The Last Fix (28 page)

    '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
remembering 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.

    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.

    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.