Gunnarstrandayawned out loud. 'I'm tired now,' he mumbled. 'Yttergjerde,' he shouted to auniformed officer leaning against a door frame at the back of the shop.Yttergjerde shuffled over.
'TellFrølich our thoughts about a break-in,' Gunnarstranda said.
Yttergjerdeshook his head. 'No alarm activated, no window panes smashed, not a single markon the woodwork around the doors – on top of that, nothing seems to have beenstolen.' He nodded towards the counter by the door leading to the street.'Wallet intact in his jacket, cash till untouched.'
Frølichwent over to the cash till. It was one of the antique variety with a patternhammered into the metal and a jungle of buttons and levers at the front.
Yttergjerdewas a man with unusually long arms and large hands. He pointed a big, fat finger:'Two doors,' he went on. 'The front door beside the shop window over there ispretty secure. There's a security grille in front.' Yttergjerde pointed to thesecond door: 'That way leads to the staircase. It was unlocked when wearrived.'
Gunnarstrandapulled out a roll-up from his coat pocket and began to fiddle with it. Frølichnoticed that it had been fiddled with before; it was disintegrating.
Yttergjerdewent towards them. 'There was one thing I forgot to say,' he mumbled. 'A womanwho delivers newspapers discovered the body. She's wondering if she can go.'
Yttergjerdeindicated a motionless figure with spikey hair and a fringe above a pair ofglasses as round as saucers. She was standing with her hands buried deep in thepockets of a ski suit.
'Takeher name and address,' Gunnarstranda said curtly.
'Theold boy – the corpse – Reidar Folke Jespersen owned the shop,' Yttergjerdewhispered. 'He and the woman… his missus…' he gestured to the ceiling. 'Theylive in the flat.' He flicked his head back. 'The floor above.'
Gunnarstrandanodded pensively. 'Priest?'
'Camehalf an hour ago and is still up there,' Yttergjerde nodded.
'Thewoman…' Yttergjerde continued to whisper; '… Her face went grey with shock. Shehad to lie down, but that was before the priest came.'
Yttergjerdejoined the woman who had found the body.
Frølichyawned and went for a walk to look for Anna. Eventually he found her. She wascoming out of the little office at the back of the shop.
'Yes?'she said.
'Niceto see you again, too,' Frank said, feeling foolish.
Shelooked at him askance. 'Interested in the crime scene?' she asked with a faintsmile.
'Yes,of course.'
'Keepyour ears open,' she grinned, and grimaced as Gunnarstranda's brusque voicecarried from the little office. 'Frølich!'
'Yes?'
'Here,'Gunnarstranda muttered with annoyance, pointing to the floor in front of thedesk. The carpet had soaked up a lot of blood. Beside the blood lay a bayonetwith red stains on the blade.
FrankFrølich exchanged glances with Anna before looking down at the bayonet. Notlong afterwards they were interrupted by a solemn-looking uniformed policeofficer standing in the doorway and motioning towards Gunnarstranda. 'We have aKarsten Jespersen here,' the policeman gabbled. 'And he insists on coming in.'
Theman who met them on the stairs was pale and his chin twitched; they were tics,obvious signs of a nervous affliction. He seemed to be trying to shake tinyinsects off his cheek.
'Gunnarstranda,'the policeman said by way of introduction, leaning his head back to survey theman. 'Police Inspector, Murder Squad.'
KarstenJespersen was wearing a corduroy suit under a winter coat. He was tall and lean,thinning on top, with a small, narrow mouth and an obvious receding chin, whichseemed to disappear in a concertina of wrinkles and folds of skin every timehis body recoiled from the periodic convulsions of his lower face.
'Well,'the policeman said, looking around the harrow stairwell. 'Is there somewhere wecan sit?' he asked.
KarstenJespersen composed himself and nodded towards the office door in the shop. 'Wehave an office in there.'
InspectorGunnarstranda sadly shook his head. 'I'm afraid we cannot allow anyone to enterthe crime scene.'
Jespersenstood staring at him, puzzled.
'Iunderstand your father lived in this building?'
KarstenJespersen looked up at the stairs, as though considering something. 'I supposeyou can come with me,' he said at last, and forged ahead. The footsteps of thethree men marching upstairs resounded between the walls. On reaching thelanding, Jespersen ransacked his pockets for keys. 'Just a moment,' hemurmured. 'You see…' At last he found a bunch of keys, pulled them out andfumbled for the right key: 'Ingrid, my father's wife – I've had a few wordswith her on the phone.'
Frølichsent an understanding nod to Jespersen, who disappeared into the flat, closing thedoor behind him with care. The landing was about three metres broad. Originallythere had been two doors leading into two flats, but door number two had beenclosed off. There was no door handle and it was painted the same colour as thewalls. An ailing green plant in a terracotta pot had been placed in the recessin front of the door.
'Thewhole floor to themselves,' Frølich mumbled.
'Thewidow – Ingrid – must have broken down,' Gunnarstranda mumbled in a low voice.
ThenKarsten Jespersen appeared in the doorway. 'Come in,' he mumbled softly, asthough frightened someone would hear him. 'There's a lady from the medicalcentre here, and the priest. But we won't be disturbed in my old room.' He heldthe door open and gave an embarrassed cough. 'Would you mind taking off yourboots?'
Gunnarstrandaunzipped his old snow over-boots and shook them off. Under them he was wearingpolished leather shoes. He stood and watched Frølich breathing hard as he kneltdown in his thick winter gear. With tangled hair hanging over his forehead, heloosened the laces of his army boots, pulled them off and revealed two oddwoollen socks. Jespersen opened the door and they could hear low voices in thedistance.
Gunnarstrandatook stock. A mirror dominated the hallway. It went from floor to ceiling, in agilt wooden frame. There were patches where the surface was flaking off. Themirror reflected three framed photographs adorning the facing wall.Gunnarstranda turned to study the pictures. They were photographs of erectyoung men in canvas and frieze breeches with bold curls over their foreheadsand Sten guns hanging loose from their shoulders. 'The Palace Square…liberation,' Gunnarstranda said to the man in the door. 'Anyone from the familythere?'
KarstenJespersen nodded. 'My father,' he said, pointing to a young athlete standing atease in front of the Royal Palace.
Gunnarstrandastudied the photograph. 'Of course,' he said, taking off his glasses to inspectthe man's features close up. 'I can see that now.'
'Shallwe…?' Jespersen held the door open.
Theypadded through a room furnished with heavy wooden furniture and beyond to asliding door which the young man opened. They went through another room, past ahuge dining room table. On the wall was a large painting with anational-romantic motif: a fjord, shafts of sunlight shining down on themountains and a farm where a dairy maid dressed in national costume wascarrying buckets slung from a yoke over her shoulders.
Theman in the corduroy suit led them on to a further sliding door. He hesitatedbefore opening it, turned towards them and cleared his throat: 'Well, here – iswhere I grew up.'
Gunnarstrandafollowed Jespersen in. The room was three metres by three metres, a crossbetween a boy's room and a bachelor's pad. There was a desk beneath the windowalong one wall. A sofa bed was the other item of furniture in the room. Familyphotographs on the wall above it. Jespersen sat on the swivel chair by thedesk. 'Please, do sit down,' he said, indicating the low sofa.
Gunnarstrandastayed on his feet.
Frølichhad to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the door frame when he joined them.The room seemed cramped all of a sudden. Frølich's jacket, doubtless size XXL,stuck to him like a boy's blazer on a wine barrel. The face hiding behind thebedraggled beard was, as always, a model of expressionless composure. He waswearing a striped sweater under the jacket. He slumped down onto the sofa. Whenhe crossed his legs, his feet collided with the wall opposite.