The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  'I assumed she was chatting, the way that girls do chatter to each other.'

  'Are you sure she wasn't trying to talk to you about something special that day and you may not have realized?'

  'I don't understand what you mean.'

  'Well, let's suppose something had happened at work and she wanted to talk to you about it, but you were so busy watching TV that you didn't twig that she wanted to talk about something important, so…'

  'No,' Eidesen said categorically. 'I would have sensed that.'

  'But was she upset?'

  'She was in a flap. But it was because of the bloody party. She was as nervous as shit about the party.'

  'How did her nervousness manifest itself?'

  'She tried on a pile of clothes and she was… well… bitchy.'

  'Bitchy?'

  'Yes, almost pre-menstrual, nagging me about every sodding thing.'

  'About what for example?'

  'Well, she was angry that I was watching football, that I hadn't folded up the newspaper and that my jogging gear was strewn all over the bathroom, that sort of thing.'

  'So she was grumpy?'

  'Grumpy is too mild. Bitchy is better.'

  'But was that because of you?'

  'What do you mean now?'

  'I was wondering whether these outbursts were unusual or whether she considered you lazy as regards tidying up.' 'No, no,' Eidesen reassured him. 'This was unusual.'

  'According to another witness Katrine was wound up on this particular day because she had a secret she didn't want to tell.'

  'A secret?'

  'You didn't notice anything?'

  'Nothing at all.'

  'And the word secret doesn't ring any bells? You didn't share some deep secret no one else could be party to?'

  'Not that I can think of offhand.'

  The policeman nodded slowly. 'But there is one thing I don't understand,' he went on. 'Why do you interpret this mood as an attack of nerves before the party?'

  'Because that was what she said.'

  'Tell me what she said.'

  'I asked her what was bothering her because she had thrown my tracksuit in my face, and she stood looking at me as though she was calming down and considering the question. Then she said she was nervous about the party.'

  'What were her words?'

  Eidesen furrowed his brow in thought. 'I said something like What's up with you? or What is it now? Something like that. And she said: I'm just so on edge!

  'And?' the policeman said.

  'That's what she said.'

  'I'm just so on edge?'

  'That's what she said word for word.'

  'Why did you interpret that as nervousness?'

  'She was on edge… tense,' Eidesen added, on seeing the policeman's sceptical expression. 'That was what she meant when she used the phrase on edge. She meant tense, nervous.'

  'But might she have meant something else? Could she have meant she was on edge about something that had happened or something that was going to happen?'

  Eidesen gave the matter some thought. 'It would have to be the party. That was how I interpreted it, anyway.'

  'Sigrid Haugom says she received a telephone call from Katrine that Saturday,' Gunnarstranda said. 'She says Katrine was anxious because something had happened that day - at the travel agency - and she wanted to discuss it with her.'

  Eidesen shrugged his shoulders.

  'We have reason to believe she felt threatened.'

  'Threatened?'

  'She didn't mention any of this to you?'

  Eidesen shook his head. 'Not that I can remember.'

  'I have to ask you to think back one more time to when she was explaining to you why she was irritable. What were the precise words that she used?'

  'She said: I'm just so on edge!

  'Are you still sure it was the party that was making her nervous?'

  'Not now, not after what you said about threats. What sort of threats were they?'

  'How much did you know about Katrine's past?' Gunnarstranda asked in a compassionate tone.

  'Depends what you mean by knowing. I didn't want to know that much.'

  'Just now you talked about being with someone who had done everything with everyone.'

  'That side of her past was no secret.'

  'But why did you get together?'

  'I liked her.'

  'What did you know?'

  'That she had been on drugs and had done a lot of crazy things.'

  'And you knew about her life on the streets?'

  'There's one thing you have to understand about Katrine and me,' Eidesen said in a low voice. He cleared his throat and paused as if to search for words. 'I wasn't interested in her past'

  Gunnarstranda waited. At that moment Ole Eidesen seemed very centred.

  'What happened happened. The Katrine who walked the streets was a different person from the Katrine I knew. I was not interested in the person who walked the streets and took heroin. I was interested in Katrine.'

  'My understanding was that Katrine never took heroin,' the policeman said. 'She was on amphetamines, cocaine, Ecstasy…'

  'Don't you think she tried heroin? She was on the streets because she was a drug addict.'

  'I don't think anything,' Gunnarstranda answered. 'But I've read reports about her. Didn't you talk about her past?'

  'Never.'

  'Why not?'

  'As I said, I wasn't interested.'

  'Were you jealous of her past?'

  'Of course not.'

  'Seems like that to me.'

  'Then you're the one with the problem.'

  'What happened at those times when she wanted to talk about the past?'

  'I told her to shut up.'

  'Were you violent?' 'I've never hit another person.'

  'Not Katrine, either?'

  'I wouldn't dream of it.'

  'Did you ever hit her?'

  'Never. The fact that you ask me shows just how little you know about me. Just asking shows you didn't know her.'

  'But you asked me to try to understand your torments. You asked me to try to understand how you suffered being with a woman who had done everything with everyone.'

  'That wasn't what I asked.'

  'But I perceived it as such. Your saying you didn't want to discuss her past seems to me as though you were jealous of her past.'

  'I wasn't jealous. I've never been jealous. Why are you so obsessed with this?'

  'Because I sense a motive.'

  'You're barking up the wrong tree. I would never have hurt Katrine. And, as you said yourself, Merethe Fossum is my alibi for that night.'

  'Indeed, but let us imagine that Katrine insisted on talking about her past that Saturday. Let's say you refused to listen. It does not seem improbable that this may have caused a row in the light of your emotional attitude to her past.'

  'But I told you I did not have any emotional attitude to her past.'

  'We know Katrine was out of kilter that Saturday. She was out of kilter - because of something that had happened at the travel agency. Perhaps it had something to do with her drug-taking years. It does not seem too improbable that she took this feeling of despair home with her. In fact, we know she did. She rang Sigrid Haugom and told her about the incident while you were sitting in another room. You and Katrine were lovers. You were on intimate terms. You were in and out of each other's flats. Why would she keep such an important incident from you?'

  'Because I wasn't interested in her bloody past.'

  'Now you seem to be suppressing some aggression towards this past of hers.'

  'I am not.'

  'Yes, you are.' The policeman smiled. 'You're very angry now. I can see that you are sitting there and fuming.'

  'And what's it got to do with you?'

  'You're angry with her and the fact that she was a prostitute.'

  'I told you I didn't give a shit about what she had done.'

  'And I don't believe you.'
>
  'I don't give a stuff what you believe!' Ole Eidesen yelled.

  Gunnarstranda leaned back in his chair. It was a waste of time provoking this young man. After all, Eidesen had an alibi. In fact, he was probably wasting his time questioning him.

  He pulled out a desk drawer and took hold of the prison photograph of Raymond Skau. He passed it to Eidesen. 'Do you know him?'

  Eidesen put down the photograph on the desk and examined it carefully. He coughed. 'No,' he said.

  'Have you seen him before?'

  Eidesen shook his head. 'Don't think so.'

  'Never?'

  'No.'

  'Think about it.'

  'I'm thinking as hard as I can.'

  'You're absolutely sure you've never seen this person?'

  'Yes. Who is it?'

  'It's someone from Katrine's past.'

  'Who?'

  Gunnarstranda smiled. 'Interested?'

  Eidesen gave a groan of despair. 'Don't give a shit,' he sighed.

  'I don't give a shit or you don't?' v 'All right, I don't give a shit. I don't give a fuck who it is.'

  'I've got your point now,' the policeman said, thinking. 'Now there's just one thing I don't understand.'

  'And that is?'

  'You haven't asked me yet what happened on the Saturday - in the travel agency.'

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Lie

  The police inspector was sitting with a plate of chips in front of him on the desk when Frølich rang. With the receiver under his chin he tried to squeeze the ketchup out of a little foil packet and over the freshly washed Cinzano ashtray. He swore as a spot landed on his tie.

  'Breakthrough,' Frølich said.

  'What are you talking about?'

  Frølich: 'We can make an arrest.'

  'Arrest whom?'

  'Henning Kramer.'

  Gunnarstranda was eating. 'Why?' he chewed.

  'I've been talking to two taxi drivers who have confirmed Kramer's version of events through to Aker Brygge. Both remember the girl. No question it was Katrine B - a real knockout in a skirt and black lace bra. The two of them had given the impression of being a couple, and she in particular was in a good mood - seemed quite high. A waiter at Lekteren - one of the restaurant boats - also remembers the girl well. She had been waltzing with some of the men on the wharf. A girl working at McDonald's recognized both of them. They bought cheeseburgers and Cokes and left. The guy at Lekteren also remembers Kramer, but he couldn't understand how such a stupid-looking guy could have a woman like her.'

  'Everyone agreed they had had a nice time,' Gunnarstranda interrupted, dipping a handful of thin chip-stalks into the ashtray filled with ketchup. 'Get to the point!' The chips splayed out as he was about to stuff them into his mouth.

  'Listen to this,' Frølich said, excited. 'One taxi driver's name is Kardo Bukhtal. He was driving a late-night party-goer home that morning. He remembers the trip because it was a long one, out to Ski. And on the way back he took old Mossevei and drove past the car park where Kramer thought they had parked. And he's willing to swear he saw the car there.'

  'Kramer's car?'

  'Yes, Kramer's car, an Audi open-top sports car, green with a grey hood. Well, this guy thinks cars like this are pretty stylish and he slowed down as he passed. The car was there at half past six that same morning, when Kramer says he was sleeping sweetly in his own bed after dropping off Katrine by the roundabout leading up to Holmlia.'

  'In other words, Kramer is lying.'

  'Like a presidential candidate.'

  Gunnarstranda's fingers were covered in ketchup. 'Where are you?'

  'In Holmen.'

  Gunnarstranda stood up. He put the receiver under his chin, wiped his fingers clean on a serviette and patted his pockets for cigarettes. 'In Holmen. What the hell are you doing there? I want Henning Kramer here, now! With handcuffs on!'

  'I'm sitting in my car outside his mother's house,' Frølich answered drily. 'The guy isn't at home. But I was given his brother's address. That must be where Henning stays when his brother is away.'

  'The address?'

  'Behind Deichmannsgate. Fredensborgveien 33.'

  'See you there.' The inspector was already on his way to the door. He drank the rest of the Coke running down the stairs. His coat-tails fluttering behind him.

  If Frølich had spoken to this idiot's mother she could have warned him on the phone and put the boy on his guard. Gunnarstranda took the next flight in three strides and caught a glimpse of Yttergjerde's stooped figure down in reception. Yttergjerde glanced up. They exchanged looks. Gunnarstranda pointed his index finger ahead and circled it above his head.

  That was enough. Yttergjerde broke into a run.

  The needle on the speedometer touched 110 kph. Shop windows and pedestrians were just grey shadows. Cars in front of them swerved to the side and in their panic drove on to the pavements with a jolt. Yttergjerde drove in the middle of the carriageway, between lines of cars with casual nonchalance, crossing the lights on red, pushing into the wrong lane and back again, his mouth going like a taxi driver's all the while. 'Went to the Glomma last weekend,' he said. 'Flooding its banks, it was. In June, just imagine. Went on to Mingevannet with my brother-in-law, down the lake, by Sarp. We were sitting in a boat, casting lines towards the shore. Do that in early summer, we do, when the pike's in the reeds. Only caught a few littl'uns though, tiny buggers no longer than an index finger. You wouldn't think they'd bite the spinning bait that was twice as long as they were, would you? And so aggressive! It was…

  'Watch out!' Gunnarstranda shouted, grabbing the glove compartment with both hands to brace himself for a collision.

  However, Yttergjerde swung the wheel round and slung the car to the left, into the lane of the oncoming traffic. He maintained speed, driving towards a parked lorry unloading goods. Behind the lorry was a queue of cars; their line of sight blocked, they had not seen the police car. The first car came out and overtook the lorry on its way towards them. Yttergjerde coughed and accelerated as he aimed for a gap between the two vehicles and one of the cars that had swerved to the side. 'Could use them as bait, you know. Save taking them off the hook. Pike are cannibals, too. My brother-in-law caught one weighing three kilos and do you know where the hook was? In the pike's skull. My brother-in-law had bloody hooked a pike in the skull and hauled it in. What about that! Three kilos!'

  'Bloody hell!' Gunnarstranda grabbed the strap over the door to his right as a cyclist was forced to throw himself and the bike on to the pavement.

  Yttergjerde shrugged. They were already in Fredensborgveien. The howl of a siren echoed between the blocks of flats. Yttergjerde jumped on the brakes and screeched to a halt in front of another patrol car. Gunnarstranda was out of the car and already on his way to the front door. What was a second patrol car doing here? Frølich could never have made it here so fast.

  He raced up the stairs with long strides. Behind him, Yttergjerde was more composed. Gunnarstranda didn't stop until he reached the second floor and was standing in front of an open door. A uniformed policeman stood in the doorway. Gunnarstranda walked past him and entered the flat.

  The dead man was hanging from a hook intended for an electric light. It might have seemed solid enough for a chandelier, but now it seemed fragile. Someone had taken the cable off the hook and laid out the dead man.

  'I took down the body and laid it on the floor,' said the uniformed constable by the door. 'Hope that's not a problem.'

  Gunnarstranda scowled at him, but said nothing. The constable shrugged and leaned against the door frame. Apart from the constable, Gunnarstranda and Yttergjerde there was another stranger in the room. Without uttering a word, Gunnarstranda watched the stranger trying to give Henning Kramer heart massage. It didn't seem to be helping. The man sat over the dead body, the back of his white shirt wet with sweat. Every time he thumped the dead man's chest the corpse shook. Every time the man tried to pump the hear
t into life the lifeless legs thudded against the wooden floor. As did Henning Kramer's head. The man astride the dead body took a small break, gasping for air, and went back to pressing Kramer's chest. Two lifeless feet and one head banged against the wooden planks.

  Gunnarstranda motioned to Yttergjerde who was leaning over the two on the floor. With a pair of nippers he cut off the rest of the cable, still coiled around the dead man's neck. The man attempting heart massage glanced up, mumbled something and went on pumping.

  Gunnarstranda cleared his throat and asked the constable, 'Was he cold?'

  'As ice,' the constable answered.

  Gunnarstranda pointed to the man giving the heart massage. 'Who is this?'

  The constable in the doorway gave a shrug.

  At that moment Frank Frølich walked in through the door. He took one look at the dead body and heaved a heavy sigh. He and Gunnarstranda exchanged glances.

  'He found the body,' the constable said, pointing to the man they had spoken about. 'But he has just started doing this.'

  Frølich shouted to the man on the floor: 'Hello, are you a doctor?'

  The man turned round. 'Vet.'

  'He's dead,' Gunnarstranda said to the vet.

  'We have to open his chest,' the man said. 'We have to try to squeeze his heart into life by hand.'

  'What?' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Squeeze his heart into life by hand.'

  'Are you out of your mind?' Gunnarstranda's lips trembled with irritation. 'The man's dead. Can't you see that? He's almost transparent. He hanged himself from the ceiling several hours ago.'

  'Rubbish,' said the vet who stood up and dashed into the kitchen. Soon he reappeared in the doorway with a large meat cleaver. The expression on his face was concentrated and he was sweating. He brandished the cleaver. 'We have to open him up!'

  'I make the decisions here,' Gunnarstranda said roughly. His voice shook with suppressed rage. 'He's dead.' His voice cracked on the word dead.

  'But it works with the rats at the institute. This is something I do every day. We just open the chest and squeeze the heart into life.'