‘I’ve told you what I saw!’ Johansen glared at Gunnarstranda. ‘He jumped down from the fence a quarter of an hour after she’d drawn the curtains!’
Gunnarstranda seemed not to hear, instead with his teeth bared in a smile he asked: ‘Did you see her shagging with anyone else?’
Johansen subjected him to a stare. A lingering stare.
‘But she waved to you before she drew the curtains, did she?’
Silence.
‘Why do you think she waved?’
The man smoked. Studied the ceiling.
‘You said she had a ginger pussy. You must have studied her pretty closely, mustn’t you?’
Johansen stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray. Also had to extinguish some old tobacco that had started to glow.
‘How did she like it?’
The man’s breathing grew heavier.
‘On top or underneath?’
‘How long did they keep at it as a rule?’
He was breathing heavily. His breath crackled quietly.
Frank caught himself looking at his watch. Received a little nod from Gunnarstranda, then concentrated on the old man again.
‘So, you sat up here the whole of Saturday night, did you?’
‘I slept here.’
Johansen stirred in his chair. ‘I slept in the chair as I usually do. It’s so much bloody hassle making a bed on the sofa every night.
Frank followed his gaze towards the sofa and a pile of dirty clothes. Eventually he managed to identify the classic chequered pattern of a flannelette sheet.
6
Frank Frølich’s interest in salmon fishing had not had an easy birth. Born and bred in Oslo as he was, he had never rowed boats for rich folk with enough money to hire fishing rights on the river Namsen. The fishing adventures of his childhood were ice fishing in Østmarka and the odd pike in the nutrient-rich puddles nearest to the capital. But since fishing was his all-consuming hobby, it was not long before there was a fly-tying vice under the Christmas tree, a tool which at that time was kept stowed away in a cupboard. Until the event that was to change his attitude to fishing for ever.
A few years before, he and two pals in the Oslo Hunting and Fishing Association had gone on holiday in Frank’s old Taunus 17M, which that year was as yet free of big end trouble. They stopped at the Jazz Camp in Molde because Albert King was performing. From there they made their way up north, and one night they were fishing illegally on a quiet river bank where large silent pools lay gleaming beside a slow current. It had been damp and cold and their hands holding the rods itched from mosquito bites. The river had exuded the cool night atmosphere that bore within it the scent of water and nectar and summer, all at the same time. He had swung out a home-made telescopic rod and savoured the sight of the line lying on the skin-like surface of the stream. The large red moon hung in the night sky, with its magnified reflection on the crystal-clear water, casting a magical column of light from bank to bank.
Then it happened.
A tug on his arm. A line that tightened like a tent guy. The first moves in a struggle of which he would recall very little. Only the anxious paralysis of his thighs, the sensation in his legs vanishing in the icy river as he let the line run and shouted to his pals. Their white faces as they walked along the bank searching wildly for the fishing gaff and shouting advice. The strong rod that jerked and dipped towards the water. The powerful pull of the fish, the strain on his upper arm. The panic-stricken fear that the fly was not fastened securely enough to the line. The feeling of triumph for every metre reeled in. Until the moment when the black spine of the salmon slithered submissively towards his boot and allowed itself to be caught.
It took no more than a tug. And he was in thrall to a disease that would never relinquish its grip. Fly-fishing had become his great passion.
It was early morning now. While waiting to be received at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, he had been to Tanum bookshop and bought a weighty tome about insects. About the development from egg, larva, pupa to fully fledged flier of the majority of the insects known to flap their wings through a Norwegian summer. It was Gunnarstranda who had planted the idea. Frølich had mentioned he needed real models. And had ended up buying this book.
Afterwards he drove home with it, his stomach aching with hunger as he turned off the motorway, took the short cut past Manglerud Church and twisted his way down to Havreveien.
The street was littered with the spring’s No Parking signs as a yellow road-sweeper vehicle attempted to brush away the gravel strewn across the pavement. So he reversed up the entrance to the block and parked. Took the lift to the ninth floor. Let himself in.
As soon as he opened the door he could hear Eva-Britt humming in a loud, unconstrained voice, the way people do when they wear headphones and think they are alone. A smile broadened in his beard. He had not expected to see her back for a while. So, he put down the book and tiptoed in. Stopped in the doorway. She was reclining naked on the lounger. Her ample breasts spilled to each side and she was lying with her legs crossed. The room was lit up by the sun beaming in through the large panoramic windows. A large yellow square stretched across the white carpet covered with long blonde hairs and dust; dust that danced in the sunlight. Her toes splayed out to the rhythm of the music as if someone were tickling them with string. The movement caused her breasts, with the dark pink nipples, to wobble. But the face under the headphones was ugly and unreal. It looked like a sculpted plaster-of-Paris figure. A balloon with papier-mâché stuck on.
She sensed his presence from his stare, opened her eyes. They shone like two black stains in the porridge-like surface.
‘What the hell have you done to your face?’ he gasped as she removed the headphones.
‘Yoghurt,’ Porridge-face said. ‘Face mask.’
‘Sheesh!’
He went in and sat beside her. He couldn’t restrain his hand. Stroked the faint crease on her neck. ‘I thought you were at university.’
His hand followed his urge, down the taut abdomen.
‘Couldn’t be fagged.’
‘Your daughter?’
‘With her father.’
The eyes in the facial porridge had turned blacker. Her hand caressed his forearm, up and down. ‘Your fingers are a bit cold.’
Her voice sounded as if she didn’t have enough breath to say everything. He nodded and ran them lightly across her breasts. Bent down and licked off a bit of the face.
‘Good,’ he said, smacking his lips.
She giggled at the tickle of his tongue; he held her neck with one hand as he licked upwards and filled his mouth with yoghurt. Swallowed.
‘It’s only half past ten,’ he heard her say as his fingers strayed across her stomach, downwards. Licked. Swallowed. Licked. Ate the yoghurt. Soon her chin and one eye were clear. He stooped over her in the lounger. Trying to get undressed at the same time. Got one arm stuck in his sweater so that both arms were trapped behind his back.
Almost all the yoghurt daub was gone. Her red lips shone through the muck. He hopped on one leg with both arms behind his back. Fell to the floor, struggled up on to one knee. She grinned and helped him. Until he was as naked as she was.
‘My God, you’re so fat!’ she exclaimed with delight and escaped from his arms. He ran after her. His erect penis stirring and banging against his stomach. Into the bedroom, Frank launched himself, airborne. Gotcha. She screamed.
They hit the bed in the middle. The mattress sank to the floor as the bed gave way with an ear-deafening crack.
‘Are you alive?’ he asked solicitously.
She sniggered. ‘Think so.’
Afterwards they lay beside each other. The sun blazed a sharp whiteness on to her rump. She was asleep. The telephone rang. He tried to wriggle his thigh out without waking her. The bed frame towered like an abandoned theatre set above them. He had his hand around the receiver as she sighed softly in her sleep and rolled over and away. His pecker drooped and wilted as he got up.