Lethal Investments by Kjell Ola Dahl

be morning mist and could be more stubborn fog. Too early to tell as yet. It could be a nice, mild day or downcast and rainy.
    Two lines of cars were parked bumper to bumper across the street. It was so early there were few gaps. Most people were sitting at the breakfast table with newspapers spread out and drinking coffee.
    The thought of coffee depressed him. No breakfast, no coffee, no shops open anywhere and probably hours of futile waiting on the horizon.
    Gunnarstranda had woken him with a telephone call three-quarters of an hour ago. Ordered him up to Lambertseter pronto! Not by car. That was why he was walking along Mellombølgen to locate his boss’s position. He was tired. Never got enough sleep. Which, in fact, often affected him until about mid-morning.
    Further down the street he could see small smoke clouds escaping from the window of a dark civilian car parked untidily and protruding half a metre into the carriageway. The windows were steamed up and tiny wisps of bluish-white smoke rose skywards. Gunnarstranda had left a crack open. Frank opened the passenger door and stepped in.
    ‘I haven’t had any breakfast yet,’ he grumbled in an accusatory tone. No greeting.
    ‘Here you are,’ said Gunnarstranda, passing him an old-fashioned, shiny Thermos flask. Frank twisted the cap, which sprang open with a pop. And the wonderful aroma of strong, black coffee filled the car. He took a yellow plastic cup with a grubby rim from the dashboard and poured.
    ‘You haven’t eaten. I haven’t slept.’
    Gunnarstranda stubbed out the cigarette in the overfilled ashtray.
    ‘I’ll give them twenty minutes, then I’m going in.’
    He looked at his watch. Then focused on the middle entrance in a low block ahead of them. A flagstone path stretched twenty metres from the pavement to the entrance. Three entrances to the block in all. The greeny-brown spikes of some large berberis bushes partially concealed the doors. Along the three sections ran parallel lines of verandas. All with raised awnings in a loud yellow colour.
    ‘Who are we waiting for?’ Frank asked.
    ‘The man. Sigurd Klavestad primarily, and a woman.’
    Gunnarstranda’s eyes did not deviate from the front door. ‘Jack rang me at half past ten last night, at my cabin! He refused to take responsibility since the man had a woman with him, so I had to come back here. It took me three hours to get to Grønland to change the car. There’s something up with the Skoda; it keeps misfiring and dying on me.’
    He paused, flicked some ash from the cigarette and continued:
    ‘So I’ve been sitting here alone all night ensuring that the woman up there is still alive. You don’t know a cheap car mechanic, do you, by any chance?’
    Frank spared his boss one of the many jokes about Skodas. ‘I know of a guy in Kampen,’ he said blowing on the coffee and slurping a sip straight afterwards. ‘Lives in a collective with a girl I know. Works freelance.’
    ‘No questions asked, know what I mean?’
    Frank dismissed his boss’s sarcastic tone with a shrug. ‘You asked if I knew someone cheap.’
    The man at the wheel stroked his chin with a rasp; patchy bristles scraped against his palm. ‘Klavestad left the Software Partners building at half past three. With this woman, Kristin Sommerstedt.’
    Frank carefully rotated his head. A bit more awake. Remembered her. The long hair and the office outfit, the receptionist.
    Gunnarstranda tossed his head. ‘That’s her flat.’
    ‘Kristin Sommerstedt was supposed to have been friends with Reidun Rosendal.’
    ‘Is that so? Well, they caught the local train to the National Theatre. Went to the restaurant and sat drinking wine for a couple of hours, knocked back quite a bit. Spent most of the time crying and intertwining fingers. Afterwards walked round Aker Brygge, nipped up into town and down to the underground, came here half past seven last night, switched off the light at eleven and that was when Jack phoned