front.
Yttergjerde was a man with unusually long arms and large hands. He pointed a big, fat finger: 'Two doors,' he went on. 'The front door beside the shop window over there is pretty secure. There's a security grille in front.' Yttergjerde pointed to the second door: 'That way leads to the staircase. It was unlocked when we arrived.'
Gunnarstranda pulled out a roll-up from his coat pocket and began to fiddle with it. Frølich noticed that it had been fiddled with before; it was disintegrating.
Yttergjerde went towards them. 'There was one thing I forgot to say,' he mumbled. 'A woman who delivers newspapers discovered the body. She's wondering if she can go.'
Yttergjerde indicated a motionless figure with spikey hair and a fringe above a pair of glasses as round as saucers. She was standing with her hands buried deep in the pockets of a ski suit.
'Take her name and address,' Gunnarstranda said curtly.
'The old boy - the corpse - Reidar Folke Jespersen owned the shop,' Yttergjerde whispered. 'He and the woman… his missus…' he gestured to the ceiling. 'They live in the flat.' He flicked his head back. 'The floor above.'
Gunnarstranda nodded pensively. 'Priest?'
'Came half an hour ago and is still up there,' Yttergjerde nodded.
'The woman…' Yttergjerde continued to whisper; '… Her face went grey with shock. She had to lie down, but that was before the priest came.'
Yttergjerde joined the woman who had found the body.
Frølich yawned and went for a walk to look for Anna. Eventually he found her. She was coming out of the little office at the back of the shop.
'Yes?' she said.
'Nice to see you again, too,' Frank said, feeling foolish.
She looked at him askance. 'Interested in the crime scene?' she asked with a faint smile.
'Yes, of course.'
'Keep your ears open,' she grinned, and grimaced as Gunnarstranda's brusque voice carried from the little office. 'Frølich!'
'Yes?'
'Here,' Gunnarstranda muttered with annoyance, pointing to the floor in front of the desk. The carpet had soaked up a lot of blood. Beside the blood lay a bayonet with red stains on the blade.
Frank Frølich exchanged glances with Anna before looking down at the bayonet. Not long afterwards they were interrupted by a solemn-looking uniformed police officer standing in the doorway and motioning towards Gunnarstranda. 'We have a Karsten Jespersen here,' the policeman gabbled. 'And he insists on coming in.'
The man who met them on the stairs was pale and his chin twitched; they were tics, obvious signs of a nervous affliction. He seemed to be trying to shake tiny insects off his cheek.
'Gunnarstranda,' the policeman said by way of introduction, leaning his head back to survey the man. 'Police Inspector, Murder Squad.'
Karsten Jespersen was wearing a corduroy suit under a winter coat. He was tall and lean, thinning on top, with a small, narrow mouth and an obvious receding chin, which seemed to disappear in a concertina of wrinkles and folds of skin every time his body recoiled from the periodic convulsions of his lower face.
'Well,' the policeman said, looking around the harrow stairwell. 'Is there somewhere we can sit?' he asked.
Karsten Jespersen composed himself and nodded towards the office door in the shop. 'We have an office in there.'
Inspector Gunnarstranda sadly shook his head. 'I'm afraid we cannot allow anyone to enter the crime scene.'
Jespersen stood staring at him, puzzled.
'I understand your father lived in this building?'
Karsten Jespersen looked up at the stairs, as though considering something. 'I suppose you can come with me,' he said at last, and forged ahead. The footsteps of the three men marching upstairs resounded between the walls. On reaching the landing, Jespersen
Yttergjerde was a man with unusually long arms and large hands. He pointed a big, fat finger: 'Two doors,' he went on. 'The front door beside the shop window over there is pretty secure. There's a security grille in front.' Yttergjerde pointed to the second door: 'That way leads to the staircase. It was unlocked when we arrived.'
Gunnarstranda pulled out a roll-up from his coat pocket and began to fiddle with it. Frølich noticed that it had been fiddled with before; it was disintegrating.
Yttergjerde went towards them. 'There was one thing I forgot to say,' he mumbled. 'A woman who delivers newspapers discovered the body. She's wondering if she can go.'
Yttergjerde indicated a motionless figure with spikey hair and a fringe above a pair of glasses as round as saucers. She was standing with her hands buried deep in the pockets of a ski suit.
'Take her name and address,' Gunnarstranda said curtly.
'The old boy - the corpse - Reidar Folke Jespersen owned the shop,' Yttergjerde whispered. 'He and the woman… his missus…' he gestured to the ceiling. 'They live in the flat.' He flicked his head back. 'The floor above.'
Gunnarstranda nodded pensively. 'Priest?'
'Came half an hour ago and is still up there,' Yttergjerde nodded.
'The woman…' Yttergjerde continued to whisper; '… Her face went grey with shock. She had to lie down, but that was before the priest came.'
Yttergjerde joined the woman who had found the body.
Frølich yawned and went for a walk to look for Anna. Eventually he found her. She was coming out of the little office at the back of the shop.
'Yes?' she said.
'Nice to see you again, too,' Frank said, feeling foolish.
She looked at him askance. 'Interested in the crime scene?' she asked with a faint smile.
'Yes, of course.'
'Keep your ears open,' she grinned, and grimaced as Gunnarstranda's brusque voice carried from the little office. 'Frølich!'
'Yes?'
'Here,' Gunnarstranda muttered with annoyance, pointing to the floor in front of the desk. The carpet had soaked up a lot of blood. Beside the blood lay a bayonet with red stains on the blade.
Frank Frølich exchanged glances with Anna before looking down at the bayonet. Not long afterwards they were interrupted by a solemn-looking uniformed police officer standing in the doorway and motioning towards Gunnarstranda. 'We have a Karsten Jespersen here,' the policeman gabbled. 'And he insists on coming in.'
The man who met them on the stairs was pale and his chin twitched; they were tics, obvious signs of a nervous affliction. He seemed to be trying to shake tiny insects off his cheek.
'Gunnarstranda,' the policeman said by way of introduction, leaning his head back to survey the man. 'Police Inspector, Murder Squad.'
Karsten Jespersen was wearing a corduroy suit under a winter coat. He was tall and lean, thinning on top, with a small, narrow mouth and an obvious receding chin, which seemed to disappear in a concertina of wrinkles and folds of skin every time his body recoiled from the periodic convulsions of his lower face.
'Well,' the policeman said, looking around the harrow stairwell. 'Is there somewhere we can sit?' he asked.
Karsten Jespersen composed himself and nodded towards the office door in the shop. 'We have an office in there.'
Inspector Gunnarstranda sadly shook his head. 'I'm afraid we cannot allow anyone to enter the crime scene.'
Jespersen stood staring at him, puzzled.
'I understand your father lived in this building?'
Karsten Jespersen looked up at the stairs, as though considering something. 'I suppose you can come with me,' he said at last, and forged ahead. The footsteps of the three men marching upstairs resounded between the walls. On reaching the landing, Jespersen
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