Lethal Investments by Kjell Ola Dahl Read Free Book Online

sleepily.
    ‘Gunnarstranda.’
    ‘You’d better go then.’
    ‘Yup.’
    ‘Your willy doesn’t seem to want to go.’
    He grinned.
    ‘In all the novels I’ve read all the boys have limp willies after a bonk,’ she said, pointing an accusatory finger at the thing stubbornly pointing back at her.
    ‘In all the books I read the boys have three or four bonks in a row.’
    ‘That’s because you read such bad books.’
    He peered out. Blue sky and the top of the neighbouring block of flats. Windows.
    ‘Anyway, you’ve broken the bed,’ she added as he left for a shower.
    He and Eva-Britt had once been in the same class at school. They had then lost contact until they met again three years ago. On the number twenty-three bus. A woman with an hour-glass figure and a pram struggling to manoeuvre it on to the bus; he had recognized her as he jumped out to help.
    Two hours later they were in bed together in his student room recalling the old days, while sixteen-month Julie was asleep in the turbo-pram in the communal kitchen. They lived in their own flat, Julie and her mother did; Eva-Britt had had bad experiences with close relationships.
    ‘Will you get a bottle of red?’ she shouted from the kitchen when he switched off the water.
    He came out. Her breasts were screaming to be fondled as she threw a dressing gown over herself. She could read his thoughts, and grinned.
    ‘Fine,’ he mumbled, enjoying the slight gasp that escaped her lips before she slipped into the bathroom. ‘I’ll get a bottle of red.’

7
     
     
    He stopped at Manglerud and did his booze shopping at the vinmonopol there. His head still buzzing with nosy neighbours. Did Reidun Rosendal know what kind of neighbours she had, he mused in the queue, trying to imagine her type. OK, the old pig could be as mad as a hatter and actually believe that the woman was letting him see what he wanted that night. But could that really be the truth? That number was mostly for married couples in a mid-life crisis, spicing up their sex lives with the excitement of being seen by others, wasn’t it?
    The thought would not let him rest. After all, there had been two of them that night. The boy and the girl. Under normal circumstances, with eyes only for each other. Perhaps so madly in love that curtains on the windows were of secondary importance. But that was the point. The woman had been killed. Was the man she had invited into her flat in love? Did that type exist, someone so crazy he would stab a woman to death after making love to her all night?
    Frank picked up Gunnarstranda in the Grønland district of Oslo and headed for the Institute of Forensic Medicine, where they were met by Professor Schwenke who then powered ahead of them. The man’s white coat fluttering behind him. His thin legs making his office trousers look like flares.
    The professor led them into his office. Here he proceeded to hold an illustrated lecture with photographs of the dead girl. The man’s combed-back greyish-white hair had such a will of its own that a strand at the back refused to stay in position and rebounded forward over his forehead. His square glasses were gold-rimmed, and his complexion was dry and yellowy. The professor put the top photograph on the desk, bent forward eagerly and analysed the sequence of events.
    ‘The angles of the various cuts reveal that the murderer stabbed her in the chest even when she was down on the floor,’ he explained with professional dispassion. ‘No fewer than three times in fact. Incredibly, the knife didn’t strike a bone and didn’t get lodged until the final blow.’
    Schwenke’s voice was thick; he seemed to be speaking with toffees in his mouth.
    Frank Frølich let the other two converse. He observed Gunnarstranda, whose arms were resting against the back of his hips with his fingers interlaced. His piscine eyes fixed on Schwenke’s face, the police inspector looked like a hooked fish: his bent-back arms raised his shoulders a