There was room for the Skoda. Gunder had beckoned. ‘There! There! Over there! Right, straighten up, straighten up, come on, come on.’
Until, sweaty and tired, the detective was finally parked. And he had hardly opened the bloody door when the beanpole had booted away a jack and moved a metal drum, which was probably full of moonshine. Gunnarstranda inferred that from the feeder pipe and the somewhat shaken expression adorning the mechanic’s face for a couple of minutes.
Then the man didn’t have any paper. So in the end he had gone upstairs to the toilet to find something to write on. Down he came with two sheets of tissue and a filthy pencil in his hand.
‘Hmmm, ignition probs, right, dies when you accelerate, ye-ep, makes a helluva racket, right.’
The inspector had subjected the mechanic to some very sceptical scowls. With some hesitation, he had enquired when he might pick up the car again. But didn’t get a proper answer. Just some prattle about what might be wrong and all the things that can go even more wrong with all the electrics nonsense.
On the bus back to town, he had begun to wonder what the hell he had let himself in for. He had briefly considered taking his doubts out on Frølich, who had lured him up there in the first place. Apparently this Gunder lived with Frølich’s girlfriend in a collective. Nevertheless, Gunnarstranda came to the conclusion that, whatever happened, he should have reversed his car out of the yard and kept well away. For that reason, he would wait for the bill before he had a confrontation with his colleague.
He trudged into the Grand Hotel Café and stood inside the door on the lookout for his brother-in-law.
A hiss could be heard from the wall with the window facing Karl Johan. It was his brother-in-law. Heard but not seen. Gunnarstranda scanned the café again. There! Suit jacket waving a newspaper.
The policeman bowed to the head waiter who nodded back with cool reserve. Went over to his brother-in-law’s table and sat down.
A long life had taught Edel’s brother to suppress his laughter. It was dry and shrill, like the lament of a rotating, rusty cogwheel. The sound attracted everyone’s attention. On the other hand, on those occasions when it escaped it was contagious. But his brother-in-law didn’t like to play the clown. So he hissed like a snake whenever he was going to laugh, say hello, or just catch someone’s eye.
‘This is a rare treat,’ his brother-in-law opened politely, sipping his coffee. Gunnarstranda registered acknowledgement, leaned back and waved for a waitress. ‘Coffee,’ he mumbled, then faced the table and reciprocated the sentiments.
It was the first time for four years. The first time since Edel’s funeral.
Around the room sat well-dressed women chattering over slices of cake and morning coffee. Here and there a few ruddy-cheeked business people toiled over a second breakfast. The brother-in-law blended into this milieu. Round glasses, grey waistcoat over a white shirt. Mild, patronizing expression underlined by two lazy eyelids above a smile that looked more like a grimace. If you didn’t know any better, you would think the fellow had had a couple of snifters.
A leather briefcase occupied the chair by the window. An over-sized appointments diary with a plethora of extra pockets and loose papers lay open on the table.
He waved to a becloaked gentleman hurrying past outside.
‘Do you know a company called Software Partners?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘No.’
‘They make office computer programs.’
‘Don’t they all?’
Brother-in-law blew on his coffee. But his gaze was less frosty now that he knew the point of the meeting.
The man had been employed by Norsk Data from its inception. Gunnarstranda knew he was somewhere in the top half of the hierarchy. Since he was still there, having survived growth, stagnation and recession he must have been in a position of importance. Apparently on this particular day he was holding a lecture called ‘The Future of Norwegian IT’, sub-titled ‘A Scenario for Information Technology in Norway and the European Union’.
Gunnarstranda had been granted an audience during the interval. The woman with a potato in her mouth, the one who took his brother-in-law’s telephone calls, remarked that anyone who was anyone in the industry would be present. The policeman considered the room to be rather too limited for that to be true. However, the Grand did have a large range of facilities, so perhaps the industry was munching its cakes elsewhere.
‘Any names?’ Brother-in-law asked.
‘Terje Engelsviken.’
He recoiled, put down his coffee cup, winced theatrically and shook his hand as if he had burned himself. Hissed aloud and blew on to his hand.
Gunnarstranda waited patiently.
‘He studied at the Institute of Technology in Trondheim,’ the engineer went on with the coffee cup in his hands again. ‘You know, the generation of academics who turned up for their first interview with a sweat band round their foreheads and Mao on their chests.’
Brother-in-law winked. ‘And got the job. Engelsviken’s a mediocre engineer who for some strange reason found himself in IBM in the early eighties. Left a trifle suddenly, after a couple of years. The official version is that he wanted to start up on his own.’
The waitress came with the coffee. Brother-in-law paused while she transferred the contents of the tray. Resumed after she had gone:
‘The unofficial version is that he’s a rotten apple.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Apparently IBM don’t pay well enough.’
‘Embezzlement?’
‘Not at all, Engelsviken was drawing a wage at a couple of other places as well.’ Brother-in-law winked. ‘So Engelsviken chose to leave IBM.’
Gunnarstranda guessed that ‘leaving IBM suddenly’ was open to interpretation.
‘Afterwards he started up on his own,’ Brother-in-law continued. ‘In the eighties when banks thought money procreated money, so long as the company who borrowed it had a project that was couched in enough American jargon.’
Gunnarstranda looked around him, took a cigarette from his pocket. Rolled it between his fingers. Asked:
‘Have you met him?’
‘Just the once.’
‘What’s he like?’
He considered for a moment. ‘Old problem. Engelsviken can’t cut his coat according to the cloth,’ he concluded. ‘Haven’t you met the guy?’
‘No. I’ve only heard that his wife is the elegant type with enough money to play the part.’
‘Mmm. Pretty as a picture. Not him though. Eccentric. Likes his liquor, too.’ Brother-in-law gave a conspiratorial smile, leaned forward. ‘There’s a story doing the rounds about Engelsviken. From when he started in the industry.’
He put down the cup with a clink, wiped his mouth with a serviette. ‘Business wasn’t going too well,’ he began. ‘But that can’t have been down to sales. You see, this was the early eighties when PCs were new and everyone wanted one and companies were computerizing their wage bills and invoices.’
Gunnarstranda leaned back and listened to his brother-in-law’s hissy voice. Heard about Engelsviken selling computers like hotcakes, but not paying his bills. ‘They were drowning in debt,’ Brother-in-law said. ‘Creditors were dying for the company to go bankrupt.’
Brother-in-law raised his cup again. Drained the coffee.
Gunnarstranda coughed. ‘He sold computers like hotcakes, but couldn’t pay his bills?’
Brother-in-law threw his arms in the air with a wry smile. ‘They had a place up in Brekke. I went there once. The time I met him.’
He surveyed the room, deep in thought. ‘Much too up-market. Carpets on the floors and a Chesterfield in the dining room. Stock and garage on the lower floor.’
Gunnarstranda was afforded a brief glimpse of the man’s two canines before the story went on. His brother-in-law seemed quite clued-up on the details. At any rate, he knew that the lorry in question drove around with bald summer tyres in the winter. And he knew about the weather that day. ‘This was the end of the year, either November or December. And on this particular night some fairly unforgiving weather set in. Sledging conditions, freezing rain on the lowlands turning to snow on higher ground.’