Lethal Investments Read Online Free PDF

standing next to Gunnarstranda, pointed. ‘That’s where she lived,’ he pointed with rasping breath. ‘That’s the very one.’
    The grunter started to pace to and fro, stiff-legged, across the floor.
    Frank tried to avoid looking at the bloodshot eye. It flashed like a brake light every time the old man turned on his heel.
    ‘You’ve got to find a young bloke,’ the man gasped, ‘mid-twenties, no special characteristics, but long, black hair which he keeps in a pony tail. They like that, girls do.’
    He stared up at the ceiling before sitting back down. His cigarette was out, but he lit it with an ancient, peeling lighter . It wouldn’t light at first. The two policemen watched him struggling to retain control of his fingers with every flick. At last it caught. He blew out smoke and went on:
    ‘I watched ’em all night. The nitty-gritty.’
    Frank looked up. Met Gunnarstranda’s eyes.
    ‘She was a little rose, you know, she knew what we old boys like.’
    He gave a moist grin. Winked at Gunnarstranda.
    ‘What did you see?’ Gunnarstranda asked.
    ‘What did I see?’
    The old boy’s breathing crackled. ‘What d’you think I saw?’
    He raised his right hand and made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. Then he began to poke his left forefinger in and out of the hole. An amusing sight. The old man laughed, got into difficulties and had to hold his fist in front of his mouth to curb the asthmatic fit of laughter that exploded into the room.
    Frank drifted over to the window as well, and opened it an inch or two. Put his face in the current of air that entered. For a moment all was quiet. The noise of traffic outside mixed with the sounds of Johansen’s asthmatic rattle.
    ‘They had all the lights on,’ the crackling voice continued. ‘Curtains were open, so I just sat here enjoying myself while she lay on her back down there waggling her tits!’
    It went quiet again. All that could be heard was the old man in the chair leaning forward and stubbing out his cigarette.
    ‘Gratis and for nothing.’
    A dark expression had formed between the man’s wrinkles. ‘Buggered if I can understand why he . . .’ came a new tone from the chair.
    Frank stared at him. The muggy offal smell was not so strong now and a pained air was visible on the man’s drawn face. He was searching for words. Hidden behind his hands. ‘I can’t get my head round why he had to croak her afterwards!’
    The skin on his hands was coarse and lined.
    ‘How did he kill her?’
    Gunnarstranda’s voice cut through the silence even though the intonation was friendly, no more than curious.
    Johansen twitched. ‘How? I don’t care so long as you get ’im.’
    The little pain there had been in his voice was gone. His eyes were cold, like when he opened his front door.
    ‘You haven’t answered my question! How did he kill her?’
    ‘He stabbed her, for fuck’s sake!’
    The silence in the room became palpable.
    ‘Who did this crazy thing, me or him?’
    Gunnarstranda went up close. ‘How?’ he repeated in a low voice.
    Johansen didn’t answer. He just glared back at the gimlet eyes of the short, balding detective in front of him.
    Frank tried to read the expression on Johansen’s face. Was it fear or just defiance?
    Then Gunnarstranda went round the table, apparently having backed down. Sat on the sofa and began to study the magazines without another word. ‘What taste you have, Johansen!’
    The derision in his intonation was unmistakable.
    The old man didn’t turn, hadn’t even stirred in his chair. His eyes looked straight ahead, were fixed on a point on the wall.
    ‘Look here!’
    Gunnarstranda held up a magazine. ‘Look here, you,’ he mumbled. ‘You, Johansen!’
    He turned. The inspector laid the magazine on the table in front of him. Frank peered over his shoulder, curious to see. It was a magazine with no text. The photographs were in black and white, a series of pictures, amateur judging by the quality,