The Man in the Window (23 page)

    'But the forgiveness must have had something to do with her,' came the delicate voice behind him.

    The Police Inspector turned around.

    'I had to forgive him on her behalf. I think he once did something nasty to her, and never managed to make amends.'

    Gunnarstranda, sunk in thought, nodded. 'And the last time this happened was the evening before he was killed. What was the other chunk of dialogue?'

    He turned, walked around the chair and caught her eye, but she was still looking away.

    'What was the last piece of dialogue?'

    She hesitated.

    Gunnarstranda glanced at her. 'Who was the woman on whose behalf you were supposed to forgive him?'

    She shook her head. 'I haven't a clue.'

    He sighed. 'Come on, you must know. You had to play someone. You're an actress. You must have asked him about the role!'

    'I really don't have a clue who she is.'

    'But it must have been tempting to ask - a woman with long hair, the mole, and your figure I suppose, your features,' Gunnarstranda said and added with intrigue in his voice, 'I'll tell you something. I've got a photo of her.'

    Gro Hege Wyller blenched. The look she sent the policeman was troubled, riddled with doubt, and there was a forced rigidity about her body he had not seen until now.

    'You look like her,' Gunnarstranda said without emotion. 'I noticed - at the funeral.'

    'I don't believe you,' she mumbled and, in a rather firmer voice, re-stated her view: 'You're bluffing.'

    Gunnarstranda sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs and let her uncertainty rumble about inside her.

    'Why should I lie?' he said at last.

    'Where is the photo?'

    He tapped his breast pocket. 'Here.'

    'Let me see then!'

    Gunnarstranda hesitated.

    'Aren't I allowed to see it?'

    'Why do you want to?'

    'Let me see the picture,' she repeated peremptorily.

    Gunnarstranda beamed a mischievous smile. 'Are you wondering whether you mastered the role, whether you got her likeness?'

    'No,' she said with emphasis.

    'Sure?' Gunnarstranda smiled coldly. 'But there were two bits of dialogue. They must have something to do with the woman?'

    'May I see if I tell you the other line?' she cut in.

    'All right.'

    '
I
love you.'

    'I beg your pardon?'

    'That was the other bit of dialogue:
I love you
.' She sat with her eyes closed, in another world. Again there was something about the contours of her profile, how the light met the lustre of her skin that rendered the policeman speechless, and he sat spellbound as she slowly opened her eyes. They exchanged glances. 'And the photo?' she asked.

    He put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out the photograph he had found in Jespersen's office. He concealed it in his hand and gave a tentative cough: 'Are you sure you want to see it?'

    Again they exchanged looks. He looked into her blue eyes; for a few seconds they revealed a vulnerability which made him swallow hard, and he could see that she had noticed, that she was pained by it, he noticed the moment she looked away and whispered: 'No… perhaps it's best not to.'

    He didn't move.

    'Well,' she said in bewilderment. 'Is that it?'

    'Did you feel,' he began, running two fingers across his lips. 'Did you feel anything was different on that day?'

    'Mm, it was different every single time, but he seemed perhaps a little… sad,' she faltered.

    'Sad in what way?'

    'He started to cry,' she said. 'Not much, a little. And that has never happened before. I don't know. I think he seemed sadder than usual, quieter, a bit distracted.'

    Gunnarstranda studied her. She was somewhere else. When, finally, she did look up, she appeared to be emerging from water. She blinked to focus on him. 'What happened afterwards?' he asked in a low voice, putting the photograph back in his pocket.

    'We shared a taxi.'

    Gunnarstranda waited.

    'From the warehouse,' she said. 'From Ensjo.'

    'Where to?'

    'Here.'

    'Both of you?'

    'I got out here, he went on. Back home, I assume.'

    'Who rang for the taxi?'

    'He did.'

    'And you didn't notice anything outside the building in Bertrand Narvesens vei when you came out?

    She glanced quickly over her shoulder. 'What do you mean now?'

    'I don't mean anything. I'm asking - and your reaction tells me you did notice something.'

    She didn't answer.

    The policeman got to his feet, pushed the table to the side and crouched down in front of the woman on the sofa. 'You have nothing to lose,' he whispered. 'And you have nothing to gain. Once you've said A you have to say B - that's the way the game works. Believe me, I know the rules, I've been playing it half of my life. Don't lie to me. Was the driver someone you knew?'

    She cast down her eyes. 'How do you mean?'

    'Don't give me the
How do you mean?
'
Gunnarstranda barked with irritation. 'Answer my question. Did you know the driver?'

    'I came by taxi.'

    'Answer my damn question!'

    'His name's Richard. He lives in this building - but he drives a taxi.' She added, annoyed: 'I am not lying.'

    Gunnarstranda released a little sigh and sat back in the chair. 'Did you ask this taxi driver to take you there - to Jespersen's warehouse in Bertrand Narvesens vei - or was it just a coincidence that his taxi turned up when you needed a lift?'

    'I asked him if he felt like taking me - he was here when Folke rang.'

    'He was here - with you?'

    'Yes.'

    'You and this taxi driver here, alone?' 'Yes.'

    'But why didn't you say that at once?'

    'I don't know.'

    'Are you a couple?'

    'No.'

    The police officer regarded her with a sceptical expression.

    She ignored him.

    'Richard - what's his surname?'

    'Ekholt. His name is Richard Ekholt. He does the evening and night shifts. I once got a lift with him and he gave me his card and I've used him a few times since - when it's hard to get hold of a taxi, late at night and so on, it's great to be able to ring someone you know. Yes, I've done it a few times. And now he's got it into his head that he's in love.'

    'Did you see Ekholt again later that day?'

    She said nothing.

    Gunnarstranda stroked his lips nervously. 'I assure you it is relevant to the case.'

    'Something happened, something which means I do not wish to meet him again.'

    'What happened?'

    'I don't feel like talking about it.'

    Gunnarstranda studied her. 'Did he hurt you?' he asked gently.

    'Not as such.'

    Gunnarstranda waited.

    'He wasn't nice - on the way there he was bad-tempered and quarrelsome - and when we arrived he began to paw me and tried to take my clothes off. I had to run.

    It was slippery and bloody cold.' She stared at Gunnarstranda as though she were revisiting the scene. 'He went ballistic. I think he was jealous because he knew I was meeting another man.'

    'Where did you go?'

    'To Folke. The key was in the postbox, as always. Fortunately I managed to unlock the door and slam it shut before he…'

    'You weren't hurt?'

    'No. I was furious though.'

    'Did you mention this incident to Jespersen?'

    'Yes - it became part of the play. Forgiveness,' she said with a blank expression, looking at her desk. The policeman watched her - without speaking.

    'I had a shock afterwards. You see, I never thought he would wait for me, but when I came out, there he was,' she said at length. 'When Folke and I went out to the taxi, Richard's car was in the same place. He was sitting inside and I'm sure he followed us back here.'

    'How can you be so sure?'

    'I was about to open the door here - I had been dropped off and Folke went on. I had the key in my bag and was rummaging around for it when Richard drove past, following Folke's taxi.'

    'Are you sure he was following?'

    'Yes.'

    'Did you report it?'

    'Report?'

    'Him harassing you in the car?'

    'Nothing to report. The incident showed him up for what he was.'

    He put his hand in his inside pocket, took out a biro and asked: 'Have you got any paper?'

    She looked around.

    'Never mind,' he mumbled and took the newspaper from the table. In the margin he wrote the code that had been scribbled on the chest of the dead man and showed it to her. 'Does this mean anything to you?'

    'Are you sure that's the letter?' she asked.

    He flinched. 'Why?'

    'I think the number of Richard's taxi is 195,' she said. 'But there's an A in front - not a J.'

Chapter 30

The Missing Uniform

    When Inspector Gunnarstranda came home that evening, he stood contemplating the goldfish swimming around in a bowl that was more green than transparent. However, he managed to withstand the baleful eyes of the fish. He went to the kitchen and fried two eggs and half a packet of bacon, which he devoured along with two slices of toast and a glass of milk. Thereafter he took a hot shower before sitting down in front of his desk and reading through the case reports. Finally he went to the old seaman's trunk from which he took one of the bottles of whisky. He poured himself a glass which he emptied while writing the report on his visit to Gro Hege Wyller. Only when he had read it through did he go to the telephone.

    Frank Frølich answered with a yawn.

    'It's me.'

    'Do you know how late it is,' Frølich said.

    'Do you remember one of the people in Thomas Heftyes gate talking about a taxi being parked outside with the engine running?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'Yes,' Frølich yawned. 'She works for Egmont, publishers of children's books.'

    'I think the driver's name is Richard Ekholt.'

    'Uhuh.' 'I'm going to call him in for questioning. But it would be good if you could check the man's record and ask around the central taxi switchboard or use some reliable informers with good contacts in that sort of area.'

    'Informers?'

    'Ekholt does night shifts. He's bound to know several of our regular customers. On top of that, his taxi number is 195. Were you asleep?'

    'What did you say just now?'

    'I asked if you had been asleep.'

    'You said something about a number.'

    'Richard Ekholt's taxi is number A195.'

    'Bloody hell!'

    'A195, Frølich, not J. An A is not the same as a J.'

    'But that can't be chance.'

    'Every day you and I survive is chance. The fact that one of your father's cells won the fight for your mother's egg and created you is chance. It's chance that people live on earth and not on Mars. Were you asleep?'

    'How can you ask? Do you know how late it is?'

    'No, but I can hear music in the background.'

    'I didn't say I was in bed.'

    'Anything else?'

    'Glenn Moseng rang in.'

    'And who is Glenn Moseng?'

    'He runs a coffee and waffle place in Jacob Aalls gate. And the best bit is that the café faces the building where Ingrid's lover - Strømsted - lives. This Glenn Moseng recognized Folke Jespersen's picture in the paper. Our dead man was sitting in the café from about nine to some time between eleven and twelve on 13th January.'

    Gunnarstranda let out a whistle.

    'Stokmo is telling the truth,' Frølich went on. 'Reidar Jespersen didn't go straight to work; he went to this café to wait for his wife.'

    'But he didn't stop her when she appeared,' Gunnarstranda answered, flopping into a chair with the telephone in his hand. 'What did our man do there - at the waffle café?'

    'He drank coffee and read newspapers - for two hours, at least.'

    Gunnarstranda considered this information in silence.

    Frølich, more animated: 'He quarrels with his brothers and then calls his wife while she is with the lover. We always come back to the wife and the lover,' Frølich continued, with enthusiasm. 'Motive and the opportunity.'

    'Anything else?' Gunnarstranda asked, stifling a yawn.

    'I got hold of Jonny Stokmo's girlfriend.
Carina.
She's a prostitute operating from a flat in Thereses gate. She confirmed that he had been there that night. But she can't remember the exact time he left.'

    'Not the exact time?'

    'No, Stokmo had dropped by without warning. But she had an appointment with some TV celeb at midnight and she got shot of Stokmo early, as she put it. She had time to take a shower and clear up before this celeb rang the bell. So it is not impossible that Stokmo went to bed at eleven as he claims.'

    Gunnarstranda yawned. 'Looks like we have something to work on tomorrow.' He noticed the accusatory gaze from Kalfatrus the goldfish and felt his conscience prick.

    As soon as he had finished the conversation, he set about draining the goldfish bowl. He had to go through a number of cupboards before he found Edel's wine siphon. Equipped with this and a bucket, he put the tube into the bowl. He sucked up some water and pulled a face of disgust, then spat it into the bucket. He let the water run until there was five centimetres left in the bowl. Then he took hold of a jug and a thermometer. Kalfatrus was swimming round the bottom of the bowl with an accusatory expression on his face. 'It's old Folke Jespersen's fault,' Gunnarstranda apologized.

    At that moment the telephone rang.

    He seized the receiver and yelled: 'Yes!'

    'This is Karsten Jespersen speaking.'

    'Oh yes?'

    'Sorry to ring so late. But I've been through the inventory of registered items - from the shop.'

    'And?'

    'Nothing of any value seems to be missing.'

    'What do you mean?'

    'There's only one thing missing in fact. A uniform.'

    'A uniform?'

    'Yes, it was in a brown cardboard box in my office.'

    'What sort of uniform was it?'

    'I'm not sure. It hadn't been unpacked. The box was addressed to my father. I mentioned it to him on the last evening. It was one of the things we talked about.'

    Gunnarstranda's eyes swept the table, hunting for a cigarette. He patted his pockets. 'I remember,' he mumbled. 'You've mentioned it before, the uniform, and it's not on the inventory we gave you?'

    'No.'

    'Not even expressed in vague terms? A box of clothes or military paraphernalia or something like that?'

    'No. There's nothing.'

    'And you hadn't unpacked it? How do you know there was a uniform in the box?'

    'I didn't have time to do anything, but I did cut open the box. There was a uniform inside, you know, woollen material, a military colour, bluish.'

    'Bluish? Navy blue? Grey-blue?' Gunnarstranda asked, locating a cigarette end in the ashtray on the edge of the desk and lighting it.

    'Grey-blue.'

    'More air force than navy then?'

    'I have no idea.'

    'It wasn't a tram conductor's uniform? Even the officers in parliament wear uniforms.'

    'It was military; there were stripes and decorations. But I didn't give it more than a cursory glance. I mentioned to my father that it had arrived, and the two glasses from Nostetangen too - they are on the list - but he didn't seem very interested.'

    'So do you think he went down to the shop that evening to have a look at the uniform?'

    'Can't imagine him doing that.'

    Gunnarstranda inhaled greedily and said: 'You don't know if the uniform had any particular value?'

    'As I said, I didn't get a chance to see,' Karsten Jespersen said.

    'Who sent the box?'

    'I have no idea. Don't remember. Don't think there was a sender's address.'

    'But wouldn't it be very odd if someone sent a uniform to your father anonymously?'

    'Mm…'

    'It was anonymous, wasn't it?'

    'I don't remember. I didn't pay any attention to it.'

    'Did you tell your father?'

    'Tell my father what?'

    'That there was no sender's address.'

    'Yes, I think I did. Or I may have said a uniform had arrived, but I hadn't checked it over. It seemed to be complete with trousers and jacket…'

    'Is the box still there?'

    'No, there's no cardboard box on the inventory.'

    'So a uniform and a cardboard box are missing?' Gunnarstranda tried to imagine the two men sitting alone with coffee and cognac, crabby children all over the place and things unspoken in the air: 'He received a number of calls that evening. Perhaps the man who sent the uniform rang?'

    'That's certainly a possibility,' Karsten Jespersen admitted. 'But it's hard to know.'

    'OK,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Thank you for ringing. You've been a great help.'

    After putting down the receiver, he stood still for a few seconds and nervously stroked his lips with his fingers. He came to with a start and went to the kitchen to fill the jug with water. Taking great care, he poured the tepid water into the goldfish bowl. Then he opened the packet of fish food and sprinkled a little food onto the surface of the water. 'Dried fly larvae and smoked spiders' legs,' he muttered to the fish nibbling at the food. 'Food fit for a king.'

    Gunnarstranda helped himself to another whisky, sat down and turned over a piece of paper from the pile in front of him on the table. On the topmost sheet lay a copy of the photograph which had been hidden under Reidar Folke Jespersen's desk pad. This time the woman seemed to be laughing - at him.