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

'Hewas released, wasn't he!' Engelschøn shook his head. 'What happened to him? Itmay be possible to find out, but…'

'Try,'Gunnarstranda urged, taking the photograph of the German soirée. He scrutinizedFromm again without quite knowing why. 'It wouldn't be possible to borrow thisphoto, would it?'

Chapter 37

Hockey

'That'snice,' said Eva-Britt from another world as the stereo played the gentleopening tones of Nils Moldvær's Khmer. Frølich got to his feet and turnedup the volume. Even though the woodburning stove in the corner was as hot as itcould be, there was a cold draught coming from the large living-room window.The radiator under the window sill was unable to deal with the cold air. Hestood for a few moments meditating in front of the window as he looked out onthe illuminated ring road – yellow and snake-like – as it twisted its waythrough the winter landscape. Cars lost colour under the floodlighting. Ashower of sparks moved down the mountainside. It was the electrical currentcollector of a late-night metro carriage scraping against ice. The moon, whichearlier in the evening had hung like a large, yellow rice-paper lantern overthe mountain ridges of Østmark, now looked like a bucket of white paint spiltover a watery surface.

Heturned and watched Eva-Britt.

Hewas nettled that she had come. She would always sit and wait when she visitedhim. If she wanted something, she would wait until he got it for her. Would youbelieve it, he said to himself. We have been sleeping together for years andshe still sees herself as a stranger in my flat.

Shewas studying the Ikea catalogue from an angle, with a sneer playing around herlips as she quickly flicked from page to page. She looked like someone sittingon a tram reading a tabloid. He caught himself wishing it wasn't her sittingthere.

Whenthe telephone rang they exchanged glances.

'Willyou answer it?' she asked from the chair.

'Giveme a good reason not to,' he retorted wearily.

Eva-Brittsat up and looked towards the bedroom door, and then at her watch. Sheconspicuously lowered her arm with the wristwatch. The telephone stoppedringing soon afterwards.

'I won,'she said, skimming though the catalogue. He watched her cross her legs andsnuggle back into the large armchair, knowing very well that she was beingobserved. A second later her mobile phone began to ring. They exchanged looksagain.

'Willyou answer it?' he asked.

Shestared from his telephone to her bag, the source of the ringing. Displeased,she frowned. 'If it's for you, I have no idea where you are,' she said withconviction, nimbly got to her feet and dug out her mobile from the bag by thedoor. He followed her with his eyes.

'Yes,'she said with arched back and mobile to her ear. 'No, he's…'

Sheturned to him and mouthed: 'Your boss…'

Hesat smiling at her.

'Ihave no idea…' she said, listening.

Frølichhad to grin when he heard Gunnarstranda's shouted orders crackle out into theroom. Eva-Britt's eyes were beginning to glaze over and she pulled a face as ifsomeone were forcing cod liver oil down her throat. She took three ominous,stiff-legged, aggressive steps forward and threw the mobile to him without aword.

Frølichcaught it in mid-air. 'Hi,' he said.

'Thisis a wild goose chase,' Gunnarstranda said, skipping the preamble. 'You talkedto Arvid Jespersen about his brother's career, didn't you? About why he startedout as an antique dealer? Right?'

'Yes,I did,' Frølich said. 'But…'

'AndArvid said something about newspaper production, right?'

'No,not production. Reidar took the waste paper off the print rolls from a numberof newspapers and…'

'Yes,yes,' Gunnarstranda interrupted. 'And these rolls were pieced together. Where?'

'Don'tknow.'

'Andthey were sold on. Who to?'

'Don'tknow either.'

'Butthe nitwit must have said!' Gunnarstranda's voice was cracking with annoyance.

'Takeit easy,' Frølich said heavily. 'The paper was sold to printers in African andSouth American states. But why are you so fired up about this?'

'Ihave another connection with South America, Frølich.'

Therewas the dry click of a lighter at the other end of the line as Gunnarstrandatook out a cigarette and lit up. 'Back to Arvid and this newspaper story. Didhe mention a person by the name of Fromm?'

'No,I'm positive about that.'

'Mm,have you got any plans for tomorrow?'

Frølichlooked across at Eva-Britt who had demonstratively planted herself in front ofhis large living-room window, with her back to him. The clock showed it waspast midnight. 'I'll do whatever you ask. You know that.'

'Great.I want you to go to Reidar Folke Jespersen's office in Bertrand Narvesens vei.If no one's there, I want you to go through the records in the office in ThomasHeftyes gate with a fine-tooth comb.'

'Whatare we looking for?'

'One ormore letters, or copies of letters, from a gentleman by the name of KlausFromm. Klaus with a "k" and Fromm with two "m"s.'

'Howfar back?'

'Asfar as there are records.'

'Anythingelse?'

'No.'

'Anythingelse you want to say?'

'Checkthe years when they were selling paper, in other words the '40s and the '50s.'

Frølichsighed. 'Anything else?'

'Doyou think Reidar Folke Jespersen might have been a Nazi?'

Frølichbroke off a protracted yawn. 'Are you crazy?'

'No,'said Gunnarstranda. 'But why is it crazy?'

'Jespersenwas running an illegal printing press in Oslo until 1943 when an informer gavehim away and he had to escape to Sweden. From there he went to a training campin Scotland where he was shown how to carry out sabotage. He was sent onseveral jobs to Norway – sabotage and…' 'Liquidations,' Gunnarstranda addedlaconically. 'Right, my mind is at rest. Sleep well.'

Frølichput Eva-Britt's mobile on the table. He breathed in, got up and stood in thecosy heat radiating from the stove, observing her averted back while nodding tothe beat of the music: a long guitar solo, throbbing drums and the pure flow ofa synth meandering through the room. From the kitchen came the nauseous burntsmell of coffee that had been on the warming plate for two hours too long.

Shestarted to turn round. Frank wondered what expression she would have on herface. Whether this was going to be an evening of rows and grumpy faces.

'Yougave that idiot my telephone number,' she proclaimed.

Frølichdid not answer.

Thesubdued combination of heavy rock and modern jazz was still oozing from theloudspeakers when his telephone rang.

Heand Eva-Britt exchanged looks.

'Hewon't give up,' she muttered darkly.

Frølichknew. It had been in the air for a long time. This evening they were going tohave a row.

Hestrode over to pick up the telephone.

'RichardEkholt,' the voice said.

Frølichhad seen a picture of Ekholt, a photograph showing an ice hockey player in theFuruset team many seasons ago, a club strip and a face with black stubble andshort, black hair – with a fringe. The voice matched the image.

'It'slate,' Frank Frølich said calmly.

'Ihear you've been asking after me.'

'Cometo the station tomorrow and we can talk.'

'Don'tring off,' the voice demanded.

'I'mgoing to,' Frølich insisted. 'Phone us tomorrow.'

'One-nine-five.'

Therewas a rippling sound in the receiver. The ripple of laughter, Frølich realized.The man was laughing at him.

'Likea password, eh? That's so good…' The stranger was wheezing and groaning withlaughter: 'One-nine- five.' The laughter continued. It sounded like thecreaking of a rocking chair. A low snort on the line told him that Ekholt wasgasping for breath. He continued: 'That's so good… a hundred and ninety-five.'

Frølichmet Eva-Britt's eyes. She was looking daggers at him.

Thevoice on the line whispered: 'I know something. You've been asking after me, haven'tyou? I'm ready now – to talk.'