‘Well, on this woman’s tits in the magazine there was a line of pools numbers. Twelve, as there should be. Ten of them were mine.’
‘So?’
‘Beside them there was a car number.’
Frølich nodded.
‘That doesn’t necessarily mean it was the number of the murderer’s car,’ Gunnarstranda pointed out.
‘Of course not,’ Frank agreed, excited now. Could sense the sweat on his back.
‘But Johansen may have had that magazine in front of him on the table that very Saturday. Noting down the winning twelve results. He may have done all sorts afterwards. Perhaps he fell asleep. After all, he had been up the whole night watching Reidun and Sigurd. At any rate there is a limited possibility that the number I found is that of the murderer’s car. Of course, it would never stick in court!’
‘For Christ’s sake, tell me whose it is!’
‘I don’t know. Fatty from the temping agency was supposed to be finding out for me.’
‘Fatty?’
Frank didn’t have time to ask any more. They were interrupted. At last the phone had rung. The inspector leaned forward and took notes. Rang off. Showed his colleague without a word.
Frank read: Mercedes 280, 1990 model. Owner: Sonja Brynhild Hager.
Frank sighed, already having twisted the key in the ignition.
‘Brynhild,’ he mumbled, tasting the name on his tongue and revving the engine. Didn’t like her name being Brynhild. Recalled her head sticking up behind the wheel of the little Honda with the ski box on the roof.
Gunnarstranda had gone pale. He removed the blue lamp from the glove compartment. ‘Drive like the clappers,’ he breathed, ‘but get this bloody thing working first!’
49
Inspector Gunnarstranda had the microphone in his hand and was speaking into it with unusual intensity. The woman taking the message answered calmly like a tram driver before the doors are closed. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was tense. Her tone of voice was just that bit too polite. No giggles, no witticisms. This was serious.
Frank thought about a maid with a badly buttoned-up blouse.
The inspector put down the microphone.
‘That was why the maid was so frightened,’ Frank declared and switched off the siren as they approached Hoffsjef Løvenskiolds vei. ‘She must have known everything.’
Grim-faced, Gunnarstranda nodded.
‘Sonja picked up her sozzled husband outside Scarlet at half past three. The owner said Engelsviken was totally out of it. I suppose the maid must have been woken up when they came home.’
‘And Sonja Hager must have listened to so much shit on the way home that it was the last straw,’ whispered Gunnarstranda. ‘She drove back to town after off-loading her husband. The maid must have heard her come back, perhaps they had a chat, Sonja with blood on her clothes. Bloody hell, how could we have forgotten the maid?’
Frank didn’t answer. He was dreading the scene to follow, the boys with the military helmets crawling through the grass and all the drama.
‘So, along come Davestuen and his boys today,’ he continued. ‘She happens to be there. With Bregård. She must have twigged the raid had something to do with us.’
Frank said nothing. So she made a quick exit to finish off the job, he was thinking.
There.
A small blue Honda had skidded to a halt in front of the large garage. Ski box open. Car door left open. Frank parked. Strange that Macho Man Bregård should have such a small car, he thought. Jumped out.
A car radio was blaring out at full volume. ‘Fishin’ in the Dark!’
He lifted the lid of the ski box. Empty. Bent down and looked inside the vehicle. Open case of cartridges. Eley Grand Prix 12 bore. Half full. As he guessed. A rifle as macho as its owner. Gunnarstranda followed. Frank showed him the half-empty case of cartridges and closed the door. The music was muted. Far away there was the sound of sirens coming closer. Now they would have something to talk about in this suburb, too, he thought. Remembered the maid with the blouse again. Thought about Clint Eastwood. Cigar in his mouth and a Magnum.44. Chewing! Drop it angel, or I’ll make you fly! No explanations. Dirty Harry never had to explain anything. Certainly not why he walked around with a Magnum in his belt. And Dirty Harry was never suspended from duty. Dirty Harry wouldn’t lose his job if he broke the regulations on important missions. Frank opened the car door again and switched off the radio. Silence settled over the ridge. Shit, weren’t there any kids living here? He noticed that Gunnarstranda had gone back to the car and sat inside. Busy with the microphone. The sirens were coming closer.
Frank stared up at the house and thought about her. Among the circle of lunatics in this case Sonja Hager was one of the few who had spoken about genuine feelings. For some a vow is serious, she had said. After taking a life.
He looked from the house to the police car and back again. Uncertain. Wondering what was going through her head. If she was afraid. She was definitely under emotional strain. And probably pretty screwed up since she had managed to mobilize so much hatred to protect herself.
Behaviour, rational to a certain degree. She had systematically removed all the witnesses. Possibly in action again now. If the job had not already been done.
Was she in full possession of her faculties? Yes, but still not of a mind to accept her punishment. So actually anything at all could happen, he thought, slowly making his way to the house.
50
He stood staring at the brown front door. The silence lay like a suffocating blanket over the whole area. Soon the sirens would be switched off. Thereafter, only the sound of 4x4 diesel engines snarling their way up the road. Stopped. Doors banging. Silence.
He thought of Reidun. She had opened the door and let Sonja in. Tired, so tired. Had probably told Sonja to go to hell. She would talk about her marriage when she was in a better frame of mind.
Until she lay on the floor with a knife in her chest.
After that Sonja Hager had sliced up Sigurd Klavestad and in all probability despatched Arvid Johansen in the end. She had dealt with them one by one. All those who could have brought her down. The maid must have heard her that night. The last witness. Was she dead already?
The silence roared. Frank remembered Sonja Hager’s unbecoming smile that was not a smile. What could it have been? Shock? Because Frølich had told her that Bregård had had a relationship with a woman she had just killed? Or had she just realized the gravity of what she had done? Had she realized that this meeting with the police meant that moves were under way to arrest her, have her charged?
He went up the stairs. Felt the door. It was open. At that moment he heard running footsteps. He turned. Kampenhaug and two others in full regalia. Who else but Kampenhaug. Mug painted green. Machine guns and helmets. They stopped.
‘Frølich!’
Kampenhaug’s voice.
Open mouth and moist sheen to the green cheek. Jesus, Kampenhaug standing at the back of the queue. No public to watch him scratching his bollocks here then?
Frank calmly smiled down at them and walked through the unlocked door. Stared across towards Nesodden. The large window in the living room was a picture postcard of Oslo fjord. The islands lay brown in the glittering water.
Kampenhaug’s team took up positions in the room. One of them opened the large veranda door and showed himself to the others. Machine gun raised in the air. Helmet, not a balaclava. The scene was like a snapshot of the Olympic Games in Munich.
Frank looked around. Heavy English-style leather furniture. A natural stone fireplace that threatened to capsize the room. Bookcase with metres of red books behind the glass. Oil on unframed canvas and quite a large aquarium with some unusually well grown fringetails that pressed their flat fish mouths against the pleasingly clean glass.