The Man in the Window (22 page)

    Frølich sat and observed him.

    'There's still the problem of the shop window and the scribble on the man's body.'

    'Whoever killed Reidar, that aspect of the case is going to be a problem,' Frølich said, dismissing the objection with some irritation.

    'Fair enough,' Gunnarstranda assented. 'But deep down I know I believe one thing: there was a logic to what someone did with the body! In addition, it seems as if the relationship between Ingrid Jespersen and Strømsted the dance teacher is not straightforward. He's cohabiting with another homosexual man. Ingrid Jespersen didn't seem to "know" anything about this gay relationship.' Gunnarstranda formed the quotation marks with his forefingers. 'You should have seen the way she flounced out of the café. It was worthy of an Oscar. Fittingly enough, she took a nose-dive right in front of me.'

    'She doesn't seem the kind to fall flat on her face.'

    'Perhaps not, but I'm not sure I believe that she didn't know about Strømsted's orientation. I've never met a woman who hasn't intuited a gay man. Think about it: Ingrid Jespersen has been humping this man once a week for years, in his partner's flat! It's very unlikely that she didn't know he was gay.'

    'He's bi, not gay.'

    'Yttergjerde said he waggled his bum like Olympic long distance-walkers!'

    Frølich raised both eyebrows. 'You don't say,' he mumbled. 'I can't tell gays and heteros apart. Especially not when they're walkers. I would never have guessed Strømsted was bisexual.'

    'You aren't a woman!'

    'Are you?'

    'Well…'

    Frølich grinned.

    Gunnarstranda changed the subject. 'That's enough of that, but she must have known. Ingrid may be behind the murder, but for the time being I think it would be unwise to put all our eggs in that basket. Bearing in mind that Strømsted lives with a man, I think it very unlikely that he would kill for her sake.'

    'So that's it?'

    'It is, as always, about finding out who did what when,' Gunnarstranda said wearily. He flicked the sheets of paper in his hand with a finger: 'We have to talk to his partner and find out whether he can substantiate the alibi. But first we'll have to see whether the widow will sign this statement or whether she'll show up at all.' He turned and selected another document. 'This is the report on the forensic examination of the office in Bertrand Narvesens vei. There are fingerprints on both of the sherry glasses I found. Reidar drank from one of them. Someone else drank from the other.'

    'Who, do you think?

    Gunnarstranda grinned. 'We don't have any records on whoever it was. I have a feeling a woman visited him. And it wasn't his wife.'

Chapter 29

Lady in Red

    Gunnarstranda took the route through the city centre. He stood watching the children skating on the ice rink around the fountain in Spikersuppa to disco music. The floodlighting cast a sharp, white light and converted the scene into a setting for a film production; the spray of snow the skates sent up looked like icing sugar. Two blonde women in their twenties floundered on the ice, doing precarious pirouettes and giggling to each other, excited by being in the spotlight.

    Gunnarstranda continued along Lille Grensen, turned into Akersgata and ambled through the Parliament area and on to Cafe Justisen where he drank a leisurely cup of coffee, read two tabloid newspapers and listened to words of wisdom from regular customers. A freshly groomed tramp dressed in Salvation Army clothes sat down at a window table with a grunt. The waitress, who was very attractive, Served beer, potatoes and a fried egg. 'Have you washed your hands, Roger?' she asked in a firm voice, like a mother. 'I'm as clean as a Pentecostalist in Philadelphia,' Roger sighed, and wolfed down the food and beer.

    Gunnarstranda thought about the reply as the café door slammed shut behind him. Outside, it had grown dark as he strolled down to Storgata to catch the tram to pay a visit to Gro Hege Wyller.

    She hesitated when he introduced himself through the intercom. But in the end the front-door lock buzzed. On the way up he inadvertently kicked a metal railing alongside the steps and it emitted a hollow ring.

    She didn't seem surprised to see him. 'Thought you would be back,' she said, holding the door open.

    Gunnarstranda walked past her and into a one-room flat which bore all the hallmarks of a young woman with economic restraints starting out: a once-spacious flat divided and portioned up into smaller units. The part that Gro Hege Wyller occupied had perhaps been a servant girl's room before or the pantry. The bedsit was just shy of thirty square metres and the ceiling was high. A short mezzanine floor had been built over the sitting room section - a sofa and an armchair over which she had thrown some large, purple cloths. The floor functioned as a bed. Cushions and corners of a sheet were visible up there. Three pairs of knickers and black tights were drying on the radiator beneath the window.

    She stood by the door sizing him up. Her jeans were worn and skin-tight. They hung perilously low from her hips and revealed a deep navel decorated with a silver pearl.

    Police Inspector Gunnarstranda sat down in the armchair without any ceremony. On the table there was a portable 10-inch TV with the aerial extended. 'When was the last time you saw Reidar Folke Jespersen?' he asked gently.

    'The day before he died,' she replied.

    'Thursday or Friday?'

    'Friday 13th January.'

    They exchanged looks. She held his stare, which made Gunnarstranda decide not to comment on the change to her previous statement, which this answer represented. 'What was the purpose of your meeting?'

    'Work.'

    'Had you worked for him before?'

    'Yes.'

    'Office work?'

    'No.'

    Gunnarstranda waited.

    'A monthly assignment. As a rule we had a fixed time,' she went on and slid down onto the sofa under the low mezzanine floor. In Ensjo - Bertrand Narvesens vei.'

    Hege drew a foot up beneath her on the sofa.

    'You both drank sherry,' Gunnarstranda stated.

    'Yes, I drank sherry and listened to Schubert.'

    'And that was work?'

    'Two thousand kroners' worth. An hour's gig.' She made an exaggerated flourish with her hand and rolled her eyes. Then added: 'As you can see, I needed the money.'

    'Did you prostitute yourself?'

    She sighed and gravely shook her head to emphasize how stupid she thought the question sounded. 'No,' she said. 'I have never prostituted myself. And it would never enter my head to do so.'

    'Striptease?'

    She sent him a condescending look and shook her head. 'Do I look that cheap?'

    The policeman bided his time. 'Well, what did you do?'

    'I'm an actress. I perform theatre.' She smiled at the policeman's facial expression. 'Folke paid me to appear in a play which he had written and directed. Folke never tried it on with me. Never.'

    'Why do you call him Folke?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'No idea. I don't like Reidar. Reidar just sounds silly.'

    'How long have you been doing this?'

    'What?'

    'This play-acting stuff.'

    'A year and a half.'

    'What sort of man was Folke Jespersen?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    She deliberated before answering. 'Nice. A decent guy,' she concluded. 'He was old - impotent - which he talked about without any inhibitions. We became very close - by playing the same roles time after time. But he didn't want to be close to me in a physical way.'

    'And you?'

    'I don't know,' she answered, leaning forwards with her hands folded - concentrated. 'But I would maintain that the feelings we had for each other were… a kind of love,' she said, focusing on some point in the far distance. 'A small, pallid love which we re-played again and again in that little room, for an hour or two - after intervals of many weeks.'

    Gunnarstranda waited. She wasn't finished.

    'He was… knowledgeable, had a sense of irony, was mysterious and…'

    She faltered.

    'And…?' the policeman asked.

    'He was captivated by me. That's important: he was captivated by me.'

    A silence descended over them.

    'He was proper,' she added. 'Always well turned out. He smelt of coffee and cigarettes and… a particular scent…' Her lips quivered with emotion for a moment.

    'How come you were performing your play on this day of all days?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Why this day of all days?' he repeated slowly.

    'I don't know. It wasn't supposed to have been then.'

    'Pardon?' Gunnarstranda's voice deserted him as he leaned forward with sudden interest.

    'It wasn't supposed to have been then. Relax, you seem so hyper.'

    'What do you mean? It hadn't been planned for that day?'

    'No, he called me.'

    'When?'

    'He rang at about - between two and half past. He asked if we could bring the arrangement forward. In fact, the meeting had been set for the 23rd.'

    'Did that often happen - that he would ring you and re-schedule?'

    She shook her head. 'Never.'

    Gunnarstranda leaned back. His fingers were trembling. 'He never re-scheduled once over eighteen months, never changed an arrangement?'

    'Right.'

    'Did he give a reason this time?'

    'No.'

    The policeman waited.

    'I didn't ask,' she said.

    'Why not?'

    'Because I was happy he had asked me to come.'

    Gunnarstranda regarded her with scepticism. 'But what kind of play was it?'

    'I played a woman and had two chunks of dialogue.'

    'And it took you an hour to say two chunks?'

    'It was theatre - improvisation. I had fixed lines, two things that had to be said every time - however our conversations developed. There were several conversations, the same framework, the same point of departure, a play that was repeated again and again - but which finished in a different way every time. The two chunks were two fixed points in a larger, unrehearsed performance. But the lines were so important that I was only taken on after an audition. 'Yes,' she nodded and grinned at the policeman's open mouth. 'I went to an audition… You think I'm kidding, don't you? But this was serious.'

    'So it was just rubbish that your father knew Folke Jespersen?'

    'It wasn't rubbish. It was a lie.'

    'Well, what were the lines you were given?'

    She reclined in the sofa. 'The scene was the same every time. He covered the table with a white cloth and put out two glasses of sherry. On the window sill there was an old cassette player with a terrible sound…'

    Impatient, Gunnarstranda waved her on.

    '… and he sits there…' She pointed to a chair next to her desk. She got to her feet, crossed the floor, went to the front door and stood with her back to it.'… I knock…' she said, tapping on the door behind her. She continued: '… I walk in… and we start any old conversation.

    Oh, and I'm wearing a red dress - I can show you it… and a dark wig.'

    'A wig?'

    'Yes, a wig. Long, black hair down to my shoulders.'

    'Anything else?'

    'A beauty spot.' She indicated her left cheek. 'A mole, painted on, here…'

    The policeman breathed out, whistled. 'A mole on the cheek,' he repeated.

    She nodded.

    'And the lines?' he asked, impatient, following her with his eyes as she flopped onto the sofa.

    
She spoke with her eyes closed, as though it cost her an enormous effort: '
When the essence of life is reduced to memories - they are always fragments of the good things that have happened. It is these which survive and make memory your greatest asset - the ability to remember, not only to retrace your steps, but also to hold onto your soul and who you are.'

    'And you had to say that every time?'

    She nodded. 'At some point during the hour I said those words - very often I broke them up. One clause first, the next whenever it fitted. It became a game - he waited for the following part, put obstacles in my path and plunged the conversation into directions which made a conclusion difficult. It was theatre - tough, demanding - but theatre.'

    The inspector flipped over a blank page in his notepad, and passed her the pen and the pad. 'Write it down,' he requested. 'The dialogue.'

    She took the pen and paper, and wrote. She was left- handed and held the pen in a somewhat awkward manner.

    'Was there anything else?' he asked when she had finished.

    She hunched her shoulders. 'A lot was left to me - how I started the conversation when I entered - what sort of mood, state of mind I was in. Sometimes it could go off at a complete tangent - almost. But all within the same framework - the sherry, Schubert…'

    She faltered.

    'Schubert?'

    'Yes, it was always Schubert's eighth on the cassette player - the Unfinished.'

    'What was the topic of conversation that day?'

    'Forgiveness.'

    'Uhuh,' Gunnarstranda said impatiently.

    'We talked about forgiveness, discussed forgiveness as a phenomenon.'

    'Were any names mentioned?'

    'None at all.'

    'Were any specific events mentioned?'

    'Not from his side, if that's what you're wondering.'

    'But he wanted to be forgiven by you?'

    She nodded.

    'What for? Why did he want to be forgiven?'

    'It was never clear. Apart from…'

    Gunnarstranda was waiting with bated breath, but she said nothing. She looked away. He cleared his throat. 'Have you any idea what the purpose of this performance was?'

    'I speculated at the beginning, of course. But, as time went on, it gave me…' She paused.

    Gunnarstranda stared at her.

    'I suppose it was fairly obvious. He wanted me to be someone else, a woman he dreamed about, but he never attained. I'm not so keen on that sort of thing.'

    'Why not?'

    She gave him a doleful smile. 'He was dreaming about an unattainable woman, but he had me. A part of my personality which existed at that moment, in that room. At the start he asked me to pretend to be another woman, but - initially I thought that was how it would work, that I would be his secret dream of a woman I didn't know, but it didn't turn out like that. No,' she burst out and shook her head in desperation, as though what she was going to say was stupid.

    'Say it,' the detective exhorted.

    'Once I was ill. It must have been six or seven meetings back, about six months ago - I had flu - a temperature of almost 40 and I had to cry off.' She smiled. 'He went berserk. I had found a substitute, another actress - excellent, but Folke wouldn't take her. He wanted me.' She looked up. 'Do you understand?' she asked. 'It was me he wanted! No one else but me. Even though I wore the same outfit, the same wig, it wasn't her any longer, it was me!'

    Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro in the small bedsit. He stopped by the window and looked out onto the trees lining the road, their heavy, leafless branches stretching into the air.