me.’
They both stared at the broad, brown front door.
‘The man’s probably been dipping his wick while I’ve got one hell of a headache and I’m in a bad mood.’
Gunnarstranda yawned and banged his hands on the wheel.
Frank poured more coffee. Watched his boss check his watch.
‘At a quarter to we’re going in,’ Gunnarstranda repeated, licking his lips. His eyes were red-rimmed.
The door opened. They gave a start, but then relaxed. An unknown man in a brown jacket with cropped hair walked on to the pavement. Unlocked the Opel in front of them.
Gunnarstranda twisted his watch strap as the car drove off.
‘They may have decided to have a lie-in,’ Frank said in consolation. Feeling the coffee had lit a spark of life somewhere behind his eyes.
‘It’s only half an hour since the light came on up there, in one window.’
Yet again the door opened. A middle-aged lady stood for a second under the little porch and took a deep breath. Slowly put on a pair of gloves and walked calmly down the road towards the underground.
The windows misted up. It had been bad before, but now it was worse because of the steam from the coffee in the yellow cup. Frank pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and rubbed away the condensation.
This time. The door opened again and Sigurd Klavestad stood there alone. Gunnarstranda already had his mobile phone at the ready, tapped in a number without taking his eyes off the young man on the flagstone.
Sigurd Klavestad was paler than before. The area around his eyes had gone an unhealthy dark colour. This contrasted with his white complexion and gave his face a concave appearance. His long hair was still collected in a pony tail.
Frank heard the mobile phone struggling to find a connection. At last! It rang. The man with the pony tail moved slowly down the road. Calmly, without any undue haste. No one picked up. Frank opened the car door a crack. The phone was still ringing.
‘Hello?’
A sleepy woman’s gentle voice could now be heard from the inspector’s hand. She was alive.
Gunnarstranda carefully rang off. Sigurd Klavestad was quite some way down the street now.
‘See you!’ Frank said briefly and hauled himself out of the narrow seat and was gone.
16
Gunnarstranda sat staring after them. The mist had lifted enough for Klavestad to be still visible. A slightly built young man in a black reefer jacket with a stiff, somewhat awkward gait. Frølich a way behind. Large, legs astride, rolling gait with both hands in his jacket pockets.
Soon Klavestad was carried along in the stream of passengers hurrying towards the underground. And when the long red worm of a train finally pulled into the station not even Frølich’s big body could be distinguished from the others in the throng.
Gunnarstranda waited. The train would have left by now. He got out of the car, went to the front door and up the stairs.
When he rang her doorbell nothing happened. The anger rose to his temples. The exhaustion after hours without sleep provoked him into a terrible rage which he took out on the bell. The bell ding-donged like a pinball flipper. When he finally let go of the button small steps could clearly be heard from indoors.
‘Open the door,’ he barked with irritation, banging his fist.
‘Who is it?’
The voice didn’t carry well through the woodwork.
‘Police! Open up!’
Again total silence. The policeman, glaring impatiently at the brown wood in front of him, sighed. Raised his hand to pound the door. Refrained. Breathed out with relief as the lock clicked and the door opened a fraction.
‘What is it?’
Her face was pale and her skin twitched. The policeman brandished his ID. ‘Let me in,’ he barked, pushing the door open.
She stepped back, dressed in only her underwear.
‘Go and get some clothes on,’ he ordered and marched ahead into the flat.
His glare took in the room. Noted lots of little objects, ornaments and figurines in cases and on
They both stared at the broad, brown front door.
‘The man’s probably been dipping his wick while I’ve got one hell of a headache and I’m in a bad mood.’
Gunnarstranda yawned and banged his hands on the wheel.
Frank poured more coffee. Watched his boss check his watch.
‘At a quarter to we’re going in,’ Gunnarstranda repeated, licking his lips. His eyes were red-rimmed.
The door opened. They gave a start, but then relaxed. An unknown man in a brown jacket with cropped hair walked on to the pavement. Unlocked the Opel in front of them.
Gunnarstranda twisted his watch strap as the car drove off.
‘They may have decided to have a lie-in,’ Frank said in consolation. Feeling the coffee had lit a spark of life somewhere behind his eyes.
‘It’s only half an hour since the light came on up there, in one window.’
Yet again the door opened. A middle-aged lady stood for a second under the little porch and took a deep breath. Slowly put on a pair of gloves and walked calmly down the road towards the underground.
The windows misted up. It had been bad before, but now it was worse because of the steam from the coffee in the yellow cup. Frank pulled the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and rubbed away the condensation.
This time. The door opened again and Sigurd Klavestad stood there alone. Gunnarstranda already had his mobile phone at the ready, tapped in a number without taking his eyes off the young man on the flagstone.
Sigurd Klavestad was paler than before. The area around his eyes had gone an unhealthy dark colour. This contrasted with his white complexion and gave his face a concave appearance. His long hair was still collected in a pony tail.
Frank heard the mobile phone struggling to find a connection. At last! It rang. The man with the pony tail moved slowly down the road. Calmly, without any undue haste. No one picked up. Frank opened the car door a crack. The phone was still ringing.
‘Hello?’
A sleepy woman’s gentle voice could now be heard from the inspector’s hand. She was alive.
Gunnarstranda carefully rang off. Sigurd Klavestad was quite some way down the street now.
‘See you!’ Frank said briefly and hauled himself out of the narrow seat and was gone.
16
Gunnarstranda sat staring after them. The mist had lifted enough for Klavestad to be still visible. A slightly built young man in a black reefer jacket with a stiff, somewhat awkward gait. Frølich a way behind. Large, legs astride, rolling gait with both hands in his jacket pockets.
Soon Klavestad was carried along in the stream of passengers hurrying towards the underground. And when the long red worm of a train finally pulled into the station not even Frølich’s big body could be distinguished from the others in the throng.
Gunnarstranda waited. The train would have left by now. He got out of the car, went to the front door and up the stairs.
When he rang her doorbell nothing happened. The anger rose to his temples. The exhaustion after hours without sleep provoked him into a terrible rage which he took out on the bell. The bell ding-donged like a pinball flipper. When he finally let go of the button small steps could clearly be heard from indoors.
‘Open the door,’ he barked with irritation, banging his fist.
‘Who is it?’
The voice didn’t carry well through the woodwork.
‘Police! Open up!’
Again total silence. The policeman, glaring impatiently at the brown wood in front of him, sighed. Raised his hand to pound the door. Refrained. Breathed out with relief as the lock clicked and the door opened a fraction.
‘What is it?’
Her face was pale and her skin twitched. The policeman brandished his ID. ‘Let me in,’ he barked, pushing the door open.
She stepped back, dressed in only her underwear.
‘Go and get some clothes on,’ he ordered and marched ahead into the flat.
His glare took in the room. Noted lots of little objects, ornaments and figurines in cases and on
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