‘There is a large, very large possibility that he was, yes.’
‘What did he die of?’
‘He OD’d. Usual thing, heroin, standard user’s kit, huge dose, etc, not an ounce of suspicion about the death.’
Frølich was silent.
Gunnarstranda coughed and motioned with his head towards Lystad, who was waiting for them by the table: ‘Shall we have some coffee before the break is over? You and I have been invited to participate more actively in the next round.’
Frølich shook his head. ‘Probably not a good idea for me to take part.’
Gunnarstranda raised both eyebrows.
‘The second I show myself, Narvesen and his solicitor will start the mud-slinging.’
Gunnarstranda’s eyes flashed. ‘Tell me what you’ve done!’ he demanded.
‘I assume he will accuse me of criminal damage.’
‘What have you done?’
Frank Frølich shrugged. ‘Smashed a pane of glass in his veranda door.’
‘You idiot!’
‘Relax. It was just tit-for-tat – for my chalet which he set alight. He hasn’t got the balls to do any more than sling mud. Whatever he says, it’s just wild allegations. He’ll bark a bit and that’ll be it. That’s why I’m going now. So I don’t have to concentrate on that side of the case and I can be left to reflect in peace.’
Gunnarstranda took a seat beside Lystad, whose eyes were drearily following Frølich’s disappearing figure.
Lystad said: ‘What’s got into him?’
Gunnarstranda shrugged. ‘He’s been like that for some time. It’ll pass.’
Frank Frølich drove around aimlessly. When he turned into Hausmannsgate, he suddenly had a brainwave and continued into Mariboes gate. He found an empty parking space opposite the entrance to the Rockefeller music hall and walked down Torggata.
He was close to Badir’s shop again and bought a frankfurter from one of the kiosks in Osterhaus gate – more out of habit than hunger. Continuing towards Torggata, he stopped in front of the steps leading up to the building which housed the Torggata baths. He stood there thinking about Narvesen, who would have to explain away a cash withdrawal of five million kroner, who was making a statement about the money at this very minute. Perhaps Frølich himself was in the process of losing his job at this very minute. He raised his head and sensed the idea forming in his mind. It doesn’t matter.
He smiled to himself and chewed at his sausage, watching the flickering movements of dark figures on their way towards Storgata. On the positive side: I don’t care. On the negative: I don’t care. What is important then? Finding out who killed Elisabeth and why.
But is Narvesen likely to talk about the painting at all?
If he does, he’ll also have to explain how he came into possession of the painting in the first place. So he’s hardly likely to say anything – if he doesn’t have to – to avert suspicion from something else: murder. And if I lose my job in the cause of truth, it’s worth it.
He eyed Badir’s shop and thought about Elisabeth and Narvesen. The shop was still shut – all of a sudden he had to jump out of the way of an irate cyclist who was unable to accept that he, a pedestrian, was standing in the cycle lane in Torggata. He took another bite, watched the woman on the bike and almost choked on the sausage. He had seen her before. No, not her – someone else. The image returned. The day they staked out Badir’s shop: he was walking down the steps to the former Torggata baths to await the signal. Then he had seen her – not this woman – but the image of a woman on a bike with her head down over the handlebars pedalling along Torggata. He had had one foot in the cycle lane, heard a bicycle bell ring and was forced to take a step back, out of the cycle lane. The radio crackled and he had taken up a position further along the street opposite Badir’s shop. That was where she had come from. She had passed Badir’s shop, kept cycling, so she was going somewhere else. Then she had passed him on his way down the steps. But could that have been Elisabeth?
Frank Frølich was objective now: it could have been her. He had been focused on the action; he hadn’t taken any notice of her face. But she might have noticed his. She could have seen him: a face she knew from Ilijaz Zupac’s trial. She might even have got off her bike without him seeing, she might have doubled back, stood looking at him for a moment, made up her mind and cycled back, pushed her bike through the cordon they were setting up. Afterwards she might have shoved her bike into his field of vision, outside Badir’s shop. And then everything came back: the shriek of the cycle stand. Her entering the shop and his running across the road after her.
But what did this sudden inspiration mean?
He knew what it meant.
Gunnarstranda’s words were still resounding between his ears: Frølich! Stop being so bloody naïve! There’s something not quite kosher about this bit of skirt. It doesn’t matter which way you look at every single bit of what you’ve told me, it all boils down to a con!’
The old fox had been right the whole time, as always – and now suddenly Frank Frølich was in a hurry.
He rang Gunnarstranda on his mobile.
‘I thought you wanted to get out and reflect,’ Gunnarstranda drawled.
Frølich said: ‘That’s why I’m ringing. Has Narvesen confessed?’
‘Not yet, but we’ve reached an interesting phase of the questioning. Let’s put it like that. It concerns Narvesen’s private house, a destroyed veranda door and a certain policeman on leave.’
‘Has he talked about art?’
‘Art? No. Why would he?’
Frølich’s brain raced.
‘Why would he?’ repeated Gunnarstranda impatiently.
‘… it was just something that occurred to me – but now to something important. The bank manager in Askim said Ilijaz Zupac had been in to pick up something from the safety-deposit box, didn’t he?’
‘You know that.’
‘It just occurred to me that Ilijaz is quite an exotic name,’ Frank Frølich said slowly.
‘We’re not working on that case any more, Frølich. Not until our investigations have come up with a result.’
‘Are you happy with that?’
‘This isn’t about whether I’m happy or not.’
‘If Lystad wants to arrest Inge Narvesen for Elisabeth’s murder, he needs a motive. Such a motive has to have some connection with the 1998 break-in. And that case is linked to the safety-deposit box. So it wouldn’t hurt to ring the bank, would it?’
‘One snag – what would I say to the bank staff?’
‘Ask which gender the person pretending to be Ilijaz was.’
Silence at the other end.
‘Gunnarstranda,’ Frølich said, condescendingly. ‘Please be brief.’
‘I reckon you’ve got a point, Frølich, about gender. What put you onto that?’
‘Couple of things. One of which was what you told me about Ballo’s death. And it wouldn’t be much hassle for you, would it? To ring the bank and ask for a description of the person using Ilijaz’s name?’
Gunnarstranda considered it. ‘I could check that, as a favour,’ he conceded finally. ‘The question is: what could you give me in return?
‘Evidence.’
‘What sort of evidence?’
‘Evidence which would rule out all the suspicion against Narvesen. And then no one will bother about a smashed veranda door.’
‘Come on, what sort of evidence?’
‘A strand of hair,’ said Frank Frølich.
42
The heat hit him the moment he got off the plane.
The policeman who met him in the arrivals hall was called Manuel Komnenos.
‘After the emperor,’ he explained with a little smile. He stood outside the customs queue with a white cardboard sign in his hand. The man had spelt his name wrong. The sign read: F-Ö-R-L-I-C-H.