Lethal Investments by K. O. Dahl Page B

thing adorned parts of the façade.
    The automatic doors slid open and he entered a hallway. The floor was tiled with honed and polished natural stone in a variety of hues. This arrangement had doubtless cost serious money, but it was also intended to give an impression of unity from a distance. The walls were painted white. At chest level, a varnished golden dado rail ran around the whole room.
    Opposite the entrance was a large reception area. With huge ceiling-to-floor glass panes reminiscent of the Oslo Underground. In the middle of the opening, between the large panes, stood a receptionist, a woman who attracted everyone’s attention. She was probably around thirty years old. Dressed as an office clerk in a kind of uniform, a skirt and jacket in a greyish-blue woollen material. Her hair was thick and brown with a red sheen that made him think of a car bonnet. As he approached, his gaze focused on a distinct black birthmark in the hollow between her chin and her broad mouth.
    She nodded to him and spoke into the telephone receiver on her shoulder while her hands busied themselves with other things. They were strong. Nails were short, no varnish.
    He leaned over to the counter as she pressed a few buttons and finished speaking.
    ‘Software Partners are here, aren’t they?’
    ‘Third floor.’
    She seemed uncomfortable in her office clothes. They clung too tight. The result was a physical ungainliness that was not at all necessary. She hesitated and was about to pick up the telephone again.
    ‘Don’t bother!’
    He motioned towards the telephone.
    ‘I’ll find my own way there.’
    As the lift doors opened, he walked straight into a large open-plan office where he was instantly met. So the woman with the birthmark had rung after all.
    ‘You are the police officer, I presume?’
    ‘Mhm.’ Frank shook his hand.
    ‘Øyvind Bregård,’ the man bowed. ‘I’m Head of Finance in this outfit.’
    He was a tall, well-built fellow of around forty. The outstretched hand was not markedly large, but his chest, arms and thighs had undoubtedly been built up with weight-training. His head seemed strangely small in comparison with the robust body. Formidable bristles under his nose. Moustache. Shaped into two arcs, one on each side and blond like his short hair. Behind him sat a blonde, somewhat plump, lady in front of a screen.
    ‘And this is . . . ?’
    Frank took a step towards her with his arm held out. She stood up so quickly her chair was sent flying. Curtsied in a flurry of confusion. Her hand was as limp as a rubber glove and hung in mid-air when he released it.
    ‘Lisa Stenersen.’
    The name was delivered at second attempt after a nervous cough. Broad, flat shoes made her seem tubby, short. But her beautiful blonde hair was a perfect frame for round cheeks and a double chin.
    Frank Frølich turned back and noticed a tiny ring in the weightlifter’s left ear.
    Silence.
    ‘Well?’
    Bregård rocked on his feet to and fro, not at ease.
    ‘Perhaps we should find somewhere to talk,’ Frank obligingly suggested.
    The Finance Manager nodded and led the way to a door at the other end of the room.
    The man’s office was sparsely furnished. A desk, and not much more. But the chair that accompanied it was a classic. Velour material, head rest and an inbuilt tilting mechanism. A chair that was ideal for planning the year’s fly-fishing, for tipping back and putting your feet on the desk. Otherwise there was nothing apart from a wobbly stool which the policeman placed by the wall to have something to lean against. Pink walls. Decorated with advertisements for computer equipment. Pretty glossy stuff. A babe, full-length, pulling on fishnet stockings and supporting her legs on a computer. Unusually attractive legs. And unusually thick hair on her head.
    Bregård sat down in the swivel chair. Now wearing narrow, rectangular rimless glasses.
    Frank tore his eyes away from the fishnet thighs. ‘This is about, as I’m sure