Read Online Lethal Investments by K. O. Dahl - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: K. O. Dahl
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was standing with her back half turned to the camera. And a silver tanga up her ass like a thread. The head with all that hair faced the photographer and she was pursing her lips into a kiss.
Bregård had fallen into a reverie. ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘She didn’t have another date.’
The detective held his gaze. ‘In other words, she was keeping you at a distance?’
Bregård formed his mouth into a resigned smile. Didn’t answer.
‘What was she like?’
The smile dissolved. His eyes were two black dots.
‘You mean, was she hot?’
The detective paused, waited. The idiot wasn’t finished yet. His face was agitated. He gripped the desk with white knuckles.
‘She liked it from behind,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you take a wander down to the red-light area and buy yourself a bit of skirt? That would be a lot better than taking notes on what others get up to!’
Frank felt his lips moving into a patient smile. ‘When Reidun Rosendal was not being taken from behind, or the front, but was working here with you, what did she like? What was she like as a person?’
‘Clothes,’ the man suggested mechanically. The outburst was over. Bregård was caught in the same melancholy as a moment before. He stared dreamily into middle distance again. ‘I think she loved clothes . . . and her dog. Of course she couldn’t keep it in her bed-sit, so it was at her mother’s place, in Vestland. By the way, she always talked about her home area, the south-west coast.’
‘Wasn’t she happy in Oslo?’
‘I think she was happy enough. It was just the way she was.’
He snapped his fingers to find a suitable description. ‘She was . . . herself!’
He was satisfied. ‘She was herself,’ he repeated with a nod.
‘You said she loved clothes, what was her style?’
‘No special style.’
He breathed in. ‘All-rounder. If you get my drift. She could wear anything. One day she looked like a schoolgirl, the next she wiggled her hips like a jailbird’s dream. She . . . I suppose that was what made her a bit special, maybe.’
Jailbird, he jotted that down and looked up. ‘Yes?’
Bregård was gazing into space. No more putting on an act. ‘She was . . . no,’ he broke off. ‘It just sounds so flat in retrospect.’
Frank Frølich waited, but the man had dried up. His profile was pale and somewhat featureless. One of the bristles in his moustache had dislodged itself and was wedged between his lips, which were thin and bloodless.
‘Who did she have most contact with here?’
‘Sonja.’
The man with the moustache swivelled back and gave a resigned sigh. ‘Sonja Hager. She’ll be here soon.’
Frank pulled his boots back on. Taking his time. Tying them up, tight. Stood up. Bregård was still seated and rocking his chair. His mind elsewhere. Frank left. Turned in the doorway. Bregård was absentmindedly rolling a biro between his fingers.
‘If you should think of something that might be helpful,’ the detective said in a friendly tone of voice, ‘get in touch with us.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, just about-faced and went back to the large room with the lift doors.
10
Lisa Stenersen’s face was smooth and girlish. Nevertheless, now that she was wearing her outdoor clothes, her age came clearly to the fore. She had thrown a padded cloak over her shoulders. That, and two flat, slipper-like shoes, made her look like a revue act. All that was missing was a flower in her hat. She seemed shy now. Glanced nervously at her watch as soon as he appeared. An anxious smile on her face as she fidgeted with a piece of paper.
‘Is this an inconvenient moment?’ he asked, to be obliging.
She blushed. ‘Not at all!’
Ran her eyes down her clothes, bewildered, down the cloak, and her face went even redder.
At that moment the telephone rang. She hurried over to one of the desks in the middle of the room. Grabbed the receiver while Frank sprawled on the sofa immediately behind her.
Bregård had fallen into a reverie. ‘No,’ he said at length. ‘She didn’t have another date.’
The detective held his gaze. ‘In other words, she was keeping you at a distance?’
Bregård formed his mouth into a resigned smile. Didn’t answer.
‘What was she like?’
The smile dissolved. His eyes were two black dots.
‘You mean, was she hot?’
The detective paused, waited. The idiot wasn’t finished yet. His face was agitated. He gripped the desk with white knuckles.
‘She liked it from behind,’ he hissed. ‘Why don’t you take a wander down to the red-light area and buy yourself a bit of skirt? That would be a lot better than taking notes on what others get up to!’
Frank felt his lips moving into a patient smile. ‘When Reidun Rosendal was not being taken from behind, or the front, but was working here with you, what did she like? What was she like as a person?’
‘Clothes,’ the man suggested mechanically. The outburst was over. Bregård was caught in the same melancholy as a moment before. He stared dreamily into middle distance again. ‘I think she loved clothes . . . and her dog. Of course she couldn’t keep it in her bed-sit, so it was at her mother’s place, in Vestland. By the way, she always talked about her home area, the south-west coast.’
‘Wasn’t she happy in Oslo?’
‘I think she was happy enough. It was just the way she was.’
He snapped his fingers to find a suitable description. ‘She was . . . herself!’
He was satisfied. ‘She was herself,’ he repeated with a nod.
‘You said she loved clothes, what was her style?’
‘No special style.’
He breathed in. ‘All-rounder. If you get my drift. She could wear anything. One day she looked like a schoolgirl, the next she wiggled her hips like a jailbird’s dream. She . . . I suppose that was what made her a bit special, maybe.’
Jailbird, he jotted that down and looked up. ‘Yes?’
Bregård was gazing into space. No more putting on an act. ‘She was . . . no,’ he broke off. ‘It just sounds so flat in retrospect.’
Frank Frølich waited, but the man had dried up. His profile was pale and somewhat featureless. One of the bristles in his moustache had dislodged itself and was wedged between his lips, which were thin and bloodless.
‘Who did she have most contact with here?’
‘Sonja.’
The man with the moustache swivelled back and gave a resigned sigh. ‘Sonja Hager. She’ll be here soon.’
Frank pulled his boots back on. Taking his time. Tying them up, tight. Stood up. Bregård was still seated and rocking his chair. His mind elsewhere. Frank left. Turned in the doorway. Bregård was absentmindedly rolling a biro between his fingers.
‘If you should think of something that might be helpful,’ the detective said in a friendly tone of voice, ‘get in touch with us.’
He didn’t wait for an answer, just about-faced and went back to the large room with the lift doors.
10
Lisa Stenersen’s face was smooth and girlish. Nevertheless, now that she was wearing her outdoor clothes, her age came clearly to the fore. She had thrown a padded cloak over her shoulders. That, and two flat, slipper-like shoes, made her look like a revue act. All that was missing was a flower in her hat. She seemed shy now. Glanced nervously at her watch as soon as he appeared. An anxious smile on her face as she fidgeted with a piece of paper.
‘Is this an inconvenient moment?’ he asked, to be obliging.
She blushed. ‘Not at all!’
Ran her eyes down her clothes, bewildered, down the cloak, and her face went even redder.
At that moment the telephone rang. She hurried over to one of the desks in the middle of the room. Grabbed the receiver while Frank sprawled on the sofa immediately behind her.
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