the pad belonging to… to… to…'
For a few seconds Frølich was fascinated by the dry flicking sounds Gunnarstranda was making with his fingers, but then he helped him out: 'Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski's wife.'
'Right, something like that.' Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro. 'The murderer could have painted a skull on an old coat-of-arms in there, pissed on the body, whatever he wanted.'
'The wife,' Frølich said in a low voice.
'Hm?'
'The wife lives in the first-floor flat. She can nip upstairs, have a shower and wash, wash her clothes. She serves us up all this stuff about not sleeping at night…'
'She's almost thirty years younger than the old boy,'
Gunnarstranda said. 'The odds are she's having it off with someone.'
'The wife has a lover?'
Gunnarstranda: 'This bollocks about ringing Karsten Jespersen in the middle of the night. If she killed her husband, she rings the son for two reasons: to corroborate the break-in story and to get a kind of alibi.'
'Is that the main lead?' Frølich asked.
'It is a lead at any rate. I'd like to know who she's having it off with…'
'If he exists,' Frølich objected with a smile.
'He exists. It's a dead cert.'
'How do you know?'
'You can see it a mile off.'
'A mile off? She's over fifty!'
'Does that mean to say that you begrudge people over fifty a sex life?'
Frølich was on thin ice: 'I didn't mean it like that…'
Gunnarstranda, sarcastic: 'No?'
'I meant that things like that…' Frølich went quiet and glanced over at his boss who had a deadpan expression on his face.
'What sort of things?'
'For God's sake,' Frølich burst out, his nerves on edge. 'It's all tied up with hormones, isn't it! Working late tonight, darling… and infidelity. That's for people in their thirties, isn't it?'
'Working late tonight, darling?' Gunnarstranda queried with a frown. 'Do I detect a reason for your not changing your marital status?'
'Forget it,' Frølich said.
'No, the point is that I saw his wife and my immediate thought was she was having it off with someone. Why didn't you think that?'
'I have no idea…' Frølich mused. 'She seemed a bit… I don't know… she seemed refined.'
'Refined?'
'Yes,' Frølich nodded. 'Refined and nice.'
'Honestly, Frølich, do you think a man of eighty…?'
'Does that mean to say you begrudge people over seventy a sex life?' Frølich parried.
'I bet you a hundred kroner,' Gunnarstranda said, responding to the other's patronizing tone. 'No,' he went on. 'I'm not going to bet. I will personally present you with a hundred kroner if we do not turn up a little soul- mate for this lady before the case is over.'
'A little soulmate is not the same as a lover.'
'A lover. A hundred kroner. Sight unseen.'
Later, when Frølich had gone, Gunnarstranda sat looking at the telephone. The last time Gunnarstranda had met Tove Granaas, she had invited him out for a meal. It was the third time he had dined out with a woman on his own in as many years. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda did not wish to humiliate himself by counting up how many years it had been. But it was a long time.
Tove had taken him to a sushi restaurant by Lapsetorvet. Gunnarstranda was one of those people who had never tried that sort of food. He admitted that freely. But he had no intention of playing either the narrow-minded or the ignorant peasant. Thus he gave Tove a free hand when she ordered. The meal was not a complete disaster. True enough he dropped some rice in the soya sauce, and true enough he had difficulty getting his teeth through some of the pieces of raw fish in the sushi, but the taste itself was nigh on a religious experience. The heated saki tasted like moonshine with sugar
For a few seconds Frølich was fascinated by the dry flicking sounds Gunnarstranda was making with his fingers, but then he helped him out: 'Sharon Tate, Roman Polanski's wife.'
'Right, something like that.' Gunnarstranda stood up and paced to and fro. 'The murderer could have painted a skull on an old coat-of-arms in there, pissed on the body, whatever he wanted.'
'The wife,' Frølich said in a low voice.
'Hm?'
'The wife lives in the first-floor flat. She can nip upstairs, have a shower and wash, wash her clothes. She serves us up all this stuff about not sleeping at night…'
'She's almost thirty years younger than the old boy,'
Gunnarstranda said. 'The odds are she's having it off with someone.'
'The wife has a lover?'
Gunnarstranda: 'This bollocks about ringing Karsten Jespersen in the middle of the night. If she killed her husband, she rings the son for two reasons: to corroborate the break-in story and to get a kind of alibi.'
'Is that the main lead?' Frølich asked.
'It is a lead at any rate. I'd like to know who she's having it off with…'
'If he exists,' Frølich objected with a smile.
'He exists. It's a dead cert.'
'How do you know?'
'You can see it a mile off.'
'A mile off? She's over fifty!'
'Does that mean to say that you begrudge people over fifty a sex life?'
Frølich was on thin ice: 'I didn't mean it like that…'
Gunnarstranda, sarcastic: 'No?'
'I meant that things like that…' Frølich went quiet and glanced over at his boss who had a deadpan expression on his face.
'What sort of things?'
'For God's sake,' Frølich burst out, his nerves on edge. 'It's all tied up with hormones, isn't it! Working late tonight, darling… and infidelity. That's for people in their thirties, isn't it?'
'Working late tonight, darling?' Gunnarstranda queried with a frown. 'Do I detect a reason for your not changing your marital status?'
'Forget it,' Frølich said.
'No, the point is that I saw his wife and my immediate thought was she was having it off with someone. Why didn't you think that?'
'I have no idea…' Frølich mused. 'She seemed a bit… I don't know… she seemed refined.'
'Refined?'
'Yes,' Frølich nodded. 'Refined and nice.'
'Honestly, Frølich, do you think a man of eighty…?'
'Does that mean to say you begrudge people over seventy a sex life?' Frølich parried.
'I bet you a hundred kroner,' Gunnarstranda said, responding to the other's patronizing tone. 'No,' he went on. 'I'm not going to bet. I will personally present you with a hundred kroner if we do not turn up a little soul- mate for this lady before the case is over.'
'A little soulmate is not the same as a lover.'
'A lover. A hundred kroner. Sight unseen.'
Later, when Frølich had gone, Gunnarstranda sat looking at the telephone. The last time Gunnarstranda had met Tove Granaas, she had invited him out for a meal. It was the third time he had dined out with a woman on his own in as many years. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda did not wish to humiliate himself by counting up how many years it had been. But it was a long time.
Tove had taken him to a sushi restaurant by Lapsetorvet. Gunnarstranda was one of those people who had never tried that sort of food. He admitted that freely. But he had no intention of playing either the narrow-minded or the ignorant peasant. Thus he gave Tove a free hand when she ordered. The meal was not a complete disaster. True enough he dropped some rice in the soya sauce, and true enough he had difficulty getting his teeth through some of the pieces of raw fish in the sushi, but the taste itself was nigh on a religious experience. The heated saki tasted like moonshine with sugar
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