Gunnarstranda chewed his lower lip. ‘And that was before the performance on the dance floor?’
‘Yes, immediately before. He rolled straight from the toilet to the yuppie table, dragged both girls on to the floor and there was no stopping him.’
‘And he didn’t have to queue to get in?’
‘That’s right. Scarlet has a so-called club for the more regular guests, and I suppose he’s a member.’
‘Was he celebrating something last night?’
‘Haven’t a clue.’
Gunnarstranda pulled in and came to a halt. ‘You’ll have to go to Scarlet again.’
‘I had planned to.’
‘But during the day when the bar’s closed.’
Frank smiled quietly, turned his head, glanced across the road and recognized where they were. ‘Why are we here?’
‘There’s been another burglary in Reidun Rosendal’s flat,’ answered his boss, opening the door his side.
‘Tonight?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘And it seems this masochist, the MD of Software Partners, has found himself an alibi for this particular number,’ he added drily.
39
The gate was open. The lock had been smashed to pieces. Gunnarstranda examined the remains. Ran his fingers over the metal. Heard Frølich come from behind. The sweet smell of vomit filled his nostrils.
‘The guy must have used a crowbar,’ Frølich opined.
They advanced further through the dark arched gateway. The front door didn’t seem to be damaged at all. Curious, thought Gunnarstranda. And stopped.
‘It might have been open,’ the man behind him suggested. ‘The guy broke open the gate, but the front door could have been unlocked.’
‘Hm.’
Gunnarstranda swivelled and retraced his steps, into the gateway. Opened the gate wide until it hit the wall.
‘Hm,’ he repeated, groping along the wall with his fingers. Felt a scar in the wall.
Frølich reacted. Strode back to the car and returned with a torch. Shone it on the wall where you could see the plaster had been damaged. Pulled the gate wide open again. The lock hit the scar in the wall.
‘That does not come from prolonged wear and tear,’ Frølich stated.
‘If so, we would have seen peeling paint at most. This is from a blow or blows.’
Gunnarstranda agreed. ‘You mean someone smashed the lock to pieces and used the wall as a base?’
‘Looks like it.’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer at once, stroked his lips, thinking that it might not have happened like that. The gate could have slammed open when the lock was smashed. And then the lock case would have damaged the wall when it struck. But whatever the reason the result was the same. He heard Frølich’s voice:
‘Our boys’ll have to examine the wall.’
Gunnarstranda nodded, opened the door and went up the stairs first. The flat door had been levered open with a crowbar. The whole frame had been torn off so the white wood in the splinters shone like spilt paint.
The small flat was hardly recognizable. The last time books and papers had been scattered everywhere, this time it was worse. The mattress had been slashed and stood sideways against the wall. Its innards were strewn across the floor. Duvet and pillow had met the same fate. The room was deep in brown and white feathers from the bedding. All the cupboards were open, the contents spewed out.
Someone had systematically worked their way through all the objects in the flat.
Gunnarstranda experienced an urge to swear. ‘This was thorough,’ he mumbled, going over to the window and drawing the curtains. The walls outside were in darkness. More or less. On the opposite side of the street two panes were illuminated.
Frølich wiped his forehead.
‘I think it’s time to have another little chat with Arvid Johansen,’ said Gunnarstranda softly, letting go of the curtain.
They ran down the stairs at speed. The rain had got heavier in the street. A stream was running down the gutters.
Gunnarstranda flipped up his coat collar and ran across. Stormed up the steps with Frølich at his heels. Rang Johansen’s bell.
No one answered.
Frølich stood with his ear to the glass in the old-fashioned double door. ‘It’s quiet in there,’ he whispered. ‘Perhaps he saw us?’
Gunnarstranda rang again. Pounded on the door with his fist. Nothing happened. One more time. Three long, firm rings on the silent staircase. No reaction.
Frank Frølich raised his right leg and kicked in the door. The bolt securing it to the floor cracked like a piece of chalk. Both doors burst open with a bang.
Neither of them moved.
The light in the flat came from a door in the hall. The bathroom. The rest was in the dark.
Gunnarstranda went in first. Switched on the light in the sitting room. The chair was empty. The sofa was empty. The bathroom was empty. Johansen’s flat was empty.
They began to carry out a sporadic search of the flat. Opening random cupboards that were crammed with the same clothes they had found on the floor the last time they had ransacked his place.
On the kitchen worktop there was a half a loaf and half a can of liver paste that had gone dark and crusty at the edges. A stained coffee jug was half full of black coffee. In the fridge there was a carton of buttermilk past its sell-by-date. Two bottles of export beer were in the door with a half-empty bottle of cod-liver oil. On the top shelf there was a piece of lightly salted bacon in a plastic packet, as well as a bag of potatoes. Kerr’s Pink, thought Gunnarstranda when he saw the reddish skin and the deep eyes.
On top of the fridge there were some blue prescriptions and a number of unpaid bills with an uncashed social security form showing that Johansen was not living off the fat of the land.
In the middle of the worktop lay Johansen’s wallet. It was thick, brown and the leather was very worn. Gunnarstranda picked it up, weighed it in his hand. Opened it. In one pocket there was a stiff identity card issued by the Post Office. The card showed a picture of Johansen wearing a shirt and tie. The bags under his eyes were less conspicuous than in reality. The card revealed that the man had retired five years ago.
The police inspector cast a brief glance at the picture, then removed what was causing the wallet to bulge. A wad of paper, as thick as a book. Bluish white with pink and purple hues. A wad of one-thousand-krone notes with an elastic band round them.
‘Either he’s out and up to mischief,’ Frølich said from the sofa, ‘or something’s happened to him.’
‘I fear it’s the latter,’ answered Gunnarstranda. Shook out a transparent plastic bag from the bunch he had in his pocket. ‘We’ll have to be careful.’
He dropped the pile of money into the bag. ‘I don’t think we’ll find a single fingerprint in Reidun’s flat.’
‘That wasn’t here on Thursday!’ Frølich said referring to the money. He had got to his feet and was studying the contents of the bag.
‘Nor the wallet,’ replied Gunnarstranda stroking his mouth, thoughtful. ‘Although the money may have been here. If he had had it on him.’
40
The two detectives were back at Police HQ. It was early morning and this wing of the station was dead. They were the only ones in the corridor. Frank Frølich slumped against the wall and watched Gunnarstranda fumbling in his pockets, looking for the keys. In the end, he couldn’t be bothered to wait any longer and unlocked the door himself. Went in first, threw himself into a swivel chair, swung round and took two cups from the window sill. Stifled a yawn.