Lethal Investments (10 page)

Gunnarstranda had dropped off his car in Kampen, and thus, when, an hour and a half later, he left the bus and strode down to the Grand Hotel, his brow bore a frown of irritation. It had not been easy leaving his car. The garage was not what he had expected. At first, he had not seen a garage at all. The backyard was an empty gravel area containing nothing more than a shed, a clothes line and a bike stand. The shed was a dilapidated garage with cracked grey boards, probably hadn’t been painted since the Second World War. A thin metal tube with a cowl on protruded from the crooked roof, a cartoon chimney.

One door at the corner of the yard. He had read the name plates very carefully, without identifying a Gunder Auto there, either. Eventually, he had sneaked out of the yard, looked at the house numbers one more time, double-checked the address. Had cursed, turned towards a short, slight figure in oil-stained overalls padding up the street. ‘Gunder Auto? That’s me,’ the dipstick had said, walked right past him, with a gentle smile. Then he beckoned him into the garage.

There was room for the Skoda. Gunder had beckoned. ‘There! There! Over there! Right, straighten up, straighten up, come on, come on.’

Until, sweaty and tired, the detective was finally parked. And he had hardly opened the bloody door when the beanpole had booted away a jack and moved a metal drum, which was probably full of moonshine. Gunnarstranda inferred that from the feeder pipe and the somewhat shaken expression adorning the mechanic’s face for a couple of minutes.

Then the man didn’t have any paper. So in the end he had gone upstairs to the toilet to find something to write on. Down he came with two sheets of tissue and a filthy pencil in his hand.

‘Hmmm, ignition probs, right, dies when you accelerate, ye-ep, makes a helluva racket, right.’

The inspector had subjected the mechanic to some very sceptical scowls. With some hesitation, he had enquired when he might pick up the car again. But didn’t get a proper answer. Just some prattle about what might be wrong and all the things that can go even more wrong with all the electrics nonsense.

On the bus back to town, he had begun to wonder what the hell he had let himself in for. He had briefly considered taking his doubts out on Frølich, who had lured him up there in the first place. Apparently this Gunder lived with Frølich’s girlfriend in a collective. Nevertheless, Gunnarstranda came to the conclusion that, whatever happened, he should have reversed his car out of the yard and kept well away. For that reason, he would wait for the bill before he had a confrontation with his colleague.

He trudged into the Grand Hotel Café and stood inside the door on the lookout for his brother-in-law.

A hiss could be heard from the wall with the window facing Karl Johan. It was his brother-in-law. Heard but not seen. Gunnarstranda scanned the café again. There! Suit jacket waving a newspaper.

The policeman bowed to the head waiter who nodded back with cool reserve. Went over to his brother-in-law’s table and sat down.

A long life had taught Edel’s brother to suppress his laughter. It was dry and shrill, like the lament of a rotating, rusty cogwheel. The sound attracted everyone’s attention. On the other hand, on those occasions when it escaped it was contagious. But his brother-in-law didn’t like to play the clown. So he hissed like a snake whenever he was going to laugh, say hello, or just catch someone’s eye.

‘This is a rare treat,’ his brother-in-law opened politely, sipping his coffee. Gunnarstranda registered acknowledgement, leaned back and waved for a waitress. ‘Coffee,’ he mumbled, then faced the table and reciprocated the sentiments.

It was the first time for four years. The first time since Edel’s funeral.

Around the room sat well-dressed women chattering over slices of cake and morning coffee. Here and there a few ruddy-cheeked business people toiled over a second breakfast. The brother-in-law blended into this milieu. Round glasses, grey waistcoat over a white shirt. Mild, patronizing expression underlined by two lazy eyelids above a smile that looked more like a grimace. If you didn’t know any better, you would think the fellow had had a couple of snifters.

A leather briefcase occupied the chair by the window. An over-sized appointments diary with a plethora of extra pockets and loose papers lay open on the table.

He waved to a becloaked gentleman hurrying past outside.

‘Do you know a company called Software Partners?’ Gunnarstranda asked.

‘No.’

‘They make office computer programs.’

‘Don’t they all?’

Brother-in-law blew on his coffee. But his gaze was less frosty now that he knew the point of the meeting.

The man had been employed by Norsk Data from its inception. Gunnarstranda knew he was somewhere in the top half of the hierarchy. Since he was still there, having survived growth, stagnation and recession he must have been in a position of importance. Apparently on this particular day he was holding a lecture called ‘The Future of Norwegian IT’, sub-titled ‘A Scenario for Information Technology in Norway and the European Union’.

Gunnarstranda had been granted an audience during the interval. The woman with a potato in her mouth, the one who took his brother-in-law’s telephone calls, remarked that anyone who was anyone in the industry would be present. The policeman considered the room to be rather too limited for that to be true. However, the Grand did have a large range of facilities, so perhaps the industry was munching its cakes elsewhere.

‘Any names?’ Brother-in-law asked.

‘Terje Engelsviken.’

He recoiled, put down his coffee cup, winced theatrically and shook his hand as if he had burned himself. Hissed aloud and blew on to his hand.

Gunnarstranda waited patiently.

‘He studied at the Institute of Technology in Trondheim,’ the engineer went on with the coffee cup in his hands again. ‘You know, the generation of academics who turned up for their first interview with a sweat band round their foreheads and Mao on their chests.’

Brother-in-law winked. ‘And got the job. Engelsviken’s a mediocre engineer who for some strange reason found himself in IBM in the early eighties. Left a trifle suddenly, after a couple of years. The official version is that he wanted to start up on his own.’

The waitress came with the coffee. Brother-in-law paused while she transferred the contents of the tray. Resumed after she had gone:

‘The unofficial version is that he’s a rotten apple.’

‘Tell me more.’

‘Apparently IBM don’t pay well enough.’

‘Embezzlement?’

‘Not at all, Engelsviken was drawing a wage at a couple of other places as well.’ Brother-in-law winked. ‘So Engelsviken chose to leave IBM.’

Gunnarstranda guessed that ‘leaving IBM suddenly’ was open to interpretation.

‘Afterwards he started up on his own,’ Brother-in-law continued. ‘In the eighties when banks thought money procreated money, so long as the company who borrowed it had a project that was couched in enough American jargon.’

Gunnarstranda looked around him, took a cigarette from his pocket. Rolled it between his fingers. Asked:

‘Have you met him?’

‘Just the once.’

‘What’s he like?’

He considered for a moment. ‘Old problem. Engelsviken can’t cut his coat according to the cloth,’ he concluded. ‘Haven’t you met the guy?’

‘No. I’ve only heard that his wife is the elegant type with enough money to play the part.’

‘Mmm. Pretty as a picture. Not him though. Eccentric. Likes his liquor, too.’ Brother-in-law gave a conspiratorial smile, leaned forward. ‘There’s a story doing the rounds about Engelsviken. From when he started in the industry.’

He put down the cup with a clink, wiped his mouth with a serviette. ‘Business wasn’t going too well,’ he began. ‘But that can’t have been down to sales. You see, this was the early eighties when PCs were new and everyone wanted one and companies were computerizing their wage bills and invoices.’

Gunnarstranda leaned back and listened to his brother-in-law’s hissy voice. Heard about Engelsviken selling computers like hotcakes, but not paying his bills. ‘They were drowning in debt,’ Brother-in-law said. ‘Creditors were dying for the company to go bankrupt.’

Brother-in-law raised his cup again. Drained the coffee.

Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘He sold computers like hotcakes, but couldn’t pay his bills?’

Brother-in-law threw his arms in the air with a wry smile. ‘They had a place up in Brekke. I went there once. The time I met him.’

He surveyed the room, deep in thought. ‘Much too up-market. Carpets on the floors and a Chesterfield in the dining room. Stock and garage on the lower floor.’

Gunnarstranda was afforded a brief glimpse of the man’s two canines before the story went on. His brother-in-law seemed quite clued-up on the details. At any rate, he knew that the lorry in question drove around with bald summer tyres in the winter. And he knew about the weather that day. ‘This was the end of the year, either November or December. And on this particular night some fairly unforgiving weather set in. Sledging conditions, freezing rain on the lowlands turning to snow on higher ground.’

Brother-in-law had also heard that Engelsviken had the use of a barn in Brakerøya, outside Drammen. ‘You see, that was where the lorry was headed, loaded to the gunnels with computer equipment, office machinery and other expensive items. It happened on the morning when the insolvency administrators were due to come and confiscate all his assets. Engelsviken had obviously been up all night loading the lorry. And after he had finished the bottle was empty. And Engelsviken was pretty pissed. But on these points sources were divided. One version was that Engelsviken had not done any loading, but had been helped by a young lad who had done the job. Another source maintained the boss had done the loading while the lad was going to drive. One thing was certain, however: the solicitor in charge of the bankruptcy proceedings had arrived unexpectedly while the lorry was still in the garage. Here the sources agreed that two things happened. The lad had run like the devil. And Engelsviken, who was well-oiled, hadn’t hung around. He sprang up into the cab, started the bloody vehicle and roared off through the garage’s double doors on to the road.’

Brother-in-law hissed and reached down in his breast pocket for a cigarillo. Gunnarstranda, who had been fidgeting with a lighter, held up a flame for him.

‘It gets a bit sketchy from here on,’ Gunnarstranda’s brother-in-law, who nevertheless had no trouble imagining the sequence of events, pointed out. ‘The vehicle was so heavily laden its road-holding ability was fine for the first kilometres out of town. But when Engelsviken hit Lierskogen the snow started coming down. The air was thick with flakes and the road so slippery cars were swerving out of control and their wheels spinning as they struggled to get up the hills. The overloaded lorry must have fought its way past Asker and right up to the top of Lierskogen. But then the drunken sot – he’s as mean as a pools millionaire – probably didn’t have enough money to pay for the toll. So the knucklehead took the old route down the Lier hills to Drammen. That didn’t go so well. The crate took off on one of the hairpin bends.’

Brother-in-law exhaled a thick, blue cloud of smoke. His lazy eyes were amused. ‘Engelsviken managed to jump out before the vehicle somersaulted down for something like fifty metres before colliding with a tree. Computers scattered over the whole hillside. Do you reckon he sobered up when he peered over the edge to survey his stock?’

The cogwheel began to rotate. His laughter cut through the café atmosphere and a number of heads turned towards them.

Brother-in-law raised his cup and stopped the creaking noises. Confirmed he had no more coffee and poured himself some more from the flask the waitress had left. ‘Then Engelsviken had to thumb a lift home.’

Gunnarstranda was about to say something, but his partner flagged him down.

‘We haven’t got to the best bit yet,’ he said quickly. ‘You see, this administrator had seen the boy running away. And he caught a glimpse of the lorry smashing through the garage doors and heading off. So he drew the conclusion that this was a case of simple theft. And the upshot was that the insurance company had to fork out for the stock and the lorry while Engelsviken got off scot-free.’

Gunnarstranda sat deep in thought, smoking. ‘How much truth is there in this story?’

Brother-in-law shrugged, didn’t answer.

The detective exhaled, still thinking. Someone had made up a story about a man’s trickery, intemperance and good fortune. However much truth there was in the story, it said a good deal that the story existed at all.

‘I don’t think there’s any doubt he wanted to clear the warehouse and swindle his creditors,’ Brother-in-law mused aloud. ‘It’s probably also true that he was stopped by ice and a tree. But the insurance bit sounds a trifle far-fetched.’

‘Is he an alcoholic?’

‘Doubtful. Just a desperado! He’s got his name up in a nightclub called Barock because he drank champagne from magnums when it was all the rage.’

The engineer knitted his brows in thought. ‘An overgrown schoolboy, drives a sports car and likes wild parties. Afterwards it’s back home to the wife, who puts on a nice smile for everyone and pretends nothing has happened.’

‘No long face?’

‘Of course, but she’s a bit aristocratic, in a way. Chooses not to scratch out his eyes. You know, wounds like that are visible, give the hoi-polloi even more to chatter about.’

Brother-in-law glanced at his watch and pushed back his chair. ‘I’ve got a lecture waiting for me,’ he apologized and packed away his things. Gunnarstranda waved to the waitress who came and placed the bill on the table. ‘I’ll pay this one,’ he said in a detached though friendly tone, sliding the hundred-krone note back towards his brother-in-law.

‘I’ll give you another tip,’ Brother-in-law said after the waitress had gone. ‘I don’t know how genuine Engelsviken is today, but I would advise anyone doing business with him to be very cautious.’

He grabbed his briefcase and met the detective’s eyes. ‘These are only rumours,’ he said, leaning over. His brother-in-law’s face was as hard and earnest as it was possible to be with such lazy eyelids.