Lethal Investments

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Nothing!’

  Bloody hell. Is that what he’d rung to say?

  ‘Afterwards we went to Eva-Britt’s place, the friend I was with at Scarlet, you remember, she lives in a collective with, among others, Gunder who repaired your car.’

  ‘Get to the point. I’m not in a good mood!’

  ‘They live in this house by Gunder’s workshop, roughly where you noticed Brick’s office. That solicitor.’

  ‘To the point!’

  ‘I saw a young fella coming out. And after him a woman, a secretary. She ran out waving a piece of paper. Shouting his name: Joachim Bjerke.’

  Gunnarstranda’s brain jerked into action.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘The woman wanted to give him this bit of paper, but he wouldn’t take it. Just jumped into a fat BMW and shot off burning rubber. Could this be the Bjerke you’ve met?’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Round thirty-five. One metre eighty, more or less. Slim. Prim features with a straight nose, piercing eyes and long fringe. Layered hair at the back. Made to measure, blue coat. Hollow back. Drives a dark blue BMW 528.’

  ‘That’s him,’ croaked Gunnarstranda, had to clear his throat to make his voice carry. A deep furrow was dissecting his forehead.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you.’

  ‘Good work, Frølich. You have no idea how damned good! Where are you?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘OK. I’ll ring if there is anything.’

  He rang off and sat for a few seconds staring into middle distance. Then got up. Walked slowly like a somnambulant to the hat shelf, to the coat rack. Removed his wallet. Opened it. Searched. Fingers trembling. He cursed. Wallet crammed with paper, old receipts, stamps and shopping lists. Where the hell was it? There. Red edge. Yellow and red writing. The business card he had been given by Joachim Bjerke, the self-important shit, Reidun Rosendal’s neighbour. He read aloud: ‘Ludo.’

  Stopped. Eyes rose. ‘Ludo?’

  He read the line underneath: Finance. Audits . . . Joachim Bjerke . . . Manager.

  Lingered for a moment flicking a corner of the card.

  Turned slowly. Made a beeline for the shelf above his desk. Pulled out a box file marked Reidun Rosendal, moistened his index finger and slowly leafed through, sheet by sheet. Reports and appendices. He knew what he wanted. The pile to the left was becoming fatter. At last. Not any old sheet, but greyish photocopy paper folded several times. Stuffed into his wallet the first time he was in the courthouse and had been overcome by hunger after sifting through paper for hours.

  A list of Software Partners’ legal adversaries for last year. Seven names. But only one name shone up at him. The fourth. Scribbled in blue biro.

  A/S Ludo.

  Beside a small hand-drawn square. The square that indicated this was the company which had withdrawn its lawsuit against Software Partners.

  He studied the list. Could feel himself smiling. The last piece. The picture was beginning to take shape. He sat down and stared out of the window, puzzled. A hazy grey veil shrouded the night sky. Why was Joachim Bjerke in conflict with Software Partners? Why had he kept this quiet from the police? And why had he withdrawn proceedings against Software Partners?’

  After a while he fought to lift both legs on to the desk and lit a cigarette. Smoked and considered three questions, without coming to an answer. There was only one thing to do: visit Joachim and ask him. Gunnarstranda looked at his watch. No reason for his conscience to bother him. In a way he had promised them he would be returning.

  45

  Her face seemed to fill with fear as she opened the door and recognized him.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ said Gunnarstranda.

  She didn’t reciprocate.

  ‘We often pay people a second visit,’ he reassured her in a pleasant voice.

  The reassurance did nothing to soothe her nerves. She stood there, her fingers fidgeting with the door handle.

  ‘I’d like to have a few words with your husband.’

  She didn’t react at once, her eyes roamed. The little boy appeared at ground level. Hanging on to her leg. Nappy on his bottom and dummy in his mouth, wearing light blue pyjamas. Mother in short, pink skirt over thick, dark tights that crackled like electricity as the boy pulled at her leg. She was attractive.

  ‘Isn’t he at home?’

  She collected herself. Tossed her hair, which was tied up in a thick side plait with a pink ribbon. ‘Yes, he is,’ she admitted after some hesitation, opened the door wide and let him pass.

  The sound of a television could be heard from inside the flat.

  He took his time hanging up his coat, let her go ahead and warn him. The sound of the TV was gone and he heard her manoeuvring the child to a room where the voices became a faint drone. A mother reading to her son.

  The detective straightened his jacket and his sparse hair before entering. Joachim Bjerke was on his feet and waiting between the leather sofa and the table.

  ‘You’ve made no progress, I understand!’

  Sarcastic tone, like last time.

  ‘Well?’

  The detective didn’t answer at once. Caught himself instinctively checking his watch, smiled at his ingrained mannerism. ‘We’ve made some progress.’

  He sat down on the sofa unbidden. Leaned back and crossed his legs, relaxed and looked around. Confirmed the flat was as tidy as before, even though three people lived here. Noticed a few property brochures fanned out on the table. Nodded towards them. ‘Thinking of moving?’

  Bjerke ignored the question, sat down but fortified himself with the same armour.

  ‘Let’s get to the point, shall we,’ he said coolly.

  As arrogant as ever, you horse’s asshole, the policeman thought, and adopted his nicest smile.

  ‘This is about the legal disagreement between yourself and Software Partners.’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  ‘You knew where Reidun worked, I take it?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Yet you didn’t mention the row you were having with her boss?’

  ‘Why would it occur to me that this wrangle could be of any significance to your investigation? Reidun Rosendal was a low-level employee. The lawsuit was withdrawn anyway.’

  Gunnarstranda blinked with his heavy eyelids. ‘I can assure you that it has some significance for our investigation,’ he declared. ‘But it’s not the most important matter. The point is that you should have been more co-operative. You should have told us about this relationship whether asked or not.’

  ‘Are you saying I’m not co-operative?’

  ‘You are worse than that. You are working against the investigation.’

  Bjerke let the answer sink in; something occurred to him that occasioned a condescending smile. ‘You’ve come here unannounced late on a Sunday night. Are you harassing me?’ His smile died and he went on: ‘Yes, I instituted legal proceedings against SP.’

  SP! Gunnarstranda swallowed the familiarity. Stared across the table and listened to the young upstart say the proceedings had been withdrawn and that therefore the matter was closed.

  Bjerke had risen to his feet and gestured.

  ‘So now you have what you wanted. Was there anything else?’

  Towering above the detective, he held his hand open in an arrogant gesture of showing him the door.

  Gunnarstranda wondered for an instant whether the man was as stupid as he made himself out to be. Leaned back to study the bumptious sod closer. Observed the severe wrinkle in the man’s young skin. The pursed lips. Nope. He was not stupid. Just a sack of unusually well fermented shit. This conclusion gave him cause to relish what was to come. ‘You might know there has been a burglary in the flat below,’ he said.

  ‘In fact, I did. Friday night. I rang and reported it. If you had been doing your job you would have known. You would also have known that I have alre
ady been involved in this matter enough as it is.’

  ‘You should not entertain such a poor opinion of us, Bjerke.’

  The man sat down again, sighed. ‘Do we have to go through the rigmarole once again? May I point out that I wasted two hours last time? Because I reported it. But do you imagine anyone came when I rang? No, you choose to come while people are asleep! Early in the morning, before anyone in the building has got out of bed!’

  He heaved a sigh of despair. ‘Two brainless clods from the police came. And wrote down every word I said.’

  ‘How did you know there had been a burglary?’

  ‘As I said, I have made a statement.’ He made a show of looking at his watch. ‘So if the burglary is what’s on your mind perhaps we should discuss it more when you’ve had a chance to brief yourself on the case?’

  ‘You have such a poor opinion of us, Bjerke.’

  ‘Do you know what the time is?’

  Gunnarstranda blinked. ‘How did you know there had been a burglary?’

  ‘Would it be quicker if I told you?’

  ‘How did you know there had been a burglary?’

  ‘I saw the marks.’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw that someone had forced the door to the flat.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘I saw the gate as well, of course! But let’s drop this. I can’t see the point. As I said, two uniformed policemen have been here and they took a statement. I told them everything. It would have saved the taxpayer a few kroner if you had briefed yourself beforehand.’

  The policeman ignored the comment. Ploughed on regardless. ‘There are a couple of things about the burglary that strike me as odd. You see, the door to the flat was broken with a small crowbar while the gate lock was smashed with a sledgehammer or a rock.’

  ‘Why is that odd?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t seem professional. A bit clumsy.’ Gunnarstranda smiled, as if suddenly remembering something. ‘Amateur,’ he added. ‘Our crime scene people think the blow to the gate would not have helped our friend the burglar much.’

  He bent forward and explained the forensic officers’ theory, that the gate below must have been open when someone smashed the lock with a sledgehammer. The damage to the plaster matched the gate lock case. ‘It almost seems as if someone is trying to hoodwink us,’ he concluded. ‘As if someone wants us to believe the gate was smashed in order to open it.’

  ‘Are you implying that her flat wasn’t burgled?’

  ‘The flat door was broken into, you saw that for yourself, but it is far from certain that the same is true for the gate.’

  ‘You don’t think the marks on the gate are genuine?’

  ‘There is that possibility.’

  ‘Exactly what are you trying to say?’

  ‘I’m trying to find a connection, that’s all. Why did you keep the legal dispute quiet?’

  ‘Because it has nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I have a different view. The only logical explanation for marks simulating a break-in must be that the burglar was someone who could open the gate, one of the residents in this block.’

  The detective waited for a moment. ‘And then there would not be all too many candidates to choose between.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ agreed Bjerke, meeker now.

  ‘At any rate that would entail some poor cop having to make certain investigations.’

  ‘What sort of investigations?’

  ‘Such as establishing clarity concerning the contact there had been between an accountant in upper Grünerløkka and Terje Engelsviken.’

  Gunnarstranda was able to confirm to himself that Bjerke was sitting stiffly on the sofa now, concentrating. He rested his forearms on his thighs and bent his upper body forward, slightly dispirited, as though he were sitting on the toilet.

  The inspector noted the silence emanating from the child’s room. He turned his head. She was standing in the doorway, behind her husband with eyes only for him. Bjerke was motionless. Even when she walked across the floor, sat down, pressed her knees together hard with a sculptured expression on her pale features. The husband ignored her. He maintained his dispirited posture, although the look in his eye had changed character.

  Gunnarstranda nodded politely to her. Attractive woman. But the face seemed a façade. Not sure how much you know, he thought. Not sure what it means if you know anything at all. Nevertheless, the detective could not help noticing the effect she was having on the man on the sofa. His haughty face was wan. The armour was gone. All right, all hell is about to break loose, he thought, and he addressed her husband: ‘You have consistently underrated us, Bjerke.’

  He was silent.

  ‘This evening, a few hours ago, I was considering arresting you.’

  The woman gulped.

  ‘Tactically speaking, such an arrest would have appeased my superiors and a number of journalists.’

  Gunnarstranda allowed a lull to develop. Bjerke was avoiding his spouse’s eyes.

  The inspector resumed. ‘Sometimes we haul in someone who has been seen at a crime scene. But because we often have to let them go again we always undertake a careful appraisal first.’

  Something was happening between husband and wife. It was none of his business. But in his hand he had the best cards and decided to raise the stakes.

  He watched. ‘Often we don’t get the real perpetrator. And so we cannot influence the confusion he may be feeling when the wrong person has been arrested. As a result it is impossible to observe the mistakes he might make.’

  He splayed his palms. ‘All that happens is that the newspapers have a victim they can harass. Readers can gorge themselves on spicy sensationalism and satisfy their cravings for the circus on which our times have inculcated a dependence.’

  Gunnarstranda’s smile was porcelain white, he was thinking it was a good job he was alone, so that no one would attack him for this emotional hogwash later. He stretched out both legs and stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘We are obliged to show consideration.’

  He shuddered inside, but continued: ‘Even if the real perpetrator were to be arrested afterwards, and convicted and punished, the innocent victim would never be free of suspicion. In two, three, five years people wouldn’t remember who the real murderer was anyway. What they do remember, if anything, is the photograph of the person with the jacket over their head. Or the childhood story the newspapers managed to dig up. The story that was supposed to reveal the character of the detainee, to proffer the reader an explanation for the man’s brutality.’

  He fiddled with a cigarette he had taken from his pocket. Wondered if he had gone too far with this nonsense of his. He tested, by holding his tongue. It was time to show his hand. But first of all Bjerke plus wife needed time to digest the sermon he had just reeled off. Decided to give them two minutes.

  ‘I know who’s trying to bluff us here,’ he said, showing his hand at last. Met Bjerke’s eyes. ‘You’ve carried out three break-ins. You raided A/S Software Partners three weeks ago. And you turned Reidun’s flat upside down while she lay dead on the floor. Please note, I am saying she was already dead. But you were so nervous with her lying there you cleared off. Left it to your wife and child to find the body and report it to the police. Then afterwards you had to wait while the storm was at its peak. You had to wait until things calmed down and you were sure the flat wasn’t under surveillance. Then you broke in again. To confuse us you decided to demolish the lock on the gate downstairs. Inside the archway with the lock against the wall, that was how you did it. You damaged the plaster on the wall and that was what made us suspicious.’

  Bjerke was studying the floor.

  ‘On top of that, you forgot the front door.’

  Bjerke smiled, helpless. ‘I didn’t think of that. It was open.’

  The inspector leaned across the table. Twinkled at the woman who was subjecting him to a searching gaze, then concentrated on her husband again.


  ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me everything this time,’ he instructed. ‘Everything that happened that morning. Everything! Every smallest, tiniest detail!’

  46

  An hour later he was running down the stairs with no more than a fleeting glance at Reidun Rosendal’s flat, then onwards and out. His face was closed and stern as he shot across the street and into the block of flats. Stopped to look at his watch. Past eleven o’clock. That didn’t help. He hared up the stairs and was hardly out of breath at the top. Undid the padlock sealing the door to Arvid Johansen’s flat and went in. Switched on all the lights. Scoured the room. Opened whole rows of cupboard doors until he found what he was looking for. The binoculars. They were heavy and black. So, quite old. With standard 7x50 magnification. He hung the battered leather strap around his neck, grabbed the faded armchair and dragged it to the window. Deliberated. Johansen had been a big man. Bigger than he was. But how big? He looked around, kicked a pile of porn magazines away from the sofa. Porn magazines, of course. He took off the binoculars, piled up the magazines. Placed the whole heap on the armchair seat and perched on top, removed a few, sat down again. That was better. Raised the binoculars and looked through the window. Dark outside, but the gate was illuminated and the wooden fence was clear enough. Still the wrong angle. He twisted the chair into various positions, sat down, got up, re-adjusted the chair. This was repeated several more times until he was satisfied.

  That was how he, Arvid Johansen, had sat. Gunnarstranda searched his pockets for a cigarette. Found one and lit up. He reconstructed the scene. The woman had opened the curtains. And what had happened? Some time had passed. Johansen had probably got excited, seen the two making love, then Sigurd left. What had the old boy done? Given himself a hand job? Smoked? Got up to eat perhaps; the show was over, after all. He had said he went to sleep in the chair later.

  Fine, the show’s over, what now? Johansen stomps into the kitchen, eats a slice of bread, goes back.

  Gunnarstranda stood up, went to the kitchen. Walked back. Looked out.