The Last Fix (12 page)

    'Annabeth
has told us everything. It has hit us hard. But I didn't expect a visit from
the police so quickly.'

    She
was bare-legged and moved with grace, without a sound. She showed him into a
living room and invited him to take a seat. 'Back in a moment.'

    The
sound of classical music could be heard through concealed speakers. It was
The Magic Flute,
Mozart, one of the few pieces the policeman knew well. The
singing made him sentimental. It made him think of Edel. And as he pursued the
memory, the man and the woman in the opera were singing in unison:
'Auf
Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen.'

    Gunnarstranda
looked around. The CD cover lay with today's newspaper on a coffee table in
front of the suite. Otherwise the room was dominated by tables: small antique
tables in elegant mahogany, one table in each corner, one alongside each wall,
several bearing antique lamps, American-looking Tiffany lamps with shades of
coloured mosaics.

    Gunnarstranda
stood on an oval rug with an oriental pattern. The rug lay in the middle of the
floor and softened the sound of his shoes which had made such a hard, formal
click on the oak parquet flooring. He stood on the rug, rocking on the balls of
his feet. He listened to Pamina warbling her way through an aria as Sigrid
Haugom was rattling cups in the kitchen. On the edge of his awareness he could
hear water running from a tap. He ran his eyes along the walls. A room of good
taste, he thought, more taste than function: no books, no TV, but a suite of
comfortable furniture, tables, lamps and pictures on the walls. His interest
was caught by a potted plant on the window sill and he strode over. It was a
bonsai tree and it was not thriving. He lifted up the pot and studied the plant
with interest. His conclusion was that the poor tree was dying. He stood
looking outside, lost in thought. The window was south-facing and the garden
stretched gently down to a green hedge concealing a pair of tramlines behind.
But over the hedge you could see the classic outline of the inner part of Oslo
fjord, the islands, Bunnefjord and Nesodden. One of the blue Color Lines ships
was rounding the headland towards Drobak and into the Skagerrak.

    'Sugar
or milk?' came a voice from behind.

    He
turned and saw that the reason he had not heard her coming in was that she was
barefoot. 'I take it black, thank you.' He put the plant pot back in its place,
crossed the floor and sat down in one of the stylish chairs around the low oval
coffee table whose wood gleamed wine-red.

    She
sat down on the sofa diagonally opposite him. After a moment or two she grabbed
the remote control from the table and cut off the man's song. Tamino he
supposed. They exchanged looks as the silence enveloped them.

    'Gunnarstranda,'
Sigrid said as though tasting the word. 'Unusual name.' She squinted at him
with a cheeky smile playing on her lips: 'Do you like the name?'

    The
policeman examined the elegant porcelain cups for a few seconds, considered the
question, scented the atmosphere in the room and noted his surprise that she
had asked such a personal question without any unease. He stroked the
gilt-edged plate, then looked her straight in the eye and smiled. 'What sort of
question is that? No one likes their name, do they?'

    She
cocked her head, satisfied with the answer: 'I suppose you're right.'

    'Yes,'
Gunnarstranda said, sampling the coffee and informing her with a tiny nod of
the head and an appreciative pursing of the lips that it was good. 'In our culture
it's the women who have been obliged to change their names; man's lot has been
to accept his identity and to perpetuate the name.'

    She
stared into space for a second before gathering herself. 'But if you didn't
like your name you could have changed it, I suppose. It's possible.'

    Gunnarstranda
leaned back in the chair. 'I didn't come here to talk about me,' he mumbled,
crossing his legs. 'But now that we're on the subject, I disliked my name as a
child. And for a long time I thought everyone did - dislike their name. But
that's not the case. And as I grew older I realized that I disliked people
taking pseudonyms and aliases even more.' Taking in the room with a sweep of
his arm, a gesture that was intended to include the splendid view, the lavish
interior and her general social affiliation, he continued: 'Well, what is a
lady like yourself doing in a place like…'

    '… a
rehab clinic for drug abusers? Nothing could be more normal,' Sigrid said. 'I
belong to the mediocre majority of women in West Oslo. I am one of those who
have tired of shopping and housewives' holidays on the south coast and have
decided to go back to work now that their children rate friends higher than
home.'

    'When
is that?'

    'When
children enter their teens, or the child, in our case. We went to school at the
same time: Joakim to senior high school, me to Diakonhjemmet University to
study social work. I've been working with Annabeth for three years now.'

    'Joakim
- is that your son?'

    She
nodded.

    'What
does he do now?'

    'He's
in the US, studying economics at Yale.'

    'Not
bad.'

    'Very
right and proper, you mean, for herr and fru Haugom of Grefsen.'

    'So
you're a little critical of the boy's choice of education?'

    'Let's
just say working with drug addicts puts Western capitalism and financial
politics in perspective.'

    'Interesting.'

    'Why's
that?' She curled her legs up under her on the sofa.

    'Because
you appear to be middle-class, but you choose to work with drug addicts and are
critical of…' He searched for words.

    'Of
our official drugs policy,' she completed, pensive and focusing in front of
her.

    'How
do you get on with the patients?'

    'Pretty
well actually. I would say I'm doing a good job.'

    'You're
thriving?'

    'Yes,
and the patients with me.'

    'And
Katrine?'

    She
nodded. 'Katrine was the young, silly type. Excuse my language. I liked her
very much; she had looks, style, a future and all that, but at the same time
she was envious of me.'

    Gunnarstranda
smiled in acknowledgement.

    'She
was envious of my life, house, money and the car I drive. Please don't
misunderstand me. Such envy is healthy. That type of girl, however, needs
clear, specific models; their personality is too fragile and their self-image
too vulnerable to come to terms with the fact that life can be hard. Their
whole problem is that when they come face to face with reality, when they are
confronted by adversity and the going gets tough, they resort to drugs. That is
a world they can control; the drugs milieu is full of clichés, as you
know. Not even the worst soap opera on TV can be as superficial or hollow or as
full of vacuous phrases as a conversation between two addicts.'

    Gunnarstranda
sipped his coffee and was on the point of saying something.

    'I'm
sorry,' Sigrid said, suddenly seeming depressed. 'It's just that I can't take
it in that I'm talking about Katrine. Of course I know she's dead, but it's
strange anyway…'

    'If
she had died in a different way,' the policeman said, 'let's suppose, of the
classic overdose, for example, I daresay we would not have been sitting here
discussing her.'

    Sigrid
Haugom closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. Silence fell over the room.*
Gunnarstranda leaned back and watched her from beneath half- closed eyelids.
She shifted position, cleared her throat and said: 'Death is not so unusual in
this job, of course. We've had several patients who have died. Death and
overdoses are daily topics of conversation - in fact. But addicts are never
killed by someone else; they tend to kill themselves.' She looked down.

    Gunnarstranda
nodded. 'What did you think about fru Ås inviting her to a party at her
home on Saturday?'

    'I
was against it, and I definitely thought it was premature.'

    'What
do you mean by
premature?

    'The
difficulty for our patients is that they often have to be fundamentalists to
survive. They have to be off all drugs, off alcohol and off former friends. Do
you understand? But the world isn't like that. The world is full of overlapping
networks. Reality consists of people who build alliances. The world is full of
double standards and territorial battles. At the Centre we do have occasional
parties. Everyone does. But I didn't like Katrine being there. For our patients
it's tough to face the fact that the very people who work every day at ridding
them of their addictions turn to alcohol when they want to enjoy themselves.
Everyone drinks with moderation. Well, maybe not everyone. Some drink
themselves legless. The difference between an addict and a so-called normal
person is that the latter can adapt their lives to the demands of everyday
living. They go to work sober, drink a beer in the sun - but they stop there.
In my opinion, the kind of party Annabeth has is a revolting ritual.
Revolting
is my word and I am against that kind of ritual. When a patient
like Katrine takes part, the party changes character; it becomes a sort of
confirmation ceremony, with the patient showing us that she can deal with the
life to which she has to return.'

    A
sort of initiation test into the normal world?'

    'Not
my words, but you've got my point.'

    'But
weren't you worried when she fell ill?'

    Sigrid
Haugom sighed and stared out of the window, sunk in her own thoughts while
absentmindedly running a hand up and down her leg and scratching herself. The
room was silent except for a wall clock and its hollow, raindrop-like, ticking
sounds. Gunnarstranda peered up at it: old-fashioned craftsmanship with a dial
made of matt porcelain, covered in stains. The Roman numerals were neatly
painted and the same neatness was visible on the clock hands. A carved eagle
adorned the wooden clock, and the pendulum that hung next to the wall swung
from side to side between two weights, much like fir cones in appearance.

    'Now
she's dead of course, but as a rule we would have been worried, yes,' the
silver-haired woman said.

    'But
at the time, during the party?'

    'I
tried to talk to her, but then she seemed to recover. She must have eaten
something she couldn't stomach and then it passed…'

    'So
her behaviour didn't give cause for alarm?'

    'Now
that you ask, I think perhaps we should have taken the whole affair more
seriously.'

    'Has
this sort of thing happened before? I mean that a patient is sick in this way?'

    An
eloquent smile played on Sigrid's lips. 'It was the first time I'd been to that
sort of party. For the Centre, that is. Such parties are not that usual.'

    'What
was the occasion?'

    'It
was a party for the staff - an end-of-summer celebration. I suppose Katrine had
been invited because she was leaving us for the big, wide world. Her treatment
at the Centre would have been finished in the summer.'

    'Are
there many patients you can declare drugs- free?'

    'Our
statistics are not very good, no.'

    Gunnarstranda
sat looking at the floor. 'Are anyone's statistics good?' he asked at length.

    'Yes,
some are. Nothing exceptional, but there are better statistics than ours.
However, even if Katrine was the patient who had achieved most, that doesn't
mean that we don't have a lot to do. Some of the blame for the bad figures has
to lie with the legislators. Patients come to us as a result of compulsion
orders, but they only last for a little time, and if we don't have the
authorization to hold them, they often go. It's the same as with many so-called
normal people: they take the path of least resistance.'

    'Why
do you think she was ill that night? Do you think it had anything to do with
the food?'

    'I
have no idea.'

    Gunnarstranda
waited while Sigrid reflected. She was sitting with her legs folded beneath her
on the sofa, holding an ankle with one hand and supporting herself with the
other. 'I remember Katrine and Annabeth were in conversation, and that I walked
towards them. Her boyfriend, who was there, did the same. He caught her when
she fell.'