He sighed. ‘Fantastic. Half past three in the morning and you can’t lock the door.’
‘And then?’
The man studied the day’s catch on the matchstick. Sucked it back. ‘I suppose I should have called your colleagues,’ he summarized. ‘The cops.’
He chewed the matchstick. ‘But I rang for his wife instead. She drove up in a fat Mercedes and stumped up four thousand for the glass. Four smooth one-thousand-krone notes straight from her purse, without a murmur.’
‘I was here yesterday,’ Frank said absentmindedly.
‘Hope you enjoyed it.’
‘Yes, I did,’ nodded the detective, and paused. Pulled himself together. ‘Engelsviken was here.’
The man didn’t answer at once. ‘I definitely wasn’t here,’ he replied, indifferent. Drained his glass.
‘Engelsviken was on the dance floor, alone, hitting himself in the face,’ the detective declared.
The owner stared at the empty tankard he was holding.
‘Have you ever seen him do anything like that?’
‘Never.’
‘Why would he hit himself in the face all those times?’ Frølich wondered aloud.
The owner smirked. ‘He might have been angry with someone.’
‘Then he must have been angry with himself.’
The owner put down his tankard and stood up.
‘Sounds like a good bet,’ he agreed, shook Frank’s hand and accompanied him to the door.
Outside the double glass doors Frølich stood thinking and staring at a rusty red rubbish bin. He was thinking about a long-haired guy giving Engelsviken the finger one Saturday evening shortly before twelve. Arvid Johansen had seen Sigurd and Reidun entering the flat at half past twelve. Reidun with short thick hair, around one seventy tall. It could fit.
He turned. Inside, behind the bar, the owner was drawing another beer. Frank tore himself away and hurried back to the car. It was a Saturday and he wanted to go home and sleep. Wonderful, he thought, a warm duvet, an Asterix comic to send him off and sleep – sleep – sleep until he woke up of his own accord in the afternoon and felt like a beer.
He had hardly articulated the thought when he was called over the radio.
42
He drove halfway on to the pavement at the corner of Markveien. Strolled up the street. A crowd of people had collected in the area around Foss School. But they were not pressing. Straggly bunches of youths mostly. Groups of twos and threes chatting. Shivering in the cold weather and laughing nervously to each other. If you didn’t cast curious glances over towards the square by the bridge.
A few journalists nodded to him. Frank recognized Ivar Bøgerud, a former student friend who was leaning against a tree on the slope down to the river. Bøgerud was puffing at a roll-up and deep in conversation with some skirt from another paper. Ivar had acquired a centre parting since they last met, Frank confirmed, and nodded to him. Strangely enough, the guy didn’t seem particularly interested in latching on to the detective on his way down. Had learned the ropes, he thought. Waiting until there is enough to ladle from the source.
He pushed through. Was exhausted. Almost collided with Bernt Kampenhaug. Same sunglasses, same crackly radio. Loads of teeth under the glasses.
‘Wasn’t exactly a high-quality fish we caught in the river this time, Frølich!’
Frølich smiled back politely and continued towards the bundle lying on the river path. Further away, a dog lay on the ground, dead as well. The man was partly covered by a plastic sheet. An older man, that much was obvious. Overshoes, brown trousers and a battered coat. The wet clothes gleamed in the sharp light. It could be Johansen lying there. But the man’s face was hidden under the plastic.
‘Was it gruesome?’ he asked, with a thumb.
‘Too early to say anything.’
Kampenhaug had a look around. ‘Someone had dragged the body half on to the bank, and when we came there was just a dog here.’
He angled the radio aerial towards the dead dog. It had been shot. A long, pink tongue hung like a tie from the half-open jaws. The shiny coat was disfigured by a red wound in the stomach. A civilian with a bobble hat was kneeling over it.
Frank stared back at the corpse on the river bank. Two black reinforced plastic overshoes pointed heavenwards.
‘Wondered perhaps if he was the witness we were after,’ he mumbled. ‘Arvid Johansen. A pensioner.’
‘So I heard. Well, it’s not easy to recognize that face!’
Kampenhaug bent down and pulled back a corner of the sheet. Frank turned away. Kampenhaug grinned. Replaced the sheet and straightened up. ‘The dog was obstructing the investigation,’ he sniggered. Addressed the civilian and called in a louder voice. ‘Did you hear that?’
Then marched the few metres over to the man and kicked him in the back. ‘Next time you buy a dog make sure you keep it on a lead.’
The man turned his head. A tear-streaked face looked up at them. Glasses, dull eyes and terrible teeth. Frank had seen the face before. But couldn’t put his finger on where. A junkie. Doped up. Eyes that swam beneath his fringe. The junkie grunted. ‘Bastard pigs.’
Kampenhaug stooped down. The doped-up face was reflected against a green background in his mirror glasses. Kampenhaug smiled and his hand twitched. The man fell in a heap. Blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Frank said nothing, spun round and stared at the path and the slope to the river. Not more than a kilometre away from Arvid Johansen’s home, probably a lot less. Ten-minute walk. Again he looked at the barely moving water. Tried to imagine someone falling in here. Faced the crowd to locate the woman for whom Kampenhaug was playing tough.
Macho Man’s overalls rustled as he stood up. He stretched his legs to allow the material to slip back into place, joined Frank and stood scratching his groin.
‘Take a size bigger,’ Frank said. ‘You’re too old to impress women.’
‘Quartermaster hasn’t got any bigger ones.’
The radio crackled and Macho Man bent down in a macho way. Frank spotted her. Red hair, tired face, green eye make-up. Bare feet in high-heeled shoes. Pointed tits beneath a tight-fitting acrylic roll-neck sweater.
Bernt came back. ‘A milcher,’ he whispered. ‘Finest Norwegian Ayrshire.’
His teeth flashed white under the green sunglasses. Lots of small red marks bedecked his chin and neck.
‘You’ll have to change the blades in your razor,’ Frank replied, but on seeing this sudden change of topic was too much for him, added: ‘Ask for her name and address. You can say you’ll be back for a statement.’
‘Too right,’ Kampenhaug whispered. Adjusted his bollocks in his ardour.
Idiot, thought Frank. Left him, stepped over the barrier and slowly ambled up the footpath. Impossible to say whether the dead man had fallen in. The path stretched upwards like an idyll. Nevertheless, he must have fallen in close to here.
Despite the injuries to the old man’s face, Frank was convinced it was Johansen. The overshoes, the coat, though they weren’t what did it. He just knew. Johansen was dead. Provided that the dead man’s fingerprints were readable, Professor Schwenke would be able to compare them with those on file. If not, they would use other medical data and ultimately establish the man’s identity. But in reality it was no more than a formality. Gunnarstranda would receive a report saying that Arvid Johansen had drowned. There would be a bit about injuries to the head that could have been caused by a fall or a third party with intent.
He stared back at the bridge. Kampenhaug had clambered over the barrier and was talking to the milkmaid who was running her hand through her red hair and shifting weight from one high heel to the other.
‘Hello, Frølich.’
Ivar Bøgerud. The emissary of the tabloid press. Noted that the guy called him by his surname. That was new.
Frank shrugged. ‘You’ll have to take a risk and talk to the boss himself,’ he said, nodding towards Kampenhaug. ‘I don’t know anything.’