Theman with the moustache ignored him. 'Would you like some coffee?' he asked thepoliceman. 'Don't listen to Moses,' he said, inclining his head towards the manwith the whinny. 'He's crazy.'
'Barkingmad,' said the man with the glasses and the mouse-teeth.
'Half-baked,'replied Moses.
Theman at the desk eyed Moses. 'What are you going on about?' he asked. 'No onecan understand a word!' The moustache gestured towards Gunnarstranda.
Thelatter perceived this as a suitable moment to reveal his identity. 'PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda,' he said. 'Murder Squad.'
'Oh,shit,' answered the man at the desk, smiling into his moustache.
'Steamthem in butter,' said Moses, causing the man with the mouse-teeth to sniggerand slap his thigh. 'Steam them in butter,' the man with the mouse-teethrepeated. 'With macaroni.' 'No – pickle them,' Moses said. 'Put them in barrels- in cod-liver oil and salt in the 69 position.'
'Mosesis trying to think up horrible ways to eat cod,' the man with the moustacheexplained. 'Pull yourself together now, you halfwit,' he said to Moses.
'Thinkof something else for dinner,' the man with the mouse-teeth said.
'Anyonehere know Jonny Stokmo?'
'That'smy father,' the man with the moustache said, taking off his cap and revealing ashiny pate surrounded by a wreath of grey hair gathered into a long ponytail.
'Ineed an urgent chat with your father,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Understand,'said Junior. 'Just a shame that he doesn't. What do you reckon, Moses?'
'Atthe farm,' Moses said.
'Christ,you are crazy,' the man with the moustache replied, swivelling his chairtowards Gunnarstranda. 'To hear the truth, listen to drunks and nutters.'
'Where'sthe farm?' Gunnarstranda asked in a soft voice.
Juniorswivelled round on the chair and took a newspaper from the table. 'You lookyounger in the photo,' he said, showing him the paper.
Gunnarstrandacontemplated the picture of himself.
'You'vegot hair here,' Junior said.
Gunnarstrandahad always been irritated by the photograph the newspaper used. He had justreturned from a holiday in southern Europe. In the picture he was frowning likean idiot. His face was as red as a lobster, he had bags under his eyes andbecause he was so short he was looking up at the camera. 'Where's the farm?' herepeated with authority.
'Doyou know Bendik Fleming?' the moustachioed man asked.
Gunnarstrandanodded slowly.
'Hesends his regards,' the moustachioed man said.
Gunnarstrandanodded again: 'That's a long time ago. I think…' Gunnarstranda ruminated. 'Itmust have been in '92,' he said at length. 'I think he went down for a coupleof years…'
'No problemwith your memory,' the man with the mouse-teeth said, taking a slice of breadfrom his lunch box with black, oil-stained hands. He bit off a large chunk andbegan to chew, with thoughtful eyes.
'Howis Bendik?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Drinksa lot.'
'That'snot so good,' Gunnarstranda said with sympathy.
'Buthe doesn't turn nasty any more when he's drunk. He laughs.'
'Betterthan killing people,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Send him my regards,' he added andcleared his throat.
All threeof them stared at him.
'Hasn'tyour father got a telephone?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Yeshe has, but he's switched it off – a mobile.'
'Why'she switched it off?'
'Iimagine he suspects you will ring,' the man with the moustache grinned.
'Where'sthe farm?' Gunnarstranda repeated gently.
Theman called Moses slipped off the table he was sitting on, crossed the floor andpointed to a framed aerial photograph hanging on the opposite walclass="underline" a farm fromthe air. 'There,' he said, grinning at his boss behind the desk.
Gunnarstrandachecked his watch. He would be eating out in a short time. So he asked StokmoJunior if he would mind drawing him a map.
Twohours later he opened the door to Hansken, a restaurant where Tove Granaas waswaiting for him, engrossed in a book.
Gunnarstranda'sfirst, and somewhat less private, encounter with Tove had taken place at ameeting of the local garden association. The theme advertised on the posters hadbeen lilies. Since he had known the speaker, and had neither wanted to meet himnor believed the man could teach him anything new, he would probably havestayed at home that evening too, had the chairman not rung him a few hoursbefore and reminded him about the meeting. Old Bohren, the speaker, was anarrogant, retired bureaucrat who loved to provoke the policeman into trivialrows over botanical phenomena.
Hehad told the chairman of the garden association there was no point in trying toget him to join; he already subscribed to the magazine, and the chairman knewthis very well. Becoming a member was quite out of the question, a point whichhe had made perfectly clear a month before when giving an association slideshow about indicator plants in lime soil.
NeverthelessGunnarstranda trotted along to the gymnasium where folding tables with therequisite plastic chairs stood in rows alongside the wall bars. He arrivedthrough the emergency exit doors, nodded to the left and right and found a freeseat in the far corner. Most of the audience arrived in pairs at such meetings.In fact, it didn't bother him to sit on his own, he thought, so long as he gotaway from Bohren – the pompous pensioner from the Department of Justice wholoved the sound of his own voice. He was anxiously keeping an eye on theentrance when an arm bearing a coffee flask entered his field of vision. 'Isthis seat free?' she asked. But before Gunnarstranda could find his voice, shehad sat down.
'Niceto see you again,' she said. He knew he had seen her before and searched thearchives of his memory.
'Youquestioned me concerning a murder,' she explained, on noticing his reaction.'At work,' she added.
'Tove,'he stammered, once again falling for her smile. 'Tove Granaas.'
'Imagineyou not recognizing me when we last met.'
Gunnarstrandawas embarrassed to think of her in the audience at his talk. 'Did you come tothe last meeting?'
Herhand woke him from his reverie again. 'I've been stalking you,' she said. 'As amurder squad detective, you're almost a celebrity.'
A manat the neighbouring table raised his cup and signalled that it was empty. Shegrabbed the flask in front of her and passed it to him in one movement. A lightwaft of perfume brushed his cheek as she whirled back. In her plain knittedsweater and jeans there was something summery about her. Her hands were smallwith strong fingers and short nails. Hands that have seen work, he thought.When he looked up again, her attentive eyes were still there. She supported herhead on her hands and talked about the problems of growing narcissi. 'I putthem in a proper bed, set the bulbs in autumn, but something always goes wrongand they never come up.'
'Poordrainage. Dig a deep hole and fill it with leca pellets or sand.'
'Howdeep?'
'Deepenough for the bulbs to be three bulb lengths under the ground.'
'Youmake it sound so easy.'
'Putlots in every hole, lots of bulbs, fifteen, twenty, then there'll be abeautiful clump of them.' In his enthusiasm he bent over the table and beforehe could compose himself, he heard his own voice say: 'I can help you.'
Oncethe words were said, he could have bitten off his tongue.
'Well,it's too late now anyway,' she answered. 'As it's winter.' Gunnarstranda gulpedwith gratitude. 'You can get them started indoors and put them out when theground is frost-free,' he consoled her.
Alittle later they saw Bohren come in, without a tie, but with a ridiculousneckerchief around his neck. With his long body supported on a stick, he stoodsurveying the room with displeasure. The policeman knew he was being watched.But as soon as he felt Bohren's eyes on him, he looked away.
'There'sBohren,' Tove said in a loud voice.
Hestared right at them, but made no move.
Gunnarstrandanodded slowly.
Themeasured gaze the pensioner returned was microscopic. The retired departmenthead twisted gently and hobbled off into the room, away from them.
'Ihope I haven't taken his seat?' Tove whispered, in a conspiratorial voice.
'ForGod's sake, stay where you are,' Gunnarstranda whispered back in the samehushed tones. And for the third time in an unusually short time she gave hisarm a light squeeze.
Sincethen neither of them had been to any meetings at the local garden association.However, they had been to the restaurant three times.
AsGunnarstranda sat down and met her smile, he was looking forward to theconversation as much as the meal.