pointing. 'It's been on display for a good while, I suppose. Someone dragged the body from over there…' She pointed to the back of the room… and put him on show here.'
'One or more?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Impossible to say.'
'But could a single person have done this?'
The woman just shrugged. 'Haven't the slightest.'
The woman and Frank Frølich exchanged looks. He hadn't seen her for three weeks when she had slept at his place.
They lowered their eyes, both of them, at the same time.
'But you must have an idea,' grunted Gunnarstranda with irritation.
She stared into space, giving herself time to think.
'Hi, Anna,' Frank said. She looked up, and again they had eye contact for two seconds, which was at once picked up by Gunnarstranda and occasioned an angry shake of the head.
'Yes, I do,' Anna said quickly, and added: 'It could have been one person, could have been more. In fact, it is impossible to say much more than that at the present moment.'
Gunnarstranda got to his feet.
A dramatic lock of Anna's hair stuck out from under the white hood, bisecting her forehead and giving her a passionate, Mediterranean appearance.
Fr0lich looked away and concentrated on the corpse, the shop window, the coagulated blood down the chair leg and the dark stain on the carpet. He tried to imagine the shock he himself would have had if he had been passing by at daybreak. But for the blood, the dead man would have looked like a papier mâché figure. His skin was white, and something akin to frost had settled in the wrinkles and hollows of the body. 'Well, a decent age,' Frølich mumbled, studying the dead man's mask-like face.
'Seventy-nine years old - according to his bank card,' Anna said, a hundred per cent formal now.
'A cut?' Frølich asked, pointing to a red stripe around the dead man's neck.
'Took me in, too,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But it's thread.'
Frank realized at that moment: red cotton tightened around the man's neck.
'Graffiti on the forehead?' Frølich asked.
'Crosses,' Anna said. 'Put there with a pen.' She turned around and indicated a small cylindrical object on the shop floor. 'Probably that one - it's an indelible pen and the right colour.'
Gunnarstranda nodded and once again turned to the corpse, pointing. Frølich followed his boss's gaze, to the blood-stained chest area. Someone had written numbers and letters in blue on the dead man's chest - in the middle between the nipples, which were both covered in bushy hair.
Gunnarstranda stood up. 'That's what we need to look at when they do the autopsy.'
Frølich's eye fell on the wooden globe and the misshapen carving of Africa. Large swathes of the African continent were unlabelled.
Gunnarstranda walked between the tables and chairs with Frølich behind him. 'Antiques,' Frølich muttered, pointing to a red upholstered chair, and called out to Anna: 'Can I touch this?'
She looked up. 'Nice to see you again,' she whispered and disappeared through the door to the little office.
Frølich couldn't think of anything to say.
Gunnarstranda yawned out loud. 'I'm tired now,' he mumbled. 'Yttergjerde,' he shouted to a uniformed officer leaning against a door frame at the back of the shop. Yttergjerde shuffled over.
'Tell Frølich our thoughts about a break-in,' Gunnarstranda said.
Yttergjerde shook his head. 'No alarm activated, no window panes smashed, not a single mark on the woodwork around the doors - on top of that, nothing seems to have been stolen.' He nodded towards the counter by the door leading to the street. 'Wallet intact in his jacket, cash till untouched.'
Frølich went over to the cash till. It was one of the antique variety with a pattern hammered into the metal and a jungle of buttons and levers at the
'One or more?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Impossible to say.'
'But could a single person have done this?'
The woman just shrugged. 'Haven't the slightest.'
The woman and Frank Frølich exchanged looks. He hadn't seen her for three weeks when she had slept at his place.
They lowered their eyes, both of them, at the same time.
'But you must have an idea,' grunted Gunnarstranda with irritation.
She stared into space, giving herself time to think.
'Hi, Anna,' Frank said. She looked up, and again they had eye contact for two seconds, which was at once picked up by Gunnarstranda and occasioned an angry shake of the head.
'Yes, I do,' Anna said quickly, and added: 'It could have been one person, could have been more. In fact, it is impossible to say much more than that at the present moment.'
Gunnarstranda got to his feet.
A dramatic lock of Anna's hair stuck out from under the white hood, bisecting her forehead and giving her a passionate, Mediterranean appearance.
Fr0lich looked away and concentrated on the corpse, the shop window, the coagulated blood down the chair leg and the dark stain on the carpet. He tried to imagine the shock he himself would have had if he had been passing by at daybreak. But for the blood, the dead man would have looked like a papier mâché figure. His skin was white, and something akin to frost had settled in the wrinkles and hollows of the body. 'Well, a decent age,' Frølich mumbled, studying the dead man's mask-like face.
'Seventy-nine years old - according to his bank card,' Anna said, a hundred per cent formal now.
'A cut?' Frølich asked, pointing to a red stripe around the dead man's neck.
'Took me in, too,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But it's thread.'
Frank realized at that moment: red cotton tightened around the man's neck.
'Graffiti on the forehead?' Frølich asked.
'Crosses,' Anna said. 'Put there with a pen.' She turned around and indicated a small cylindrical object on the shop floor. 'Probably that one - it's an indelible pen and the right colour.'
Gunnarstranda nodded and once again turned to the corpse, pointing. Frølich followed his boss's gaze, to the blood-stained chest area. Someone had written numbers and letters in blue on the dead man's chest - in the middle between the nipples, which were both covered in bushy hair.
Gunnarstranda stood up. 'That's what we need to look at when they do the autopsy.'
Frølich's eye fell on the wooden globe and the misshapen carving of Africa. Large swathes of the African continent were unlabelled.
Gunnarstranda walked between the tables and chairs with Frølich behind him. 'Antiques,' Frølich muttered, pointing to a red upholstered chair, and called out to Anna: 'Can I touch this?'
She looked up. 'Nice to see you again,' she whispered and disappeared through the door to the little office.
Frølich couldn't think of anything to say.
Gunnarstranda yawned out loud. 'I'm tired now,' he mumbled. 'Yttergjerde,' he shouted to a uniformed officer leaning against a door frame at the back of the shop. Yttergjerde shuffled over.
'Tell Frølich our thoughts about a break-in,' Gunnarstranda said.
Yttergjerde shook his head. 'No alarm activated, no window panes smashed, not a single mark on the woodwork around the doors - on top of that, nothing seems to have been stolen.' He nodded towards the counter by the door leading to the street. 'Wallet intact in his jacket, cash till untouched.'
Frølich went over to the cash till. It was one of the antique variety with a pattern hammered into the metal and a jungle of buttons and levers at the
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