The Man In The Window [Mannen i vinduet - no]

Theroom smelt of a mixture of sweat, resin, tobacco smoke and rancid frying fat.The walls were bare, the floor covered with lino. Jonny Stokmo bent down andchecked the cylindrical wood-burning stove to see if it was time to add morefuel, then closed the door again. Frølich decided not to take off his shoeswhen he saw Stokmo was wearing winter boots. 'They're miserable bastards,'Stokmo said in answer to Frølich's question about whether he knew the FolkeJespersen family.

Hehad sat himself down on a rocking chair in front of the TV set. Frølich headedtowards a sofa on the opposite side of the coffee table covered in newspapersand full ashtrays. Stokmo mumbled:

'They'dhave the shirt off your back. I may once have had a high opinion of Reidar, butthat's got to be a bloody long time ago. He was just like them.'

'Likewhom?' Frølich interrupted and took out his worn, old notepad.

'Likethose two slobs, his brothers. That's them, and his boy, Karsten. He'sone of them. My father knew Reidar well. I never did, and now they'vekilled the poor sod. Have you wondered what they're fighting about? A cornershop. Hell, it's nothing more than a kiosk crammed with old lumber. Have youthought about that? That shop is nothing, a pile of crap, apart from a fewthings Reidar nicked from other people, or rubbish others rejected. Do youunderstand? They're miserable bastards!' Stokmo pulled a grimace beneath histruck- driver moustache. 'Perhaps I shouldn't say this, you being a policeman,but I'm going to be honest and tell you who Reidar was: a bloody rag-and-boneman who got himself a good-looking tart and a flat in West Oslo. But that's notwhat you'll hear. No, Reidar Folke Jespersen was a businessman, big guy withwhite hair and beard, once on first-name terms with our famous resistancefighter, Max Manus, and went around wearing a black beret on Independence Day!You should have seen the old codger, carrying a briefcase down the stairs tothe kiosk that was his pride and joy. Just imagine it. Reidar was an old manwho thought he could live for ever by doing two workouts a week on a cycletrainer. I saw it with my own eyes, for Christ's sake, and I was the onlyperson who did a stroke of work – who do you think drove to the houses of thebloody deceased or to demo jobs to carry away old desks, corner cabinets or oldwood burners, and clean them up for auction or some flea market?'

'Buthe did keep the family going. His son must have received some sort of income…'

'Karsten'spushing fifty. What do you think he does in the shop with two customers a day?He's sitting in the backroom in the shop writing pornographic novels andso-called true stories for magazines. It's not the shop that keeps Karstengoing, it's the missus that keeps Karsten going. She's head of accounts for abig firm in Oppegard.'

'DidKarsten work for free?'

Stokmoshook his head. 'You have to understand that nothing was normal about Reidar. Hewas eighty years old, but refused to hand over the shop to his son. Think aboutthat!'

'Butwhy?' Frølich asked.

'Someposh tart from Frogner,' Stokmo said bitterly, 'might turn up and pay athousand for a rotten bit of wood, and Reidar was the one who pocketed thekroner, no VAT, black. I'm telling you Reidar was a miserable bastard!'

'Youmean he was greedy?'

'Theword greedy doesn't quite cover it,' Stokmo snarled. 'Look around here,' hesaid, encompassing the room with a swing of his strong workman's hand. 'This isnothing much, a smallholding, but anything that has any value in this houseReidar haggled off my father and sold as an antique. Once I picked up an oldworkbench from a carpenter's workshop up in Gran, then I found a matching stooland I thought of putting it in the cart shed, but before I could get it here,Reidar had sold it as an antique dining table, sold it for ten thousand kroner- of which I got nothing, not one ore. I have seen Reidar sell an old motorbikehelmet and claim it was a rice bowl from the Congo. That's the Reidar I knew.Loved money and himself.'

Frølichsent Stokmo a calm look of appraisal. Neither spoke for a few seconds.

'Theword greedy,' Stokmo repeated, 'does not cover it.'

'Butyou,' the policeman said slowly, looking up from his notepad. 'You earned anincome from the shop.'

'Yes.'

'Drivinggoods around, second-hand goods?'

'Second-handgoods and antiques. As I said, clearing houses after the death of the owner orones up for demolition, that sort of thing. Reidar had a chat on the phone andif he needed me, I jumped in the truck and was there.'

'Soit wasn't fixed work?'

'No.'

'Butthen it finished?'

'Shownthe door three weeks ago.'

'Whywas that?'

Stokmohesitated for a few moments. Then came the answer: 'That is a privatematter.'

'Itcan't be private when one of the parties is dead.'

'Itwas about money – everything is about money – especially where the FolkeJespersen family is concerned.'

'You'llhave to be a bit more precise than that.'

'Henever paid me what he owed. And I'd had enough.'

'Andyou left?'

'Left?I didn't go when the sack of shit phoned me.'

'Somesay it was the other way around. That Reidar gave you the boot?'

Stokmosneered. 'Can you see what I mean? They're miserable bastards, the whole lot ofthem.'

'SoReidar didn't give you the boot?'

Stokmo'seyebrows shot in the air and he clenched both fists. 'Are you hard of hearing?'

Frølichregarded him coolly until the aggressive expression softened. 'Were youemployed by them or did they buy your services?'

Stokmorelaxed again and demonstrated this by crossing his legs. 'Reidar FolkeJespersen would have spotted a 5o-øre coin on the opposite side of the street,'he said. 'Do you think a man like that would pay the employer's contribution tosocial security? The answer is no. I was never employed. I sent him invoices.'

'You saidthey were fighting about the shop,' Frølich continued, flicking a page over inhis notepad.

'As Isaid, they were quarrelling about this tiny shop. Everyone wanted a slice ofthe cake and everyone wanted to earn something from junk. But they didn't paymy invoices.'

'Howwould Reidar's brothers earn anything from the shop?'

'Theyown the whole caboodle, don't they? The three of them. Now there are two. Andit was a limited company, so Ingrid is out of the picture. Smart move, you see.By croaking Reidar they got rid of the missus at the same time. So now thereare Karsten, Arvid and Emmanuel left. Now just wait and see if a will turns up,and if it does, you've got your murderer.' Stokmo gave a sly grin and stood up.Then he plodded over to the chest of wood next to the kitchen door, took outtwo birch logs, sauntered over to the stove and went down on his knees. Frølichwatched him place his hands around the logs, make a hole in the glow with thelog before forcing the wood into the stove, closing the door and adjusting thedraught.

Inhis mind Frølich tried to follow Stokmo's reasoning, but gave up. He said: 'Butif the shop isn't worth anything, as you say, then this theory doesn't holdwater.'

Stokmostood up. His eyes flashed. 'What theory?'

'Thetheory that one of the heirs might kill Reidar to inherit the shop.'

Stokmosat back in the rocking chair, took out a packet of tobacco from his breastpocket and rolled himself, a cigarette. 'That's the tragedy of it, isn't it? Thesepeople are fighting over nothing. It's like watching the heirs to one of thefarms round here. Brothers and sisters stop talking, they get into brawls andfeud over tiny strips of land which produce bugger-all. In a couple of years,when we're part of the EU, all these smallholdings will be closed down andabandoned, but still they knock ten bells out of each other. Do you rememberthat case up in Skedsmo, a few years ago, where a whole family was killed,mother, father and daughter? It's like that. Reidar was running a second-handshop, for Christ's sake, a hole in the wall, less than fifty square metres andthey didn't have enough money to settle old debts. That's what they werefighting over, what they killed for.'