The Last Fix (22 page)

    'Small-time
crook,' Frølich said. 'Done time for receiving stolen property, and
robbery. Known to hang around strip joints and that sort of area. May be a
pimp, in other words. Been arrested a few times for selling hash to teenagers.
But the most interesting bit is a case from a few years back - March 1995.'

    'I
see,' said the inspector, bending over the photograph. He interlaced his hands
to keep them still. The man in the picture looked like hundreds of others in
the same category. Prison mug shots. A man with a haggard face, a vacant
expression beneath half-closed, almost sleepy eyelids, and dark or grey hair. A
glimpse of a very uneven row of teeth was visible in the murky hole that
constituted the open mouth. 'Has he broken a tooth?'

    'Could
have done,' Frølich said. 'But at that time - I mean in '95 - he was
reported to the police by one Katrine Bratterud.'

    Gunnarstranda
whistled. Frølich’s smile widened into a broad beam. 'The report came
from the Centre for Battered Women. Bugger me if our friend there hadn't been
living with our girl. And charges were brought against him for beating her up
and trying to run her over with his car!'

    'Run
her over?'

    'Yes,'
Frølich said. 'Jealousy drama de luxe. And the case was not shelved, oh
no. Froken Bratterud presented herself in person at the police station and
withdrew the charges.'

    'And
he was waiting outside?'

    'We
don't know, but it's possible.'

    'How
was she? After the car incident?'

    'She
escaped with a fright. I can't remember the pathologist mentioning any lasting
injuries anyway.'

    'Jealous,'
Gunnarstranda mumbled as he sat flicking the photograph. 'We like that word.'
He stood up and strolled over to the window.

    'There
was no one at home,' Frølich said.

    'Where
was that?'

    'Gronland,
council flat, one of the old blocks in Gronlandsleiret.' Frølich nodded
and studied the photograph as well. 'Raymond Skau,' he said. 'What a name.'

    'He
doesn't have to be ashamed of his name,' Gunnarstranda said. 'He can't do
anything about it anyway.' He sat staring into the distance. Frølich
stood by the door.

    'Mm,'
Gunnarstranda said, rapt in thought.

    'The
boyfriend,' Frølich said, pointing to the door. 'We agreed we would see
Ole Eidesen together.'

    A
woman jogged up the stairs in front of them. Frank Frølich kept a close
eye on her. Her face and hair were masked by a veil. However, what nourished Frølich’s
imagination were the nicely shaped hips and breasts whose contours he could
make out beneath her ample and airy clothes as she rounded the bend in the
stairs.

    'There,'
Gunnarstranda said, pointing to a door with ole eidesen printed in white on a
red plastic strip beneath a bell.

    The
Muslim woman lived on the same floor. She stood fumbling for her keys, let
herself in and took off the veil before closing the door. Frølich
couldn't believe his eyes. 'Did you see that?' he asked.

    'What?'
Gunnarstranda rang Eidesen's bell.

    'The
woman. Her hair was blonde.'

    'So
what?'

    'But
she was wearing a veil!'

    'You're
allowed to be a Muslim even if you are Norwegian.'

    'But…'
Frølich swallowed and cleared his throat. At that moment the door to
Eidesen's flat was opened. Ole Eidesen appeared to be around thirty years old.
He was slim and of medium height. There was a conspicuous ring in his left
eyebrow. He had tried to disguise a growing bald spot on his crown by shaving
off all his hair. A dark shadow across his skull revealed the growth pattern of
his hair. But the most noticeable thing about him was a series of scratches and
red marks down his face.

    'Eidesen?'
Gunnarstranda asked.

    'Yes,'
the man said, looking serious. His eyes wandered from one policeman to the
other.

    Gunnarstranda
kept both hands in his jacket pocket as he introduced himself.

    'Come
in.'

    'This
is Frank Frølich.'

    Eidesen
had long, slim fingers. His handshake was light but firm.

    The
sitting room they entered was light and smelt of perfume. There were several
windows, the hessian wallpaper was painted white and the room was spartanly
furnished. A stereo system stood on the floor against the wall. A white leather
sofa and two manila chairs encircled a glass table. One chair creaked as Frølich
took a seat.

    Eidesen
sat down on the white sofa; under his shorts his legs were tanned and muscular.
He looked nervously at Gunnarstranda who stood thinking and biting his lower
lip.

    Frølich
sorted out his notepad on his lap before focusing on the man on the sofa. 'This
is about Katrine Bratterud,' Frølich said.

    Eidesen
nodded.

    'You've
had an accident?' the policeman asked.

    Eidesen
shook his head. 'I fell flat on my face.'

    'Fell
on your face?'

    Eidesen
fidgeted. 'I can't keep still. I think about her all the time. It's worst at
night, so I run.' He stretched his face into a tired, apologetic smile. 'I ran
last night and…' The smile broadened into a nervous, sardonic smile. 'I tripped
over some scrub and fell flat on my face with a bang.'

    Frølich
nodded slowly. 'Has the priest contacted you?'

    Eidesen
became serious and shook his head. 'I heard yesterday.'

    'What
did you hear?'

    'That
it was Katrine they were writing about in the newspapers.' 'Who did you hear it
from?'

    'Someone
called Sigrid who works at the rehab centre.'

    Frølich
consulted his notes. 'Sigrid Haugom?'

    Eidesen
nodded. 'I rang them.'

    'What
did Sigrid Haugom say?'

    'I
rang and she said Katrine had been killed. That it was Katrine they had found
dead by Hvervenbukta.'

    'Did
she say how Katrine was killed?'

    Eidesen
coughed and, unsure of himself, shook his head.

    The
art is to be patient, thought Frølich. Always be patient, he thought,
oblivious of why the boss was letting him run this show, but there would be
some plan behind it. That he did know. 'How long did you know her?'

    'Hm?'

    Frølich
repeated the question.

    'A
few months. I knew who she was long before that. We met on a course. Spanish.'

    'You
can speak Spanish?'

    'Yes.'
He added, 'My mother is Spanish. I teach Spanish in the evening. Adult
education at the folk university.'

    'And
Katrine was a student there?'

    'Yes.'

    Frølich
waited. Eidesen cleared his throat. 'I asked her out,' he began and cleared his
throat again. 'On the third evening we ate at the Spanish restaurant in
Pilestredet. I just don't remember…'

    'Do
you remember what clothes she was wearing at the party on Saturday?' Frølich
asked. 'Try to give me an exact description.'

    'A
black top with buttons and sort of… sort of… transparent sleeves,' Eidesen
said, thinking carefully. 'Over a sort of grey skirt, dark grey, light and
summery, not one of the shortest, it reached down well over her knees and the
shoes I'm not sure… They were black, I think, or grey, bit of a heel on them.'

    'Lingerie?'
Frølich asked.

    Eidesen
rolled his shoulders. 'I have no idea. She got dressed in the bathroom after
taking a shower. We were at her place - then we took a taxi to the party.'

    'But
what lingerie did she wear as a general rule?'

    Eidesen
shrugged again. 'The usual stuff - both bits, if I can put it like that.'

    'Colours?'

    'As I
said, I don't know. I would guess it was something dark because she was wearing
a black top. She was precise about things like that… I mean nothing vulgar.'

    'Anything
else?'

    The
question came from Gunnarstranda. The man's sensitive lips were trembling. He
always had this expectant expression in his eyes. An expression that did not
invite a head-on confrontation, but still presaged something undetonated.

    'A
bag, a little shoulder bag…' Eidesen fixed his gaze on Gunnarstranda, who took
off his coat, walked a few paces over to the free manila chair, placed it
opposite Eidesen and sat down. He then rested his head on his hands and said in
a low voice, 'I always lay my cards on the table and I never lie.'

    'Is
that right?'

    'But
I'm a real bastard, Eidesen, a real bastard. Did you know that?'

    Eidesen,
puzzled, shook his head

    'But
that's how the game's played,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Now and then there are
certain advantages to being a bastard. From what I understand you were, or had
been at some point, Katrine's boyfriend. Right now I cannot make allowances for
that. The most important thing is to find out who killed her and, for all I
know, that could have been you. I don't know. No one knows except the killer.'
-›-

    Eidesen
nodded again. He was ill at ease.

    'Did
you kill Katrine Bratterud?'

    Eidesen
winced. 'No.'

    'She
died what pathologists here call a gruesome death,' Gunnarstranda said.

    Eidesen
looked up.

    'We
don't know why the killer did what he did. The conclusion, however, is that she
took a very long time to die. A very long time.'

    Eidesen
was breathing with his mouth open. There was silence in the flat; only
Eidesen's heavy breathing was audible.

    In
the end Gunnarstranda broke the silence again. 'The fact that it took a long
time means that the killer had time and the opportunity to stop and let her
live. So what, one might ask? Does it matter when she's dead anyway? Well, the
time it takes to kill her suggests two very important pieces of information. It
means we're talking about malice aforethought.' He stared at Eidesen in the
ensuing silence.

    'And?'
Eidesen asked with face raised.

    'If
someone is hellbent on eliminating a threat someone poses, there can be two causes
for what happens. Two causes that seem feasible. The killer may be trying to
protect his own life. But I don't believe that to be the case here. Even
strangulation must have taken several minutes, which means she put up some
resistance. She must have been lashing out with her arms and legs. So we have a
situation in which the assailant is waiting for her to die. This killer wasn't
defending himself, which may mean that he was blinded by fury - or quite
unemotional at the time of the crime.'

    From
the kitchen they heard the refrigerator switch itself on. Frølich also
heard a hollow ticking sound in the silence. It was a small table clock on top
of the television - a new black Philips.

    Eidesen
stroked the cuts on his face. 'I would imagine she resisted,' he mumbled.

    The
policeman nodded without saying anything. He looked into Eidesen's eyes and
said: 'Were you and Katrine having some disagreements?'

    Eidesen
shook his head.

    'Please
articulate your answers.'

    'Hm?'

    'Answer
my questions with words not body language. Frank Frølich, in the chair
over there, will note down your answers.'

    'No,
we didn't argue very often.'

    'On
Saturday 7
^th
June you both went to a party held by Annabeth s. Is
that correct?'