The Last Fix (35 page)

    '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.'

    Gunnarstranda
stared dumbstruck at the vet with the cleaver. Yttergjerde was crouched down
examining the corpse as though it concealed profound secrets about his life. It
was impossible to find eye contact with anyone in the room. No one was at ease.
They don't like my tone of voice,
thought Gunnarstranda.
They're
afraid of what I might do. They think I'm going to crush this poor man. He's in
shock. Take it easy,
Gunnarstranda told himself.
The man's in shock.

    There
was a clunk as the man in the kitchen doorway dropped the cleaver. His hands were
shaking; his jaw was quivering. He was obviously on the verge of a breakdown.
The policeman, who was relieved that the man had dropped the cleaver, turned to
the window and pointed to the weary, grey cactus leaning against the glass.
'Can you see the cactus?' he asked.

    'I
don't understand what you mean,' the man in the doorway said, stroking his
forehead, exhausted.

    'It's
growing.'

    'So
what?'

    'The
window sill isn't growing.' 'Hm?'

    'You
can't make wood grow again however much you water it.' v

    The
veterinary doctor stared at the cactus in bewilderment. He spun round to face
the body on the floor.

    'But
he's my brother,' he cried.

    Gunnarstranda
took his arm. He's about to snap, he thought, and looked into the man's eyes.
'May I offer my condolences?'

    'Don't
you understand that I don't want to lose my brother?'

    'Stand
still,' Gunnarstranda ordered as the man bent down for the cleaver. In a
gentler tone he continued: 'I'm sure you're a good vet and a good researcher,
and you've had lots of success with the rats you work with, but you must not
forget that this body was a man once. Even if his heart did beat again after
you opened his chest, you have to remember that blood has not circulated
through his brain for a long time. He would have to lie in a respirator with
brain damage until someone was kind enough to switch it off.'

    'You're
right,' the man said quietly. 'I hadn't thought about that.'

    Gunnarstranda
pointed to the cleaver on the floor. 'Where did you find it?'

    'What,'
the man said, in a distant world.

    'Where
did you find the cleaver?'

    'In
the kitchen.'

    'So
it belongs to the flat?'

    'Of
course.'

    'And
you're the brother?'

    'Yes.'

    The
others in the room breathed out and began to move again. Gunnarstranda could
feel their eyes on him. There was a body on the floor and he was standing with
the dead man's brother in his arms. He could not question him here.

    Gunnarstranda
looked around the flat. It was full of bookshelves up and down the walls. The
room was attractive, decorated with taste. A few African masks and art posters
hung from places where there was no shelving.

    'So
this is your flat?' Gunnarstranda had another look around. His gaze fell on a
small wood-carving of a horseman balancing precariously on the bookshelf. Just
inside the door was a suitcase with a British Airways label still hanging from
the handle and a bag of duty-free goods beside it. 'Been travelling?'

    The
vet followed the policeman's gaze and nodded.

    'For
long?'

    'Ten
days or so.'

    'Quite
a welcome home,' Frølich interjected.

    The
vet slumped into a chair and stared into the distance with a blank expression
on his face. 'I'm worn out,' he said, shaking his head dejectedly. 'I haven't
slept for over a day. My body is riddled with jet lag. And I come here and find
Henning hanging from the lighting fixture. It's too much. I can't cope.'

    'What
did…?' Gunnarstranda started to say, but Frølich stopped him and
hunkered down in front of the vet whose eyes were still glazed. 'You have our
full sympathy,' Frølich said in a gentle tone. 'We understand that this
must be a terrible strain, but we are nevertheless obliged to clear up a few
matters, even though this is your flat. If you wouldn't mind coming with me,
I'll book you a hotel room until tomorrow.'

    'This
is my flat,' the man in the chair stated from faraway.

    'Of
course it's your flat.'

    'So
why don't you leave? Why can't I be alone?'

    'We
have to take your dead brother with us,' Frølich said. 'And we have to
let a few forensic technicians go through the flat to ascertain how this
happened.'

    'But
it's obvious how it happened.'

    'Herr
Kramer,' Frølich insisted, taking the suitcase into the hall. 'Could you
come with me, please?'

    Gunnarstranda
watched through the window until they appeared in the street. Frølich,
large and broad with a rolling gait; the other man grey, almost a smudge, with
hair whirled up by the wind revealing a bald patch as they strolled towards the
police car. With a little twitch of the mouth, Gunnarstranda involuntarily
raised a hand and patted his comb- over.

    At
that moment two ambulance men came in through the door. They were carrying a
stretcher and a body bag. Gunnarstranda looked down at the deceased Henning
Kramer.

    'We
need some technical assistance here,' he said tersely. 'After that I'm off for
the weekend.'

    It
was Friday afternoon and the summer traffic in Drammensveien was desperately
slow. But as soon as Frølich turned off to take the old Lier hills
route, the traffic eased. In Hurumlandet there were almost no other cars to be
seen, especially after leaving the main road and taking the winding track
linking the farms. Here and there the road went through a farmyard where an
idle elkhound or a St Bernard lay with its head between its front paws, opening
an indolent bloodshot eye to follow the car. Then he passed through an area
with fields and meadows on either side. He slowed down as the road narrowed for
a bridge over an old dyke and passed some mountain crags where some hardy
fellow passing himself off as a farmer had released a few cows that either
grazed between mounds of rock or waited with listless, hanging heads by a
shelter made with round poles.

    Frank
Frølich was never very sure of the way after the tarmac came to an end
and the road entered the forest. The tyres rumbled and the stony track was dry
- it hadn't rained for a few hours - as the dust was swirled upwards causing
Frank to close all valves and vents. The sunshine cut through the foliage at
the side of the road and still he was passing lines of green postboxes for
outlying properties, or crossroads where the track split and a tractor's tyre
marks or cattle trails led into the wild. Frank never remembered where he
should stop; he wouldn't remember until he saw Gunnarstranda's red Bцlanz
ride-on mower. If he could locate the mower he would have his bearings again.
It was always like this, and every time he thought the way seemed longer than
on the previous journey. He passed a small farmyard where graceful horses with
shiny coats were strutting around a well-trodden paddock. He passed another farmyard
where more graceful horses jerked nervously as the car went by. He drove past
cabins with barred windows, past cabins with colourful postboxes, but he didn't
slow down until he spotted a green rubbish skip for cabin owners. Five hundred
metres up the mountainside he saw Gunnarstranda's mower parked
higgledy-piggledy under some pine trees. He parked beside the mower, opened the
boot and took out a sleeping bag, a parcel of meat for the barbecue, a six-pack
and a bottle of Ballantine's whisky. He locked the car and ambled down the
narrow path between the trees leading to Gunnarstranda's holy of holies: the
cabin he called the Palace.

    He
found his boss on the veranda. In a track suit. He looked like he had been
rolled in dough, but the baking operation had been abandoned. On a chair sat
something white with a head protruding from the top, two arms at the side and
two clumpy, almost unused trainers resting on the balustrade. The man's fingers
were rolling a supply of cigarettes.

    Frølich
started by delivering his report on Henning Kramer's brother. 'The brother's
the one who owns the car - the Audi. Henning was allowed to make use of the car
when his brother wasn't there. His brother had been away for ten days; he says
Henning was living with his mother, but he kept an eye on the brother's flat,
too. He may have slept there - on the odd occasion. They had no special
agreement this time, except that Henning was to pop by and water a few plants.
That cactus, among others.'

    Gunnarstranda
lowered his feet, stood up and threw more charcoal on the brick grill in the
corner where the fire was blazing with dry, cracking noises.

    'Get
some glasses,' he said and started unpacking the marinated meat from the
carrier bags.

    Frølich
went in through the broad glass doors straight to a shelving system that
separated the sitting room from the kitchen. Here he found two large beer
tankards which he took outside.

    'I've
made some salad,' Gunnarstranda mumbled and gave a nod of acknowledgement as Frølich
poured beer into the glasses.

    'The
brother says Henning often used his flat. He also says he spoke to Henning on
the phone. Henning rang him on Thursday.'

    'What
time of day was that?' Gunnarstranda asked.

    'Eight
o'clock in the evening, Norwegian time, and as it was Henning who called, the
brother sees that as evidence that he was making sure he wouldn't be disturbed
while he hung himself.'

    'How
so?'

    'First
of all, because it was three in the morning - in the Philippines. Henning
respected his brother and would never have rung him unless it was for something
special - his brother thinks. The conversation boiled down to a question about
when the brother was coming home. Henning had never called his brother when he
was abroad before.'

    'Thursday
evening. Wonder what I was doing then,' the police inspector mumbled to
himself.

    'I
was in the cinema anyway,' Frølich said.

    'You
waste your time going to the cinema, do you?'

    'I
wasn't alone. I had a lady with me. Besides it was one of the most violent
films I've ever seen. It was the film that Katrine Bratterud saw the evening
before she was bumped off,
The Matrix.
By the way, one of the characters
had the same beard as Kramer. In fact, he looked very much like him.'

    'You
don't say. Was he a hero or a villain?'

    'Villain,'
Frølich said with a grin.

    'What
did they talk about?'

    'Who?'

    'Henning
and his brother.'

    'Life,
the meaning of life, whether things were predetermined or you had control over
your own life… destiny.'

    'That
doesn't have to be depressing,' Gunnarstranda said. 'You can do that with a
sense of wonder.'

    'In
that case he could have waited until his brother came home.'

    'He
may have had other motives for ringing. He may have been trying to articulate
something - after all, the man did have a philosophical bent.'

    'But
if he takes his own life afterwards…'

    'We
don't know that he took his own life,' Gunnarstranda interrupted. 'Have you
never wondered who you are and where you come from?'

    'It's
pretty obvious…'

    'I
mean, seeing yourself as a mortal and wondering what the meaning of life is,
whether there is a purpose.'

    Frølich
smirked into his beard, but stopped the moment he felt he was being observed.
He shrugged. 'Not that often.'

    The
older policeman regarded Frølich with irritation. 'Sooner or later you
will. Everyone does. Perhaps Kramer was just quick off the mark. Did his
brother have any idea where Henning might have concealed a letter?'