It sounded good.
Only one solution.
It was like saying there was no other way, and then Reidar would be keen to hear what the solution was. Even though, deep down, Reidar had to know the solution. Because Reidar knew Jonny.

    Ingrid had invited him to wait inside, but Stokmo did not want to set foot in Reidar Jespersen's flat. He didn't say this, though. She had prattled away like an immature girl, as always. Ingrid Jespersen was a woman with a lot of conversation in her, the type that likes to flirt with lorry drivers and plumbers, someone who gets the hots for men with dirt under their nails, but never leaves her lair and the security of being fettered in a humdrum marriage. Jonny was sure that, whether Ingrid knew anything or not, she was a better person than her husband, something which he had a mind to tell Reidar.

    He was freezing cold because he was wearing jeans, with no long underpants underneath, no long johns. He should have put them on when the temperature crept down to minus 20.

    The taxi carrying Reidar Folke Jespersen drew into the pavement. Stokmo waited until Jespersen had paid the taxi driver, staggered out and the taxi had driven off. He put both hands in his jacket pockets and went over to meet the man. At first Folke Jespersen stood stoop- shouldered on the pavement. Then he wrapped his coat around him and set off with his old-man-gait, heading for the front door of the building some distance away.

    'Oh, it's you,' said the old man, stopping. 'What do you want now?'

    Immediately, Stokmo knew how this was going to end. Reidar's intonation, the brief glance, the look of rejection.

    'Yes, nice to see you, too,' Stokmo said.

    Reidar glared at him over his shoulder. He wanted to pass.

    'There's something I want to say,' Stokmo stated.

    'The answer's no.'

    He knows what it's about,
thought Stokmo.
So he's thought about the matter; it has been bothering him; he isn't sure how to tackle it.

    Folke Jespersen shoved Stokmo in the shoulder so he could pass.

    'There's only one solution,' Stokmo said with force, standing in his way again.

    'Get out of my way,' the old man said.

    'I've decided,' Stokmo said. 'And…'

    '… I'm sick of your prattle,' Folke Jespersen interrupted. 'I don't owe you anything - neither you nor your late father.'

    Folke Jespersen was about to force his way past, but Stokmo grabbed him by the collar. 'You're going nowhere, old man!'

    'I beg your pardon?'

    Jonny Stokmo had not envisaged this turn of events, that he would grab the sourpuss by the collar. As he felt the old man's body yield to his muscular strength, he was paralysed by the situation he found himself in. Reidar was not anyone. This was
Folke Jespersen.
The paralysis that overcame Stokmo allowed Folke Jespersen to loosen the other man's grip with ease. 'How dare you!'

    'You will pay!' Jonny Stokmo was still angry, but his demand didn't quite have the same power he had expected. The shock of feeling his own anger translate into violence had led to his muscles failing him; he felt weak, his wings had been clipped.

    'Creep back down that stinking hole from which you crept!' hissed Folke Jespersen. The old man's jaw quivered. He tore himself loose. Stokmo stood in amazement as Folke Jespersen passed by him with long strides. Then the old man stopped, as though he had changed his mind. He rummaged in his pockets for a pair of gloves. He glowered at one of the gloves for a moment, then slapped Stokmo in the face with it, once, then once again. 'You bloody simpleton!' Folke Jespersen snarled and headed for the door twenty-five metres away.

    When the old man had passed him, Stokmo seemed to come back to life. 'You're a thieving bastard!' he yelled and, on his short legs, bounded after the tall, old man. 'And you won't bloody get away with it!'

    Folke Jespersen completely ignored him. As they
got -
to the front door, he rang the bell to his flat and stood staring into space as though Jonny Stokmo did not exist.

    'You won't get away with this,' Stokmo threatened. 'I'll be back. And it won't be you doing the slapping, you bloody fascist.'

    There was a buzz. Folke Jespersen opened the door. 'Do what the hell you like!' he mumbled, letting himself in without so much as a glance in Stokmo's direction. The door slammed in Stokmo's face and he was left looking at it. 'You bastard,' he swore. 'You bastard!' He backed away from the wall and shook his fist at the windows on the floor above.