Lethal Investments (15 page)

He gave another weak smile. One of the sores on his top lip cracked. ‘If she had known . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Then she would not have had an easy time. I mean, they all worked together . . .’

Gunnarstranda, in a brown study, stared into space. ‘How long did the relationship last?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘How can you be sure it did finish?’

Svennebye licked the sore lip. ‘There was a break-in at the office about a fortnight ago.’

He bent forward and rested his chin on one fist.

Gunnarstranda’s ears pricked up. The word ‘break-in’ had caused a bell to ring at the back of his mind. He listened to Svennebye describing all the mess. The drawers that had been emptied and slung across the floor. Svennebye said no other tenants in the block had been affected, only Software Partners. He had been the first to arrive that morning. He had been the one to discover it and had immediately rung Engelsviken. To tell him what had happened and warn him he was going to ring the police. The MD had got into quite a flap. Started to give him a bollocking, as good as. It ended up with Svennebye being forbidden to do anything at all until Engelsviken was present. When he did eventually come Svennebye and Reidun Rosendal were instructed to clear everything up. Thenceforward all employees were banned from mentioning the break-in to anyone else.

Svennebye extinguished his cigarette and leaned back. ‘For almost six months they had been running down to the law courts on trivial matters! But when it came to the break-in . . . they weren’t even willing to entertain the bloody idea!’

He jerked his head. ‘That’s what I meant by two camps in the place. It was as if Reidun, Lisa Stenersen and I were being kept in the dark. As if there were a secret connected with this break-in.’

The man sighed. ‘It all culminated in a row, and this led to quite a drama between the two of them, Reidun and Engelsviken.’

He sighed in despair. ‘Just imagine, the middle-aged MD pinches the girl’s bum, wants to drag her into his office and no one is supposed to see what’s going on. Absolutely hopeless.’

Svennebye licked his lips again. ‘So she told him what he could do with his pinches!’

‘It wasn’t just a lovers’ tiff?’

‘Far from it! Reidun had had enough of being a mattress for her boss, there’s not a doubt in my mind. She was livid with him. This strange reaction of his is what triggered the avalanche!’

‘How did he take it?’

‘It was pretty embarrassing at first. But later . . . I think he would have liked to keep the relationship alive.’

‘You mean he was still hankering after Reidun?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you could see that?’

‘Well, I could, anyway.’

‘And the others?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘What was stolen in the break-in?’

‘Nothing.’

Svennebye snorted in annoyance. ‘But that’s not the point. It’s the principle of the thing. A break-in is a break-in.’

Gunnarstranda raised an arm to pacify him. ‘How can you be so sure nothing was stolen?’

‘We talked about it for ages.’

‘What was said?’

‘Well, first of all we checked everything. Among other things I had a few hundred-krone notes in a cup on the desk. Untouched. Reidun went through everything else. We all agreed nothing had been stolen.’

‘But who was talking? Everyone? Or just those not in the know?’

Svennebye sat staring at the policeman. Chewing his bottom lip.

Silence descended over the room. Gunnarstranda gave him space to reflect. Got up and went to the window from where he surveyed the traffic in Grønlandsleiret.

‘Yes,’ came the gruff voice from behind him. ‘In fact it was just us. Reidun, Lisa and I.’

‘Had the filing cabinet been opened?’

‘Yes. It had been broken into and everything was scattered on the floor. Sonja flipped. I suppose she must have been . . . frightened of something.’

‘So you don’t know if anything was stolen from the cabinet?’

‘No.’

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.’

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.