'Isthe box still there?'
'No,there's no cardboard box on the inventory.'
'So auniform and a cardboard box are missing?' Gunnarstranda tried to imagine the twomen sitting alone with coffee and cognac, crabby children all over the placeand things unspoken in the air: 'He received a number of calls that evening.Perhaps the man who sent the uniform rang?'
'That'scertainly a possibility,' Karsten Jespersen admitted. 'But it's hard to know.'
'OK,'Gunnarstranda said. 'Thank you for ringing. You've been a great help.'
Afterputting down the receiver, he stood still for a few seconds and nervouslystroked his lips with his fingers. He came to with a start and went to thekitchen to fill the jug with water. Taking great care, he poured the tepidwater into the goldfish bowl. Then he opened the packet of fish food andsprinkled a little food onto the surface of the water. 'Dried fly larvae andsmoked spiders' legs,' he muttered to the fish nibbling at the food. 'Food fitfor a king.'
Gunnarstrandahelped himself to another whisky, sat down and turned over a piece of paperfrom the pile in front of him on the table. On the topmost sheet lay a copy ofthe photograph which had been hidden under Reidar Folke Jespersen's desk pad.This time the woman seemed to be laughing – at him.
Chapter 31
Nextday Frank Frølich got up straight from his breakfast table to search for thedriver of taxi number A195 while Gunnarstranda spent a long day at the office goingthrough statements, copying reports and making a number of by and largefruitless telephone calls. By the evening the Inspector had packed his thingsand set off for Stokmo's Metal Service in Torshov. The windows in the workshopwere dark, but the windows of the flat on the first floor shone a welcomingyellow light into the yard. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda stared up at thesky, which was grey with polluted wintry mist, then shivered and grabbed themetal rail on his way up the slippery steps. He had to bang three times beforeKarl-Erik Stokmo, wearing a track suit and battered trainers, – opened the doorand said: 'Come in.'
Theflat smelled of food. A slim woman of around thirty sat in the sitting room infront of the television with a plate of what looked like fish au gratin on herlap. The screen was showing a TV Shop advertisement of a man spraying somethingchemical on filthy garden furniture and wiping it clean with a cloth.
Gunnarstrandanodded to her. She was barefoot and wearing skin-tight, white jogging pants anda black singlet. Her skin was unnaturally brown for the time of the year; sheboasted a blue-black tattoo on each upper arm and when she smiled you could seea canine was missing. She sneaked into the kitchen when the two men sat down.
On TVShop a bodybuilder was demonstrating a training machine. Karl-Erik Stokmo tookthe remote control and turned down the volume. Gunnarstranda got straight tothe point: 'Your father doesn't have an alibi for the night of the murder.' Gunnarstrandaadded: 'That is unfortunate. Your father says he went to bed at eleven onFriday night in the backroom of your workshop.' The policeman tossed his headto the side: 'Down there.'
Stokmoleaned back in the Stressless chair, raised his legs and placed them on thefoot stool.
'Washe here at eleven that night?'
Stokmosighed. 'I would guess so.'
'Guesseswon't do. Can you swear that your father came here and slept through the nightin your backroom?'
'No,'Stokmo said. 'I know he was here, but we neither spoke to each other nor saweach other.'
'Youcan't say then when he arrived or when he left?'
'ButI know he was here,' the man repeated. 'Lillian!' he yelled in the direction ofthe kitchen.
Thewoman opened the kitchen door and stood in the doorway. She had two yellowwashing-up gloves on. They could hear the water running in the sink somewherebehind her.
'Didyou notice when Dad got here on Friday?' Stokmo asked.
The womanstared at Gunnarstranda. 'I heard the motor start up – the following morning,'she said.
'That'sright,' Stokmo said. 'That was his.'
'Whattime would that have been?'
Thewoman rubbed her chin against one shoulder. 'In the morning, before we got up.'
'Beforeor after twelve?'
'Beforetwelve – I would guess. No?' Her look questioned Stokmo and he also had toshrug his shoulders.
'Butdid the two of you see him or the vehicle – with your own eyes?'
Stokmoshook his head.
Gunnarstrandastared after the woman as she hurried into the kitchen to turn off the water.Then she reappeared in the doorway. 'No,' she said. 'But I'm certain it was hispick-up.'
Stokmonodded. 'Silencer's gone. You can hear the old banger anywhere.'
'Youwould have heard the pick-up if it had been used in the night?'
Thetwo of them looked at each other and in the end both shrugged.
'Didyou hear anything like his pick-up that night?'
Bothshook their heads.
'Great,'Gunnarstranda said, looking up at the woman who showed her missing canineagain. She said: 'You're the one who knows Bendik, aren't you?'
Gunnarstrandanodded.
'Good,'she said, shutting herself in the kitchen once again.
Stokmocleared his throat. 'She and Bendik used to live together,' he explained.
'Andnow she lives here, I can see.' Gunnarstranda surveyed the room. On TV Shopthere was a bikini-clad woman with an impeccable figure demonstrating the sametraining machine.
Therewas almost nothing on the walls, just a turtle shell over the kitchen door. Abrown eagle with a white head was painted on it. He looked at the eagle. Itsone eye looked back. 'Do you know why your father was so angry with FolkeJespersen?' he asked Stokmo.
'Iwould guess it's about my grandfather. He helped people over the border duringthe war.'
'MayI?' Gunnarstranda asked, taking out his pouch of tobacco.
Stokmonodded and took a cigarette from a packet of Prince lying on the table. 'I'veheard Jespersen ran an illegal press in Oslo – printed leaflets with news fromLondon and that kind of thing. But someone informed on him and he had to fleethe country.'
'I'veheard that, too,' Gunnarstranda said, lighting his cigarette.
'Well,it was my grandfather who took Folke Jespersen to Sweden.' Stokmo inhaled andcrossed his legs. 'Towards the end of the war my grandfather was caught by aGerman border patrol - die Grepo. The soldiers almost shot him. Hepanicked and ran into the forest. The Nazis shouted and ordered him to stop,but he had panicked because he was carrying a gun. When the Nazis shouted, mygrandfather had drawn his gun, but fell headlong over a large tree root. Henose-dived into a bog – the hand with the gun buried in the mud. With his hand coveredin mud he let go of the gun and stood up – unarmed. He was searched, but theydidn't find anything – he had a guardian angel, didn't he! – and my grandfathersaid he was out picking blueberries. He was allowed to go but instructed toreport to Halden the day after.' Stokmo flicked ash off the cigarette and blewout smoke through puckered lips.
'Didhe show up?'
'Hedid. And he managed to avoid suspicion. And this is the crux, you see. Becausemy grandfather got off lightly, rumours began to circulate. It's a long story:he was well paid by the people he had secreted out of the country and hadreceived a lot of presents. They were things he had hidden away. I don't knowhow much there was, but it was worth a good deal. Many of the Jews who weretaken across the border were rich, you know, goldsmiths and jewellers, and theywere generous. But just after the war there were stories about Jewish refugeesbeing robbed by greedy border guides and so on. There were also rumours aboutmy grandfather because some people were suspicious that he had got off solightly. For that reason he didn't dare do anything with these presents afterthe war. Folke Jespersen took on the job of selling these things – of being themiddleman.'