‘Wriggling out of what?’
‘Out of telling me what you’re thinking.’
‘I was thinking that I was looking for two people for murder.’
Tove filled both glasses and said: ‘Don’t you do that every day?’
Gunnarstranda pointed his forefinger at the stereo. It was Ella Fitzgerald singing the first lines of ‘Autumn in New York’.
They both listened.
‘This time it was you who interrupted me,’ he said after a while.
‘Me – and Ella.’
‘The two people are under investigation for killing a security man, Arnfinn Haga, and for arson with murder.’
‘What kind of people are they?’
‘A lingerie model, twenty-nine years old, and a criminal on a disability allowance who has spent five-eighths of his life in the slammer.’
‘But why are you thinking about them?’
‘That’s what I’m asking myself.’
They went quiet again. Ella handed over the microphone to Louis Armstrong.
Tove took a seat beside him on the sofa. She rested her head against his shoulder. They remained like that in the half-light. Car headlamps sent yellow rectangles across the ceiling as they rounded the bend outside. As Louis Armstrong blew his horn through the loudspeakers.
39
It was like a scene from a B-movie. It was evening. The slim, blackhaired woman bounced on her high heels through the wrought-iron gate to the low-slung car. Her outline was silhouetted against the street lamp further away. She got in. The car door closed quietly and firmly. The engine growled like an unhurried, replete wild animal as the car drove away. Frølich watched the red rear lights. He had plenty of time. He was patient. Through the garden gate he went, off the shingle path, onto the lawn. A dog inside began to bark. He went on, undeterred. Crouched under an old apple tree, waiting. A shadow appeared in the window. Someone peeped out into the dark. The dog continued to yelp. Finally, the shadow moved away. Eventually, the dog quietened down. Frank Frølich wondered about the dog. The twitchy, lean setter.
What exactly is it I’m after? Why am I crouching here?
He blinked dry eyes in the dark. Blinked away his self-criticism, doubts, misgivings.
It was cold. The sky was black, no stars, no moon. The chill air augured snow. Frølich waited by his post as if hunting elk: stationary, eyes skinned for movement. After an hour the light went on in the cellar. Frølich glanced at his watch and made up his mind. Seven minutes. The light in the cellar window was still on. Another light went on in one of the basement windows. Four minutes passed. No more lights. Five minutes. The second hand crawled round. He was breathing faster. Six minutes. He straightened up. Had to control himself not to leap forward and knock down the door, not to hyperventilate. Seven minutes. He loped across the lawn, ran up the steps and rang three times. The dog began to bark. He ran down the steps again. Rounded the corner of the house, onto the veranda – without making a sound. He checked his watch again. Relax! Breathe. The dog had made its way to the veranda window. The bared red gums and white teeth drooled and yapped behind the transparent curtain. He could hear footsteps on the cellar stairs. A voice was scolding the dog, which continued barking madly. He waited for the front door to open. When the light from the door opening hit the opposite side of the lawn, he kicked in the glass door. As he kicked at the fragments of glass, he heard the man swear. The dog snapped at his foot. Frølich kicked it and sent it sprawling and whimpering. He was inside. The man came from the hall towards him. His face met Frølich’s fist straight on. Frølich didn’t say a word. Just lashed out. He got the man on the floor, rolled him onto his stomach, held his hands firmly in place with his knees and reached for the plastic strips in his belt. The dog was at him again. It barked and snarled ferociously, and snapped at his ribs. Frølich punched it and it flew across the floor. Then he tied the man’s hands with the strips. He stood up. Now it was the dog’s turn. It came bounding towards him. He grabbed it in mid-flight and squeezed its snout shut so firmly that it squealed; it was close to suffocating. The dog’s hind legs gave way as it hit the floor. Then he let go. The dog crawled under the table with its tail between its legs.
He surveyed the surroundings: the man on his knees with his hands bound behind his back. He was abusive, but Frølich didn’t listen. There was a fire in the hearth. A large glass chandelier hung from the ceiling. Otherwise the room was conspicuous for the heavy furniture and pictures on the wall.
Why am I doing this?
He strode to the front door. The man had left it open; he closed and locked it. He found the stairs leading to the first floor and ran up. Narvesen’s yelling resounded behind him. He was sweating. Came out into a narrow corridor. Opened a door. A bathroom. Another door. Bedroom. Another door. Office. Desk drawers, papers. Slammed the drawers shut. Sneering laughter. From downstairs. He hasn’t run away. But he didn’t follow me either. So I won’t find anything here.
He charged back down the stairs. Narvesen’s laughter died in his mouth. Sitting on the floor. His eyes defiant, semi-triumphant, glared past him. He followed Narvesen’s eyes. A door. He turned. Walked to the door. Narvesen screamed again, louder, uglier.
The door led to the cellar. He went down. It was a crude cellar. It smelt damp. Walls and floor of grey concrete. There was the hum of a freezer. He went on, past the freezer, through a door. The wine cellar. Small niches had been embedded in the wall, each containing a couple of hundred dark bottles on their sides. He walked through the next doorway. This was the boiler room. An enormous steel tank covered almost one wall. A modern boiler on the opposite wall. Pipes running off in every possible direction. He was sweating. Wiped his forehead. He could hear soft violins and followed the sound. The boiler began to roar. There was a click as the burner lit the flames. He went on, through the furthest low door, and entered a furnished room. It was small and dominated by an Italian designer chair, the reclining kind. A mini-stereo was playing something which reminded him of Mozart. A drinks bar. Half a bottle of Camus VSOP, a single glass. And in front of the chair a safe. The safe door was open. Inside the safe, a painting. Frank Frølich bent down.
‘Don’t touch.’
Frølich straightened up. Narvesen’s voice was clear and razorsharp. It felt like waking from a dream. He turned.
Inge Narvesen, his hands tied behind his back, stood in the doorway. His face was smeared with blood.
Frølich took the painting.
‘Put it down.’
‘Why?’
They glared at each other.
‘You’re a nobody,’ Narvesen hissed. ‘After this you’re a nothing.’
‘I’ve heard,’ Frølich said, ‘that you’re vindictive. But you’re too late. You ruined your chance when you set fire to my chalet. Now it’s my turn.’
Narvesen supported himself on the wall. His face slid into shadow; his eyes became two narrow, moist slits.
Frølich studied the picture. It was bigger than he had imagined. A wide frame. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said, pointing to the steps. ‘Après vous.’
‘Put back the picture first.’
‘I make the decisions here.’
‘Haven’t you understood yet? You’re nothing. Tomorrow you’ll be out of the force. You, a policeman? That’s just a joke…’
Frølich blinked.
Narvesen, his head jutting forward aggressively, came towards him with a rolling gait.
Frølich blinked again. He saw his own hand shoot forward. ‘Up there!’ Narvesen toppled against the wall. Frølich grabbed the bottle of cognac and held it up. Narvesen wasn’t aggressive any longer.
‘Careful with the picture!’
‘Get upstairs!’
Narvesen staggered up the stairs with his hands behind his back. One shoulder hit the wall and he had to struggle to retain his balance.