'Ofcourse we made plans.'
'Yes?But you didn't carry them out?'
'No.'
'Soyou didn't try to contact Reidar?'
'No.'
Frølichpicked up his notepad. 'This is a little awkward,' he said warily. 'But it'spart of the job I have been assigned. I have to ask you where you were onFriday night.'
'Iwas here.'
'Inthis flat? On your own?'
'Mydog – Silvie – was here.'
'Isthere anyone who can confirm that?'
'Doyou think I would be capable of murdering my own brother?'
Frølichpulled a guilt-stricken grimace. 'I apologize, but this is a question I need tohave answered.'
'Idon't think anyone can confirm it, no.'
'Didanyone ring you?'
Jespersenshook his head.
'Didyou take the dog for a walk? Did anyone see you?' 'Silvie does her dailybusiness in the box on the veranda…
'Howlong were you at the vet's?'
'Itwas already dark. I must have got back at about five or half past, I suppose.'
'Fine,'Frølich mumbled, looking up. 'There is one last thing I was wondering. Does thenumber one hundred and ninety-five mean anything to you?
'Onehundred and ninety-five…?' Arvid turned his head gravely from side to side.'No. Don't think so.'
'Doyou think the number had any significance for your brother?'
'Haven'ta clue,' Jespersen said, tossing his hands in the air. 'Why do you ask?'
Frølichdidn't answer.
ArvidFolke Jespersen was lost in thought. 'One hundred and ninety-five,' he mumbled.'No, I really have no idea. Sorry.'
Chapter 13
Thatsame afternoon Inspector Gunnarstranda drove straight to Folke Jespersen'swarehouse in Bertrand Narvesens vei. The key he had requisitioned from KarstenJespersen worked like a charm. He stepped over the high doorsill and wentinside. The spring-loaded door closed with a bang, creating an echo in theroom. He looked around. There were tables and chairs piled up, rocking chairs,trunks, cases, cupboards, clock machinery in wonderful, exquisitely madecasings. He stood scanning the walls until his gaze fell on a window high up.There was a light on. He walked down the corridor leading through the clutter.A staircase led up to a landing in front of a door. He turned on the landingand cast an eye over the antiques. Between two cupboards with rusty hinges henoticed a cast-iron coke-burning stove beside a stained wood carving of a negroboy. Inspector Gunnarstranda wondered if these items might be worth anything. Afortune maybe, but for all he knew – nothing.
Heopened the door and went into an ante-room which appeared to function as akitchen and dining room. Through another door and into an office. Gunnarstrandastudied the table. It was big and heavy, English style; the wood was dark,almost red. The table top was polished and bare apart from a smallish plasticdesk pad and an old-fashioned-looking lamp. He advanced further into the roomand caught a reflection of himself in a wide mirror with a wooden frame. Hestopped to have a look and adjusted his scant hair, then turned to let his eyeswander from the desk to the window sill, on which stood a telephone, and afiling cabinet. The top of the cabinet was a complete mess: a bust of BjørnstjerneBjørnson, a Nobel Prize winner, towered over lots of other things. Someone hadput a Stetson hat on Bjørnson's head. It suited him. There was a portable radioon its side, a cassette player from the seventies, a hole-punch, a stapler, aroll of tape, a box of paper clips and a pile of loose papers. Gunnarstrandalooked from the filing cabinet to the desk and back again. Why were the staplerand the hole-punch on the filing cabinet and not on the desk?
Hemoved towards a grandfather clock next to the mirror. A quarter past ten, itsaid. None of its machinery was working. The weights hanging inside the caselooked like pine cones. He walked back to the desk and sat in the swivel chair,an expensive number made of wood and upholstered in leather. It wascomfortable. The Inspector swung from side to side as he alternated betweenstudying the filing cabinet and the desk. He pulled out the top drawer. It wasfull to overflowing with pens, pencils, rubbers, correction tape, bottles ofTipp-Ex, rulers and lots of loose, ancient-looking rubber stamps. He picked outone at random, turned it upside- down and peered from under his glasses to readthe mirror-image letters:
REIDAR FOLKE JESPERSEN
OSLO
Anotherstamp had a big letter 'B' for second-class post. On a third he read:
CONFIDENTIAL
Heslammed the drawer shut and opened the next. This one was full of screwdrivers,spanners and various kinds of pliers. In the corner of the drawer there was anold tea caddy without a lid. He read the labeclass="underline" Ridgeway's. In the caddy werescrews, used nails, nuts and hooks.
Gunnarstrandaopened the next drawer. It contained a folded white tablecloth and a bottle,half full. He took out the bottle and read the labeclass="underline" Bristol Cream. Afterpulling off the cork, he had a sniff. A potent aroma. He sat looking into theair and musing. Sherry, he thought, and tried to remember if he had ever boughtsherry. Perhaps once or twice. Sherry was not a drink he liked. He put thebottle back.
Itwas warm inside the office. Extra hot in his thick winter coat. He stood up,went to the window and felt the electric radiator. It was on full, burning-hot.Outside it was dark. Between two buildings he caught sight of a road behind awire fence. Two figures in winter coats ambled towards a car and got in. Thecar lights were switched on and it drove out of view. Soon the car reappearedbetween the two buildings. The rear lights cast a red glow across the banks ofsnow. He moved away, went to the door and opened it. The ante-room to theoffice contained a kitchen sink area and a pale wooden dining table. In thesink there were two stem glasses. The dregs had dried at the bottom. He stoopeddown and smelt. There was a residual scent of fortified wine. It had to be thesame smell as in the bottle. He craned his head towards the office. Slowly hewalked back to the office where he sat down again in the splendid swivel chair.He opened the bottom drawer.
Thetable has been cleared, he thought, and looked at all the desk items piledup on the window sill and on the top of the filing cabinet.
Someonespreads out a cloth and puts two glasses on the table, he thought.Someone drinks sherry. Reidar Folke Jespersen and another person drink sherry.Another person. A woman. It had to be a woman. The cloth. The sherry. Hetook his mobile phone from his coat pocket and tapped in a number. The chaircreaked in time with the dial tone in his ear. He told the woman who answeredthe reason for his call and gave her the address. After putting the phone back,he took out a ballpoint pen from an inside pocket. With the pen he closed thedrawer containing the bottle and the cloth. Then, also with the pen, he pushedthe desk pad to one side. Underneath was a faded business envelope and underthe envelope a photograph. The policeman stared; it was a faded black and whitephotograph – a picture of a woman with thick, dark hair cascading over hershoulders. She had a knowing smile on her face; it was as though she had caughthim in the act and was mildly reproving him. She was young, no more thantwenty-five years old, maybe younger, with a conspicuous mole on her rightcheek, midway between jawbone and lower lip.
Thepoliceman scrutinized the photograph for a long time. He angled his head andtried to imagine the same face after the ravages of the passing years, withless strength in the cheek muscles, furrows on either side of her mouth and ashadowy hollow in that indefinable area from the nostrils and corners of themouth where the cheeks fan out flatly. He tried to imagine her with deeper-seteyes, perhaps with age-related bags under the eyes, wrinkles around her mouth. Buthe was quite sure. This was a woman he had never seen. He pushed the pen underthe photograph and flipped it over. There was something written on the back:four words in a line, looped writing, in pencil, written many years ago: BecauseI love you.