The Last Fix (45 page)

    'It's
just an interest, a hobby.'

    'So
you must have a beautiful garden, I suppose.'

    'No.'
He added, 'I have a mountain cabin,' when he saw her tilt her head to show
interest. 'What does he like talking about?'

    'Hm?'

    'Bueng,
what does he like talking about?'

    'Would
you like to try again?' Tove asked.

    'No,
I'm not sure it's worth the effort.' He put the cigarette in the matchbox and
closed it with care. 'He's a witness from an old case, over twenty years ago. I
don't even know if he can remember that far back.'

    'We
call him Elvis,' she said.

    'Why's
that?'

    'He
sings like Elvis. Perhaps he looks a bit like Elvis.' She chuckled. 'Although
he doesn't quite have the leg work.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded. 'Parkinson's, isn't it?'

    'Yes.'

    They
sat staring ahead. She seemed to be thinking. 'You don't have any kind of ID, I
suppose?' she asked all of a sudden. Gunnarstranda was charmed by the look
accompanying the question. The purpose. He took out his wallet with the police
badge and showed her. 'Nice name,' she said.

    'There
are not many of us,' Gunnarstranda replied.

    'He's
a bit of a charmer,' she said. 'Elvis… Bueng.'

    'I
can believe that.'

    'And
that means he never talks about himself.'

    The
policeman nodded. 'Has he had any recent visitors?'

    'Oh,
he seldom has any visitors,' she sighed. 'That was why it was nice that you
visited him today. It was a bit of excitement.'

    'When
did he last have a visitor?'

    'No
idea, but it must have been a long time ago.'

    'Are
you absolutely sure he hasn't had a visitor in the last two weeks?'

    'I
doubt it.'

    'But
you're sure?'

    'No,
I don't work here every day - round the clock.'

    'Could
you find out…?' Because then I could phone you, he had thought of adding, but
paused not to appear ridiculous in her eyes.

    She
smiled. 'That should be possible.'

    They
stood up. 'Is there hope?' she asked.

    He
didn't understand what she meant.

    'For
the rose.' She motioned towards the strange growth in the lawn.

    The
policeman shrugged. 'Cut off the pale green shoot coming out of the ground. If
it comes up again you can dig up the plant and chuck it away.'

    'There
was something there, Kalfatrus. I saw it,' Gunnarstranda mumbled as he cleaned
the inside of the goldfish bowl with a wad of cotton wool. He looked down at
the fish. It lay quite still in five centimetres of water. 'And I must buy some
equipment so that this bloody bowl doesn't get so mucky,' he went on, pushing
his glasses up his nose. He stood musing and muttering to the fish: 'Either the
old goat noticed a name was missing off the list I read out or he was giving me
a hint. Anyway, I don't think he's the killer. He seemed too frail and fragile
for that. But suppose he gave me a hint. What would the purpose of that have
been?'

    He
put the cotton wool on the shelf and went for more. He shouted to Kalfatrus,
'That would be too improbable, wouldn't it? Kripos work on that case for months
and then twenty years later I go to a nursing home and the old Casanova
suddenly remembers salient facts?'

    He
searched for something to put water in, thinking. 'It might have been something
else, a detail. It doesn't have to be a person.'

    He
found a litre measuring jug, filled it with water and reached for a
thermometer. 'In any case,' he muttered, 'if I stumbled over something of any
significance to help solve the Lockert case, so what? It happened more than
twenty years ago and there is no link between the two cases. Katrine Bratterud
grew up somewhere else, several hundred kilometres from Lillehammer…'

    He
poured hot and cold water in the jug until the temperature was right. With
great care he poured the tempered water over Kalfatrus, who reacted with wild
flicks of the tail. Gunnarstranda observed the fish. 'You're happy now, aren't
you,' he mumbled. 'You like to have water around you; you like the surroundings
you know. Just imagine if you had landed on the floor, or in salt water. You
would have ended up like poor Katrine. Asphyxiated and dead.'

    He
stood thinking. After a while he said to the fish: 'Perhaps that was what
happened, eh? She wasn't in her natural habitat. But then what was her natural
habitat? Or what was the wrong habitat?'

    They
were sitting in her kitchen, in the spacious dining alcove. They were alone. As
Julie was with her father, the chair at the end of the table was empty.
Eva-Britt was resting her head on her hands. She had finished eating a long
time ago. She poured herself a little more red wine. Her mouth broadened into a
smile and her eyes sparkled as he took another helping.

    'You
think you've won, don't you,' he said.

    'Me?'

    'I
know I'm fat,' he said, taking more sauce.

    She
grinned. 'I didn't say that.'

    He
scraped the frying pan. 'But you were thinking about saying it,' he said,
putting the pan down on the table and taking another potato.
'You're fat,
Frankie,
you were thinking of saying, just like now you're thinking about
saying:
Be careful. I put lots of cream in the sauce!

    'Well,
you're wrong there,' she said. 'I like it that you're well padded.' She gave
another faint smile and pressed her hand against his shirt front. 'I like men
who are well padded.'

    'You
like me,' Frank said. 'And you say you like men who are well padded because I'm
fat. If you ask a psychologist…'

    'I go
to see a psychologist every week, and you don't ask psychologists anything;
they ask you.'

    'Well,
when you're there next time you can discuss the quality of our relationship…'

    'What
do you think I talk about? I don't talk about anything else.'

    '…
You can ask him how it is you can stand me, someone who refuses to move in with
anyone. He'll…'

    'It's
a she…'

    'She'll
say that your subconscious is tricking you into liking me because you have
formed bonds with me - psychological bonds - just like a duckling follows a
goat if there is a goat standing by the egg when it is hatched - you and I have
been together for years and now you have formed a psychological bond with me.
That's why your subconscious is trying to make you believe that I'm the right
one for you.'

    'You
talk such rubbish Frankie,' Eva-Britt said, clearing away her plate.

    'And
in the end you say I'm a coward because it's the one hundred and fifty-five
thousandth time we have slept together and I don't like you talking about
living together…'

    'I
refuse to listen to your drivel!' She crossed her arms and stared at the
reflection in the large windows to their right.

    'Fine
by me,' Frank said in a sour tone. 'We've been through this ritual a million
times, too.'

    'That's
what I'm saying,' she grinned. 'We might just as well be married.'

    'Well,
I agree.'

    'You
agree?'

    'Of
course I agree!'

    'But
why do you protest every time we talk about these things?'

    'That's
where you're wrong,' Frank smiled. 'Had it been up to me we would have got
married long ago…

    'Yes,
we would,' he continued as she made to interrupt. 'And you can take that one up
with your psychologist because now I'm going to say the whole truth out loud.
I'm going to state openly what we both know deep down, that you are the one who
does not want to get married. You don't want to live with me. You always make
out that it is me who doesn't want to, but the main reason we live separately
is that you don't want to and then you make out the entire thing is my fault.
This is basic psychology, just like the fact that people in the society for the
protection of animals are really perverts who fantasize about setting fire to
kittens - and that all skinheads and neo-Nazis deep down are closet homos who
dress up in women's panties and net stockings when they're alone in the
bathroom.'

    Eva-Britt
shook her head.

    'We
can put it to the test,' Frank said. 'My thoughts and your thoughts. What am I
thinking about?'

    'I'm
not interested.'

    'But
I definitely know what you're thinking.'

    'Oh
yes?' she said.

    'You're
thinking about Julie. For the first time we have been discussing cohabitation
without bringing Julie into the discussion.'

    'That's
true.' She smiled. 'At least that's positive.'

    Frølich
stretched across the table and caressed her cheek with the back of his hand.
They sat looking at each other.

    'She's
fond of you Frankie,' Eva-Britt said. 'You're as important to her as I am.'

    He
said nothing.

    'You
know that, don't you?'

    He
nodded and watched her from beneath lowered eyelids.

    She
took his hand. 'If we're going to live together, we have to learn to cope with
silence.' She looked down. 'We mustn't compare hands,' she said in a distant
voice, holding his forearm instead. 'My grandma always said it brought bad luck.'

    He
gave a silent nod. She looked up. 'What shall we do when we have no more to say
to each other?'

    'We
do what they do in American films,' Frank said in a low voice.

    She
sent him a tender smile. They rose together. She put her arms around his neck
and stood on tiptoe. The kiss lasted a long time. He ran his fingers down her
spine, first once, then again. As she gently loosened her hold he enjoyed the
sight of her supple body and her swaying hips move towards the window. They
exchanged glances in the reflection. As she reached up for the string to close
the blinds her muscles undulated beneath her dress.

    Frølich
awoke and gazed into the air. It sounded like a bad version of Mozart's 40th
Symphony being played on a barrel organ. The telephone was ringing - his mobile
on the floor. He bent down and pressed the right button. 'Hi,' he mumbled
sleepily.

    'Guess
who this is,' Gunnarstranda said.

    'Just
a moment,' Frølich said with a glance over at Eva-Britt lying naked on
her back in bed. She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him from deep inside
a dream. With the mobile under his chin he lifted the duvet and covered her.
Bit by bit her eyes closed again. He took the phone and tiptoed into the
kitchen, with his trousers and jumper in hand. 'Now,' he said. 'Now I can speak
louder.'

    'You've
got post,' Gunnarstranda said.

    'Now,
in the middle of the night?'

    'It's
half past twelve.'

    'I'd
just gone to sleep.'

    'You
go to bed too early and the letter's important.'

    Frølich
yawned. 'But why can't I read the letter tomorrow?'

    'Because
it was sent by Henning Kramer.'

    'Oh,
shit,' Frølich said.

    The
sound of paper being torn carried over the phone. 'As your superior officer I
assume you entrust me with the task of breaking the seal?'

    'Break
away.'

    'That's
not so easy,' the police inspector mumbled.