Gunnarstranda sighed. Fiddled with his coffee cup. He sighed again. ‘Thank you very much for helping us, fru Engebregtsen.’
She didn’t answer, just went on scratching her arms nervously. Her dentures clicked.
Gunnarstranda got to his feet, nodded to Frank. ‘Soon, some other officers will come and take a statement. I hope you won’t mind telling them what you’ve just told me.’
She didn’t answer.
The two detectives turned and left. The last thing they heard was the click as Trout-Mouth went catching flies that weren’t there.
29
‘The racket she heard must have been Sigurd Klavestad falling down the stairs,’ Gunnarstranda said to Frank in the car afterwards.
He nodded without taking his eyes off the road.
‘The murderer must have gone back up,’ the inspector continued. ‘Cleaned off the blood in the bathroom. Gone into the sitting room, burned his outdoor clothes, which were stained with blood, to remove any evidence, put on some of Sigurd’s clothes and left.’
‘So it was the murderer she saw leaving, not Sigurd?’
‘I presume so.’
‘How did the bastard lure the victim on to the stairs?’
‘Sigurd must have been woken up. The telephone was used as a warning with the girl. Presumably the murderer rings and warns them before coming. At any rate, I doubt he stands ding-a-linging the doorbell for hours. It would be too risky. But after phoning he rang the bell. Klavestad opened up, fine, but it’s a job to know what happened afterwards.’
‘The murderer may have hidden on the stairs.’
‘Or he was someone Klavestad had no reason to fear,’ Gunnarstranda suggested.
‘An execution.’
‘Right!’
The police inspector waved his hand in annoyance.
‘But why on the stairs?’
Gunnarstranda stared out of the window, rapt in thought. ‘Suggests nerves. It would have been safer inside the flat.’
Frank couldn’t make that add up. ‘Whoever did this cannot be nervous!’
‘That’s exactly what he was,’ Gunnarstranda objected calmly. ‘Scared shitless. The fact that the murder took place at all suggests the murderer knows he has to be quick. The whole sequence of events reeks of panic.’
Frank said nothing.
‘For the time being,’ Gunnarstranda broke the silence. ‘I’m keen to find out what the peeping tom was doing last night. So, let’s take a drive down there.’
30
Today there was more life in Johansen’s block. A strong, agreeable smell of curry met them on the stairs, causing Frank’s stomach to issue soft rumbles of lament, but they were not audible over all the shouts and laughter of games emanating from the open door of one flat.
These sounds grew fainter as they ascended. At the top the children’s noise could hardly be heard and the stink of stale staircase dominated the food aromas from downstairs.
The old-timer showed them in, sat down in the battered chair and indicated the sofa while flicking his old Zippo into life. Frank cleared away the rubbish and freed up a spot to sit down. Took out his notepad and pencil. Signalled to Gunnarstranda that he was ready.
‘I’m going to talk now,’ the inspector said from the window, ‘and you tell me if you agree or disagree afterwards. Is that all right?’
Johansen didn’t say a word, just sent the little man by the window a dismissive glare. Inhaled smoke with a rattle of the throat.
‘Reidun Rosendal was killed in her flat.’
Johansen glanced over at Frank. ‘Bright sort, your boss, isn’t he,’ he sneered.
Gunnarstranda ignored the comment and continued:
‘The place was turned upside down as if there had been a burglary. But no everyday objects of value were touched. Hence there is a good chance the evidence left after the burglary was intended to be a red herring. A ruse carried out by the murderer to mislead the investigation. If this proves to be correct then the murderer, even though the intention was to kill her, must have had an ulterior motive. In which case potential suspects can be limited to the circle we might call Rosendal’s network. Family, friends, enemies and admirers.’
The latter was pronounced with especial irony. ‘You,’ Gunnarstranda emphasized, ‘You are a part of this network. And from here you have a view of her flat.’
‘A witness,’ Johansen interrupted with firmness. ‘I am a witness you have already established saw nothing at all.’
He burst into a coughing fit, but still had to have a few more drags of his cigarette when it was over. The cigarette was a moist brown colour between the man’s nicotine-stained fingers. The bloodshot left eye had improved to such an extent that now only the network of veins in the corner was visible.
‘How many people did you see go through the gate on Sunday morning?’
‘I’ve already told you!’
‘Which other men did you see in her flat?’
Johansen said nothing.
‘Who visited her recently?’
‘Nice weather today, isn’t it?’
Johansen’s tone was if possible even drier than before, and he stubbed out the cigarette in an overflowing ashtray before meeting Gunnarstranda’s eye, unwilling to yield an inch. He sat breathing asthmatically through a half-open mouth.
Silence descended.
‘Did you ever ring Reidun Rosendal?’
‘No.’
‘Did you ring her last week?’
‘No!’
‘And if I insist you spoke to her on the phone last week?’
Johansen sat still, staring into space.
‘You’re lying to me, Johansen.’
‘No, I am not!’ the old man barked. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Even the bags under his eyes moved. ‘I had forgotten.’
‘Did you also forget that you were tossing yourself off in this window as well?’
Johansen breathed in.
‘Have you forgotten what you said on the phone?’
Johansen didn’t answer.
‘You threatened her.’
Johansen’s shoulders began to twitch.
‘What did you say to her, Johansen?’
The twitches in the man’s shoulder subsided. His eyes had gone hard. ‘You don’t know, do you,’ he confirmed with a triumphant laugh. ‘You haven’t a bloody clue what I said!’
The inspector’s voice repeated the question, this time with a metallic tone: ‘What did you say to her, Johansen?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to know!’
Frank could see Johansen was mentally there, or close, but then he retreated, into his own head. He unleashed a grin and revealed a row of bad teeth.
‘I told her how she should be fucked!’
The two policemen’s eyes bulged.
‘How she should be fucked up the arse!’ he crowed with a manic cackle and slapped his thigh. The laughter degenerated into coughing.
The two detectives didn’t move.
The old boy had to take out a handkerchief. Soon his breathing was a heavy rattle, back to normal. It was clear he felt he had scored a victory. Still he slanted his watery eyes towards the inspector as though expecting him to fall to the floor.
‘I believe you,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘That is what you told her. But she didn’t agree!’
Again the room went silent. Johansen’s breathing was a gurgle.
‘She didn’t agree,’ the detective repeated. ‘That was why she left the curtains open on Saturday, to show you how it should be done!’
‘You’re lying!’ Johansen whispered, without looking up.
‘She let you have a real eyeful,’ Gunnarstranda hissed. ‘She lay on her back wriggling under the lad, teasing you, poking you with a stick the way she would have poked a little rat in a cage to death!’
‘No!’
Johansen jumped up from the chair with a wrinkled fist ready for a fight. Instantly Frank was up and grabbed his arm. It was dry and uneven to hold, like corrugated cardboard.
‘You’re lying!’ Johansen screamed as the policeman forced him back into the chair. He didn’t feel anything, just stared manically at the bald little man moving from the window towards him with narrow, flashing eyes.