Lethal Investments Read Free

to point out how little they knew of the world outside, above all on a Sunday morning when they were on their way back from a party.
    It was different here, in this flat. What did she think about, this wealthy woman? A girl murdered downstairs. Did she think that this wickedness would implicate them, her and her family? And if they wanted to move, where would they move to? Lots of money had been invested in this flat. These were people who undoubtedly had the means to take the final step. To move to Bærum, or to Nordstrand. Without stopping a few hundred metres further up, in Valdresgata, where the blocks were newer and there were still enough journalists and union bosses for high society not to feel comfortable.
    He leaned his forehead against the window pane and stared down on to the street, patiently waiting until she was finished and had returned from the kitchen.
    ‘You’ve been lucky with this flat,’ he exclaimed with his back to her. ‘And you’ve done the place up nicely. Imagine, when I was growing up, there wasn’t even a toilet in the corridor. And at that time it was as cold inside the block as it was outside.’
    He turned and pointed to the sun beaming down through the pane. ‘You’ve got the sun here, too. Not many people have that here in Grünerløkka.’
    She nodded politely, a bit apprehensive.
    ‘I grew up here, I did,’ he said, pointing out of the window. ‘In Seilduksgata, down from Dælenenga, so I wouldn’t be at all surprised if I haven’t hung out in this place at one time or another.’
    The latter accompanied with a broad smile.
    He strode across the floor and took a seat on the curved pink leather sofa.
    The little boy clung to his mother’s trouser legs. Staring at Gunnarstranda with large eyes. Her bright blue eyes glinted nervously above a small strained smile that told him he should not reminisce about old times any more than was necessary. He squinted at her across the table, ignoring the boy. Children did not particularly interest him.
    ‘Are you a policeman?’ the boy wanted to know.
    ‘My father worked at Freia, the chocolate factory,’ Gunnarstranda continued, rapt in thought. ‘Got a good pension as well. He was famous for it, company director Throne-Holst was! Gave his workers a pension before the idea had even occurred to anyone else. Yes, you’ve heard of Throne-Holst, I suppose?’
    The woman shook her head, wary.
    He leaned over to her in confidence. ‘Please excuse me,’ he broke off, bursting with curiosity. ‘But for someone like me who grew up in these parts I have to say an incredible amount of work has been lavished on this flat. It can’t have been cheap.’
    Her smile changed at the compliment and Gunnarstranda inferred she had played an active role in the redecoration. But the smile vanished. She was serious again.
    ‘Well, that is the issue, isn’t it?’ she answered. ‘Now that she has been killed downstairs. Joachim and I are worried the prices are going to plummet, and then we would lose loads of money on this.’
    ‘Are you going to move already then?’
    Gunnarstranda essayed a little smile with the boy as well. ‘So, you’ve started work as an estate agent, have you?’
    She smiled. ‘Joachim is my husband. This is Joachim Junior.’
    She patted the boy on the head.
    Joachim Junior, Gunnarstranda repeated to himself. Took a deep breath. ‘The murdered . . .’
    Met her eyes. ‘How well did you know each other?’
    She hesitated for a moment, considering the question.
    ‘Depends what you call well.’ She took her time. ‘I said hello to her quite a few times, of course. She seemed . . . well . . . quite nice. Seemed the easy-going type to me . . . and to Joachim.’ She hesitated again. ‘I don’t think he knew her any better than I did. That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it,’ she laughed with a slight undertone.
    Gunnarstranda wasted no time. ‘How do you mean?’
    She looked down. ‘It was a joke,’ she