The Last Fix (34 page)

    'But
I told you I did not have any emotional attitude to her past.'

    'We
know Katrine was out of kilter that Saturday. She was out of kilter - because
of something that had happened at the travel agency. Perhaps it had something
to do with her drug-taking years. It does not seem too improbable that she took
this feeling of despair home with her. In fact, we know she did. She rang
Sigrid Haugom and told her about the incident while you were sitting in another
room. You and Katrine were lovers. You were on intimate terms. You were in and
out of each other's flats. Why would she keep such an important incident from
you?'

    'Because
I wasn't interested in her bloody past.'

    'Now
you seem to be suppressing some aggression towards this past of hers.'

    'I am
not.'

    'Yes,
you are.' The policeman smiled. 'You're very angry now. I can see that you are
sitting there and fuming.'

    'And
what's it got to do with you?'

    'You're
angry with her and the fact that she was a prostitute.'

    'I
told you I didn't give a shit about what she had done.'

    'And
I don't believe you.'

    'I
don't give a stuff what you believe!' Ole Eidesen yelled.

    Gunnarstranda
leaned back in his chair. It was a waste of time provoking this young man.
After all, Eidesen had an alibi. In fact, he was probably wasting his time
questioning him.

    He
pulled out a desk drawer and took hold of the prison photograph of Raymond
Skau. He passed it to Eidesen. 'Do you know him?'

    Eidesen
put down the photograph on the desk and examined it carefully. He coughed.
'No,' he said.

    'Have
you seen him before?'

    Eidesen
shook his head. 'Don't think so.'

    'Never?'

    'No.'

    'Think
about it.'

    'I'm
thinking as hard as I can.'

    'You're
absolutely sure you've never seen this person?'

    'Yes.
Who is it?'

    'It's
someone from Katrine's past.'

    'Who?'

    Gunnarstranda
smiled. 'Interested?'

    Eidesen
gave a groan of despair. 'Don't give a shit,' he sighed.

    'I
don't give a shit or you don't?' v 'All right, I don't give a shit. I don't
give a fuck who it is.'

    'I've
got your point now,' the policeman said, thinking. 'Now there's just one thing
I don't understand.'

    'And
that is?'

    'You
haven't asked me yet what happened on the Saturday - in the travel agency.'

    The
police inspector was sitting with a plate of chips in front of him on the desk
when Frølich rang. With the receiver under his chin he tried to squeeze
the ketchup out of a little foil packet and over the freshly washed Cinzano
ashtray. He swore as a spot landed on his tie.

    'Breakthrough,'
Frølich said.

    'What
are you talking about?'

    Frølich:
'We can make an arrest.'

    'Arrest
whom?'

    'Henning
Kramer.'

    Gunnarstranda
was eating. 'Why?' he chewed.

    'I've
been talking to two taxi drivers who have confirmed Kramer's version of events
through to Aker Brygge. Both remember the girl. No question it was Katrine B -
a real knockout in a skirt and black lace bra. The two of them had given the
impression of being a couple, and she in particular was in a good mood - seemed
quite high. A waiter at Lekteren - one of the restaurant boats - also remembers
the girl well. She had been waltzing with some of the men on the wharf. A girl
working at McDonald's recognized both of them. They bought cheeseburgers and
Cokes and left. The guy at Lekteren also remembers Kramer, but he couldn't
understand how such a stupid-looking guy could have a woman like her.'

    'Everyone
agreed they had had a nice time,' Gunnarstranda interrupted, dipping a handful
of thin chip-stalks into the ashtray filled with ketchup. 'Get to the point!'
The chips splayed out as he was about to stuff them into his mouth.

    'Listen
to this,' Frølich said, excited. 'One taxi driver's name is Kardo Bukhtal.
He was driving a late-night party-goer home that morning. He remembers the trip
because it was a long one, out to Ski. And on the way back he took old Mossevei
and drove past the car park where Kramer thought they had parked. And he's
willing to swear he saw the car there.'

    'Kramer's
car?'

    'Yes,
Kramer's car, an Audi open-top sports car, green with a grey hood. Well, this
guy thinks cars like this are pretty stylish and he slowed down as he passed.
The car was there at half past six that same morning, when Kramer says he was
sleeping sweetly in his own bed after dropping off Katrine by the roundabout
leading up to Holmlia.'

    'In
other words, Kramer is lying.'

    'Like
a presidential candidate.'

    Gunnarstranda's
fingers were covered in ketchup. 'Where are you?'

    'In
Holmen.'

    Gunnarstranda
stood up. He put the receiver under his chin, wiped his fingers clean on a
serviette and patted his pockets for cigarettes. 'In Holmen. What the hell are
you doing there? I want Henning Kramer here, now! With handcuffs on!'

    'I'm
sitting in my car outside his mother's house,' Frølich answered drily.
'The guy isn't at home. But I was given his brother's address. That must be
where Henning stays when his brother is away.'

    'The
address?'

    'Behind
Deichmannsgate. Fredensborgveien 33.'

    'See
you there.' The inspector was already on his way to the door. He drank the rest
of the Coke running down the stairs. His coat-tails fluttering behind him.

    If Frølich
had spoken to this idiot's mother she could have warned him on the phone and
put the boy on his guard. Gunnarstranda took the next flight in three strides
and caught a glimpse of Yttergjerde's stooped figure down in reception.
Yttergjerde glanced up. They exchanged looks. Gunnarstranda pointed his index
finger ahead and circled it above his head.

    That
was enough. Yttergjerde broke into a run.

    The
needle on the speedometer touched 110 kph. Shop windows and pedestrians were
just grey shadows. Cars in front of them swerved to the side and in their panic
drove on to the pavements with a jolt. Yttergjerde drove in the middle of the
carriageway, between lines of cars with casual nonchalance, crossing the lights
on red, pushing into the wrong lane and back again, his mouth going like a taxi
driver's all the while. 'Went to the Glomma last weekend,' he said. 'Flooding
its banks, it was. In June, just imagine. Went on to Mingevannet with my
brother-in-law, down the lake, by Sarp. We were sitting in a boat, casting
lines towards the shore. Do that in early summer, we do, when the pike's in the
reeds. Only caught a few littl'uns though, tiny buggers no longer than an index
finger. You wouldn't think they'd bite the spinning bait that was twice as long
as they were, would you? And so aggressive! It was…

    'Watch
out!' Gunnarstranda shouted, grabbing the glove compartment with both hands to
brace himself for a collision.

    However,
Yttergjerde swung the wheel round and slung the car to the left, into the lane
of the oncoming traffic. He maintained speed, driving towards a parked lorry
unloading goods. Behind the lorry was a queue of cars; their line of sight
blocked, they had not seen the police car. The first car came out and overtook
the lorry on its way towards them. Yttergjerde coughed and accelerated as he
aimed for a gap between the two vehicles and one of the cars that had swerved
to the side. 'Could use them as bait, you know. Save taking them off the hook.
Pike are cannibals, too. My brother-in-law caught one weighing three kilos and
do you know where the hook was? In the pike's skull. My brother-in-law had
bloody hooked a pike in the skull and hauled it in. What about that! Three
kilos!'

    'Bloody
hell!' Gunnarstranda grabbed the strap over the door to his right as a cyclist
was forced to throw himself and the bike on to the pavement.

    Yttergjerde
shrugged. They were already in Fredensborgveien. The howl of a siren echoed
between the blocks of flats. Yttergjerde jumped on the brakes and screeched to
a halt in front of another patrol car. Gunnarstranda was out of the car and
already on his way to the front door. What was a second patrol car doing here? Frølich
could never have made it here so fast.

    He
raced up the stairs with long strides. Behind him, Yttergjerde was more
composed. Gunnarstranda didn't stop until he reached the second floor and was
standing in front of an open door. A uniformed policeman stood in the doorway.
Gunnarstranda walked past him and entered the flat.

    The
dead man was hanging from a hook intended for an electric light. It might have
seemed solid enough for a chandelier, but now it seemed fragile. Someone had
taken the cable off the hook and laid out the dead man.

    'I
took down the body and laid it on the floor,' said the uniformed constable by
the door. 'Hope that's not a problem.'

    Gunnarstranda
scowled at him, but said nothing. The constable shrugged and leaned against the
door frame. Apart from the constable, Gunnarstranda and Yttergjerde there was
another stranger in the room. Without uttering a word, Gunnarstranda watched
the stranger trying to give Henning Kramer heart massage. It didn't seem to be
helping. The man sat over the dead body, the back of his white shirt wet with
sweat. Every time he thumped the dead man's chest the corpse shook. Every time
the man tried to pump the heart into life the lifeless legs thudded against the
wooden floor. As did Henning Kramer's head. The man astride the dead body took
a small break, gasping for air, and went back to pressing Kramer's chest. Two
lifeless feet and one head banged against the wooden planks.

    Gunnarstranda
motioned to Yttergjerde who was leaning over the two on the floor. With a pair
of nippers he cut off the rest of the cable, still coiled around the dead man's
neck. The man attempting heart massage glanced up, mumbled something and went
on pumping.

    Gunnarstranda
cleared his throat and asked the constable, 'Was he cold?'

    'As
ice,' the constable answered.

    Gunnarstranda
pointed to the man giving the heart massage. 'Who is this?'

    The
constable in the doorway gave a shrug.

    At
that moment Frank Frølich walked in through the door. He took one look
at the dead body and heaved a heavy sigh. He and Gunnarstranda exchanged
glances.

    'He
found the body,' the constable said, pointing to the man they had spoken about.
'But he has just started doing this.'

    Frølich
shouted to the man on the floor: 'Hello, are you a doctor?'

    The
man turned round. 'Vet.'

    'He's
dead,' Gunnarstranda said to the vet.

    'We
have to open his chest,' the man said. 'We have to try to squeeze his heart
into life by hand.'

    'What?'
Gunnarstranda said.

    'Squeeze
his heart into life by hand.'

    'Are
you out of your mind?' Gunnarstranda's lips trembled with irritation. 'The
man's dead. Can't you see that? He's almost transparent. He hanged himself from
the ceiling several hours ago.'

    'Rubbish,'
said the vet who stood up and dashed into the kitchen. Soon he reappeared in
the doorway with a large meat cleaver. The expression on his face was
concentrated and he was sweating. He brandished the cleaver. 'We have to open
him up!'

    'I
make the decisions here,' Gunnarstranda said roughly. His voice shook with
suppressed rage. 'He's dead.' His voice cracked on the word
dead.