‘No.’
‘A little boy who’s done something naughty. He’s as happy as hell that he’s pulled the wool over our eyes. Regarding one point. One single bloody point. It makes him feel powerful.’
They sat in silence for a while, until Frølich cleared his throat.
‘This break-in at Software Partners…’
‘Yes?’
‘Apparently nothing was stolen.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Apparently nothing was stolen from Reidun, either.’
‘Correct.’
‘Is that a coincidence?’
‘I don’t believe so.’
Gunnarstranda’s fingers galloped up and down the desk edge in impatience. ‘We have lots of good reasons to pursue Software Partners now,’ he said.
Frølich nodded.
‘But we have to take a closer look at this restaurant place, too. Scarlet. I want you to pop by.’
‘Fine,’ Frølich growled. ‘But what now?’
Gunnarstranda lifted the telephone and dialled a number. ‘Terje Engelsviken,’ he said to the voice in his ear. ‘OK,’ he answered when the voice couldn’t help.
‘For a change,’ he grumbled and rang off.
‘Not in, as usual?’
‘At a meeting. Wonder if it’s with himself at home,’ he speculated.
Frank nodded. ‘Not inconceivable.’
‘Then we should be there, so we could have a chat with him.’
‘Would be good. Shame he hasn’t invited us.’
Gunnarstranda smiled and got up. ‘If no one invites us, I think we will be obliged to invite ourselves!’
35
Engelsviken and Hager had an address in Hoffsjef Løvenskiolds vei.
Gunnarstranda sat in the passenger seat quietly gazing out of the window. Examining the bare branches of the birch trees, the dirty grey patches of ground between the ochre remains of last year’s foliage by the roadside. (Spring is always dirty grey and mucky at first.)
At last the car started the laborious climb over Uller Ridge. Bare trees with bare branches here, too. Posh areas don’t look much without the colour afforded by grass and leaves. Largely uninterested, Gunnarstranda surveyed the towering residences in the shadows of large leafless deciduous trees, black bark against blue sky.
Engelsviken’s house was not at the top. Though not at the bottom, either. It was an edifice that gave the impression of something other than frugality.
Frank Frølich parked in front of one of the three garage doors facing the road. Gunnarstranda sat studying the design of the house. Chocolate brown with white window frames, a hipped roof covered with blue glass tiles that glinted in the sun. Panoramic glass panes reflected the views to the south and west. A magnificent hillside garden in front of the cellar wall set off the rocks from the house down to a lawn at street level. Now, so early in the year, you could only see the spongy winter-green growth and occasional dry twigs that would explode into life once summer was here.
The still yellowish lawn beneath the house was part of a landscape design in which large shrubs were planted between a few fruit trees. He recognized the red twigs of Tartar dogwood and the characteristic horny bark of a few forsythia bushes where the yellow flowers had formed full buds but had not yet blossomed. Between branches they caught glimpses of a narrow path made with quarry dust.
No shortage of work here, he thought. A park-like area, developed and maintained by a trained workforce, not an Oslo West lady with a hand-weeder.
The black wrought-iron gate screamed on rusty hinges behind them as they slogged their way through the shingle up to the house.
The entrance at the back was not particularly interesting and did not live up to the house front facing the street. An ordinary bare step of expanded metal led to a standard teak brown door. Gunnarstranda pressed a button in the mouth of a bronze lion’s head.
Not a sound to be heard. Either there was no bell or they had been fortunate with their insulation. No one came, so he pressed again.
Oceans of time passed.
At last. The door was opened slowly by a smiling girl with obvious oriental features. ‘Morning?’ she queried in a thick voice.
Dressed in a servant’s uniform. Short, black skirt and matching blouse with a white pinafore. The girl mustered a tentative smile. Her hair was collected in a bun at the back. A few strands had slipped out of the bun and hung down beside her ears.
Gunnarstranda left the conversation to Frølich. His eyes above the beard were fixed on the girl’s breasts. His voice asked after Engelsviken. No answer. ‘Engelsviken,’ Frølich repeated, in frustration.
The girl stared from one to the other. Then slammed the door.
Gunnarstranda looked from the door to Frølich, who raised his hand to the lion’s head and kept his finger on the bell.
Time passed.
At last the door was opened again. Same girl. But with a different expression now. There was fear in her eyes.
‘Nobody home!’ she stuttered. ‘Nobody!’
And, with that, slammed the door again.
‘Did you notice?’ asked Frølich.
‘Notice what?’
‘The buttons!’
Gunnarstranda didn’t understand.
‘When she opened the door first her blouse was buttoned up wrongly.’
‘I thought you were ogling her tits!’
‘The second time it was done up properly.’
‘How the maid dresses has got nothing to do with us!’
Frølich turned and stepped down. ‘That depends on whether she’s alone or not,’ he said.
On the road a grey Mercedes was flashing a yellow indicator and wanted to go into the garage where the police vehicle was parked. A silver saloon from the exclusive range. An irritated honk on the horn followed by flashing headlights told them the driver was waiting.
The car door opened. An elegant, dark-haired lady placed one foot on the ground and leaned out of the vehicle, eyeing Gunnarstranda. Her face was semi-hidden by her round mirror sunglasses. Some wisps of her long hair were blown into her mouth. As she stroked them away, she looked very attractive.
The inspector realized who she was. Hand outstretched, he went over to introduce himself. ‘Sonja Hager, I presume,’ he chuckled.
‘You’re blocking my drive!’
Disdainful tone.
Gunnarstranda waved to Frølich, who was back in the car. He reversed.
‘We have a few questions,’ the policeman said, as amiable as before, ‘but please do park first.’
The lady got back into her car. Seconds later the middle garage door opened. The Mercedes engine raced as it covered the few metres into the gap between the polished body of a low-slung sports car and a more unassuming Japanese model.
Gunnarstranda waited by the unmarked dark police car and held open the rear door for her.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to come inside?’ she asked with a hasty glance at the house. Gunnarstranda followed her eyes. A figure could be discerned behind the large expanse of glass. Looked like a man. At any rate someone taller than the uniformed maid.
He looked into Sonja Hager’s eyes. The next moment, when he looked back at the window, there was no one to be seen upstairs.
‘We’ve just come from the house,’ he said with a friendly smile. ‘No one at home, I’m afraid.’
He pronounced the last word with extra stress. ‘Take a seat in here.’
He closed the car door after her, gathered his coat around him and entered from the other side.
‘I believe you’ve met before, haven’t you?’ Gunnarstranda said, motioning to the back of the head behind the wheel. ‘Frank Frølich.’ The woman didn’t respond. She was clutching her bag and staring coldly out of the window.
‘He asked you whether you knew if there was anyone Reidun Rosendal was particularly attached to.’
‘We all knew her a bit,’ she answered offhand.
‘Are you aware of any men she had a more intimate relationship with?’
‘Øyvind,’ she said in the same curt manner. ‘That is to say, I didn’t know, but I was informed this was the case by your colleague.’