Lethal Investments

by Kjell Ola Dahl

Frank smiled. Jotted down ‘ASSHOLE’ in capital letters on his notepad and went on to draw Kilroy behind a wooden fence.

  ‘Reidun Rosendal was employed as a saleswoman?’

  Bregård nodded.

  ‘From what I’ve been told, you sell computer technology?’

  ‘Administrative systems, office solutions.’

  The man pulled a drawer out of his desk and rummaged in it. ‘We’re about to embark on a fairly large expansion programme.’

  The words tumbled out staccato as he searched through the drawer. Finally he lifted out a pile of brochures, passed it to the police officer and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Reidun was part of that, too. Finding distributors and interested parties for the expansion. And of course selling standard services,’ he added, folded his hands in a business-like fashion on the table in front of him.

  Frank flicked aimlessly through the brochures. Colour bar graphs and fine words about profitability. The moustachioed face of the man before him smiled up at him from the glossy middle-page spread. Nice pic. The policeman compared the photograph with the man on the other side of the table. The ring in his ear was not visible in the photograph. And he was more formally dressed than in real life. The picture revealed a classic office worker in a white shirt, tie and grey jacket. The same glasses as now. The Finance Manager was giving a thumbs-up the way Allied pilots did during the Second World War. ‘Trust me’ the speech bubble above his head said.

  ‘Did anyone else work in the sales department other than Reidun?’

  ‘Svennebye, our Head of Marketing. And me.’

  He opened his palms wide. ‘We’re a small enterprise, lots of overlapping. Engelsviken, the manager here, also does sales work if he has time.’

  ‘How many employees are there?’

  ‘In all, five; sorry, four. There were five of us with Reidun.’

  The policeman picked up the brochures. ‘So the company is planning to grow?’

  ‘It will become very big,’ Bregård corrected immodestly. ‘We’re in the process of acquiring new distributors all over the country in fact.’

  ‘Anything home-grown?’

  ‘No, we have a foreign agency.’

  He tilted back in the chair. Spread his fingers and lightly tapped tips against each other. ‘It’s all in the name. Software Partners. The company has been built on that concept and will grow by linking up with joint venture collaborators.’

  Frank nodded. ‘With regard to Reidun . . .’

  Bregård waited, composed.

  ‘Do you know a restaurant called Scarlet?’

  Bregård’s eyes went walkabout. He leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the desk. Stroked his moustache.

  ‘Scarlet?’ Ran the name over his tongue. ‘Yes . . . indeed . . . in fact I’ve been there.’

  ‘Long time ago?’

  ‘Probably a few weeks back.’

  ‘You weren’t there last Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you on Saturday?’

  ‘At home.’

  The detective allowed the silence to linger, then said:

  ‘Can anyone confirm that?’

  ‘In fact, I spent Saturday evening on my own!’

  ‘Watching TV?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There’s just crap on the box, isn’t there,’ Frank posited, testing for a reaction. ‘I never watch TV, either. I tie flies.’

  The Finance Manager stared across the desk, without making a comment.

  ‘When I tie flies I listen to the radio.’ The detective scribbled on his pad. ‘Lots of good music on a fair number of stations. Much better than tired TV family entertainment. Don’t you think?’

  Indulgent smile from Bregård. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘You weren’t listening to the radio on Saturday by any chance, were you?’

  The smile vanished. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Married?’

  The man shook his head.

  Frank stretched out his legs and slipped off his worn-out boots. A faint aroma of stale socks filled the room. Bregård’s face went stiff. Frank followed the man’s eyes and identified a hole in the toe of one sock. A bony little toe poked out, inhaling fresh air. He splayed his toes. Made a mental note that he ought to cut his toenails.

  ‘Girlfriend?’ he asked.

  The man didn’t understand.

  Frank sighed. ‘I asked if you had a girlfriend!’

  ‘No,’ he answered with irritation.

  ‘What were you actually doing on Saturday, Bregård?’

  ‘I was at home!’

  Face of rebuttal. ‘I didn’t watch TV, didn’t listen to the radio. I went to bed early.’

  Frølich nodded.

  ‘Went to bed early because I had to be up early on Sunday.’

  The detective frowned, one raised eyebrow.

  ‘For a long walk through the fields.’

  ‘Isn’t it too wet underfoot now?’

  ‘It’s wet, but I go anyway.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Alone,’ Bregård stated with a nod.

  ‘Often?’

  ‘Yes, often.’

  Frank eyed him. Tanned features. Muscles. Wouldn’t be unusual to meet this guy in the forest. Not at all. Just a change of clothes. A thick jumper instead of the white cotton shirt, green walking trousers instead of fashionable jeans. Walking boots and thick socks. Yep, the guy probably was the outdoor type. Whether he had been hiking on the Sunday morning in question was quite another matter. Frank decided to change the topic:

  ‘Did you know her well? Reidun, that is.’

  Bregård hummed and hawed.

  ‘You worked together for six months,’ Frølich pressed. ‘Did you get to know her?’

  ‘A bit.’

  The guy was in two minds about something.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, heaving a resigned sigh. Fidgeted uneasily and placed his hands on the desk. ‘This is too awful!’

  He got to his feet, walked over to the window and stared out. Broad shoulders, slim waist and unusually powerful thighs.

  ‘On Friday she was here with us!’

  He said something else that was drowned in an intense grimace. His facial expression was reminiscent of a character from a TV drama. Hands clenching and unclenching in an over-animated fashion. Emotional toss of his head at the same time. There was something over the top about all of this. Something feigned that was uncomfortable to watch.

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Friday afternoon. I invited her out, but there must have been a problem.’

  The detective waited. But the man was keeping the rest to himself.

  ‘So you two had been out together before?’

  ‘On occasion.’

  ‘Were you a couple?’

  ‘A couple?’

  The guy turned, scented something. Frank took a deep breath and returned a cold stare. ‘Have you been with her?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Have you been to bed with her, shall we say?’

  The man returned to his chair and sat down. Surly now. ‘Yes, I have slept with her.’

  Dismissive expression.

  ‘Did you often sleep with her?’

  ‘You’ve got what you wanted now, for Christ’s sake! Do you want to know how long we were at it as well?’

  Love and Geography, Frank thought. The Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson play in which a man is forever fussing around and yelling about his maps while neglecting his family.

  ‘Was it a relationship?’ he asked in a friendly tone.

  ‘No! We were not in a relationship.’

  ‘So it’s a while since you last slept together?’

  Bregård didn’t answer.

  ‘Or could you just ring and order a quickie when it was convenient?’

  Bregård slowly removed his glasses. His fingers were not trembling. But he looked daggers across the table. ‘You can count yourself lucky you’re here on offi
cial business. Otherwise I would . . .’

  ‘Oh, right!’

  Frank shrugged his comment aside and lifted his notepad to remind the man what they were doing. He went on: ‘When you asked if she wanted to join you on Friday, and she turned you down, do you think she had another date?’

  ‘You mean, was there someone else?’

  He had calmed down. Swivelled round on the chair and stared thoughtfully at the wall where the woman with the hair was still trying to roll up her fishnet stockings. She was standing with her back half turned to the camera. And a silver tanga up her ass like a thread. The head with all that hair faced the photographer and she was pursing her lips into a kiss.

  Bregård had fallen into a reverie. ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘She didn’t have another date.’

  The detective held his gaze. ‘In other words, she was keeping you at a distance?’

  Bregård formed his mouth into a resigned smile. Didn’t answer.

  ‘What was she like?’

  The smile dissolved. His eyes were two black dots.

  ‘You mean, was she hot?’

  The detective paused, waited. The idiot wasn’t finished yet. His face was agitated. He gripped the desk with white knuckles.

  ‘She liked it from behind,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you take a wander down to the red-light area and buy yourself a bit of skirt? That would be a lot better than taking notes on what others get up to!’

  Frank felt his lips moving into a patient smile. ‘When Reidun Rosendal was not being taken from behind, or the front, but was working here with you, what did she like? What was she like as a person?’

  ‘Clothes,’ the man suggested mechanically. The outburst was over. Bregård was caught in the same melancholy as a moment before. He stared dreamily into middle distance again. ‘I think she loved clothes . . . and her dog. Of course she couldn’t keep it in her bed-sit, so it was at her mother’s place, in Vestland. By the way, she always talked about her home area, the south-west coast.’

  ‘Wasn’t she happy in Oslo?’

  ‘I think she was happy enough. It was just the way she was.’

  He snapped his fingers to find a suitable description. ‘She was . . . herself!’

  He was satisfied. ‘She was herself,’ he repeated with a nod.

  ‘You said she loved clothes, what was her style?’

  ‘No special style.’

  He breathed in. ‘All-rounder. If you get my drift. She could wear anything. One day she looked like a schoolgirl, the next she wiggled her hips like a jailbird’s dream. She . . . I suppose that was what made her a bit special, maybe.’

  Jailbird, he jotted that down and looked up. ‘Yes?’

  Bregård was gazing into space. No more putting on an act. ‘She was . . . no,’ he broke off. ‘It just sounds so flat in retrospect.’

  Frank Frølich waited, but the man had dried up. His profile was pale and somewhat featureless. One of the bristles in his moustache had dislodged itself and was wedged between his lips, which were thin and bloodless.

  ‘Who did she have most contact with here?’

  ‘Sonja.’

  The man with the moustache swivelled back and gave a resigned sigh. ‘Sonja Hager. She’ll be here soon.’

  Frank pulled his boots back on. Taking his time. Tying them up, tight. Stood up. Bregård was still seated and rocking his chair. His mind elsewhere. Frank left. Turned in the doorway. Bregård was absentmindedly rolling a biro between his fingers.

  ‘If you should think of something that might be helpful,’ the detective said in a friendly tone of voice, ‘get in touch with us.’

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just about-faced and went back to the large room with the lift doors.

  10

  Lisa Stenersen’s face was smooth and girlish. Nevertheless, now that she was wearing her outdoor clothes, her age came clearly to the fore. She had thrown a padded cloak over her shoulders. That, and two flat, slipper-like shoes, made her look like a revue act. All that was missing was a flower in her hat. She seemed shy now. Glanced nervously at her watch as soon as he appeared. An anxious smile on her face as she fidgeted with a piece of paper.

  ‘Is this an inconvenient moment?’ he asked, to be obliging.

  She blushed. ‘Not at all!’

  Ran her eyes down her clothes, bewildered, down the cloak, and her face went even redder.

  At that moment the telephone rang. She hurried over to one of the desks in the middle of the room. Grabbed the receiver while Frank sprawled on the sofa immediately behind her. Gazing at the window to study her reflection there.

  ‘No, I’m afraid he hasn’t been in today,’ she said formally and was about to ring off. But she didn’t get that far.

  ‘What’s that?’ she exclaimed in a loud falsetto voice, suddenly engaged, pacing up and down, ill at ease as there wasn’t a chair close by. ‘Yes, I see, yes, of course.’

  At the start of the conversation the well-rehearsed phrases streamed out in a relatively sincere way. However, the sincerity waned as time passed. And the more she writhed, the clearer it became that she was having difficulty bringing the exchange to a close.

  After finally cradling the receiver, still disconcerted, she stood biting a nail and convulsively clenching her other hand. It looked as if she had a problem.

  ‘You’re going to be late after all,’ Frank remarked.

  She released the nail, and chewed her lower lip instead. ‘I suppose I will.’

  ‘Who were you talking to?’ he asked, feeling no shame at exhibiting his curiosity.

  ‘Egil Svennebye’s wife. He’s the Marketing Manager here.’

  She perched stiffly on the edge of the seat some way from him.

  ‘She’s worried. It seems he didn’t go home last night. She claims he’s gone missing.’

  Eyes downcast, she smiled. Frank Frølich waited for her to look at him. ‘Has she reported it to the police?’

  Lisa shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t suppose she wants to get the police involved.’

  ‘But she did sound pretty alarmed, didn’t she?’

  ‘She was alarmed, yes,’ Lisa confirmed, lost in thought. ‘Perhaps you could talk to her?’

  Frank met her eyes. ‘We can’t do much unless she wants us to.’

  ‘But it might calm her nerves,’ Lisa countered with optimism. The paper she had been fidgeting with was crushed into a tiny ball in one hand. ‘She seemed . . . frightened!’

  Frank nodded. ‘Of course we would very much like a chat with her husband as he works here,’ he said reassuringly. ‘So I can pop by his house, can’t I.’

  She brightened up a bit.

  Frank hastened to change the topic. ‘You used to work with Reidun Rosendal, didn’t you?’

  The woman threw a swift glance at her watch. ‘Not so much. Reidun was out a lot, visiting customers. I deal mostly with correspondence and so on.’

  ‘But you got to know her a little?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  She shuddered. Pinched her eyes shut. ‘Was . . . was she tortured?’ she asked, full of apprehension.

  Frank looked her in the face. ‘We don’t know.’

  Lisa Stenersen folded her hands in her lap, mumbled something with her eyes closed. A gold crucifix hung from a chain against her throat.

  ‘She was great,’ she said in the end.

  ‘You mean attractive?’

  ‘Mm, lovely hair, nice figure . . .’

  Frank lifted a finger and tapped his temple.

  ‘What about here?’

  ‘Don’t know.’ Lisa Stenersen smiled. ‘Doubt if she was lacking in that department either, but . . . she hid.’

  The woman in the padded cloak stared at the floor. ‘There are some people you can never quite fathom, or so it seems!’

  With more emotion: ‘Who look at you the way people on TV look at you. What they say is clear enough but you never know if it’s you they are addressing.’

  Frank nodded slowl
y. Lisa Stenersen could have been a member of his mother’s sewing circle. So, it was easy to imagine how Reidun’s words had fallen on stony ground whenever she spoke to her.

  He observed her big hair, registered the roll of women’s magazines beside the brown handbag on her desk. The wedding ring that had become buried in the flesh of her ruddy finger. Lisa Stenersen, a representative of the silent army that knows all about meringues, birthday cakes, England’s dismal royal family and how to grow Christmas begonias from cuttings. An age gap of at least thirty years from Reidun Rosendal. A gap that did not necessarily mean much in some cases, but did bear some significance here.

  Lisa Stenersen squirmed under his gaze and looked away.

  ‘That would suggest she wasn’t that stupid,’ he ventured.

  She paused.

  ‘Did she have lots of suitors?’

  ‘Don’t know. There was no talk of a steady boyfriend at any rate. She and Bregård used to josh around. But that was the tone with her, if you see what I mean. Reidun was probably used to a bit of all sorts, flirting and so on.’

  The latter was followed by bashful laughter. She added: ‘There was always a frivolous atmosphere around her.’

  ‘You two were not very close then?’

  ‘No, we weren’t.’

  ‘Do you know who she was closest to here?’

  ‘Kristin Sommerstedt.’

  ‘She doesn’t work with us,’ she added with alacrity. ‘But I’m sure you saw her in reception.’

  He remembered the receptionist with the birthmark under her lip.

  ‘I think they had a lot in common,’ she said and peeped at her watch again. ‘Do you think . . . ?’

  ‘Yes, no problem at all,’ he assured her amiably. ‘That’s fine. We’ll be in contact if there is anything.’

  ‘I’m happy to go to the police station,’ she declared, grabbing the roll of magazines and her handbag from the desk. Glanced at her watch. ‘It’s just that I . . .’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Frank repeated patiently, accompanying her to the lift. ‘Aren’t you coming . . . ?’ she asked, at sixes and sevens when he made no attempt to join her.

  He didn’t answer. Just gave a reassuring smile and let the doors close behind her.

  11

  Frank walked slowly around the room. A frugally furnished office. Desk and various items of office equipment. Just one niche for meetings, two sofas and a couple of good chairs assembled around a table, broke the impression of workplace. Quite a large archive partition closed off the meeting area.