The Man in the Window
slowly.
        'No one would have dreamt of asking him to retire,' Jespersen added. 'He loved working.'
        'Can you put a name to anyone who was at loggerheads with your father?'
        'It would be easier to put a name to those who weren't. My father was determined and… stubborn.' Jespersen found the word he was searching for.
        'So your father was difficult, quarrelsome?'
        'I would prefer to say he was a resolute person. A strong person. Forgive me, but it feels odd to talk about him in this way.'
        'He lived in this flat, together with your mother?'
        Jespersen nodded and scowled with embarrassment. 'She isn't my mother; she's my father's wife.'
        'Your mother? Is she alive?'
        'No… She died when I was small,' he added when the police officers said nothing. 'Dad married Ingrid more than twenty years ago, and, in fact, she is only seven years older than me. I'm sure you will understand that your mention of Ingrid as my mother sounds odd.'
        'Have you any brothers or sisters?'
        Jespersen shook his head.
        'So you're the sole heir?'
        'Ingrid will inherit as well, of course, and the beneficiaries in the will, if there are any.'
        'But you don't know anything about that?'
        'About what?'
        'About whether he wrote a will.'
        'I don't think he did. At any rate, I haven't heard anything about a will. But I can give you the telephone number of the solicitor he used. She should know.'
        'Was your father a wealthy man?'
        'What do you mean by wealthy?'
        'Was it well known that he had money?'
        Jespersen's face quivered. 'I can't believe that. He had a pension - he didn't get much of a wage. He split the profit with my two uncles - Arvid and Emmanuel. There were three owners, three brothers… and then there must be a bit of money in his account, this flat…'
        'Lots of valuable objects?'
        'Hmm,' Jespersen smiled, the dealer's lop-sided smile: 'Must be the odd bijou there…'
        'The assets, or the inheritance, are basically the chattels in the flat and the shop then?'
        'I haven't given it a lot of thought…'
        'But don't you have some idea of your father's assets?'
        'Well… I would assume the assets are the flat and the chattels, as you call them, a bit of art and, well - money in various bank accounts.'
        The policeman changed the subject: 'We understood that the first thing Ingrid Jespersen did, after confirming the dead man's identity, was to ring you?'
        'Yes. I came here as soon as I could.'
        Gunnarstranda nodded slowly.
        'She rang us earlier in the night as well.' Jespersen put on an apologetic smile. 'Ingrid wanted to get hold of me - in fact. She woke up when she realized Dad was not in his bed. Her first thought was that there was a break-in downstairs, in the shop, that is. But Susanne, my wife, calmed her down. Then she went back to sleep.'
        Gunnarstranda observed him and summarized what the man had just said: 'She woke up on her own last night, rang to speak to you, but talked to your wife, who sent her back to bed. What time was it when she rang?'
        'Half past two.'
        Gunnarstranda stared into space. 'We're going to talk to fru Jespersen about these events too, but why did she ring you in the middle of the night?'
        'There's been a spate of burglaries around here. In fact we have…' Jespersen heaved a deep sigh '… been waiting for something like this.'
        Gunnarstranda coughed. 'For what?'
        'Break-ins.'
        The two policemen eyed him.
        Karsten Jespersen tentatively cleared his throat.
        Gunnarstranda waited a bit longer before asking: 'Have you put any specific measures in place in the shop to prevent burglaries?'
        'We have the obligatory security shutters in the windows facing the street, and of course we have an alarm. I suppose

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