The Man in the Window (6 page)

    Gunnarstranda unzipped his old snow over-boots and shook them off. Under them he was wearing polished leather shoes. He stood and watched Frølich breathing hard as he knelt down in his thick winter gear. With tangled hair hanging over his forehead, he loosened the laces of his army boots, pulled them off and revealed two odd woollen socks. Jespersen opened the door and they could hear low voices in the distance.

    Gunnarstranda took stock. A mirror dominated the hallway. It went from floor to ceiling, in a gilt wooden frame. There were patches where the surface was flaking off. The mirror reflected three framed photographs adorning the facing wall. Gunnarstranda turned to study the pictures. They were photographs of erect young men in canvas and frieze breeches with bold curls over their foreheads and Sten guns hanging loose from their shoulders. 'The Palace Square… liberation,' Gunnarstranda said to the man in the door. 'Anyone from the family there?'

    Karsten Jespersen nodded. 'My father,' he said, pointing to a young athlete standing at ease in front of the Royal Palace.

    Gunnarstranda studied the photograph. 'Of course,' he said, taking off his glasses to inspect the man's features close up. 'I can see that now.'

    'Shall we…?' Jespersen held the door open.

    They padded through a room furnished with heavy wooden furniture and beyond to a sliding door which the young man opened. They went through another room, past a huge dining room table. On the wall was a large painting with a national-romantic motif: a fjord, shafts of sunlight shining down on the mountains and a farm where a dairy maid dressed in national costume was carrying buckets slung from a yoke over her shoulders.

    The man in the corduroy suit led them on to a further sliding door. He hesitated before opening it, turned towards them and cleared his throat: 'Well, here - is where I grew up.'

    Gunnarstranda followed Jespersen in. The room was three metres by three metres, a cross between a boy's room and a bachelor's pad. There was a desk beneath the window along one wall. A sofa bed was the other item of furniture in the room. Family photographs on the wall above it. Jespersen sat on the swivel chair by the desk. 'Please, do sit down,' he said, indicating the low sofa.

    Gunnarstranda stayed on his feet.

    Frølich had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the door frame when he joined them. The room seemed cramped all of a sudden. Frølich's jacket, doubtless size XXL, stuck to him like a boy's blazer on a wine barrel. The face hiding behind the bedraggled beard was, as always, a model of expressionless composure. He was wearing a striped sweater under the jacket. He slumped down onto the sofa. When he crossed his legs, his feet collided with the wall opposite.

    Gunnarstranda stared at Frølich, then at Karsten Jespersen.

    'Fire away,' Jespersen said in a low whisper of a voice.

    The Inspector turned, made a show of stepping over Frølich's denim-clad legs and marched out through the door and back to the dining room from where he shouted: 'Has the family lived here long?'

    'As long as I can remember,' Jespersen answered, getting up with alacrity and going to the door. 'Since some time in the fifties.' He eyed the detective nervously: 'Don't you want to come in here?'

    'No,' Gunnarstranda answered. He stood contemplating the large painting with the motifs of fjord and milkmaid. The picture frame was broad and gilt with carvings. He turned and took a chair from the table. 'I'll sit here; you sit in there - so that we can shout to each other.'

    Jespersen stood in the doorway. His face had taken on a sad expression. The continuous nervous twitches around his jaw made his chin tremble.

    'What do you do?' the policeman asked.

    'I run the shop - downstairs.'

    'And your father?'

    'He takes - took care of the administrative side.'

    'And that means?'

    'Accounts, budget - we have a warehouse…'

    'Go on,' Gunnarstranda said, composed, as the other man fell into a reverie.

    'Yes, we have the shop here and, in Ensjo, a warehouse and an office.'

    'I'd like to take a look at the warehouse.'

    'No problem. It's in Bertrand Narvesens vei.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded slowly. 'But I could do with a key,' he thought out loud.

    Jespersen gave a start. 'Now?'

    'Have you any objection to me searching the place?'

    'Of course not.' Jespersen let go of the door frame, shrugged his shoulders and crossed the floor. He sat down on one of the chairs by the table, with his back to the painting and opposite the policeman. He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out the bunch of keys and found a short Yale key, which he took off the ring. 'You just have to unlock…'

    Gunnarstranda accepted the key and put it in his pocket. 'And you sell antiques, second-hand goods?'

    Jespersen gave a deep sigh, rested his temples on both hands and sat with his head bowed and his eyes fixed firmly on the table. 'This is just so awful,' he said at length. 'I seem to be wading through cotton wool. I ought to have checked if anything had been stolen downstairs…'

    'You can do that when we've done…'

    Jespersen, bewildered, stared back. His head quivered until he lowered his gaze, discovered a stain on the polished table and rubbed it with his forefinger. 'The one thing I know for sure is that he's dead,' he murmured.

    'He was killed,' Gunnarstranda said. 'It's our job to determine the facts of the case,' he added after reflection, and cleared his throat. 'But you and your family will of course be kept fully informed.' He straightened his back and crossed his legs.

    Frank Frølich had managed to struggle out of the cramped boy's room and joined them now. He settled carefully into a seat at the table, wriggled out of his enormous jacket and took out his notebook.

    Gunnarstranda inclined his head and said: 'It makes everything much harder for the bereaved when sad news has to be followed by a criminal investigation. But I hope you and your family will have some understanding of our role in this.'

    Karsten, faraway, nodded.

    Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'What branch are you in?'

    'How do you mean?'

    'What kind of antiques do you sell?'

    'Exclusive items for the most part.'

    'And that means?'

    'They don't have to be a special style or design. It's all about the object as such, whether it's in good condition, whether it has appeal. It might be a Remington typewriter from the 1920s or a well-preserved tea table from Victorian times. We judge each case on its merits…'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'What about books?'

    'No.'

    'I saw Thackeray on one of the shelves we were passing.'

    Jespersen indulged himself in a little gesture. 'You saw them? That was observant. Yes, indeed,' he nodded. 'But the books in this house are Ingrid's. She's fond of reading. In general, though, we do not deal with books… there is no money in them - for us at least. We're not running an antiquarian bookshop.'

    'How do you acquire your objects?'

    'Buying job lots, auctions… importing… well… brokering might be a more precise term. We're in the upmarket sector.'

    'And that is?'

    'What?' Jespersen said, puzzled.

    'What is the upmarket sector?'

    'Could be anything, in fact. We are just as likely to stock goods from England or Germany as from

    Gudbrandsdalen.'

    'What about exports?'

    'Nothing.'

    'How old was your father?'

    'Seventy-nine. He would have been eighty in March.'

    'And he enjoyed rude health?'

    'Oh yes - like a man of fifty, working every day.'

    'Fit man.'

    Karsten Jespersen pursed his lips in a sardonic grimace. 'You could say that.'

    'Had he any plans for slowing down?'

    'No.'

    The answer was forthright. Without qualification. The two policemen exchanged glances.

    'A family business?'

    'You could say that.'

    'Is his death a loss to the operation?'

    'Of course.'

    'Who buys the goods for the shop? You? Your father?'

    'I do.'

    'You alone?'

    Karsten Jespersen inclined his head and added: 'It goes without saying that he was involved in the buying, but he always consulted me. By and large, I get on well with customers. That was more or less how we divided the work.'

    'What sort of man was your father?'

    Jespersen raised his head and sent him a quizzical look.

    Gunnarstranda gestured with his hands: 'Was he a kind man? A firm man? Someone with enemies?' 'Of course not.'

    'Did he have any enemies?'

    'None that I can think of, offhand.'

    'Anyone at loggerheads with your father?'

    'Several people - even I was at loggerheads with him in a way.'

    'How?'

    'It was his nature. You know, the type who always wanted the last word.'

    'In private too?'

    'In private and in business.'

    'What's your position now? Will you take over?'

    'I would assume so - the shop is a limited company, and so from an administrative point of view the settlement of a deceased's estate has less significance.' He coughed. 'But I'm the only person who can run the shop - who can run it,' he mumbled, repeating himself and gazing into the air, lost in thought.

    'What did you think about your father not wanting to retire?'

    'You're wondering if he didn't have full confidence in me?' Karsten forced a wry grin.

    Gunnarstranda did not answer.

    'You could look at it like that,' the other man said. 'Part of the picture has to do with me. I'm tied to the business - but I also have a sideline to take care of…' He coughed with embarrassment. 'I'm trying to do a bit of writing - freelance - and that takes time.'

    'Freelance?'

    'I write small articles for weeklies… now and then I try my hand at short stories, too. That sort of thing requires time and dedication.'

    'Do you write under your own name?'

    'Yes, I do.'

    'So you were happy that your father was still going strong and didn't retire?'

    Jespersen sighed. 'What can I say? Of course he made a valuable contribution, but I suppose he should have done something else.' He hesitated. 'People in their latter years should - rest, enjoy life in other ways - but not him; I think he was happy, I mean… he enjoyed rude health, as you put it.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded his head slowly.

    'No one would have dreamt of asking him to retire,' Jespersen added. 'He loved working.'

    'Can you put a name to anyone who was at loggerheads with your father?'

    'It would be easier to put a name to those who weren't. My father was determined and… stubborn.' Jespersen found the word he was searching for.

    'So your father was difficult, quarrelsome?'

    'I would prefer to say he was a resolute person. A strong person. Forgive me, but it feels odd to talk about him in this way.'

    'He lived in this flat, together with your mother?'

    Jespersen nodded and scowled with embarrassment. 'She isn't my mother; she's my father's wife.'

    'Your mother? Is she alive?'

    'No… She died when I was small,' he added when the police officers said nothing. 'Dad married Ingrid more than twenty years ago, and, in fact, she is only seven years older than me. I'm sure you will understand that your mention of Ingrid as my mother sounds odd.'

    'Have you any brothers or sisters?'

    Jespersen shook his head.

    'So you're the sole heir?'

    'Ingrid will inherit as well, of course, and the beneficiaries in the will, if there are any.'

    'But you don't know anything about that?'

    'About what?'

    'About whether he wrote a will.'

    'I don't think he did. At any rate, I haven't heard anything about a will. But I can give you the telephone number of the solicitor he used. She should know.'

    'Was your father a wealthy man?'

    'What do you mean by wealthy?'

    'Was it well known that he had money?'

    Jespersen's face quivered. 'I can't believe that. He had a pension - he didn't get much of a wage. He split the profit with my two uncles - Arvid and Emmanuel. There were three owners, three brothers… and then there must be a bit of money in his account, this flat…'

    'Lots of valuable objects?'