by K. O. Dahl
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.
The young man on the telephone apologized and put down the receiver.
'Annabeth s,' Gunnarstranda said with an irritated glance at Frølich, who was still drying his beard with a handkerchief.
A tall woman wearing a wide tartan skirt appeared from behind a partition. She proffered her hand to Frølich. 'Gunnarstranda?'
'Frank Frølich,' he said, lightly squeezing her hand.
The boxer stood up too, stretched and gave a cavernous yawn before padding over to the three of them, looking up with anticipation.
'Then you must be Gunnarstranda,' said Annabeth s, proffering her hand. The policeman shook hands. 'Process of elimination,' she said with a nervous smile. She had rather short, spiky, brown hair and a lined face, but her smile was friendly, though rehearsed, and her teeth were long and discoloured by nicotine. The yellow fingertips also revealed a heavy smoker.
The two policemen were silent.
'Well,' she said with a questioning look at Gunnarstranda. 'Should we go into the office perhaps?'
'We would like you to come with us,' Frølich said, clearing his throat. 'We would like you to help us.'
'What with?' asked Annabeth, alarmed.
'We need you to identify who it is we're dealing with,' Frølich said, and added: 'The deceased…'
'Hm…' Annabeth hesitated. 'You mean to look… at… her?'
Frølich nodded.
'I had been hoping I wouldn't have to.' Annabeth s sent a quick glance at the man with the goatee. The latter returned a stiff glare, then lowered his eyes and concentrated on the papers on the desk in front of him.
'But I suppose it is best if I do it,' Annabeth concluded, stroking her chin thoughtfully. 'Give me a couple of minutes,' she said, disappearing behind the partition again.
The two men left. The sun was strong and Gunnarstranda produced a pair of supplementary sunshades from a case he kept in his inside pocket. They clipped on to his glasses. 'Trouble in paradise,' he muttered. Through the glass doors they could see Annabeth s and the man with the goatee in lively discussion. The latter was gesticulating. Both stopped the moment they discovered they were being observed. The policemen exchanged looks and ambled back the way they had come.
'What did you do in the end?' Gunnarstranda asked standing by the parked car.
'Eh?'
'What did you do with the kittens?'
'Oh, them…' Frølich said, lost in thought. He was searching through his jacket pockets for a pair of designer reflector sunglasses. He put them on, checked the reflection in the side window of the car and pulled a face. 'The kittens? They're dead. Eva-Britt got fed up with them, so I shot them.'
Gunnarstranda had time to light the old roll-up and take five long drags before Annabeth came walking between the trees. There was something rustic about the way she walked, the long dress and the flat shoes, plus the way she stepped out, with such energy. Even her short hair bounced in rhythm. On her back she was carrying a small, green rucksack. She shouted to the youths by the tractor and waved her arms. She was wearing a shawl over her shoulders, tartan too; she gave the impression of being the arts and crafts type. Gunnarstranda held the rear door of the car open for her.
'My God,' she said. 'The back seat. Like a criminal.' But she got in, a little more reserved, and waved to the tomato-thrower who was back by the greenhouse door now.
'She just hit me in the face with a tomato,' Frølich conversed cheerfully as he turned out of the car park.
'I beg your pardon?' Annabeth said with deliberate hauteur. 'My dear man, I hope you weren't hurt.'
Frølich observed her in the rear-view mirror and looked across at Gunnarstranda, who had half-turned in his seat to say: 'There was something else I was wondering about. This young man in the office, is he a patient or an employee?'
'He's doing social work for his military service, so in a way he's an employee.'
'What's his name?'
'Henning Kramer.'
'And the missing girl. Why do you think her parents have not reported her missing?'
'Our patients very often do not have much contact with their parents. Or they come from other parts of the country.'
'And?'
Annabeth wound her arms round her rucksack. 'Isn't that answer good enough?'
'I mean in this case. What happened in this case?'
'Gunnarstranda,' said Annabeth, leaning forward. 'We in social welfare are very well versed in matters concerning professional oaths of client confidentiality.'
Frølich searched the rear-view mirror for her face. His sunglasses straddled his nose like a hair slide. You could see he disapproved of the woman's answer by the way he examined the mirror. 'This is a murder investigation,' he emphasized.
Annabeth s cleared her throat. 'And I am entitled to exercise my discretion,' she said coldly. She cleared her throat again. 'What's going to happen now?'
'We would like you to come with us to the Institute of Forensic Medicine,' Gunnarstranda said. 'There we would like you to answer yes or no to one question.'
'And what is the question?'
'Is the body you see in front of you that of the girl you reported missing, Katrine Bratterud?'
'Yes,' said Annabeth s. She looked away as Gunnarstranda pulled the cloth up over the face of the dead girl. 'That's her. The air in here's making me feel sick. Can we go out?'
Outside on the grass they found a bench, one of the solid kind, a combination of a seat and a table that you find in lay-bys in Norway. Annabeth slumped down without removing her rucksack. She breathed in and stared into space, her eyes glistening. 'That was that,' she said. 'Almost three years fighting for her life, all for nothing.'
They sat in silence listening to the cars rushing past some distance away from them. An acquaintance strolled by and waved to the two policemen.
'Do you know what it costs to rehabilitate a drug addict?'
The woman's question was a reaction; the two men both understood that she was not interested in an answer.
'My God,' Annabeth repeated. 'What a waste, what a dreadful waste!'
The following silence lasted until Gunnarstranda prompted her: 'What is a waste, fru Ås?'
Annabeth straightened up. She was on the point of speaking, then paused and instead dried her eyes with the back of her hand.
'Tell us about the three years,' Frølich interjected. 'When did you first meet Katrine?'
Annabeth sat thinking for a while.
'Why do you think…?' she began at length. 'Was it assault? Rape?'
'When did you first meet Katrine?' Frølich repeated patiently.
Annabeth sighed. 'It was a few years back. It was in… 1996. She came to us of her own unfree will, as we are wont to say, referred to us by Social Services. She wavered for a bit, by which I mean she absconded several times. They often do. But then up we went into the mountains to see how invigorating life can be without any artificial stimulants. She became more motivated, agreed to treatment and followed a three-year course. We divided it up into stages - she was in phase four - and would have been discharged in the summer. She took advanced school-leaving examinations while she was with us and finished last year. Brilliant exam results. God, she was so intelligent, so smart, lightning-quick at picking things up. She got three damned As. She rang me up. Annabeth, Annabeth, she screamed down the phone. I got As. She was ecstatic, so happy…'
Annabeth was becoming emotional and stood up. 'E
xcuse me… I'm just so upset.'
Gunnarstranda looked up at her. 'I suppose that patients do sometimes die,' he commented.
'What?'
'Don't drug addicts sometimes die?'
Annabeth stared at him, speechless. Her mouth opened and shut in slow motion.
'And after school,' Frølich interrupted in a composed voice. 'What did she do then?'
Annabeth glowered at Gunnarstranda, closed her eyes and sat down again. 'She got a job in no time at all,' she said. 'Well, I think she should have aimed higher, started at university, taken an honours course. She could have done political science. She could have become a journalist. With her looks she could have walked into any job she wanted. My God, she had so many options!'
'But where did she get a job?'
'In a travel agency. I can give you the phone number. Such a ridiculous young girl's dream. That's such a bitter thought, too. Here we have this delicate soul who I assume - I say assume because it was impossible to get anything out of her, as is so often the case - and this poor soul goes and gets abused by some man or other while still a child. Please don't misunderstand me. There are some drug addicts who just want their kicks in everyday life. I mean, some patients can't seem to live intensely enough in the world we call normal. But…'
'… but Katrine wasn't the type?' Frølich suggested.
'Katrine was so full of… what should I say?… she was so vulnerable. And girls like her often start taking drugs at the age of twelve, with hash anyway. Start smoking reefers, as they call them, then it's glue-sniffing and alcohol and the first fix when they're fifteen. Then they drop out of school. It's the usual story: leave school, leave home, then start picking up punters on the streets. These poor young people have no childhood. They don't have the ballast that you and I…'
She paused for a few seconds while Gunnarstranda, still thinking, sprang up and placed one foot on the seat to roll himself a cigarette.
'Go on,' Frølich said in a friendly voice.
'Where was I?' she asked, disorientated.
'You were talking about drug addicts who lose their childhood.'
'Ah, yes. And what do you do when you haven't had a childhood? You catch up of course. That was what was so bad about Katrine. Good-looking girl, attractive figure, intelligent, quick. But just a child, just a child… what was your name again?'
'Frølich.'
'A child, Frølich. This child in a woman's body could sit down and stuff herself with sweets - watch cartoons, read rubbishy romantic magazines like a twelve-year-old girl - with stories about princes who ride away with Cinderella into the sunset - blow out candles on her birthday, wear a crown on her head - she always wore a crown on her birthday. She loved it. Writing her boyfriend's name on her hand. Spur of the moment wheezes like having a bread-eating competition or making paper boats. She revelled in these things.
'It's often like that. Young girls in women's bodies, experienced in life and so driven that they can wriggle their way like eels around men and authorities. This dual nature is perhaps the biggest problem of all. Women like this can seem like wounded animals grabbing whatever they need at any particular moment, without any scruples, while still being children with dreams of the bold brave prince who will ride away with them, take them on trips around the world. Katrine was no exception. Imagine, with all the talent she had, she preferred to sit at a computer in a travel agency! What about that? A travel agency!'
Frølich nodded his head gravely and watched Gunnarstranda flick a strand of tobacco off his lower lip while staring into space. A magpie stalked across the grass behind him with purposeful intent. The bird was like a priest, thought Frølich, a stooped priest, dressed in black with a white collar, his hands behind his back. In fact, the two of them, the magpie and the vain policeman, were very similar.
'You said she wrote her boyfriend's name on her hand. Did she have a boyfriend before she died?' Frølich asked.
'Yes, she did. A bit of a strange choice. I'm sure you know the type. Looks like a car salesman or a football player. Goes to a tanning salon and watches karate films.'
'What's his name?'
'Ole. His surname's Eidesen.'
'What sort of person is he?'
'Run of the mill… a young… man.' She shrugged.
'But what's the link between them? Why did they become a couple?'
'I think he must have been a tennis coach or something like that,' she said with a resigned grin. 'No, I was joking. He was a driving instructor or a language teacher. I haven't a clue really, but it was something as banal.'
'What impression did you have of Ole?'
'He was an ordinary sort of chap, superficial… in my opinion, and hence boring… and very jealous.'
The two detectives looked at her.
'Although he wasn't brutal. Just jealous. I don't think he ever did anything…'
'Just a boring, jealous man?'
'Yes.'
'How did the jealousy manifest itself?'
'Dear me, this is just what I've heard. I don't actually have any impression of him.'
'What do you think Katrine saw in a man like Ole?'
'Status.' 'What do you mean by that?'
'I mean what I say. This chap looks like one of those models in a deodorant commercial - you know, shaved head and trendy clothes. For Katrine he was a status symbol she could show off to other women. Meat.'
'Meat?'
'Yes, that's what our young people are good at, pairing up, and I assume this chap was well-suited for that.'
'She had a large tattoo around her navel. Anything symbolic in that?' Frølich asked.
'No idea,' Annabeth answered, adding, 'I would guess not. It's part of the tawdry art that characterizes our patients. Something erotic, I would guess, a sex thing.'
'Do you know if she had a past in prostitution?'
'They all do.'
Frølich raised both eyebrows.
'Most anyway.'
'But Katrine? Did she?'
'She had also experienced that segment of reality, yes.'
Gunnarstranda coughed. 'When did you last see Katrine?'
Annabeth looked perplexed. 'On Saturday.' She cleared her throat and took the plunge. 'At a party at our place. She became ill and then just left.'
'In other words, you were one of the last people to see her alive.'
Annabeth stared into the policeman's eyes for a few seconds and lowered her gaze. 'Yes… I was, with several other people.'
'You said she became ill.'
'She had a bit of a turn and was sick. I was very shaken because I thought she was drunk and it would not have looked good if our patients were seen to be drinking and spewing up at my house.'
'But she wasn't drunk?'
'No, she hadn't touched a drop of alcohol all evening. And it can't have been the food either because no one else was ill.'
'So it was a turn,' Gunnarstranda said. 'And she left the party with her boyfriend?'
'No, she must have taken a taxi on her own.'
'Must have taken? You don't know if she did?'
'No, to be honest, I don't know how she got home.'
'She never did arrive home.'
Annabeth closed her eyes. 'Don't make this worse for me than it already is, Gunnarstranda. I don't know how she went off. All I know is that someone was taking care of her. I know she left the party and I assume they put her safely into a taxi.'
'But do you know when?'
'I would guess at around midnight.'
Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Fru Ås,' he said, 'we have now reached a point in the conversation where I have to explain that the parameters have changed somewhat.'
'Oh?'
Gunnarstranda did not reply at once.
'Changed? Surely you don't think…? Oh, my goodness, what…?'
'We don't think anything,' the policeman said gen- dy. 'The change is that you are no longer required to protect client confidentiality. If you are not already aware, I can release you
from any professional oaths with immediate effect, if necessary, with authority from the highest…'
'That won't be necessary,' Annabeth assured him. 'Should there be any problems we can discuss them as they occur.'
'Very well,' said Gunnarstranda. 'Earlier today a post-mortem was carried out on Katrine Bratterud.' He tossed his head to indicate where it had taken place.
'Yes,' said Annabeth.
'Frølich and I were present.'
'Yes.'
'It is very important for us to have this vomiting business clear,' the detective said. 'Are you positive she was sick?'
'I didn't stand watching, if that's what you mean.'
'What food did you serve at the party?'
'Why is that?'
'I would like to compare it with what we found in her stomach.'
A shudder went through Annabeth. She said: 'Filled mussel shells as a starter. After that it was a buffet: salads, cured meats and tapas - you know, marinated olives, artichokes, that sort of thing, because it's easy, then a bit of cheese at the end… red wine… beer… and mineral water for those who wanted it… coffee with cognac.'
Gunnarstranda nodded. 'We found fragments of skin under her nails,' he continued. 'This and a number of other details suggest she defended herself.'
'You mean she scratched?'
The policeman nodded.
'Poor Katrine,' Annabeth muttered to herself, and as neither of the policemen said anything, she added: 'Well, I haven't run into anyone with a scratched face, if that's what you're wondering.' 'Why do you think Katrine's parents didn't report her missing?'
'They're not in a state to miss her.'
'And what do you mean by that?'
'It means that fru Bratterud, who lives like a gypsy, either at home in her hovel - excuse the expression; some might call it a house - or sharing a bed with any one of a variety of men, is an alcoholic and hardly knows how old Katrine is. I don't think her mother remembered a single birthday while she was with us.'