Themoment the word was spoken the telephone rang.
Gunnarstrandachecked his watch and met Kalfatrus's eyes. 'I don't think we'll be seeing eachother so often in the future,' he said to the goldfish and turned towards thetelephone. He padded across. 'It's Sunday morning,' he continued. 'I haven'tshaved, and, in fact, I had a few plans for today. If the phone rings atmoments like these it can mean only one thing.'
Heplaced a hand on the telephone, which continued to ring furiously. The two ofthem looked at each other across the room for two brief seconds. A policemanand a goldfish exchanging glances. Inspector Gunnarstranda cleared his voice,snatched at the receiver and barked: 'Please be brief.'
Chapter Six
Neitherof them had much appetite after the autopsy. They stood outside in the carpark, gazing pensively into the air. It had stopped raining, Frank Frølichconfirmed. The wind was making the trees sway and dispersing the clouds; thehot sun was beginning to dry the tarmac. He considered what they had found outand wondered how to tackle the case, or to be more precise: how Gunnarstrandathought the case should be tackled. In the end, the latter broke the silence:'Did you see the news last night?'
'Missedit,' answered Frank Frølich.
'Quitea big deal. Pictures of a helicopter and the whole shebang. But they had apretty good portrait, a facial composite. I suppose that gave them the lead.'
'Sure,'Frølich said, uninterested. The problem was matching them, matching thelifeless flesh on the table with a name, with a living woman. 'Katrine,' hesaid with a cough. 'Wasn't that the name?'
Gunnarstrandarepeated the name as though tasting it on his tongue. 'Lots of women calledKatrine Bratterud. Unusual tattoo on the stomach, so it looks as if we've gotsomething to go on. But having something to go on is not enough.' Gunnarstrandastudied his notes and pointed to the car. 'To Sørkedalen.'
Theydrove in silence with Frølich behind the wheel. Gunnarstranda satcrouched in the front seat with his light summer coat pulled tight around him,mute. Frølich was still searching for music he liked on the radio. Everytime the voices in the speakers turned out to be commercials he changedchannel. He kept clicking until he found music he liked. Gunnarstranda lookeddown with annoyance at the finger pressing the search button. He said: 'I'veheard that voice three times now. If you click on that station again, I'm goingto demand to know what she's talking about.'
Frølichdidn't answer. There was no point. He continued to search until the husky voiceof Tom Waits emerged through the speakers.
Theypassed Vestre cemetery and drove from Smestad up Sorkedalsveien pastcamouflaged houses and protected conservation areas. For a while they weredriving side by side with a train on the Шsterеs Metro line. Two small childrenin the front carriage were banging their hands on the window and waving tothem. The radio was playing quiet blues music as they passed Roa; they went onto Sørkedalen through a June-green cornfield caressed by the gentlebreeze and glistening like velvet in the sun. Frølich switched off theradio when the commercials returned. 'This is Oslo,' he said, opening his palmswith passion. 'Five minutes by car and you're in the country.' The road had afew tight bends, and on reaching the top of the hill, they could see blue waterbetween two green mountain tops, large-crowned deciduous trees growing along awinding, invisible stream and in the background the fringe of the massiveOslomarka forest. Frølich slowed down. 'Should be somewhere round here,'he mumbled, hunched over the steering wheel.
'Thewhite arrow over there,' Gunnarstranda said.
Thearrow was a sign pointing to Vinterhagen. Frølich turned into a gravelcar park. There were big holes in the gravel after the heavy torrents of rain.The car bumped along and pulled up in front of a green thicket. They got out.The air was fresh and a little chilly. The holes in the gravel were still fullof rainwater. Frølich peered up. The sky seemed unsettled. Right now thesun was shining and was very hot, but all around clouds were gathering for whatmight be a sudden downpour, perhaps accompanied by thunder. Frølichstood next to the car for a moment before taking off his jacket and hanging itcasually over his shoulder. They walked down a narrow pathway with agreyish-black covering of compressed quarry aggregate and past a greenhousewith a door open at one end. Someone had painted Vinterhagen on theglass in big, fuzzy, yellow letters. A woman in her mid-twenties, wearingshorts and a T-shirt, watched them through bored eyes.
'Isuppose this must have been a folk high school at one time,' said Frølichas they strolled between a large, yellow building and a piece of ground thathad been cleared for an allotment. There were attractive vegetable patches withtidy rows of new shoots.
'Idyllic,'intoned Gunnarstranda, looking around. 'Idyllic.'
'Andthis looks like an accommodation building,' Frølich said with whatseemed to be genuine interest, causing his partner to frown with suspicion.Climbing roses attached to a trellis ran along the wall. Frank pointed to anofficial-looking redbrick house. 'I suppose the offices must be over there.'They walked on towards a group of young people standing around an old, redtractor. 'A red devil,' Frølich exclaimed with enthusiasm. 'An oldMassey-Ferguson.' At that moment something soft smacked on to the ground. Theystopped. Then another tomato spattered against one of the windows in the yellowbuilding, right behind them. The tomato disintegrated, leaving behind a wet,reddish stain on the dark glass. Frølich ducked, but not quite fastenough to avoid being hit in the face.
InspectorGunnarstranda turned and regarded the woman who had been following them fromthe greenhouse. She had another tomato at the ready. When Frølichstarted running towards her, she dropped the tomatoes she was holding andsprinted like a gazelle across the vegetable plot and jumped with consummateease over a fence. Frølich lumbered like a wounded ox. His massive uppertorso rocked from side to side and the flab bounced up and down. His whiteshirt detached itself from his trousers and his tie fluttered over hisshoulder. After a few metres he came to a halt, gasping for breath.
Ahint of a smile could just be discerned around Gunnarstranda's thin lips. Thecrew around the tractor were roaring with laughter. Frølich waved hisfist after the receding tomato-thrower, turned and plodded back, rummagingthrough his pockets for a handkerchief. 'Now and again I ask myself whetherwe're in a real profession,' he sighed, wiping tomato juice off his hair andbeard.
'Whatwould you have done if you had caught her?'
Frølichglanced at his boss, but didn't reply.
Gunnarstrandapatted the corner of his mouth. 'Here,' he said. 'Tomato seeds.' Frølichwiped his mouth and glared at the youths by the tractor who were still amusedby the incident. 'I don't understand them,' he said. 'Why does anyone who hasbeen on drugs hate the police so much?'
'Perhapsbecause the police have a tendency to run after them,' suggested Gunnarstrandasuccinctly.
'Reflexaction,' Frølich said.
'Yourun, they flee. The game is that stupid. Look at them.' Gunnarstranda pointedat the group around the tractor. They were making pig-like snorting noises. Hetook a roll-up out of his pouch, lit it and headed for the office building withFrølich trailing after him. Frølich shook his jacket which hadfallen on the ground. They stopped when Gunnarstranda had a coughing fit.
Frølichlooked back at the kids around the tractor.
'Theyremind me of the time when Eva-Britt had two kittens. She had been given themby a farmer who brought them in a wicker basket. But they had had very littlecontact with people and had gone feral. They hid under the sofa in her livingroom, came out some time during the night, ate the food she had put out andshat and pissed all over the furniture. I was staying there and went to pickone up. Christ, that cat was wild. It clawed my hand and tore my shirt.'