in, and went straight to his head, just like moonshine. They were sitting next to a group of Japanese men who had ordered the most adventurous dish on the menu. All sorts of fried and flambé things arrived at their table. Then the cook left the kitchen, went over to the Japanese table and made a huge spectacle with knives and food. But even the Japanese got drunk on the rice wine. One of the men gave the Inspector a course in using chopsticks. Afterwards he thought that, all in all, the evening had been a success. Even though he staggered out of the restaurant, even though he was unable to remember all the things he had said. Nor even where or how Tove and he parted company. But in some mysterious way he did remember arranging a repeat performance.
Now, however, with this murder enquiry hanging over him, he had to accept that the planned evening with Tove would not come to anything.
He checked his watch. Tove worked as a ward sister. It was late afternoon. He took a chance on her being at home.
His nerves were ajitter at the thought of ringing. As he picked up the receiver, his hand was shaking
'Hello,' came her cheerful answer.
'Hello,' he said with a nervous smile to himself in the window. 'Can you hear who it is?'
'I can. Thank you for the nice evening.'
'Yes, it was… good.'
'It certainly was,' she said.
'A man has been murdered,' he said without pausing.
'So we'll have to wait for the anchovies?'
'The anchovies?'
'Your words. You called the food we ate anchovies and the saki firewater.' 'Did I?'
'But we had a great time. What shall we do instead?'
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'I hadn't given that any thought,' he confessed.
Tove Granaas grinned. 'Coffee,' she said. 'I'm sure you'll have enough time for a cup of coffee.'
----
Chapter 12
East of Eden
Arvid Folke Jespersen lived in Uranienborg, just off Oslo city centre, in one of those old flats with a view which were so often home to elderly inhabitants born in the area, if their offspring hadn't managed to sell it, lock, stock and barrel, to an advertising agency.
It was late afternoon when Frank Frølich idly contemplated the front entrance from his car. He switched on his mobile phone, called Eva-Britt and cancelled the plans for the evening, although he needn't have done. Even though she was very annoyed, it felt like freedom to evade TV entertainment and the other sad pastimes into which they had slipped. He sat in the car for a while staring into space. A few days ago he had seen The Getaway again - Sam Peckinpah's original film with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. The funny thing was that Doc's wife was the spitting image of Anna. The black hair, the brown eyes and the long, slender limbs. It was true that Anna had more meat on her, but otherwise they were strangely similar. What he could not get out of his head was whether this was chance - meeting Anna again today. It was odd, almost as though seeing the film had been part of a greater scheme. But, he told himself, you have no real reason to ring her and you have a lot on your plate with Eva-Britt. With a heavy sigh he struggled out of the car and up the steps to the old man waiting for him.
'Of course I'll try to help as much as I can,' said Arvid Folke Jespersen, letting Frølich into a flat with the stale odour of dust and old books. Like a second-hand bookshop, he thought, taking off his winter boots after some exertion. A little grunt came from behind a curtain. Arvid pushed the curtain to the side. Among a multitude of shoes lay a basket full of old rugs. In the basket was a small tremulous dog. It had a bandage wrapped around its body. 'Goodness, you have hurt yourself, haven't you?' Frølich said to the dog which lay trembling with its ears flattened against its head.
'Silvie has two broken ribs,'
Now, however, with this murder enquiry hanging over him, he had to accept that the planned evening with Tove would not come to anything.
He checked his watch. Tove worked as a ward sister. It was late afternoon. He took a chance on her being at home.
His nerves were ajitter at the thought of ringing. As he picked up the receiver, his hand was shaking
'Hello,' came her cheerful answer.
'Hello,' he said with a nervous smile to himself in the window. 'Can you hear who it is?'
'I can. Thank you for the nice evening.'
'Yes, it was… good.'
'It certainly was,' she said.
'A man has been murdered,' he said without pausing.
'So we'll have to wait for the anchovies?'
'The anchovies?'
'Your words. You called the food we ate anchovies and the saki firewater.' 'Did I?'
'But we had a great time. What shall we do instead?'
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'I hadn't given that any thought,' he confessed.
Tove Granaas grinned. 'Coffee,' she said. 'I'm sure you'll have enough time for a cup of coffee.'
----
Chapter 12
East of Eden
Arvid Folke Jespersen lived in Uranienborg, just off Oslo city centre, in one of those old flats with a view which were so often home to elderly inhabitants born in the area, if their offspring hadn't managed to sell it, lock, stock and barrel, to an advertising agency.
It was late afternoon when Frank Frølich idly contemplated the front entrance from his car. He switched on his mobile phone, called Eva-Britt and cancelled the plans for the evening, although he needn't have done. Even though she was very annoyed, it felt like freedom to evade TV entertainment and the other sad pastimes into which they had slipped. He sat in the car for a while staring into space. A few days ago he had seen The Getaway again - Sam Peckinpah's original film with Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw. The funny thing was that Doc's wife was the spitting image of Anna. The black hair, the brown eyes and the long, slender limbs. It was true that Anna had more meat on her, but otherwise they were strangely similar. What he could not get out of his head was whether this was chance - meeting Anna again today. It was odd, almost as though seeing the film had been part of a greater scheme. But, he told himself, you have no real reason to ring her and you have a lot on your plate with Eva-Britt. With a heavy sigh he struggled out of the car and up the steps to the old man waiting for him.
'Of course I'll try to help as much as I can,' said Arvid Folke Jespersen, letting Frølich into a flat with the stale odour of dust and old books. Like a second-hand bookshop, he thought, taking off his winter boots after some exertion. A little grunt came from behind a curtain. Arvid pushed the curtain to the side. Among a multitude of shoes lay a basket full of old rugs. In the basket was a small tremulous dog. It had a bandage wrapped around its body. 'Goodness, you have hurt yourself, haven't you?' Frølich said to the dog which lay trembling with its ears flattened against its head.
'Silvie has two broken ribs,'
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