The Man in the Window (35 page)

PART THREE

An Eagle in the Hand

Chapter 44

Awakening

    I mustn't wake up, she thought. I want to sleep through until it is morning. As soon as she had formulated the thought she knew she would wake up because this night was quite different from any other. Her eyes closed, she lay rigid beneath the duvet. She was experiencing the worst thing in the world, waking up in the middle of the night, in the silence, alone.

    When, at last, she dared to open her eyes, she was looking down at the floor where a strip of yellow light from the next room cut across the parquet and up the wall like a laser beam. She didn't move a muscle. Without making a sound, she tried to breathe evenly and calmly while thinking about the previous time she had woken up like this.

    The important thing now was to lie still so that the duvet didn't rustle and she didn't make any noise. Why not? she thought. Because. There is no because, it is just a question of lying still, relaxing and accepting that everything is as it should be. A question of sensing sleep overtake her and then falling into oblivion again, finding release from these terrible hours, release from this loneliness - from being awake and alone in this room, in this bed without Reidar.

    As soon as she thought of Reidar, she visualized the white, lifeless body which was no longer him, which was dead. In death he had been transformed into an empty shell. A mortal frame with no tired, stiff, vain man; no more impenetrable armour. Reidar had developed into a man she feared to tell the truth because he would never accept the truth she asserted, because he always ended up treating her like a little girl. Ingrid Jespersen, fifty- four years old - a little girl.

    Without thinking, and without noticing, she let out a sigh of self-pity. But on hearing the sound, she froze.

    She had made a noise, and that was what she hadn't wanted to do.

    I'm a failure, she thought. It all came out: I'm over fifty, a widow and still a child feeling sorry for herself. But it's not because I live alone; it's because I never managed to live my own life. I needn't have gone out of my way to satisfy others. I could have been myself. I needn't have been frightened. You're much too frightened, she told herself. And you thought Reidar would protect you. Look at you now. How can Reidar protect you now? The fear that was kept at bay by his presence has caught up with you in an instant. Now you are a prisoner of fear, and you will never be free.

    Ingrid lay still and knew she was right. She had married Reidar because he gave her security. And now she was caught by the same fear she had fled.

    It had been a mistake to choose Reidar. She should have chosen a man of her own age, lived happily and had children.

    And now? It's too late. Now I can't have children.

    You never wanted children.

    No, perhaps I didn't want to have children. But I should have had children anyway. Someone should have forced me. A woman who says she doesn't want children is a child herself. She is not capable of becoming an adult. Look at me now. An ageing body mounted by men out of politeness or charity. I've always walked around like a trophy. I'm an American matron with blue hair. I'm a stork, a bird without the proportions of a bird, the woman who can carry her age with dignity - because I never found out what it was like to grow old. I'm the person young women despise and young men are ashamed of because I use any means at my disposal to keep myself young - which is to deny yourself. In the eyes of others I have no dignity.

    A new sound caused her to freeze again.

    She was lying on her side with her eyes wide open, staring at the floor and the yellow strip of light.

    She was not alone.

    The certainty of this began as a light chill across her skin causing nubbles to form. At the same time she felt the hairs on her neck stand up and the chill moved under her skin into her bones. The feeling spread from the small of her back, through her body, and was transformed into a numbing paralysis, draining life from her bones, divesting her arms of power, making her pupils widen and preventing her from breathing.

    Slowly she moved her index finger up and down. It functioned. But she couldn't feel the rest of her body. All she could sense was the rush of blood streaming through her veins. She could feel her heart pumping blood around a body that was numb with terror.

    She found herself thinking that she could hear regular breathing, and she was aware that the person breathing knew she was lying still and listening.

    There was that sound again.

    Someone clearing their throat. The sound freed something in her body. She could feel herself tensing up like a cat ready to jump, her legs coiled and her arms ready to launch herself. She didn't do it consciously. Her sole thought was an image of herself fleeing, sprinting across the floor to the front door and liberty. She girded herself. The blood swirled through her head, almost drowning the next thing that happened.

    'I can tell you're awake,' a voice said. 'It's about time.'

Chapter 45

Room 306

    It was night. The cold was keeping even the hardiest of night owls indoors.

    'I thought it was a bit strange,' Frølich said, stifling a yawn, as Gunnarstranda turned off Parkveien and continued down Drammensveien towards the city centre, 'that they lived the way they did.'

    'You met them at the Continental?'

    Frølich nodded. 'Temporary accommodation. They were looking at houses, they said. They live out of town.'

    'They didn't give their home address?'

    'Yes, they did. Tønsberg at that. But I didn't know…'

    So as not to get caught up in the tramlines, Police Inspector Gunnarstranda parked on the pavement beside the National Theatre. 'Of course not,' he muttered, gazing up at the dark windows of the Hotel Continental before opening the car door and getting out. He stood breathing in the cold night air. Behind him he heard the dull sound of Frølich closing his door. It was cold on the ears and both men were exhaling icy breath. A patrol car crossed Karl Johans gate and drove slowly down Universitetsgate. In contravention of the rules, and cheekily, they switched on the flashing blue lamp when they encountered the traffic lights on red in

    Stortingsgata. They turned left and disappeared round the bend by Stortinget.

    Gunnarstranda looked across at the entrance to the Hotel Continental. It was a warm glow of welcome in the cold, dark night.

    'Ready?' Frølich asked.

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'I'm ready.'

    'Let's go then.'

    They crossed the street. Frølich stayed downstairs in reception. Gunnarstranda took the lift up to the second floor. Three minutes later he was standing in the narrow corridor on the second floor and waited. Not a sound to be heard from inside. He raised his arm and checked the time. Three minutes later he raised the same arm and knocked. At that moment he heard the telephone ringing inside the room.

    It took a while before Frølich's call was answered. Then the door was opened a fraction. The woman who opened it was wearing jogging bottoms and a faded T- shirt.

    'Hermann isn't here,' she said, squinting sleepily into the bright corridor light.

    'That doesn't matter,' Gunnarstranda said, taking a deep breath. 'It's you I've come to talk to.'

    'Me?' She placed a sun-tanned hand against her bosom, her eyes quizzical but also disbelieving.

    Gunnarstranda took another deep breath. 'You and I are going to talk about your husband,' he sighed. 'Your husband, his past and in particular his relationship with taxi drivers.'

Chapter 46

The Masked Questions

    'Where?' he asked.

    Ingrid Folke Jespersen was sitting up in bed. She could make out the silhouette of a dark figure in the armchair by the window. A head and an upper torso stood out against the darkness outside. It was a man. She tightened the duvet around her body. She wanted to say something, but no sounds emerged.

    'Where is it?'

    All she could manage was a puzzled shake of the head.

    'Where is it?' the man repeated gently. He stood up and, with slow steps, crossed the floor.

    Now he's going to do something, she thought.

    Light. He switched on the ceiling lamp. The light made her eyes smart. She scrunched them up, but not before she had seen that the man had a balaclava over his face, with holes for eyes and mouth. He looked like a bank robber. And he was holding a large knife in his right hand. The steel blade glistened.

    'Where have you hidden it?' said the lips behind the woollen mask as the figure casually leant against the wall.

    'Who are you?' she managed to whisper.

    The lips behind the mask smiled. 'What have you done with it?'

    She sat with the duvet wrapped around her.

    The man took two steps forward. The hand with the knife hung against his thigh. He slowly moved towards the bed. There was a strong smell of scent.

    The knife gleamed. She jerked her head back. It banged against the bedrail. There was a burning sensation where the knife scraped against her neck. She forced her head back as far as she could. The edge of the bedhead cut into her neck. The tip of the knife was pressed into her throat. 'Be careful,' she managed to breathe.

    'Of course,' the voice said.

    She tried to avoid looking at the red lips through the hole in the mask and stared at his eyes. This is turning him on, she thought, not daring to move a muscle.

    'I just want to know where it is,' he said, taking hold of the duvet. He held it lightly in his hand. She was squeezing it tight.

    'Let go. Let go,' he whispered.

    She let go.

    He flung the duvet onto the floor. Her nightdress had bunched up around her waist. She closed her eyes in shame. The man ran the tip of the knife down her neck 'Mousey, mousey,' he said, running the knife across her breasts. 'Come out wherever you are…' he whispered and pressed the tip of the knife into her stomach. 'Not there,' he whispered.

    'Please,' she breathed.

    He ran the knife across her hips. 'Not there…'

    He scraped the tip across her stomach and throat again.

    Then he got to his feet. He stood with his back to her.

    She lunged for the duvet.

    'Lie still,' he commanded her.

    Her stomach hurt. She wanted to get away.

    He walked to the window.

    He said something, with his back turned.

    She tried to force her vocal cords into action.

    Again he said something.

    'What were you…?'

    'Where is it?' he asked, spinning round. She saw only his eyes. They were flashing. She tried to pull her nightdress down over her thighs.

    'Answer me!'

    'I don't understand what you mean.'

    He said nothing and glowered at her. She tried to avoid looking at his eyes through the holes of the mask. His eyelashes were grey and rigid. Then he was by her bed. He seized her wrist. The blade glistened in the light from the lamp. At the very moment she felt the skin around her wrist being twisted, she felt a stab of pain in the palm of her hand.

    'Do you understand this?' he raged.

    Blood coursed down her fingers and wrist.

    'Yes,' she whispered, looking down at her hand which was covered with hot blood pouring out of the wound. Numb from the sight, she sat watching the blood flow out until she came to her senses, then wrapped a corner of the duvet around her hand.

    'Don't make a mess,' he yelled and grabbed her leg to pull her out of bed. He let go of her ankle and she fell. He tugged at her and pulled her hair. She got to her knees, but stumbled again. She tried to get up and follow him. Once in the bathroom her sole sensation was the underfloor heating.

    'Plaster,' he whispered in a panic. 'Where do you keep your first aid things?'

    'There.' She pointed to the medicine cupboard beside the mirror.

    'But we'll have to wash the cut first,' he whispered and kicked her head first into the shower cabinet. There was a crack as her forehead hit the tiled wall. A second later freezing cold water sprayed down over her body. She coiled up in the corner and screamed. In a flash she saw the blood from her hand mingle with the water and flow towards the drain. The pain shot up her arm as the icy water stung her back. She was unable to breathe normally. And at last the shower stopped. She couldn't stand up. She tensed all her muscles waiting for the boiling hot water, the water that would scald and burn her body. But it didn't come. After a time that seemed like an eternity she opened her eyes, blinked water from her eyelashes and stared at the man standing with his back to her as he rummaged through the cupboard. She dragged herself up.

    She drew herself up onto one knee. The thin nightdress was drenched; it stuck to her stomach, her thighs and her breasts. She tried to find support. The glass of the shower cabinet was stained with blood where she had groped for a hold. She sniffed and wiped the mucus off her face with her good hand.

    'Please don't make any more mess,' he said, turning round. 'Well, aren't you attractive?' he whispered, licking his red lips. He took a towel and passed it to her.

    'Here, dry your face on this.'

    She obeyed.

    Seconds later he had placed a wad of gauze on her hand and bound it with a bandage. She looked down. But he grabbed her chin and raised it. She shut her eyes.

    'Open!' he ordered.

    His eyes were pale blue, almost grey. And she recoiled because she had seen those eyes before.

    He began to laugh. But she had no energy left for anything except staring.

    He snapped his mouth shut, then said: 'Where is it?'

    She couldn't stop herself. She began to cry.

    At that moment the telephone rang.