The Man in the Window (15 page)

Chapter 20

The Coat

  'Where can I hang my coat?' Susanne Jespersen asked, removing a dark, fur-lined garment which she passed to Frank Frølich. She looked around. 'What have you done with that impudent boss of yours?'

    Frølich stood for a few moments wondering what he should do with the heavy outdoor coat. In the end he made up his mind, moved a few things off the little table in front of the sofa and put it there.

    'I've been to see the solicitor,' Susanne Jespersen said. 'He's not allowed to treat us like this, so there will be repercussions. Mark my words!'

    'Of course,' Frølich mumbled. He knew he had put his notepad somewhere. He had had it in his hands, used it when he was writing the report. But he didn't have a clue where it was now.

    'I've been finding out about your boss,' Susanne ranted on. 'And I happen to know he is not flavour of the month. I have contacts in high places. And I won't put up with much more from him. You can tell him that from me!'

    'Right,' Frølich said, scanning his own and his boss's desks. No notepad in sight.

    Susanne studied herself in the mirror and straightened the belt she had put around her waist. 'We'll go and collect our personal property. After all, Karsten is the shop in person. We'll take the property that belongs to us, we will. Don't think this despotic gnome will frighten us away! Got that'

    'Absolutely,' Frølich said, rubbing his nose. 'I took her coat…'he muttered to himself.

    'And on top of that I have to take a day off work, postpone important meetings, but it won't happen again. I've been making enquiries, I have, and I know you need a court order!'

    Frølich found it under the coat. He lifted it up and there was his notepad.

    'You see, I've got you there, haven't I!'

    'Please take a seat,' Frølich said, pointing to an uncluttered chair.

    'As I thought! But now that poor me has made the effort to come here, I may as well stay,' Susanne Jespersen said. 'Get it over with,' she added, folding her arms above the handbag resting on her lap.

    'Exactly,' Frølich said. The telephone rang. 'Excuse me,' he said, walking over to Gunnarstranda's desk and lifting the receiver. 'Gunnarstranda's phone.' He watched Susanne Jespersen with his mind elsewhere. She studied herself in the mirror on the wall, adjusted her long hair, plunged into her handbag and pulled out a lipstick which she ran across her lips.

    'Yes, she's arrived,' Frølich said. 'Yes, I'll remember that,' he said and cradled the receiver.

    Susanne sat down. She pulled a face. Frølich thought at first she was having convulsions - until he recalled her putting on lipstick. For a moment he wondered how old she was. Thirty-five, he thought, between thirty-five and forty, but no older than forty. She was a bit plump and round-shouldered, with thin lips. Now that she had painted them red, they looked like a smudged brushstroke on an otherwise grey painting.

    'Your mother-in-law rang you in the middle of the night?'

    'Oh, my God,' Susanne sighed, resigned. 'I assume you mean my late father-in-law's partner - Ingrid Folke Jespersen, nee Rasmussen. And, yes, it is correct that she
gave me a buzz.
…' Susanne pronounced the final words with a pinched expression around her mouth. 'Ingrid Folke Jespersen, nee Rasmussen, doesn't phone, you see, she doesn't ring either, she
gives you a buzz
- and she does that whenever it suits her, at six, five, four, three or two o'clock at night. And she was so
scared?'

    'So she did ring?'

    'Karsten! I'm so
scared
! Come and hold me, Karsten!'

    Frølich calmly observed her. 'Are you suggesting that she and your husband are having an affair?' he asked in a cold voice.

    'How dare you!'

    'Answer the question,' Frølich said with force.

    Susanne Jespersen lost her composure. 'No, I do not mean to suggest anything of the kind.'

    Frølich felt some silence would be appropriate. So he took his time noting down her answer.

    'But she's an insufferable nag. And sometimes she seems to be trying to catch Karsten on his own. For that reason I did not wake him when she rang that night…' Susanne was on the point of slipping into the role as her old self when she added in an angrier tone: 'But I don't regret it! After all, it was half past two in the morning. Like other people, she has to understand that you can't ring in the middle of the night, even though your husband's bed is empty. What would I do if Karsten went out on the town or came home late - ring everybody I know? Eh?'

    Frølich regarded the woman sitting on the chair. Imagine being married to her, he thought gloomily. Imagine waking up with her in the morning! Every single morning. Imagine coming home to her after a long, tiring day. He caught himself extending Karsten his sympathies as he said:

    'So your husband was at home asleep all night?'

    'Yes.'

    'Have you or your husband a key to the flat in Thomas Heftyes gate?'

    'Karsten has,' she said. 'It's where he grew up, isn't it!'

    'But you haven't?'

    She shook her head.

    'You let Karsten sleep when she rang. What did she say on the phone - word for word?'

    'She said: "Susanne, it's me, Ingrid. Could you ask Karsten to come over? Reidar's not here and I'm scared.'"

    'Did you have the impression she was as scared as she maintained?'

    Susanne recoiled and poisoned daggers took up residence in her eyes. 'Do you mean…?'

    'No,' Frølich said firmly. 'I don't mean anything of the kind. Just describe how you perceived the situation?' 'Well, I was out of it. This was half past two at night. I had been in bed only two or three hours. But I remember what she said. I was pretty shaken myself!'

    'And what did you answer?'

    'I said I would say she'd rung.'

    'Yes?'

    'She said something about a break-in and being scared…'

    Frølich waited for her to go on.

    'I don't remember every word. There was something about her being worried about a break-in. I couldn't be bothered to listen. They had been talking about break- ins all evening - I mean the evening before, when we were at their place.'

    'They talked about break-ins?'

    'Yes, it was a terrible evening - so depressing. Do you know what we talked about? How tender the steak was. We talked about food and how the shop downstairs might be burgled.'

    'Was this a departure from the norm?'

    'What do you mean?'

    'Well, was it always so boring or was there a particular atmosphere that evening?'

    'There was a particular atmosphere. Ingrid seemed very nervous - she is not usually. Reidar was just sullen. But he always is.'

    'What do you mean she seemed nervous?'

    Susanne thought back. 'She knocked a glass of wine over the table cloth. She seemed hyper and clumsy. Nerves, nothing more, nothing less.'

    Frølich jotted this down.

    'The thing is I thought the way Ingrid spoke that night - being scared about a break-in - it all seemed, well, a little convenient.'

    'Convenient?'

    'Yes, a little conspicuous, as though she were using it as a pretext to get Karsten up in the middle of the night. I said he wasn't at home and put down the phone.'

    'Do you mean that Ingrid is interested in your husband?'

    'I didn't say that!'

    'My understanding was that Ingrid had a better relationship with your husband than with you!'

    'That's true enough. It's a good observation. Exactly. You said it.'

    'What's the reason for that?'

    'Are you asking me?'

    'What do your husband and Ingrid talk about?'

    'Books!'

    'You don't say. Books.'

    'Karsten has a talent, he can write, you know. He's done talks on the radio and written articles for the newspaper. But, Ingrid, she just reads novels. And she has got it into her head that they have something in common.'

    'That evening,' Frølich said with emphasis. 'That evening when you were visiting Reidar, do you know if anything unusual happened, if someone came to the door or if someone rang?'

    'There were a number of phone calls.'

    'A number?'

    'Yes, I saw Reidar talking on the phone, but I have no interest in who people phone…' 'So Reidar was making the calls?'

    'I've no idea. I saw him talking on the phone. That was all.'

    'How many calls were there?'

    'One, maybe two, perhaps three. I wasn't following.'

    'But you must know if it was one or three calls?'

    'There were more than one. That's all I can say.'

    'Fine,' Frølich said, and hastened to add before she could continue: 'Ingrid rang you in the middle of the night, but she rang you later too - in the morning.'

    'Yes, at half past seven. But then Karsten answered the phone. Oh God, I regret taking the children - with Grandad lying there, dead!'

    'In fact I met your boy. Nice boy.'

    'Hm,' Susanne grunted.

    'Did you like your father-in-law?'

    'Yes,' came the firm response from the woman on the chair.

    'Really?'

    'I sometimes helped him with the annual accounts. I can do that - accountancy. I don't have a problem with numbers. You can say what you like, but Reidar Folke Jespersen was a decent person, solid.'

    'Do you think he had many enemies?'

    'He had friends and enemies. I was a friend. But enemies? No doubt. That doesn't bother me, though. I looked upon him as a friend.'

    'So you considered him…' Frølich searched for words. 'You considered him to be in good health?'

    Susanne bent forward. 'That man would have outlived us all,' she said. 'The lot of us.' 'If I say the numbers one-nine-five, does that mean anything to you?'

    She rolled her shoulders.

    'Nothing you connect with these numbers? The whole number? Single digits? No relevance to your father-in- law? Accounts? Tax? Anything at all?'

    Susanne stared into space. 'No idea,' she said at last.

    'And your husband? Was there a good relationship between father and son?' Frølich immediately regretted the question. A suspicious, conspiratorial glint came into the eyes of his witness the moment he said the last word.

    'Of course,' Susanne said, and added: 'Are there really no other officers to put on this case? After all, it is a murder and has to be cleared up.'

    'Thank you,' Frølich said, standing up and passing her coat. 'I have no further questions for the time being.'

Chapter 21

Reflection

    Emmanuel Folke Jespersen lived in a cul-de-sac in Haslum. Cars were parked higgledy-piggledy alongside the fences, packed in a thick blanket of snow. The snow- ploughs had snaked their way through. Inspector Gunnarstranda parked in a gap between two well- wrapped cars. There was a line of four red terraced houses. Each house had a handkerchief of a garden in front of the door. A black and white cat, tranquil and picturesque, sat on the front doorstep. The step had been swept; the piassava broom was blue and the shaft decorated with roses in Norwegian style. As soon as Gunnarstranda put his foot on the little step and rang the bell, the cat rose and brushed against his left trouser leg.

    The door was opened by a chubby, young woman with curly hair and glasses. 'Oh, there you are,' she laughed, a little disorientated, as the cat slipped in. 'Are you the man from the police?' she asked, holding the door open for Gunnarstranda, who nodded. 'My grandfather's in the living room.'

    Soft violin music resonated from somewhere inside as Gunnarstranda hung his coat on the peg the woman showed him. 'I'll be off soon,' she assured him. 'I just promised to lend a hand.'

    The policeman followed her down a narrow corridor.

    They passed a staircase to the first floor and continued into a smallish room furnished with a piano and an English-style leather three piece suite. The violin music came from an old stereo cabinet positioned beneath the window - a comfortable arm's length away from Emmanuel Folke Jespersen, who struggled to his feet and extended his hand in greeting.

    Jespersen had two squinting eyes set in a round face dominated by a heavy jaw. His hair was completely white and shone like a Christmas tree decoration.

    'I'll be off then,' the young woman said to Folke Jespersen after pouring coffee for him and the policeman.

    'Right,' the man said, glancing across the table where a flower-patterned coffee flask, cups and a plate of biscuits had been placed. Jespersen pulled out a slim cigarillo from the breast pocket of his pink shirt. 'Mind if I smoke?'

    'Not at all,' Gunnarstranda answered, pulling out his own roll-up tobacco and putting it on the table. Again he screwed up his eyes against the low winter sun bursting in through the window. 'I can't sit here,' he said and moved to the opposite corner of the sofa.

    Emmanuel turned and raised his arm in salute to the young woman closing the door behind her. 'Grandchild,' he said in explanation. 'Kristin. Great girl. Helpful.' He flicked a lighter and puffed the cigarillo into life. Through the loudspeakers the music swelled to a crescendo.

    'Beautiful,' Gunnarstranda said.

    'One of the new rising stars,' Jespersen explained, blowing a smoke ring, which quivered, rose in the sunlight and slowly disintegrated. He picked up the CD sleeve lying on the table between them. 'She looks good, too - unbelievably beautiful, these young lady violinists. They almost play more on their sexuality than on their music.'

    Gunnarstranda took the sleeve. The photograph on the front was of a dark-haired beauty posing with a violin against a sinister background - an urban night scene with dark shadows. Her clothes were provocative and her make-up voluptuous, and she stared at him with moist, parted lips. 'A few years ago I would have thought she was a glamour model, but can you be sure?' he motioned towards the speakers. 'Is it really her playing?'

    Emmanuel Folke Jespersen nodded, amused, and rolled the cigarillo between his fingers. 'Indeed, and not just that, apparently at concerts she stands in a swimming costume and plays. Imagine that. That's the way it is now. A gifted violinist has to wear a bikini to make it!'

    Gunnarstranda nodded: 'It reminds me of…' he began, but paused as Jespersen waved his cigarillo to point out the violinist's virtuosity. Gunnarstranda listened out of courtesy until the orchestra came back in. He went on: 'When I was a young policeman - that must have been in… I can't remember exactly when, but it's a long time ago. I was up north. A lady moved up from Oslo and opened a hairdressing salon in her cellar, but she didn't get any customers until she began cutting people's hair in just her swimsuit.'

    'Well, there you go… coffee?' Jespersen held up the flask.

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'There were single men and schoolboys and swingers, long queues of men who went to have their hair cut, some of them had their hair cut several times a week! No surprises there, she was a good-looking girl, but when the priest went down for a haircut, the women in the district went into action.'

    Jespersen gave a deep guffaw. 'Did you have a haircut?'

    'No, I was sent there because there were allegations that she had started doing bits and bobs in the salon, and sometimes without even a swimsuit on.' Gunnarstranda passed back the CD sleeve. 'So there's nothing new about swimsuits in the food chain,' he concluded, stretching out his legs and making gestures of appreciation as the music flowed out of the speakers: 'She can certainly play.'

    'Schubert,' Jespersen said. 'He was Reidar's favourite composer, by the way.'

    'You don't say?'

    'Yes, he had a side he didn't show to everyone. How should I put it? His soft side - he reserved it for a small band of people.'

    'But you were one of them?'

    Jespersen answered with a shrug and blew another, less successful, smoke ring towards the ceiling.

    Gunnarstranda held his coffee cup and raised it. 'You three had a chat the other day… I was told you met at your brother's place, at Arvid's.' He took a sip of coffee and then put down the cup.

    'Yes, and it was sad. To part on such terms.'

    'What terms?' 'We had a little dispute, and Reidar was upset. It was a shame - that we couldn't make up before he died.'

    'A dispute?'

    'This couple, Iselin and Hermann, they want to buy the shop. Which I think is wonderful. I mean we're - all three of us - getting on and it would be nice to have a lump sum and be finished with everything.'

    'You didn't agree on the price?'

    Jespersen nodded his head gravely. 'Reidar did not want to sell.'

    'Why not?'

    'I have no idea.'

    'Had he had a sudden change of heart, or was he never involved in the sale?'

    'He knew about it. He hadn't been openly hostile until then, just undecided. That was why we had the meeting.'

    'You say you don't know why he turned down the offer. Could it have been to protect his son? Karsten works there, doesn't he?'

    The man tilted his head, as though reflecting. 'Of course it's a possibility…' he murmured. 'Although it doesn't seem altogether probable. Well, I don't know why. Reidar was so unpredictable, you know. He…' Jespersen shook his head again. 'To understand my hesitation you need to have known Reidar.' He panted as he changed position in the chair, put out his arm and turned the volume down low.

    The two of them exchanged looks. Jespersen bent forward in the chair. 'Reidar didn't give a shit about Karsten,' he stated. 'Reidar…' Jespersen leaned further forward, as though to create confidentiality.

    The policeman followed suit.

    'Reidar was old school,' Jespersen said. 'Do you understand?'

    Gunnarstranda didn't answer.

    'Reidar did things during the war about which neither you nor I want to know. Reidar was not a warm-hearted person. He was much too hard on Karsten. You can see that. The boy's crushed. He shakes like a whelp in a thunderstorm. But Karsten is an adult now, with a good marriage, and Karsten and Susanne have enough money. She makes good money, you know - chief accountant and all that. But Reidar - he's never bothered about Karsten's interests. And Karsten? He's never been interested in the shop - not really. He's worked there all these years because he's scared of his father. What Karsten wants is to have a career, as a writer.'

    Jespersen straightened up and puffed on his cigarillo.

    'Has he had any success?'

    'Doing what?'

    'Journalism.'

    'Well… he's written a few reports on things he knows about - a few very interesting articles about Sotheby's in London and that sort of thing. I remember he had an article accepted about the Queen Mother's jewels. That must have been… I wonder if it wasn't in the
Aftenposten
magazine.'

    'You don't say?'

    'Yes, but it's a while ago. In the main he's translated cartoons.' Jespersen grinned with the cigarillo in the corner of his mouth: 'Drop the shooter, you charlatan! Ugh! Argh!' The latter was too much for Jespersen. His face went puce and he had a severe coughing fit.

    Gunnarstranda waited politely. 'I get the same myself,' he said with sympathy when the other man's breathing was back to normal. 'I suppose it has something to do with smoking.'

    'Yes, it may play a part,' Jespersen replied. 'There's not much bloody point stopping, though, when you're over seventy, is there? I've stopped inhaling. That's fine, so long as the cigarillo is strong enough.'

    'Hm, I still inhale,' the policeman conceded.

    'And I cheat a bit, too.'

    'But back to Karsten,' Gunnarstranda interrupted. 'Wouldn't he have seen the sale as a kind of threat? I mean if a job he had been clinging to for years were to be snatched from him?'

    Jespersen sent the other man an amused scowl - to show that he had seen through the policeman's questioning technique - then shook his head again. 'I don't think so, in fact. I think he would look upon it as a kind of - a kind of release.'

    'And you?' enquired the Inspector.

    'Me?'

    'It must have been sad for you that the deal went down the Swanee.'

    Jespersen nodded. 'Not
so
sad,' he said guardedly.

    'What do you mean?'

    'Not so sad that I would hurt my brother.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded to himself and looked around in the ensuing silence. The piano was black, one of the old stand-up types, a Briichner. Above the piano hung a landscape painting of a meadow of flowers with a daisy as the central focus. A picture of boats adorned the other wall. There was a storm and a sailing boat was, symbolically, half a length behind a steam ship going at full speed. 'What sort of relationship did you have with your brother?' he asked.

    'Close, but also distant,' Jespersen growled, circling the cigarillo in the ashtray to get rid of the ash. 'We each had our own families, but we kept in regular contact. Close but distant is quite an accurate description.'

    'You met in your other brother's flat - Arvid's?'

    'Yes. And we had invited our buyers as well, a pleasant married couple. They know all about antiques, and we thought everything was hunky-dory, and then along comes Reidar… I could smell trouble as soon as I saw his face. He was in a terrible mood.'

    'Was he surprised?'

    'What do you mean?'

    'Was he surprised… by… the situation, the two buyers? Hadn't he been involved in the process?'

    'Yes, we were all agreed on the sale, but in fact it was Arvid who stepped into the breach.' Jespersen searched for words. 'Who was the driving force.'

    'Driving force?'

    'Yes, who did the brunt of the work.'

    'So your brother, Reidar, was kept out?'

    Jespersen shook his head. 'No, it's not right to put it like that. Both Reidar and I left the actual sales pitch to Arvid.'

    'So Reidar wasn't against the sale?'

    'No, that's what's so strange. I think something must have happened that day. That was why he dug his heels in - he was just in a bad mood.'

    Gunnarstranda took his tobacco pouch and began to roll himself a cigarette. 'Just grumpy?'

    Jespersen splayed his arms. 'Something must have happened. I saw he was furious the moment he arrived. And then I regretted the whole arrangement -I mean the buyers were there before Reidar came. You know, that meant he was the last to arrive, a kind of outsider, and I don't think he liked that very much.' Jespersen put on a weak smile. 'I
know
he didn't like it at all.' He shook his head in despair. 'The man hated being put last.'

    'What do you think put him in such a bad mood?'

    'I haven't the foggiest. Perhaps he'd had a row with Ingrid. But…' Jespersen shook his head. 'That happened very seldom. No, I don't know.'

    'How do you see their relationship? I mean their marriage. Your brother was much older than her.'

    'You mean whether she…?'

    'Yes, whether she flirted with other men.'

    Jespersen shook his head gravely. 'Have you met her?'

    'Of course. But you know her better than me.'

    'She's the loyal type,' Jespersen affirmed. 'She's always been light-headed, liked dancing, you know, but loyal, very loyal.'