The Last Fix (43 page)

    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 wedding. 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.'

    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.