The Last Fix (30 page)

    '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.

    Gunnarstranda
smiled with one side of his mouth. 'That's one way of looking at it,' he
conceded. 'But it's not necessarily a right way of looking at it. You don't
know how she would have fared with her treatment elsewhere. You don't know if
she would have succeeded just as well.'

    'But
can't you hear what I'm saying?' Annabeth almost screamed. 'Katrine had every
chance to succeed here. We were the ones who cured her. We were the ones who
laid the world at her feet!'

    'It
was while she was here that she was murdered,' Gunnarstranda interrupted with
annoyance.

    Annabeth
shut her mouth and threw the hosepipe down on the baked-earth floor. They
eyeballed each other in the silence that followed.

    There
was no point discussing investigative theory with this woman, the policeman
thought. He had a feeling he knew what she was after. It wasn't the desire to
save Katrine Bratterud that had driven this woman to keep her as a patient. It
had been the chance to succeed that had driven her. That and the council
subsidy that must have come with the girl. And in her hunt for success Annabeth
had swallowed camels, or, to be more precise, she had shut her eyes to her own
professional ethics. 'No one knows for the moment what happened that night,' he
said in a milder tone. 'No one knows why Katrine had to be buried today. So we
had better not make any allegations. Let us just state that you had a patient
who perhaps should not have been treated here. Were there others apart from you
who knew about your husband's previous… experiences with Katrine?'

    'No.'

    'How
can you be so sure?'

    'Because
such rumours cannot be kept secret in a place like this.'

    'Did
you ever take up this matter with Katrine?'

    'Never.'

    'You
never mentioned a thing about it?'

    'No.'

    'Did
she ever take the matter up with you?'

    Annabeth,
eyes closed, shook her head. 'No, never.'

    Never,
mused Gunnarstranda. Katrine must have known she knew. And conversely, the
certainty that her husband had exploited her patient's social needs must have
coloured the atmosphere every single time Annabeth met Katrine. And the
patient, on her side, must have felt it. Anything else would be inconceivable.

    The
water from the hose reached his shoes and ran down both sides of the flagstone
path he was standing on. 'Shall we turn off the water?' he said, trudging back
to the tap attached to the hosepipe. He turned it off, straightened his back
and observed her. She had not moved from the spot. 'I know you don't like
talking about this,' Gunnarstranda said. 'But I'm obliged to probe for motives.
If for a moment we assume that Katrine was an unscrupulous woman one could
imagine that this relationship - I mean the fact that your husband as chairman
had received sexual favours from Katrine…' He paused for a few seconds when she
closed both eyes. Then went on:'… we might imagine that this fact gave Katrine
a hold over your husband. Would she have blackmailed your husband or tried to
exploit this hold she had?'

    'Never.'

    'You
seem very sure.'

    Annabeth
took off her gloves and strolled over to him. 'My good man, Katrine wanted to
be cured. That was why I kept her as a patient. Katrine was perhaps the most
motivated client I have ever met. Just the very idea of blackmailing Bjørn
- that would never have occurred to her.'

    'But
what you're saying now you could be saying to cover up the fact that pressure
was applied.'

    'Why
would I cover anything up if she had gone as far as blackmailing Bjørn?'

    'Because
blackmail would give Bjørn a motive for murdering her.'

    'Ha,'
Annabeth laughed haughtily. 'Now you're chasing shadows. Bjørn! Would Bjørn
have killed Katrine?' She laughed again. 'Excuse me, but the thought is too
ridiculous. Believe me, Gunnarstranda. Bjørn Gerhardsen can crunch
numbers and he might sneak into some dingy place to vent his male sexuality.
But other than that…? When we go fishing in Sorland in the summer it's me who
has to kill the fish he catches. If there's a mouse in the trap in our mountain
cabin, he can't even look at it. I have to clean up. The truth about Bjørn
is that he's a good boy but as soft as marshmallow.'

    Gunnarstranda
didn't speak. He was thinking about what she had said while they were walking
beside the potting tables and out into the fresh weather. Good boy, soft as
marshmallow. She was demeaning her husband's masculinity.

    They
strolled by the vegetable plot towards the car park.

    'Believe
me, Gunnarstranda, your speculations are absurd. Katrine wanted to be
rehabilitated. She chose us because we could help her.'
^v

    The
policeman stopped and looked into her eyes. 'Did you at any point leave the
party you organized on that Saturday?'

    She
still had a faint smile on her face as she shook her head. 'Not for a minute. Bjørn
left with Georg Beck and a few others. He's already told you, I understand. But
he returned, as soft and affectionate as the little kitten he is when he's been
away from Mummy for more than two hours.'

    Gunnarstranda
studied her for a while before asking, 'Do you remember what time it was when
he left?'

    'Around
midnight. He came back alone a bit before four and helped me clear up.'

    'Did
anyone else leave the party in the course of the evening?'

    'No,
as a matter of fact they didn't. There was a sort of mass departure at half
past two, but it was some time before everyone had been packed off happily in
taxis. It took an hour, maybe more.'

    The
waiting room was packed with people. Frølich tried to find his bearings.
An elderly man in a green buttoned-up parka and trousers that looked like
pyjamas gave a hollow, gurgling cough. The policeman looked away. His gaze fell
on another old man, grey and pale with thick stubble and greasy, unkempt hair.
A boy was sitting on his mother's lap. An elderly woman sat beside them
knitting. Beside her was another elderly woman wearing a headscarf. She had
thick brown stockings on her legs and worn slippers on her feet. Frølich
was reminded of Erik Haugom's reputation as a sexologist and for a brief
instant wondered what sexual problems these patients were grappling with.

    A
woman dressed in white looked up from what she was doing. 'Please wait
outside,' she said.

    'Excuse
me,' said the policeman.

    'I
asked if you would wait outside.'

    'I
have a question,' Frølich said politely.

    'Then
wait until it is your turn.' She marched around the counter, a figure of
authority in white trousers and a white blouse. She took the policeman's arm
and tried to escort him out. When he pulled his arm away, she pointed to a red
light outside. 'It's red. Can you see that?' she asked in an annoyed tone.
'That's the colour that signifies stop on our traffic lights. The red man. That
colour means stop here as well. When it's green you can come in - if it's your
turn, provided you have booked an appointment. If you haven't, you can ring
between eight and nine o'clock in the morning. Have you understood? Comprendo?'

    Frølich
forced a smile. 'Darling!' he cried. The woman was taken aback as he gently
pushed her back through the door and closed it. He placed his police badge on
the counter.

    'What's
that?' The young woman seemed resigned rather than irritated now. She clumped
back around the counter in her white clogs. She picked up the telephone and
punched in a number with the receiver under her chin. 'If you do not go of your
own accord, we will have to get someone to throw you out,' she said, staring
into space.

    'My
name is Frank Frølich. I have come to speak to Erik Haugom, the doctor
here,' the policeman said.

    'Wait
your turn,' the woman said into space.

    'We
have tried to ring, but for some reason or other no one answers the phone. I
have a suggestion to make,' Frølich said with calm. 'I suggest you knock
on Haugom's door and ask him to set aside ten minutes. The alternative is that
I call him in for questioning at the police station. He has a legal obligation
to appear, which would mean his losing four hours, at least. You can put down
the phone and ask him which he prefers. It's his choice - not mine.'

    The
woman closed her eyes and put down the telephone. 'People are so bloody cheeky,'
she said in a low mumble as she went into the room behind the counter.

    Soon
after she showed him the way through the same door. They walked through rooms
smelling of medicine, rooms equipped with folding screens, recliners covered in
paper towels and eye charts on the wall. A similar chart was hanging in
Haugom's office.

    Erik
Haugom received him with an outstretched arm. A doctor with a ruddy complexion,
the statutory white coat and a tuft of grey chest hair protruding at the top
over the buttons. He ran his tongue round his teeth at the bottom of his mouth.
His jaw resembled a filing cabinet drawer ©f. 'You must excuse our ladies,' he
said. 'You know this is a clinic and some of the oddest fruitcakes can make an
occasional appearance. Two months ago - Inger Marie, you've just met her, was
on duty at the time - a man appeared out of nowhere in reception. It was
impossible to get through to this person. Decent type, properly dressed, you
know, suit and tie and so on. And he just stood there without moving. Without
saying a single word. Quite the shop window dummy. What do you do? They all
tried talking to him while he stood there rooted to the floor. I don't think he
even blinked for twenty minutes. In the end the man started undressing. Can you
imagine that? Without a qualm, one garment after the other, nicely folded over
his arm. And there he was, standing in all his horrid nakedness, then he walked
right out in the buff, through the waiting room, down the stairs and into the
street. Can you imagine that? The world has not been the same since for Inger
Marie. Take a seat,' he said, holding a chair out for the policeman. 'Your
name's Frølich, isn't it? The poor woman managed to remember that
anyway.'

    'Mm,'
Frølich said, taking a seat. 'I won't detain you for long. This is about
the party at Annabeth s's place.'

    Haugom
sat down behind the desk and nodded.

    'Did
you also know Katrine Bratterud?' the policeman asked.

    'Not
very well.' Haugom smiled. It was a strained smile - his tongue was playing
with his lower teeth - a sort of nervous twitch that had become fixed and for
that reason would not melt away.

    'Sigrid,
my wife, talked about her,' the doctor went on as Frølich was silent.
'She talks a lot about her work. The way women do. Isn't that right? A woman's
thing - talking about your job come what may? I have a friend who teaches at
the high school. That is, we play bridge together - Sigrid and I with this
couple. And the man, Mogren's his name, Mogren tells us about these nightmare
colleagues of his, women who talk ad nauseam about their problems instead of
doing their job. You're a policeman. I'm a doctor. How would it be if I talked
about every bloody patient and every genital wart or gonorrhoea- infected penis
or hypochondriac I meet on a daily basis, eh?'

    'I am
aware of the problem.'

    'I
should think you are. But I don't suppose it was our marital difficulties you
wanted us to talk about?'

    'So
you didn't know Katrine Bratterud?'