It was Jack Myrberget. Sigurd Klavestad’s travelling companion.
Jack, as was his wont, did not beat about the bush:
‘Sigurd Klavestad is not on his own any more.’
‘Mhm,’ grunted Gunnarstranda. He had settled down on the sofa and put his feet on the table; he was relaxed and waiting. It was dark indoors, and outside the dusk was not even capable of bringing a shine to his shoes.
‘He caught the bus along Drammensveien and got off at Vækerø. Ambled over to some building called Rent-An-Office. Lots of small businesses.’
‘Names?’
‘Didn’t the woman work for a computer company?’
‘Software Partners they call themselves.’
‘That’s where they are.’
Gunnarstranda gripped the receiver harder. ‘More!’
‘He went in at three and came out at half past. Together with a woman. About thirty, dressed like an office worker, long dark hair, one seventy tall, nice-looking, black birthmark between her mouth and chin.’
‘And then?’
‘I’m looking straight at them now. They’re sitting and drinking wine across the street. Fingers interlaced, occasional floods of tears. What do I do if they go separate ways?’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Follow the male,’ he decided at length. ‘But keep me posted.’
That’s it, he thought, putting down the receiver. Sodding car. It would have to give up the ghost today of all days!
15
Frank yawned. It was morning. Somewhere between six and half past. Weather grey and cold. The damp mist engulfed houses, trees and cars. The moisture in the air could be morning mist and could be more stubborn fog. Too early to tell as yet. It could be a nice, mild day or downcast and rainy.
Two lines of cars were parked bumper to bumper across the street. It was so early there were few gaps. Most people were sitting at the breakfast table with newspapers spread out and drinking coffee.
The thought of coffee depressed him. No breakfast, no coffee, no shops open anywhere and probably hours of futile waiting on the horizon.
Gunnarstranda had woken him with a telephone call three-quarters of an hour ago. Ordered him up to Lambertseter pronto! Not by car. That was why he was walking along Mellombølgen to locate his boss’s position. He was tired. Never got enough sleep. Which, in fact, often affected him until about mid-morning.
Further down the street he could see small smoke clouds escaping from the window of a dark civilian car parked untidily and protruding half a metre into the carriageway. The windows were steamed up and tiny wisps of bluish-white smoke rose skywards. Gunnarstranda had left a crack open. Frank opened the passenger door and stepped in.
‘I haven’t had any breakfast yet,’ he grumbled in an accusatory tone. No greeting.
‘Here you are,’ said Gunnarstranda, passing him an old-fashioned, shiny Thermos flask. Frank twisted the cap, which sprang open with a pop. And the wonderful aroma of strong, black coffee filled the car. He took a yellow plastic cup with a grubby rim from the dashboard and poured.
‘You haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept.’
Gunnarstranda stubbed out the cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.
‘I’ll give them twenty minutes, then I’m going in.’
He looked at his watch. Then focused on the middle entrance in a low block ahead of them. A flagstone path stretched twenty metres from the pavement to the entrance. Three entrances to the block in all. The greeny-brown spikes of some large berberis bushes partially concealed the doors. Along the three sections ran parallel lines of verandas. All with raised awnings in a loud yellow colour.
‘Who are we waiting for?’ Frank asked.
‘The man. Sigurd Klavestad primarily, and a woman.’
Gunnarstranda’s eyes did not deviate from the front door. ‘Jack rang me at half past ten last night, at my cabin! He refused to take responsibility since the man had a woman with him, so I had to come back here. It took me three hours to get to Grønland to change the car. There’s something up with the Skoda; it keeps misfiring and dying on me.’
He paused, flicked some ash from the cigarette and continued:
‘So I’ve been sitting here alone all night ensuring that the woman up there is still alive. You don’t know a cheap car mechanic, do you, by any chance?’
Frank spared his boss one of the many jokes about Skodas. ‘I know of a guy in Kampen,’ he said blowing on the coffee and slurping a sip straight afterwards. ‘Lives in a collective with a girl I know. Works freelance.’
‘No questions asked, know what I mean?’
Frank dismissed his boss’s sarcastic tone with a shrug. ‘You asked if I knew someone cheap.’
The man at the wheel stroked his chin with a rasp; patchy bristles scraped against his palm. ‘Klavestad left the Software Partners building at half past three. With this woman, Kristin Sommerstedt.’
Frank carefully rotated his head. A bit more awake. Remembered her. The long hair and the office outfit, the receptionist.
Gunnarstranda tossed his head. ‘That’s her flat.’
‘Kristin Sommerstedt was supposed to have been friends with Reidun Rosendal.’
‘Is that so? Well, they caught the local train to the National Theatre. Went to the restaurant and sat drinking wine for a couple of hours, knocked back quite a bit. Spent most of the time crying and intertwining fingers. Afterwards walked round Aker Brygge, nipped up into town and down to the underground, came here half past seven last night, switched off the light at eleven and that was when Jack phoned me.’
They both stared at the broad, brown front door.
‘The man’s probably been dipping his wick while I’ve got one hell of a headache and I’m in a bad mood.’
Gunnarstranda yawned and banged his hands on the wheel.
Frank poured more coffee. Watched his boss check his watch.
‘At a quarter to we’re going in,’ Gunnarstranda repeated, licking his lips. His eyes were red-rimmed.
The door opened. They gave a start, but then relaxed. An unknown man in a brown jacket with cropped hair walked on to the pavement. Unlocked the Opel in front of them.
Gunnarstranda twisted his watch strap as the car drove off.
‘They may have decided to have a lie-in,’ Frank said in consolation. Feeling the coffee had lit a spark of life somewhere behind his eyes.
‘It’s only half an hour since the light came on up there, in one window.’
Yet again the door opened. A middle-aged lady stood for a second under the little porch and took a deep breath. Slowly put on a pair of gloves and walked calmly down the road towards the underground.
The windows misted up. It had been bad before, but now it was worse because of the steam from the coffee in the yellow cup. Frank pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and rubbed away the condensation.
This time. The door opened again and Sigurd Klavestad stood there alone. Gunnarstranda already had his mobile phone at the ready, tapped in a number without taking his eyes off the young man on the flagstone.
Sigurd Klavestad was paler than before. The area around his eyes had gone an unhealthy dark colour. This contrasted with his white complexion and gave his face a concave appearance. His long hair was still collected in a pony tail.
Frank heard the mobile phone struggling to find a connection. At last! It rang. The man with the pony tail moved slowly down the road. Calmly, without any undue haste. No one picked up. Frank opened the car door a crack. The phone was still ringing.
‘Hello?’
A sleepy woman’s gentle voice could now be heard from the inspector’s hand. She was alive.
Gunnarstranda carefully rang off. Sigurd Klavestad was quite some way down the street now.