The Last Fix (38 page)

    Frølich
nodded, thinking about the bitterness the eleven-year-old girl must have felt
for the world the day she was deprived of her father. 'Cruel,' he mumbled.

    'At a
village hall,' she went on. 'Where the girls stood around like wallflowers and the
boys asked you on to the dance floor, after drinking Dutch courage on the steps
outside first, of course. Real bands with real music. Where men fought for
girls. I suppose you've heard of Alf Prшysen - his song about one step here and
one step there and the girl who laughs when you miss a step - and about
journeyman joiners. Well, Fredrik and I met at the village hall and he chose me
and not the other girl. What I say is: If you've never experienced a proper
dance at a village hall, you've never lived!'

    'That's
right,' said Frølich. He cleared his throat. 'Does the name Henning
Kramer mean anything to you?'

    'Nothing
at all.'

    'Ole
Eidesen?'

    'No.'

    Frølich
put the photographs back on the table. 'You said Katrine was a little ashamed
of her family, or at least she didn't think it was good enough. Was that more
or less what you said?'

    'She
was ashamed of me,' Beate said with bitterness in her voice. 'She was ashamed
of this house, of my appearance. Katrine could never accept love from me. She
became a snob. It's sad, but the truth is that as her treatment progressed she
became even more of a snob.'

    Frank
gave a heavy nod.

    'But
this is not the first time, you know,' Beate said. 'The first time for what?'

    'It's
not the first time Katrine has died. The first time was ten years ago. The
drugs almost killed her.

    And
now she has probably been raped and strangled…'

    The
plump woman heaved a deep sigh.

    Frølich
nodded in sympathy.

    'And
all I can think is that she must have died many times in the course of those
ten years…'

    Frølich
stood up and moved towards the door. Beate Bratterud had sunk into her own
thoughts and he had no wish to drag her out again.

    The
green door had a window with wired glass. A curtain had been pushed to the side
and a head was peering out. Even though the wire distorted the facial features
on the other side it was clear that the face did not belong to a man.
Gunnarstranda signalled to the group on the stairs to retreat. Then he moved
his hand towards the door bell and rang again. The person inside fiddled around
with the lock and a very young woman opened up. She could have been fifteen,
sixteen, seventeen or eighteen years old. Gunnarstranda wondered whether she
wasn't fourteen. But he concluded that it was unlikely. She had to be over
fifteen. However, she was wearing a lot of make-up; her skin was so stiff it
was like cardboard. She had painted her lips dark red and was scantily clad. It
was the minimal clothing that gave away how old she was: thin thighs with no
flesh - she hadn't finished developing.

    'Is
Raymond at home?' the policeman asked with a beaming smile.

    'No,'
she said with a return smile.

    'Who
are you?'

    'I'm
his girl.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded. 'Good morning, good morning,' he said.

    'Hi,'
she said.

    Gunnarstranda
turned to look up at the armed policeman who had positioned himself higher up
the staircase, out of the young woman's field of vision. The man withdrew
without a sound and left. Gunnarstranda turned back to the young woman and
asked in hushed tones: 'Will he be long'

    'He
should be here any minute. I thought you were him now.'

    'I'll
wait indoors then,' Gunnarstranda said, stepping inside. The hall had been
painted in dark colours; it was long and narrow as halls often are in old
blocks of flats. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and opened it wide.
He peered in. The bathroom seemed unusually modern and very clean. He also
opened the next door wide.

    'Bedroom,'
the girl behind him said.

    Gunnarstranda
glanced at the dresser drawers scattered across the floor. On the broad, unmade
bed were thrown socks, underpants and other things that must have come from the
drawers. Gunnarstranda closed the door again and continued through the flat
with the young woman at his heels. It was clear that she wasn't a hundred per
cent sure of him. Gunnarstranda went into the sitting room, which was tidy.
Raymond Skau collected old LP records. Three of the walls were covered from
floor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of vinyl. There had to be thousands of
records. Only two of the shelves were reserved for CDs. Several years of
listening, thought Gunnarstranda, looking at the fourth wall, which had two
high windows looking out on to the street. Beneath the windows and between them
the wall was adorned with a huge hi-fi system. The speakers were two large,
man-sized columns. He walked to the end of the room and glanced around the
kitchen, which was just as messy as the bedroom. Several days' washing up,
including encrusted plates, formed small edifices beside the sink alongside
piles of cups lined with black coagulated coffee. The smell was testimony to
the fact that it had been a long time since anyone had bothered to empty the
waste bin.

    The
young woman stood in the middle of the floor wringing her hands. 'Who are you
then?' she forced herself to ask.

    Gunnarstranda
walked back to the sitting room window, signalled to the officers below, shook
his head and took out his mobile phone.

    'I'm
a friend of Raymond's,' he confided, wasting no words.

    'My
name's Linda,' the girl said, smiling the way that well-brought up girls do
when they are uncertain of themselves, but are willing to take a chance that
everything will turn out fine.

    Gunnarstranda's
mobile phone rang. 'Yes,' he said, walking to the window. 'No, Skau isn't here,
but he's expected, so I'll wait here until he shows up.' He switched off the
phone and pointed to the sofa with an air of authority. 'Sit down,' he said to
the young woman.

    She
sat down. Gunnarstranda seated himself on a chair opposite her. 'Have you known
Raymond long?' he asked.

    'We've
been together for two months.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded.

    'Tomorrow,'
she said, 'is our anniversary.'

    'Two
months is an awfully long time,' Gunnarstranda said with a hint of irony.

    'I
can hardly believe it,' she said in her naivety, and smiled as though she
couldn't believe it.

    'Did
you meet Katrine?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'No,
I don't think so.'

    'Blonde
hair, quite good-looking, but a bit older than you.'

    The
girl called Linda shook her head.

    'Works
at a travel agency,' Gunnarstranda said.

    The
young girl rolled her shoulders.

    'But
I suppose you go to school?'

    'Project
week.' She giggled.

    'So
you don't need to go to school?'

    'We
do but…' She giggled again.

    'How
old are you?' the policeman enquired.

    'Fourteen.'

    Gunnarstranda's
lips extended into a satisfied smile.

    'What
are you laughing at?' The young girl blushed, as if she thought the policeman
was laughing at her.

    'I'm
laughing at Raymond.'

    'Raymond's
cool, isn't he.'

    'Cool,'
Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Dead cool,' he mumbled, revealing that hip yoof talk was
not something he practised on a daily basis. 'Where is he in fact?'

    'With
the oinkers,' she answered.

    'Oinkers,'
Gunnarstranda repeated, mystified.

    'With
the cops,' she said. 'He rang me from the cop shop. He should have been back
ages ago.'

    'Do
you live here?' Gunnarstranda asked in a friendly voice. 'Do you live with
Raymond?' 'Are you crazy?' the girl said. 'I would never have been allowed to
do that.'

    'But
you have keys?'

    'Yes.
I collect the post and that sort of thing.'

    'That
sort of thing?'

    'Yes,
cook and…'

    'And?'

    She
came to a halt with a grin. 'Housewifely things.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded in an eloquent way- 'Housewifely things,' he repeated and winked at her.

    The
girl blushed again. At that moment the policeman's mobile phone rang. He put it
to his ear, listened to the message and smiled at the girl on the opposite side
of the table. 'Great,' he said: 'Go to it'.

    Soon
afterwards there was a ring at the door and the young woman jumped up. 'That's
Raymond,' she said, excited.

    'Of
course,' Gunnarstranda said without moving from his chair.

    Then
there was the sound of running feet followed by a thud and someone cursing in a
gruff voice.

    The
girl called Linda glanced up in fear at Gunnarstranda, who staggered to his
feet and went to the door. 'Pack your things together,' he said to the young
girl. 'I'll arrange for someone to drive you home.' He opened the door and
watched the scuffle on the floor of the staircase. A silent man was wriggling
and twisting under the weight of two uniformed policemen. The man's arms were
forced up behind his back and handcuffed together. As he swung round to see
what was going on, his greasy hair hung like a thick curtain in front of his
face.

    Gunnarstranda
smiled to the girl. 'But before going home you'll have to talk to some nice
people about your boyfriend.'

    Frølich
spotted Gunnarstranda's lean back as he rounded the corner of Prinsens gate.
His boss was passing the shop Steen og Strшm. Frank walked faster.
'Congratulations on finding Skau,' Frank said as he caught up with his
colleague. Gunnarstranda gave a brief smile and both strode on without another
word about the case.

    They
crossed Egertorget between the bookshop and the dense group of people standing
around the street musicians playing by the stairs leading down to the Metro.
'Have we anything to celebrate?' Frølich asked at length. He had to
shout to be heard above the pan pipes and the singing.

    'No,'
Gunnarstranda said, forcing a path through the crowd.

    'Not
even Skau?'

    Gunnarstranda
shook his head. They continued down the slope on the right of Karl Johans gate.
Frølich glanced over the picket fence of Dasslokket, the street cafe
called the toilet lid because it was situated above the public conveniences.
Even though it was some time since it had stopped raining, the plastic chairs
outside were still wet. The tables and chairs covered by a canopy appeared to
be dry, but there wasn't a single customer under it. The open door of the
serving wagon was the sole evidence that the place was not closed. A warmer day
would have been nice, he thought. With sun and designer sunglasses. 'Let's have
a cup of coffee,' he said, patting his boss on the shoulder. Gunnarstranda
followed him through the gate.

    'Do
you know why we couldn't find Raymond Skau?' Gunnarstranda asked, finding
himself a relatively dry chair by the fence facing Lille Grensen street.

    Frølich
shook his head.

    'Because
he was in custody.'

    'Say
that again,' Frølich exclaimed.

    'No,'
said Gunnarstranda.

    Frølich
called to the young waitress slouching towards them. 'Two coffees, please.'

    They
sat looking at each other.