Gunnarstranda listened patiently. Familiar ground. The shop-owner Frølich had spoken to in Rådhusgata had banged on about a minimum investment. He had seen some advantages to being able to sell Software Partner products. Gunnarstranda lit up.
‘Legally speaking a grey area,’ his colleague went on. ‘Since parts of this arrangement are not covered in law. This solicitor, Brick, maintains therefore that the potentially obstructive regulations stipulated by the securities law are no longer valid.’
Davestuen paused for a while, coughed again, emitted a sneeze accompanied by tiny chewing sounds. ‘On the other hand, there could be big money in this, as the minimum investment is a hundred thousand. Ten takers would give you a million. Think what fifty would mean, or for that matter a hundred!’
He coughed louder. ‘And it’s this financial side that I think could be the most interesting for us.’
‘Oh?’
The voice in the receiver was lost in a paroxysm of coughing. ‘Christ, this nicotine shit does something to your throat!’
Gunnarstranda stared at the receiver. Bloody hell, there was no end to this man’s physical noises. He blew the ash off the cigarette glow. Took another puff and patiently burned a ring of black scorch marks on the paper around the photograph of ex-bully boy Bregård to pass the time.
Davestuen was back. ‘You see, the money isn’t paid into Software Partners but to a finance company called Partner Finance.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Gunnarstranda.
‘The problem is that no one can say who owns Partner Finance. So no one knows what happens to the money that has been paid in. What’s even more peculiar is that it transpires that this company has given its address as Guernsey, a so-called tax haven.’
The faint smell of scorched paper merged with the aroma of tobacco in Gunnarstranda’s nostrils. Bregård’s halo of burn marks was half-finished. ‘But this is probably not illegal, is it,’ he said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Davestuen agreed and explained. The point was that no one he had contacted in the finance market knew about Partner Finance. It was peculiar, to put it mildly. Alarm bells were ringing. The bells that presaged fraud. But to establish whether something illegal had really taken place, more investigation was required.
Gunnarstranda chewed his cheek.
‘For the moment someone is acquiring capital for a firm,’ Reier continued. ‘The new co-owners can sell a new product and everything looks hunky-dory.’
Gunnarstranda let Davestuen finish what he was saying. He added a few more scorch marks. Blew the glow until it was red and clear before breathing in. ‘These new sellers,’ he said and paused to catch Davestuen’s attention.
Davestuen didn’t answer. There weren’t even mastication sounds in the receiver.
‘Are you there?’
‘Yep.’
‘I was just wondering,’ Gunnarstranda proceeded. ‘What would these new sellers be selling?’
‘How do you mean selling?’
‘Well, they pay a sum of money, more than a hundred thousand in readies, to buy the right to sell something, don’t they? What do they sell?’
‘I haven’t found out yet.’
‘Isn’t that odd?’
‘Well…’
‘The point is,’ Gunnarstranda interrupted with emotion. ‘The Marketing Manager doesn’t even know what they’re selling.’
‘Oh?’
‘He really doesn’t. His name’s Svennebye. He did the prospectus, the brochures, all the paperwork that we and these speculators have been burdened with. But he hasn’t a clue what he’s selling. Of course he knows it’s about computer software, but why it would be attractive for people in the industry to have an agreement with Software Partners, he doesn’t know. Simply because he doubts very much whether Software Partners have anything new or exciting to sell at all.’
‘What!’
‘It’s true.’ Gunnarstranda smiled. ‘You heard correctly. What’s more, I can tell you that this Marketing Manager has decided to resign. He thinks Engelsviken and Co. are working a scam, and he wants to jump ship before the rats.’
He inhaled and blew out a cloud of blue smoke. Let the information sink in.
‘Hmm,’ Davestuen said at length.
‘Food for thought, eh?’
He poked at Bregård’s head, which still hadn’t quite come away yet.
Davestuen gave a little cough. ‘If that’s the case and Software Partners don’t have any money,’ he summarized, ‘and if at the same time money is coming into the company from the market, then the money’s disappearing somewhere.’
‘Exactly.’
‘If the money’s disappearing somewhere,’ Davestuen concluded, ‘it’s a crime.’
Gunnarstranda gave a nod of satisfaction. He liked the edge that had crept into the voice in the receiver.
‘Since Software Partners have not submitted their accounts to the public register as the law requires,’ Reier argued, ‘nothing can be checked in the usual way.’
Gunnarstranda said nothing. He smoked quietly and allowed his colleague to set the pace.
‘That means it’s time for a bit of action.’
Gunnarstranda still said nothing, letting his colleague think aloud.
‘Right,’ decided Davestuen. ‘But we’ll have to talk to this Marketing Manager of yours first. Svennebye, wasn’t it?’
‘Mhm.’
‘By the way, do you know what the worst thing about giving up fags is?’
‘No,’ answered Gunnarstranda, who couldn’t care less.
‘You miss lighting a cigarette when the telephone rings. Taking a piece of chewing gum is not quite the same.’
‘Mm, I can believe that,’ Gunnarstranda answered politely.
‘I take it you still smoke, Gunnarstranda?’
Gunnarstranda chuckled at the tone in Davestuen’s voice.
‘That I do,’ he answered softly and said goodbye. Sat drumming his fingers before repeatedly pressing the cigarette-end in the overflowing ashtray. ‘That I do,’ he reiterated to himself under his breath, and threw away Bregård’s head, which had now come loose from the paper.
34
At that moment Frølich shoved his large body in through the door.
Gunnarstranda allowed himself the luxury of a self-satisfied expression on his face, then straightened up and glanced at the clock.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Davestuen’s found out why Software Partners locks up its files,’ replied Gunnarstranda gently and placed the tape recorder on the desk.
‘But that’s another matter.’ He wound forward and played the conversation with Marketing Manager Svennebye.
They listened in silence. Gunnarstranda supported his head on his right hand. Occasionally he was unable to resist the temptation of playing with bit of scorched paper. Frølich sat back on the sofa with both hands behind his head and his eyes fixed on a point in the ceiling.
‘Love triangle,’ said the man with the beard after Gunnarstranda had switched off the machine.
‘Love polygon,’ Gunnarstranda corrected. ‘Love was all around, as they say. Our little girl was with Bregård for a while, a while longer with the MD, a while here and a while there, in the end she was with Sigurd Klavestad for a while. Until she was killed. Until Klavestad was slashed.’
The inspector interrupted his reflections and anticipated Frølich: ‘Yes, exactly. And in the midst of all this sits the dirty old man messing everything up! Where the hell does Johansen fit in?’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t fit in at all?’ suggested Frølich.
Gunnarstranda breathed in. Johansen’s keeping something quiet, he thought. Dead certain. ‘Do you know what he reminds me of?’