‘No one else apart from Bregård?’
‘No.’
‘You two were close?’
‘Not that I was aware of.’
‘We’ve been told you were.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to everything you’re told.’
‘Reidun was an attractive woman, wasn’t she?’
‘Certainly.’
‘No cold sweats or pats on the bottom?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
Gunnarstranda held her arm. ‘Six months at the same workplace and you can’t remember anyone who had a crush on her?’
She looked down her nose at the policeman’s hand. Gunnarstranda didn’t let go. ‘Tasty morsel… no appeal for the boys?’
‘Let’s stop beating about the bush, shall we,’ she said, ice cold.
The detective agreed, and became serious.
‘Let me make the following quite clear: I don’t know how often Reidun chose to make herself available. Or with whom. And I don’t want to know. That’s not what interests me.’
The door shut with a bang. They sat and watched her stomp towards the house. Not very easy. High heels are not practical on shingle. Especially not uphill.
‘Temperamental,’ Frølich mumbled.
Gunnarstranda grunted.
‘What do we do?’
Gunnarstranda was quiet. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at length.
Frølich whistled. ‘Look right!’
Gunnarstranda observed a male figure standing with a woman behind one of the large window panes staring down at them. The woman was wearing Sonja Hager’s elegant outfit. The man was the same person he had seen a few minutes ago. A grey-clad gentleman with slightly glittery suit trousers.
‘I suppose we knew that,’ the man at the wheel confirmed. ‘We knew he was at home.’
Gunnarstranda sat thinking. ‘There’s only one pattern I can see here for the time being,’ he concluded. ‘And that is that those two are floating in money. While all the evidence suggests that they shouldn’t be.’
‘Floating,’ he mumbled after a while. ‘Swimming in it!’
He smiled to himself. ‘Swimmers treading water knowing there is a jellyfish nearby. It might be to the right, to the left, or just beneath them. They don’t know where. They can smell the danger and are kicking out. Move! Fast!’
Frølich started the car.
Gunnarstranda leaned back. Looked at his watch. Gone four. So it would be evening before he had finished the day’s routines. ‘Now we’ll see,’ he said, ‘whether this panic will bear fruit. I wonder why this snob doesn’t want to talk to us.’
‘Let’s imagine for the sake of argument it’s true that Software Partners is a scam, as we believe,’ came the voice from the front seat. ‘Suppose that Bregård and Engelsviken got together after we had a word with Bregård in the fitness room. Suppose also that this Brick received a few telephone calls from Davestuen at Fraud Squad.’
Gunnarstranda listened, thinking.
‘It’s no wonder Engelsviken is keeping well away from us,’ Frølich continued.
‘Well,’ Gunnarstranda objected, only half in agreement. ‘This scam of theirs should be able to withstand a bit of nibbling at the edges from the cops. Engelsviken has experience of this kind of thing…’
He paused. ‘Perhaps the jellyfish is beginning to tickle their feet.’
He felt his lips forming into a smile. That is, if it wasn’t the smoke from the bonfire we were forever walking round and stoking up, he thought, crossing his legs.
36
Queueing always made Frank Frølich go soporific. It was like sitting on the tram. Your brain latched on to a thought you had filed away, you withdrew into yourself and patiently watched the world go by waiting until it was all over.
Not Eva-Britt. She thrived in queues, construed them as a social event and was already in conversation with two bald-headed guys from Oslo West. Both on top form. Loud young men with a strong need to tell everyone around them what they felt.
Eva-Britt screeched with laughter at the boys’ corny jokes, was treated to swigs of the beer they had brought along and an all-out charm attack. Clinging on to his arm, as if fearful she might get into deep water.
Frank listened with half an ear, gazing patiently into the distance. The red wine in his stomach dulled the inane chat of the society boys. He preferred to concentrate on the door ahead of them, which kept opening and closing without making any impression on the length of the queue. Some customers seemed to be more popular than others, he mused. Watched a couple who fitted in that category. A babe in tart costume inched her way out of a taxi, revealingly, legs first. Grabbed the outstretched hand of her escort with highlights in his hair. Both wriggled their way sideways through the queue, the woman with bashful, downcast eyes, as though she were walking topless on the beach. Both struggled in through the glass door where a self-assured bouncer with a tattoo on the back of his hand took care of them.
When Frank and Eva-Britt finally forced their way inside they had been waiting for three-quarters of an hour. The West End boys left them for two scantily clad girls beckoning and gesturing from a table by the dance floor. Frank and Eva-Britt found themselves a table at the back, a long way from the bar, but with a good view of the dance floor and the entrance. A free table cluttered with dead glasses and dirty plates.
It was difficult to talk. The music was so loud. Frank looked around and let Eva-Britt do the ordering from the menu. The room was dark, the dance floor spacious. A lot of attractive people. Men and women who could tell the difference between a backhand and a forehand on the centre court.
Eva-Britt wanted to know what he was going to drink.
‘Well, let’s see,’ he smiled, at a loss. ‘Anything that costs less than a thousand kroner a bottle.’
Eventually the table was cleared by a girl who rationed her eye-contact. She appeared to take their orders without being aware anyone was sitting there. However, the drinks came faster than expected.
Frank held the glass and considered whether to make a fuss. There was definitely not more than four decilitres of beer in the half-litre glass. Perhaps you would notice me if I chucked the beer in your face, he reflected, sending her a happy smile. At that moment something happened at the table with the West End kids. The boys got up and waggled their backsides as if they had just scored the winning goal in a final. The girls waved and shouted. It was a kind of ceremony. The group was welcoming a guest. Frank leaned back against the wall and sipped his beer. There was something familiar about this guest. The glittery suit. A middle-aged, bloated man on skinny legs. Grey suit that glittered when he moved.
He followed the man with his eyes. Moist, slightly wan face with a rigid smile. Strong voice that carried. The waitress was on the spot at once with champagne. Frank watched the man giving people around high fives. This person was well known. Very well known. He even got a hug from the waitress with the niggardly eyes.
Frank Frølich was in no doubt.
The West End table had become a cheery party. The new arrival was the focus of everyone’s attention and gesticulated as he spoke. He was so drunk he didn’t even notice when he knocked a glass off the table. After he came to the punch-line he tucked his lower lip under his teeth, raised his cheeks and guffawed. Everyone laughed. Fell over the table laughing.
The idiot seemed to be amusing, Frank thought, and started playing footsie with Eva-Britt. She was eating spaghetti with lots of sauce. Glanced up, winked and sucked pasta. Sexy lips. She looked down again. Kicked off a shoe under the table and put her foot in his lap. He looked down in his glass. Empty. He waved to the waitress who was still acting as if there weren’t any customers sitting around.
‘Another half-litre please!’
She was gone.
‘Hey!’
He caught her arm.
She stopped, half-turned.