The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  He turned away from the grave and strolled back towards the chapel, walked past it and by the south side where another funeral had just finished; grief-stricken mourners were observing each other, relaying their condolences and holding each other's hands. Gunnarstranda felt out of place and withdrew. A thin man in filthy jeans was sitting beside a mower on a lawn some distance away.

  Gunnarstranda paused in the middle of one of the gravel paths that ran as straight as an arrow up to the huge cemetery. The path was broken by numerous other small paths crossing it and creating small squares all over the grounds, plots fenced off by tall, green cypress hedges. Some elderly women were walking down; a tractor crossed the path right in front of them, then re-crossed the path, closer this time. Gunnarstranda could see the hopelessness of the task of looking out for suspicious persons in the grounds. He walked around the chapel. In the east wall of the crematorium there were the urns of the first members of the Norwegian Crematorium Association. He stepped closer and tried to decipher the inscriptions on the urns. All of a sudden he recognized a name, an elderly neighbour from his boyhood days in Grunerlшkka. He read the man's name once more and experienced a strange feeling of awe.

  So this was where he had ended up. Gunnarstranda was reminded with a smile of the old crackpot in the window at the top of Markveien shouting propaganda for the crematorium. I'm telling you, you young whippersnappers, the crematorium is the future! he had screamed - and earned himself gales of laughter. Now he was here on the stand of honour - a handful of ashes in a clay pot.

  Gunnarstranda kept walking and rounded the corner just in time to see Bjørn Gerhardsen sneaking in through the chapel door.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mental Arithmetic

  Frank Frølich found a gap for his car in Torggata between a kebab house and one of the greengrocers with a better selection of exotic vegetables. He remembered he should have gone shopping, but resisted the temptation, crossed the street and continued down the opposite pavement. A young man wearing colourful shorts and a helmet on his head was slalom-cycling between pedestrians. Frølich wormed his way through a group of Africans in expensive leather jackets embroiled in a heated discussion. A parked van was blocking the traffic. It was a clapped-out Toyota Hiace with large rusty holes in the sides. The rear door was open wide and the back of the van was crammed full with slaughtered animals. Arab-looking boys lifted the meat up on to their shoulders and ran a shuttle service between the van and one of the shops. Smuggled meat from Sweden, Frølich reckoned, and stood watching the unloading for a few seconds. In the end he tore himself away and walked up Bernt Ankers gate to the specialist publishing house where Merethe Fossum worked. He came to a general office with a central switchboard on the ground floor. The man in the office wore a uniform and belonged to a security service with a handcuff as a logo. He grabbed a telephone and asked Frølich if he was expected. Frølich took a risk. 'Yes,' he said. The man in the uniform rang through and passed the receiver to Frølich who put it to his ear and heard a phone ring twice. Merethe Fossum's voice was deep and a little husky. Sexy, thought Frølich, and asked if he could go up. She said it was time for lunch anyway and suggested he found himself a seat in the canteen.

  He was shown to the basement by the guard. The company canteen was of the self-service variety with a long counter where you could help yourself to slices of bread and dry, dense rolls with traditional Norwegian pеlegg: dark mutton sausage, liver paste and curved cuts of cheese garnished with red pepper. With your coffee you could have chocolate cookies in a plastic wrapper. A fat matronly type wearing a white apron asked for five kroner for a cup of coffee which looked as black and impenetrable as used oil from an old tractor. Frølich peeped into the milk jug beside the cash desk. It was empty. He coughed. Fatty knew what was required without turning. She took a red carton of milk from the bench behind the counter and placed it in front of him. He poured in a substantial quantity of milk but did not discern a hint of greyer tones in the black liquid.

  It was clearly a kind of lunch break. A steady flow of people came down the stairs and the canteen began to fill up. Frølich found an unoccupied table by the entrance so that Merethe Fossum would not have any problems identifying him. As soon as she appeared he knew it was her. The woman cast tentative glances around the room until they found eye contact. She was delicate, slim and spry, not over one-sixty in height and dressed smartly in a black skirt with matching jacket. She put a pack of open sandwiches on the counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. He got up and cleared his throat. She spun round and her hair whirled around her head like in a commercial.

  Her smile was inquisitive, almost quizzical. Then she sat down, slunk on to the chair and lazily arranged her elegant legs, revealing a generous strip of flesh above the knee. Her long fingers with red nails opened the sophisticated wrapping around the sandwich. She had fine, narrow hands with white, plump skin around the wrists She studied the sandwiches beneath lowered eyelids, in secret. A lock of hair fell from over her ear and in front of her sensitive face.

  Frank Frølich was in raptures. He couldn't take his eyes off her. Such pure and sensual features. Her face was oval, her eyes almond-shaped and ice-blue, her nose straight, her mouth broad and formed like Cupid's bow. The skin on her neck was more golden than white.

  'You met Katrine Bratterud at a party in Annabeth s's house, I believe? Frølich stammered, feeling like an overgrown gorilla beside this delicate, feminine apparition. He was sweating because she was sitting so close.

  She glanced up and gave a quick nod. Hot energy poured out of her. The heat was absorbed by his jumper; that was what was making him sweat, he thought.

  'And Ole,' she said with some reluctance.

  'Ole Eidesen?'

  'Yes, I didn't talk much to her; she left early on. But Ole is fantastic.'

  In Frølich’s mind her points tally sank from 99 to 89. He pretended to be studying his notes, but stole furtive glances as she raised her coffee cup and waved to a colleague.

  'To what did you owe your invitation?' he asked, clearing his throat again. 'I mean why were you invited?'

  'I had a few hours there, of teaching at the rehab centre. Most of them in the winter.'

  'You're a teacher?'

  'My major was in literary science. That's what I would really like to do.' She embraced the room with her glance. 'Began here in March, but I had a few hours of Norwegian, English and Social Studies at Vinterhagen in the winter.' She smiled.

  'Did you teach Katrine?'

  'No, she was working, of course, in the last phase. I had only seen her on the odd occasion before, from a distance. Don't think she knew me.'

  The silence came between them.

  'Nice canteen,' he said in panic, looking around.

  'I don't like it,' she laughed. 'But I love the coffee.' Frølich took another ten points off for her remark about the coffee, but put her up fifteen points for beautiful teeth in an enigmatic smile. He loosened his tie, breathed in and braced himself to meet her sparkling blue eyes. She was holding a slice of bread between her slim fingers. For a few seconds she looked around for her colleagues who had gone to the back of the room. Then she turned back to the policeman and raised the sandwich to her mouth. Frølich looked up the second she opened her mouth and crushed the slice of bread into a lump of dough, and grey mutton sausage and green gherkin oozed to the side. She didn't take a bite, she stuffed the whole lot in and chewed it so that saliva and breadcrumbs seeped out between her lips. This was soon slurped back in, and the moment their eyes met she began to speak with her mouth full of food. She talked about Annabeth s and her house, about what wonderful people she and Gerhardsen were, and then she began to talk about the weather, the rain and how dreadful it was when your legs were sodden. Frølich’s eyes hung on her broad mouth. His hands were trembling, but he couldn't quite tear his eyes away from the wet, open mouth. Her right cheek stretched like elastic. She had another open sandwich ready; sh
e folded it like the previous one, stuffed it in and kept talking. Something about an umbrella, yes, it must have been something to do with an umbrella. Her slim fingers kneaded more bread; she shoved it in, to join the rest of the food creating a bulge in her cheek. She took a drink. Slurped the coffee. And then it was over. She folded up the greaseproof paper and licked her fingers clean. Frølich breathed out, through his nose. He didn't quite know what he had been through, he just knew that it was over - and he did not want to go through it a second time.

  'You left the party early,' he said quickly.

  'Who?'

  'You and some others.'

  'Yes, we went to the city centre.'

  'Who?'

  'Ole and I.'

  'Any others?'

  'Yes, there were five of us in the car. But the two gay men wanted to go to a gay place, and neither Bjørn nor Ole wanted to go there. I think that's fine, I do - gay bars and all that sort of thing. All the gay men I know are super.'

  'So there were you, Ole, Bjørn Gerhardsen and two other men?'

  'Yes, Goggen and Lasse. They're an item.'

  'So what happened?'

  'We went to Smuget. That is, Ole and I did.'

  'Gerhardsen?'

  'I have no idea.'

  'Didn't he go into Smuget with you?'

  'I'm sure he did. But I was with Ole and it was packed in there. I didn't see anyone I knew.'

  'But you're not sure if Gerhardsen went in with you?' 'Why wouldn't he have done?'

  'We-e-ell,' Frølich said. 'What happened then?'

  'We left a bit later. Went back to my place.' She winked. 'Don't tell anyone. I promised I would keep my mouth shut.'

  'You and Eidesen went back to your place, and he stayed with you?'

  'Yes.'

  Frølich stared and could feel his cheeks burning. Merethe Fossum picked her teeth with the nail of one of her slim fingers. She didn't manage to get hold of what she was looking for straightaway. So she opened her mouth and buried her finger in the recesses of her mouth, stretching her lips into a grotesque grimace.

  'At what time?'

  She shrugged and broke off from her excavations so that she could speak. 'It was light anyway. Maybe four o'clock.'

  'Are you sure of the time?'

  'No.' She sent him a vacant grin and, when she saw the policeman's face, added: 'I'm sorry. I don't know.'

  'Do you know what time it was when you got to your flat?'

  'A bit later. I'm so sorry, but I didn't look at my watch at all.' 'How long did he stay at yours?'

  Merethe Fossum peered at a chunk of food on one of her red nails. She licked it off. 'Until eleven, or twelve, in the morning. Don't remember. Is it important?'

  Frølich jotted down words, hardly knowing what to write, and made a private mental note of minus a hundred points.

  He looked up. 'This is pretty important,' he said. 'Ole Eidesen was with you from midnight until eleven o'clock the next morning. Have I understood you correctly?'

  She nodded.

  'And he didn't leave the flat during that time?'

  'I would have noticed.' She spoke with a faint, dreamy smile.

  'He says you did not spend the night together.'

  'Oh, God, poor boy.'

  'I beg your pardon.'

  She laughed. 'I suppose he's sticking to our agreement. We agreed we would keep it a secret. Well, now she can't find out anything anyway. She's dead, isn't she. The poor thing. It's a terrible business. But you have to think of those left behind. Ole has not had an easy time, either, has he? When the person you're with ends up like that.'

  That's true.'

  'Indeed it is!'

  'Have you kept in touch since?'

  'Dear God,' Merethe sighed.

  'Sorry?'

  She was grinning, but caught herself.'… I mean, do I look like a one-night stand?'

  Frølich regarded her in silence.

  'I have talked to him, once. Forgive me if it is wrong to do that, but this is not so easy…'

  'Have you at any time, in any form or manner, discussed with Die what you should say to the police about your movements that night?'

  Frølich made a note before she answered. 'No,' she said. 'Not at all.'

  'Well, that's a bit strange.'

  'Why is it strange?'

  'His girlfriend has been murdered, the police are investigating, what on earth did you talk about if this case did not feature in your conversations?'

  She stared at Frølich with big eyes. 'Is that wrong too? To invite a guy to the cinema?'

  Strolling past the uniformed receptionist a little later Frølich checked his jacket pocket for his mobile. It wasn't there. He stopped. Could he have left it in the canteen? Either there or in the car. He turned and looked at the stairs. In the car, he thought. It could be in the car and, if it is, I won't have to go down there again. He winked at the guard and left.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Conversation in the Greenhouse

  After the telephone call from Frølich, Gunnarstranda sat in the car looking out of the window. He was thinking about the funeral ceremony, the faces of those who had passed him on their way into the church. He thought about Gerhardsen and his energetic spouse. The clock on the wall above the door was reflected in the window. A few hours had passed now. It was time to visit Vinterhagen again.

  On locking his car door half an hour later and gazing across the gravelled car park he wondered whether his idea would be a waste of time after all. A dense stillness hung over the large area. Everyone must have taken the day off because of the funeral. He stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets and walked along the same path he and Frølich had walked a few days, earlier, but now he didn't meet a single person. He rounded the corner of the yellow accommodation hall and saw the dark, lifeless windows of the office building. He pulled up and decided to use the opportunity to have a look around. He searched for a cigarette end from his pocket, lit up and strolled around the vegetable patch by the greenhouse. The potatoes had been earthed up at some point. It had obviously been done with a small fork or a spade. Someone had been very thorough. Other rows had been earthed up so badly that the yield would be poor. The leeks and onions were pale, thin and straggly. They needed more nitrogen. The carrots were looking good. He walked on to the greenhouse and tried the door. It wasn't locked. He flicked the cigarette into a pile of sand and entered.

  He stood avidly breathing in the warm, heavy, moist air of the greenhouse. Cucumbers and lettuces were being grown. Overhead, on the ridge, there were ventilation grilles which let in a fresh breath of cooler air that brushed his head. He walked down between two lines of potting tables and saw someone at the back, by the far wall. It was Annabeth s. She had changed out of her dark funeral clothes into a green overall, a flannel shirt and high green boots. She was watering plants, walking along the potting tables with a hose pipe to which a shower head had been attached. He coughed, but she didn't hear. He coughed again.

  'Oh,' she gasped as she turned round. 'You gave me a start!'

  'I didn't think the funeral was the right place to bother you,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'I know why you've come,' Annabeth said, resigned, and continued her watering. 'My God, Bjørn and I have had this showdown so many times I had an inkling it would re-appear. Let me make it quite clear so that we can avoid all the pomposity and the embarrassing pauses. Bjørn, my husband, is a big boy. Yes, he did confess to me that he had used her in a moment of weakness. If I hadn't already been working at getting the poor girl on to an even keel, I would have dumped her in another institution. I'm telling you that straight. It is no secret.'

  'But why didn't you do that?' Gunnarstranda asked, cleaning the dry leaves of some of the plants on the table.

  'You might well ask. It's always easy to ask when it's all over. Don't you think I wanted to do that? Don't you think I considered the problem? But she liked it with us. She trusted us. She could function here,
Gunnarstranda. Believe me, it wasn't easy.'

  Annabeth lifted the hose pipe and dragged it along with her.

  'I am quite sure it wasn't easy,' Gunnarstranda broke in again. 'But it can't have been right, either. The decision to keep Katrine as a patient when your husband was having a relationship with her could never have been right.'

  'See!' Annabeth waved the hose pipe about angrily. 'There you go with your accusations. Why do you do that?' She sent the policeman a fierce look and continued in an aggressive tone. 'You say that because she was murdered. If this hadn't happened no one would have been any the wiser. She wasn't suffering any extra pressure. She was completely rehabilitated. The treatment was a success. So it hadn't been wrong to keep her.'

  Gunnarstranda went quiet. She had a point. She glared at him from the other side of the potting table.

  'Katrine had all the facilities she needed to succeed here. We had her confidence. She wanted to kick the habit. We could have sent her to other professionals - to a place where she had to live with other patients and work with new staff, but there would have been no guarantee that she would have managed any better. Well, what is done is done. No one can undo the dreadful mistake my husband committed in a moment of weakness.'

  'A moment of weakness?' Gunnarstranda queried.

  'Yes… going to a place like that - a massage parlour. But would his weakness at that time, so long ago, stand in the way of Katrine's chances of succeeding?' Annabeth tilted her head as though she were talking to a close friend. 'Would that have been right?' she asked in a gentle voice.