The Last Fix (18 page)

    'Kramer
must be dealing from a straight deck,' Gunnarstranda continued, without showing
any mercy. 'Because he admitted having had intercourse with her. Admitting
intercourse with a rape victim is a logical strategy for an assailant if, but,
only if, the parties are due to meet in court. Then the question of guilt is
decided on the credibility of the parties involved. But here there is a
difference, and that is that Katrine is dead. If the motive for the killing of
Katrine Bratterud was to conceal a rape, with the intention of silencing the
victim, why would he admit intercourse afterwards? That's the same as putting
your head on the block, isn't it!'

    'So
you don't think Kramer killed her?'

    'I
didn't say that. But if he did kill her, he must have had other motives than
wanting to conceal a rape.'

    Frølich
sighed.

    Gunnarstranda
continued. 'It would be totally illogical of him to admit to sex with Katrine
if he had killed her to cover up a rape.'

    'So
we don't arrest him,' Frølich said.

    'What
do we know so far?' Gunnarstranda asked with a show of impatience.

    'We
know she was alive at three o'clock in the morning.'

    'If
Kramer is telling the truth.'

    Frølich
nodded. 'If he's telling the truth, she was alive at three in the morning. We
have to assume she was killed soon thereafter because she was found five to six
hundred metres from where she was last seen by Kramer.'

    'But
she wasn't killed where she was found,' Gunnarstranda said. 'She was moved.'

    'So
it might have been a random encounter,' Frølich said. 'Any nutter might
have bumped into her. In the tunnel, for example, which she had to walk through
to reach her boyfriend's flat. Anyone could have picked her up, dragged her off
somewhere and strangled her.'

    'But
there has to be a crime scene.'

    'So
we ought to look for the place where she was murdered?'

    'Of
course. We have to check all the places Kramer mentions in his statement, walk
the route she is supposed to have taken to Holmlia and comb these areas for a
crime scene. We also have to check Kramer's story and try to find witnesses to
confirm what he has said. However, we also know that a group of guests left the
party at more or less the same time as Katrine. We also know that a car
followed Kramer and Katrine to Ingierstrand - is that not correct?'

    'He
didn't think anyone was following him.'

    'But
someone might have been. Let's say that someone was following him. The two of
them in the car may not have seen the car until it drove into the car park in
Ingierstrand.'

    'Isn't
that a bit far-fetched?'

    'I
don't care whether it is far-fetched or not; the point is that it is feasible,'
snapped Gunnarstranda. 'Someone might have been following them. Or,' he
continued, 'someone in this car in Ingierstrand can confirm what Kramer says.
My personal opinion is that the attacker is a stranger. Someone who is turned
on by this girl walking alone in the middle of the night.'

    'We
also have the guy who went for her at her workplace,' Frølich said in a
low mumble. 'That is a specific violent incident. We have to find out what
happened and hope that madam in there,' he nodded in the direction of the
closed door, 'recognizes one of the faces.'

    The
police inspector nodded. 'If this man had a score to settle he might have
followed Kramer and her in his car. He might have spied on her all day, all
evening and all night and struck when she was alone.'

    'But
then you're presupposing that they were followed?'

    'Let's
find out. Put out a search for the car that drove into the car park in
Ingierstrand. The best would be if it turned out that it was driven by lovers
who didn't want to waste a summer night sleeping.'

    'Three
lines of enquiry,' Gunnarstranda concluded at last. 'It could have been a
stranger who assaulted Katrine as she was walking on her own to Ole Eidesen's
flat. It could have been someone who knew her: to whit, the man in the travel
agency and others - for example at the party…'

    'And
the third?'

    'Henning
Kramer. He could have killed her.'

    'I
thought you just rejected that possibility.'

    'Wrong.
I said he can't have done it to cover up a rape. That's quite different. We
have only his word for what happened between midnight and three o'clock in the
morning.'

    'What
do we think about the murder victim's secret? Is that worth following up?' Frølich
wondered.

    'Not
a lot to get our teeth into there, but I suppose there's nothing wrong with
asking people.'

    Gunnarstranda
nodded. 'Make time in your programme to check out Kramer's statement - try Aker
Brygge and Oslo Taxis. Dig up as much dirt as you can.'

    Katrine
Bratterud's flat was small but very appealing with bright wallpaper on the
walls. The main furniture in the living room was a sofa bed, a TV and a desk.
In front of the window there was a flower rack with three levels - a kind of
pedestal on which some house plants had been arranged in a very refined way.
There was a strawberry begonia, a large aloe vera and a very vigorous hoya that
had coiled itself around the wooden frame and formed an impenetrable tangle.
Gunnarstranda stuck a finger in the soil in the pot. It was dry, but it hadn't
dried out.

    He
went over to the desk. There was a pencil case on top. Beside it a little
wooden box. He raised the lid. Inside there were coins, badges, a few hairpins,
a tampon in plastic packaging, a couple of lighters, buttons and other odds and
ends. He replaced the lid.

    Gunnarstranda
opened the bedroom door. A broad double bed took up most of the floor space. It
wasn't made. Two duvets lay entwined. The bed sheets were rumpled. A yellow
bath towel lay strewn across the bed.

    He
opened the wardrobe. The clothes inside were hung in order. He closed the
wardrobe and turned to the dresser under the window. There was a can of
hairspray on the dresser. It stood on top of a small white cloth in which her
name, Katrine, had been embroidered in red cross-stitch.

    He
breathed in before opening the top drawer. It was crammed full with lacy things
for women - bras and panties. The next drawer was the same. On the left of the
bed there was an old bedside table made of high-quality wood. The top was dusty.
On it was a novel.
The God of Small Things
by Arundhati Roy. The novel
lay on top of a magazine.
Tique.

    Gunnarstranda
opened the bedside-table drawer. A pen rolled around inside. It was a shiny
silver Parker. Under it an exercise book. Gunnarstranda took it out. It was an
A4 format notebook. He opened it. There were pages of neat looped handwriting
in blue ink. He read.

    
I
drove down a straight road with green trees on both sides. Now and then I
passed huge fields of yellow sunflowers nodding their heads to greet the sun.
The road stretched on into eternity. But the car went slower and slower. It was
running out of petrol. I didn't want the car to stop. I wanted to keep going,
to be moving. However, in the end the car stopped all the same. I felt heavy,
as always when things go wrong. I looked around. The car had stopped at a
crossroads outside a wooden shed. It looked like some sort of garage; it was
abandoned with smashed window panes and a crooked roof that someone had tried
to repair with multi-coloured corrugated iron and faded green pieces of
plastic. Beside the shed stood an abandoned car. It was an elegant red sports
car, a Porsche. The contrast between the stylish red car and the derelict shed
was beautiful, almost a pleasure to see. My gaze wandered to and fro between
the shed and the car. It was as though I had to convince myself it was the
contrast I wanted to see, not just the car. Yellow cornfields with the green
marble effect of as yet unripe corn stretched along both sides of the road.
Dark green spruce trees formed a threshold to the forest beyond and enclosed
the field in the distance. Behind the field the mountains towered up towards
the sky. On the road to the right a cloud of dust rose behind a car. The car
created movement in a painting of a blue sky, white cauliflower clouds, looming
mountains and the delicate colours of the terrain. I turned up the volume of
the radio and lit a cigarette, not because I felt like one but because the
sight of a woman smoking in a car with the music pounding through the speakers
made me part of the picture. It was confirmation that I existed.

    
Bjørn
Skifs was singing 'Hooked on a Feeling'. The car coming closer was a rusty,
beat-up Opel, an old model. The car didn't slow down for the crossing. It
smashed into the side of the sports car, knocking the door into the passenger
compartment and pushing the light Porsche across both carriageways and into the
ditch. On the radio a male voice choir sang 'oggashakka oggashakka' and the
driver of the Opel seemed to have his mind set on escape. The rear wheels were
spinning, sending up a cloud of grit and road dust into the air. Then the car
jumped backwards as it freed itself from the Porsche. Another cloud rose as it
came to a halt The red Opel shot forward and rammed the side of the Porsche for
the second time, like an angry billy-goat. The sound of splintering glass was
like a tiny rustle of paper against the roar of the music through the speakers.
The Porsche rocked; it took the blow like a severely wounded stag. For a few
seconds the music was all there was to hear, until the sound of a screaming
starter motor rent the air. The Opel started up again. The same thing was
repeated.

    
Another
crash. The Porsche was rocked again by the bang and slipped further into the
ditch. At some expense to the Opel. It was stuck too. I switched off the radio.
The silence was deafening. I crushed my cigarette in the ashtray and looked at
the weird sculpture of two entangled cars as a transparent, sun-glittering
cloud of dust fell to earth and cleared the air. The derelict shed was
unchanged. The corn swayed in the light breeze and there was not a sign of life
anywhere.

    
Suddenly
the Opel moved. The window was rolled down on the driver's side. Something was
thrown out and fell to the ground. It looked like two crutches. I opened the
car door, put one foot on the ground and straightened my skirt. It was cooler
outside than I had expected. The light wind was chilly. The gravel on the road
cut into my bare feet. I stopped, unsure of myself. Then a foot appeared out of
the Opel window. A black shoe, a leg. The leg with the shoe fell on to the
ground with a thud. Another foot appeared in the car window. Another leg with a
black shoe fell to the ground. The next thing to be seen in the window was a
man's bald head. The man had a wreath of curly hair over his ears and wore
glasses. After the head came his upper torso. Finally, the man tumbled to the
ground head first. I closed my eyes because I didn't want to see him break his
neck and die. On opening my eyes I saw him roll around and then lie still. But
he was not dead. He soon crawled into a sitting position and wiped his face
with both hands. The man had no feet and no legs. His legs had been amputated,
and his thighs were two short stumps under loose trouser material. 'Can I
help?' I asked, feeling stupid. The man didn't seem to hear me. He rolled up
his trousers and attached the two prostheses lying on the ground. I went
closer. I froze. 'Can I help you up?' I repeated and heard my voice crack.

    
The
sight of my shadow made the man stop and look up. He was bleeding from the
mouth and nose. 'I can't hear you,' he muttered and patted his ears. 'I think
I've gone bloody deaf'

    
I
picked up the crutches and passed them to him. The look he gave me was one of
surprise. He tried to stand up, but toppled over. I didn't know what to do,
except to grab his arm. By supporting himself on the crutches as I lifted he
managed to stand up. 'Thank you,' he mumbled and hobbled off. Soon he was gone.
He looked like a clown swinging on a trapeze in a rat's cage. Click, clack,
click clack.

    
I
walked back to my car and got in. The hobbling figure was approaching the
forest at the margins of the picture. I felt cold and lonely. The cripple hobbling
away on his crutches became smaller and smaller. He didn't look back once
.

    Gunnarstranda
lowered the notebook and looked up, deep in thought. He discovered that he was
sitting on her bed. He hadn't noticed that he had sat down. On her bed. A long,
blonde woman's hair lay looped on the sheet. He jerked around sensing that
someone was looking over his shoulder. But no one was there. He sighed and
flicked through the rest of the notebook. It was filled with writing. The same
neat, light-blue handwriting, page after page. Just the last four or five
sheets were blank. The policeman closed the notebook and put it back in the
drawer. Then he stood up and slowly made his way back to the living room. He
stopped at the front door and looked back at the attractive flat that had once
belonged to Katrine Bratterud. Leaving the place felt different from entering
it. It felt quite different. Closing the door and locking it, he wondered
whether it had been a stupid idea to undertake this visit. I don't know, he
said to himself. I don't know.