Kjell Ola Dahl
Lethal Investments
The first book in the Oslo Detectives series, 2011
Translated by Don Bartlett
1
As he opened his eyes they felt like sandpaper. He stared up at a greyish-white ceiling and knew it was day, knew he was sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, just didn’t know where. Until he felt her arm against his chest.
The dawn outside brought soft shadows to the room. It was morning and he had to get up. Go to work.
They couldn’t have been asleep long. Her body was silhouetted in the half-light from the window. Her skin glistened dimly in the gloom, only her legs and feet were covered by the duvet, which lay crumpled at the bottom of the bed.
Slowly he levered himself up. Leaned against the wall to clear his head. Tired. Wanted to lie down. To pull the duvet over himself, sleep some more. But for a shit of a foreman deducting pay from the first half an hour, he would have.
It was half past five. No hurry.
He fumbled for his underpants and the rest of his clothes. Gathered up everything in one big pile under his arms, went to the bathroom. The old-fashioned tap took ages to run warm. Gave him time to study his reflection in the mirror. A pale, unshaven face beneath long, black hair. Realized he needed a wash. He stared at all the bottles and jars on the bathroom shelf. Tiny, creased panties and long tights hung quietly in the white light. Sleepily, he put on his clothes; his hands splashed water in his face.
Best to creep out, best not to wake her. Ring later, perhaps in the afternoon, or the evening. But first have to go back in to search for socks. Couldn’t see them anywhere. Weren’t under the bed, either.
Knees cracked as he stood up. She lay as if dreaming, sleeping soundlessly with her knees drawn up in front of her breasts. White skin and full lips. Short, blonde hair that fell over her eyes.
There they were. His socks were in a ball under the bookshelves.
Bang. Hit his head on a shelf as he straightened up. He grabbed his head and mouthed a curse. At the same time he heard the duvet rustle. She was awake.
‘Are you going?’
Her voice was husky, sleepy, her skin warm.
‘I’d been hoping you wouldn’t wake.’
He trembled as his mouth met her wonderfully soft lips.
‘I’d been hoping we’d wake up together,’ she whispered. He gently nuzzled her cheek and caressed one nipple with the palm of his hand. He said: ‘I’ll ring you,’ and reluctantly sat on the spindleback chair by the small desk. Pulled on his socks as her hands fondled his hair.
Then the telephone on the table rang.
The brring-brring cut through the room’s grey light and made him peer up at her. Her eyes were fixed on the telephone.
He kissed her stomach. Cute navel, he thought as she hesitantly moved her arm towards the telephone that was still emitting its jarring tones. ‘Is it for you, do you think?’ she whispered in a tremulous voice.
‘Me?’
Her face was no more than a dark shadow against the dawning light from the window.
‘No one knows I’m here.’
She was still hesitating.
‘Pull out the plug then. If you don’t want to speak to anyone now.’
She lifted the receiver in one swift movement. ‘Yes, Reidun here!’ Decisive voice.
Silence on the line.
‘Hello, Reidun here.’
She smiled down at him. Held the phone between her head and shoulder and tousled his hair again, with both hands.
Still no sound.
He felt her stroking his hair backwards, gathering it.
‘Like this,’ she smiled. Her hand wagged the pony tail she had formed with his hair.
Why not? he thought. A pony tail would be all right. Especially if she liked it.
He bent down and tied his laces while she stated her name for the third time. No answer.
Her breasts rippled as she shrugged her shoulders and stared at the receiver. At that moment they both heard it. A dry click.
Whoever it was had rung off.
She slowly put down the receiver.
‘Do you often get calls like that?’
She turned and looked out of the window.
‘No,’ she said at length. ‘No, in fact, I don’t.’
Something had happened. They weren’t whispering any longer.
‘Why have you got to go?’
Her voice had acquired a slightly different timbre.
‘I have to go to work soon. Got to go home and change first. Bye,’ he whispered by the door. Again he felt his knees give way as he tasted her lips. Waited until she had locked the door before jogging down the stairs, tearing open the front door and taking a deep breath as it slammed shut behind him.
The backyard was a tarmac area with bike stands. The gate in the dark archway was closed. No handle on the lock.
Nonplussed, he ambled back, stood still in the middle of the yard. He was locked in! The impregnable block of flats towered up on two sides. The door to the staircase was locked, the gate was locked. However, to the right there was a wooden fence, not a brick wall. There was probably a demolition site on the other side. Impossible to know for sure. The fence blocked any view. But he ought to be able to clamber over. A shade under three metres. Were it not for the barbed wire on top. It was rusty, but still aggressively coiled in rolls.
Should be OK, he thought, pulling the refuse container into position. Shit! What a racket! On to the lid. The crate started rocking. Never mind. Bend your knees, launch yourself! Right!
Fuck!
He lay on the ground staring up at a blue sky and dark windows with white bars against pink brickwork. A gull circled above. Screaming. He held his head. Fingers bleeding. Another go. The container had to be stood upright again.
Now. The fence creaked and swayed under him. But it held. He managed to position a leg and heave himself up. Threw himself over and heard rather than felt the barbed wire tearing the seat of his trousers.
Correct. Demolition site. Greyish-brown tufts of grass between the remains of red bricks on the ground. Another wooden fence facing the street. But this one was lower. He ran up and jumped. The barbed wire snagged on his jacket. He was out. Silence. Just the sound of a car could be heard a long way off as he brushed himself. His shirt had ridden up from his trousers and he was bleeding more than he had at first thought.
A taxi came to a sudden halt beside him. Two people alighted, took very long paces to the gate and let themselves in as the taxi drove off. Typical! If he had waited a few minutes he could have strolled out.
Strange start to the day, he thought, wandering the few metres over to the gate which had been left unlocked and ajar by the taxi’s passengers. The gate creaked as he pushed it open to its fullest extent and walked back into the yard. Then he saw the bells by the door. Idiot! A quick press on the button and she would have come down with a key and let him out. A slip of paper with her name written next to the bell. Smudged writing in blue biro. The sight of the paper reminded him of the touch of her skin.
He could go back up. Get into bed with her and sleep a bit more. Until twelve or one. Wake up with her.
He pushed the door. Unlocked. All he had to do was run up.
Further away, a tram rattled down a side street. He remembered her hands fondling his hair. Caught in two minds, he stood looking at his wristwatch. A car door slammed somewhere. Sound of footsteps. Someone turned into the gateway. Coming towards him.
He took a decision. Work was waiting. He stepped off, but first nodded politely to the newcomer.
2
Once home, he changed into fresh work clothes. Time was on his side. So he rested on the bed. Just have a little doze, fifteen minutes. But went out like a light. Overslept his shift. Had forgotten to set the alarm clock. Slept until two in the afternoon. Thought of her as soon as his eyes opened. Thought of the night before, of her body. Of her wriggling beneath him. Of them lying side by side afterwards, of him holding her face in his hands, chatting, stray fingers on bare skin.