The Man in the Window (19 page)

    Stokmo's eyebrows shot in the air and he clenched both fists. 'Are you hard of hearing?'

    Frølich regarded him coolly until the aggressive expression softened. 'Were you employed by them or did they buy your services?'

    Stokmo relaxed again and demonstrated this by crossing his legs. 'Reidar Folke Jespersen would have spotted a 5o-øre coin on the opposite side of the street,' he said. 'Do you think a man like that would pay the employer's contribution to social security? The answer is no. I was never employed. I sent him invoices.'

    'You said they were fighting about the shop,' Frølich continued, flicking a page over in his notepad.

    'As I said, they were quarrelling about this tiny shop. Everyone wanted a slice of the cake and everyone wanted to earn something from junk. But they didn't pay my invoices.'

    'How would Reidar's brothers earn anything from the shop?'

    'They own the whole caboodle, don't they? The three of them. Now there are two. And it was a limited company, so Ingrid is out of the picture. Smart move, you see. By croaking Reidar they got rid of the missus at the same time. So now there are Karsten, Arvid and Emmanuel left. Now just wait and see if a will turns up, and if it does, you've got your murderer.' Stokmo gave a sly grin and stood up. Then he plodded over to the chest of wood next to the kitchen door, took out two birch logs, sauntered over to the stove and went down on his knees. Frølich watched him place his hands around the logs, make a hole in the glow with the log before forcing the wood into the stove, closing the door and adjusting the draught.

    In his mind Frølich tried to follow Stokmo's reasoning, but gave up. He said: 'But if the shop isn't worth anything, as you say, then this theory doesn't hold water.'

    Stokmo stood up. His eyes flashed. 'What theory?'

    'The theory that one of the heirs might kill Reidar to inherit the shop.'

    Stokmo sat back in the rocking chair, took out a packet of tobacco from his breast pocket and rolled himself, a cigarette. 'That's the tragedy of it, isn't it? These people are fighting over nothing. It's like watching the heirs to one of the farms round here. Brothers and sisters stop talking, they get into brawls and feud over tiny strips of land which produce bugger-all. In a couple of years, when we're part of the EU, all these smallholdings will be closed down and abandoned, but still they knock ten bells out of each other. Do you remember that case up in Skedsmo, a few years ago, where a whole family was killed, mother, father and daughter? It's like that. Reidar was running a second-hand shop, for Christ's sake, a hole in the wall, less than fifty square metres and they didn't have enough money to settle old debts. That's what they were fighting over, what they killed for.'

    'How much did he owe you?'

    'That's private.'

    'But you think he had enough money to pay you?'

    'No comment.'

    'Hm?'

    'I said: no comment.'

    Frølich sat up straight in his chair. 'This is a police interview, Stokmo, not a press conference.'

    Stokmo didn't answer.

    Frølich nodded. 'What do you think? Did Reidar have a large fortune?' 'I don't imagine so.'

    'He must have had money in the bank,' Frølich opined.

    Stokmo shrugged his shoulders.

    'But you were there on the evening he was killed?'

    Stokmo nodded.

    'What were you doing there?'

    'I wanted to talk to Reidar.'

    'What about?'

    'About debts.'

    'Did you talk to him?'

    'No.'

    Frølich jotted down the answers and looked up from the pad. He said nothing.

    At last Stokmo lit the cigarette he had rolled. He inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs and kept it in. Then he sat forwards in the chair, his hands cupped around the cigarette, staring ahead with vacant eyes, while holding his breath.

    Frølich wondered how long Stokmo would manage to stay silent. The man leaned back and almost seemed lost in his own thoughts as he rocked backwards and forwards in the chair. The creaking of the runners against the lino floor, as well as the crackle of burning birch accompanied by the chug of the draught on the wood burner were the only sounds in the room. All of a sudden, Stokmo sat up with a start, as though waking from a dream. 'Was there anything else?' he asked.

    'I want to know what happened when you met Reidar that night,' Frølich said.

    'He arrived in a taxi and I asked for my money. He told me to go to hell and went inside and up to the missus.'

    'Had you been waiting outside?'

    'I went up to the flat first, but he wasn't there and his missus said she was expecting him any minute.'

    'What did you do when he went in?'

    'I left.'

    'Where did you go?'

    'To a lady I know.'

    'Who?'

    'She's called Carina. Lives in Thereses gate.'

    'How long did you stay there?'

    'Don't remember. We were busy for a few hours. I went to my son's place. I sleep there when I'm in town. I slept at his and came back here the day after.'

    'When did you arrive at your son's house?'

    'I would guess at around eleven.'

    'Did you try to get in touch with Reidar again?'

    'Depends what you mean.'

    Frølich raised both eyebrows.

    'I tried early in the morning.'

    'When?'

    'I went at eight - to Ensjo. They have a warehouse and an office there.'

    Stokmo went quiet.

    'You waited for him in Ensj0 at eight o'clock on Saturday morning?'

    'That's what I said.'

    'Was he as unsympathetic then too?'

    'He wasn't there at all. I waited until eleven. Sat waiting in my car for three hours. He didn't bloody turn up.' 'Are you sure?'

    'Do you think I would sit here and lie? He wasn't there. That was why I tried Thomas Heftyes gate in the evening.'

    'Where did you go in the intervening time?'

    'I went to Karl-Erik, my son. I gave him a hand until about five. Afterwards we had something to eat and then I went to Reidar's place.'

    'Was your son at home when you went there - after you'd been to Thomas Heftyes gate?'

    'Think so.'

    'What do you mean
think}
Didn't you talk?'

    'No. I heard a woman in his flat. He lives over the workshop. I suppose you've been there - in Torshov - since you found your way here without asking for directions. I usually spend the night in the back room in the office shed when he has this lady staying. I went there and snored through till the next morning.'

    'You met Folke Jespersen at about a quarter past seven. You left him and went to this Carina. What's her surname?'

    'You tell me,' Stokmo mumbled and thought aloud: 'Smidt? Smestad? Something beginning with S. I don't remember.'

    'Have you got her telephone number?'

    'Yes. And the address.'

    'All right. You went to this Carina then and stayed there until about a quarter to eleven?'

    'Possible.'

    'And you arrived at the workshop in Torshov when? Eleven?' 'More or less.'

    'And you went to bed straightaway?'

    'I probably had a smoke first, read the paper for a bit»

    'When did you go to bed?'

    Stokmo shrugged. 'Didn't look at my watch.'

    'But you didn't talk to anyone?'

    'No.'

    'Did you go back to Jespersen's that night?'

    'No, I told you!'

    Frølich studied him, but didn't quite know what to believe. 'Did you see your son the next morning?'

    'For God's sake, this was a Saturday, wasn't it! And he had this woman with him.'

    'In other words…'

    'In other words I don't have an alibi, as you call it!' Stokmo snapped.

    'Why are you so aggressive?' Frølich wanted to know.

    'I'm not aggressive. I'm just bloody sick of all this beating round the bush. I stopped having anything to do with Reidar because I have had him and his family up to here!' He illustrated with a hand to his throat, and went on: 'But I wanted my money and I was stupid enough to go and get it.'

    He slammed his fist down on the table. Frølich watched him. There was no room for anything else but fury in the man's black expression. He tried to imagine this man being given the cold shoulder by an eighty-year-old, but abandoned this line of thought and instead asked:

    'You said there was a connection between Reidar and your father, didn't you?' 'They were old pals.'

    'So the connection between Reidar and you was through your father?'

    'Yes. Have you finished now? I have to chop more wood now - and have a crap.'

    Frølich pondered. 'I'm not sure I have what I need. So there's a very good chance we will have to talk again.'

    'Then you'd better get it over with now.'

    'How much did Reidar owe you?'

    Stokmo sent him a dismissive grin.

    Frølich stood up, went to the window and gazed across the partially snow-covered field stretching down to the frozen lake. The ridge of a barn roof was visible above the crest of a hill on the opposite side. A herd of deer had collected under some trees. They were grazing on hay. Someone had put a bale out in the snow. It was a very harmonious, idyllic winter landscape. 'It's very nice here, by the way,' he said to the man in the rocking chair. 'If I lived here, I don't think I would be so angry all the time.'

    Stokmo didn't answer.

    'What do you associate with the number one hundred and ninety-five?' Frølich asked from the window.

    'The same as I associate with the numbers one or seven or fifty-two. Nothing.'

    Frølich studied him. 'Hmm,' he said. 'You've got previous convictions, haven't you?'

    He had waited a long time to deliver this blow because he knew it would hit the mark. Stokmo's shoulders slumped; he scowled and had the eyes of a hunted animal.

    They stared at each other: Frank Frølich reclining against the wall and Jonny Stokmo cowed in the chair.

    'It doesn't look good you hiding out here, as you were one of the last to see Folke Jespersen alive.'

    'It was…'

    'Shut up,' Frølich said coldly. 'You've admitted you had a score to settle with Folke Jespersen. You were one of the last people to see him alive. You don't have an alibi for the time of his death. And your story is damned thin.'

    Stokmo stared at the floor.

    'I've given you this opportunity and I won't be coming this way again. Have you got anything to add to your statement?'

    Stokmo slowly shook his head.

    'I'm instructing you to make yourself available at all times,' Frølich said in a low voice. 'You might be required to appear at the drop of a hat. If I call you and fail to get an answer, just once, I'll send two men round to pick you up and put you on remand. Have you got that?'

    Stokmo nodded.

    Frølich checked his watch. 'Until then,' he said, 'try and rustle up someone who can confirm your version of events on the night of 13th January.'

Chapter 25

Through Fire

    The car park in Vestre cemetery was quite full and Gunnarstranda was late. The breath around his mouth was frozen as he went to grab the large handle of the heavy chapel door. But before he could pull it open, it was gently pushed open from the inside. An official from the firm of undertakers, dressed in black, let him in.

    
… a man who lived a long and eventful life
,' the metallic voice of the priest echoed through the loudspeakers around the chapel. Gunnarstranda entered with as little noise as possible and sat on the chair closest to the aisle in the last row. He noticed the gaze of another official and nodded courteously. The man stared back. Reidar Folke Jespersen's coffin was white with decorated brass handles, and it was placed on the catafalque in front of the altar. The little canopy over the coffin was decorated with wreaths and bouquets of flowers. A long ribbon from one of the wreaths was draped down the aisle. Gunnarstranda inched off his gloves. It was warm in the chapel, but most of those attending were still wearing their thick winter coats. His glasses steamed up. He took them off and wiped them with a handkerchief while gazing up and taking in the sight of the frescoes on the walls. He put his glasses back on and scanned the assembled mourners. In the front row he could see the back of Karsten Jespersen's head and Ingrid, the widow. Three small children who couldn't sit still kept jumping off their chairs and were being hauled back by a resolute Susanne Jespersen. She sent frustrated looks to her husband, Karsten, who appeared to be oblivious of her - his gaze was firmly directed towards the seasoned priest conducting the service.

    'As
a very young man Reidar Folke Jespersen was no stranger to death and terror in this war-ravaged country of ours,
' the voice intoned through the microphone. The priest was in his forties and spoke the dialect of southern Vestland. The first three rows were full while the other mourners were scattered around. He located the heads of the other two Folke Jespersen brothers, and he continued to search for Jonny Stokmo, but could not see him. His gaze rested on the coffin and he was reminded of how the dead man had looked - first displayed in his own shop window and then on Professor Schwenke's autopsy table.

    The door directly behind him opened and he swivelled round on his chair. It was a woman. She also took a seat in the back row, but on the other side of the aisle. Her chair scraped as she sat down. Gunnarstranda stole furtive glances. She was wearing a thick sheepskin jacket down to the middle of her thighs. In her lap she was holding one red rose wrapped in transparent plastic. Her hair was short, blonde, and her hairstyle underlined her young age and chiselled features. Her hair stood up; it was brushed back and looked as though she had been caught in a gale. She was a beauty - a ray of sunshine from a window high up in the wall cut through the room and fell on her, gently setting off the contours of her face. She swallowed. The policeman realized that she sensed he was staring at her and he looked down. The priest was talking about how Folke Jespersen enjoyed mountain walks and unsullied nature. Gunnarstranda stifled a yawn. The grandchildren in the front row were fed up with the whole thing and their spoilt, angry voices were beginning to become audible as they argued with their mother. Susanne's whispered, almost hissed, reprimands carried to the back row. Gunnarstranda became aware of an electric charge in the air and peered to the left. The woman who had been staring at him looked down at once.

    When the priest had finished, Karsten Jespersen got up to speak. He fixed his eyes on a point in the ceiling, clasped his hands behind his back and talked about
Dad
in a formal way, free of any pomposity. His chin trembled uncontrollably. He made a lot of his father's famous deeds during the war and his own pride.

    There were several speakers. An elderly man with a sharp profile stood to attention before the coffin and paid tribute. When the priest looked to see if anyone else wanted to say something, Gunnarstranda decided to withdraw before the end. In a flash he noticed that the young beauty had risen to her feet. She stood for a few moments, expectant, then strode up the aisle with a light spring in her step and a red scarf flapping from her shoulder. She laid the rose on Reidar Folke Jespersen's coffin, curtseyed and stood still. The official from the firm of undertakers gestured for her to move forward to the microphone. But the woman took no notice of him.

    She stood in the same place, silent, composed, with her back to the room and with bowed head, as though meditating. After standing in this position for some time, she spun round and strode back with her eyes firmly fixed ahead of her.

    Gunnarstranda observed her face. There was something familiar about that chin and those lips.

    Karsten Jespersen, the widow, Ingrid, and the forceful children's mother turned, all of them, and in amazement watched the woman walk out of the chapel. When the heavy door slammed, they turned round. Gunnarstranda got to his feet and made for the door.

    The cold hit his cheeks as soon as he was outside. He was blinded by the light from the low sun. With his hand shielding his eyes, he looked for the woman, without any success. He put on his gloves and stalked down the steps, annoyed to have lost her. 'You don't have a phone on you by any chance, do you?' asked a voice from behind him. Gunnarstranda turned on his heels. 'Why's that?' he answered in a soft voice.

    She had been leaning against the wall beside the church door. The muffled sounds of the organ and the psalms carried out to them. She took a step forward, and trembled as she lit a cigarette she was holding between long, white fingers. A fat, black ring graced her left thumb. 'I was thinking of calling a taxi,' she answered with a light shiver.

    'Where are you going?'

    She looked up. 'Have you got a car?'

    The policeman nodded.

    'Torshov.'

    'Fine. Come with me,' Gunnarstranda said, leading the way to the car park.

    When, soon afterwards, they were settled in the car, the cold had already managed to form a couple of frost flowers on the front windscreen. Gunnarstranda started the engine, put the de-froster on full, rubbed his hands and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette. The woman sat stiffly beside him in the passenger seat, without saying a word. Gunnarstranda noticed she had thrown away her cigarette. For a brief moment he considered smoking, then decided to put his roll-up back.

    By the time the car had reached the intersection between Skoyenveien and Sorkedalsveien, the warm air had cleared a half moon in the windscreen and improved visibility. A tram passed. The red light was slow to change.

    Inspector Gunnarstranda used the wait to offer his hand. 'Gunnarstranda,' he said.

    'Wyller,' she replied, looking with condescension at the hand the Inspector left hanging in the air for few seconds before she took it. 'Haven't you got a Christian name?' he asked.

    'Haven't you?' She smiled at her own banter without evincing any pleasure from it and stared tight-lipped out of the window.

    'I'm a policeman,' Gunnarstranda said as the lights changed to green.

    She, to the side window: 'And I'm an actress.'

    'Did you know Folke Jespersen?'

    'Please shut up,' she said curtly.

    Gunnarstranda smiled to himself.

    They sat in silence. He bore right at Smestad and joined Ring 3. Not until they had passed the toll station by the research stations did she open her mouth: 'You can drop me by Ullevål stadium. Anywhere.'

    'I'll drive you home,' Gunnarstranda insisted.

    'Why?'

    'I'm investigating the murder of Folke Jespersen.'

    She went quiet.

    'He knew my father,' she said at length, in a reflective rather than a friendly way.

    'Who?'

    'Folke. He knew my father.'

    'Who is your father?'

    'He's dead.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Where do you live?'

    'Hegermanns gate.'

    'By the bull fountain?'

    'Further down. Towards Marcus Thranes gate, Ring 2…'

    Gunnarstranda slowed down for the lights at Ullevål stadium. He indicated right. The sun was now so low in the sky that you could only make out the outline of people in the street. The policeman flipped down the sun-shield and leaned back to see better.

    'How did they come across each other?'

    'Who?'

    'Jespersen and your father?'

    'They were friends.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'What's your Christian name?'

    'I have two.'

    'Me, too,' said the policeman.

    'Which one do you want?'

    'Both.'

    'I mean which of
my
two Christian names do you want?'

    'The one you like best.'

    He had to brake again. She grabbed the dashboard and smiled as she said it: 'Hege.'

    Gunnarstranda tasted the name: 'Hege Wyller,' he muttered. 'And your father?'

    'Harald Wyller.'

    Gunnarstranda shot her a sceptical glance. There was no time for more than a glance - he was doing 80 kilometres an hour.

    She stared ahead, smiling, as though she had thought of something amusing.

    'And you're an actress?'

    She nodded.

    They drove on in silence. As they approached Hegermanns gate, Gunnarstranda asked again: 'How well did you know Folke Jespersen?'

    'I didn't know him.'

    'But you placed a rose on his coffin.'

    'Don't you think he deserved it?'

    Gunnarstranda didn't answer.

    'There,' she said, pointing. 'In front of the drive, behind the red Toyota.'

    Gunnarstranda slowed down. She immediately put her hand on the door handle.

    'When was the last time you saw Folke Jespersen alive?' Gunnarstranda wanted to know.

    She stiffened for an instant, but opened the door a little anyway.

    'When?' the policeman repeated.

    'I don't remember.'

    'Was it a long time ago?'

    'Yes.'

    She opened the door wide and got out. Gunnarstranda also moved to get out. 'Bye,' she said and slammed the door. Gunnarstranda stood up; he had one foot on the ground, the other on the sill. He followed her with his eyes. She headed for the front door in the brick façade. As she unlocked the door she threw a last look at the policeman. They observed each other for two brief seconds before she disappeared inside.

    Gunnarstranda left the car and walked slowly to the same door. Next to one of the bells he found her name engraved in white on a small, black nameplate: GROHEGE WYLLER.