The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  'Great,' Frølich said, winking at her. He turned to the other policeman: 'I'd like to discuss a witness. I'll be outside.' He pointed to the other door and made a move to leave.

  'Compared with you, he was slim in fact,' Elise Hermansen said to Frølich as he was leaving.

  Frølich closed the door. The lady turned to Gunnarstranda. 'I didn't mean it like that,' she said.

  'The man was good-looking in a brutish sort of way,' Gunnarstranda read aloud.

  Elise nodded again.

  'When you were asked what you meant by the expression "good-looking in a brutish sort of way" you answered that his face was a bit like an Italian actor's, such as Marcello Mastroianni or Sylvester Stallone.' She looked up again.

  Elise nodded.

  'Could you expand on that?'

  'There was something about the mouth and the chin. But to be specific…'

  Gunnarstranda nodded.

  'A bit ravaged… masculine.'

  'I see. And when you were asked what colour his eyes were you answered that you couldn't remember. Can you remember now?'

  Elise shook her head in regret.

  'You said he had salt and pepper hair, a pony tail and an ugly scar on his right forearm.'

  Elise nodded.

  'But you can't remember his name? Did Katrine Bretterud mention the man's name?'

  'That's what I'm not sure about.'

  'Mhm?'

  'I think she may have mentioned a name.'

  'When the two of you were talking?'

  'No, when I was asking her questions afterwards she told me his Christian name, I think, but I'm sorry, I can't bring it to mind.'

  'Never mind,' Gunnarstranda said in a friendly voice. 'I've passed on your information about this man to the archive ladies at Kripos, the Serious Crime Squad, and I asked for photos of people born in 1955 through to 1964. That's an age range of 35 to 45. Some people look older than they are, and some look younger, don't they. It depends on hair, clothes and so on…'

  'It was a sort of thug's name,' Elise interrupted.

  Gunnarstranda straightened his glasses. 'Thug's name?'

  'Yes, the sort of name those brutes often have: Stig, Ronny

  Gunnarstranda sat nodding. He mumbled. 'Bird maybe? Roger? Jim?'

  Elise shook her head in despair. 'I might remember…'

  'In the meantime,' the policeman said, 'I'd like you to take your time and have a good look at the pictures. You don't have to be a hundred per cent certain. You can tell me if you see a trait that rings a bell and Frank Frølich or I will discuss it with you afterwards. And you don't have to be afraid you're going to hurt anyone. If you recognize someone, what happens is that we talk to the respective person to try to clear up whether he could have had any connection with Katrine - or just eliminate him from our enquiries. All right?' Elise nodded.

  Gunnarstranda had to fight to suppress a coughing fit. He smiled in apology and went on: 'I should point out that even if a person has a photo in the police archives it does not necessarily mean he is a criminal. I say this so that you don't jump to any conclusions if you see someone you know in this pile. Still all right?' Elise Hermansen nodded.

  'Let's roll,' Gunnarstranda said, placing the pile of photographs in front of her on the desk.

  'Wonder whether we'll be lucky,' Gunnarstranda said, closing the door behind him. 'There doesn't seem to be much wrong with the lady's memory. What did you want to talk about?'

  'The young man with the goatee. We may have to consider Henning Kramer a suspect,' Frølich said, swinging round in his chair.

  'I see,' said Gunnarstranda. He took Frølich’s report and began to read it with interest.

  'He says he picked up Katrine from Annabeth s's party, drove round with her and ended up on the old Mossevei - in Oppegård, almost right over by Tusenfryd amusement park - where he claims they made love. She was willing.'

  'I see,' Gunnarstranda said, reading on. Frølich swung gently to and fro on his chair while his partner read.

  At length Gunnarstranda raised his head and said, 'What do you think about this?'

  'I think I…' the younger policeman began, but paused because Gunnarstranda was having one of his terrible coughing fits.

  'I think…' Frølich held his breath as a series of new jerks ran through Gunnarstranda's lean body. The man was trying to suppress a cough that would not yield. That's no twitchy nose or the start of a cold, thought Frølich. The boss's cough was hollow, asthmatic and bronchitic, a cough that rumbled and hacked from a foothold deep and entrenched in the man's lungs. Like a rockslide, thought Frølich, trying not to show that he had noticed the stubborn muscular convulsions in Gunnarstranda's face. But it was not easy to pretend when the man's eyes were bulging and his lips pressed together so tight that his head went a deep burgundy colour as the air from his lungs pushed at his cheeks and mouth from inside. The detective inspector was beginning to resemble a frog. The rocks in his lungs were waiting to pile down the side of the mountain; it was just waiting for the first one to come loose. 'You should see a doctor,' Frølich said when he could stand it no longer.

  'Wh… wh… hm… hm… why's that?'

  'It could be emphysema. Heavy smokers get emphysema.'

  The fit began to subside. The boss sent him a stiff glare until his breathing became more regular and the rocks inside had settled. 'It's not emphysema,' he answered with suppressed anger. He cleared his throat as if to confirm that the fit was over. The detective inspector mopped his brow. 'It's a smoker's cough,' he mumbled 'A bog-standard smoker's cough.'

  'Is that what the doctor says?'

  'Yes.'

  'You've got to give up smoking!'

  'Of course. But I've got the cough under control now. I don't inhale so deep.' Gunnarstranda was already fidgeting with another cigarette. 'Besides, smoking is one of my pleasures.'

  'But

  'Shut up about my smoking! Talk to me about Henning Kramer. Is he a rotten apple?'

  Frølich flinched at the other man's outburst. Then he hurriedly continued: 'Maybe. There's a flaw in his story. He seemed quite credible until the bonk in the car, but then he began all this weird stuff about driving her to the roundabout just by the crime scene.'

  'Is he lying?'

  'I don't know. It might have been nerves. Just suppose he was telling the truth in the first part; in other words, he drove her out there to have a love-in, but then… '

  '… then she didn't want to, you mean?' Gunnarstranda nodded and went on, 'Suppose he tried it on, was rejected - after all she had a boyfriend. He raped her, left loads of sperm on her clothes. She resisted, tore his hair, scratched him. That would be a logical train of thought.' He nodded.

  Frølich sat in silence for a few seconds.

  Gunnarstranda crushed the cigarette between his fingers.

  'I wasn't happy about doing the interview on my own,' Frølich said.

  Gunnarstranda grimaced. 'What's done is done.'

  'But he could be the killer.'

  Gunnarstranda took a deep breath. 'Now I'm intrigued,' he grinned, pointing the glow of the cigarette in the air and watching it. 'Let's say Kramer raped and killed her. Tell me what he did afterwards.'

  Frølich leaned forward in his chair. 'You said it yourself,' he acknowledged. 'That's the most logical conclusion. He removed her clothes; they were covered in his hair and sperm and bits off his clothing. He knew that one stain, one single hair was enough for DNA profiling to identify who had committed the rape. That explains why his powers of persuasion failed when he was talking to me. After all, he had to cobble together a plausible explanation for what he was doing. He may well have dropped her off in Mastemyr. The difference is that she was not alive. The truth may be that she was dead and that he pushed her over the safety barrier and into the ditch.'

  Gunnarstranda waited.

  'That must have been how it happened,' Frølich concluded.

  'And now?' Gunnarstranda asked.

  'What do you mea
n?'

  'Should he be arrested?'

  'That's what I don't know,' Frølich sighed. 'That's why I would have liked to have you along. Anyway, we're checking his car over now. So we'll have to wait and see.'

  'You don't think there's a chance the evidence may have been destroyed?'

  'Of course there is. He could have hidden her clothes and…'

  'But there is reasonable cause for suspicion?'

  Frølich hesitated.

  'Well, let me ask again. Should he be arrested?'

  Frølich stood up, annoyed: 'If you want to bring him in, for Christ's sake go and do it!'

  'But would you?'

  'What do you mean Would I?

  'Well, should he be arrested or not?'

  'That's your decision!'

  'But I have only your report to go on,' Gunnarstranda fumed, waving the papers he had just read.

  'Don't you think it's good enough?'

  'I didn't say that. But there are two factors which would hold me back from arresting Kramer!' Gunnarstranda stood up as well. He barked: 'First of all, we have to check out Kramer's story. Right now. We have to keep several options open, particularly because of one thing Kramer said and which I am surprised you didn't pick up on yourself!'

  'And what's that?' Frølich asked.

  'The fact that the man has already admitted sexual congress with the murder victim.'

  On appreciating the full force of this piece of information, Frølich slumped into the chair and realized what Gunnarstranda meant. 'OK,' he said. 'I was too keen.'

  'Kramer must be dealing from a straight deck,' Gunnarstranda continued, without showing any mercy. 'Because he admitted having had intercourse with her. Admitting intercourse with a rape victim is a logical strategy for an assailant if, but, only if, the parties are due to meet in court. Then the question of guilt is decided on the credibility of the parties involved. But here there is a difference, and that is that Katrine is dead. If the motive for the killing of Katrine Bratterud was to conceal a rape, with the intention of silencing the victim, why would he admit intercourse afterwards? That's the same as putting your head on the block, isn't it!'

  'So you don't think Kramer killed her?'

  'I didn't say that. But if he did kill her, he must have had other motives than wanting to conceal a rape.'

  Frølich sighed.

  Gunnarstranda continued. 'It would be totally illogical of him to admit to sex with Katrine if he had killed her to cover up a rape.'

  'So we don't arrest him,' Frølich said.

  'What do we know so far?' Gunnarstranda asked with a show of impatience.

  'We know she was alive at three o'clock in the morning.'

  'If Kramer is telling the truth.'

  Frølich nodded. 'If he's telling the truth, she was alive at three in the morning. We have to assume she was killed soon thereafter because she was found five to six hundred metres from where she was last seen by Kramer.'

  'But she wasn't killed where she was found,' Gunnarstranda said. 'She was moved.'

  'So it might have been a random encounter,' Frølich said. 'Any nutter might have bumped into her. In the tunnel, for example, which she had to walk through to reach her boyfriend's flat. Anyone could have picked her up, dragged her off somewhere and strangled her.'

  'But there has to be a crime scene.'

  'So we ought to look for the place where she was murdered?'

  'Of course. We have to check all the places Kramer mentions in his statement, walk the route she is supposed to have taken to Holmlia and comb these areas for a crime scene. We also have to check Kramer's story and try to find witnesses to confirm what he has said. However, we also know that a group of guests left the party at more or less the same time as Katrine. We also know that a car followed Kramer and Katrine to Ingierstrand - is that not correct?'

  'He didn't think anyone was following him.'

  'But someone might have been. Let's say that someone was following him. The two of them in the car may not have seen the car until it drove into the car park in Ingierstrand.'

  'Isn't that a bit far-fetched?'

  'I don't care whether it is far-fetched or not; the point is that it is feasible,' snapped Gunnarstranda. 'Someone might have been following them. Or,' he continued, 'someone in this car in Ingierstrand can confirm what Kramer says. My personal opinion is that the attacker is a stranger. Someone who is turned on by this girl walking alone in the middle of the night.'

  'We also have the guy who went for her at her workplace,' Frølich said in a low mumble. 'That is a specific violent incident. We have to find out what happened and hope that madam in there,' he nodded in the direction of the closed door, 'recognizes one of the faces.'

  The police inspector nodded. 'If this man had a score to settle he might have followed Kramer and her in his car. He might have spied on her all day, all evening and all night and struck when she was alone.'

  'But then you're presupposing that they were followed?'

  'Let's find out. Put out a search for the car that drove into the car park in Ingierstrand. The best would be if it turned out that it was driven by lovers who didn't want to waste a summer night sleeping.'

  'Three lines of enquiry,' Gunnarstranda concluded at last. 'It could have been a stranger who assaulted Katrine as she was walking on her own to Ole Eidesen's flat. It could have been someone who knew her: to whit, the man in the travel agency and others - for example at the party…'

  'And the third?'

  'Henning Kramer. He could have killed her.'

  'I thought you just rejected that possibility.'

  'Wrong. I said he can't have done it to cover up a rape. That's quite different. We have only his word for what happened between midnight and three o'clock in the morning.'

  'What do we think about the murder victim's secret? Is that worth following up?' Frølich wondered.

  'Not a lot to get our teeth into there, but I suppose there's nothing wrong with asking people.'

  Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Make time in your programme to check out Kramer's statement - try Aker Brygge and Oslo Taxis. Dig up as much dirt as you can.'

  * * *

  Chapter Twelve

  The Green Exercise Book

  Katrine Bratterud's flat was small but very appealing with bright wallpaper on the walls. The main furniture in the living room was a sofa bed, a TV and a desk. In front of the window there was a flower rack with three levels - a kind of pedestal on which some house plants had been arranged in a very refined way. There was a strawberry begonia, a large aloe vera and a very vigorous hoya that had coiled itself around the wooden frame and formed an impenetrable tangle. Gunnarstranda stuck a finger in the soil in the pot. It was dry, but it hadn't dried out.

  He went over to the desk. There was a pencil case on top. Beside it a little wooden box. He raised the lid. Inside there were coins, badges, a few hairpins, a tampon in plastic packaging, a couple of lighters, buttons and other odds and ends. He replaced the lid.

  Gunnarstranda opened the bedroom door. A broad double bed took up most of the floor space. It wasn't made. Two duvets lay entwined. The bed sheets were rumpled. A yellow bath towel lay strewn across the bed.

  He opened the wardrobe. The clothes inside were hung in order. He closed the wardrobe and turned to the dresser under the window. There was a can of hairspray on the dresser. It stood on top of a small white cloth in which her name, Katrine, had been embroidered in red cross-stitch.

  He breathed in before opening the top drawer. It was crammed full with lacy things for women - bras and panties. The next drawer was the same. On the left of the bed there was an old bedside table made of high-quality wood. The top was dusty. On it was a novel. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. The novel lay on top of a magazine. Tique.

  Gunnarstranda opened the bedside-table drawer. A pen rolled around inside. It was a shiny silver Parker. Under it an exercise book. Gunnarstranda took it out. It was an A4 format notebook. He opened it. There we
re pages of neat looped handwriting in blue ink. He read.

  I drove down a straight road with green trees on both sides. Now and then I passed huge fields of yellow sunflowers nodding their heads to greet the sun. The road stretched on into eternity. But the car went slower and slower. It was running out of petrol. I didn't want the car to stop. I wanted to keep going, to be moving. However, in the end the car stopped all the same. I felt heavy, as always when things go wrong. I looked around. The car had stopped at a crossroads outside a wooden shed. It looked like some sort of garage; it was abandoned with smashed window panes and a crooked roof that someone had tried to repair with multi-coloured corrugated iron and faded green pieces of plastic. Beside the shed stood an abandoned car. It was an elegant red sports car, a Porsche. The contrast between the stylish red car and the derelict shed was beautiful, almost a pleasure to see. My gaze wandered to and fro between the shed and the car. It was as though I had to convince myself it was the contrast I wanted to see, not just the car. Yellow cornfields with the green marble effect of as yet unripe corn stretched along both sides of the road. Dark green spruce trees formed a threshold to the forest beyond and enclosed the field in the distance. Behind the field the mountains towered up towards the sky. On the road to the right a cloud of dust rose behind a car. The car created movement in a painting of a blue sky, white cauliflower clouds, looming mountains and the delicate colours of the terrain. I turned up the volume of the radio and lit a cigarette, not because I felt like one but because the sight of a woman smoking in a car with the music pounding through the speakers made me part of the picture. It was confirmation that I existed.

  Bjørn Skifs was singing 'Hooked on a Feeling'. The car coming closer was a rusty, beat-up Opel, an old model. The car didn't slow down for the crossing. It smashed into the side of the sports car, knocking the door into the passenger compartment and pushing the light Porsche across both carriageways and into the ditch. On the radio a male voice choir sang 'oggashakka oggashakka' and the driver of the Opel seemed to have his mind set on escape. The rear wheels were spinning, sending up a cloud of grit and road dust into the air. Then the car jumped backwards as it freed itself from the Porsche. Another cloud rose as it came to a halt The red Opel shot forward and rammed the side of the Porsche for the second time, like an angry billy-goat. The sound of splintering glass was like a tiny rustle of paper against the roar of the music through the speakers. The Porsche rocked; it took the blow like a severely wounded stag. For a few seconds the music was all there was to hear, until the sound of a screaming starter motor rent the air. The Opel started up again. The same thing was repeated.