ransacked his pockets for keys. 'Just a moment,' he murmured. 'You see…' At last he found a bunch of keys, pulled them out and fumbled for the right key: 'Ingrid, my father's wife - I've had a few words with her on the phone.'
Frølich sent an understanding nod to Jespersen, who disappeared into the flat, closing the door behind him with care. The landing was about three metres broad. Originally there had been two doors leading into two flats, but door number two had been closed off. There was no door handle and it was painted the same colour as the walls. An ailing green plant in a terracotta pot had been placed in the recess in front of the door.
'The whole floor to themselves,' Frølich mumbled.
'The widow - Ingrid - must have broken down,' Gunnarstranda mumbled in a low voice.
Then Karsten Jespersen appeared in the doorway. 'Come in,' he mumbled softly, as though frightened someone would hear him. 'There's a lady from the medical centre here, and the priest. But we won't be disturbed in my old room.' He held the door open and gave an embarrassed cough. 'Would you mind taking off your boots?'
Gunnarstranda unzipped his old snow over-boots and shook them off. Under them he was wearing polished leather shoes. He stood and watched Frølich breathing hard as he knelt down in his thick winter gear. With tangled hair hanging over his forehead, he loosened the laces of his army boots, pulled them off and revealed two odd woollen socks. Jespersen opened the door and they could hear low voices in the distance.
Gunnarstranda took stock. A mirror dominated the hallway. It went from floor to ceiling, in a gilt wooden frame. There were patches where the surface was flaking off. The mirror reflected three framed photographs adorning the facing wall. Gunnarstranda turned to study the pictures. They were photographs of erect young men in canvas and frieze breeches with bold curls over their foreheads and Sten guns hanging loose from their shoulders. 'The Palace Square… liberation,' Gunnarstranda said to the man in the door. 'Anyone from the family there?'
Karsten Jespersen nodded. 'My father,' he said, pointing to a young athlete standing at ease in front of the Royal Palace.
Gunnarstranda studied the photograph. 'Of course,' he said, taking off his glasses to inspect the man's features close up. 'I can see that now.'
'Shall we…?' Jespersen held the door open.
They padded through a room furnished with heavy wooden furniture and beyond to a sliding door which the young man opened. They went through another room, past a huge dining room table. On the wall was a large painting with a national-romantic motif: a fjord, shafts of sunlight shining down on the mountains and a farm where a dairy maid dressed in national costume was carrying buckets slung from a yoke over her shoulders.
The man in the corduroy suit led them on to a further sliding door. He hesitated before opening it, turned towards them and cleared his throat: 'Well, here - is where I grew up.'
Gunnarstranda followed Jespersen in. The room was three metres by three metres, a cross between a boy's room and a bachelor's pad. There was a desk beneath the window along one wall. A sofa bed was the other item of furniture in the room. Family photographs on the wall above it. Jespersen sat on the swivel chair by the desk. 'Please, do sit down,' he said, indicating the low sofa.
Gunnarstranda stayed on his feet.
Frølich had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the door frame when he joined them. The room seemed cramped all of a sudden. Frølich's jacket, doubtless size XXL, stuck to him like a boy's blazer on a wine barrel. The face hiding behind the bedraggled beard was, as always, a model of expressionless composure. He was wearing a striped sweater under the jacket. He slumped down onto the sofa. When he crossed his legs, his feet collided with the wall
Frølich sent an understanding nod to Jespersen, who disappeared into the flat, closing the door behind him with care. The landing was about three metres broad. Originally there had been two doors leading into two flats, but door number two had been closed off. There was no door handle and it was painted the same colour as the walls. An ailing green plant in a terracotta pot had been placed in the recess in front of the door.
'The whole floor to themselves,' Frølich mumbled.
'The widow - Ingrid - must have broken down,' Gunnarstranda mumbled in a low voice.
Then Karsten Jespersen appeared in the doorway. 'Come in,' he mumbled softly, as though frightened someone would hear him. 'There's a lady from the medical centre here, and the priest. But we won't be disturbed in my old room.' He held the door open and gave an embarrassed cough. 'Would you mind taking off your boots?'
Gunnarstranda unzipped his old snow over-boots and shook them off. Under them he was wearing polished leather shoes. He stood and watched Frølich breathing hard as he knelt down in his thick winter gear. With tangled hair hanging over his forehead, he loosened the laces of his army boots, pulled them off and revealed two odd woollen socks. Jespersen opened the door and they could hear low voices in the distance.
Gunnarstranda took stock. A mirror dominated the hallway. It went from floor to ceiling, in a gilt wooden frame. There were patches where the surface was flaking off. The mirror reflected three framed photographs adorning the facing wall. Gunnarstranda turned to study the pictures. They were photographs of erect young men in canvas and frieze breeches with bold curls over their foreheads and Sten guns hanging loose from their shoulders. 'The Palace Square… liberation,' Gunnarstranda said to the man in the door. 'Anyone from the family there?'
Karsten Jespersen nodded. 'My father,' he said, pointing to a young athlete standing at ease in front of the Royal Palace.
Gunnarstranda studied the photograph. 'Of course,' he said, taking off his glasses to inspect the man's features close up. 'I can see that now.'
'Shall we…?' Jespersen held the door open.
They padded through a room furnished with heavy wooden furniture and beyond to a sliding door which the young man opened. They went through another room, past a huge dining room table. On the wall was a large painting with a national-romantic motif: a fjord, shafts of sunlight shining down on the mountains and a farm where a dairy maid dressed in national costume was carrying buckets slung from a yoke over her shoulders.
The man in the corduroy suit led them on to a further sliding door. He hesitated before opening it, turned towards them and cleared his throat: 'Well, here - is where I grew up.'
Gunnarstranda followed Jespersen in. The room was three metres by three metres, a cross between a boy's room and a bachelor's pad. There was a desk beneath the window along one wall. A sofa bed was the other item of furniture in the room. Family photographs on the wall above it. Jespersen sat on the swivel chair by the desk. 'Please, do sit down,' he said, indicating the low sofa.
Gunnarstranda stayed on his feet.
Frølich had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the door frame when he joined them. The room seemed cramped all of a sudden. Frølich's jacket, doubtless size XXL, stuck to him like a boy's blazer on a wine barrel. The face hiding behind the bedraggled beard was, as always, a model of expressionless composure. He was wearing a striped sweater under the jacket. He slumped down onto the sofa. When he crossed his legs, his feet collided with the wall
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