The Last Fix (8 page)

    She
was breathing through her open mouth. Panicky breathing which she had to keep
in check. She closed her mouth and held her breath. She stared intently at the
clump of trees. There it was again. The rustling noise. She closed her eyes.

    'Henning?'
she whispered. Her voice didn't carry.

    The
rustling stopped. She cleared her throat to regain her speech.

    'Henning?'
she shouted and listened. A twig cracked. Other twigs stirred. 'Is that you,
Henning?'

    A
silhouette detached itself from the clump of trees, a white silhouette. A
silhouette that had been there all the time, but she had not seen it until now,
when it started moving. It was in human form. White human form. With no clothes
on.

    Police
Inspector Gunnarstranda observed the shape of his face in the glass bowl. The
reflection distorted his appearance and made it pear-shaped. The mouth with the
white, artificial, porcelain teeth resembled a strange, long pod full of white
beans. His nostrils flared into two huge tunnels and around his face there was
the suggestion of a grey shadow, no Sunday shave as yet. He searched for words
to say to the goldfish. He was standing in front of the book shelf on which the
goldfish bowl was placed, looking at the fish and himself in the glass. Behind
his pear-face, the reflection caught everything in the flat: the book shelves
and the table with the pile of newspapers. 'Are you lonely?' he asked. The
question was ridiculous. He re-phrased it: 'Do you feel lonely?' And, as usual,
he put words into the mouth of the red and orange fringetail swimming around in
the bowl with an air of leisure. 'Of course you feel lonely; I'm lonely, too.'
Saying the words gave the policeman a pang of conscience. He ought to have
bought more fish to give the fat red and orange goldfish some friends, to
create a fish community in the bowl. However, at the same time he feared that
buying more fish would mean he would lose contact with this one. It looked at
him with its strange eyes, its beautiful tail flapping in slow motion. 'Yes
indeed, we're both lonely,' he concluded, straightening up and ambling into the
kitchen to brew up some coffee in the machine. Four spoonfuls of Evergood, five
if it was a different brand. That's how it is; with some brands of coffee you
need to put more spoonfuls in the filter. Not something you can discuss. It's a
question of taste. He hooked his braces over the shoulders of his vest. 'Do you
know what the worst thing about it is?' he said to the fish. 'It's that you
can't be alone with your loneliness any more. Now it's fashionable to be
lonely, now they have programmes about loneliness and everyone talks about it,
and they broadcast programmes for the lonely.'

    He
switched on the coffee machine and leaned against the door frame. There was a
portrait of Edel hanging over the fishbowl. What expression would she have on
her face and in her eyes now? But why? Was it because he spent his time
conversing with a fish? Perhaps she's jealous, he thought, jealous because I
don't talk to her? But he did talk to her, in his head. The fish was different;
the fish was like a dog. 'Yes,' he heard Edel chide him. 'But dogs have names,'
she said.

    Exactly,
thought Gunnarstranda, trudging back to the bowl. He took the yellow packet of
fish food, opened it and tapped a bit out with his forefinger. Tiny flakes
floated on the surface of the water. Giddy with happiness the fish about-turned,
swam to the top and nibbled at the food. 'Would you like a name?' he asked the
fish and considered the three wise men in the Bible. The name of one of the
wise men might suit the fish. If the Hindus' theories were right, if the fish
had high negative karma, it might indeed have been one of them. But
Gunnarstranda could not remember the names of the wise men. Yes, he did, one of
them: Melchior. Rotten name for a fish. One was called Balthasar. That was
better, but not very original. He kept thinking. 'You could be called… you
could be called…' This was not his strong suit. He had a sudden inspiration.
'Kalfatrus,' he said aloud and straightened up with satisfaction. 'Good name.
Kalfatrus.'

    The
moment the word was spoken the telephone rang.

    Gunnarstranda
checked his watch and met Kalfatrus's eyes. 'I don't think we'll be seeing each
other so often in the future,' he said to the goldfish and turned towards the
telephone. He padded across. 'It's Sunday morning,' he continued. 'I haven't
shaved, and, in fact, I had a few plans for today. If the phone rings at
moments like these it can mean only one thing.'

    He
placed a hand on the telephone, which continued to ring furiously. The two of
them looked at each other across the room for two brief seconds. A policeman
and a goldfish exchanging glances. Inspector Gunnarstranda cleared his voice,
snatched at the receiver and barked: 'Please be brief.'

    Neither
of them had much appetite after the autopsy. They stood outside in the car
park, gazing pensively into the air. It had stopped raining, Frank Frølich
confirmed. The wind was making the trees sway and dispersing the clouds; the
hot sun was beginning to dry the tarmac. He considered what they had found out
and wondered how to tackle the case, or to be more precise: how Gunnarstranda
thought the case should be tackled. In the end, the latter broke the silence:
'Did you see the news last night?'

    'Missed
it,' answered Frank Frølich.

    'Quite
a big deal. Pictures of a helicopter and the whole shebang. But they had a
pretty good portrait, a facial composite. I suppose that gave them the lead.'

    'Sure,'
Frølich said, uninterested. The problem was matching them, matching the
lifeless flesh on the table with a name, with a living woman. 'Katrine,' he
said with a cough. 'Wasn't that the name?'

    Gunnarstranda
repeated the name as though tasting it on his tongue. 'Lots of women called
Katrine Bratterud. Unusual tattoo on the stomach, so it looks as if we've got
something to go on. But having something to go on is not enough.' Gunnarstranda
studied his notes and pointed to the car. 'To Sørkedalen.'

    They
drove in silence with Frølich behind the wheel. Gunnarstranda sat
crouched in the front seat with his light summer coat pulled tight around him,
mute. Frølich was still searching for music he liked on the radio. Every
time the voices in the speakers turned out to be commercials he changed
channel. He kept clicking until he found music he liked. Gunnarstranda looked
down with annoyance at the finger pressing the search button. He said: 'I've
heard that voice three times now. If you click on that station again, I'm going
to demand to know what she's talking about.'

    Frølich
didn't answer. There was no point. He continued to search until the husky voice
of Tom Waits emerged through the speakers.

    They
passed Vestre cemetery and drove from Smestad up Sorkedalsveien past
camouflaged houses and protected conservation areas. For a while they were
driving side by side with a train on the Шsterеs Metro line. Two small children
in the front carriage were banging their hands on the window and waving to
them. The radio was playing quiet blues music as they passed Roa; they went on
to Sørkedalen through a June-green cornfield caressed by the gentle
breeze and glistening like velvet in the sun. Frølich switched off the
radio when the commercials returned. 'This is Oslo,' he said, opening his palms
with passion. 'Five minutes by car and you're in the country.' The road had a
few tight bends, and on reaching the top of the hill, they could see blue water
between two green mountain tops, large-crowned deciduous trees growing along a
winding, invisible stream and in the background the fringe of the massive
Oslomarka forest. Frølich slowed down. 'Should be somewhere round here,'
he mumbled, hunched over the steering wheel.

    'The
white arrow over there,' Gunnarstranda said.

    The
arrow was a sign pointing to Vinterhagen. Frølich turned into a gravel
car park. There were big holes in the gravel after the heavy torrents of rain.
The car bumped along and pulled up in front of a green thicket. They got out.
The air was fresh and a little chilly. The holes in the gravel were still full
of rainwater. Frølich peered up. The sky seemed unsettled. Right now the
sun was shining and was very hot, but all around clouds were gathering for what
might be a sudden downpour, perhaps accompanied by thunder. Frølich
stood next to the car for a moment before taking off his jacket and hanging it
casually over his shoulder. They walked down a narrow pathway with a
greyish-black covering of compressed quarry aggregate and past a greenhouse
with a door open at one end. Someone had painted
Vinterhagen
on the
glass in big, fuzzy, yellow letters. A woman in her mid-twenties, wearing
shorts and a T-shirt, watched them through bored eyes.

    'I
suppose this must have been a folk high school at one time,' said Frølich
as they strolled between a large, yellow building and a piece of ground that
had been cleared for an allotment. There were attractive vegetable patches with
tidy rows of new shoots.

    'Idyllic,'
intoned Gunnarstranda, looking around. 'Idyllic.'

    'And
this looks like an accommodation building,' Frølich said with what
seemed to be genuine interest, causing his partner to frown with suspicion.
Climbing roses attached to a trellis ran along the wall. Frank pointed to an
official-looking redbrick house. 'I suppose the offices must be over there.'
They walked on towards a group of young people standing around an old, red
tractor. 'A red devil,' Frølich exclaimed with enthusiasm. 'An old
Massey-Ferguson.' At that moment something soft smacked on to the ground. They
stopped. Then another tomato spattered against one of the windows in the yellow
building, right behind them. The tomato disintegrated, leaving behind a wet,
reddish stain on the dark glass. Frølich ducked, but not quite fast
enough to avoid being hit in the face.

    Inspector
Gunnarstranda turned and regarded the woman who had been following them from
the greenhouse. She had another tomato at the ready. When Frølich
started running towards her, she dropped the tomatoes she was holding and
sprinted like a gazelle across the vegetable plot and jumped with consummate
ease over a fence. Frølich lumbered like a wounded ox. His massive upper
torso rocked from side to side and the flab bounced up and down. His white
shirt detached itself from his trousers and his tie fluttered over his
shoulder. After a few metres he came to a halt, gasping for breath.

    A
hint of a smile could just be discerned around Gunnarstranda's thin lips. The
crew around the tractor were roaring with laughter. Frølich waved his
fist after the receding tomato-thrower, turned and plodded back, rummaging
through his pockets for a handkerchief. 'Now and again I ask myself whether
we're in a real profession,' he sighed, wiping tomato juice off his hair and
beard.

    'What
would you have done if you had caught her?'

    Frølich
glanced at his boss, but didn't reply.

    Gunnarstranda
patted the corner of his mouth. 'Here,' he said. 'Tomato seeds.' Frølich
wiped his mouth and glared at the youths by the tractor who were still amused
by the incident. 'I don't understand them,' he said. 'Why does anyone who has
been on drugs hate the police so much?'

    'Perhaps
because the police have a tendency to run after them,' suggested Gunnarstranda
succinctly.

    'Reflex
action,' Frølich said.

    'You
run, they flee. The game is that stupid. Look at them.' Gunnarstranda pointed
at the group around the tractor. They were making pig-like snorting noises. He
took a roll-up out of his pouch, lit it and headed for the office building with
Frølich trailing after him. Frølich shook his jacket which had
fallen on the ground. They stopped when Gunnarstranda had a coughing fit.

    Frølich
looked back at the kids around the tractor.

    'They
remind me of the time when Eva-Britt had two kittens. She had been given them
by a farmer who brought them in a wicker basket. But they had had very little
contact with people and had gone feral. They hid under the sofa in her living
room, came out some time during the night, ate the food she had put out and
shat and pissed all over the furniture. I was staying there and went to pick
one up. Christ, that cat was wild. It clawed my hand and tore my shirt.'

    Gunnarstranda
had his breath back. 'Kittens?' he mumbled without much interest and stopped in
front of the entrance to the office building. He had two more drags before
pinching the glow of the roll-up and putting it into his coat pocket. The floor
inside was laid with large flagstones and the ceiling fans whirred. A young man
with a goatee and long hair held in a ponytail was sitting behind a table,
talking on the telephone. A dog, a boxer, lay on the floor beside the desk. It
had placed its head on the floor as though it were holding the stones in place
while scowling up at the two men approaching.