The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  Frølich gave a weak smile. 'Must have been one of the ones that eats kiddies swimming in the river,' he said drily.

  'You think I'm bull-shitting, don't you,' Yttergjerde said. 'But it's almost impossible to kill them. They're jungle creatures. Bury themselves in the mud when it's dry season. As the pools dry out in July you can see them burying themselves with their eyes poking out. The good old boys take time off to go and kill pikes day in, day out, but the buggers are hard to kill! Then the rains come and they smack their tails on the surface of the water like small whales and swim off.' He was not smiling. There were deep furrows in the man's face. He had long, narrow teeth he hid by pressing his lips together, which gave him a surly expression - and which gave even the tallest of fisherman's tales an appearance of credibility.

  Frølich nodded. 'Long time yet to a dry summer,' he said looking up at the sky. 'What have we found so far?'

  'A crushed, empty can of Coke,' Julius read from a list he had made. 'A used condom - washed out and rotten, several bits of paper that were once packets of cigarettes… a load of rusty beer-bottle caps… and an electric motor, a water pump at a guess.'

  'Who would throw away a water pump?' Frølich asked.

  'Anyone, if it was knackered,' Yttergjerde said. He nodded towards the water's edge further down. 'Just wait until you deploy the divers. We'll be wallowing in stolen cars and caravans.'

  'We're only looking for fresh clues,' Frølich said in a tired voice, rubbing the blue biro mark on the back of his hand. 'Clothes, a woman's party frock, I suppose nylons with lace, that sort of thing… underwear… and jewellery.'

  Yttergjerde shook his head in despair. At that moment a young constable came round the bend with an object in his hands. Both Frølich and Yttergjerde turned to face him. Rain was dripping from the shadows on the young constable's police cap; there was one drop hanging from the underside of his nose. The policeman held out what he had found. It was a woman's high-heeled shoe soiled with mud and dirt. 'That must have spent at least three winters in the woods,' Yttergjerde said gloomily. He focused on Frølich and heaved a wordless sigh, which expressed what they all felt, all of those who were searching the area in the torrential rain. 'Shall I put the shoe on the list?'

  The policeman who had made the find was standing in the same military posture as Frølich, at ease, so as not to feel the soaked clothes on his skin. 'There were a couple of empty plastic bags, too,' he commented.

  'She was last seen on her way up to Holmlia,' Frølich said. 'And she was found less than five hundred metres from here.'

  He pointed past the white bathing hut and across to the other side of the inlet. 'There,' he said, 'where the road bends and there is just the safety barrier leading down to the beach. Someone tipped her over the barrier. She was strangled somewhere close by.' He looked at his watch. 'Hope you can stand a bit more,' he mumbled. 'I have…' He cleared his throat as he searched for the right word. 'I'm afraid I have… an interview with a witness.'

  He left them and strolled over to the car. They could think what they liked. There were more useful things he could do elsewhere.

  He found an old plastic bag in the boot of his car and put it on the seat before getting in. He needed dry clothes and so drove home first. As he was unlocking the door he heard the telephone ringing in the sitting room. At once he remembered he had promised to phone Eva-Britt. He took the call on the cordless and continued to search for dry clothes while talking. Eva-Britt reminded him of the arrangement they had on Friday night. That was just what Frank had been dreading. 'I may be able to make it on Saturday instead,' he answered airily, taking a pair of dry jeans out of the wardrobe. The silence on the phone did not bode well. 'I know you don't like that,' he mumbled, wondering whether he had an ironed shirt. Doubtful. 'But I can't say no to Gunnarstranda, not on that day. When the man asks me to his mountain cabin, it's not a cabin, it's the Holy Grail.'

  He found socks in the drawer and a pair without holes in the heel while Eva-Britt was gasping for air, wherever she was. Holy Grail or not, that was not the point. The point was that he was a past master in putting her in second place. It was humiliating and it made her doubt his feelings - it was the usual story. He put the cordless down on the window sill, lay on the bed and peeled the saturated trousers off his thighs as her voice cut through the room: 'Are you listening to what I am saying?'

  Frank grabbed the phone. 'Oh shit,' he said.

  'What?'

  'I dropped the phone. Can you repeat the last thing you said?'

  He wrenched off his trousers as her voice crackled like a radio. Eyed himself in the mirror. Too fat, too white. He picked up the phone again and raised it to his ear. 'I see that,' he said as she paused for breath. 'And I am really sorry. But can you do Saturday or not?'

  She was stuttering with anger. This was the phase before she began to lay into him. He had to interrupt: 'Then I'll buy a bottle of red wine for you and some beer for me. I'll invite you to salted cod, bacon and mushroom ragout, which you can make - and I won't start work on Sunday until ten, I promise.'

  He held the phone away from his ear before she progressed into mid-rant.

  'Well,' he repeated. 'I'm afraid appeals won't help. I have to work on Sunday.' He put down the phone again, pulled on his dry trousers and buttoned up the fly. Then he lifted his trousers from the waistband and studied his stomach side on.

  The telephone! He put it to his ear. It was dead. He hunted through the wardrobe, found a drip-dry shirt and inspected it - bit of a wrinkle on the breast pocket but it would have to do. He rang her and pulled faces at himself in the mirror as the phone rang. He let it ring forever. 'We must have been cut off,' Frank said before she could get a word in.

  'At times you don't seem at all interested,' she bawled.

  'Don't start all that again,' he parried. 'I promise to be here all Saturday evening. I promise not to be late. I promise to switch off the phone. I promise not to watch TV. I won't put on any 70s music. I will be fascinated by all the problems you're having at work. I won't hire a film. I promise to drink red wine with the meal. I will think up at least five compliments and I promise to light candles on the table. All right?'

  'My goodness, you're such a romantic, aren't you,' her voice groaned.

  'I can be if I want to,' Frank grinned, pulling faces at himself in the mirror. He was dry, and ought to be presentable enough for the force now.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventeen

  Out of Shape

  Georg Beck worked at the Nydalen Skills Centre, a kind of institution where most of the patients seemed to be psychologically handicapped. Frølich entered, but couldn't catch anyone's eye in reception. The young man sitting there was chewing gum and disappeared without bothering about the approaching policeman. Frølich ventured further into the low-ceilinged building and stopped a man in his forties coming out of a door. Frank assumed he worked there since he was carrying a file under his arm. A man with a short brown beard, a crooked mouth and a crooked fringe. An eloquent smile played on his lips at the mention of Georg Beck's name. Then he showed him the way through the corridors to a red door inscribed with activity room n in white letters.

  Frølich knocked and went in. There were two people inside. A thin elderly woman was sitting in a wheelchair by a table. Georg Beck was leaning over her. The two of them were trying to glue together two pieces of cardboard. Beck was plump, medium height, with brown hair and a fine middle parting and kiss curls over his forehead. 'That's it, Stella,' he said in an amicable tone and with a wink to Frølich. Beck camouflaged the flab well with loose clothing: a blue V-neck jumper, baggy white cotton pants and sandals. He guided the elderly woman's hands towards one of the bits of the egg box on the table. 'Hold this, Stella,' he said with infinite patience. 'You've had your fingers in lots of things over the years, Stella. Grip this, that's it, yes. And now the tube of glue.'

  The ageing woman in the wheelchair sat with her mouth half-open and concentrated. The egg
box in one hand and the glue in the other. A drop of saliva gathered on her lower lip, stretched into a long, viscous thread of slime and slowly reached her lap before she had taken the decision to cast off.

  'No, no, dear Stella!' the man said in an affected voice, wiping her mouth with paper and gently closing her mouth. 'We don't sit like that, do we?' Georg Beck winked at Frølich again. 'Not when we have strange men here!'

  The old woman shrieked with laughter and a smile revealed bluish-grey false teeth. Her arms were so thin that the skin hung off her forearms. Her lined fingers were splayed out and she was staring at a point in the far distance.

  'Now, now,' Beck reproved in a gentle tone. 'That's how to squeeze the tube. You can do it, Stella. Squeeze the tube! Not so hard, Stella! Not so hard. You've squeezed tubes before, Stella!'

  He winked again at Frølich, straightened up and stood for a few seconds looking at the woman in the wheelchair. Her hands with the egg box and the tube of glue sank into her lap and stayed there, immobile. She sat unconcerned, with her mouth half-open staring ahead of her.

  Beck shook his head in despair and turned to Frølich. 'Right, handsome, fire away!' he said producing a grin that exposed a large gap between his front teeth.

  'It's about the party at Annabeth s's house.'

  'Oh, my God, what a dramatic end!' Beck put on an affected expression. 'Come with me,' he exclaimed and wiggled his way to some free seats beneath the window. 'Don't bother about Stella. She can't hear anyway. I was there and, with my sense of timing, I left before it happened. That's what I call being off-form, not smelling a scandal when the word is written in capital letters and flashing neon lights.'

  Beck gave the policeman a cool once-over and held out a chair for him. 'Whatever you do, Chief Inspector, don't rattle the handcuffs here or we'll all swoon!'

  'What's your connection with Gerhardsen and s?' Frølich enquired.

  'Oh, I just cast a bit of glamour over the gathering,' Beck said with a giggle. 'But Annabeth is so lovely. She's the one who arranges for me to go there. When she asks it's simply not on to say no. I only work freelance… for Vinterhagen; I don't have the energy for any more. But I do enough to be invited to parties. Then he brings out the best cognac, Bjørn does - the good-time Charlie.'

  'The good-time Charlie?' Frølich asked.

  'Whoops,' Beck exclaimed, putting a hand to his mouth. 'Have I said too much already? There you see - me and good-looking men, not a good combination.'

  Frølich stared.

  'I mean Bjørn's feelers were out for the poor girl, or his hands might be a more apt expression,' he said with a meaningful glance. 'My goodness, where that man has had his hands. It doesn't bear thinking about.'

  'You mean he…'

  'Yes, he was playing footsie under the table. What do you say to that? During the meal. With that poor girl, not that I am a complete innocent, and she wasn't either, I'm led to believe… ' Beck laughed out loud and winked. '… Not that we need to go any deeper into that side of the case, eh? Anyway, Bjørn was sitting at the same table as Annabeth, wasn't he. Not that that made any difference. On the terrace he had one hand up her skirt.'

  'Katrine Bratterud's?'

  'Yes, I suppose that was her name.'

  'You saw that?'

  'Not only me. Annabeth did, too. She was grinding her teeth so hard we were beginning to think there were mice behind the walls.' He laughed again. 'And perhaps that turn of phrase says it all.'

  'How did the girl react?'

  'My God, I have no idea. I retreated - at once because Annabeth was clenching both fists and on her way to the terrace. I hadn't come to the party to ring for an ambulance. Anyway I sat down and started chatting to some other people.'

  'But how…?' Frølich searched for words. 'Were they being intimate? On the terrace? I mean Katrine and Gerhardsen - or did she seem to be rejecting him?'

  'I have no idea. Maybe, maybe not. They didn't meet much resistance anyway - his hands I'm talking about.'

  'But did you see how it finished up?'

  'Look, handsome…'

  Frølich cleared his throat. 'I mean, did you see what happened when fru Ås joined them?'

  'No, and thank God I didn't. I would guess Annabeth made Bjørn control himself.'

  'But if something had happened on the terrace, something scandalous… I presume you would have known?'

  'Of course.'

  'But you think the advances Gerhardsen made to the murder victim led to an emotional response ' from Annabeth s?'

  'Lordie, the way you speak. The murder victim. I'm all on edge.' He gesticulated and put on a serious face. 'But yes, she was affected by the situation, there is no question.'

  'Were you aware that the girl became ill during the party?'

  'I heard about it and that is what I cannot forgive myself for. The scandal was already in full flow. I left straight afterwards.'

  'You left the party alone?'

  'No, there were five of us. It was so boring there. We went to Enka.' Beck winked. 'That is, we dropped three of them off at Smuget. Lasse and I went on. Lasse, he's my man of the moment.' He smiled.

  'Who was in the car?'

  'There was Bjørn, well oiled as always…'

  'Annabeth's husband?'

  'Yes, and there was the boyfriend of the girl we're talking about… a cutie with particularly attractive legs, and a woman who was clinging to him.'

  'You dropped these three off at Smuget?'

  'Yes, Bjørn and the woman and the athlete… Ole. Nice name, isn't it? I always go very solemn when I hear that name. I think of the violinist, Ole Bull, you know, the piece of music The Herb Girl's Sunday.'

  'The Herd Girl's Sunday.'

  Georg Beck gasped and patted his forehead. 'There you see. This is putting me all on edge.'

  'Why didn't you and Lasse go to Smuget?'

  'We wanted to go to Enka, but the others, above all Bjørn, wanted to go to a place with more of a hetero feel. So we dropped them off. Lasse and I went to Enka where we met another couple and we went back to my place at half past three, all four of us. I suppose, that's what you call an alibi, isn't it?' Beck put on a roguish smile and leaned forward. 'Would you like me to go into detail?'

  Frølich sighed and tore a sheet from his notebook and passed it to Beck. 'Could you jot down the names here, please,' he said, and stood up.

  * * *

  Chapter Eighteen

  Directions

  The two policemen sat comparing the various witnesses' statements. Frølich fed all the material, about the murder victim's movements into the computer. Gunnarstranda Bad been sitting and looking at the prison photo of Raymond Skau for a long time. 'This man is central,' he concluded.

  'He's never at home, anyway,' Frølich remarked over his shoulder.

  Gunnarstranda stood up. 'We'll have to try his door several times and if that does not produce results we'll ask someone to batter it down,' he continued, and went quiet when the telephone rang. A few seconds later he put down the receiver with a grunt and got to his feet again. 'That was Yttergjerde,' he mumbled in his excitement.

  'What happened?' Frølich asked.

  Gunnarstranda fumbled with his coat. He couldn't get it on fast enough.

  'The clothes. They've found her clothes,' the police inspector said. With that he about-faced and went off in a flap. His coat fluttering behind him. His arms outstretched. Nose bent over like a beak. He resembled a hungry seagull floating on an up-draught behind a ferry, cheerfully pensive and excited at the same time.

  Frølich turned off the road, drove into the gravel car park and came to a halt. The two detectives walked the last part, the older one a good two metres ahead. Yttergjerde and his men had blocked off the area beneath the road.

  'This is not far from where she was found,' Frølich mumbled.

  Yttergjerde met them. 'Floated along in a plastic bag,' he said. 'That is, it was bobbing up and down in the water between the rocks over there.' He pointed.r />
  The two of them followed. The items of clothing lay on the ground packed in transparent plastic on which big puddles had collected in the drizzle. Frølich could make out a black bra, black panties, a grey shirt, a blouse, but only one shoe.

  'The other shoe?' Gunnarstranda asked.

  'This is all there was,' Yttergjerde said. 'And the bag, of course.' He pointed to a white plastic bag advertising the supermarket chain Joker in green writing. The colour was faded.

  . 'And the bag was found there?' Gunnarstranda pointed to some large rocks at the water's edge. They jutted out into the water beneath the trunks of two enormous pine trees.

  'Yes, and it was knotted, so I suppose it will go to the lab?'

  'Did the bag float there or was it thrown?'

  'Hard to say, if it wasn't thrown from up there…' Yttergjerde nodded towards the road where an ageing blue Volvo full of inquisitive youths was slowly trundling past.'… It can't have happened very far from here.'

  'No jewellery, handbag or personal effects?'

  Yttergjerde shook his head.

  'We'd better have a look around,' Gunnarstranda said, walking up to the motorway. 'How far away are we from the place where the body was found?'

  'Two or three kilometres.' Frølich, turning, nodded towards the west. 'And about the same distance to the area where Henning and Katrine were parked.'

  'The killer threw the clothes first, then the body?'

  'That's possible,' Frølich mused. 'Depends which way the car was going.' He looked up and down the road. 'The plastic bag on the right hand side of the road, the body on the left…'

  'If the car was going west from here towards Oslo city centre,' Gunnarstranda added. 'Henning Kramer said the girl walked up towards Holmlia, and if she was picked up there, the car must have been on its way out of Oslo. In that case he got rid of the body first and then the clothes?'