‘She was teasing you,’ the detective laughed. ‘She brought out the devil in you, Johansen. The devil that couldn’t bear to be led on. The devil that screamed the little whore down there should burn. She should be brought to her knees! She should burn! Burn in hell! So that was why you didn’t give in until she was lying on the floor with no breath left in her body!’
Johansen didn’t answer. He hid his face in his large creased hands.
The inspector watched him for a while. Then returned to the window.
Frank peered up and met his boss’s eyes. Both waited.
At last the man removed his hands from his face.
‘What were you doing in Torshov on Wednesday?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
‘Afternoon stroll,’ Johansen answered. He had recovered some of the cold cynicism he displayed at first.
‘Where were you last night?’
‘Here.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
‘No.’
‘You were observed walking in Agathe Grøndahls gate at half past twelve on Wednesday. Were you there?’
‘You know everything already,’ came a meeker response.
‘Yes or no!’ the officer barked.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you go to Agathe Grøndals gate at a later point, Wednesday afternoon, Wednesday evening or last night?’
‘No.’
The old boy took a stub from the ashtray, managed to light it with some difficulty, his right hand trembled as he smoked. Johansen held it with his left to stop the trembling. Gave up. Put down the cigarette.
‘Old injury,’ he tried to explain.
‘Are you aware that Sigurd Klavestad lived there, in the house in Agathe Grøndals gate where you were observed on Wednesday?’
‘Who the hell is Sigurd Klavestad?’ the man scowled in a barely audible voice. His neck had suddenly become very stiff.
‘The young man with the pony tail you followed from here all the way up to Agathe Grøndals gate.’
Johansen didn’t answer now. He was staring at the floor.
‘He’s been murdered.’
The old man’s head embarked on a slow movement. His gaze rose from the floor.
‘Someone cut the young man’s throat last night.’
Johansen was breathing heavily. ‘Murdered?’
His mouth hung open. A drop of saliva had collected on his lower lip. Like a sleepwalker he got up and began to pace to and fro. ‘So he’s dead, is he?’
He rubbed his right thigh as he walked.
‘Did you know that, Johansen?’
The old man continued to pace the room in silence.
‘Answer the question!’
‘No.’ Johansen’s voice sounded tame. ‘I didn’t know.’
He stopped, took a deep breath and pressed down his right leg.
‘Work injury. The nerves just go now and then.’
Frank could not keep his eyes away from the uncontrolled twitching in the old man’s hands and legs.
‘The only thing that helps is to walk a bit, to do something,’ he continued.
‘Why did you follow him?’ Gunnarstranda asked in a more friendly tone.
Johansen sat down. ‘He was here,’ he sighed in a weary voice. ‘Down there.’
The man tossed his head towards the window. Took the pouch on the table. Removed some tobacco and a rolling paper. But the trembling index and middle fingers caused him to tear the paper. Johansen stared dejectedly at the mess and the tobacco on the floor.
‘Here you are!’ Gunnarstranda passed him one of his roll-ups and held out the lighter.
Johansen inhaled. ‘I followed him because I wanted… I think I wanted to do him in,’ he said blowing out the smoke. But he straightened up when he saw Gunnarstranda’s look. ‘I said I thought I wanted to do it,’ he stressed. ‘In my head I wanted to kill him or something like that.’
He stared at Frank. Turned to address Gunnarstranda. ‘He was here,’ he repeated in a panic. ‘Down by the Dælenenga fence! Round here!’
He got up, made a scramble for the window and looked out. ‘He stabbed her,’ he insisted with vehemence. ‘Cut her up!’
His voice cracked and he had to clear his throat. ‘I wanted to do him in. I followed him, found out where he lived!’
‘What other men have you seen in her flat?’
Silence.
‘You did see some, didn’t you.’
Silence.
‘You’ve been watching this rose of yours for two years, Johansen. You saw people there!’
Nod.
‘Who?’
The old-timer stumped back to his chair and sat down. His hands gripped both arm rests.
Gunnarstranda followed. ‘Who?’
No answer.
‘Who?’
Frank noticed the bags under his eyes. The sallow hue of his skin. The round shoulders and the mass of dandruff on his faded clothes. He contemplated a very small man sunken in the chair.
Johansen cleared his throat. ‘No one.’
His composure was back. ‘No one,’ he repeated evasively, with his eyes closed. ‘Just her.’
The old man drifted off. Mumbling something incomprehensible.
Gunnarstranda moved. ‘You’ll have to come with us to the station in Grønland. We have to take your fingerprints.’
Johansen lowered his head.
‘We’re going to search your premises.’
Frank got up wearily and at once started to open the drawers of an old bureau leaning gently against the wall. The inspector bent over the old man. ‘You’re hiding something, Johansen,’ he whispered. ‘You’re keeping your mouth shut about far too many things! But I can promise you one thing! If we find a single knife or anything sharper than a fish slice in this dump, there won’t be any bus trips home for you afterwards!’
Frank rummaged through the drawer. Pencils, biros and a bit of fishing line. A rusty nut was the only metal object he found. This is going to take time, he thought patiently, picking up a beer cap.
31
Gunnarstranda gazed out of the window, watching the old man with the stick staggering down the long hill towards Grønlandsleiret. Arvid Johansen, peeping tom. Bent figure, wearing a coat and a hat with a brim. The man turned and shook his stick at Police HQ. A spiteful guest. A gesture that symbolized the man’s willingness to co-operate. A stubborn silence. I wonder if that is all you can do, the policeman by the window thought. Can this shaking fist cut into flesh? Living human flesh? It would be a convenient solution to think it could. Easy. But probably wrong. So count your lucky stars we didn’t find any weapons in your flat.
The door was opened behind him. A man shuffled in, followed by an officer who turned, went out and closed the door without a word.
The silhouette of the new arrival was outlined in the window. Jesus! The man’s face was redder than a Pink Lady apple. Gunnarstranda stared alternately from the face in the reflection to Johansen on the street until he disappeared behind Grønland Church.
Then he swung round and asked Svennebye to sit down. He didn’t comply with the request and sluggishly remained standing where he was, in front of the desk. Gunnarstranda was forced to realize that the man had probably not been through the best of times recently. A sorry sight. The unbuttoned coat revealed stained trousers with the fly open where a shirt tail had got stuck. The tie hung like a loosely coiled skipping rope. The inspector sniffed the air and decided he would open the window.
‘Take a seat,’ he repeated, indicating with one hand a spindleback chair in the middle of the room, one and a half metres from his desk.
The man coughed and fumbled around with his right hand which was wrapped in a large white bandage. In the end he succeeded in hanging his coat over the back of the chair. Sat down gingerly, still with the tip of his tongue making swift forays up and down his lips.
‘Name?’
‘Egil Svennebye.’