The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  They got into the car. Frølich started the engine. 'Did you notice the clothes?' he asked.

  Gunnarstranda: 'What do you mean?'

  'Is it significant? I think it looked as though she had undressed herself.'

  'Disagree,' said Gunnarstranda. 'The clothes didn't seem to have been ripped to shreds, which is quite another matter. We'll have to see what the lab people say.'

  Frølich nodded, drove out of the car park and headed back towards Oslo city centre. As they approached Hvervenbukta Frølich slowed down and pulled into the side. On the left they could make out the white bathing hut on the jetty, the green lawns leading up to the car parks and the pine-clad ridge of Ljanskollen.

  'No problem at all,' Frølich said. 'If the killer drove as we have just done and pulled in where we are now, he must have carried her across the road and then thrown her over the safety barrier.'

  'That suggests then the car was going in the opposite direction,' Gunnarstranda said. 'So the killer drags Katrine into the car, rapes and strangles her, strips her, drives seven or eight hundred metres down the road, stops, lifts her over the barrier, gets back in, drives on and…'

  'In that case the driver would have had to stop in the middle of the bend,' Frølich interrupted. 'There is nowhere to pull in,' he pointed. 'Would you have stopped in the middle of the carriageway to get rid of a body?'

  'Maybe in the middle of the night,' Gunnarstranda said, but was sceptical, and added: 'There's something not right with this.'

  'It's much more likely that he parked here,' Frølich opined. 'On this side of the road.' He glanced at his boss. 'Kramer came this way,' he stated with emphasis.

  Gunnarstranda returned a cryptic smile. 'Whichever way the killer was going, this is the place to stop,' he concluded. 'If he was driving towards us, towards Oslo, if he swung over on to this side of the road and pulled up, why did he carry her over to the other side of the road?' Gunnarstranda wondered aloud. 'He could have dumped her here in the ditch. No,' he decided. 'The killer must have been coming from the other direction, from Oslo - and stopped in the bend.'

  They got out of the car. They crossed the road and looked over the barrier and down on to the crag where Katrine Bratterud's body had been found a few days before.

  Gunnarstranda: 'If the car came from Oslo, that may fit with Kramer's statement. On the other hand, the killer may have disposed of the body and the clothes in this way so as to confuse us.'

  Frølich shrugged. A car passed them and he had to shout to be heard over the noise. 'It all depends on when and where she was murdered. If she was picked up while she was walking up towards Holmlia and was murdered somewhere between there and this place, I assume she would have been killed in the car park up there.' He nodded towards the other side of the inlet where two cars were parked. 'Then the same car kept going and the driver threw the body out here first and got rid of the clothes later where Yttergjerde found them.'

  Gunnarstranda leaned over the barrier and peered down. 'But no attempt was made to hide the body.'

  He thought aloud: 'The body was found without any jewellery, but there was no jewellery in the bag, either. So…'

  'The killer seems very cold-blooded,' Frølich concluded. 'Cold-blooded with a singleness of purpose. Clothes separate, jewellery separate and the body separate.'

  He cast a last glance over the fjord and followed Gunnarstranda, who was already on his way to the car.

  'There are a couple of things I don't like about this theory,' the police inspector said as they drove on.

  Frølich: 'Which theory?'

  'That the killer was coming from Oslo. The problem is that we seem to be groping in the dark. If the car came east from Oslo the killer might be in Sweden now and we would be none the wiser.'

  * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  Foreground - Background

  She was sitting and waiting at their usual table at the back of the restaurant. She must have been sitting there for a while because there was a half-empty bottle of Farris mineral water beside her. The sunlight from outside made her thick, dark hair shine. She was reading, and had already seen him because she was packing away her papers. He gave the cloakroom attendant his denim jacket, having put his wallet in his back pocket first.

  They gazed at each other. She was wearing a light summer dress. It was different. She tended to dress more formally on weekdays. He stood for a couple of seconds and studied her; her shoulders were tanned, summer-brown, golden.

  'The usual?' she asked.

  He nodded and sat down.

  'Good,' she said. 'I've already ordered.'

  'What do you think of tattoos?' he asked.

  She raised her eyebrows in query. 'You're not telling me you have…?'

  'No, I mean for you. Have you ever thought about it? Having a tattoo?'

  She shook her head. 'Me with my job?' She pushed out one shoulder and peered down at it as though there were a design there. 'Me with my image…'

  'The murdered girl had a tattoo, a big tattoo on her stomach.' His hand circled his stomach.

  Eva-Britt looked at him sideways. 'Do you think it's sexy, Frankie?'

  'Maybe. But not on a dead body. But what do you think? Could it be tasteful?'

  'If you're a stripper, maybe.' She made room for the waiter to place the food on the table. 'But I'm not,' she added and began to sprinkle parmesan cheese over the spaghetti.

  'Lena has a tattoo, I gather,' Frank reminded her. Lena was Eva-Britt's girlfriend from way back.

  Eva-Britt reconsidered the idea. 'It might be tasteful,' she decided.

  'Because Lena's got one?'

  'No, Lena has quite a tasteful motif. It's a comic figure. The little yellow bird with the big head…'

  Frank had no idea who she meant.

  'In those old Daffy Duck comics,' Eva-Britt said. 'The bird that always fought with the cat.'

  'Tweety and Sylvester,' Frank said.

  'Mm,' Eva-Britt nodded. 'Tweety'. She pointed to her bare shoulder. Lena has a tattoo of Tweety here. It's quite tasteful because it's a bit downmarket. And then it's quite funny. Roses and birds and that sort of thing are worse because they are supposed to be sexy. It means you have to think about what clothes you wear. In my job you can't walk around with a cartoon on your shoulder. As a woman…'

  'What's so special about your job?'

  'Are you being sarky?'

  'No,' Frank assured her. 'I'm curious. I'm thinking about this girl with the large flower on her stomach.'

  'Well, she could always cover that one up,' Eva- Britt nodded. 'But being the manager of a medium-sized company with many male colleagues…' She threw him a lopsided smile and shook her head. 'I can't provoke men into fantasizing about my body, Frankie. A tattoo is downright unthinkable.'

  'So you have considered having one?'

  She glanced up, but ignored the question. 'And that's without even mentioning the fact that tattoos are hard to remove. I just consider them ugly. I once saw a young woman in Felix. She had a snake tattooed over her leg, a python wrapped around her thigh going down under her knee. Every single man she meets will be fantasizing about where the rest of the snake is. Do you understand? I'm sure it's fun for her when she is young and crazy and attractive. But she won't ever be able to last a day in a serious job that demands respect and professional distance.'

  'Now I don't understand what you mean,' Frank said. 'I thought you were for women's rights and against sexual harassment.'

  'But I am!'

  'But should it count against her that she's got a snake tattoo that excites men's fantasies?'

  'Listen to what I'm saying. It should not count against her, but she sidelines herself because every man will focus on her sexuality more than her other qualities when he meets her.'

  'Hm,' Frank said.

  'Have you learned something new?'

  'Don't know,' Frank said. 'You have a point.'

  'Just imagine,' Eva-Britt went on. 'I can also feel sexy,
feel like being sexy

  'Bring it on,' Frank said contentedly.

  She ignored him. 'But why should I paste it all over my body and never be able to free myself from it again?'

  Frank grew serious. 'What I'm wondering is whether the tattoo says anything about her.'

  Eva-Britt smiled. 'And what do you think?'

  He deliberated. 'I think she was trying to create a new life for herself. Everyone says that. She was trying to find freedom.'

  'But then a symbol of that kind can be interpreted in a great many ways,' Eva-Britt said. 'If the tattoo is old, she may have regretted ever having it done. But it could also be a useful reminder.'

  'Useful?'

  'A kind of stigma, the symbol of something that should never be repeated.'

  He absorbed her comments. 'You're on the ball today,' Frank said. He started to eat as well, but was soon lost in thought again.

  Eva-Britt: 'What are you thinking about?'

  'Ragnar Travis says you can become addicted to tattoos, like cigarettes.'

  'Cigarettes?'

  'Yes, he says one tattoo is fine, two is OK too, but three - then you're hooked. It's just a question of time before the whole of your body is decorated.'

  'That is definitely grim. People like that look as though they have been made in a factory.'

  He nodded.

  'Talk about something else, Frankie,' Eva-Britt said with raised fork. 'Just don't talk about going to the cabin with that mad boss of yours.'

  Frank gulped. 'What do you feel like doing afterwards?' he asked at length.

  'Cinema,' she said.

  'To see what?'

  Eva-Britt put on a mischievous smile. 'It doesn't matter so long as it's sexy.'

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty

  Dust Thou Art, and to Dust Shalt Thou Return

  The previous day might have been wet, but this day was drier than white wine. Police Inspector Gunnarstranda rolled down the car window and watched the sturdy figure of Frank Frølich approaching. The car park was empty apart from the odd car frying in the sun. Through the opening in the cypress hedge that divided the car park from the cemetery came a female gardener. She was pulling off a pair of filthy gardening gloves and plodding around in shorts and heavy boots covered in soil and clay. Clumps of earth fell off, leaving a trail behind her. She wiped the sweat off her brow and lit a cigarette which she stood smoking while staring pensively at the ground. A minibus trundled into the car park, passed the gardener, and Frølich too, before parking. A logo with the name of the rehab centre was painted in large, hazy, colourful letters on the side of the bus: vinterhagen. A crowd of well- dressed young people piled out. They seemed fragile in their fine clothes, almost as though they had been rolled in starch to ensure that they remained erect. Frølich gave them a nod. The youths looked around with their hands buried deep in their trouser pockets before ambling off to the chapel where a gentleman in dark clothes from the funeral parlour was waiting for them. Ole Eidesen was there too. He stood with his nose in a booklet for the funeral ceremony. He was dressed in black.

  Frølich got into Gunnarstranda's car bringing with him a strong smell of deodorant and sweat. 'Those are the VIPs,' he mumbled, nodding towards the youths in front of the chapel. 'Shall we go in?'

  Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'Let them have half an hour to themselves.'

  Frølich rolled down his window. 'Christ, it's hot,' he groaned. 'And now I have done most of this area, but there's still no sign of Raymond Skau.'

  The youths from the minibus stood hanging around the entrance to the chapel.

  'Loads of bloody great gravestones here,' Frølich said at length.

  'You don't say!'

  'Yes, obelixes and stuff.'

  'Obelisks.'

  'It was wordplay. A comic series.'

  'Really?'

  'A Gaul, a fat guy who carries around obelisks on his back - called Obelix.'

  'Well, I never.'

  'Yes, indeed.'

  'Well, well.'

  'Have you seen anyone?' Frølich asked.

  'Henning Kramer, Annabeth s and the crew you saw from the centre. Ole Eidesen is around…' Gunnarstranda motioned towards the entrance where Eidesen had gone in.

  'Talked to anyone?'

  'No.'

  'Perhaps we ought to give Kramer another grilling?'

  'Not today. Besides, we'd better find holes in his statement first.'

  'Seen anything of Gerhardsen?' Frølich asked.

  Gunnarstranda checked his watch. 'He's still got a couple of minutes.'

  'Do you think her mother's here?'

  'I would assume so. After all, she is the next of kin.'

  'Terrible business,' Frølich mumbled. 'Terrible business.' * 'I suppose we should go through the park grounds again,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Should we go in and say hello to her mother?'

  'I would like to, but this is not the time or place to do aggressive police work.'

  'Right,' Frølich said, wiping the sweat with a tissue he produced from his jacket pocket. 'Right,' he repeated. 'I suppose that means I'll have to drive to her place.'

  'For the time being the grounds seem quite appealing,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'I don't think so.'

  'Should I interpret that as a no to searching the grounds again?'

  'Needle in a haystack.'

  'Do you have any ambitions to be a public prosecutor at some point?'

  'And that's why I should sweat in the grounds?'

  'Not necessarily, but if there's any point in checking anything to do with this poor girl, there must be an underlying theory that the assailant is sneaking around in the bushes here or is sitting in the chapel listening to what a wonderful person he has destroyed. Look at Silver Fox…'

  Gunnarstranda stopped talking and both policemen followed Sigrid Haugom with their eyes. She closed the door of a parked Mercedes. Frølich whistled. 'Jeez, what a body,' he mumbled.

  'She's too old for you, Frølich. That's Sigrid Haugom. Katrine's confidante. The one who asked me if I liked my name.'

  'Who do you think the old codger is?'

  Gunnarstranda rolled his shoulders. 'Tax inspector from the outer isles - who knows. But the odds are it's her husband. In which case his name is Erik Haugom.'

  Both men followed the couple with their eyes. She was graceful, with an hourglass figure, cultured and suitably dressed for the occasion; she even wore a black shawl over her shoulders. He seemed like a good-looking guy, straight back, firm backside with a sullen grin on his ruddy face.

  'Guess what his job is,' Gunnarstranda said.

  Frølich took his time to answer. Both policemen were following the couple with their eyes. As they passed the last parked car before the chapel, the man stopped, took a comb from his back pocket and combed his hair back in the reflection from the car window.

  'No idea,' Frølich concluded.

  'They live in Grefsen in an architect-designed house full of old junk they have accumulated from antiques auctions here and in London. The son studies at Yale and they each have a car of their own. He has a Mercedes; she has a BMW.'

  'Suppose she must be trying to put something back,' Frølich mumbled. 'Since she rehabilitates drug addicts.'

  'But how do you think he earns his living?'

  'No idea.'

  'Doctor, of course.'

  'Doctor?' Frølich sneered. 'I know who the bugger is!'

  'You do?' Gunnar said, uninterested.

  'Yes, Erik Haugom? Doctor? He's a bloody celeb. The guy has his own column in several newspapers!'

  Gunnarstranda stared at Frølich. His expression was reminiscent of someone who had just sampled tainted food. 'Did you say celeb? Do you use such words?'

  Frølich was not listening. His face was one big, moist grin. 'I still read Haugom's columns. He calls himself a sexologist. The guy knows everything that is worth knowing about anal sex, group sex, urine sex… you name it.' He paused as though r
emembering something. 'They look quite respectable,' he mumbled. 'I mean… she's…'

  Gunnarstranda - who was still observing the other policeman as if he were an object he would have to tolerate for the time being, but which he had high hopes would soon be off his hands - opened his mouth and said in a toneless but earnest voice, 'Don't come out with any more idiocies now.'

  'No.' Frølich went quiet.

  They sat watching the couple greet the man from the funeral parlour. A gust of wind caught Sigrid Haugom's silver hair and she reacted with an elegant toss of the head. They went inside.

  'Come on then,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Eh?'

  'Say what you have to say.'

  'You don't like me saying these things.'

  'But say it anyway, for Christ's sake.'

  Frølich cleared his throat. 'Well, she's a cracker, despite being fifty-something, isn't she? With that ass, I mean, she's a cracker.' He paused.

  'Well?'

  'Well, just imagine all that guy knows about sex…'

  'Shut up!'

  'I told you you didn't like the comments I make.'

  'I'm going for a walk,' Gunnarstranda said, and got out. He crossed the car park and followed the female gardener who was strolling towards a grave. She knelt down and began to remove stubborn blades of wheat grass and goutweed from between the low-growing asters and sea lavender. Gunnarstranda threw his jacket over his shoulder and breathed in the perfume of freshly mown grass and sweet summer flowers mixed with the faint stench of.decomposition. The silence surrounding the graves made him think of Edel. He strolled down to her grave. On the way he passed an open grave and a pile of earth covered with a tarpaulin. He went on to the area where Edel's urn was kept. The mauve carpet phlox he had planted the previous year had grown so big that it had spread across the little bed in front of the gravestone and on to the lawn. There were still a few small mauve flowers glistening between the seed pods against the green background. He crouched down and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He saw her in front of a window watering a potted plant. He opened his eyes and tried to remember when that had been and why he could visualize that particular image. But once it was gone, he couldn't picture it as clearly. He was unable to say how old she had been then or what clothes she had been wearing. Nor could he recall the type of plant she had been watering.