The Man in the Window (7 page)

    'Hmm,' Jespersen smiled, the dealer's lop-sided smile: 'Must be the odd bijou there…'

    'The assets, or the inheritance, are basically the chattels in the flat and the shop then?'

    'I haven't given it a lot of thought…'

    'But don't you have some idea of your father's assets?'

    'Well… I would assume the assets are the flat and the chattels, as you call them, a bit of art and, well - money in various bank accounts.'

    The policeman changed the subject: 'We understood that the first thing Ingrid Jespersen did, after confirming the dead man's identity, was to ring you?'

    'Yes. I came here as soon as I could.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded slowly.

    'She rang us earlier in the night as well.' Jespersen put on an apologetic smile. 'Ingrid wanted to get hold of me - in fact. She woke up when she realized Dad was not in his bed. Her first thought was that there was a break-in downstairs, in the shop, that is. But Susanne, my wife, calmed her down. Then she went back to sleep.'

    Gunnarstranda observed him and summarized what the man had just said: 'She woke up on her own last night, rang to speak to you, but talked to your wife, who sent her back to bed. What time was it when she rang?'

    'Half past two.'

    Gunnarstranda stared into space. 'We're going to talk to fru Jespersen about these events too, but why did she ring you in the middle of the night?'

    'There's been a spate of burglaries around here. In fact we have…' Jespersen heaved a deep sigh '… been waiting for something like this.'

    Gunnarstranda coughed. 'For what?'

    'Break-ins.'

    The two policemen eyed him.

    Karsten Jespersen tentatively cleared his throat.

    Gunnarstranda waited a bit longer before asking: 'Have you put any specific measures in place in the shop to prevent burglaries?'

    'We have the obligatory security shutters in the windows facing the street, and of course we have an alarm. I suppose what was new was Dad doing his occasional round of inspection.'

    'No alarm went off last night.'

    'No,' Jespersen said after some hesitation.

    'Where do you think your father was when Ingrid woke up alone?'

    'That's pretty obvious, isn't it? He was downstairs.' Jespersen tapped the tip of his forefinger on the table. 'Downstairs, in the shop.'

    'In the middle of the night?'

    'Of course.'

    'But wouldn't it be unusual for your father to be rushing around downstairs in the middle of the night. After all, he was almost eighty.'

    'My father was an unusual person.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded, deep in thought. At length he looked over at Karsten Jespersen, who was staring blankly into the air. 'Where were you?' the policeman enquired.

    'Hm?'

    'Where were you when Ingrid phoned last night?'

    Jespersen was still staring blankly into the air. 'It's quite odd,' he said in a soft voice. 'My father's dead in the room beneath us. Not easy to disentangle, my feelings I mean, grief and bereavement…' He went quiet, took a deep breath, then heaved a sigh and continued: 'Ingrid, my father's wife, here with a priest. Me, sitting here with the police - round the table where we had dinner yesterday, having a nice time, and now sitting here and trying - not just to recall the image of my father, but to pass this image on to you.'

    He folded his hands on the table. 'I can feel an atmosphere here now - a feeling of… perhaps it's not hostility as such, perhaps it's more a business-like efficiency. But what is dawning on me now is that while I have been trying to determine what it is I feel deep down, in the chaos I have within me, what I have been dreading, as long as we have been talking is precisely that question:
Where were you?
Where was I? All of a sudden the answer to that question has taken on a sort of meaning, a significance, the impact of which I had never imagined.'

    He went quiet. The policemen exchanged glances. Jespersen sat chewing his lower lip and thinking. He didn't give the impression that he was going to continue.

    Gunnarstranda broke the silence. He coughed, which caused the other man to raise his head. 'Where were you?' the policeman repeated, looking him straight in the eye.

    'I was at home. It wasn't the first time we had received calls of this kind. Susanne knew that Ingrid would have nagged and nagged to haul me out of bed and come here. Ingrid is a little highly strung and besides she has a morbid fear of something happening to my father.'

    'Did you hear the phone?'

    'No. I was asleep.'

    'So you didn't discuss Ingrid's call then - afterwards?'

    'No, that is, we talked about it early this morning.'

    'But, your wife, she wasn't alarmed by Ingrid's fears when she called last night. Did she dismiss them as nonsense?'

    'Of course not, but Ingrid was… Ingrid is… she's a little hysterical at times.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Do you know if your father had been receiving threats from anyone of late?'

    'No, that is…'

    'Yes?'

    Jespersen laid both hands flat on the table. 'It's a somewhat delicate matter,' he started.

    Gunnarstranda nodded politely.

    'We had a man in Ensja - who worked at the warehouse. A man who was with us for as long as I can remember - Jonny.'

    'Jonny - what?'

    'His name is Jonny Stokmo. Something happened a few weeks ago. I don't know what it was. Something happened which led to my father dismissing him on the spot.'

    'He was given the boot?'

    'Jonny had to leave that day, after being employed, well, for years.'

    'So this antagonism is quite recent?'

    'I've no idea. Neither of them would talk about it. But I assume it must have been very serious and very private. Otherwise, I would have known what happened.'

    'Did Stokmo come to you about this?'

    'No.'

    There was a long silence until Jespersen continued: 'That was why I thought this state of affairs - the row - was a private matter, between them. Otherwise I would have known what it was about.'

    'Do you know if Stokmo threatened your father?'

    'No. All I know is that Jonny was standing outside the front door last night.'

    'When?' 'Half an hour before my father came home at seven.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded slowly to himself.

    'Seven p.m.?' Frølich asked with raised pen.

    'Bit later, about a quarter past.'

    'What is Stokmo living off now?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'I don't know… he has a son who runs a kind of workshop in Torshov. He might be working there.'

    Silence fell again. Frank Frølich cleared his throat. He flicked through his notebook. 'You say…' he mumbled. 'You say your father had guests here yesterday. Who were they?'

    'It wasn't a party. It was dinner. We were invited, I mean, me, my wife and the children.'

    'How long were you here?'

    'Well, it began just after seven. My father arrived late, at about a quarter past. We went home at around eleven.'

    'Where had he been until seven in the evening?'

    'In Ensjo, at the office.'

    'Are you sure?'

    'Yes, he was seldom anywhere else.'

    'Did he usually work late?'

    'He was always working.'

    'So it wasn't unusual for him to work late?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'It was neither usual nor unusual. He did work late on occasion. But Ingrid can tell you more about this sort of thing than I can.'

    Gunnarstranda sat staring, in silence. 'Do you stock a lot of weapons in this shop?'

    'A few. And that's one of the most important reasons for having security shutters. Antique weapons are sought-after collectors' items.'

    'What sort of weapons?'

    'A musket, a halberd, a few front-loading revolvers, a variety of edged weapons…'

    'A bayonet?'

    'Two. Why?'

    They were interrupted as a door was thrust open and a patter of feet followed. A small boy came running in. He must have been three or four years old, wearing blue dungarees and a jumper with stains down the front. He came to a sudden halt at the sight of the people around the table, but after a few moments' hesitation marched up to Karsten Jespersen, who stared at him in bewilderment. The boy had blond curls and a round, open face with a runny nose. He stuffed several fingers from his left hand in his mouth as he pressed against his father's knee. 'Grandad's dead,' he told Gunnarstranda.

    'Looks like Susanne has come, too,' Jespersen said in apology and turned to the boy: 'Where's Mummy?'

    The little boy ignored him. He lifted his right arm to shake hands with Gunnarstranda. 'Min,' said the little boy.

    'Benjamin,' Jespersen said, winking at the policeman.

    
'Just
Min,' the boy called Benjamin said, wafting his hand in front of Gunnarstranda again.

    'Show me,' the father said. 'Have you got a coin?' Jespersen's smile was stiff, strained, and he held out an authoritative hand. 'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?' 'Grandad's dead,' the boy repeated, turning to his father with great big, round eyes. 'All dead.'

    'Yes,' Jespersen said, winking conspiratorially at the two policemen. 'Are you going to let Daddy see your coin?'

    The boy shook his head.

    'Are you going to show Daddy?'

    'No,' said the boy.

    'I think we've finished for the time being,' Gunnarstranda said, addressing Frank Frølich.

    'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?'

    'No!' the boy screamed with a voice that cut through the air like the whine of a saw.

    The look in Jespersen's eyes was ominous. 'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?' He made another grab at the little boy's hand.

    'No!' the boy cried with the same piercing scream. 'Daddy's stupid.'

    'The coin!' his father repeated sharply, grabbing the little boy's hand and forcing his fingers open, one by one. The boy struggled. His fingers were white and he was crying. His hand lurched. Something like a brooch or a hatpin shot out of his hand onto the floor.

    'Shhh now,' Jespersen said and was all smiles again. 'It wasn't a coin, was it! It wasn't money!'

    Karsten Jespersen took the badge and held it up in front of Benjamin. It was made of dark metal with an elaborate motif. The boy had stopped crying. He rubbed his eyes.

    The two policemen looked at each other.

    'Give me,' said the boy and made a grab for the badge. The father withdrew his hand as quick as lightning and laughed aloud, making his chin twitch.

    The boy let out another squeal.

    'Take it then,' the father yelled in irritation, giving him the badge.

    The boy burst into a low whine and took it.

    'Shall we go?' Karsten Jespersen said and stood up.

     On the way out Gunnarstranda stopped in front of a large glass cabinet displaying the spines of blue and brown leather-bound books. Jespersen was courteous enough to stop and wait. The little boy ran out through the nearest door.

    Frølich also stood and gazed at a number of small, white figures in a glass case on the wall. At first he thought it was the usual ornaments, but he had a shock when he saw what the figures were doing. It was Chinese and pornographic: men and women embroiled in sexual games, carved with infinite care. But it did not stop there: a woman was enthusiastically copulating with a zebra; another woman was having sex with a turtle. One of the carvings was of two grinning men coiled up and posing as they masturbated each other. The figures left nothing to the imagination and were carved with an intricacy of detail that Frølich had never seen before.

    'My God,' he mumbled.

    Karsten Jespersen sent him a condescending look. 'Collectors' items,' he sighed and added: 'Ivory. One, by the way, is made of rhino horn.'

    'Are they antiques?'

    'Of course.' Jespersen went to the cabinet and pointed to the woman and the turtle. 'That one is a thousand years old.'

    Frankie looked at him. Jespersen was standing with his arms folded on his chest and had an impatient expression on his quivering face.

    'What do these things symbolize?' the policeman asked.

    'I beg your pardon?'

    'The symbolism,' Frank Frølich enquired.

    Jespersen splayed his palms. 'It's art. They don't have any significance.'