The Man in the Window (9 page)

Chapter 11

Helter Skelter

    After the autopsy they drove back in silence to Police HQ in Gronland and settled in their office. Frølich logged on to the computer network and wrote his report. Gunnarstranda noted down the cryptic message written on the dead man's chest. He stood up and poured himself the dregs of the coffee in the flask. It was cold. He grimaced, went to the sink by the door and poured it down the drain. He repeated the grimace in front of the mirror. 'At times my teeth irritate me,' he said. 'You can see the crowns so clearly. And the older you get, the clearer they are. If I reach seventy, I'll look like a row of teeth someone hung a body on.'

    Frølich straightened up. 'Let me have a look,' Frølich said.

    Gunnarstranda turned to him and spread his lips wide in a way which made the other man start with surprise. 'You look like a row of teeth with a body on,' Frølich confirmed.

    'It was a joke,' he tried to explain to the older policeman, who was still glaring at him.

    Gunnarstranda turned away, went back to his chair and lifted up the slip of paper with the code on.

    'Might be a road number' Frølich suggested.

    'A road starting with a J?'

    'It doesn't have to be a J. It might have been a U once. In England they call major roads A-roads, such as Ai, Az…'

    'But an A isn't a U.'

    'No, but there must be roads beginning with a U, just as there are roads beginning with an A, or an E. We say
Europavei,
don't we?'

    'This is a J,' retorted Gunnarstranda. 'It's not an A or an E. It says
J-one hundred and ninety-five.
If you think that's a road, then find out if there are any roads in the world starting with a J or a U. That's fine by me, except for one thing: there isn't a road like that in Oslo, there isn't one in Norway even, and we have no authority outside Oslo's city limits.'

    'Could be a perfume,' said Frølich, still persevering. 'There's a perfume called 4711.'

    Gunnarstranda lifted the piece of paper into the air and tapped the numbers with his forefinger. 'What does it say here?' he asked in a menacingly gentle voice.

    'Fine,' Frølich said, acquiescent. 'But we have to think of a few ideas if we're going to have any chance of discovering what the symbols mean. It's called brainstorming - you suggest something and one thing leads to another.'

    'Oh, really?'

    'This code could mean anything at all - it could be a trademark, an abbreviation, a code…'

    'Indeed.'

    'But these scribbles could also be a red herring,' Frølich said. 'A code that is intended to confuse.'

    Doubtful, Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'What kind of person would stab an old man, leave him bleeding to death and be so cold-blooded as to remain in that room with the huge window looking out onto the street, coldblooded enough to strip the man when at last he dies, cold-blooded enough to take a pen and leave messages on the dead man's body to confuse us and then place his body in the shop window?' Gunnarstranda said. 'No, it must have been planned.' He regarded the other policeman for a few moments before carrying on: 'Just think of the risk. The window, the writing, and as Schwenke says, the man must have been covered in blood from head to toe. If the intention was to confuse, it could have been done in other, easier ways.'

    'Such as?'

    'Well, think of Charles Manson - he was the one who wrote
Helter Skelter
in blood over the walls of the pad belonging to… to… to…'

    For a few seconds Frølich was fascinated by the dry flicking sounds Gunnarstranda was making with his fingers, but then he helped him out: 'Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski's wife.'

    'Right, something like that.' Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro. 'The murderer could have painted a skull on an old coat-of-arms in there, pissed on the body, whatever he wanted.'

    'The wife,' Frølich said in a low voice.

    'Hm?'

    'The wife lives in the first-floor flat. She can nip upstairs, have a shower and wash, wash her clothes. She serves us up all this stuff about not sleeping at night…'

    'She's almost thirty years younger than the old boy,'

    Gunnarstranda said. 'The odds are she's having it off with someone.'

    'The wife has a lover?'

    Gunnarstranda: 'This bollocks about ringing Karsten Jespersen in the middle of the night. If she killed her husband, she rings the son for two reasons: to corroborate the break-in story and to get a kind of alibi.'

    'Is that the main lead?' Frølich asked.

    'It is a lead at any rate. I'd like to know who she's having it off with…'

    'If he exists,' Frølich objected with a smile.

    'He exists. It's a dead cert.'

    'How do you know?'

    'You can see it a mile off.'

    'A mile off? She's over fifty!'

    'Does that mean to say that you begrudge people over fifty a sex life?'

    Frølich was on thin ice: 'I didn't mean it like that…'

    Gunnarstranda, sarcastic: 'No?'

    'I meant that things like that…' Frølich went quiet and glanced over at his boss who had a deadpan expression on his face.

    'What sort of things?'

    'For God's sake,' Frølich burst out, his nerves on edge. 'It's all tied up with hormones, isn't it! Working late tonight, darling… and infidelity. That's for people in their thirties, isn't it?'

    'Working late tonight, darling?' Gunnarstranda queried with a frown. 'Do I detect a reason for your not changing your marital status?'

    'Forget it,' Frølich said.

    'No, the point is that I saw his wife and my immediate thought was she was having it off with someone. Why didn't you think that?'

    'I have no idea…' Frølich mused. 'She seemed a bit… I don't know… she seemed refined.'

    'Refined?'

    'Yes,' Frølich nodded. 'Refined and nice.'

    'Honestly, Frølich, do you think a man of eighty…?'

    'Does that mean to say you begrudge people over seventy a sex life?' Frølich parried.

    'I bet you a hundred kroner,' Gunnarstranda said, responding to the other's patronizing tone. 'No,' he went on. 'I'm not going to bet. I will personally present you with a hundred kroner if we do not turn up a little soul- mate for this lady before the case is over.'

    'A little soulmate is not the same as a lover.'

    'A lover. A hundred kroner. Sight unseen.'

    Later, when Frølich had gone, Gunnarstranda sat looking at the telephone. The last time Gunnarstranda had met Tove Granaas, she had invited him out for a meal. It was the third time he had dined out with a woman on his own in as many years. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda did not wish to humiliate himself by counting up how many years it had been. But it was a long time.

    Tove had taken him to a sushi restaurant by Lapsetorvet. Gunnarstranda was one of those people who had never tried that sort of food. He admitted that freely. But he had no intention of playing either the narrow-minded or the ignorant peasant. Thus he gave Tove a free hand when she ordered. The meal was not a complete disaster. True enough he dropped some rice in the soya sauce, and true enough he had difficulty getting his teeth through some of the pieces of raw fish in the sushi, but the taste itself was nigh on a religious experience. The heated saki tasted like moonshine with sugar in, and went straight to his head, just like moonshine. They were sitting next to a group of Japanese men who had ordered the most adventurous dish on the menu. All sorts of fried and flambé things arrived at their table. Then the cook left the kitchen, went over to the Japanese table and made a huge spectacle with knives and food. But even the Japanese got drunk on the rice wine. One of the men gave the Inspector a course in using chopsticks. Afterwards he thought that, all in all, the evening had been a success. Even though he staggered out of the restaurant, even though he was unable to remember all the things he had said. Nor even where or how Tove and he parted company. But in some mysterious way he did remember arranging a repeat performance.

    Now, however, with this murder enquiry hanging over him, he had to accept that the planned evening with Tove would not come to anything.

    He checked his watch. Tove worked as a ward sister. It was late afternoon. He took a chance on her being at home.

    His nerves were ajitter at the thought of ringing. As he picked up the receiver, his hand was shaking

    'Hello,' came her cheerful answer.

    'Hello,' he said with a nervous smile to himself in the window. 'Can you hear who it is?'

    'I can. Thank you for the nice evening.'

    'Yes, it was… good.'

    'It certainly was,' she said.

    'A man has been murdered,' he said without pausing.

    'So we'll have to wait for the anchovies?'

    'The anchovies?'

    'Your words. You called the food we ate anchovies and the saki firewater.' 'Did I?'

    'But we had a great time. What shall we do instead?'

    Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'I hadn't given that any thought,' he confessed.

    Tove Granaas grinned. 'Coffee,' she said. 'I'm sure you'll have enough time for a cup of coffee.'

Chapter 12

East of Eden

    Arvid Folke Jespersen lived in Uranienborg, just off Oslo city centre, in one of those old flats with a view which were so often home to elderly inhabitants born in the area, if their offspring hadn't managed to sell it, lock, stock and barrel, to an advertising agency.

    It was late afternoon when Frank Frølich idly contemplated the front entrance from his car. He switched on his mobile phone, called Eva-Britt and cancelled the plans for the evening, although he needn't have done. Even though she was very annoyed, it felt like freedom to evade TV entertainment and the other sad pastimes into which they had slipped. He sat in the car for a while staring into space. A few days ago he had seen
The Getaway
again - Sam Peckinpah's original film with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. The funny thing was that Doc's wife was the spitting image of Anna. The black hair, the brown eyes and the long, slender limbs. It was true that Anna had more meat on her, but otherwise they were strangely similar. What he could not get out of his head was whether this was chance - meeting Anna again today. It was odd, almost as though seeing the film had been part of a greater scheme. But, he told himself, you have no real reason to ring her and you have a lot on your plate with Eva-Britt. With a heavy sigh he struggled out of the car and up the steps to the old man waiting for him.

    'Of course I'll try to help as much as I can,' said Arvid Folke Jespersen, letting Frølich into a flat with the stale odour of dust and old books. Like a second-hand bookshop, he thought, taking off his winter boots after some exertion. A little grunt came from behind a curtain. Arvid pushed the curtain to the side. Among a multitude of shoes lay a basket full of old rugs. In the basket was a small tremulous dog. It had a bandage wrapped around its body. 'Goodness, you have hurt yourself, haven't you?' Frølich said to the dog which lay trembling with its ears flattened against its head.

    'Silvie has two broken ribs,' Arvid said, opening the living-room door. 'She has to rest, poor thing.'

    Frølich followed Arvid into a room with a high ceiling and elegant furniture. The dust collected in balls along the skirting boards. Thick curtains took up most of the space by the windows and let scant light into the room. They seated themselves at a table on which there was a tray of coffee cups, a coffee flask, a sugar bowl, glasses and bottles.

    'Even though he was the eldest, I had always thought that Reidar would outlive me,' Frølich's host said dourly. He was wearing a suit with a broad stripe and had a watch chain in his waistcoat pocket. Around his neck he had tied a dark red silk scarf. 'He survived everything, Reidar did. He was even shot down over Germany in 1944, but escaped without a scratch. Reidar only seemed to grow older on the outside; I suppose I must have thought he was immortal. Would you like a glass of port with your coffee?'

    Frølich shook his head.

    'You're quite right,' Arvid sighed, holding an empty glass in front of his eyes. He found a stain and wiped it with his handkerchief before pouring himself a drink. 'I have port now instead of cognac; port is milder.'

    Frølich leaned forward and reached for a bulbous, yellow thermal coffee flask. As he touched the lid, it burst open with a damp pop. He poured himself some coffee. 'But how do you see his murder? It's one thing being surprised by your brother's death, but a murder…'

    Arvid shook his head. 'Mm,' he mumbled. 'It's beyond me.'

    'If Reidar had caught a burglar red-handed, what do you think he would have done?'

    Arvid put the bottle of port down on the table and considered. 'I wouldn't begin to know. Nowadays there are so many desperate drug addicts and so on. People you just can't work out. You know much more about this than me, of course. But Reidar was aware of this too. He read newspapers and watched TV like everyone else.'

    'How do you think he would have reacted? Would he have kept out of the way, would he have talked to the person, or…?

    'I think he would have kept out of the way or - maybe not. Reidar was a very determined character. Once he had an idea in his head, it took a lot to dissuade him. Personally, I am a bit different, I'm a little cautious and don't like tense atmospheres. I know I would have kept out of the way or stayed quiet. Reidar never seemed to be afraid, or he became like that, I suppose. He had to maintain this image of himself. Of course, he might have told this intruder to clear off, or threatened him in some other way.' Arvid took a sip from his glass. 'A terrible business,' he mumbled. 'Terrible business…'

    Frølich sipped at his coffee, which was thin, light brown. Two grains of coffee floated around on the surface. One of them went in his mouth. After he had taken it out, it stuck to the tip of his forefinger. 'Is it long since you last saw your brother?' the police officer asked, discreetly wiping the coffee grain onto the saucer.

    The man on the other side of the table gave a start, as though awakened from profound thoughts. 'No, no, he was round here yesterday, with Emmanuel. That reminds me, I promised to ring him. Would you please remind me? Mention it before you leave?'

    'When did he come here?'

    'At about twelve, maybe just after.'

    'About?'

    'Yes, he may have come a few minutes later. I think we had been waiting for a while.'

    'And when did he leave?'

    'He must have been here for just under an hour.'

    'How did he seem?'

    Arvid stroked his chin. 'He was not himself at all; he seemed quite off-kilter.'

    Frølich's eyebrows rose in surprise.

    'Yes. You saw Silvie, my poor dog. He tried to kill her. It was fortunate that things turned out as they did.'

    'He tried to kill your dog?'

    Arvid nodded. 'I know it sounds crazy - Reidar kicked her. A lot of internal bleeding and two broken ribs. It was a miracle she survived.'

    'Did he kick her that hard? Did she bite him?'

    'No, Reidar just wasn't himself. He seemed quite agitated. I don't think I've seen him like that before. When I think of how he behaved with the dog, I daren't imagine what would have happened if there had been a break-in. Has Karsten worked out what was stolen?'

    Frølich consulted his notepad before saying anything. 'Why was he agitated? Had you been quarrelling?'

    'Goodness me, no. That is, we were discussing business. You understand, there are three of us: Emmanuel and Reidar and I. We three own the shares; well, we've all been involved with the shop. Emmanuel and me, too, but now we've accepted that we're old and have retired, both of us. Reidar never wanted to stop working.'

    'Hm, now he doesn't have any choice,' Frølich said dryly. He was at once aware of how inappropriate this comment might seem and hastened to add: 'This was a special occasion then - this business meeting of yours?'

    'Business is right. The shop is up for sale and we have some purchasers, a married couple. They came, too. A herr Kirkenazr and his wife. I think they're married anyway. They've got rings. This man knows a fair bit about antiques, and she does, too, of course.'

    'So there was a row?'

    Arvid shook his head. 'Not a row. Disagreement is a better word.'

    'What sort of disagreement?'

    'About the deal. Emmanuel and I are more than happy with the offer made, but…' 'But not Reidar?'

    'Yes. I thought he wanted to sell. Reidar has never said no to more money but, on the other hand, he has never tolerated the rest of us having opinions. Reidar was a bit odd like that, you know. He was the eldest and always had to call the shots. Well, we suspected, Emmanuel and I, that he would jump up and down a bit, but we had never imagined that he would get himself into such a lather. That was after the buyers had gone. The plan was that we would discuss the offer, but we didn't get round to it.'

    Arvid sat sunk in deep thought as he twirled his port wine glass between his fingers. 'In fact that was the last time I saw him.'

    'Was he well?'

    Arvid raised both eyebrows.

    'Was your brother ill?'

    Arvid opened his mouth in a soundless laugh. 'Reidar has never been ill. Are you trying to tell me he died from an illness?'

    Frølich shook his head and poured himself more coffee. 'And now you and Emmanuel are the sole owners?'

    'Hmm, I suppose Ingrid will take over now. She can pay off Karsten and take Reidar's share. Great lady, Ingrid is, very good-looking.'

    'She's much younger than him.'

    'Right. He was an old goat, Reidar was, no doubt about that.'

    'You're sure the wife will take Reidar's share?'

    'I would assume so.'

    Frank Frølich waited.

    'It's Karsten's big problem that Reidar and Ingrid had joint ownership.'

    'What do you mean by that?'

    'Eh?'

    "… Karsten's big problem…'

    Arvid smiled mirthlessly. 'One would assume that Karsten would have preferred to handle things on his own…'

    'You mean Karsten wanted to be the sole beneficiary?'

    'That's not so improbable, is it?'

    'I don't know,' Frølich said. 'Are you suggesting there's an inheritance dispute here?'

    Arvid stared at him for quite some time before asking in a monotone: 'What do you mean?'

    Frølich observed him. Perhaps the suggestion of a disagreement between the widow and the murdered man's son had been meant seriously. The old man seemed to have woken up and realized he was talking to a policeman, and therefore ought to consider what he was saying. It was a familiar reaction. Frølich repeated: 'Is there an inheritance dispute as a result of your brother's death?'

    'I don't know.'

    'So I've misunderstood what you said about Karsten's big problem?'-

    Arvid went quiet. He seemed befuddled.

    'What did you mean?' Frølich repeated.

    'I meant that… I've got myself tied in knots now. I don't want to put anyone in a difficult spot, do I? Karsten and Ingrid are good friends. The wolf in sheep's clothing - if such a thing exists - the person who is most upset that Karsten is not the sole heir - is probably Susanne, Karsten's wife. This happens in all families, though. You know…'

    'Fine.' Frølich cut him short. 'But is the ownership of the shop a cut-and-dried matter?'

    'I assume so - so long as a will does not appear, I would expect Ingrid to take over from Reidar.'

    'Will you try to get her to agree to work with…?'

    'Kirkenær. It's written as it sounds: K-I-R.'

    'I've got it,' Frølich said with a flourish of his pen to move the man on.

    'What was it you asked again?'

    'Whether she would agree to what Reidar rejected - the sale of the shop.'

    'Of course.'

    'And his son, Karsten?'

    'What about Karsten?'

    'Well, he works there, doesn't he? In the shop?'

    'We had aired the proposal with Karsten beforehand, and I believe he was happy with it.'

    'But he would lose his job, wouldn't he?'

    'It's questionable how important the job is to him. You see, Karsten has other ambitions. He works as a writer on the side. That's what he does when there are no customers in the shop, sitting in the backroom, banging away on the typewriter. When we talked about the sale, he was far from hostile to the idea.'

    'Do you think that was why Reidar turned down the deal? Because he wanted to protect Karsten's interests - his son's job in the shop.'

    'No, I don't think so,' Arvid said bluntly.

    'You seem very sure,' the detective said, peering up.

    'If Reidar had refused for Karsten's sake, he wouldn't have made a secret of it. Reidar was not the reticent kind.'

    'But why do you think Reidar would not agree to the sale?'

    'So that he would have one over us, I think. And because he couldn't stand the idea of not working. That's perhaps the most important reason. Reidar never accepted that he was getting old. Reidar was a man who denied the existence of death.'

    Frølich jotted down the last phrase and sat for a few seconds formulating his next question: 'Jonny Stokmo. I've heard he was employed by the shop.'

    'He isn't any longer.'

    'He was given the boot by Reidar. Why was that?'

    'More like the opposite,' said Arvid with a faint smile. 'I would guess - I don't have a clue really - but I would guess that it was Jonny being difficult. He's a hard nut, you know. There was nothing personal between Reidar and Jonny. They are two proud men. It was a kind of affair of honour.'

    'But what did they quarrel about?'

    'God knows. I don't, anyway.'

    'Was Reidar the type to have lots of enemies?'