The Last Fix (9 page)

    The
young man on the telephone apologized and put down the receiver.

    'Annabeth
s,' Gunnarstranda said with an irritated glance at Frølich, who was
still drying his beard with a handkerchief.

    A
tall woman wearing a wide tartan skirt appeared from behind a partition. She
proffered her hand to Frølich. 'Gunnarstranda?'

    'Frank
Frølich,' he said, lightly squeezing her hand.

    The
boxer stood up too, stretched and gave a cavernous yawn before padding over to
the three of them, looking up with anticipation.

    'Then
you must be Gunnarstranda,' said Annabeth s,
proffering her hand. The
policeman shook hands. 'Process of elimination,' she said with a nervous smile.
She had rather short, spiky, brown hair and a lined face, but her smile was
friendly, though rehearsed, and her teeth were long and discoloured by
nicotine. The yellow fingertips also revealed a heavy smoker.

    The
two policemen were silent.

    'Well,'
she said with a questioning look at Gunnarstranda. 'Should we go into the
office perhaps?'

    'We
would like you to come with us,' Frølich said, clearing his throat. 'We
would like you to help us.'

    'What
with?' asked Annabeth, alarmed.

    'We
need you to identify who it is we're dealing with,' Frølich said, and
added: 'The deceased…'

    'Hm…'
Annabeth hesitated. 'You mean to look… at… her?'

    Frølich
nodded.

    'I
had been hoping I wouldn't have to.' Annabeth s sent a quick glance at the man
with the goatee. The latter returned a stiff glare, then lowered his eyes and
concentrated on the papers on the desk in front of him.

    'But
I suppose it is best if I do it,' Annabeth concluded, stroking her chin
thoughtfully. 'Give me a couple of minutes,' she said, disappearing behind the
partition again.

    The
two men left. The sun was strong and Gunnarstranda produced a pair of
supplementary sunshades from a case he kept in his inside pocket. They clipped
on to his glasses. 'Trouble in paradise,' he muttered. Through the glass doors
they could see Annabeth s and the man with the goatee in lively discussion. The
latter was gesticulating. Both stopped the moment they discovered they were
being observed. The policemen exchanged looks and ambled back the way they had
come.

    'What
did you do in the end?' Gunnarstranda asked standing by the parked car.

    'Eh?'

    'What
did you do with the kittens?'

    'Oh,
them…' Frølich said, lost in thought. He was searching through his
jacket pockets for a pair of designer reflector sunglasses. He put them on,
checked the reflection in the side window of the car and pulled a face. 'The
kittens? They're dead. Eva-Britt got fed up with them, so I shot them.'

    Gunnarstranda
had time to light the old roll-up and take five long drags before Annabeth came
walking between the trees. There was something rustic about the way she walked,
the long dress and the flat shoes, plus the way she stepped out, with such
energy. Even her short hair bounced in rhythm. On her back she was carrying a
small, green rucksack. She shouted to the youths by the tractor and waved her
arms. She was wearing a shawl over her shoulders, tartan too; she gave the impression
of being the arts and crafts type. Gunnarstranda held the rear door of the car
open for her.

    'My
God,' she said. 'The back seat. Like a criminal.' But she got in, a little more
reserved, and waved to the tomato-thrower who was back by the greenhouse door
now.

    'She
just hit me in the face with a tomato,' Frølich conversed cheerfully as
he turned out of the car park.

    'I
beg your pardon?' Annabeth said with deliberate hauteur. 'My dear man, I hope
you weren't hurt.'

    Frølich
observed her in the rear-view mirror and looked across at Gunnarstranda, who
had half-turned in his seat to say: 'There was something else I was wondering
about. This young man in the office, is he a patient or an employee?'

    'He's
doing social work for his military service, so in a way he's an employee.'

    'What's
his name?'

    'Henning
Kramer.'

    'And
the missing girl. Why do you think her parents have not reported her missing?'

    'Our
patients very often do not have much contact with their parents. Or they come
from other parts of the country.'

    'And?'

    Annabeth
wound her arms round her rucksack. 'Isn't that answer good enough?'

    'I
mean in this case. What happened in this case?'

    'Gunnarstranda,'
said Annabeth, leaning forward. 'We in social welfare are very well versed in
matters concerning professional oaths of client confidentiality.'

    Frølich
searched the rear-view mirror for her face. His sunglasses straddled his nose
like a hair slide. You could see he disapproved of the woman's answer by the
way he examined the mirror. 'This is a murder investigation,' he emphasized.

    Annabeth
s cleared her throat. 'And I am entitled to exercise my discretion,' she said
coldly. She cleared her throat again. 'What's going to happen now?'

    'We
would like you to come with us to the Institute of Forensic Medicine,'
Gunnarstranda said. 'There we would like you to answer yes or no to one
question.'

    'And
what is the question?'

    'Is
the body you see in front of you that of the girl you reported missing, Katrine
Bratterud?'

    'Yes,'
said Annabeth s. She looked away as Gunnarstranda pulled the cloth up over the
face of the dead girl. 'That's her. The air in here's making me feel sick. Can
we go out?'

    Outside
on the grass they found a bench, one of the solid kind, a combination of a seat
and a table that you find in lay-bys in Norway. Annabeth slumped down without
removing her rucksack. She breathed in and stared into space, her eyes
glistening. 'That was that,' she said. 'Almost three years fighting for her
life, all for nothing.'

    They
sat in silence listening to the cars rushing past some distance away from them.
An acquaintance strolled by and waved to the two policemen.

    'Do
you know what it costs to rehabilitate a drug addict?'

    The
woman's question was a reaction; the two men both understood that she was not
interested in an answer.

    'My
God,' Annabeth repeated. 'What a waste, what a dreadful waste!'

    The
following silence lasted until Gunnarstranda prompted her: 'What is a waste, fru
Ås?'

    Annabeth
straightened up. She was on the point of speaking, then paused and instead
dried her eyes with the back of her hand.

    'Tell
us about the three years,' Frølich interjected. 'When did you first meet
Katrine?'

    Annabeth
sat thinking for a while.

    'Why
do you think…?' she began at length. 'Was it assault? Rape?'

    'When
did you first meet Katrine?' Frølich repeated patiently.

    Annabeth
sighed. 'It was a few years back. It was in… 1996. She came to us
of her own
unfree will,
as we are wont to say, referred to us by Social Services. She
wavered for a bit, by which I mean she absconded several times. They often do.
But then up we went into the mountains to see how invigorating life can be
without any artificial stimulants. She became more motivated, agreed to
treatment and followed a three-year course. We divided it up into stages - she
was in phase four - and would have been discharged in the summer. She took
advanced school-leaving examinations while she was with us and finished last
year. Brilliant exam results. God, she was so intelligent, so smart,
lightning-quick at picking things up. She got three damned As. She rang me up.
Annabeth, Annabeth,
she screamed down the phone.
I got As.
She was
ecstatic, so happy…'

    Annabeth
was becoming emotional and stood up. 'Excuse me… I'm just so upset.'

    Gunnarstranda
looked up at her. 'I suppose that patients do sometimes die,' he commented.

    'What?'

    'Don't
drug addicts sometimes die?'

    Annabeth
stared at him, speechless. Her mouth opened and shut in slow motion.

    'And
after school,' Frølich interrupted in a composed voice. 'What did she do
then?'

    Annabeth
glowered at Gunnarstranda, closed her eyes and sat down again. 'She got a job
in no time at all,' she said. 'Well, I think she should have aimed higher,
started at university, taken an honours course. She could have done political
science. She could have become a journalist. With her looks she could have
walked into any job she wanted. My God, she had so many options!'

    'But
where did she get a job?'

    'In a
travel agency. I can give you the phone number. Such a ridiculous young girl's
dream. That's such a bitter thought, too. Here we have this delicate soul who I
assume - I say assume because it was impossible to get anything out of her, as
is so often the case - and this poor soul goes and gets abused by some man or
other while still a child. Please don't misunderstand me. There are some drug
addicts who just want their kicks in everyday life. I mean, some patients can't
seem to live intensely enough in the world we call normal. But…'

    '…
but Katrine wasn't the type?' Frølich suggested.

    'Katrine
was so full of… what should I say?… she was so vulnerable. And girls like her
often start taking drugs at the age of twelve, with hash anyway. Start smoking
reefers, as they call them, then it's glue-sniffing and alcohol and the first
fix when they're fifteen. Then they drop out of school. It's the usual story:
leave school, leave home, then start picking up punters on the streets. These
poor young people have no childhood. They don't have the ballast that you and
I…'

    She
paused for a few seconds while Gunnarstranda, still thinking, sprang up and
placed one foot on the seat to roll himself a cigarette.

    'Go
on,' Frølich said in a friendly voice.

    'Where
was I?' she asked, disorientated.

    'You
were talking about drug addicts who lose their childhood.'

    'Ah,
yes. And what do you do when you haven't had a childhood? You catch up of
course. That was what was so bad about Katrine. Good-looking girl, attractive
figure, intelligent, quick. But just a child, just a child… what was your name
again?'

    'Frølich.'

    'A
child, Frølich. This child in a woman's body could sit down and stuff
herself with sweets - watch cartoons, read rubbishy romantic magazines like a
twelve-year-old girl - with stories about princes who ride away with Cinderella
into the sunset - blow out candles on her birthday, wear a crown on her head -
she always wore a crown on her birthday. She loved it. Writing her boyfriend's
name on her hand. Spur of the moment wheezes like having a bread-eating
competition or making paper boats. She revelled in these things.

    'It's
often like that. Young girls in women's bodies, experienced in life and so
driven that they can wriggle their way like eels around men and authorities.
This dual nature is perhaps the biggest problem of all. Women like this can
seem like wounded animals grabbing whatever they need at any particular moment,
without any scruples, while still being children with dreams of the bold brave
prince who will ride away with them, take them on trips around the world.
Katrine was no exception. Imagine, with all the talent she had, she preferred
to sit at a computer in a travel agency! What about that? A travel agency!'

    Frølich
nodded his head gravely and watched Gunnarstranda flick a strand of tobacco off
his lower lip while staring into space. A magpie stalked across the grass
behind him with purposeful intent. The bird was like a priest, thought Frølich,
a stooped priest, dressed in black with a white collar, his hands behind his
back. In fact, the two of them, the magpie and the vain policeman, were very
similar.

    'You
said she wrote her boyfriend's name on her hand. Did she have a boyfriend
before she died?' Frølich asked.