Lethal Investments by Kjell Ola Dahl Read Free Book Online Page B

produced a photograph, which he passed to Gunnarstranda. ‘As you can see, the handle of the knife is drenched with blood. So the hands holding the knife would definitely have been soiled.’
    He paused. ‘In fact, here it’s difficult to be precise,’ he concluded. ‘The murderer would have been covered with a fair amount of blood, but it’s impossible to say how much. As you saw, there wasn’t much blood on the floor. And from what I could glean there were very few signs of blood being sprayed around.’
    The professor turned to address Frank again, but was prevented from continuing. A grey telephone on one of the work benches interrupted him.
    ‘It’s for you!’ he shouted to Gunnarstranda, who grabbed the receiver with a hurried ‘Yes!’
    Frank and Schwenke hardly managed to exchange a word before the police inspector had banged down the receiver. ‘Frølich! We’ve got the man with the pony tail.’

8
     
     
    ‘So you’re quite sure she locked the door after you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you check?’
    ‘No, I heard it.’
    ‘You’re sure it was that? Not a window banging or something?’
    ‘I’m sure. It was the lock.’
    ‘Hm.’
    Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda supported his head on one hand. In the other, he held a cigarette which he tapped on the ashtray to remove the end. Frank watched in amazement as the thick, blue smoke wafted up to the man’s eyes, without it seeming to affect him.
    A young man sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. He was in his mid-twenties and had long, black hair tied up in a pony tail. Frank observed him from the side. A small, child-like nose protruded from a cheek partially covered by a new, dark, downy beard. On his temple there was a plaster which was not large enough to cover a brownish-red scab. His clothes, which were all dark, hung off his slim figure. He was a well-formed young man who seemed neither muscular nor particularly fit.
    Frank realized he would have trouble writing down everything that was said. For that reason he switched on the tape recorder and swivelled his chair back to his computer screen. Ready to write down whatever he succeeded in catching.
    ‘How long were you down in the yard?’ he heard Gunnarstranda ask.
    ‘I don’t know.’ The man cleared his throat nervously. ‘Ten minutes tops.’
    Frank Frølich wrote down the answer. For a second the muffled tapping on the keyboard was the only sound in the room.
    ‘Did anyone see you?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You don’t know? You must have made a hell of a racket if you were fiddling around down there for ten minutes, just imagine!’
    The young man cleared his throat and gulped again. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
    Frank gave up writing. Heard his chair creak as he swivelled round towards them. Watched Gunnarstranda stub out his cigarette, get up and walk around the table. He squatted down and supported himself on his thighs. ‘You’re frightened,’ he confirmed and continued in a soft voice. ‘You’re trembling.’
    The young man looked away.
    The thick, blue smoke wreathed in the light of the desk lamp.
    ‘Why did you climb over the fence?’
    ‘I’ve told you. I wanted to go home!’
    ‘Why didn’t you ring her so that she could open the door for you?’
    ‘Because . . .’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Gunnarstranda turned abruptly. Sat back down.
    ‘Why did you come to the station?’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Yes, how did you find out about the murder?’
    ‘I read about it.’
    ‘There were no names or addresses in the papers.’
    ‘I had a feeling.’
    ‘Feeling?’
    ‘She didn’t answer the phone. I rang and rang, and she didn’t pick up. I had to know if it was her.’
    ‘And so you didn’t know her before?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You got to know her on Saturday then?’
    The young man’s breathing was laboured. He didn’t answer.
    ‘Please answer the question.’
    ‘She’s dead.’
    ‘Thank you, I am aware of that.’
    Silence descended once