Lethal Investments Read Online Free PDF Page A

best when apple scrumping or at football training. The nickname had followed him ever since. But Gunnarstranda was slow to pick up on things like that. ‘Right, Frølich?’ was more the tone. ‘What do you reckon, Frølich?’
    With a feigned cough and fidgety fingers. It almost sounded a bit comical. Hearing this aloof old hothead with the gimlet eyes call him Frankie.
    He packed away the papers and followed Gunnarstranda, who had stridden off across the road, stopped and was gazing upwards. Then he turned and crossed the street quickly again. Studying the façade of the building.
    Frank squinted up as well. Was taken by surprise, as always, at the beauty of the cornices and sculptures on these old apartment buildings. One was newer than the others. Square window panes with no ornamentation.
    ‘There,’ Gunnarstranda pointed. ‘That block has the right view. Let’s go to the top floor.’
    Upon reaching the top floor at last, they were both panting. On the landing outside the front doors the light had gone, so the name plates were barely legible. Two flats, but only one was occupied. The second door was partially concealed by cardboard boxes and rubbish piled up against the wall. Frank stooped and read the name engraved in the blackened brass:
    ‘Arvid Johansen.’
    ‘Cops?’ mumbled the old man who opened up. ‘Thought it wouldn’t be long before you lot were on my back!’
    They entered a cramped and poorly ventilated flat. A heavy stench of smoke, dust and something reminiscent of stale fish offal met their nostrils. Large dust balls had collected in the corner of the hallway. A variety of stains adorned the lino floor, which was unwashed and sticky underfoot.
    The well-built old grunter, once a hulk of a man, had an erect bearing, but his legs were stiff and his breathing crackled with asthma. His hair was grey, short and thick. Beneath his eyes and chin hung deep bags of wrinkled skin. His reddened right eye gleamed at them; a blood vessel must have burst.
    He shuffled ahead into the little sitting room and sat down on a worn, grey wing chair by the window. At the other end of the room there was a small TV and a video recorder.
    The TV picture showed a woman sucking dick while emitting moaning noises. It took Frank a while for his brain to cut in and inform him what was going on.
    By then Johansen had already raised the remote control and frozen the picture on the screen, put down the remote and grabbed a roll-up from the ashtray on the table. The cigarette had not gone out, so he puffed it into life and took a drag, which was followed by a lengthy bout of coughing. His throat gurgled. After the fit had finally subsided he spat into a handkerchief and stared up expectantly at Gunnarstranda, who had ensconced himself by the window. Frank looked around the room. Bare walls. Floor heaving with porn magazines. Glossy paper strewn with nude women. Faces of tarts with their tongues sticking out. Such as there, on the sitting room table, a large centrefold of a naked girl with a Father Christmas cap on her head and a yellow banana up her crotch. Two strong masculine hands forcing her legs apart.
    ‘That’d be something to keep out the winter cold!’
    Johansen had followed Frank’s gaze. His mouth laughed behind a clenched fist. The laughter degenerated into coughing.
    Gunnarstranda stared out of the window until the man was breathing normally again. ‘Come here, Johansen,’ he ordered without turning. The man in the chair obeyed. Gunnarstranda’s little head reached up to the middle of his chest.
    ‘The flat down there, at an angle to us, in the pink block with the curtains drawn.’
    ‘That’s where she lived, that is.’
    Johansen had sat down again. ‘Our young filly.’ He winked at Frank. ‘Pert pear-shaped tits, the type that bounce around!’
    He illustrated with his hands. ‘High buttocks. Rounded, and ginger pussy hair.’
    The hand with the cigarette shook. The man wheezed, got up and,