Gunnarstrandastood ruminating. 'When were our officers ordered away?'
'Yesterday,I suppose.'
'Youdon't know?'
'I'mpretty sure it was yesterday.'
Gunnarstrandawent on ruminating.
'I'vegot quite a bit of paperwork to do,' Frølich said, waiting.
Gunnarstrandanodded. 'You go,' he said. 'I need to think.'
WhenFrølich had gone, he switched off the light in the shop and ambled into thelittle office. He paused in the doorway for a few seconds contemplating thedesk with the ancient, black typewriter and the small radio and the simplehotplate on an old washstand with a marble surface.
Behindthe desk was an old wooden swivel chair. He sat down. Beside the typewriterthere was a beautiful wine glass covered in engravings. Gunnarstranda took outa roll of plastic gloves from his pocket, put one of the gloves on, then heldthe glass between his fingers and twirled it. The engravings were of animals: afox and a hare. A fairy tale, he thought. He put down the glass, leanedforward, placed both elbows on the desk and rested his head on his hands. Whilesitting and meditating with his eyes half-closed, his eyes roamed from wall towalclass="underline" the old washstand, the typewriter, the telephone, the ink pot, thehotplate with the old-fashioned cloth- covered lead. He followed the lead withhis eyes. At one end, next to the wall, something caught his attention. Therewas something glistening beneath the wall-socket.
Gunnarstrandarose to his feet, walked around the desk and knelt down to see better. It was afragment of glass. He took the glass, stood up and held it to the light. It wasa piece of crystal with engraved lines on. He stared at the wine glass on thedesk. He bent down and compared the engravings.
Theconclusion was obvious: someone had been inside. Someone had used the key toenter the shop. The same person had managed to smash one of two very valuableglasses.
Chapter 43
Latethat evening there was a knock on Gunnarstranda's office door. It wasYttergjerde.
'Isaw the light,' Yttergjerde stammered.
Gunnarstrandaswivelled round on his chair. 'Have you got the time to come here?' hecommented sarcastically. 'I thought you were working on the taxi case.'
Yttergjerdewaved some loose sheets of paper. 'What the heck do you think these are?'
'Claimsfor overtime?' Gunnarstranda taunted.
'Thelist of calls from Ekholt's mobile phone.'
Gunnarstrandanodded. 'So you can prove that he rang Frank Frølich now?'
'Yes.'
'Andthat Frølich rang Ekholt?'
'Yes,'said Yttergjerde.
'Greatnews,' Frølich grunted from the sofa where he had been sitting reading thelatest Donald Duck comic.
Gunnarstrandayawned.
'Don'tpretend you're not interested in this list,' Yttergjerde sneered and checkedthe papers. 'There are a helluva lot of calls to a lady who turns out to livein Hegermanns gate…'
'Gro HegeWyller,' Gunnarstranda said. 'You don't need to tell us. We know she didn'tring back.' 'Right,' Yttergjerde said with a grin. 'Like a copy?' He waved thecopies.
Gunnarstrandatook one. He sat studying the list. 'I know that number,' he muttered tohimself, stretching out an arm, lifting up the receiver and tapping in thenumber.
Theother two men watched him. Gunnarstranda recoiled when the answer came. Then heslammed down the phone. It was as though someone had run an electric currentthrough his lean body. The tired figure slumped over the telephone became abundle of energy and jumped up from the chair. Suddenly Gunnarstranda's sullenface split into a dazzling white smile.
'Whathappened?' Yttergjerde asked with caution.
'Irang the wrong number.'
'Whodid you ring?' Frølich asked.
Gunnarstrandaswung round to face him. 'Are you coming?' he asked.
'Whereto?'
'Nationalarchives.'
Frølichstared at him in amazement. 'You rang the national archives?'
Gunnarstrandashook his smiling head. 'No. But I reckon we will have to ring them. I wouldguess they are closed.'
Frølichpulled on his military boots. 'But who did you ring?' he asked, grabbing hisleather jacket.
'TheHotel Continental.'
Ittook a few hours to get in after closing time. The librarian assigned to themby the Permanent Secretary could not understand why the visit could not waituntil the following morning. He seemed a desiccated old stick and had to conferwith his line manager before he would meet them. Where his skin was not frozenor pink, he had red hair and freckles. He had pulled on a grey duffel coat overhis striped pyjama bottoms. He drove up in a Ford Sierra with a ski box on theroof and let the engine idle while he unlocked the door and showed them intothe library with the micro-fiche readers. It was almost midnight.
Ittook another half an hour to find the right film.
Frølichwas hungry. When Gunnarstranda announced they were going to make an arrest,disappointment was the first thing he felt. An arrest meant he would have towait – for food. Frølich scratched his beard and tried to work out where thenearest McDonald's was.
'Look,'Gunnarstranda said, straightening up.
Frølichbent down and looked into the machine that was reading the micro-film. Hestared at a certificate of some kind. Illegible rounded handwriting. 'What isit?'
'It'sa marriage certificate.'
'Ican see that. But whose?'
'AmalieBruun's parents.'
'Andthat's why we can arrest them? Are you mad?'
'Ihope not.' Gunnarstranda was grinning. 'Now I feel like a smoke, Frølich.'
'Ifeel like something to eat.'
'Startsmoking, Frølich, and you'll forget about food.'
'You alwaysfeel like smoking. Now come down off your high horse. What is it on thatcertificate that means we can make an arrest?'
'Havea look,' Gunnarstrada said with a smile.
'I amhaving a look. Please tell me at what.'
'Thebrides's maiden name. The name of Amalie Bruun's mother.
PART THREE: An Eagle in the Hand
Chapter 44
Imustn't wake up, she thought. I want to sleep through until it is morning. Assoon as she had formulated the thought she knew she would wake up because thisnight was quite different from any other. Her eyes closed, she lay rigidbeneath the duvet. She was experiencing the worst thing in the world, waking upin the middle of the night, in the silence, alone.
When,at last, she dared to open her eyes, she was looking down at the floor where astrip of yellow light from the next room cut across the parquet and up the walllike a laser beam. She didn't move a muscle. Without making a sound, she triedto breathe evenly and calmly while thinking about the previous time she had wokenup like this.
Theimportant thing now was to lie still so that the duvet didn't rustle and shedidn't make any noise. Why not? she thought. Because. There is no because, itis just a question of lying still, relaxing and accepting that everything is asit should be. A question of sensing sleep overtake her and then falling intooblivion again, finding release from these terrible hours, release from thisloneliness – from being awake and alone in this room, in this bed withoutReidar.
Assoon as she thought of Reidar, she visualized the white, lifeless body whichwas no longer him, which was dead. In death he had been transformed into anempty shell. A mortal frame with no tired, stiff, vain man; no moreimpenetrable armour. Reidar had developed into a man she feared to tell thetruth because he would never accept the truth she asserted, because he alwaysended up treating her like a little girl. Ingrid Jespersen, fifty- four yearsold – a little girl.
Withoutthinking, and without noticing, she let out a sigh of self-pity. But on hearingthe sound, she froze.
Shehad made a noise, and that was what she hadn't wanted to do.