shelves. Subdued colours. Woven tapestries on the walls. A closed door, presumably to a bedroom. A large loom took up half the sitting room, and a sofa-bed underneath an impressively large weeping fig was unmade. The air was quite stale. The room had obviously been slept in.
She came in, having pulled on some jeans and a short-sleeved jersey, still barefoot but no longer confused.
‘Sit down!’
She obeyed. Stared up at him in expectation, no longer afraid. Gunnarstranda’s eyes bored into her.
‘Who slept here?’
‘A friend.’
He seized her arm. Her eyes widened.
‘I’m not dangerous,’ he assured her in a gentler, husky voice. The words fell on deaf ears.
His headache announced its return, worse than before. The pain made him grimace, then he asked in a gentle voice: ‘How well do you know this man you had staying here last night?’
‘Know?’
Jesus! He was not in the mood for this. He sat down with a bump on the unmade sofa-bed. ‘Sigurd Klavestad. He was with you last night. Are you aware of his involvement in the murder of Reidun Rosendal?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Since yesterday.’
Good-looking girl. Tall and slim. But eyes a bit bovine. Large, brown and very moist. He remembered the chubby stomach around her navel when she jumped back from the door. Caught himself staring at the black birthmark on her face. Her lips moved. ‘He needed someone to talk to. I needed someone to talk to. We . . . talked about . . . Reidun.’
Calm voice. Intense gaze, he assumed she was being honest.
Gunnarstranda bent forwards. ‘We cannot rule him out as a suspect.’
She stared back, still calm. ‘I know.’
‘Yet you bring him back here and let him sleep over?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
A new gleam took its place in her cow-like expression. Now she was eyeballing him effortlessly.
Gunnarstranda chanced to observe that there were two pillows next to each other on the sofa. Two pillows but only one duvet.
‘And you had never met him before yesterday afternoon,’ he remarked sarcastically.
She gave a nod of defiance and he felt his headache return.
‘This guest of yours must be a Casanova.’
She held her tongue. But she was on her guard; she had picked up the intonation.
The policeman noted that he liked her decision to remain silent.
‘How did you react when you saw him yesterday?’
‘React?’
Gunnarstranda tightened his lips in a show of cynicism. ‘It must have made some impression on you that the man who was with your deceased friend until minutes before she was murdered was suddenly standing in front of you.’
‘I wasn’t fazed.’
Her face was pale, expression committed. ‘It was nice to be able to talk about her!’
He patted the pillow. ‘You must have been very happy,’ he said with a cold smile.
She was tight-lipped, but her eyes mocked him.
So that’s where you are, he thought. There. In the brown eyes. Condescending disdain for his pathetic attempts to draw her out. He liked that. Liked the strength in her as she appraised him. They glared at each other. She had almost made up her mind to come clean. The pursed lips made her face very beautiful.
‘I believe you,’ he declared with a hand to his brow. ‘Why haven’t you gone to work?’
‘I didn’t feel like it.’
Didn’t you, he thought, with a nod. ‘You got on with her?’
‘I was probably the person she had most in common with, yes.’
‘Why were you afraid to open the door just now?’
‘I thought someone was there. The telephone rang. Like at Reidun’s, and then they put down the phone, and then there was a ring this morning, so early . . .’
‘Like at Reidun’s?’
‘The phone. Sigurd told me someone called her just before he left, someone who rang off on her.’
Gunnarstranda’s face went contemplative and he chewed his lower lip. ‘Do you know where she lived?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever been
She came in, having pulled on some jeans and a short-sleeved jersey, still barefoot but no longer confused.
‘Sit down!’
She obeyed. Stared up at him in expectation, no longer afraid. Gunnarstranda’s eyes bored into her.
‘Who slept here?’
‘A friend.’
He seized her arm. Her eyes widened.
‘I’m not dangerous,’ he assured her in a gentler, husky voice. The words fell on deaf ears.
His headache announced its return, worse than before. The pain made him grimace, then he asked in a gentle voice: ‘How well do you know this man you had staying here last night?’
‘Know?’
Jesus! He was not in the mood for this. He sat down with a bump on the unmade sofa-bed. ‘Sigurd Klavestad. He was with you last night. Are you aware of his involvement in the murder of Reidun Rosendal?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘How long have you known him?’
‘Since yesterday.’
Good-looking girl. Tall and slim. But eyes a bit bovine. Large, brown and very moist. He remembered the chubby stomach around her navel when she jumped back from the door. Caught himself staring at the black birthmark on her face. Her lips moved. ‘He needed someone to talk to. I needed someone to talk to. We . . . talked about . . . Reidun.’
Calm voice. Intense gaze, he assumed she was being honest.
Gunnarstranda bent forwards. ‘We cannot rule him out as a suspect.’
She stared back, still calm. ‘I know.’
‘Yet you bring him back here and let him sleep over?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
A new gleam took its place in her cow-like expression. Now she was eyeballing him effortlessly.
Gunnarstranda chanced to observe that there were two pillows next to each other on the sofa. Two pillows but only one duvet.
‘And you had never met him before yesterday afternoon,’ he remarked sarcastically.
She gave a nod of defiance and he felt his headache return.
‘This guest of yours must be a Casanova.’
She held her tongue. But she was on her guard; she had picked up the intonation.
The policeman noted that he liked her decision to remain silent.
‘How did you react when you saw him yesterday?’
‘React?’
Gunnarstranda tightened his lips in a show of cynicism. ‘It must have made some impression on you that the man who was with your deceased friend until minutes before she was murdered was suddenly standing in front of you.’
‘I wasn’t fazed.’
Her face was pale, expression committed. ‘It was nice to be able to talk about her!’
He patted the pillow. ‘You must have been very happy,’ he said with a cold smile.
She was tight-lipped, but her eyes mocked him.
So that’s where you are, he thought. There. In the brown eyes. Condescending disdain for his pathetic attempts to draw her out. He liked that. Liked the strength in her as she appraised him. They glared at each other. She had almost made up her mind to come clean. The pursed lips made her face very beautiful.
‘I believe you,’ he declared with a hand to his brow. ‘Why haven’t you gone to work?’
‘I didn’t feel like it.’
Didn’t you, he thought, with a nod. ‘You got on with her?’
‘I was probably the person she had most in common with, yes.’
‘Why were you afraid to open the door just now?’
‘I thought someone was there. The telephone rang. Like at Reidun’s, and then they put down the phone, and then there was a ring this morning, so early . . .’
‘Like at Reidun’s?’
‘The phone. Sigurd told me someone called her just before he left, someone who rang off on her.’
Gunnarstranda’s face went contemplative and he chewed his lower lip. ‘Do you know where she lived?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you ever been
Similar Books
