Two cue words for the moment. Knife and night. He liked that. But he didn’t like the cut. The slash to the victim’s neck. He didn’t like that at all. What a damned nuisance that the man had been killed!
The murder would bring the stuffed shirts out of the woodwork, the schooled suits and ties who still felt a need to say aloud what everyone else was thinking. Hassle was brewing. Demands for statements and perhaps the odd press conference. Formalities. They irked him. But there was one positive side. He could feel himself getting angry. A good omen, he confirmed to himself and turned. Stood inspecting the stove. A slightly dusty tiled corner stove with a marble top and a nickel-plate handle. The old type.
Imbued with a sudden inspiration, he crouched down in front of it. Ran his hand warily along the iron. Stroked it again without the plastic glove this time. Hm. Possible.
Cautiously, so cautiously, he coaxed open the stove door. ‘Frølich,’ he called quietly.
Frølich came in from the hall. ‘I suppose he was in bed sleeping,’ he said. ‘The reading lamp was on and the bed unmade.’
‘Look here,’ Gunnarstranda whispered.
Frølich stooped down and peered into the smoking ashes. ‘He must have been heating the room,’ he commented lightly.
‘Not him,’ Gunnarstranda said thoughtfully. ‘Not him. And this is not wood. It’s smouldering. This is material. Clothing! If there’s anything left.’
28
Elise Engebregtsen was waiting for them with the door open when they appeared outside the lift doors. She was fat. Unusually fat. And the grey smile revealed an ageing set of dentures.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything, so you can just go again. I don’t know anything.’
Frank smiled courteously, inclined his head. Looked down at her. A checked apron. Stout upper arms and an imposing backside, thick ankles that flowed over her slippers. Sixty maybe. Maybe sixty-five. Her dentures were catching flies. Clicking sounds caused by a nervous tongue. What a bite on her! Like a trout’s, he thought, fascinated.
Gunnarstranda coughed.
‘All right, come in then! But I’ve told you! I don’t know anything.’
She waggled in front of them. As broad as a sumo wrestler. Small head with greasy, auburn wispy hair, cut close to her ears. Heavy, rhythmical breathing. She was a wrestler, a real one. Her teeth clicked.
‘Aahhh,’ she groaned, slumping into a chair. ‘Goodness me.’
She pulled over a flower-pattern Thermos jug. Poured coffee.
‘Goodness me!’
Small cups with roses on. ‘Sugar in your coffee?’
Frank shook his head.
A somewhat muggy smell. As though you might expect to find moss inside the walls. A kind of grandmother smell. Small, round pictures. Light blue wallpaper with neutral white flowers. Needlework. Embroidery and knitting. The lady herself in the middle of the wall. A baby on each arm and a happy dentures smile on her face.
‘I told you, I don’t know anything.’
Nerves. Teeth clicking.
Gunnarstranda sipped the coffee. ‘When did you find him?’
‘Today, this morning.’
‘What time was it?’
‘Half past eight. After the morning service on the radio.’
Gunnarstranda nodded slowly.
‘Mm,’ she sighed. ‘Goodness me!’
‘It must have been terrible,’ the policeman said sympathetically.
‘I told the man with the pisstool! I don’t know anything.’
‘Pisstool? Pistol!’ Frank spluttered.
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘He said you’d seen Sigurd Klavestad leaving last night!’
She breathed in. Scratched her forearms. ‘Yes, that’s right. He did leave, that’s for certain!’
‘When was that?’
‘Four o’clock in the morning.’
‘It was night. You noticed the time?’
Energetic shake of the head. Wispy hair lashing her face.
‘I was up. I sleep so badly I was up and heard him running down the stairs!’
‘He ran down the stairs?’
‘Yes, first time.’
‘He ran down the stairs and came back up again?’
Elise Engebregtsen breathed in and nodded.
‘How do you know it was him?’
Shrug of the shoulders. ‘Just think it was.’
‘But you’re not sure it was him?’
‘I told you, I don’t know anything!’
‘But something made you think it was him running down the stairs!’
‘Yes, he usually makes a lot of noise.’
‘It’s happened before?’
Another nod.
‘So he came down again, after he ran up?’
Nod.
‘Did he run then, too?’
‘No, I didn’t hear him until he was out of the house.’
‘So he walked down slowly the second time?’
Nod.
‘How much time had passed?’
‘Ten minutes, fifteen maybe.’
‘Did you see him leaving the building?’
‘Yes.’
‘How? Did you see his face?’
‘I saw it was him.’
‘But you didn’t see his face?’
‘Saw his coat, his body.’
‘So it could have been someone else?’
‘It was him!’
Angry now. Her mouth was a straight line and there was a deep furrow between her eyes which disappeared as her face contracted.
Gunnarstranda nodded. Sipped more coffee.
‘What were you going to do outside?’
‘Get rid of the rubbish!’
‘What happened?’
‘Couldn’t open the door.’
‘You couldn’t open the door?’
‘No.’
Gunnarstranda waited patiently.
‘Managed to open it a tiny crack.’
She shivered. Scratched her forearms again.
‘A crack.’
Very ill at ease now. Wandering eyes.
Gunnarstranda waited.
‘Just saw this tiny white hand!’
‘The hand, yes…’
Gunnarstranda nodded, his gaze fixed on her; it was like extracting words from a child that would not stop scratching.
‘And on the floor…’
‘On the floor, yes…’
‘Blood on the floor…’
‘Blood, yes, a hand and blood…’
‘Then I saw it in the crack!’
‘Saw the dead man, the body on the floor. Mhm.’
Gunnarstranda leaned back. ‘Was he blocking your way? I mean, was his body blocking the door?’
She nodded.
‘Close your eyes now,’ the policeman said.
She obediently followed his instructions.
‘And try to imagine Klavestad as he was leaving last night.’
She nodded.
‘Can you see his face?’
‘No.’
‘But you can see his body?’
‘Yes.’
Gunnarstranda got up. Stared out. The town lay grey and dull beneath him. ‘Did he walk down the road?’
‘Yes, down.’
‘Keep your eyes closed, fru Engebregtsen. You can see him walking down the road. You can see his body in the light of the street lamps. Black, full-length coat, right?’
‘Yes, the black coat. Yes, yes.’
‘His hair? Did he have a pony tail or not?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t see.’
‘Does he turn round?’
‘No. I leave the window and go to bed.’
She sat as before, with her eyes open.
Gunnarstranda was staring, serious. ‘Are you sure it was Klavestad you saw?’
Irritated now. ‘Yes, I told you I was.’
‘But you didn’t see a pony tail?’
‘No, I think he was wearing a hood.’
The detective nodded. ‘A hood,’ he mumbled. ‘Have you often seen this neighbour without a pony tail?’
Shrug of the shoulders.
The inspector is serious. ‘You know, fru Engebregtsen, I’ve never seen him without his pony tail. Can you remember if you’ve ever seen him like that?’
Another shrug.
‘Fru Engebregtsen?’
Another shrug. Scratched. Scratch marks on her arms. ‘Goodness me!’