The Last Fix

by K. O. Dahl

  Gunnarstranda's attitude to the new development in the case was split. On the one hand, it was not good to extend the confines of the investigation too far since it is important to concentrate your energies on the most fertile, and the most logical, ground. In this sense, a murder committed many years ago in a different location could be a dead end. On the other hand, the information about Katrine's biological mother was so sensational that it would be a dereliction of duty to ignore it.

  Gunnarstranda sat down on a bench at the tram stop to wait. An elderly woman was inspecting the litter bins in the park and found two empty bottles which she stuffed into a large bag. A young couple who were walking hand in hand stopped to admire the foliage at the top of a birch tree. Gunnarstranda was on the point of lighting a cigarette when the pale blue tram rounded the bend in Schleppegrells gate.

  The building in Drammensveien was the kind that Johan Borgen's Little Lord might have grown up in: a three-storey stone building - the plaster was an attempt to approximate the colour of sandstone - with two balconies adorning a facade of which even the King and Queen would have been proud. The feudal character was emphasized by the Doric pillars at the front entrance. On the wall beside the heavy door was a sign saying Horgen AS, squeezed between a consulate's sign and a sign for an embassy representing one of the states that had recently broken away from the old Soviet Union. Axel Horgen himself opened the door and his bulldog-like face split into a wet grin as he recognized Gunnarstranda on the doorstep.

  If the facade was impressive, the hall inside was more confused because of repeated unsuccessful renovation work. The staircase curving down from the first floor was one of the original features. The sculpture filling one of the niches in the wall probably was, too. But the floor had been laid with linoleum and the walls were covered with inelegant hessian. The stucco work in the ceiling had begun to disintegrate; in one place it sagged. Axel Horgen drew him into this low cave, past a fierce woman who ruled the centre of a ballroom furnished as an antechamber. She was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of the room and, with a clear view of the window, desk and fax, she kept an eye on passers-by like a spider lying in ambush in its web. The corridor did another couple of twists before the two men pushed open a door into Axel Horgen's spartan office. Even though the desk was huge, it seemed very lonely in the corner of the room. There were two armchairs in another corner. But the height of the ceiling created acoustic reverberations that made their heels sound like echoes in the Alps. Gunnarstranda studied Axel Horgen's certificates and diplomas hanging on the wall. 'Impressive,' he mumbled. The other man seated himself at the desk and rested his legs on an open drawer. 'No flattery, Gunnarstranda. Cut the crap. You didn't come here to examine my wall decorations.'

  'Oh, I was thinking more of how impressive it is that you take such good care of all these papers… Russian course,' Gunnarstranda read aloud while looking at one of the framed documents. 'Do you attract clients because you can speak Russian?'

  'We attract clients with anything that smacks of serious political work. Have you thought of changing to pastures new?'

  Gunnarstranda shook his head.

  'We need old foxes,' Horgen said and seemed to mean it.

  With eyebrows raised in query, Gunnarstranda took out a cigarette from his coat pocket.

  'Be my guest,' Horgen said. 'So long as we close the door and open the window, we still hold sway in our own offices.'

  Gunnarstranda lit his cigarette and took a seat in one of the deep armchairs. It was like lowering your backside into a large wad of cotton wool. On his way down his feet lost contact with the floor and ended up pointing towards the facing wall. 'I'll never get out of this chair again,' Gunnarstranda said, stretching his legs.

  'If you had been a potential client, I would have dragged you out when you were ready to sign the contract.'

  'Are you making ends meet?'

  'There's enough to butter your bread and a bit left over.'

  'Expensive rooms?'

  'Cheaper than in Aker Brygge.'

  'I can believe you,' Gunnarstranda said, and added, 'I'm working on the case of the corpse they found by Hvervenbukta.'

  Horgen nodded. 'I've heard.'

  'Twenty years ago when you still had a sense of decency and worked for Kripos,' Gunnarstranda said, 'a woman was killed in Lillehammer. Name of Lockert.'

  Horgen nodded. He had the expression of a listener, but was experienced enough not to show whether he was listening with interest or not.

  Gunnarstranda inhaled.

  'True enough,' Horgen said. 'True enough.'

  They watched each other in silence.

  'You were on that case,' Gunnarstranda stated.

  Horgen pulled a face. 'Gunnarstranda,' he said with a grave air. 'I had been working there for six months. I was still wet behind the ears. The only thing I did was write reports as long as novels on that case. Have you read them?'

  'I will do.'

  'Read first, Gunnarstranda, and ask afterwards.'

  Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'I need a briefing.'

  'Why's that?'

  'I have to know what I'm looking for.' Gunnarstranda played for time, flicking the ash into his open hand. He leaned forwards, breathed in and braced himself. At the second attempt he managed, with some effort, to release himself from the chair. He walked over to the high window, opened it a crack and threw out the ash. He stood observing the traffic. A blue tram rattled down Drammensveien. The sound boomed inside the room. He watched the tram disappear. Slowly other sounds returned: a door slamming on the other side of the street, a car horn honking in the distance, the scraping sound of a woman's stiletto heels on the tarmac and behind the green hedge the voices of two children playing. He turned to Axel Horgen.

  'The girl who was killed was the daughter of Helene Lockert.'

  Horgen whistled.

  They looked at each other for a long time. Horgen lifted a corner of his mouth into a wry smile. 'That case has tormented more policemen than me over the years.' He lowered his feet on to the floor and straightened up in the chair.

  'But you're the one I know,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'So what if your corpse was Lockert's daughter?' Horgen said at length. 'We all die.'

  'The girl was strangled.'

  'I've heard rumours that she was raped.'

  'That's not definite.'

  'Not definite?'

  'One witness maintains he had consensual sex with her.'

  'And why hasn't he already confessed?'

  'He's dead. Hanged himself.'

  'Why haven't I heard anything about a moving suicide note detailing his confession?'

  'There's no letter, not yet anyway,' Gunnarstranda said in a fatigued voice.

  'Helene Lockert was strangled, but there was no sex involved at all.'

  Gunnarstranda: 'I hope the Lockert case is not connected. I can't put a man on a case that is twenty years old. And definitely not a case that was never solved.'

  'Well, what is there to say?' Horgen shrugged. 'Helene Lockert was left to look after her daughter. Single mum. The father was a seaman. If anyone in the world had a watertight alibi it was him. He was working as a second officer on a Fred Olsen boat when Helene Lockert was killed. I don't think there was ever anything serious between Helene Lockert and this seaman. If there had been, he would have looked after the daughter. She was small, anyway, not more than a couple of years old and unable to say anything. Helene was killed in her own home while the daughter was strapped into the pram or a play pen. And that's all there was. A struggle in the middle of the day in a peaceful little town in mid-Norway. A struggle that ended with Helene's death. Unknown killer. Still unknown.'

  'Arrests?'

  'None. But…'

  'Yes?'

  'We wondered for a long time about charging a man who was engaged to Helene. He had a sort of an alibi, though. And there was no motive. The guy was about to marry the victim. They were just a couple of days away from the we
dding. Another hypothesis was jealousy. Lockert and this man - what the hell was his name again?… Buggerud, Buggestad, Bueng… yes, that was it, Bueng - he was getting on even in those days, by the way. He was at least twenty years older than her, if not more…'

  'The second hypothesis?' Gunnarstranda asked when Horgen went quiet, as if a thought had struck him.

  'Oh that? Well, Bueng was a ladies' man, a Casanova, had a number of women on the go. We had a theory about jealousy and brought in a stack of women for questioning, but that trail petered out, too. Hell, I hate cases that are never cleared up!'

  Horgen rose to his feet. 'They never give you any peace,' he added to himself.

  Gunnarstranda threw the cigarette out of the window and folded his hands in front of his chest. 'Gut instinct? Was it Bueng, off the record?'

  'No… or I don't know. I think he was given a pretty thorough going-over.'

  'But what do you think deep down?'

  Horgen gave a laconic smile. 'Forget the Lockert case. It's nine to one that the suicide victim raped and killed Helene Lockert's daughter. Are you a betting man?'

  Gunnarstranda shook his head. 'This Lockert trail may be a shot in the dark, but I had an idea,' Gunnarstranda said. 'If you've given the case a lot of thought, and I am sure you have, then you've kept tabs - haven't you? - checked a few things out, and my idea was…'

  'Your idea was…?'

  '… that you might know where I could find old Bueng.'

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The Golden Section

  No one answered his knock. He opened the door and walked in. 'Hello,' he shouted, still without any response. There was a solitary armchair situated under a window. He went in further and stopped where the wall ended and the room turned a corner. An elderly man lay sleeping on a bed in the alcove to the right. The old man was fully dressed. The policeman hesitated, in two minds. He looked round at the bare walls. A room devoid of any personal touch. For one brief moment he saw himself living his last days in this way. It was a possibility after all. He was alone. Or he might become ill. Seeing himself on the bed for that brief instant made him see the room with new eyes. The man living here had done nothing to personalize the room. A creeping sense of shame overcame Gunnarstranda for bursting in, for standing there as if the room were his own, an intruder in another man's home, a man who didn't know he was there.

  The man on the bed was sleeping soundlessly. Only the heaving chest covered with the grey woollen sweater bore witness to the fact that he was breathing. Gunnarstranda's eyes flitted across the dressing table with the closed drawers and the shelves of the bedside table. An old portable radio, a Radionette, stood on the dresser. The aerial was broken and its shiny stump pointed into the air at an angle.

  Gunnarstranda ran his eyes over the sleeping man once more. Bueng was thin, long and grey-haired with a sharp profile: his skin was wrinkled, but the nose was straight; his chin long and pointed; his lips sensitive but severe.

  The policeman exited and closed the door behind him. In the corridor he stood looking around, perplexed. Perhaps you weren't allowed to personalize your room, he wondered. Perhaps there were house rules, barracks regulations, like in the army. The walls of Bueng's room were bare. No pictures, no books.

  A woman in a long skirt with a shawl over her shoulders came tramping down the corridor. She looked fifty-ish and seemed to be an employee of the institution. There was something quite natural about the way she held herself; she entered the corridor with self-assurance as though she had paraded down it countless times. A woman with auburn hair, kind eyes and a charming slanted smile. 'May I be of help?'

  'Bueng,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Right behind you.'

  'He's asleep,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Aha,' the woman said with another charming slanted smile. 'I see.'

  Gunnarstranda nodded and experienced a rare moment of gentle tenderness for a stranger.

  'Wait here,' she said, patting him on the shoulder, and continued down the corridor from which she disappeared into an office. Soon afterwards Gunnarstranda heard a bell ring in the room behind him. It rang for a long time. Eventually the sound was cut short and a gruff voice said something inside. The office door at the end of the corridor was opened and the woman with the shawl peered out. 'Knock on the door,' she mouthed and mimed knocking motions with her fist.

  Gunnarstranda followed instructions.

  Bueng opened the door a crack. 'Yes,' he said in a friendly, inquisitive voice.

  Gunnarstranda introduced himself. 'I'm a policeman,' he added.

  'Oh yes?' Bueng said. 'Policeman, yes. Policeman.'

  The man suffered from Parkinson's disease. The shaking of his arms caused him to keep hitting the door frame with his hand - as if he were tapping a melody.

  Gunnarstranda glanced towards the office door whence the woman with the shawl sent him her broadest beam yet.

  Gunnarstranda took a deep breath. 'Would you like to come for a walk with me?' he asked and heard the woman with the shawl approaching from the right.

  'Bueng's legs are not very strong,' she explained.

  'But we have some wonderful benches in the garden.'

  Bueng managed to walk unaided although his progress was slow. His hands and arms shook without cease. Gunnarstranda held the front door open for him. They exchanged glances. Bueng raised one shaking arm. 'Bloody shakes,' he mumbled and shuffled slowly into the sun. It was a beautiful garden with high cypress hedges, gravel paths and fine, waxlike begonias growing in lines along the edging stones by the path. But those who tended the flowers didn't have a clue about roses, the policeman noted. In the middle of the lawn was an ailing shrub rosebush with no flowers. A strong, thorny, light-green sucker had shot up between the sparse leaves, like a spear. In front of this monstrosity of a rose was a green bench around which a dozen or so small sparrows were hopping and pecking at biscuit crumbs on the ground. The two men took a seat on the bench. The conversation flowed without a hitch as long as they talked about nurses and medication. However, Bueng clammed up when Gunnarstranda asked about Helene Lockert. 'This is about her daughter,' the policeman explained. 'Katrine. She has been killed.'

  'The daughter,' Bueng mused.

  'Yes,' said the policeman.

  'Births can't be undone,' Bueng mumbled, then added, 'It's the only dream you wake up from and you can never go back to sleep.'

  'Mm…,' Gunnarstranda said, wondering how to proceed.

  'And now you say she's dead. The girl, too,' the old man declared. They sat looking into the distance. Gunnarstranda felt an ache in his fingertips to search his pockets for a cigarette.

  'We were going to get married,' Bueng pronounced at length. 'Though nothing came of it.'

  'No,' the policeman concurred.

  Silence descended over both of them once again. Gunnarstranda stuffed his hands in his pockets to rummage around for cigarettes while trying to devise a strategy to proceed. On a bench further up two elderly ladies were sitting and eating muffins.

  After a while they heard steps on the gravel and Bueng glanced up. 'Don't let him get his hands on anything,' he murmured. 'He ruins everything he touches. The other day he was fiddling around with the hedge clippers for hours and as soon as the handyman started them up they fell apart. Some help. And then afterwards he had to tamper with a brand-new lawnmower. It was kaput by the time he'd finished with it.'

  'Who are you talking about?' Gunnarstranda asked in a whisper.

  'Him over there. The one with the grey hat. Now he's off to do some repairs. I can see that by the way he's walking.'

  The policeman followed his gaze and saw an elderly man wearing a grey beret on the gravel path, striding out with his legs splayed to the side. In his hand he was swinging a large wrench to and fro.

  'Bueng, you had a lot of women apart from Helene Lockert in those days,' Gunnarstranda interrupted with a firmness of purpose. 'Now those days are gone. A lot of water has flowed
under the bridge. No one is interested in past sins any longer. Who were you with at that time?'

  'Ah, death, yes,' Bueng said philosophically. 'You only have to walk down Karl Johans gate to see how ineffective death is. No, you can see it here. Look at all of us!'

  'OK,' Gunnarstranda said, impatient. 'I have a list here, from the police report made at the time. It says they questioned, among others, a woman by the name of Birgit Stenmoe, one called Grete Running, Oda Beate Saugstad, Connie Saksevold…' The policeman glanced up and sighed. 'Connie,' he grumbled. 'Imagine calling a poor Norwegian child Connie…'

  'Connie was half-American,' Bueng said. 'She drank coffee with milk and sugar, and then she had psoriasis. Terrible complexes she had because of psoriasis… although it was mainly in her scalp. Who cares whether a woman has dandruff in her hair? You should have seen Connie's legs. They were as smooth as polished aluminium.'

  'I have been led to believe these women considered themselves to be in love with you while you were engaged to Helene Lockert?'

  'It's not easy to say no all the time,' Bueng said in reflective mood. 'It's not easy to disappoint others.'

  'No, it's not easy,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'But things have a tendency to go wrong if you lie too much.'

  'That's right,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Two lovers at once, that's fine,' Bueng said. 'Three at once is too much. It's difficult to remember what you said to one and not to the other, and then there's the problem of time. Most women want at least two nights a week and with three the week is too full… it's difficult to make things fit. You drive yourself mad with the lies.'

  'You had five,' Gunnarstranda said.

  'Yes, it had to come to a sorry end.'

  'Right.'

  'But two lovers - that's fine. You don't get locked into specific patterns. Of course you know that women's tastes vary. Their kissing does, too.'