The Last Fix (41 page)

    Gunnarstranda
nodded.

    'But
she was on his mind a lot of the time. He thought she was important for him and
he for her. I was never introduced, though.'

    'So
in the last few days he wasn't down or different from normal?'

    Her
eyes filled with water. Her mouth trembled. 'He was grieving, but he would
never let the grief stop him. That was just the way he was, the way he thought.
If he was in love, I mean… if he experienced pain or pleasure because of a
feeling like that - jealousy, too, for that matter - he would regard it as a
deception, something that would pass. Goodness, it's impossible to explain. As
I said, taking his own life for love - you're talking about someone else.'

    'But
how do you see the case?' she asked tentatively as Gunnarstranda was still
silent.

    'It
depends on the particular circumstances,' he answered in a toneless voice.

    Disconcerted,
she raised her eyebrows.

    'I
would have liked to find a letter that told us why he chose to take his own
life,' the policeman started to explain and at last moved away from the spot
where he had been standing. 'If I can put it like that,' he mumbled and headed
for the small kitchen table under the window, drew out a chair and sat down.
With great care he crossed one skinny leg over the other and fidgeted with a
cigarette. 'What would you think if it was proved beyond any doubt that Henning
died by his own hand?'

    The
woman's shoulders slumped and she let go of the oven handle. She sat down, too.
The detective put a cigarette behind his ear while studying her at the same
time. She didn't give the appearance of crying. All the same, tears were
running in two fine lines down her cheeks. The dour expression on her face was
chiselled into her features, as though the trickle of tears was part of her
facial repertoire that had always been there. Her breathing was normal; her
expression and the stream of tears were all that revealed her internal state.
Gunnarstranda realized this was the first time in this case that he had met
undisguised, unforced grieving. And he realized that his last question had been
put too soon.

    'Let
me put it in another way,' Gunnarstranda said in a low voice, leaning across
the table. 'Whether Henning was responsible for his own death or not - there
are two working hypotheses I have to have validated or invalidated. The reason
I am working on this at all is because your son had a close relationship with
the woman who was murdered.'

    'So
there is a link between Katrine's death and Henning's death?'

    'I
consider that highly probable irrespective of whether he killed himself or
not.' Gunnarstranda didn't say any more. She was no longer crying. Her
complexion seemed paler, but the significance of what he had said had sunk in
and was now being internalized.

    'You
agree with me,' she whispered. 'Henning was murdered.'

    'Stop
right there.' Gunnarstranda stood up and walked to the window. 'I didn't say
that.'

    He
looked outside without finding anything of interest on which to settle his gaze
but, still contemplating the street, he asked, 'What was your impression of
Katrine Bratterud?'

    'I
didn't have one…' she said.

    'Because,'
the policeman added, 'you only know her through what your son said about her.
You've already said that. But, like it or not, he was having a relationship
with her, and he did mention her to you, so you must have formed some kind of
impression, some concept of the kind of woman she was, at least for your son.'

    'Yes,
I did,' she nodded. 'Henning was twenty-five years old, he lived at home and
didn't seem to have it in him to do much more than immerse himself in his own
interests. He was doing his military service at the drug rehab place. He
thrived on that and liked her. She was a patient there, I understand, trying to
get off drugs. She was one of the ones who were successful, I understand…'

    'What
was Henning interested in?'

    'As I
said, Henning had to get to the bottom of everything, like with love.
What
is it? What is it, in fact?
That's what he was like from when he was a
little boy.' She gave an embarrassed smile.

    'And
his interests?'

    'Travelling,
literature… my God, you should see all the books…' She tossed her head in the
direction of another room.'…they're as fat as bibles, and he read and read…'

    'Travelling?'

    'Yes,
he spent all his money on travelling.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded. 'Did you meet her?'

    'The
girl from the rehab centre? Never.'

    'Did
you know your son occasionally took drugs?'

    She
sat up erect and the expression that had brightened up for a few moments when
she was talking about her son's literary feats, darkened again. 'Does that make
him a bad person?'

    'Of course
not. Did you know?'

    'Yes.'

    'Let
me be honest with you, fru Kramer. There is a strong likelihood your son died
by his own hand.'

    The
woman on the sofa was taken aback and was on the cusp of objecting again, but
Gunnarstranda held up a hand. 'The reason I cannot exclude such an eventuality
is threefold: first, the way he died - so far it looks like an undeniable case
of suicide. Second, the fact that he was a drug addict…'

    'He
was not,' the woman interrupted with vehemence.

    Gunnarstranda
raised his hand in defence. 'Let's not squabble about that. The fact of the
matter is that many occasional drug-users often suffer from depression, long
and short-term. A psychiatrist would be able to say something more intelligent
than you and I could about whether Henning's death was due to an acute
depression, drugs or no drugs. The third fact that suggests your son hanged
himself is his relationship with Katrine Bratterud.'

    'But
why would the death of this poor girl suggest Henning would take his own life?'

    Gunnarstranda
turned to the window again. In the street a middle-aged lady wearing pink
shorts and a white blouse walked past. She was pushing a pram. 'Give it some
thought,' he said.

    'What
do you think I'm doing? I've been doing nothing else for the last day or so,
but it doesn't make sense to me.'

    'What
if Henning killed Katrine?' Gunnarstranda said.

    'Are
you crazy? He loved her!'

    'I
can understand your reaction,' the policeman said. 'But since I've been
employed to clear up this case, it would be unforgivable of me not to keep the
option open that he might have killed her. If Henning did do it, you could
understand this resulting in a depression, which in turn may have fed to
suicide, especially if he loved her as you say he did.'

    'But
why would he have killed her?'

    'Good
question,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Until the answer to that becomes apparent, we
have to work on finding out what actually happened the night Katrine died.'

    'Nothing
happened that night. Henning was at home and asleep when she was killed.'

    'Was
he?'

    'What
do you mean?' The woman at the table was fidgeting with her handkerchief.

    'I
mean,' Gunnarstranda said, 'that Henning's statement doesn't ring true. There's
something that's just not right. He claimed he left a car park by Lake Gjer at
three o'clock in the morning - and arrived here at half past three at the
latest. But he didn't. A taxi driver is willing to swear in court that he saw
Henning's car parked in the same place at seven in the morning - the very
morning that Katrine was killed. And he swears that Henning's car was in the
exact same place that Henning claimed he had left over four hours earlier. Now
I'm asking you, and I know it's difficult, but your answer will and must be
used in court: When did Henning come home that night?'

    'At
the latest at half past three in the morning.'

    'So
my witness is lying?'

    'I
didn't say that.'

    'But
you're saying the car was here at half past three. How could it have been
parked by the lake at seven?'

    The
woman bit her lip.

    'Answer
me,' the policeman whispered.

    'He
went back.'

    'Have
you just made this up or is it really true?'

    'It's
true. He went back.'

    'Why?'

    'Because…'

    Gunnarstranda
couldn't stand the tension. He knocked the cigarette down from behind his ear.
He lit it with his stained Zippo without giving her a glance and inhaled. He
opened the window and politely blew the smoke through the crack. 'Come on,' he
prompted. 'Why did Henning go back'

    'Because
he was worried about her.'

    She
stood up and fetched an ashtray from one of the kitchen cupboards. It was made
of solid glass.

    'He
was worried about her?' Gunnarstranda asked, unconvinced.

    'Yes.
I told him to go back.'

    Gunnarstranda
flicked the ash off his cigarette.

    'Have
you one for me as well?' she asked.

    Gunnarstranda
passed her the tobacco pouch. She began to roll a cigarette, but had to give up
when the paper split. The detective put his roll-up in the ashtray, made one
for her and flicked the Zippo.

    Henning
Kramer's mother took a deep breath. She blew a cloud of smoke towards the
ceiling and watched it. Then she told Gunnarstranda how she had sat up waiting
for Henning and how he had told her why he was worried about Katrine.

    'He
had gone to sleep with her in the car earlier that night. When he woke up she
had disappeared!'

    'She
wasn't there?' 'No, vanished. He got out and went looking for her but she was
nowhere to be seen.' Kramer's mother put the roll-up in the ashtray and stood
up as the policeman was about to interrupt. She stopped in the doorway to the
living room and turned to him. 'He drove here and woke me up. I know it was
half past three because I couldn't understand why he was in my bedroom and
waking me up, so I glanced at the alarm clock. Henning was nervous, unsure what
to do. He said he had no idea where she could have gone and when I saw how
nervous he was, I advised him to go back and search the area.'

    She
went into the hall and Gunnarstranda shouted. 'What was the time then?'

    'He
left before six,' she shouted back. And in a louder voice: 'I made him something
to eat and we talked for quite a long time.'

    She
appeared in the doorway.

    'When
did he leave?'

    'I
only know it was before six o'clock.'

    'When
did he come back?'

    'At
eight.'

    'And
he hadn't found her?'

    'No.'

    'Why
did your son keep this quiet?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    The
woman in the doorway just shook her head. She sat down and, with an apologetic
expression, produced a packet of Marlboro Light. 'Yours are a bit strong,' she
said, putting one of her own in her mouth and allowing the policeman to light
it.

    'And
why did Henning lie to us about what happened?' Gunnarstranda pocketed the
lighter.

    'He
was afraid you would suspect him.'

    'But,
as you said yourself, why would we believe he had killed her?'

    'I have
no idea, but he was all over the place. He didn't know what had happened to her
and he had a bad conscience about not carrying out a more thorough search when
he woke up to find her gone. He was convinced she had to be close by. She could
have lost her way or someone could have prevented her from shouting for help.
And he was even more convinced that was what had happened when he came back the
second time.'

    'But
he didn't find anything?'

    'I'm
not sure.'

    'What
do you mean by that?'

    'That
I'm not sure. I asked him if he had found her. He said no and gave me a very
funny look. I wanted to ask more questions, but he told me to be quiet, not to
say any more.'