‘Are you implying that her flat wasn’t burgled?’
‘The flat door was broken into, you saw that for yourself, but it is far from certain that the same is true for the gate.’
‘You don’t think the marks on the gate are genuine?’
‘There is that possibility.’
‘Exactly what are you trying to say?’
‘I’m trying to find a connection, that’s all. Why did you keep the legal dispute quiet?’
‘Because it has nothing to do with you.’
‘I have a different view. The only logical explanation for marks simulating a break-in must be that the burglar was someone who could open the gate, one of the residents in this block.’
The detective waited for a moment. ‘And then there would not be all too many candidates to choose between.’
‘Possibly not,’ agreed Bjerke, meeker now.
‘At any rate that would entail some poor cop having to make certain investigations.’
‘What sort of investigations?’
‘Such as establishing clarity concerning the contact there had been between an accountant in upper Grünerløkka and Terje Engelsviken.’
Gunnarstranda was able to confirm to himself that Bjerke was sitting stiffly on the sofa now, concentrating. He rested his forearms on his thighs and bent his upper body forward, slightly dispirited, as though he were sitting on the toilet.
The inspector noted the silence emanating from the child’s room. He turned his head. She was standing in the doorway, behind her husband with eyes only for him. Bjerke was motionless. Even when she walked across the floor, sat down, pressed her knees together hard with a sculptured expression on her pale features. The husband ignored her. He maintained his dispirited posture, although the look in his eye had changed character.
Gunnarstranda nodded politely to her. Attractive woman. But the face seemed a façade. Not sure how much you know, he thought. Not sure what it means if you know anything at all. Nevertheless, the detective could not help noticing the effect she was having on the man on the sofa. His haughty face was wan. The armour was gone. All right, all hell is about to break loose, he thought, and he addressed her husband: ‘You have consistently underrated us, Bjerke.’
He was silent.
‘This evening, a few hours ago, I was considering arresting you.’
The woman gulped.
‘Tactically speaking, such an arrest would have appeased my superiors and a number of journalists.’
Gunnarstranda allowed a lull to develop. Bjerke was avoiding his spouse’s eyes.
The inspector resumed. ‘Sometimes we haul in someone who has been seen at a crime scene. But because we often have to let them go again we always undertake a careful appraisal first.’
Something was happening between husband and wife. It was none of his business. But in his hand he had the best cards and decided to raise the stakes.
He watched. ‘Often we don’t get the real perpetrator. And so we cannot influence the confusion he may be feeling when the wrong person has been arrested. As a result it is impossible to observe the mistakes he might make.’
He splayed his palms. ‘All that happens is that the newspapers have a victim they can harass. Readers can gorge themselves on spicy sensationalism and satisfy their cravings for the circus on which our times have inculcated a dependence.’
Gunnarstranda’s smile was porcelain white, he was thinking it was a good job he was alone, so that no one would attack him for this emotional hogwash later. He stretched out both legs and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘We are obliged to show consideration.’
He shuddered inside, but continued: ‘Even if the real perpetrator were to be arrested afterwards, and convicted and punished, the innocent victim would never be free of suspicion. In two, three, five years people wouldn’t remember who the real murderer was anyway. What they do remember, if anything, is the photograph of the person with the jacket over their head. Or the childhood story the newspapers managed to dig up. The story that was supposed to reveal the character of the detainee, to proffer the reader an explanation for the man’s brutality.’
He fiddled with a cigarette he had taken from his pocket. Wondered if he had gone too far with this nonsense of his. He tested, by holding his tongue. It was time to show his hand. But first of all Bjerke plus wife needed time to digest the sermon he had just reeled off. Decided to give them two minutes.
‘I know who’s trying to bluff us here,’ he said, showing his hand at last. Met Bjerke’s eyes. ‘You’ve carried out three break-ins. You raided A/S Software Partners three weeks ago. And you turned Reidun’s flat upside down while she lay dead on the floor. Please note, I am saying she was already dead. But you were so nervous with her lying there you cleared off. Left it to your wife and child to find the body and report it to the police. Then afterwards you had to wait while the storm was at its peak. You had to wait until things calmed down and you were sure the flat wasn’t under surveillance. Then you broke in again. To confuse us you decided to demolish the lock on the gate downstairs. Inside the archway with the lock against the wall, that was how you did it. You damaged the plaster on the wall and that was what made us suspicious.’
Bjerke was studying the floor.
‘On top of that, you forgot the front door.’
Bjerke smiled, helpless. ‘I didn’t think of that. It was open.’
The inspector leaned across the table. Twinkled at the woman who was subjecting him to a searching gaze, then concentrated on her husband again.
‘Would you be so kind as to tell me everything this time,’ he instructed. ‘Everything that happened that morning. Everything! Every smallest, tiniest detail!’
46
An hour later he was running down the stairs with no more than a fleeting glance at Reidun Rosendal’s flat, then onwards and out. His face was closed and stern as he shot across the street and into the block of flats. Stopped to look at his watch. Past eleven o’clock. That didn’t help. He hared up the stairs and was hardly out of breath at the top. Undid the padlock sealing the door to Arvid Johansen’s flat and went in. Switched on all the lights. Scoured the room. Opened whole rows of cupboard doors until he found what he was looking for. The binoculars. They were heavy and black. So, quite old. With standard 7x50 magnification. He hung the battered leather strap around his neck, grabbed the faded armchair and dragged it to the window. Deliberated. Johansen had been a big man. Bigger than he was. But how big? He looked around, kicked a pile of porn magazines away from the sofa. Porn magazines, of course. He took off the binoculars, piled up the magazines. Placed the whole heap on the armchair seat and perched on top, removed a few, sat down again. That was better. Raised the binoculars and looked through the window. Dark outside, but the gate was illuminated and the wooden fence was clear enough. Still the wrong angle. He twisted the chair into various positions, sat down, got up, re-adjusted the chair. This was repeated several more times until he was satisfied.
That was how he, Arvid Johansen, had sat. Gunnarstranda searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one and lit up. He reconstructed the scene. The woman had opened the curtains. And what had happened? Some time had passed. Johansen had probably got excited, seen the two making love, then Sigurd left. What had the old boy done? Given himself a hand job? Smoked? Got up to eat perhaps; the show was over, after all. He had said he went to sleep in the chair later.
Fine, the show’s over, what now? Johansen stomps into the kitchen, eats a slice of bread, goes back.
Gunnarstranda stood up, went to the kitchen. Walked back. Looked out.
So, it’s a quarter past six. It’s daylight out there. Sigurd Klavestad jumps over the fence and hangs around the gate for a while, according to his statement. He is seen by the hippie couple returning home from a party in a taxi. They unlock the gate, but don’t lock up after them. So the gate is open. Johansen watches. What does he see? Right, he sees someone coming. Someone he later manages to track down. This person comes in their own car. Gunnarstranda grinned. Smacked his forehead, a habit from his boyhood days. Of course Johansen must have jotted down the car registration number! The registration number of the murderer’s car. So obvious, so hit-you-in-the-face obvious. The number and then a telephone call to the vehicle licensing agency!