Gunnarstranda sat down again. ‘Why is the cabinet always locked?’ he asked.
‘Don’t ask me. I didn’t have permission to use the cabinet. All the filing went through Sonja Hager. If I needed any material it had to be ordered in good time via her. The fusspot!’
He sighed, ruminated. ‘Nope,’ he continued. ‘Sonja’s all right, too. But she should have dealt with her husband. That’s perhaps the nub of the matter. She pranced around dispensing vacuous phrases. I was fed up with her.
‘I suppose she deserves some sympathy,’ he added without much generosity in his voice. ‘The husband hits the town every single weekend while she stays at home. Reigning from the hill like a queen, with her house help.’
‘Servant?’
‘Yes. A young Filipina or Thai poppet who helps Sonja to wash, tidy and cook.’
A quiet grin spread across his cracked lips. ‘The woman’s a laughing stock!’
Gunnarstranda watched him release a sequence of small smoke rings from his mouth.
A laughing stock, he mused, and asked:
‘Have you got anything specific in mind when you say she’s a laughing stock?’
Svennebye grinned again. ‘No, in fact, now that you’re asking me she has always seemed a laughing stock to me. Pathetic. Stupid. Don’t ask me why.’
Gunnarstranda changed subject: ‘How did Bregård get on after your trip?’
Svennebye shrugged. ‘Think he calmed down. He’d got it out of his system. Sent her the goo-goo look whenever she flashed her legs.’
He chuckled. ‘And that was not so infrequent.’
‘Bregård’s a bit of a hothead, is he?’
The man considered that. ‘Can’t really say he is. He’s a great guy, head mostly full of hunting and sport. I saw him lose control that one time, but he had a hangover.’
‘I’ve heard he drives around with a rifle in the ski box on top of his car.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Why does he do that?’
‘He goes off into the country after work, shooting wood pigeons and crows. Hoping to hit a grouse or a hare.’
‘What do you think about that?’
Svennebye took his time to answer. ‘Lots of people are like that, aren’t they? Hunting and outdoor freaks.’
‘But this rifle’s in the car ski box the whole time.’
The man nodded.
‘Is the box locked?’
‘No idea. In fact, I’ve never given it a moment’s thought. That’s just the way Bregård is. He’s got a rifle on the car roof. He’s always going on about his nature experiences. Sunsets and coffee round the campfire. That sort of thing.’
The inspector leaned back in his chair, watching the man withdraw into himself, his head bowed. Svennebye was struggling with a problem. When, at last, he raised his head, his eyes were hard and implacable. ‘Now I’ll tell you something that ought to interest you preservers of law and order,’ he announced. ‘After we returned from London I was tasked with making a catalogue for a product I do not begin to understand.’
He left an eloquent pause, then continued: ‘The others partied for days over there.’
The man tapped a white index finger on his chest. ‘I went to the fair. Not the others. Yet Engelsviken claimed afterwards he had returned with a contract!’
The finger tapped faster. ‘I’m the Marketing Manager! The person responsible for sales. And Engelsviken demanded that I sell this concept of his in a brochure to be distributed country-wide. But he didn’t bloody tell me what it was based on. He just gave me a load of computer chit-chat I didn’t understand. As a result I couldn’t sell the products properly in the catalogue, either. So I wrote a lot of meaningless twaddle.’
The finger came to a rest in the man’s pocket, then he leaned across the table and formed his sore lips into a smirk. ‘For seven weeks Reidun Rosendal and Engelsviken and Bregård went around selling something they didn’t understand.’
‘Which means what exactly?’ the policeman snapped.
Svennebye smirked again. His dry lips had cracked in several places and now he was licking blood off his top lip.
‘Just what I say.’
‘But some people have actually invested!’
‘Possibly. I don’t know. But have you seen a registered trade mark anywhere?’
‘No,’ Gunnarstranda was forced to concede. Reclining, sunk in thought. Intake of breath. ‘I’ve read a lot of fancy words.’
‘I wrote those words.’
The inspector studied him, watched him smoking, but he didn’t pursue the matter.
‘From now on Software Partners don’t have a Marketing Manager. Since Reidun’s dead, officially they don’t have any sales staff, either,’ Svennebye continued. ‘But I doubt that will stop them selling. It’s the emperor’s new clothes.’
They sat in silence for a while. Until the policeman pulled out the drawer and switched off the tape recorder. ‘Now I just need your signature on this,’ he said, still lost in thought, and got up. ‘Not much more and you can go.’
32
It was early morning. Gunnarstranda had got up at half past six. In the usual sequence he had quickly devoured his portion of porridge, drunk two glasses of skimmed milk and consumed half a jug of hot coffee. Now he was sitting in a taxi on his way to Kampen, a suburb of Oslo. The driver’s tongue was going nineteen to the dozen. They had been through the whole repertoire. From the Olympic Winter Sports committee in Lillehammer to the Government, EU opposition in the Centre Party to the old dears who hadn’t twigged that they should be lying in bed gasping for air instead of trying to cross Vogtsgate on green.
Not that the police inspector cared. He just stared out of the window with his mind elsewhere.
Gunnarstranda asked the driver to pull over by the church in Kampen main square. He wanted to walk the last few metres. It was still early. Gunnarstranda liked the sleepy tranquillity that settled over the timber houses in Kampen. He liked to walk there, to breathe in the idyll of brightly coloured houses and the wooden fences that enclosed small gardens. An article he had read about Oslo came to mind as he strolled down towards the blocks of flats in Kjølberggata. It had been written by some dusty bureaucrat whose considered opinion was that it was possible to influence politicians’ decisions with sensible discussion. At any rate, the main gist was that Oslo’s most striking hallmark was its painted houses. Gunnarstranda had to concede the bright spark was right. Kampen was like a bouquet of flowers, even in April before the grass had turned green.
He was soon at his destination. Ambled in through the gate. The Skoda was nowhere to be seen. But there was a strong smell of paint coming from the yard. And shrill whining sounds from the garage. He walked round the garage and opened the little door at the back where the padlock hung open.
It wasn’t possible to see anything clearly. The outline of a light blue van could be glimpsed through a grey mist of paint and solvents. Something moved in the mist. Soon a black, oil-stained face appeared. The man bared a row of white teeth. Gunder.
‘Come in,’ he bawled.
The policeman instinctively retreated. Stepped back over the half-metre-high threshold and into the open air.
‘You can’t go in there without a mask,’ he gasped to the man who followed him out. The same friendly smile. Gunder’s eyes were large and white. Four flat wrinkles bedecked his forehead.
‘It’s the purest mountain air in there now,’ he claimed. ‘You should have been here an hour ago, then you might have had to cut your way through the fog!’
They stood in the yard, outside the garage with the crooked walls and corrugated tin roof that threatened to collapse.
Gunnarstranda said nothing and held out a lighter flame. The mechanic had poked a recycled dog-end the size of a fingernail between his lips and managed masterfully to light it without burning himself. They trudged through the yard and on to the dark drive. Gunder led the way. The man’s two worn-down black clogs hastened across the tarmac with
a clatter. Round the street corner and across to the white Skoda parked by the kerb.
‘I changed the distributor cap because it was knackered. Changed the pins, the fan belt, plugs and two plug cables.’
The man was speaking with the dog-end glued to his lower lip.
‘The car’s only three years old!’ the policeman protested with his arms outstretched.
The mechanic in the stained overalls responded with a kindly look.
‘Three years?’ He motioned towards the Skoda. ‘You have to count the age of this crate in dog-years.’
Gunnarstranda scowled. ‘Is it all right?’
‘Now it is.’
‘How much?’
‘Invoice?’
Gunnarstranda frowned at Oil-Face, who was now sporting five wrinkles. Something was going on inside.
‘It’s all tied up with VAT.’
‘Tell me how much!’ Gunnarstranda remonstrated.
Oil-Face examined his hands. ‘Wouldn’t have been much of an invoice anyway,’ he sighed. ‘Six hundred!’
The policeman rolled back his shoulders and stuck a hand in his inside pocket. Took six hundred-krone notes from his wallet.
Oil-Face produced a friendly smile. ‘Bit of body rust,’ he said, stuffing the notes into the back pocket of his overalls. ‘Round the door handle.’
Gunnarstranda accepted the car key without a word.
‘I do body work as well,’ Oil-Face informed him.
The police inspector turned and went towards the car.
Oil-Face smiled and wandered back to the garage. ‘Just give me a buzz,’ he shouted as he rounded the corner. The car started with a roar. Gunnarstranda smiled with satisfaction, manoeuvred the car away from the kerb and drove a few metres. Stopped and got out. The engine was purring like a cat. He opened the rear bonnet. Perfect. New cables. New distributor cap. He was happy. Straightened up and closed the bonnet. Searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one, found the lighter, glanced up in the air and froze. Filthy windows with white lettering. Talk about a coincidence. Every other pane. SOLICITOR written on the glass. Wall. The name BRICK written in white letters. Wall, and then SOLICITOR again.
He switched off the ignition. Closed the door and strode across the street and into the gateway. Nice back garden. Evergreen thuja bushes in a tidy flowerbed. Table for scoffing packed lunch in a corner. Brass name plate. Perfect. Etched with acid into the metal: Brick, Solicitor. So this was where Engelsviken’s business manager lived.
The inspector stood and considered. Finally made up his mind. Turned and sauntered back to his car.
33
It was Friday morning. The car was fixed. But there would not be a trip to the cabin this weekend, either. Nor next weekend probably. Nor the weekend after that, probably. It didn’t bear thinking about. He just got irritated. Somewhere further east, over Sweden, there was grey cloud cover. It would bring rain in the course of the day, according to the weather forecast on the news last night. On the desk lay Marketing Manager Svennebye’s statement. The man who didn’t know what his employer was selling. The man who didn’t know how the company could sell anything at all. Because his superior had not done any business deals when they should have done.
Gunnarstranda was smoking. The ash fluttered down on to a glitzy brochure from the same company. The brochure in which an ex-bully boy, convicted for having beaten up a businessman in Hovseter, was enticing potential investors with large capital returns. Trust Software Partners, it said, pay with ready cash. Money in the bank for whom? A group of unknown shareholders? Or Terje Engelsviken? The bankruptcy king with a hungry wallet and a dubious reputation?
The inspector had lots of questions he would like to ask the solicitor with the brass name plate in Kampen. But he wasn’t ready yet. And he may not be the right man to ask them. This might be better left to someone else.
Gunnarstranda blew the ash off Bregård’s face, crushed the cigarette in the ashtray, picked up the phone and dialled a number.
‘Davestuen,’ a voice said, chewing something.
‘Gunnarstranda.’
‘Ah, right,’ the voice continued to chew. Gunnarstranda was irked, gave a measured cough. ‘Software Partners.’
‘Guessed as much.’
Davestuen was still chewing. Slow, wet mastication, like a child playing in mud.
‘Got anything?’
‘Well . . .’
Gunnarstranda put the receiver under his chin to hunt for another cigarette. ‘You’re having breakfast, are you?’ he asked in calibrated courteous tones.
‘Nope,’ Reier said, smacking his lips. ‘I’m coming to terms with withdrawal symptoms. We’ve got a pretty thick file on this Engelsviken.’ He munched on, unruffled.
Gunnarstranda nodded. Wondered about the withdrawal symptoms but let the subject go.
‘Dropped cases,’ Reier slurped. ‘Creditors who have reported the guy for fraud. They reckon that before and during the bankruptcy he was trading with the money owned by companies he headed up.’
Gunnarstranda grunted. ‘What have you got in your gob?’
‘Nicotine.’
The frown on Gunnarstranda’s forehead deepened. Hoping the man would stop. But Davestuen chewed on:
‘Engelsviken emptied the coffers before the bankruptcy, you see? All the cases were dropped for lack of evidence. Everything ended up in a row over dates. Engelsviken could vouch for things having been sold well before legally set deadlines. There’s a pattern here that reeks of hanky-panky, if you want my opinion.’
Gunnarstranda grunted again. He had finally found the cigarette he had been hunting for.
‘But this case is different. Now his firm, which he has called Software Partners, wants to increase the share capital.’
Davestuen went quiet. Gunnarstranda could hear his big hands fumbling with the receiver. The sound of squelching sludge returned.
‘But, you know, this solicitor of theirs, this Brick, has devised a new trick to raise capital. And this is actually a trifle complicated.’
‘How can you eat nicotine?’
‘In chewing gum. Flat bugger. Pretty hard and it does not taste good.’ Davestuen chuckled. ‘Modern chewing tobacco. You remember the old fellas cycling up Markveien with half a bottle of vodka in their back pockets and two slimy rivulets of tobacco dribbling down their chins?’
Gunnarstranda nodded. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled, disorientated, scanning the desk for his lighter.
Davestuen cleared his throat. ‘Now they make chewing gum instead, supposed to satisfy the craving for nicotine. We’re thinking about the environment here, you know.’
‘Right . . .’
‘Protecting the environment!’
‘Yes, yes, but we were talking about the tricks Engelsviken and Co. are getting up to!’
‘OK. Instead of borrowing money, Software Partners go out and ask small businesses to become co-owners, thus increasing their share capital, which in itself ought to be fine. However, it happens in a rather odd way.’
‘Oh?’
Gunnarstranda registered the mounting silence.
‘Great,’ Davestuen burst out. ‘Finished chewing that crap. Anyway, this financing is distinctly fishy.’
He explained: ‘The way Software Partners acquires capital is not strictly legal. The shares are sold in tranches with a minimum cash investment of something like a hundred thousand and no one sanctions the arrangement. Furthermore, the new owners do not have the usual say in the company because the shares they have bought are B-shares, which provide limited rights. All they receive is a dividend and a kind of entitlement to sell the company’s products.’
Gunnarstranda listened patiently. Familiar ground. The shop-owner Frølich had spoken to in Rådhusgata had banged on about a minimum investment. He had seen some advantages to being able to sell Software Partner products. Gunnarstranda lit up.
‘Legally speaking a grey area,’ his colleague went on. ‘Since parts of this arrangement are not c
overed in law. This solicitor, Brick, maintains therefore that the potentially obstructive regulations stipulated by the securities law are no longer valid.’
Davestuen paused for a while, coughed again, emitted a sneeze accompanied by tiny chewing sounds. ‘On the other hand, there could be big money in this, as the minimum investment is a hundred thousand. Ten takers would give you a million. Think what fifty would mean, or for that matter a hundred!’
He coughed louder. ‘And it’s this financial side that I think could be the most interesting for us.’
‘Oh?’
The voice in the receiver was lost in a paroxysm of coughing. ‘Christ, this nicotine shit does something to your throat!’
Gunnarstranda stared at the receiver. Bloody hell, there was no end to this man’s physical noises. He blew the ash off the cigarette glow. Took another puff and patiently burned a ring of black scorch marks on the paper around the photograph of ex-bully boy Bregård to pass the time.
Davestuen was back. ‘You see, the money isn’t paid into Software Partners but to a finance company called Partner Finance.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked Gunnarstranda.
‘The problem is that no one can say who owns Partner Finance. So no one knows what happens to the money that has been paid in. What’s even more peculiar is that it transpires that this company has given its address as Guernsey, a so-called tax haven.’
The faint smell of scorched paper merged with the aroma of tobacco in Gunnarstranda’s nostrils. Bregård’s halo of burn marks was half-finished. ‘But this is probably not illegal, is it,’ he said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ Davestuen agreed and explained. The point was that no one he had contacted in the finance market knew about Partner Finance. It was peculiar, to put it mildly. Alarm bells were ringing. The bells that presaged fraud. But to establish whether something illegal had really taken place, more investigation was required.
Gunnarstranda chewed his cheek.
‘For the moment someone is acquiring capital for a firm,’ Reier continued. ‘The new co-owners can sell a new product and everything looks hunky-dory.’
Lethal Investments Page 17
