‘No, it is not!’
Gunnarstranda banged his fist on the desk. ‘It’s not right? She didn’t scream? She screamed and screamed until you had to shut her screaming bloody gob, didn’t you!’
‘No!’
‘Have a look at this then!’
Gunnarstranda got up and slung the photograph of Reidun Rosendal’s mutilated body on the desk.
The young man took the photograph and shot a quick glimpse. Frank was unable to interpret the man’s reaction. Dead bodies are not attractive, he thought. Not this version, either. All the blood with the stained knife handle between her breasts.
‘Can you see the tie?’ Gunnarstranda asked in a hushed voice.
The man shook his head in disbelief.
‘It’s sticking out under the edge of the shower cap.’
The man nodded, but didn’t give the photograph a second look. He turned it over.
‘That’s your tie, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t kill her!’
‘Is it your tie?’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Is it your tie?’
‘You lot can’t accuse me of something I didn’t do!’
‘Answer my question! Is this your tie or not?’
‘Yes, it bloody is. It is my sodding tie!’
All of a sudden the man stood up. And threw the photograph down on the table.
Not a sound. Gunnarstranda had moved his chair back from the desk again. A circumspect cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. He stared. Put the roll-up aside and inched the chair forward. ‘Do you often lose your temper, Sigurd?’
The aggressive posture was gone immediately. His thin legs trembled. He groped behind him to find his chair. Sat down.
‘I haven’t lost my temper.’
The young figure stared ahead, silent and confused.
‘I asked if you often lost your temper.’
The young man looked away.
‘On the rare occasions you lose your temper, Sigurd, you get very angry, don’t you?’
He shrugged.
‘Did you eat anything that night?’
‘Yes… we had a few slices of bread… and fried eggs.’
‘When was that?’
‘I didn’t keep an eye on my watch.’
‘Was it after the first screw?’
The man nodded.
‘What was she like as a screw?’
The man hesitated.
‘Active?’
Silence.
‘Or did she lie there like a sack of potatoes and allow herself to be despoiled?’
The man didn’t answer.
‘You like girls to offer a bit of resistance, do you, Sigurd?’
No reaction.
‘Answer me when I’m talking to you, lad!’
‘You’re ridiculing a person who is no longer with us!’
‘OK.’
Frank watched Gunnarstranda get up and throw his hands in the air. Pace round the room for a while. ‘So you ate bread,’ he recapped. ‘And you fried eggs.’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Who cut the bread?’ he asked at length.
‘Me.’
Gunnarstranda walked back to the desk. Plunged a hand into the desk drawer and pulled out a knife. Frank watched him intentionally allow the light from the Anglepoise to glint on the polished steel. The steel blade was curved in such a way it had a kind of abdomen.
The room went quiet as Gunnarstranda carefully placed the knife on the table. The blade scraped the edge of the table making a dry rasp.
Frank heard Sigurd swallow.
Gunnarstranda slowly took a seat. ‘Pick up the knife, Sigurd,’ he demanded in a gentle voice.
The man swallowed again. His legs stirred with unease.
Gunnarstranda leaned on the desk with both elbows. ‘Pick up the knife,’ he repeated.
Sigurd stared up at the ceiling. For a long time.
‘Pick up the knife!’
The policeman’s voice resounded between the walls like a whiplash.
‘No!’ came the whispered reply. The young man took a deep breath. Swallowed. Tried to collect himself to say something.
‘Why?’ he tried, but had to snort hard to clear the congestion in his nose. ‘Why?’ he began again. Then had to stop once more. ‘Why can’t you leave her in peace?’
Gunnarstranda took the knife and started playing with it. Cleaned his nails with the point. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with a solicitor, Sigurd?’
Frank observed Sigurd’s head sink and come to rest against the edge of the desk.
‘Did you jab her with the knife, Sigurd?’
The latter didn’t answer.
Frank met Gunnarstranda’s resigned eyes. Nodded and switched off the tape recorder.
‘Frølich,’ Gunnarstranda said in a harsh voice. ‘Chuck the man back in his cell.’
9
Eva-Britt had got out at Ullevål Stadium. It was early morning. The worst of the traffic was over and Frank Frølich was in a good mood. The drive through Smestad had been pretty smooth and it was barely nine when he parked in front of a relatively new office block in Drammensveien by Lysaker. He just took a notepad and a few pencils with him.
The building stood out. A piece of commercial architecture inspired by Eskimo igloo architecture and pre-Christian temple styles. The name of the creative force behind the whole thing adorned parts of the façade.
The automatic doors slid open and he entered a hallway. The floor was tiled with honed and polished natural stone in a variety of hues. This arrangement had doubtless cost serious money, but it was also intended to give an impression of unity from a distance. The walls were painted white. At chest level, a varnished golden dado rail ran around the whole room.
Opposite the entrance was a large reception area. With huge ceiling-to-floor glass panes reminiscent of the Oslo Underground. In the middle of the opening, between the large panes, stood a receptionist, a woman who attracted everyone’s attention. She was probably around thirty years old. Dressed as an office clerk in a kind of uniform, a skirt and jacket in a greyish-blue woollen material. Her hair was thick and brown with a red sheen that made him think of a car bonnet. As he approached, his gaze focused on a distinct black birthmark in the hollow between her chin and her broad mouth.
She nodded to him and spoke into the telephone receiver on her shoulder while her hands busied themselves with other things. They were strong. Nails were short, no varnish.
He leaned over to the counter as she pressed a few buttons and finished speaking.
‘Software Partners are here, aren’t they?’
‘Third floor.’
She seemed uncomfortable in her office clothes. They clung too tight. The result was a physical ungainliness that was not at all necessary. She hesitated and was about to pick up the telephone again.
‘Don’t bother!’
He motioned towards the telephone.
‘I’ll find my own way there.’
As the lift doors opened, he walked straight into a large open-plan office where he was instantly met. So the woman with the birthmark had rung after all.
‘You are the police officer, I presume?’
‘Mhm.’ Frank shook his hand.
‘Øyvind Bregård,’ the man bowed. ‘I’m Head of Finance in this outfit.’
He was a tall, well-built fellow of around forty. The outstretched hand was not markedly large, but his chest, arms and thighs had undoubtedly been built up with weight-training. His head seemed strangely small in comparison with the robust body. Formidable bristles under his nose. Moustache. Shaped into two arcs, one on each side and blond like his short hair. Behind him sat a blonde, somewhat plump, lady in front of a screen.
‘And this is…?’
Frank took a step towards her with his arm held out. She stood up so quickly her chair was sent flying. Curtsied in a flurry of confusion. Her hand was as limp as a rubber glove and hung in mid-air when he released it.
‘Lisa Stenersen.’
The name was delivered at second attempt after a nervous cough. Broad, flat shoes made her seem tubby, short. But her beautiful blonde hair was a perfect frame for round cheeks and a double chin.