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Authors: K. O. Dahl
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opposite.
Gunnarstranda stared at Frølich, then at Karsten Jespersen.
'Fire away,' Jespersen said in a low whisper of a voice.
The Inspector turned, made a show of stepping over Frølich's denim-clad legs and marched out through the door and back to the dining room from where he shouted: 'Has the family lived here long?'
'As long as I can remember,' Jespersen answered, getting up with alacrity and going to the door. 'Since some time in the fifties.' He eyed the detective nervously: 'Don't you want to come in here?'
'No,' Gunnarstranda answered. He stood contemplating the large painting with the motifs of fjord and milkmaid. The picture frame was broad and gilt with carvings. He turned and took a chair from the table. 'I'll sit here; you sit in there - so that we can shout to each other.'
Jespersen stood in the doorway. His face had taken on a sad expression. The continuous nervous twitches around his jaw made his chin tremble.
'What do you do?' the policeman asked.
'I run the shop - downstairs.'
'And your father?'
'He takes - took care of the administrative side.'
'And that means?'
'Accounts, budget - we have a warehouse…'
'Go on,' Gunnarstranda said, composed, as the other man fell into a reverie.
'Yes, we have the shop here and, in Ensjo, a warehouse and an office.'
'I'd like to take a look at the warehouse.'
'No problem. It's in Bertrand Narvesens vei.'
Gunnarstranda nodded slowly. 'But I could do with a key,' he thought out loud.
Jespersen gave a start. 'Now?'
'Have you any objection to me searching the place?'
'Of course not.' Jespersen let go of the door frame, shrugged his shoulders and crossed the floor. He sat down on one of the chairs by the table, with his back to the painting and opposite the policeman. He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out the bunch of keys and found a short Yale key, which he took off the ring. 'You just have to unlock…'
Gunnarstranda accepted the key and put it in his pocket. 'And you sell antiques, second-hand goods?'
Jespersen gave a deep sigh, rested his temples on both hands and sat with his head bowed and his eyes fixed firmly on the table. 'This is just so awful,' he said at length. 'I seem to be wading through cotton wool. I ought to have checked if anything had been stolen downstairs…'
'You can do that when we've done…'
Jespersen, bewildered, stared back. His head quivered until he lowered his gaze, discovered a stain on the polished table and rubbed it with his forefinger. 'The one thing I know for sure is that he's dead,' he murmured.
'He was killed,' Gunnarstranda said. 'It's our job to determine the facts of the case,' he added after reflection, and cleared his throat. 'But you and your family will of course be kept fully informed.' He straightened his back and crossed his legs.
Frank Frølich had managed to struggle out of the cramped boy's room and joined them now. He settled carefully into a seat at the table, wriggled out of his enormous jacket and took out his notebook.
Gunnarstranda inclined his head and said: 'It makes everything much harder for the bereaved when sad news has to be followed by a criminal investigation. But I hope you and your family will have some understanding of our role in this.'
Karsten, faraway, nodded.
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'What branch are you in?'
'How do you mean?'
'What kind of antiques do you sell?'
'Exclusive items for the most part.'
'And that means?'
'They don't have to be a special style or design. It's all about the object as such, whether it's in good condition, whether it has appeal. It might be a Remington typewriter from the 1920s or a well-preserved tea table from Victorian times. We judge each case on its
Gunnarstranda stared at Frølich, then at Karsten Jespersen.
'Fire away,' Jespersen said in a low whisper of a voice.
The Inspector turned, made a show of stepping over Frølich's denim-clad legs and marched out through the door and back to the dining room from where he shouted: 'Has the family lived here long?'
'As long as I can remember,' Jespersen answered, getting up with alacrity and going to the door. 'Since some time in the fifties.' He eyed the detective nervously: 'Don't you want to come in here?'
'No,' Gunnarstranda answered. He stood contemplating the large painting with the motifs of fjord and milkmaid. The picture frame was broad and gilt with carvings. He turned and took a chair from the table. 'I'll sit here; you sit in there - so that we can shout to each other.'
Jespersen stood in the doorway. His face had taken on a sad expression. The continuous nervous twitches around his jaw made his chin tremble.
'What do you do?' the policeman asked.
'I run the shop - downstairs.'
'And your father?'
'He takes - took care of the administrative side.'
'And that means?'
'Accounts, budget - we have a warehouse…'
'Go on,' Gunnarstranda said, composed, as the other man fell into a reverie.
'Yes, we have the shop here and, in Ensjo, a warehouse and an office.'
'I'd like to take a look at the warehouse.'
'No problem. It's in Bertrand Narvesens vei.'
Gunnarstranda nodded slowly. 'But I could do with a key,' he thought out loud.
Jespersen gave a start. 'Now?'
'Have you any objection to me searching the place?'
'Of course not.' Jespersen let go of the door frame, shrugged his shoulders and crossed the floor. He sat down on one of the chairs by the table, with his back to the painting and opposite the policeman. He rummaged through his pockets, pulled out the bunch of keys and found a short Yale key, which he took off the ring. 'You just have to unlock…'
Gunnarstranda accepted the key and put it in his pocket. 'And you sell antiques, second-hand goods?'
Jespersen gave a deep sigh, rested his temples on both hands and sat with his head bowed and his eyes fixed firmly on the table. 'This is just so awful,' he said at length. 'I seem to be wading through cotton wool. I ought to have checked if anything had been stolen downstairs…'
'You can do that when we've done…'
Jespersen, bewildered, stared back. His head quivered until he lowered his gaze, discovered a stain on the polished table and rubbed it with his forefinger. 'The one thing I know for sure is that he's dead,' he murmured.
'He was killed,' Gunnarstranda said. 'It's our job to determine the facts of the case,' he added after reflection, and cleared his throat. 'But you and your family will of course be kept fully informed.' He straightened his back and crossed his legs.
Frank Frølich had managed to struggle out of the cramped boy's room and joined them now. He settled carefully into a seat at the table, wriggled out of his enormous jacket and took out his notebook.
Gunnarstranda inclined his head and said: 'It makes everything much harder for the bereaved when sad news has to be followed by a criminal investigation. But I hope you and your family will have some understanding of our role in this.'
Karsten, faraway, nodded.
Gunnarstranda cleared his throat. 'What branch are you in?'
'How do you mean?'
'What kind of antiques do you sell?'
'Exclusive items for the most part.'
'And that means?'
'They don't have to be a special style or design. It's all about the object as such, whether it's in good condition, whether it has appeal. It might be a Remington typewriter from the 1920s or a well-preserved tea table from Victorian times. We judge each case on its
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