The Man in the Window (34 page)

    'Why are you so damned sure?'

    'I can sense it.'

    'There's nothing.'

    'There must be something.'

    'The reality of war is surreal at the best of times. You cannot comprehend war with peace as a reference point.'

    'Well,' the policeman said, leaning forward in his chair, 'I can accept the story of Amalie's summer love at the end of the thirties. I'll buy the whole of the story about her meeting a virile man who was older, charming, worldly-wise, intelligent and who wielded power. I can understand her falling for him and rejecting the like- aged Reidar of whom she might have had more than enough. I can also understand your brother and feel sympathy for his spurned love. I can see the heavy cross of fate they have to bear. I can even accept that she is caught between two lovers. I know that sort of thing happens: two men fighting over a woman. I can understand Amalie Bruun's unhappiness - in the middle of an irreconcilable conflict - being torn between her love for her husband and loyalty to her country. But then there is this insurmountable hurdle, the mystery of why your brother maintained contact with Klaus Fromm after the war.'

    'Klaus Fromm was an editor and newspaper proprietor. He bought the ends of paper rolls that Reidar was given by Norwegian newspapers like…'

    'I know the story,' Gunnarstranda interrupted curtly.

    Emmanuel, bewildered, gaped at him.

    'I also know about his receiving stolen goods from a man by the name of Stokmo who smuggled Jews across the border. Some say it was these stolen goods that provided the basis for the business you and your brother lived off.' Gunnarstranda raised a hand in the air to prevent the other man from saying anything. 'Don't say a word,' he added in a frosty tone. 'The case has been shelved anyway. I can see that your guilty conscience makes you wary when an old flatfoot like me comes round digging up your past. I can see that, but I don't accept it. I am not appealing to your moral code now. I am merely asking you to show me respect. You see, I know it cannot be a coincidence that Fromm and your brother maintained their links. You're holding something back.'

    Emmanuel raised his hand and placed it on his chest. 'Hand on heart, Inspector. There is nothing in all this business that I'm consciously holding back!'

    The policeman scrutinized him - this sweaty, short- winded man with a look of suffering on his face. 'If,' he began. 'If you've told me everything you know, there must be something, some detail that has slipped your mind. Something important.'

    'There's nothing. Your phone's ringing.'

    Gunnarstranda started. He stuck a hand in his jacket pocket for his mobile phone.

    'I've just been to see Eyolf Strømsted's partner,' Frølich said. 'Sjur Flateby. Do you know what he does for a living? He's a vet.'

    'So?'

    'You should see his patients. While I was in the waiting room, there were two nymph parakeets, a guinea pig and a forest cat with a bitten-off tail.'

    Gunnarstranda stood up and grimaced an apology to Emmanuel before going into the hall to speak undisturbed. 'How did it go?'

    'He didn't say a word.'

    'Did you tell him his partner has been humping Jespersen's widow once a week for three years?'

    'Yes, I did, but he's sticking to his story. He and Eyolf were fondling and smooching in bed until late into the night of Friday the 13th. They fell asleep from exhaustion at half past five in the morning.'

    'What do you think? Is it lies?'

    'No idea. I'm in the dark on this one. I also said that his statement would not be taken into account, but he didn't say anything then either.'

    'Did his face drop when you told him about the widow's sex life?'

    'Not at all. That's why I'm in the dark. He said he and Eyolf were keen to have freedom in their relationship and all that stuff. They've been living together for just one year. And he's always known about Eyolf and Ingrid Jespersen. He said they were both trying to find themselves. Then he began to talk about men's search for their sexual identity. This was Eyolf's big problem. It was all a bit too glib for my taste.'

    'OK,' Gunnarstranda said, ready to finish the conversation.

    'There is one more thing,' Frølich interjected.

    'Come on then.'

    'Someone has broken the seal on the shop door.'

    'Which shop?'

    'The antiques shop in Thomas Heftyes gate. The seal's broken.'

    'Break-in?'

    'No, someone had a key. Our police ribbon and seal have gone.'

    'I'll meet you there in…' Gunnarstranda checked his watch.'… In half an hour,' he said and rang off.

    Emmanuel's cat had taken his place on the sofa. 'What happened to Amalie after the war?' the policeman asked from the doorway.

    'I have no idea.'

    'Klaus Fromm was imprisoned after the war. What did his wife do?'

    'I have no idea.'

    'But that's damned funny - since you know other sides of the story.'

    Emmanuel Folke Jespersen shook his head gravely. 'Peace was a happy time - but also chaos. I didn't think about Amalie much after the war. I hadn't given her a thought until you showed me the photo.'

    'Once again I think we're moving into an area where you find it convenient to hold back the truth.'

    'I have no idea what happened to her. Ask me in court and you'll get the same answer.'

    'Have you seen her since then?'

    'No. I've seen neither her nor Fromm since 8th May 1945-'

Chapter 42

Stretched Resources

    Gunnarstranda took Drammensveien into town. It was a bad decision. The queue of vehicles was slow-moving. He turned off at Skoyen where the traffic was just as congested. In Bygdøy allé he got stuck behind a bus that spewed out clouds of black diesel exhaust every time it braked. Evening was beginning to draw in. A frozen, stooped figure trudged along the pavement. Further ahead dark silhouettes stood waiting in shelters. Gunnarstranda was twenty minutes late when he turned left into Thomas Heftyes gate. He parked outside the window of the antiques shop, got out and waved to Frølich who came hurrying towards the car.

    Gunnarstranda peered round for other police officers. 'Bloody hell,' he said in a low mumble.

    'What's up?' Frølich asked nervously.

    Gunnarstranda ran his eyes up the dark street.

    'What are you looking for?'

    'What's up? You can see as well as I can what's up. Not one of our officers is here.'

    Frølich shifted feet, ill at ease. 'Hm,' he said. 'You may be right.'

    'There's no one here,' Gunnarstranda stated.

    'They must be…'

    'You can see for yourself there's no one here. Hell,' the

    Inspector snapped and plunged into his jacket pocket for his mobile phone.

    'Who are you ringing?'

    Gunnarstranda didn't answer.

    Cars were parked on both sides of the road. Three youths ventured out of their local watering hole and stood on the steps shivering in the cold. Gunnarstranda's phone rang for a long time.

    'Yes,' Yttergjerde said at the other end, at last.

    'There are no officers outside Ingrid Jespersen's place,' Gunnarstranda growled.

    'Thought you would ring,' Yttergjerde said.

    'Why is there no one here?'

    'Orders,' Yttergjerde replied.

    'Whose?'

    'Chief's. New priority apparently.'

    'What are you doing instead?'

    'Taxi murder.'

    Gunnarstranda rang off. 'You knew,' he said to Frølich.

    'Me?'

    Gunnarstranda eyed him in silence.

    'Of course I knew, but everyone knows you're scrabbling around with this photo of a woman from the war years. As a result it's difficult to make the case that we need someone to keep an eye on Ingrid Jespersen.'

    'Has anyone asked you?'

    'No.'

    'How do you know then?'

    'I was told we could keep an eye on her ourselves…'

    'What do they need all these officers for?' Gunnar- stranda interrupted and again stared into space.

    'Questioning. All our witnesses have to be questioned about Richard Ekholt's movements.'

    Gunnarstranda examined the main door to the shop. 'This seal is fine,' he mumbled, moving to the entrance to the flats. The door to the staircase was unlocked. They stopped in front of the door that led into the shop. The Oslo Police HQ seal had been ripped off and removed. The same applied to the police ribbons across the entrance. They stood contemplating the door for a few seconds. 'Doesn't look as if it has been damaged anyway,' Frølich concluded.

    'Who reported this?'

    'Aslaug Holmgren. An elderly lady living at the top. She rang Karsten Jespersen wondering whether the shop was going to open since the police had removed their…
barriers
.' Frølich made air quotation marks with his fingers, '… as she called them. Karsten Jespersen rang me. I came here and found what you see here.'

    'You don't think Karsten Jespersen went into his father's shop?'

    'Neither he nor Ingrid Jespersen have been in there, they claim.'

    'Have you been in?'

    'Not yet.' Frølich dug deep in his pockets for a variety of keys. 'I was waiting for you to come.'

    He unlocked the door.

    The room was dark. They went in. Frølich switched on the light. The shop looked much the same as before except that there were no forensics or crime-scene officers present. Gunnarstranda stood in the doorway watching Frølich open the office door, peep in and prowl around the shop. Frølich peered under the table, behind chairs, glanced at the shop window, thrust his hands into his pockets and turned to Gunnarstranda. 'Doesn't look like anyone has been here,' he concluded calmly. 'My guess is some young lads were up to their tricks.'

    Gunnarstranda stood ruminating. 'When were our officers ordered away?'

    'Yesterday, I suppose.'

    'You don't know?'

    'I'm pretty sure it was yesterday.'

    Gunnarstranda went on ruminating.

    'I've got quite a bit of paperwork to do,' Frølich said, waiting.

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'You go,' he said. 'I need to think.'

    When Frølich had gone, he switched off the light in the shop and ambled into the little office. He paused in the doorway for a few seconds contemplating the desk with the ancient, black typewriter and the small radio and the simple hotplate on an old washstand with a marble surface.

    Behind the desk was an old wooden swivel chair. He sat down. Beside the typewriter there was a beautiful wine glass covered in engravings. Gunnarstranda took out a roll of plastic gloves from his pocket, put one of the gloves on, then held the glass between his fingers and twirled it. The engravings were of animals: a fox and a hare. A fairy tale, he thought. He put down the glass, leaned forward, placed both elbows on the desk and rested his head on his hands. While sitting and meditating with his eyes half-closed, his eyes roamed from wall to wall: the old washstand, the typewriter, the telephone, the ink pot, the hotplate with the old-fashioned cloth- covered lead. He followed the lead with his eyes. At one end, next to the wall, something caught his attention. There was something glistening beneath the wall-socket.

    Gunnarstranda rose to his feet, walked around the desk and knelt down to see better. It was a fragment of glass. He took the glass, stood up and held it to the light. It was a piece of crystal with engraved lines on. He stared at the wine glass on the desk. He bent down and compared the engravings.

    The conclusion was obvious: someone had been inside. Someone had used the key to enter the shop. The same person had managed to smash one of two very valuable glasses.

Chapter 43

The Missing Link

    Late that evening there was a knock on Gunnarstranda's office door. It was Yttergjerde.

    'I saw the light,' Yttergjerde stammered.

    Gunnarstranda swivelled round on his chair. 'Have you got the time to come here?' he commented sarcastically. 'I thought you were working on the taxi case.'

    Yttergjerde waved some loose sheets of paper. 'What the heck do you think these are?'

    'Claims for overtime?' Gunnarstranda taunted.

    'The list of calls from Ekholt's mobile phone.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'So you can prove that he rang Frank Frølich now?'

    'Yes.'

    'And that Frølich rang Ekholt?'

    'Yes,' said Yttergjerde.

    'Great news,' Frølich grunted from the sofa where he had been sitting reading the latest
Donald Duck
comic.

    Gunnarstranda yawned.

    'Don't pretend you're not interested in this list,' Yttergjerde sneered and checked the papers. 'There are a helluva lot of calls to a lady who turns out to live in Hegermanns gate…'

    'Gro Hege Wyller,' Gunnarstranda said. 'You don't need to tell us. We know she didn't ring back.' 'Right,' Yttergjerde said with a grin. 'Like a copy?' He waved the copies.

    Gunnarstranda took one. He sat studying the list. 'I know that number,' he muttered to himself, stretching out an arm, lifting up the receiver and tapping in the number.

    The other two men watched him. Gunnarstranda recoiled when the answer came. Then he slammed down the phone. It was as though someone had run an electric current through his lean body. The tired figure slumped over the telephone became a bundle of energy and jumped up from the chair. Suddenly Gunnarstranda's sullen face split into a dazzling white smile.

    'What happened?' Yttergjerde asked with caution.

    'I rang the wrong number.'

    'Who did you ring?' Frølich asked.

    Gunnarstranda swung round to face him. 'Are you coming?' he asked.

    'Where to?'

    'National archives.'

    Frølich stared at him in amazement. 'You rang the national archives?'

    Gunnarstranda shook his smiling head. 'No. But I reckon we will have to ring them. I would guess they are closed.'

    Frølich pulled on his military boots. 'But who did you ring?' he asked, grabbing his leather jacket.

    'The Hotel Continental.'

    It took a few hours to get in after closing time. The librarian assigned to them by the Permanent Secretary could not understand why the visit could not wait until the following morning. He seemed a desiccated old stick and had to confer with his line manager before he would meet them. Where his skin was not frozen or pink, he had red hair and freckles. He had pulled on a grey duffel coat over his striped pyjama bottoms. He drove up in a Ford Sierra with a ski box on the roof and let the engine idle while he unlocked the door and showed them into the library with the micro-fiche readers. It was almost midnight.

    It took another half an hour to find the right film.

    Frølich was hungry. When Gunnarstranda announced they were going to make an arrest, disappointment was the first thing he felt. An arrest meant he would have to wait - for food. Frølich scratched his beard and tried to work out where the nearest McDonald's was.

    'Look,' Gunnarstranda said, straightening up.

    Frølich bent down and looked into the machine that was reading the micro-film. He stared at a certificate of some kind. Illegible rounded handwriting. 'What is it?'

    'It's a marriage certificate.'

    'I can see that. But whose?'

    'Amalie Bruun's parents.'

    'And that's why we can arrest them? Are you mad?'

    'I hope not.' Gunnarstranda was grinning. 'Now I feel like a smoke, Frølich.'

    'I feel like something to eat.'

    'Start smoking, Frølich, and you'll forget about food.'

    'You always feel like smoking. Now come down off your high horse. What is it on that certificate that means we can make an arrest?'

    'Have a look,' Gunnarstrada said with a smile.

    'I am having a look. Please tell me at what.'

    'The brides's maiden name. The name of Amalie Bruun's mother.