kill her!’
‘Is it your tie?’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Is it your tie?’
‘You lot can’t accuse me of something I didn’t do!’
‘Answer my question! Is this your tie or not?’
‘Yes, it bloody is. It is my sodding tie!’
All of a sudden the man stood up. And threw the photograph down on the table.
Not a sound. Gunnarstranda had moved his chair back from the desk again. A circumspect cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. He stared. Put the roll-up aside and inched the chair forward. ‘Do you often lose your temper, Sigurd?’
The aggressive posture was gone immediately. His thin legs trembled. He groped behind him to find his chair. Sat down.
‘I haven’t lost my temper.’
The young figure stared ahead, silent and confused.
‘I asked if you often lost your temper.’
The young man looked away.
‘On the rare occasions you lose your temper, Sigurd, you get very angry, don’t you?’
He shrugged.
‘Did you eat anything that night?’
‘Yes . . . we had a few slices of bread . . . and fried eggs.’
‘When was that?’
‘I didn’t keep an eye on my watch.’
‘Was it after the first screw?’
The man nodded.
‘What was she like as a screw?’
The man hesitated.
‘Active?’
Silence.
‘Or did she lie there like a sack of potatoes and allow herself to be despoiled?’
The man didn’t answer.
‘You like girls to offer a bit of resistance, do you, Sigurd?’
No reaction.
‘Answer me when I’m talking to you, lad!’
‘You’re ridiculing a person who is no longer with us!’
‘OK.’
Frank watched Gunnarstranda get up and throw his hands in the air. Pace round the room for a while. ‘So you ate bread,’ he recapped. ‘And you fried eggs.’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Who cut the bread?’ he asked at length.
‘Me.’
Gunnarstranda walked back to the desk. Plunged a hand into the desk drawer and pulled out a knife. Frank watched him intentionally allow the light from the Anglepoise to glint on the polished steel. The steel blade was curved in such a way it had a kind of abdomen.
The room went quiet as Gunnarstranda carefully placed the knife on the table. The blade scraped the edge of the table making a dry rasp.
Frank heard Sigurd swallow.
Gunnarstranda slowly took a seat. ‘Pick up the knife, Sigurd,’ he demanded in a gentle voice.
The man swallowed again. His legs stirred with unease.
Gunnarstranda leaned on the desk with both elbows. ‘Pick up the knife,’ he repeated.
Sigurd stared up at the ceiling. For a long time.
‘Pick up the knife!’
The policeman’s voice resounded between the walls like a whiplash.
‘No!’ came the whispered reply. The young man took a deep breath. Swallowed. Tried to collect himself to say something.
‘Why?’ he tried, but had to snort hard to clear the congestion in his nose. ‘Why?’ he began again. Then had to stop once more. ‘Why can’t you leave her in peace?’
Gunnarstranda took the knife and started playing with it. Cleaned his nails with the point. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with a solicitor, Sigurd?’
Frank observed Sigurd’s head sink and come to rest against the edge of the desk.
‘Did you jab her with the knife, Sigurd?’
The latter didn’t answer.
Frank met Gunnarstranda’s resigned eyes. Nodded and switched off the tape recorder.
‘Frølich,’ Gunnarstranda said in a harsh voice. ‘Chuck the man back in his cell.’
9
Eva-Britt had got out at Ullevål Stadium. It was early morning. The worst of the traffic was over and Frank Frølich was in a good mood. The drive through Smestad had been pretty smooth and it was barely nine when he parked in front of a relatively new office block in Drammensveien by Lysaker. He just took a notepad and a few pencils with him.
The building stood out. A piece of commercial architecture inspired by Eskimo igloo architecture and pre-Christian temple styles. The name of the creative force behind the whole
‘Is it your tie?’
‘I didn’t do it!’
‘Is it your tie?’
‘You lot can’t accuse me of something I didn’t do!’
‘Answer my question! Is this your tie or not?’
‘Yes, it bloody is. It is my sodding tie!’
All of a sudden the man stood up. And threw the photograph down on the table.
Not a sound. Gunnarstranda had moved his chair back from the desk again. A circumspect cigarette bounced up and down between his lips. He stared. Put the roll-up aside and inched the chair forward. ‘Do you often lose your temper, Sigurd?’
The aggressive posture was gone immediately. His thin legs trembled. He groped behind him to find his chair. Sat down.
‘I haven’t lost my temper.’
The young figure stared ahead, silent and confused.
‘I asked if you often lost your temper.’
The young man looked away.
‘On the rare occasions you lose your temper, Sigurd, you get very angry, don’t you?’
He shrugged.
‘Did you eat anything that night?’
‘Yes . . . we had a few slices of bread . . . and fried eggs.’
‘When was that?’
‘I didn’t keep an eye on my watch.’
‘Was it after the first screw?’
The man nodded.
‘What was she like as a screw?’
The man hesitated.
‘Active?’
Silence.
‘Or did she lie there like a sack of potatoes and allow herself to be despoiled?’
The man didn’t answer.
‘You like girls to offer a bit of resistance, do you, Sigurd?’
No reaction.
‘Answer me when I’m talking to you, lad!’
‘You’re ridiculing a person who is no longer with us!’
‘OK.’
Frank watched Gunnarstranda get up and throw his hands in the air. Pace round the room for a while. ‘So you ate bread,’ he recapped. ‘And you fried eggs.’
Gunnarstranda deliberated. ‘Who cut the bread?’ he asked at length.
‘Me.’
Gunnarstranda walked back to the desk. Plunged a hand into the desk drawer and pulled out a knife. Frank watched him intentionally allow the light from the Anglepoise to glint on the polished steel. The steel blade was curved in such a way it had a kind of abdomen.
The room went quiet as Gunnarstranda carefully placed the knife on the table. The blade scraped the edge of the table making a dry rasp.
Frank heard Sigurd swallow.
Gunnarstranda slowly took a seat. ‘Pick up the knife, Sigurd,’ he demanded in a gentle voice.
The man swallowed again. His legs stirred with unease.
Gunnarstranda leaned on the desk with both elbows. ‘Pick up the knife,’ he repeated.
Sigurd stared up at the ceiling. For a long time.
‘Pick up the knife!’
The policeman’s voice resounded between the walls like a whiplash.
‘No!’ came the whispered reply. The young man took a deep breath. Swallowed. Tried to collect himself to say something.
‘Why?’ he tried, but had to snort hard to clear the congestion in his nose. ‘Why?’ he began again. Then had to stop once more. ‘Why can’t you leave her in peace?’
Gunnarstranda took the knife and started playing with it. Cleaned his nails with the point. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with a solicitor, Sigurd?’
Frank observed Sigurd’s head sink and come to rest against the edge of the desk.
‘Did you jab her with the knife, Sigurd?’
The latter didn’t answer.
Frank met Gunnarstranda’s resigned eyes. Nodded and switched off the tape recorder.
‘Frølich,’ Gunnarstranda said in a harsh voice. ‘Chuck the man back in his cell.’
9
Eva-Britt had got out at Ullevål Stadium. It was early morning. The worst of the traffic was over and Frank Frølich was in a good mood. The drive through Smestad had been pretty smooth and it was barely nine when he parked in front of a relatively new office block in Drammensveien by Lysaker. He just took a notepad and a few pencils with him.
The building stood out. A piece of commercial architecture inspired by Eskimo igloo architecture and pre-Christian temple styles. The name of the creative force behind the whole
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