'I've just crossed the bridge over the lake,' he added, walking down the last avenue, leading to the metal gate and Kirkeveien. He blinked. The contrasts became clear in the light of the morning sun which hung low and was blinding. In the park, where Oslo Highways' salting lorries never came, the snow was still white, not greyish-brown and compressed as it was everywhere else in town.
'I'm on foot, of course,' Frølich continued laconically. He knew that at this very minute his boss would be fidgeting with a cigarette, walking around in circles out of agitation because Gunnarstranda never knew how to control the stream of energy that was surging through his limbs. Frølich knew that Gunnarstranda would not be in the slightest bit interested in the fact that he had slept at Eva-Britt's - yesterday was Friday and after a huge, painful row he had felt obliged to spend the night with her - or that he had accepted a wager with Eva- Britt's daughter, Julie, that he would lose five kilos before the winter holidays, a bet that he intended to win, for the simple reason that he was sick of the girl's bullying. He had also decided to walk to work every day in the belief that walking in the freezing cold accelerated calorie consumption, so the colder the better. Frølich's personal experience of Vigeland's sculptures in the morning sun would have not have interested his boss, either. Frank liked to contemplate the rigid statues that seemed to have been frozen in motion, either throwing or wrestling. He seemed to be moving in a surrealistic landscape of forms, particularly because the low temperatures gave the frozen-metaphor an extra subtlety on a day like this.
'We have a body,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Where?'
'Turn right at the metal gate, toddle down Thomas Heftyes gate and you'll see us.'
And then the line went dead. It was so cold that his nostrils were stuck together. Frølich buried the lower half of his face under the thick woollen scarf; his breath formed condensation and left tiny beads of ice on the wool. He felt like a wandering tree trunk in his thick woollen jumper, thick jacket and long johns under his trousers. On his feet he wore army boots which squeaked at every step he took on the hard-packed snow.
Ten minutes later, after turning down Thomas Heftyes gate, he found the road almost deserted. There were very few curious onlookers, which could have been for a number of reasons: the cold; the late onset of daylight in January; or the fact that a swarm of police cars in front of a building does not necessarily interest the better inhabitants of West Oslo early on a Saturday morning.
Frank Frølich walked past Inspector Gunnarstranda's new Skoda Octavia and wriggled his way through the road blocks, but came to an involuntary halt at the sight of the body in the shop window. The dead man was naked, a white body sitting in an armchair - between an old wooden globe and a light blue chest covered with faded decorative flowers. A woman in white overalls was busy covering the window with grey paper. Through a covered section of the window Frank could make out the outline of Inspector Gunnarstranda's face. They nodded to each other and Gunnarstranda's glasses caught the morning sun.
The front door was still closed. A sign with yellowish- white plastic letters on a blue felt background gave the opening times. The shop was closed on Saturdays.
Frølich followed the flow of forensics officers towards the staircase, where he found the back door into the shop open. The room inside was no longer warm. The constant traffic in and out caused the breath of all those inside to freeze. Uniformed police and forensics officers in white nylon suits were going through the premises with a fine-tooth comb. Gunnarstranda was crouched in front of the low shop window studying the body in the chair.
A woman was briefing him: 'The chair hasn't moved,' she said,
'I'm on foot, of course,' Frølich continued laconically. He knew that at this very minute his boss would be fidgeting with a cigarette, walking around in circles out of agitation because Gunnarstranda never knew how to control the stream of energy that was surging through his limbs. Frølich knew that Gunnarstranda would not be in the slightest bit interested in the fact that he had slept at Eva-Britt's - yesterday was Friday and after a huge, painful row he had felt obliged to spend the night with her - or that he had accepted a wager with Eva- Britt's daughter, Julie, that he would lose five kilos before the winter holidays, a bet that he intended to win, for the simple reason that he was sick of the girl's bullying. He had also decided to walk to work every day in the belief that walking in the freezing cold accelerated calorie consumption, so the colder the better. Frølich's personal experience of Vigeland's sculptures in the morning sun would have not have interested his boss, either. Frank liked to contemplate the rigid statues that seemed to have been frozen in motion, either throwing or wrestling. He seemed to be moving in a surrealistic landscape of forms, particularly because the low temperatures gave the frozen-metaphor an extra subtlety on a day like this.
'We have a body,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Where?'
'Turn right at the metal gate, toddle down Thomas Heftyes gate and you'll see us.'
And then the line went dead. It was so cold that his nostrils were stuck together. Frølich buried the lower half of his face under the thick woollen scarf; his breath formed condensation and left tiny beads of ice on the wool. He felt like a wandering tree trunk in his thick woollen jumper, thick jacket and long johns under his trousers. On his feet he wore army boots which squeaked at every step he took on the hard-packed snow.
Ten minutes later, after turning down Thomas Heftyes gate, he found the road almost deserted. There were very few curious onlookers, which could have been for a number of reasons: the cold; the late onset of daylight in January; or the fact that a swarm of police cars in front of a building does not necessarily interest the better inhabitants of West Oslo early on a Saturday morning.
Frank Frølich walked past Inspector Gunnarstranda's new Skoda Octavia and wriggled his way through the road blocks, but came to an involuntary halt at the sight of the body in the shop window. The dead man was naked, a white body sitting in an armchair - between an old wooden globe and a light blue chest covered with faded decorative flowers. A woman in white overalls was busy covering the window with grey paper. Through a covered section of the window Frank could make out the outline of Inspector Gunnarstranda's face. They nodded to each other and Gunnarstranda's glasses caught the morning sun.
The front door was still closed. A sign with yellowish- white plastic letters on a blue felt background gave the opening times. The shop was closed on Saturdays.
Frølich followed the flow of forensics officers towards the staircase, where he found the back door into the shop open. The room inside was no longer warm. The constant traffic in and out caused the breath of all those inside to freeze. Uniformed police and forensics officers in white nylon suits were going through the premises with a fine-tooth comb. Gunnarstranda was crouched in front of the low shop window studying the body in the chair.
A woman was briefing him: 'The chair hasn't moved,' she said,
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