Her lips quivered. She removed her glasses and the detective could see she had discarded her mask. Tried to hide the movement, but failed, so the tears made stripes down her over-made-up cheeks.
Gunnarstranda waited patiently, but one finger had started to tap against his left trouser leg. This poorly concealed impatience had a knock-on effect. She took out a handkerchief she had stuffed up her sleeve and feverishly dabbed around her eyes.
‘Has he gone on the booze?’
‘What?’
‘Has he gone on the booze?’
‘How dare you!’
‘Calm yourself now!’
He had taken a step forward. But without removing his hands from his pockets. ‘You are talking to a police officer,’ he spelt out coldly. ‘Of course something may have happened to your husband. But it is unlikely since you have not reported him missing. So there are three possibilities. Either he is with another woman, or else he is lying somewhere plastered, or he has done a runner from something. It’s as simple as that. If it had been a woman you would have known, and you would not have rung his office.’
He turned to the window, looked around the room. ‘I’m investigating a murder connected with his workplace. Either your husband’s disappearance has something to do with my investigation or it hasn’t. So I am asking you: Has he gone on the booze?’
At that moment they heard a key in the front door. The woman looked at her watch. ‘Trine and Lene,’ she whispered and screamed into the halclass="underline"
‘I’m in here!’
Her voice cracked. The last word sounded like a scream from a seagull that had just been shot.
Gunnarstranda walked towards the two teenage girls. ‘Perhaps you two could fill me in on your father’s disappearance,’ he said turning to the elder daughter.
She stared back, stunned.
Gunnarstranda introduced himself.
‘Has something happened to him?’ the younger one asked nervously.
The police officer ignored the question and zeroed in the central issue. ‘Is this the first time your father has gone missing like this?’
‘No,’ she blinked innocently. She had blue eyes, which unfortunately she had inherited from her mother. They weren’t deep. They were just squeezed between two folds of skin either side of her nose. Piggy eyes.
The girl’s mother slid down off the bar stool and anxiously rubbed her hands against her tight skirt.
‘When was the last time he went missing like this?’
‘It’s what you said!’ the mother interrupted before the daughter was able to answer. ‘Egil can’t take his booze.’
‘Why is he on a binge now?’
She shrugged by way of response.
‘It’s always happening,’ the elder daughter interjected, clearly embarrassed.
The three women huddled closer. It happened automatically, they formed a barricade and the police officer smelt hostility in the air. So he relaxed, twinkled his eyes good-naturedly and clambered up one of the stools at the strange bar. He couldn’t even reach down to the foot support. His legs hung in mid-air. This gave him an opportunity to smile and stretch out his legs.
The tight defence loosened. The two young girls exchanged glances and giggled at the man with the short legs.
The detective grabbed his chance and assumed a grave expression.
‘Is he normally away for two consecutive nights?’ he asked with a worried crease between his eyes. All three shook their heads.
The mother’s pale blue eyes suddenly went moist again. ‘That’s the whole point,’ she wailed, gripping her handkerchief tightly. ‘This has never happened before.’
19
It was very odd. The old man made no attempt to disguise what he was doing. Not at all. They headed upwards, along Christies gate, towards Lilleborg Church and on to Torshov Park.
Frank Frølich knew where this was leading, he knew where Klavestad lived. So he trailed a fair way behind. For now the task was clear. Tail the tail. And the young man with the hair had all his attention focused on the old codger behind him. Sigurd Klavestad kept turning round, didn’t run, but walked faster, apprehensive. At the bottom of Ole Bulls gate he stopped and faced the man, who froze in his tracks. The distance between them was a touch under a hundred metres. Frank Frølich tried to pretend he was waiting for a bus, strode over to the published schedule, stared at the arrival times and scowled at his watch. Nothing happened. The two of them just watched each other. Until Klavestad began to walk slowly towards Johansen. Who didn’t move, just poked around with his stick. The distance shrank by twenty metres. Sigurd stopped. Frank Frølich stuffed both hands in his pockets and mooched around the timetable. Nothing happened. Two pairs of eyes glaring at each other.
Until Sigurd finally turned. Took a few steps. The old man followed. Klavestad spun round. Again Johansen froze in his tracks. Frølich yawned and checked his watch again. Ten minutes had passed. Sigurd was still staring at this man he didn’t know. Then slowly turned round again. Went on now without looking back. Though faster. Johansen had to pick up speed. They walked along Torshov Park until they were there.
Journey’s end.
Frank strolled at a leisurely pace. Right first time. The door had closed behind Sigurd. The man with the hat and stick stood by the front door studying the name plates.
Soon the policeman found refuge behind a rotary dryer. From there he loped across the road to the block opposite where Klavestad lived. This could have been quite tricky had it not been for a telephone booth hidden amongst some dense bushes.
He slipped in and flicked slowly through the frayed yellow scraps of paper that had once been telephone directories. A blue, a brown and a red wire protruded from the line left bereft of a purpose. The remains of the receiver lay scattered on the ground.
Frank leaned towards the glass and observed the man on the opposite side of the street. He was completely nuts. Talking to himself, scrutinizing the doorbells, shuffling to and fro in front of the entrance. A bent old fellow, his legs and stick jabbing the ground, to and fro outside the door. My God, Frank thought, shaking his head and tut-tutting. You are completely bonkers!
20
‘So he left again, did he, without going in?’
Frank nodded and stopped the car at the crossroads between Karl Johans gate and Dronningens gate.
‘And you’re sure he took the bus back?’
Another nod.
It was evening. It was dark. They were keeping a watch on the pedestrian zone. There were shady figures hanging around on both sides. Most of them dropping comments and aiming disapproving glances at the car. Frank noticed the charmer with the crooked glasses and rotten teeth he’d seen from the tram earlier in the day. Now he was holding a short leash, at its end a Dobermann with restless legs and a pointed snout. At the same time he was chatting to a prostitute with swollen lips and thin thighs that strained to keep her upright. The woman was trying to light a cigarette. So far she had dropped three Marlboros on to the tarmac. They had slipped between her bony white fingers.
Gunnarstranda searched the inside pocket of his coat. ‘You had a useful outing,’ he continued. ‘But I think there’s little point doing any more undercover stuff. Except that the old chap worries me a bit.’
‘He doesn’t exactly seem dangerous.’
‘True,’ Gunnarstranda conceded, not totally reassured as he continued his search. ‘Nevertheless, there’s something funny going on there. Here it is!’
He passed Frølich a passport photo.
Frank stared at the picture of a man in his late forties. Pointed face, thick neck, mouth with a very narrow top lip and pronounced eyebrows. A thick comb-over from his left ear across the crown to hide a shiny bare patch. The man had set the stool too low in the photo booth. Resulting in him stretching his neck and making his eyes seem enlarged.