‘Who did then?’
‘That’s what I’m waiting to hear.’
Frank fell silent.
‘I’m waiting for a phone call. Then we’ll know the answer.’
He looked to the right. Large, red figures on the wall told them how deep they were.
‘Which we won’t get down here,’ he said tersely.
48
‘Yes, Davestuen’s on the case,’ Gunnarstranda mumbled as they drove towards the rental building. Four dark cars parked in a line in front of the entrance to Rent-An-Office. Four cars that were unmistakable. Dark blue, exactly the same model, same shade, consecutive registration numbers. You could smell police from a mile off. There wasn’t a lot of room. Frank had to wait and let out a small blue Honda with a ski box on the roof before he manoeuvred the car into the space. ‘Did you see that?’ he gasped.
‘What?’
‘Sonja Hager at the wheel with a ski box on the roof.’
Gunnarstranda gave a start. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, that was her. Strange that Davestuen would let her go.’
Frank waved a ‘hi’ to the uniformed officer leaning against the first car.
Gunnarstranda had a frown on his face. ‘I don’t like Davestuen letting her go,’ he mumbled, tapping his knuckles against his porcelain teeth.
‘Shall we go up?’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer at once. ‘I have to think,’ he whispered at length. ‘And I must have that telephone call.’
Frank reversed the car between two others. They sat looking at a high supporting wall of moulded concrete. The silence was tangible. Gunnarstranda’s lighter clicked. Frank could see the inspector’s hands shaking as he inhaled.
‘Has it ever struck you how little atmosphere constructions like this have?’ asked Gunnarstranda, indicating the wall with his cigarette.
‘No.’
‘People don’t think of the big picture any more. In the old days stonemasons were skilled artisans who did more than make gravestones. They even made granite piers for bridges. Dry blocks of granite which are still standing there today!’
Frank hesitated. He could hear how dry and hollow his boss’s voice was. The conversation felt affected. ‘Until they were knocked down,’ he answered.
‘But granite has a structure, a colour, a pattern depending on how the blocks interact. There’s no structure in concrete, it’s a grey surface. Look at that wall!’
Gunnarstranda pointed.
Frank turned to face his boss wondering what the hell he was drivelling on about. ‘But no one looks at a wall like that, do they?’
‘Indeed they do! It is seen,’ the inspector objected. ‘The wall is obviously half the landscape. Take note of the dry branches hanging over the wall. Stephanandra, a deciduous shrub. The point is that the gardener has chosen that plant because it’s bred to hang over walls. But the people who built the buttress didn’t give it enough thought. They’ve just moulded a grey surface which is bound to crack after the first winter falls below minus thirty. Because the ground frost will be so deep that the ice will raise the wall in spring, break it, crack it, because concrete is inflexible. Then the wall will fall to pieces year by year. That could have been avoided if they had considered the whole picture, seen the wall for what it was, part of the landscape. And used granite blocks and made it beautiful, flexible and enduring.’
Frank sent him another annoyed glance. ‘Get to the point. Who killed her?’
‘It’s all about the big picture, as I said. We mustn’t make a blunder here and forget to think holistically.’
Frank smacked the steering wheel. ‘Yes, right,’ he said in desperation, and growled under his breath: ‘Holistically.’
‘My brain is telling me to focus on the little blue car with the ski box on the roof,’ Gunnarstranda continued with the same dry, affected voice. ‘I don’t like Sonja Hager suddenly driving a car with a ski box on the roof. In fact Sonja Hager drives a silver-grey Mercedes. And I have heard someone mention the ski box contains a double-barrelled rifle. There’s something not right here. Sonja Hager’s in charge of the keys to the filing cabinet up there. I can’t imagine Davestuen would let her go.’
‘No one ran after her.’
They both stared at the entrance to the temple where Software Partners had their offices. No activity at all.
‘At home in Bergensgata,’ Gunnarstranda said, out of the blue. ‘Across the street from me, lives a man who for all these years has had a relationship with a widow down in Sagene.’
Frank didn’t reply. Just turned and stared at him without detecting the slightest indication of amusement in his little face.
‘The man sees the widow about once a week. His wife kicks up one hell of a fuss every time. At least, so the rumours say.’
Gunnarstranda smiled, exhausted. ‘Every time. And when he comes home the wife sheds a few tears, then has a bit of slap and tickle with her old man.’
Slap and tickle, mused Frank, and said politely: ‘Really?’
‘Sometimes I think about them,’ the inspector continued. ‘About her putting up with that, I mean. She must know people talk about them.’
He took a deep breath. ‘She could have killed the man years ago.’
Frank nodded sympathetically. For a moment he had thought his boss had gone over the edge, but was reassured when the story ended on the usual note, frustration with criminal behaviour.
‘Then it suddenly struck me that of course the woman would never wish upon herself the death of her husband!’
Frank jerked. ‘Where are you going with this?’ he asked, annoyed.
Gunnarstranda looked at him.
‘Suppose it were Engelsviken, or his wife, who killed Reidun,’ he said, for the sake of argument.
‘Yes?’
‘Then there’s someone we’ve left out of the big picture.’
‘Who?’
‘The maid.’
Frank visualized her. The blouse that was buttoned up wrongly and then wasn’t. He could feel the sweat breaking out on his back. He could see Sonja’s bloodless lips when she was talking about good and bad days.
‘Shall I go up?’ he asked, nervous now, nodding to the front door.
Gunnarstranda ignored the question. Stubbed out his cigarette. ‘By the way, I was in Johansen’s flat yesterday,’ he informed Frølich.
‘When?’
‘After talking to herr and fru Bjerke.’
‘Why?’
‘To find the registration number of the car.’
Frølich was quiet.
‘Bjerke was rung up by a mobile phone,’ Gunnarstranda reiterated. ‘The caller wanted him to make a mess of Reidun’s flat and leave fingerprints to lead suspicions away from the real murderer. Bjerke was willing to swear it was a mobile phone. So this caller was in a car. Quite simply, that means the car was parked outside and Johansen saw both the car and the murderer! The old-timer was receiving money from someone who wanted to know who Klavestad was and where he lived. So Johansen sold Klavestad’s address for a handful of silver, fifty thousand kroner. The only question was: how could he contact the driver of the car?’
Frølich’s spine froze. The only question? What the hell did he mean by saying it was the only question?
‘Johansen jotted down the car number and traced the owner. I was up in his flat for one and a half hours. Searching for the number. He had to have it written down somewhere, but where? And do you know what?’
‘What?’
Frølich’s mouth had gone dry.
‘All the time I’d been sitting on a huge pile of porn mags! Then I had a brainwave. I started flicking through them. Studied more pussies than I’ve got plants in my herbarium. Do you remember by the way that I got ten pools numbers right that Saturday?’
‘Which Saturday?’
‘The Saturday Reidun was murdered. That is, she was murdered on the Sunday morning. But I got ten numbers right.’
‘No, I don’t remember. But what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’