'Fine,'Frølich said, acquiescent. 'But we have to think of a few ideas if we're goingto have any chance of discovering what the symbols mean. It's calledbrainstorming – you suggest something and one thing leads to another.'
'Oh,really?'
'Thiscode could mean anything at all – it could be a trademark, an abbreviation, acode…'
'Indeed.'
'Butthese scribbles could also be a red herring,' Frølich said. 'A code that isintended to confuse.'
Doubtful,Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'What kind of person would stab an old man, leavehim bleeding to death and be so cold-blooded as to remain in that room with thehuge window looking out onto the street, coldblooded enough to strip the manwhen at last he dies, cold-blooded enough to take a pen and leave messages onthe dead man's body to confuse us and then place his body in the shop window?'Gunnarstranda said. 'No, it must have been planned.' He regarded the otherpoliceman for a few moments before carrying on: 'Just think of the risk. The window,the writing, and as Schwenke says, the man must have been covered in blood fromhead to toe. If the intention was to confuse, it could have been done in other,easier ways.'
'Suchas?'
'Well,think of Charles Manson – he was the one who wrote Helter Skelter inblood over the walls of the pad belonging to… to… to…'
For afew seconds Frølich was fascinated by the dry flicking sounds Gunnarstranda wasmaking with his fingers, but then he helped him out: 'Sharon Tate, RomanPolanski's wife.'
'Right,something like that.' Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro. 'Themurderer could have painted a skull on an old coat-of-arms in there, pissed onthe body, whatever he wanted.'
'Thewife,' Frølich said in a low voice.
'Hm?'
'Thewife lives in the first-floor flat. She can nip upstairs, have a shower andwash, wash her clothes. She serves us up all this stuff about not sleeping atnight…'
'She'salmost thirty years younger than the old boy,'
Gunnarstrandasaid. 'The odds are she's having it off with someone.'
'Thewife has a lover?'
Gunnarstranda:'This bollocks about ringing Karsten Jespersen in the middle of the night. Ifshe killed her husband, she rings the son for two reasons: to corroborate thebreak-in story and to get a kind of alibi.'
'Isthat the main lead?' Frølich asked.
'Itis a lead at any rate. I'd like to know who she's having it off with…'
'Ifhe exists,' Frølich objected with a smile.
'Heexists. It's a dead cert.'
'Howdo you know?'
'Youcan see it a mile off.'
'Amile off? She's over fifty!'
'Doesthat mean to say that you begrudge people over fifty a sex life?'
Frølichwas on thin ice: 'I didn't mean it like that…'
Gunnarstranda,sarcastic: 'No?'
'I meantthat things like that…' Frølich went quiet and glanced over at his boss who hada deadpan expression on his face.
'Whatsort of things?'
'ForGod's sake,' Frølich burst out, his nerves on edge. 'It's all tied up withhormones, isn't it! Working late tonight, darling… and infidelity. That's forpeople in their thirties, isn't it?'
'Workinglate tonight, darling?' Gunnarstranda queried with a frown. 'Do I detect areason for your not changing your marital status?'
'Forgetit,' Frølich said.
'No,the point is that I saw his wife and my immediate thought was she was having itoff with someone. Why didn't you think that?'
'Ihave no idea…' Frølich mused. 'She seemed a bit… I don't know… she seemedrefined.'
'Refined?'
'Yes,'Frølich nodded. 'Refined and nice.'
'Honestly,Frølich, do you think a man of eighty…?'
'Doesthat mean to say you begrudge people over seventy a sex life?' Frølich parried.
'Ibet you a hundred kroner,' Gunnarstranda said, responding to the other'spatronizing tone. 'No,' he went on. 'I'm not going to bet. I will personallypresent you with a hundred kroner if we do not turn up a little soul- mate forthis lady before the case is over.'
'Alittle soulmate is not the same as a lover.'
'Alover. A hundred kroner. Sight unseen.'
Later,when Frølich had gone, Gunnarstranda sat looking at the telephone. The lasttime Gunnarstranda had met Tove Granaas, she had invited him out for a meal. Itwas the third time he had dined out with a woman on his own in as many years.Police Inspector Gunnarstranda did not wish to humiliate himself by counting uphow many years it had been. But it was a long time.
Tovehad taken him to a sushi restaurant by Lapsetorvet. Gunnarstranda was one ofthose people who had never tried that sort of food. He admitted that freely.But he had no intention of playing either the narrow-minded or the ignorantpeasant. Thus he gave Tove a free hand when she ordered. The meal was not acomplete disaster. True enough he dropped some rice in the soya sauce, and trueenough he had difficulty getting his teeth through some of the pieces of rawfish in the sushi, but the taste itself was nigh on a religious experience. Theheated saki tasted like moonshine with sugar in, and went straight to his head,just like moonshine. They were sitting next to a group of Japanese men who hadordered the most adventurous dish on the menu. All sorts of fried and flambéthings arrived at their table. Then the cook left the kitchen, went over to theJapanese table and made a huge spectacle with knives and food. But even theJapanese got drunk on the rice wine. One of the men gave the Inspector a coursein using chopsticks. Afterwards he thought that, all in all, the evening had beena success. Even though he staggered out of the restaurant, even though he wasunable to remember all the things he had said. Nor even where or how Tove andhe parted company. But in some mysterious way he did remember arranging arepeat performance.
Now,however, with this murder enquiry hanging over him, he had to accept that theplanned evening with Tove would not come to anything.
Hechecked his watch. Tove worked as a ward sister. It was late afternoon. He tooka chance on her being at home.
Hisnerves were ajitter at the thought of ringing. As he picked up the receiver,his hand was shaking
'Hello,'came her cheerful answer.
'Hello,'he said with a nervous smile to himself in the window. 'Can you hear who itis?'
'Ican. Thank you for the nice evening.'
'Yes,it was… good.'
'Itcertainly was,' she said.
'Aman has been murdered,' he said without pausing.
'Sowe'll have to wait for the anchovies?'
'Theanchovies?'
'Yourwords. You called the food we ate anchovies and the saki firewater.' 'Did I?'
'Butwe had a great time. What shall we do instead?'
Gunnarstrandacleared his throat. 'I hadn't given that any thought,' he confessed.
ToveGranaas grinned. 'Coffee,' she said. 'I'm sure you'll have enough time for acup of coffee.'
Chapter 12
ArvidFolke Jespersen lived in Uranienborg, just off Oslo city centre, in one ofthose old flats with a view which were so often home to elderly inhabitantsborn in the area, if their offspring hadn't managed to sell it, lock, stock andbarrel, to an advertising agency.
Itwas late afternoon when Frank Frølich idly contemplated the front entrance fromhis car. He switched on his mobile phone, called Eva-Britt and cancelled theplans for the evening, although he needn't have done. Even though she was veryannoyed, it felt like freedom to evade TV entertainment and the other sadpastimes into which they had slipped. He sat in the car for a while staringinto space. A few days ago he had seen The Getaway again – SamPeckinpah's original film with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. The funny thingwas that Doc's wife was the spitting image of Anna. The black hair, the browneyes and the long, slender limbs. It was true that Anna had more meat on her,but otherwise they were strangely similar. What he could not get out of hishead was whether this was chance – meeting Anna again today. It was odd, almostas though seeing the film had been part of a greater scheme. But, he toldhimself, you have no real reason to ring her and you have a lot on your platewith Eva-Britt. With a heavy sigh he struggled out of the car and up the stepsto the old man waiting for him.