They stood in the yard, outside the garage with the crooked walls and corrugated tin roof that threatened to collapse.
Gunnarstranda said nothing and held out a lighter flame. The mechanic had poked a recycled dog-end the size of a fingernail between his lips and managed masterfully to light it without burning himself. They trudged through the yard and on to the dark drive. Gunder led the way. The man’s two worn-down black clogs hastened across the tarmac with a clatter. Round the street corner and across to the white Skoda parked by the kerb.
‘I changed the distributor cap because it was knackered. Changed the pins, the fan belt, plugs and two plug cables.’
The man was speaking with the dog-end glued to his lower lip.
‘The car’s only three years old!’ the policeman protested with his arms outstretched.
The mechanic in the stained overalls responded with a kindly look.
‘Three years?’ He motioned towards the Skoda. ‘You have to count the age of this crate in dog-years.’
Gunnarstranda scowled. ‘Is it all right?’
‘Now it is.’
‘How much?’
‘Invoice?’
Gunnarstranda frowned at Oil-Face, who was now sporting five wrinkles. Something was going on inside.
‘It’s all tied up with VAT.’
‘Tell me how much!’ Gunnarstranda remonstrated.
Oil-Face examined his hands. ‘Wouldn’t have been much of an invoice anyway,’ he sighed. ‘Six hundred!’
The policeman rolled back his shoulders and stuck a hand in his inside pocket. Took six hundred-krone notes from his wallet.
Oil-Face produced a friendly smile. ‘Bit of body rust,’ he said, stuffing the notes into the back pocket of his overalls. ‘Round the door handle.’
Gunnarstranda accepted the car key without a word.
‘I do body work as well,’ Oil-Face informed him.
The police inspector turned and went towards the car.
Oil-Face smiled and wandered back to the garage. ‘Just give me a buzz,’ he shouted as he rounded the corner. The car started with a roar. Gunnarstranda smiled with satisfaction, manoeuvred the car away from the kerb and drove a few metres. Stopped and got out. The engine was purring like a cat. He opened the rear bonnet. Perfect. New cables. New distributor cap. He was happy. Straightened up and closed the bonnet. Searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one, found the lighter, glanced up in the air and froze. Filthy windows with white lettering. Talk about a coincidence. Every other pane. SOLICITOR written on the glass. Wall. The name BRICK written in white letters. Wall, and then SOLICITOR again.
He switched off the ignition. Closed the door and strode across the street and into the gateway. Nice back garden. Evergreen thuja bushes in a tidy flowerbed. Table for scoffing packed lunch in a corner. Brass name plate. Perfect. Etched with acid into the metaclass="underline" Brick, Solicitor. So this was where Engelsviken’s business manager lived.
The inspector stood and considered. Finally made up his mind. Turned and sauntered back to his car.
33
It was Friday morning. The car was fixed. But there would not be a trip to the cabin this weekend, either. Nor next weekend probably. Nor the weekend after that, probably. It didn’t bear thinking about. He just got irritated. Somewhere further east, over Sweden, there was grey cloud cover. It would bring rain in the course of the day, according to the weather forecast on the news last night. On the desk lay Marketing Manager Svennebye’s statement. The man who didn’t know what his employer was selling. The man who didn’t know how the company could sell anything at all. Because his superior had not done any business deals when they should have done.
Gunnarstranda was smoking. The ash fluttered down on to a glitzy brochure from the same company. The brochure in which an ex-bully boy, convicted for having beaten up a businessman in Hovseter, was enticing potential investors with large capital returns. Trust Software Partners, it said, pay with ready cash. Money in the bank for whom? A group of unknown shareholders? Or Terje Engelsviken? The bankruptcy king with a hungry wallet and a dubious reputation?
The inspector had lots of questions he would like to ask the solicitor with the brass name plate in Kampen. But he wasn’t ready yet. And he may not be the right man to ask them. This might be better left to someone else.
Gunnarstranda blew the ash off Bregård’s face, crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, picked up the phone and dialled a number.
‘Davestuen,’ a voice said, chewing something.
‘Gunnarstranda.’
‘Ah, right,’ the voice continued to chew. Gunnarstranda was irked, gave a measured cough. ‘Software Partners.’
‘Guessed as much.’
Davestuen was still chewing. Slow, wet mastication, like a child playing in mud.
‘Got anything?’
‘Well…’
Gunnarstranda put the receiver under his chin to hunt for another cigarette. ‘You’re having breakfast, are you?’ he asked in calibrated courteous tones.
‘Nope,’ Reier said, smacking his lips. ‘I’m coming to terms with withdrawal symptoms. We’ve got a pretty thick file on this Engelsviken.’ He munched on, unruffled.
Gunnarstranda nodded. Wondered about the withdrawal symptoms but let the subject go.
‘Dropped cases,’ Reier slurped. ‘Creditors who have reported the guy for fraud. They reckon that before and during the bankruptcy he was trading with the money owned by companies he headed up.’
Gunnarstranda grunted. ‘What have you got in your gob?’
‘Nicotine.’
The frown on Gunnarstranda’s forehead deepened. Hoping the man would stop. But Davestuen chewed on:
‘Engelsviken emptied the coffers before the bankruptcy, you see? All the cases were dropped for lack of evidence. Everything ended up in a row over dates. Engelsviken could vouch for things having been sold well before legally set deadlines. There’s a pattern here that reeks of hanky-panky, if you want my opinion.’
Gunnarstranda grunted again. He had finally found the cigarette he had been hunting for.
‘But this case is different. Now his firm, which he has called Software Partners, wants to increase the share capital.’
Davestuen went quiet. Gunnarstranda could hear his big hands fumbling with the receiver. The sound of squelching sludge returned.
‘But, you know, this solicitor of theirs, this Brick, has devised a new trick to raise capital. And this is actually a trifle complicated.’
‘How can you eat nicotine?’
‘In chewing gum. Flat bugger. Pretty hard and it does not taste good.’ Davestuen chuckled. ‘Modern chewing tobacco. You remember the old fellas cycling up Markveien with half a bottle of vodka in their back pockets and two slimy rivulets of tobacco dribbling down their chins?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, disorientated, scanning the desk for his lighter.
Davestuen cleared his throat. ‘Now they make chewing gum instead, supposed to satisfy the craving for nicotine. We’re thinking about the environment here, you know.’
‘Right…’
‘Protecting the environment!’
‘Yes, yes, but we were talking about the tricks Engelsviken and Co. are getting up to!’
‘OK. Instead of borrowing money, Software Partners go out and ask small businesses to become co-owners, thus increasing their share capital, which in itself ought to be fine. However, it happens in a rather odd way.’
‘Oh?’
Gunnarstranda registered the mounting silence.
‘Great,’ Davestuen burst out. ‘Finished chewing that crap. Anyway, this financing is distinctly fishy.’
He explained: ‘The way Software Partners acquires capital is not strictly legal. The shares are sold in tranches with a minimum cash investment of something like a hundred thousand and no one sanctions the arrangement. Furthermore, the new owners do not have the usual say in the company because the shares they have bought are B-shares, which provide limited rights. All they receive is a dividend and a kind of entitlement to sell the company’s products.’