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Gunnarstranda got in without putting on the seat belt. ‘What have you found out?’ he wheezed while adjusting his coat so that it wouldn’t be creased to death.

‘I rang her workplace.’

Frølich stretched behind to grab a worn, dark brown leather case from the back seat. And removed a pile of papers. ‘She worked in what’s called customer service, in other words, she was a saleswoman. Responded to an ad and was taken on six months ago.’

He faced forward again. ‘I spoke to a woman in the office there, Sonja Hager. Must have been a small firm – I got that impression anyway. Set great store by staff flexibility, the woman said. So Reidun must have done other things as well.’

It was cramped at the front when Frølich was the driver. The big man’s knees were almost banging against the steering wheel even though the seat had been pushed back as far as it was possible. When he lifted the papers from his lap Gunnarstranda had to squeeze up against the window to give him room for his arms.

‘She took her school-leaving exams in her home town, somewhere up in the north-west, Møre and Romsdal.’

The driver scratched his beard. A full black beard with streaks of grey, just like his hair. His hair and beard were as bristly as a broom. Gunnarstranda was jealous. The sole crumb of comfort was the hint of grey, even though the young man had not yet turned thirty.

‘Then she moved to Oslo.’

Frølich spoke with a slightly nasal tone whenever he made reference to documents. The man breathed through his nose and used his mouth to speak. ‘We’ve turned up a couple of casual jobs from two temping agencies. That covers a few months,’ he began to summarize. ‘Otherwise it’s all a bit vague, but I did manage to find confirmation that she had worked at the Post Office for a year. Finished the PO job eighteen months ago because she wanted to study. Enrolled at Oslo University on 13th January last year. Didn’t sit for any exams. Signed on at the Job Centre on 4th May. Started with A/S Software Partners, as the company is called, at the beginning of October last year. Did a few weeks on the till for a co-op store now and then.’

Gunnarstranda nodded. His colleague flicked through the papers on his lap, said the flat where she lived belonged to a teacher who was working in Finnmark pro tem to reduce his study loan. Been there for two years.

‘This teacher fella has rung twice and nagged us to find him a new tenant.’ Frank Frølich sighed, working his way through the pile. ‘Dry old stick, the teacher.’

‘Go on.’

Gunnarstranda was still facing the street. He stared at the two hippies from before, who came trudging through the archway. Two lean crow-like figures wearing large flapping clothes swaggered up towards Sannergata while Frølich informed him that the woman’s father was dead, but that her mother was alive and that the sister, who was two years older, was married to an offshore worker and had settled down in Flekkefjord. Both the mother and the sister had received visits from her, and the mother was wondering now about practical details regarding the burial.

‘Finances?’

‘Unclear for the time being.’

‘Her letter box is empty, too,’ Gunnarstranda was able to add after a moment’s silence.

Frølich leafed through the papers. ‘Neither the sister nor the mother remember any names apart from Software Partners, the company where she was working. Neither of them has seen her for a good while and neither has met her or noticed a new tone in her letters. Overall, the murder came as a total shock to them.’

‘Money in the bank?’

‘Zero. As I said, this is a bit unclear, but we have located the account her wages were paid into, and it’s empty.’

‘Good,’ mumbled Gunnarstranda under his breath. Frølich had managed to dig up a fair bit. Placed the woman in a sort of frame, so that now she appeared as more than a dead body. But the picture was blurred, lacked detail. ‘No one has seen or heard a thing,’ Gunnarstranda added. ‘Not even objects falling, or fighting.’

He lit a cigarette. Frølich slowly rolled down the window.

‘We have the couple that came home from the party on Sunday morning.’

Gunnarstranda nodded towards the hippie couple up the street. ‘Those two. They claimed that there was a bloke with a blood-stained face and a pony tail hanging round the gate when they arrived. And neither can remember if they had locked the gate or the door after them.’

Frølich nodded. ‘We could put them together with an artist and ask them to give a description.’

‘They’re a waste of space,’ Gunnarstranda opined. ‘They were so doped up it took them a quarter of an hour to remember the bloke had a pony tail. No, that wouldn’t be any use.’

He sat smoking for a while in silence. ‘She was covered with stab wounds. That suggests a fury at the moment of death.’

The cigarette was burning unevenly. Gunnarstranda blew on the glow to try to redress the imbalance. ‘But then there’s the terrible mess, which makes me wonder. Drawers turned upside down and all the junk on the floor. That suggests someone wanted to relieve the young lady of her valuables.’

‘Nothing stolen though,’ Frølich parried in a neutral tone. He read from the report, ‘Stereo untouched, TV and money intact.’

‘She might just have put up a fight,’ Gunnarstranda muttered. ‘But I don’t like the fact that the door isn’t damaged. On the other hand, it wasn’t locked when Mia Bjerke found the body.’

‘Bolt lock,’ Frølich said with his nose in the stack of papers again. ‘Which does not click shut.’

He stroked his beard, leaned back against the head rest. ‘She might have forgotten to lock the door at night or she may have opened up for the perp and let him in.’

Gunnarstranda looked into the street. ‘No one climbed in through the window,’ he declared. Eyeballed his partner. ‘Think this is a rape case? I mean, she was only wearing a dressing gown.’

Frølich’s dark eyes seemed to turn inwards. ‘Of course we don’t know when at night this happened,’ he mumbled. ‘But if she was sleeping and a guy rang…’

He paused, searching for words. Gunnarstranda leaned forward and stubbed out the glow of cigarette in the ashtray. Held on to the butt.

‘If she flung on a dressing gown,’ Frølich continued, ‘and opened the door to a guy, who raped her, someone must have heard something.’

Gunnarstranda thought of the Bjerke family. The bedroom that was above the deceased girl’s bed-sit. ‘No one heard a thing,’ he repeated grimly. ‘In fact, none of the neighbours has told us anything, except that she was a good-looking girl. But we already knew that. None of them knew her and it seems no one had any kind of contact with her.’

Frølich nodded. ‘That’s how it is. I’ve lived in my flat for four years. But I’ve got no bloody idea how many people live on the same floor.’

‘Not everyone’s as dopey as you!’

‘The point is that people don’t know one another even though they live side by side.’

‘No, they don’t know one another, but they do keep their eyes open! They’re inquisitive!’

They said nothing.

‘What if she had a boyfriend?’ Frølich asked after a while.

Gunnarstranda slowly rolled down the window. Flicked the crumpled cigarette on to the road. ‘Jealousy? A row?’

He angled his head. ‘That might square with the loose dressing gown around her body. But I still don’t like the door being open. The boyfriend would have locked up after him.’

‘Maybe he fled in panic?’ Frølich suggested. ‘Or he didn’t have a key?’

‘Mmm.’

Gunnarstranda recalled the sight of the dead woman’s chest. ‘You saw the way she looked, didn’t you?’

‘Indeed I did.’

Gunnarstranda fumbled with the door. ‘Could a boyfriend do that?’ he wondered aloud. Didn’t bother to wait for an answer. Opened the door. ‘Come on, Frankie,’ he mumbled. ‘To work!’