The tram clanked to a halt. Klavestad got out. Frank followed. Colliding with one of the dope-heads, who grunted and spat a gobbet of phlegm on to a parked car.
Familiar territory. The route was in the direction of Reidun Rosendal’s address.
Frank hung back, fifty metres behind. Risky turf. Quiet district. To the right a playground before the iron fence of Dælenenga Stadium. Klavestad suddenly stopped. Staring at the ground. Frank had to keep going. Dangerous silence. Some distance ahead, an elderly lady in a grey woollen coat and matching hat weighed down by a carrier bag. He passed Klavestad on the other side of the road and made for a blue door advertising a lottery on the outside. A newsagent’s.
What was the guy thinking about? He looked like a poseur in a commercial. Hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, open jacket hanging becomingly loose.
Frank went in the door and almost bumped into Arvid Johansen. The old fellow was in his own world, exiting the shop the way old folk do when they think the ground is slippery. Using his stick for support. He swore like a trooper when Frank almost knocked into him. But he couldn’t be bothered to check out who it was. His eyes were fixed on the ground and he muttered imprecations to himself, unable to interrupt his sidling manoeuvre down the steps.
Inside the newsagent’s the peeping tom had left a stench of stale fish offal. The police officer tried to see out. But the window in the blue door was made of wired glass and opaque. Between the shelves of men’s magazines he could make out the old boy stomping down the street. Wearing a thick winter overcoat from the fifties, and a broad-brimmed hat which bounced up and down out of rhythm, like a marionette in a puppet theatre.
A Pakistani woman with black hair, a red shop apron and a smile asked Frank what he would like.
‘Pools coupons,’ he said, and she pointed to a shelf at chest height two metres away. Notepaper and biros lay to hand. Front stall seat. Almost. He had to bend, shield his eyes from several glossy and generously equipped nude models to catch a glimpse. The lady behind him probably considered him mad. He grabbed a stack of coupons from a holder on the shelf.
Outside, the distance between them was narrowing. The grunter was closing up on Klavestad. Actually, he wasn’t that stiff, the old boy. Didn’t need to support himself on the stick.
The old man stopped. What was going on? The seconds ticked. Suddenly Sigurd recoiled. What the hell! The man had lifted his stick. Sigurd backed away. Walked quickly, as though fleeing, craned his head. Sped round the corner.
The old boy stared after him for a moment. But then followed in pursuit. Back to the corner as well. Now his legs were moving faster. And the stick was turning like a crankshaft. His face was hard and closed.
Frank stuffed the coupons in his pocket, chucked a few coins on the counter, grabbed a newspaper and was off.
18
Gunnarstranda contemplated the ceiling of his office. Blinked, automatically raised his left arm and glanced at his watch. Two and a half hours’ sleep. Not bad. The headache was gone. On the other hand, he had a serious crick in his neck. His head had rested at too acute an angle on the arm rest of the old sofa. That would have to be enough. He threw off the tartan plaid, sat up and massaged his neck and throat while trying to keep his head straight. Felt the lack of sleep on his palate. Time for a coffee and a smoke.
Two hours later he was sitting in a police car on his way down Mosseveien. Thinking. The question was: how did the path young Klavestad chose lead to the centre of the drama that had taken place?
The probability that Reidun Rosendal was subjected to sexual abuse before the murder was minimal. Since her flat had not been broken into, Reidun must have let the murderer in through the front door. But what had happened then? And why all the mess inside when no one had heard anything?
The answer was obvious, he supposed. He just didn’t know what it was. That was the problem. To find the right answer he would have to ask the right question. And where is the right question? It’s there. It just isn’t formulated yet. You can see it there, you can’t grab it though, because it slips away, like a tiny beetle you try to catch in a wash basin.
If you can’t ask, then you have to observe. And Frølich is a canny observer.
He passed Katten beach and glanced down at the smooth, wet rock-faces. Deserted. Only one person there. A thin elderly male figure dressed in blue with a black cap on his head and a solitary gull wheeling above him. At the front waddled a plump, ageing cocker spaniel. Panting, it turned its head, with a saliva smile and a patient look at its owner, who was bringing up the rear.
Gunnarstranda left the main road, drove alone through the illuminated tunnel and bore towards Holmlia. Which manoeuvre resulted in him driving in circles. In the end he drew up under a white arrow-shaped sign. His annoyance at getting lost had caused a stabbing pain from the earlier headache to return. The sign showed rows of numbers. It pointed towards a cluster of apartment buildings and small wooden houses where cars were prohibited. He got out and started a methodical search for number 66.
Marketing Manager Svennebye lived in number 66. The detective rang and his wife tore open the door. She was a well-rounded lady. Must have been around fifty. Wearing a blue suit, plus glasses and earrings the same colour as her shoes, mauve.
If she had been excited when she opened the door she was all the more disappointed when she saw the figure on the doorstep. Stared down at him. Tried to make him feel like a maggot with her gaze. That was fine. It matched his mood. He stared up at her. Short reddish hair. Pointed nose, small mouth with unusually thin lips. Nonetheless she had managed to paint a thick layer of brash red lipstick over them. The half-open mouth revealed that one of her front teeth was the same colour as her lipstick. The red stood out against the white.
Gunnarstranda introduced himself and was then asked in, after a moment’s considered hesitation. She walked ahead. The tight skirt was taut across her rump and emphasized the excess weight she was carrying. Thick ankles. In the living room she parked herself on a high stool by something vaguely reminiscent of a bar. She chewed on half a celery stick dipped into what seemed to be mayonnaise, glanced down at the inspector and spoke.
‘I don’t remember having made any kind of approach to the police on this matter!’
It was a proclamation. She wiped her fingers on a cloth on the counter. Her voice was strident and suited her.
‘Has your husband gone missing like this before?’
‘Who says he’s gone missing?’ she screeched. The thin top lip followed after a brief delay and rubbed against the lipstick-coloured tooth.
A silence grew as the policeman kept his counsel. The faint noise of children playing between the buildings penetrated through to them. The woman turned, took another stick of celery, crunched it between her teeth and chewed with loud chomping noises. Then she touched her skirt with her fingers this time, as if to wipe them.
‘When did you last see your husband?’ asked Gunnarstranda when she had finished. He had not sat down; he stood with his hands in his coat pockets inside the door.
‘Monday morning, before he went to work.’
‘Did you have any reason to expect he would not return from work on Monday?’
‘None at all.’
‘No rows, no dramatic family events?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘He behaved as he always did before going to work?’
‘Yes.’
‘So let me ask you one more time! Has this happened before?’