Free The Man in the Window by K. O. Dahl Page B

about this?'
        'No.'
        There was a long silence until Jespersen continued: 'That was why I thought this state of affairs - the row - was a private matter, between them. Otherwise I would have known what it was about.'
        'Do you know if Stokmo threatened your father?'
        'No. All I know is that Jonny was standing outside the front door last night.'
        'When?' 'Half an hour before my father came home at seven.'
        Gunnarstranda nodded slowly to himself.
        'Seven p.m.?' Frølich asked with raised pen.
        'Bit later, about a quarter past.'
        'What is Stokmo living off now?' Gunnarstranda asked.
        'I don't know… he has a son who runs a kind of workshop in Torshov. He might be working there.'
        Silence fell again. Frank Frølich cleared his throat. He flicked through his notebook. 'You say…' he mumbled. 'You say your father had guests here yesterday. Who were they?'
        'It wasn't a party. It was dinner. We were invited, I mean, me, my wife and the children.'
        'How long were you here?'
        'Well, it began just after seven. My father arrived late, at about a quarter past. We went home at around eleven.'
        'Where had he been until seven in the evening?'
        'In Ensjo, at the office.'
        'Are you sure?'
        'Yes, he was seldom anywhere else.'
        'Did he usually work late?'
        'He was always working.'
        'So it wasn't unusual for him to work late?' Gunnarstranda asked.
        'It was neither usual nor unusual. He did work late on occasion. But Ingrid can tell you more about this sort of thing than I can.'
        Gunnarstranda sat staring, in silence. 'Do you stock a lot of weapons in this shop?'
        'A few. And that's one of the most important reasons for having security shutters. Antique weapons are sought-after collectors' items.'
        'What sort of weapons?'
        'A musket, a halberd, a few front-loading revolvers, a variety of edged weapons…'
        'A bayonet?'
        'Two. Why?'
     
           
        They were interrupted as a door was thrust open and a patter of feet followed. A small boy came running in. He must have been three or four years old, wearing blue dungarees and a jumper with stains down the front. He came to a sudden halt at the sight of the people around the table, but after a few moments' hesitation marched up to Karsten Jespersen, who stared at him in bewilderment. The boy had blond curls and a round, open face with a runny nose. He stuffed several fingers from his left hand in his mouth as he pressed against his father's knee. 'Grandad's dead,' he told Gunnarstranda.
        'Looks like Susanne has come, too,' Jespersen said in apology and turned to the boy: 'Where's Mummy?'
        The little boy ignored him. He lifted his right arm to shake hands with Gunnarstranda. 'Min,' said the little boy.
        'Benjamin,' Jespersen said, winking at the policeman.
         'Just Min,' the boy called Benjamin said, wafting his hand in front of Gunnarstranda again.
        'Show me,' the father said. 'Have you got a coin?' Jespersen's smile was stiff, strained, and he held out an authoritative hand. 'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?' 'Grandad's dead,' the boy repeated, turning to his father with great big, round eyes. 'All dead.'
        'Yes,' Jespersen said, winking conspiratorially at the two policemen. 'Are you going to let Daddy see your coin?'
        The boy shook his head.
        'Are you going to show Daddy?'
        'No,' said the boy.
        'I think we've finished for the time being,' Gunnarstranda said, addressing Frank Frølich.
        'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?'
        'No!' the boy screamed with a voice that cut through the air like the whine of a saw.
        The look in Jespersen's eyes was ominous. 'Are you going to give Daddy the coin?' He made another grab at the little boy's hand.
        'No!' the boy