Lethal Investments (18 page)

The gate was open. The lock had been smashed to pieces. Gunnarstranda examined the remains. Ran his fingers over the metal. Heard Frølich come from behind. The sweet smell of vomit filled his nostrils.

‘The guy must have used a crowbar,’ Frølich opined.

They advanced further through the dark arched gateway. The front door didn’t seem to be damaged at all. Curious, thought Gunnarstranda. And stopped.

‘It might have been open,’ the man behind him suggested. ‘The guy broke open the gate, but the front door could have been unlocked.’

‘Hm.’

Gunnarstranda swivelled and retraced his steps, into the gateway. Opened the gate wide until it hit the wall.

‘Hm,’ he repeated, groping along the wall with his fingers. Felt a scar in the wall.

Frølich reacted. Strode back to the car and returned with a torch. Shone it on the wall where you could see the plaster had been damaged. Pulled the gate wide open again. The lock hit the scar in the wall.

‘That does not come from prolonged wear and tear,’ Frølich stated.

‘If so, we would have seen peeling paint at most. This is from a blow or blows.’

Gunnarstranda agreed. ‘You mean someone smashed the lock to pieces and used the wall as a base?’

‘Looks like it.’

Gunnarstranda didn’t answer at once, stroked his lips, thinking that it might not have happened like that. The gate could have slammed open when the lock was smashed. And then the lock case would have damaged the wall when it struck. But whatever the reason the result was the same. He heard Frølich’s voice:

‘Our boys’ll have to examine the wall.’

Gunnarstranda nodded, opened the door and went up the stairs first. The flat door had been levered open with a crowbar. The whole frame had been torn off so the white wood in the splinters shone like spilt paint.

The small flat was hardly recognizable. The last time books and papers had been scattered everywhere, this time it was worse. The mattress had been slashed and stood sideways against the wall. Its innards were strewn across the floor. Duvet and pillow had met the same fate. The room was deep in brown and white feathers from the bedding. All the cupboards were open, the contents spewed out.

Someone had systematically worked their way through all the objects in the flat.

Gunnarstranda experienced an urge to swear. ‘This was thorough,’ he mumbled, going over to the window and drawing the curtains. The walls outside were in darkness. More or less. On the opposite side of the street two panes were illuminated.

Frølich wiped his forehead.

‘I think it’s time to have another little chat with Arvid Johansen,’ said Gunnarstranda softly, letting go of the curtain.

They ran down the stairs at speed. The rain had got heavier in the street. A stream was running down the gutters.

Gunnarstranda flipped up his coat collar and ran across. Stormed up the steps with Frølich at his heels. Rang Johansen’s bell.

No one answered.

Frølich stood with his ear to the glass in the old-fashioned double door. ‘It’s quiet in there,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps he saw us?’

Gunnarstranda rang again. Pounded on the door with his fist. Nothing happened. One more time. Three long, firm rings on the silent staircase. No reaction.

Frank Frølich raised his right leg and kicked in the door. The bolt securing it to the floor cracked like a piece of chalk. Both doors burst open with a bang.

Neither of them moved.

The light in the flat came from a door in the hall. The bathroom. The rest was in the dark.

Gunnarstranda went in first. Switched on the light in the sitting room. The chair was empty. The sofa was empty. The bathroom was empty. Johansen’s flat was empty.

They began to carry out a sporadic search of the flat. Opening random cupboards that were crammed with the same clothes they had found on the floor the last time they had ransacked his place.

On the kitchen worktop there was a half a loaf and half a can of liver paste that had gone dark and crusty at the edges. A stained coffee jug was half full of black coffee. In the fridge there was a carton of buttermilk past its sell-by-date. Two bottles of export beer were in the door with a half-empty bottle of cod-liver oil. On the top shelf there was a piece of lightly salted bacon in a plastic packet, as well as a bag of potatoes. Kerr’s Pink, thought Gunnarstranda when he saw the reddish skin and the deep eyes.

On top of the fridge there were some blue prescriptions and a number of unpaid bills with an uncashed social security form showing that Johansen was not living off the fat of the land.

In the middle of the worktop lay Johansen’s wallet. It was thick, brown and the leather was very worn. Gunnarstranda picked it up, weighed it in his hand. Opened it. In one pocket there was a stiff identity card issued by the Post Office. The card showed a picture of Johansen wearing a shirt and tie. The bags under his eyes were less conspicuous than in reality. The card revealed that the man had retired five years ago.

The police inspector cast a brief glance at the picture, then removed what was causing the wallet to bulge. A wad of paper, as thick as a book. Bluish white with pink and purple hues. A wad of one-thousand-krone notes with an elastic band round them.

‘Either he’s out and up to mischief,’ Frølich said from the sofa, ‘or something’s happened to him.’

‘I fear it’s the latter,’ answered Gunnarstranda. Shook out a transparent plastic bag from the bunch he had in his pocket. ‘We’ll have to be careful.’

He dropped the pile of money into the bag. ‘I don’t think we’ll find a single fingerprint in Reidun’s flat.’

‘That wasn’t here on Thursday!’ Frølich said referring to the money. He had got to his feet and was studying the contents of the bag.

‘Nor the wallet,’ replied Gunnarstranda stroking his mouth, thoughtful. ‘Although the money may have been here. If he had had it on him.’

The two detectives were back at Police HQ. It was early morning and this wing of the station was dead. They were the only ones in the corridor. Frank Frølich slumped against the wall and watched Gunnarstranda fumbling in his pockets, looking for the keys. In the end, he couldn’t be bothered to wait any longer and unlocked the door himself. Went in first, threw himself into a swivel chair, swung round and took two cups from the window sill. Stifled a yawn.

‘I wonder what this bloody thief was after,’ Gunnarstranda mused aloud from the sofa while Frølich attended to coffee.

‘There’s a pattern here,’ the inspector reasoned in vexed mood. ‘Someone broke into Software Partners three weeks ago. He turned everything upside down, but apparently he didn’t steal anything. Someone searched Reidun’s place on the night of the murder. No easily fenceable items stolen. Someone went through her flat a second time with a fine-tooth comb, last night. Odds are it was the same man.’

‘Mmm,’ agreed Frank without much enthusiasm. Put a foot on the floor. Swung round and regarded himself in the window. Could see a little frown growing in the dip between nose and forehead. ‘This break-in seems very peculiar to me,’ he exclaimed and could not restrain the burgeoning yawn. ‘I don’t see the link with the murder. I don’t see why whoever burgled Software Partners would burgle Reidun. And I’m buggered if I understand why she had to die as a result.’

‘She didn’t die because of a break-in,’ the inspector answered, his mind elsewhere, hiding behind a drowsy veil in front of his eyes.

Silence descended. The coffee machine coughed and spluttered. Gunnarstranda got up, lifted the lid impatiently, stared down at the brown liquid that had not yet seeped through the filter.

Bet he won’t be able to wait, thought Frank. Right first time. Gunnarstranda had to pour himself a cup. He cursed aloud when the coffee splashed and burned his fingers. He dried his hand on his coat and sipped the coffee. Sat down. Blew on the coffee and took another sip. His little head was almost concealed by the cup. Only his bald crown with the cotton-like hair and the slightly curled ears were visible.

He looked up. Eyes clear now. Banged the cup down on the table. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time, shall we,’ Gunnarstranda proposed. ‘No one climbed in her window the night of the murder. That’s obvious. And Sigurd Klavestad was willing to swear he heard her lock click behind when he left. But Mia Bjerke found her door unlocked. It isn’t a latch lock. The door has to be locked with a key from the outside or the handle on the inside. So how did this thief get into her flat on the night of the murder?’

‘She let him in.’

‘Or he had a key.’

Frank objected. ‘Reidun would never ever lend her flat key to anyone.’

‘No?’ Gunnarstranda queried, taken aback. ‘Why not?’

‘I just know she wouldn’t.’ Frank leaned forward. ‘Her personality,’ he argued quietly. ‘I envisage a girl with some distance from people, a girl who does as she wants! For her it was important that she was in control of her fate. That she could spend her time as she wished.’ He straightened up in his chair again. ‘We’ve just seen that the murderer had to break in. So why would he have had a key on the night of the murder and not now?’

Gunnarstranda nodded slowly.

‘No one had a key on the night of the murder,’ Frank stated with conviction.

Gunnarstranda’s eyes lit up. ‘Let’s assume you’re right,’ he continued eagerly. ‘No one had a key and no one caught her by surprise. We know she locked up after Sigurd Klavestad. They had hardly fallen asleep when Sigurd got up to go. She went over to the window where she drew the curtains as Johansen said. Afterwards she went back to bed. Sigurd told Kristin Sommerstedt that Reidun’s telephone rang just before he left. It was an anonymous caller. No one spoke. Let’s assume it was the murderer who called.’

Gunnarstranda paused, got up and surveyed the town as the grey dawn began to break.

‘At first Sigurd Klavestad couldn’t get out of the yard,’ he continued, facing the town. ‘It took him time to clamber out. Johansen confirmed that. Reidun, who had gone back to bed, was probably asleep. At least we know some time passed. Johansen said it was a quarter of an hour. Sigurd maintained it was ten minutes tops.’

Frank glanced instinctively at the clock himself. It was half past five. He imagined Eva-Britt sleeping at home in his bed. She would probably have gone back to Julie by the time he had finished here, fairly annoyed with him, he assumed. So he had better ring her afterwards and arrange a morning walk or something to pacify her.

‘In the end, Sigurd manages to scramble over the bloody fence and into the street,’ Gunnarstranda’s voice came from the window.

‘Mm.’

Gunnarstranda nodded and turned to Frølich.

‘I think the old boy saw the murderer, too,’ he concluded. ‘The old codger wouldn’t concede he’d seen the two hippies arrive by taxi before Sigurd Klavestad went home. They unlocked the gate and the door to the stairs. Johansen kept mum about them until we pressed him. So he must have seen the murderer go the same way. That was why he was so bloody high-handed with us. He was messing us around, he knew what we wanted to know and kept it close to his chest. He was so pleased with himself. Because he had followed Klavestad, knew who he was and where he lived.’

Gunnarstranda gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘He exchanged the information for a wad of one-thousand-krone notes. He could do that because he had seen the murderer and knew who he was! You saw yourself how his face changed when he heard that Sigurd Klavestad was dead. If it was Johansen who sold Klavestad’s name and address to the murderer it’s no wonder he got het up when we pressed him.’

‘Hm,’ Frank pondered. ‘How did Johansen find the murderer?’

Gunnarstranda shrugged. Seeming to lose confidence.

‘Hard to say,’ he said, dismissing the question. ‘We know he had been watching Reidun for more than a year. He must have seen most people who visited her last year. That’s a possibility. He recognized the murderer, knew who it was.’

Frank wasn’t impressed by his boss’s tentative response. ‘Thin,’ he contended. ‘There must be a better explanation than that.’

‘Maybe. Let’s leave that for the time being.’

The inspector faced the town again. ‘We know Sigurd Klavestad met the murderer outside the gateway. That’s why he’s lying on Schwenke’s slab now. He met this person who killed Reidun.’

Frank closed his eyes. Opened them. Pulled the hold-all on the table towards him. Took out the bag of bank notes. Held the plastic up to the light, let it dangle in front of his face.

‘Would the old idiot try anything so stupid?’

Gunnarstranda eyed him. ‘Have you got a better suggestion?’

Frank cleared his throat. ‘The jogger, this big-mouth upstairs. We could put the squeeze on him, find out if he really knows as little as he claims.’

Gunnarstranda wrinkled his nose. ‘Bjerke,’ he mumbled, lost in thought. Nodded to himself. ‘It’s true the man noticed precious little on his jog.’

Faint smile. ‘Would be interesting to hear what he has to say about the burglary last night.’

The smile broadened into a big grin. ‘Good idea, Frølich!’

He snatched the telephone. ‘What about if a couple of boys toddle over to Bjerke now and spoil the morning jog?’

Gunarstranda picked up the receiver, rang and got what he wanted. Leaned back in his chair afterwards with coffee cup in hand.

‘That’s done then,’ he said under his breath. Raised the cup to his mouth, but put it down quickly. Pulled a grimace at the confrontation with cold coffee. Lit a cigarette instead, exhaled a cloud of blue smoke.

I’ll remember that smell for ever
, thought Frank, closing his eyes.
Smoke, coffee and the boss’s Aqua Velva aftershave. The smell of night in this room.

‘There are still several loose threads,’ Gunnarstranda mulled aloud. ‘But let’s unravel the knotted ones we know. The murderer,’ he began. ‘The person Klavestad met and Johansen saw going into the block of flats. The gate was open. It had been opened by the freaks on the top floor with the half-dead cannabis plant on the window sill. The murderer went upstairs and rang Reidun’s doorbell.’

Gunnarstranda took a break. Frank inhaled and continued for him:

‘Reidun must have thought it was Sigurd coming back!’

‘Presumably,’ Gunnarstranda concurred with a nod. ‘She got out of bed, went over to the door . . .’

He hesitated.

Neither of them said anything. Frank rose to his feet, walked over to the sink with the coffee jug and filled it with fresh water. Gunnarstranda sat with his elbows on the desk. Staring ahead, puffing on his cigarette without removing it from his mouth.

For the second time they sat listening to the chug of the coffee machine as the water trickled through.

‘This is where we have to tread with great caution,’ Gunnarstranda mumbled to himself.

‘We know the knife came from the flat,’ Frank affirmed.

His colleague nodded.

‘So the murderer didn’t take the weapon with him.’

Gunnarstranda nodded slowly. ‘That’s important,’ he nodded. ‘No weapon.’

He stubbed out the cigarette, interlaced fingers and put them under his chin. Rested his head on his hands with his elbows on the table. ‘She opened the door a fraction,’ he said softly. ‘Because she wasn’t wearing any clothes. She thought it was Sigurd coming back, but then someone else was standing there.’

‘She knew him,’ Frank said. ‘He was unarmed.’

‘Yes,’ Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘She knew him. The murder was not an accident. It was committed in passion. The murderer exploded in there. But how well did she know the person who rang? Suppose it had been you standing there, what then?’

‘Then she would have asked what the hell I wanted.’

‘And you would have said you wanted to talk to her.’

‘“Talk then,” she would have said.’

‘“Let me in,” you would have said.’

‘She would have told me to piss off. But if I had known her I assume she would have closed the door in my face and kept me waiting in the corridor while she put on some togs.’

‘That could have happened,’ Gunnarstranda decided, extinguishing another cigarette. He sat with his head lowered. ‘It could have happened like that,’ he repeated softly. ‘Except that she put on a loose dressing gown without a belt, and nothing else.’

Frank raised one foot on to the edge of the desk. ‘It could have happened like that until she tried to close the door!’ He fought another yawn, lost the battle, his jaw clicked. ‘But the person standing there never let her close it. He just shoved open the door and went in before she could react.’

‘But that doesn’t make any bloody sense!’

Gunnarstranda got up with his coffee cup, poured the cold slop into the sink, came back and poured himself another cup from the fresh brew. ‘If whoever-it-was forced his way in,’ he argued, ‘then some time must have passed before the murder was committed! After all, she was wearing this dressing gown. And the man who was there had to locate the knife first, the murder weapon. Since he came unarmed he would have had to lose his temper enough to kill her, to grab the knife in passion. That takes time, too. In addition, he managed to make a terrible mess of her flat! That takes time. And in all this time that just ticked away none of the neighbours heard a single sound. There’s something very bloody wrong here!’

He thumped his fist on the desk and rubbed the edge of his hand afterwards. He’d hit it so hard he hurt himself.

‘Fine,’ Frølich said with diplomacy. ‘Let’s drop that one then. And go on. We’re assuming that Sigurd Klavestad met the killer outside. He died because he had seen the killer there. But why the hell would the killer feel threatened by him?’

‘Because Sigurd saw him again.’

‘Where?’

‘At Software Partners when he was searching for someone to share his grief with and found Kristin Sommerstedt.’

Frank whistled. Stared at his colleague. ‘If Sigurd was murdered because he recognized the killer at Software Partners, then the murderer is one of those connected with the business. As far as we know, Reidun had a close relationship with most people there. I assume a knock at the door from someone there would not especially alarm the woman.’

Gunnarstranda nodded and heaved a sigh.

Frank smiled without opening his mouth. ‘So we know the murderer was connected with Software Partners,’ he beamed, unable to curb the laughter creeping up on him. ‘Why for pity’s sake would the guy break in at Software Partners then?’

‘That’s it,’ roared Gunnarstranda. ‘Of course!’

He jumped up. His lips were trembling and he nervously ran his long fingers over his bald patch. ‘That’s how it has to be,’ he whispered, excited.

Frank felt he was hanging on by his fingernails. ‘How what has to be?’ he shouted testily.

‘You’re right!’

Gunnarstranda’s voice was still a whisper. His eyes sharpened neurotically. ‘The thief doesn’t work there. Only the murderer!’

Frank was none the wiser.

‘Use your grey matter, Frølich!’

Gunnarstranda sat down slowly and managed to find his mouth with the cigarette. But when he lifted the lighter his hands were calm and his eyes shone across the table, cold and triumphant. ‘There were two people, of course!’

He grinned with a barely concealed supercilious expression on his face. Lit the cigarette, leaned back in his chair and lectured:

‘The thief used a crowbar to break into Software Partners a fortnight ago. But he didn’t find what he was looking for. One Saturday two weeks later Reidun is picked up at Scarlet. A place where we know these computer people hang out. She takes Sigurd home to her place. They spend the night together. He leaves at the crack of dawn. Then the murderer comes. Speaks to Reidun. Speaks about something that is incredibly important to the visitor. The time suggests that. Whoever drops by at six o’clock on a Sunday morning must be fairly agitated. As Reidun is standing there without any clothes on she can’t be all that interested. She’s tired and is just waiting for her guest to piss off. In the end, the guest grabs the knife that’s lying around and takes out his rage on Reidun’s chest. Then the murderer runs away. Doesn’t even bother to close the door.’