Offwent went off, then went in, this time with a very thick folder of evidence marked "VERY THICK FOLDER OF EVIDENCE".
"Ballistic report's back. Gunshot residue was found on Larsson's chest. The bullet matches several rifles used for competitive shooting. But as yet, nothing to conclusively tie the bullet to any of the suspects. Nor does it look like something that would have been intentionally used at point blank range. Honestly, this is looking like either manslaughter or the least cold blooded killing case in the very short history of Nordic murder drama".
Olaf ran his fingers slowly through a beard that was impressive in the twenty first century, but would nonetheless have disappointed even the most liberal Viking. "We will need to speak to the Incessantly Polite but No Help At All Chap From Chapter Three. I think he might prove helpful. Unless he's just being polite?"
Borissovshon burst in, just as the Sovenst police were having their pickled herring with knackerbrot.
"It's an emergency!" screamed the ginger haired Nordic dwarf. "We have to go, quickly!"
"My dear, stout, orange-headed fellow," rumbled Superintendent Olaf, "You have interrupted us right in the middle of coffee and cod."
"Herring", constable Offwent reminded him.
"Ah, yes. None of that fresh, unpickled garbage", boomed Olaf. And he drove the point home along with innumerable flecks of the delicacy sprayed from his bearded herringhole.
"Please", pleaded Borissovshon, "This is a genuine shock to me. In the five days I've been a constable, I've never seen anything like it. It could be serious!"
"Eat your herring, " muttered Olaf, "and be glad someone's had the decency to salt the soul out of it. Any more of that burbling and you'll be transferred to Oslo. I hear," he added with a flourish, "they do particularly raw sushi there."
"You don't understand," squeaked Borissovshon, the thought of endless California rolls and tuna sashimi leaving him sounding like a broken set of bagpipes, "it could be a new plot twist!"
The room dropped to a silence. Chairs squeaked very loudly and every man in sight made a gasp that probably shouldn't best come from a man.
"PLOT TWIST!?"
"Follow me."
And they did, through dramatic scenery, sirens wailing as the journey flew past plunging mountain passes and hugged the sheer rocky flanks of crystal-still lakes. They followed Borissovshon until he pulled over by a beautiful cruck frame hut with delicately placed minimalist glazing all across its front and a roof covered by solar panels. Of course, it was legally required that it shouldn't so much stick up from the landscape as grow out of it, and that's exactly what it did. Such a serene, perfect dwelling would have said nothing of the drama that lay within, save for the spaghetti of yellow tape and orange barriers in front of the entrance.
Olaf flashed ID in a manner so quickly that it would have been impossible for the powers that be to have verified it in any situation other than a Nordic drama, then followed Borissovshon through the main hallway and up the stairs into what would have been the master bedroom, were the entire house not sufficiently open plan to be the domestic equivalent of an aircraft hangar.
"There" panted Borissovshon. Olaf's speechlessness at the scene that greeted them told him that further syllables were unnecessary. Perfectly suspended on meat hooks between carefully placed items of IKEA furniture was the gracefully bloodied corpse of the Incessantly Polite But No Help At All Chap From Chapter Three,