by K. O. Dahl
And now she has probably been raped and strangled…'
The plump woman heaved a deep sigh.
Frølich nodded in sympathy.
'And all I can think is that she must have died many times in the course of those ten years…'
Frølich stood up and moved towards the door. Beate Bratterud had sunk into her own thoughts and he had no wish to drag her out again.
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Anniversary
The green door had a window with wired glass. A curtain had been pushed to the side and a head was peering out. Even though the wire distorted the facial features on the other side it was clear that the face did not belong to a man. Gunnarstranda signalled to the group on the stairs to retreat. Then he moved his hand towards the door bell and rang again. The person inside fiddled around with the lock and a very young woman opened up. She could have been fifteen, sixteen, seventeen or eighteen years old. Gunnarstranda wondered whether she wasn't fourteen. But he concluded that it was unlikely. She had to be over fifteen. However, she was wearing a lot of make-up; her skin was so stiff it was like cardboard. She had painted her lips dark red and was scantily clad. It was the minimal clothing that gave away how old she was: thin thighs with no flesh - she hadn't finished developing.
'Is Raymond at home?' the policeman asked with a beaming smile.
'No,' she said with a return smile.
'Who are you?'
'I'm his girl.'
Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Good morning, good morning,' he said.
'Hi,' she said.
Gunnarstranda turned to look up at the armed policeman who had positioned himself higher up the staircase, out of the young woman's field of vision. The man withdrew without a sound and left. Gunnarstranda turned back to the young woman and asked in hushed tones: 'Will he be long'
'He should be here any minute. I thought you were him now.'
'I'll wait indoors then,' Gunnarstranda said, stepping inside. The hall had been painted in dark colours; it was long and narrow as halls often are in old blocks of flats. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and opened it wide. He peered in. The bathroom seemed unusually modern and very clean. He also opened the next door wide.
'Bedroom,' the girl behind him said.
Gunnarstranda glanced at the dresser drawers scattered across the floor. On the broad, unmade bed were thrown socks, underpants and other things that must have come from the drawers. Gunnarstranda closed the door again and continued through the flat with the young woman at his heels. It was clear that she wasn't a hundred per cent sure of him. Gunnarstranda went into the sitting room, which was tidy. Raymond Skau collected old LP records. Three of the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of vinyl. There had to be thousands of records. Only two of the shelves were reserved for CDs. Several years of listening, thought Gunnarstranda, looking at the fourth wall, which had two high windows looking out on to the street. Beneath the windows and between them the wall was adorned with a huge hi-fi system. The speakers were two large, man-sized columns. He walked to the end of the room and glanced around the kitchen, which was just as messy as the bedroom. Several days' washing up, including encrusted plates, formed small edifices beside the sink alongside piles of cups lined with black coagulated coffee. The smell was testimony to the fact that it had been a long time since anyone had bothered to empty the waste bin.
The young woman stood in the middle of the floor wringing her hands. 'Who are you then?' she forced herself to ask.
Gunnarstranda walked back to the sitting room window, signalled to the officers below, shook his head and took out his mobile phone.
'I'm a friend of Raymond's,' he confided, wasting no words.
'My name's Linda,' the girl said, smiling the way that well-brought up girls do when they are uncertain of themselves, but are willing to take a chance that everything will turn out fine.
Gunnarstranda's mobile phone rang. 'Yes,' he said, walking to the window. 'No, Skau isn't here, but he's expected, so I'll wait here until he shows up.' He switched off the phone and pointed to the sofa with an air of authority. 'Sit down,' he said to the young woman.
She sat down. Gunnarstranda seated himself on a chair opposite her. 'Have you known Raymond long?' he asked.
'We've been together for two months.'
Gunnarstranda nodded.
'Tomorrow,' she said, 'is our anniversary.'
'Two months is an awfully long time,' Gunnarstranda said with a hint of irony.
'I can hardly believe it,' she said in her naivety, and smiled as though she couldn't believe it.
'Did you meet Katrine?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'No, I don't think so.'
'Blonde hair, quite good-looking, but a bit older than you.'
The girl called Linda shook her head.
'Works at a travel agency,' Gunnarstranda said.
The young girl rolled her shoulders.
'But I suppose you go to school?'
'Project week.' She giggled.
'So you don't need to go to school?'
'We do but…' She giggled again.
'How old are you?' the policeman enquired.
'Fourteen.'
Gunnarstranda's lips extended into a satisfied smile.
'What are you laughing at?' The young girl blushed, as if she thought the policeman was laughing at her.
'I'm laughing at Raymond.'
'Raymond's cool, isn't he.'
'Cool,' Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Dead cool,' he mumbled, revealing that hip yoof talk was not something he practised on a daily basis. 'Where is he in fact?'
'With the oinkers,' she answered.
'Oinkers,' Gunnarstranda repeated, mystified.
'With the cops,' she said. 'He rang me from the cop shop. He should have been back ages ago.'
'Do you live here?' Gunnarstranda asked in a friendly voice. 'Do you live with Raymond?' 'Are you crazy?' the girl said. 'I would never have been allowed to do that.'
'But you have keys?'
'Yes. I collect the post and that sort of thing.'
'That sort of thing?'
'Yes, cook and…'
'And?'
She came to a halt with a grin. 'Housewifely things.'
Gunnarstranda nodded in an eloquent way- 'Housewifely things,' he repeated and winked at her.
The girl blushed again. At that moment the policeman's mobile phone rang. He put it to his ear, listened to the message and smiled at the girl on the opposite side of the table. 'Great,' he said: 'Go to it'.
Soon afterwards there was a ring at the door and the young woman jumped up. 'That's Raymond,' she said, excited.
'Of course,' Gunnarstranda said without moving from his chair.
Then there was the sound of running feet followed by a thud and someone cursing in a gruff voice.
The girl called Linda glanced up in fear at Gunnarstranda, who staggered to his feet and went to the door. 'Pack your things together,' he said to the young girl. 'I'll arrange for someone to drive you home.' He opened the door and watched the scuffle on the floor of the staircase. A silent man was wriggling and twisting under the weight of two uniformed policemen. The man's arms were forced up behind his back and handcuffed together. As he swung round to see what was going on, his greasy hair hung like a thick curtain in front of his face.
Gunnarstranda smiled to the girl. 'But before going home you'll have to talk to some nice people about your boyfriend.'
* * *
Chapter Thirty
The Toilet Lid
Frølich spotted Gunnarstranda's lean back as he rounded the corner of Prinsens gate. His boss was passing the shop Steen og Strшm. Frank walked faster. 'Congratulations on finding Skau,' Frank said as he caught up with his colleague. Gunnarstranda gave a brief smile and both strode on without another word about the case.
They crossed Egertorget between the bookshop and the dense group of people standing around the street musicians playing b
y the stairs leading down to the Metro. 'Have we anything to celebrate?' Frølich asked at length. He had to shout to be heard above the pan pipes and the singing.
'No,' Gunnarstranda said, forcing a path through the crowd.
'Not even Skau?'
Gunnarstranda shook his head. They continued down the slope on the right of Karl Johans gate. Frølich glanced over the picket fence of Dasslokket, the street cafe called the toilet lid because it was situated above the public conveniences. Even though it was some time since it had stopped raining, the plastic chairs outside were still wet. The tables and chairs covered by a canopy appeared to be dry, but there wasn't a single customer under it. The open door of the serving wagon was the sole evidence that the place was not closed. A warmer day would have been nice, he thought. With sun and designer sunglasses. 'Let's have a cup of coffee,' he said, patting his boss on the shoulder. Gunnarstranda followed him through the gate.
'Do you know why we couldn't find Raymond Skau?' Gunnarstranda asked, finding himself a relatively dry chair by the fence facing Lille Grensen street.
Frølich shook his head.
'Because he was in custody.'
'Say that again,' Frølich exclaimed.
'No,' said Gunnarstranda.
Frølich called to the young waitress slouching towards them. 'Two coffees, please.'
They sat looking at each other.
'So he was in custody,' Frølich said in a thinly disguised ironic tone.
Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Skau was arrested on the evening of 13 June. A call-out to Sagene Video, a small shop by Sagene church. A young girl on the cash desk reported a robbery - Skau was arrested behind Sagene church, in the area leading to the Akerselva the evening after Katrine was murdered. He was held under suspicion of robbing Sagene Video for a few kroner and some films in CD format.'
'DVD format,' Frølich corrected.
'The worst thing is that the shop's right by where I live and the man's been in custody until now,' Gunnarstranda said.
'And the warrant for his arrest was issued several days ago.'
Gunnarstranda scowled. 'Don't tell any journalists.'
'But he still could have killed Katrine on the Saturday night.'
'Possible, but it doesn't seem very likely any longer.'
'But he had her jewellery.' Frølich extended his arm outside the canopy. 'See,' he said. 'Now it's raining again.'
Gunnarstranda glanced up at the sky and took out a cigarette; he lit it and cupped his hand to shelter it from the rain.
'When I went to Skau's place I was let in by a girl of fourteen. Her name's Linda Ros and she says she's Skau's girlfriend.'
'Fourteen years old! The man's almost forty!'
The police inspector had one of his famous coughing fits. While Gunnarstranda was struggling, the rain hammered down on the canopy making them feel as if they were sitting in a tent.
As the cough subsided Frølich burst out: 'What's happened to the coffee? There are only two of us here. It can't take that bloody long to brew two cups of coffee!'
'Yes, but the problem is this girl maintains she was the one who took the jewellery into the flat. Our people found Katrine's jewellery in the handbag lying on the sitting room table. The girl says it had come by post and she put the bag on the table.'
'Post?'
'That's what she says. The bag came by post on Wednesday or Thursday.'
'Is she telling the truth?' Frølich asked.
'It's very probable. The girl's head over heels in love.'
'But Skau can still have killed Katrine on the Saturday night.'
Gunnarstranda wrinkled his nose. 'The girl is stupid, but not stupid enough to make up this story. And why would Skau send Katrine's jewellery to himself?'
'Why did Skau turn up at her work - at the travel agency?' Frølich asked in turn.
'He claims Katrine owed him money.'
'How much?'
'He wouldn't say. Nor would he say why she owed him money.'
Frølich nodded.
'Keeping his mouth shut won't help him. Skau's the usual sort, an old acquaintance, as the saying goes, and he thinks he has something to gain by withholding information. Anyway, two narks, quite independently of each other, tipped off Yttergjerde that Skau owes money everywhere. That explains why he was so desperate and went for Katrine at her workplace.' Gunnarstranda paused and reflected on what he had just said.
He took another cigarette from his pocket and lit it from the stump of the last.
'Skau is supposed to have been doing amphetamine deals with some Vietnamese. That explains why he was desperate. They're tough on debtors.'
'Well, here comes the coffee at last,' Frølich said with glee. He took the cups and found the money to pay. 'Got a lot on today, have you?' he asked the girl, who was sullenly gazing into space. Her pout deepened after the sarcastic remark.
* * *
Chapter Thirty-One
The Name
'I refuse to make a statement,' Raymond Skau said as he was pushed through the door.
'That is your legal right,' the detective inspector said from his chair with a yawn. He pointed a weary finger at the red plastic chair. 'Please take a seat.'
Skau, unshaven and red-eyed, dressed in a loose- fitting, grey track suit stood looking at the chair and repeated: 'I refuse to make a statement. Something wrong with your hearing?'
'Does that also mean you refuse to sit down?' Gunnarstranda asked drily.
Skau looked from the policeman to the chair and back again.
'Of course you may remain standing if you wish.'
'Drive me back to my cell.'
The policeman checked his watch. Ten minutes past midnight. He pulled a glum face and informed the man: 'The first transport to leave here will be at seven tomorrow morning.
''You have no fucking right to do this.'
'What have we no right to do?'
'To refuse me transport to my cell.'
'But I'm not refusing you transport to your cell, am I?'
'Well, then you can drive me back.'
'There is no transport for six hours and fifty minutes. Would you like to stand for the duration?'
'I'll report you.'
'Be my guest.'
'I'll report you to the police complaints authority, SEFO. My solicitor will report you.'
'Please do. It's your legal right. In the meantime perhaps you wouldn't mind sitting down. As I said, you have over six hours to kill.'
Gunnarstranda stood up and walked over to the window. 'Your girlfriend claims she received a parcel in the post, a parcel containing Katrine's jewellery,' he said with his back to the detainee.
'We've talked about this before - I refuse to tell you anything more,' the man behind interrupted. 'There's no point starting this bollocks again. I refuse and it is my legal right.'
Gunnarstranda turned. Skau had sat down and was resting both forearms on the table. He glowered up at the policeman from beneath two narrow, finely arched eyebrows. Gunnarstranda went closer. The white parting in the man's hair ran as straight as an arrow from the forehead to the back, not a strand out of place. Gunnarstranda stuck his face right up close to his. The man's eyebrows had been touched up with a pencil. 'Do you wear make-up?' the policeman asked, unable to believe his eyes.
'So what if I do?' Skau snapped. 'Besides, I don't like your breath.'
Gunnarstranda straightened up. He stood looking down at Skau with a smile playing around his mouth. 'It's fine by me if you don't want to make a statement,' he said. 'I don't think it's very clever of you, but you're within your rights to refuse to make a statement. Nevertheless, I would like you to listen to what I have to say since you are here, anyway. Have you any strong objections to listening to what I believe?'
'I object to being bloody tricked into saying things that can be used against me later.'
'But do you have any reason to fear saying something that can be used against you?'
Raymond Skau did not answer.<
br />
'Your girlfriend,' Gunnarstranda began. 'Linda. Of course she may be lying. The jewellery story may be something she made up to protect you. For some reason she's in love with you. Of course she is entitled to be. But that kind of love is ephemeral. I speak from experience. I say that because you are going to be charged with corruption of a minor and sexual exploitation. She is only fourteen years old.'
'I didn't fucking know that!'
'Of course not. But that's not the point. She has admitted the actual state of affairs, so you will be convicted whether you like it or not. The consequence, irrespective of how much in love with you she is now, will be that her love will pass. If she is lying about the jewellery it is therefore just a question of time before she tells the truth. And then you're in a bit of a spot. On the other hand, she may be telling the truth. She may indeed have got the parcel through the post. The question is then who would have sent you the jewellery. Let's ask the question: Who could have done this?'
Skau stared into the distance with a darkened brow.
The policeman coughed and said, 'You may have done it yourself. You might have put the jewellery in the postbox.'
'Why would I do that?' Skau interposed.
Gunnarstranda pretended not to hear. 'I have no idea why you did it, but I have been thinking about finding out. I intend to find that out and why you attacked Katrine at work the day before she was killed.' Skau tried to interrupt, but the policeman held up his palm in the air. 'You claim that Katrine owed you money, but you won't say why she owed you money, or how much. Well, suppose that's true. I assume it is true because two informers - independently of each other - said you have been desperate for money these last two weeks. Rumours are going round that you owe a Vietnamese a lot of kroner for amphetamines you sold on and didn't pay for.'
Skau frowned and said darkly: 'Am I going to be charged for that as well now?'
'I don't give a shit what you do with drugs,' the policeman answered drily. 'I have other things on my mind, but let's assume for the sake of argument that what the two informers have whispered in our ears is true. What I do know is that you went to Katrine's workplace and demanded the money she owed you. We know you were so angry that you resorted to physical violence with Katrine even though someone else was present. It's this fury of yours which is interesting. The very same fury, and behaviour, when you met her alone - in the middle of the night - with no witnesses present - that's interesting too.'