‘At any rate, the ones you know.’
‘An Islay,’ Frank Frølich said, watching Gunnarstranda going off to a worn old trunk on which it was still possible to read the faded label of MS Stavangerfjord. He opened the lid; the brown bottles were tightly packed in.
‘Bowmore?’
‘OK.’
Frølich had a look around. Almost every square centimetre of wall space in the living room was covered with books. Specialist literature, encyclopaedias, ballistics, botany. He read the titles: Alpine Flowers in the North, Flowers of the Alps, Flowers in Iceland, Flowers of the Faroese Islands. The only break in the rows of books was a glass bowl in which a red fringetail was belching water. He stood up and looked at the fish through the glass.
‘Here you are,’ Gunnarstranda said, passing him the glass.
Frølich took it.
‘They cost thirty-five kroner,’ Gunnarstranda said.
‘Hm?’
‘Fish like that one. Cheap, isn’t it?’
‘Looks a bit listless.’
Gunnarstranda didn’t answer.
‘You don’t have a lot of fiction,’ Frølich noticed.
‘Fiction?’
‘Yes, novels, poems…’
‘Arts?’ Gunnarstranda shook his head and smiled. ‘I don’t like the arts.’ He raised his glass. ‘Skal.’
They sipped their whisky.
Frølich swallowed his with relish.
‘That doesn’t tally with your ability to quote literature.’
Gunnarstranda shrugged, put down his glass and said: ‘Have you got the key?’
Frølich buried his hand in his pocket and then passed it to him.
They were sitting in two deep chairs which must have dated from at least the first EU referendum in 1972.
Gunnarstranda studied the key. ‘A bank safety-deposit box,’ he said.
‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because it’s exactly the same as the key for my own safety-deposit box.’ Gunnarstranda passed him back the key. Frølich sat pondering it in his hand. ‘No name of bank, no number of box.’
‘That’s how it usually is.’
‘So we’ve got a few thousand banks to choose from and a few hundred thousand safety-deposit boxes,’ Frølich burst out dejectedly.
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘It’s not meant to be simple.’
‘But why don’t the banks mark their keys?’
Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘I assume because having a safety-deposit box is a fairly solemn business. When I acquired one all those years ago I was provided with two keys and informed that the bank didn’t have any copies. If I wanted to authorize someone to open the box, it would have to be registered in the bank’s own authorization register.’
‘But what the hell am I supposed to do with the key if it’s not possible to find out which bank or safety-deposit box it belongs to?’
Gunnarstranda smirked and said: ‘Where has the key come from?’
‘She left it at my place.’
‘Who did?’
‘Elisabeth.’
‘Sure?’
‘A hundred per cent.’
‘The odds are that the key was issued to either Elisabeth Faremo or someone in her circle – Jonny Faremo, for example. Perhaps to both of them. The only snag you might encounter is that there is no central register of holders of safety-deposit boxes – something you would definitely be glad of in other situations.’
Frølich sipped his whisky while the other detective brooded.
‘You said you found a tattoo parlour in Askim where someone had decorated Elisabeth Faremo’s hips?’
Frølich nodded.
‘Did you find that out on your own?’
‘Of course.’
‘What made you search there – in Askim?’
‘Because Jonny Faremo was found dead in Askim.’
‘Would you be interested to know that Ilijaz Zupac once lived there?’
‘Where?
‘In Askim.’ When Gunnarstranda saw the bewilderment in the other’s eyes, he added: ‘I took the trouble to do a little digging around Ilijaz Zupac. He went to the FE College in Askim and took the basic mechanics course. In the seventies his father was working at the rubber-goods factory in Askim. There must have been a whole colony of Yugoslav immigrants there.’
‘Yugoslav?’
‘This was before Tito’s death and the Balkan wars. These Yugoslavs are now Croats, Bosnians, Serbs and Montenegrins. Where Zupac’s parents came from, only he knows. They’re both dead. However, he has Norwegian nationality and he did the basic and the advanced course at this college from 1989 to 1991. He’s a qualified panel-beater and was working in that capacity at the garage where you arrested him.’
Gunnarstranda motioned towards the key. ‘I have a safety-deposit box in Den norske Bank NOR in Grefsen. As I said, the keys are very similar.’
‘You mean we should go to Grefsen and try all the safety-deposit boxes there?’
Gunnarstranda shook his head. He said: ‘Faremo was killed in Askim, his sister got a tattoo in Askim, her ex-lover has lived in Askim. And I happen to know there is a branch of DnB there.’
They both lapsed into silence. Frølich was still holding the key in his outstretched hand. ‘It’s worth a stab,’ he said.
‘But it has to be done officially.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’ll have to use the case I’m investigating. I’ll call in Jim Rognstad and Vidar Ballo for more questioning about the Arnfinn Haga murder – and about the death of Elisabeth Faremo. I have a strong suspicion that neither of the two will turn up. If they don’t, there’s nothing to stop me -’ Gunnarstranda was tapping his chest with his forefinger ‘- from confronting the employees of the Askim branch of DnB -’ he leaned forward and snatched the key out of Frølich’s hand ‘- with this key.’ He put it in his pocket. ‘From now on you and I are playing in the same team on this case,’ he concluded. ‘I assume you’ll be making it into work tomorrow.’
Frølich deliberated. He didn’t like the direction Gunnarstranda’s outline of events was taking. He said: ‘What if the key doesn’t fit?’
‘Then you’ve got something to work on in the days to come.’
Frølich stood up. He put out his hand.
Gunnarstranda glanced up. ‘What is it now?’
‘The key. If this is supposed to be official, it will have to be official. I’ll hand it in tomorrow.’
After leaving Gunnarstranda, he decided to go from Bjølsen to the city centre on foot. He strolled along the pavement by the timber houses in Maridalsveien and took a left turn down by the old mill on the Akerselva. The bridge over the waterfall was illuminated now in the dark. He wandered over the bridge past the Hønse-Lovisa house and on to Grünerløkka. He had to think. Gunnarstranda’s snatching the key out of his hand had irritated him. But what did this emotion signify? Was it a kind of ingrown allergy to being given orders? To handing over the key and being obliged to go to work tomorrow, clean-shaven and properly breakfasted, ready to conform religiously to all the rules and regulations? Perhaps that was the cause of his irritation: the fact that he was disqualified by his personal involvement and this would make further work on the case difficult. So perhaps he wasn’t ready to go to work yet. The key weighed heavily in his trouser pocket. It had been left in his flat by her. This key was his. And this pressure from Gunnarstranda to go to work, to perform his function in the orchestra and allow himself to be conducted, he wasn’t ready for that. Not now. Not yet.
Autumn chose this night to demonstrate its damp side. The streetlamps in Birkelunden had an orange aura in the mist. A man wearing a parka and pyjama trousers was taking his dog for a walk. A dark car drove slowly past. Frank Frølich quickened his step, heading for Grønland Metro station.
He caught the last train. It was about one o’clock at night. He still wasn’t sure whether to go to work or not. For one thing, he would have to be up in a few hours. And for another he would have to tolerate the looks, the silence and the unspoken – not just for a whole day but every single day from now on. Would he ever be able to get back into the swing of police work?