FrankFrølich found a gap between two cars and parked the police vehicle a fewmetres away from the drive to the block of flats in Havreveien. Standing alonein the slow lift up to the third floor, he was still wondering about thetattoos. Ragnar Travis considered tattoos attractive. But as for me,
Frankthought, I could never look at a tattoo and see only that. After all, a tattoois part of the body on which it is tattooed. Thus, Frank had to conclude, heregarded the body as part of the very decoration. Any body art that cannot beremoved becomes part of the person. Or the person becomes part of the tattoo.And in that case the motif is pretty important, he thought. Thank Godshe hadn't chosen something banal like a cat or… Katrine Bratterud had hada kind of flower pattern with lots of flourishes tattooed around her navel.Irrespective of whatever stories Annabeth s and any of the others served up tohim Katrine would stand out as the woman with the embellished abdomen – a deadbody with a painting on her stomach; this painting would stand out and be aninseparable dimension of Katrine B whenever he thought about her as a livingperson. But that's my problem, he thought. I see Katrine's decision to adornher stomach as one of her dominant traits, and that's where my assessment ofher breaks down, he thought, opening the lift door to his floor. Because thiswas not just any flower. It was a lush, ornate flower – with two narrow butequally luxuriant petals licking their way down to her groin. Odd, he continuedto think, that my mind is on the tattoo rather than all of the other stuff: thedrug addiction, her childhood…
Frank'sshoulders sank as he stopped in front of his own door. It was open. He knewwhat that meant. From inside he could hear the sound of the vacuum cleaner.This was the last thing he had wanted today. The day had been too long, therehad been too much hassle and there had been too little food for that. He stoodin front of the door for a few seconds thinking. He could cut matters short,flee into town, have a beer first and then work on the theory that she wouldhave left after a couple of hours. No. Not now, not when Gunnarstranda couldring up any moment to discuss details. He pushed the door open and stepped overthe yellow vacuum cleaner blocking the way.
Shestood in her usual energetic pose, shouted a brief greeting over the noise butmade no move to switch off the machine. 'There's food on the kitchen table,'she yelled.
Frank'smother had two children she looked after very well. For Frank's sister thissacrifice was a welcome relief. Two small children and a husband doing shiftwork meant that you appreciate a helping hand. It was different for Frank. Hewas annoyed by her reproaches regarding the mess in the flat and the beerbottles in the fridge, and her fussing.
So heflipped off his shoes and walked into the sitting room without paying anyattention to her remark about the untidy shoelaces. The TV was switched on, butthere was no sound. Floyd, the English celebrity cook, was cutting ginger intolong strips and throwing them into a casserole before focusing his attention ona bottle of wine.
Frølichslumped listlessly on to the sofa, put his legs up and rested them on the tablethat was not in fact a table – it was an old sea chest made of unplaned wood -but a multi-purpose piece of furniture: footstool, table and a perch for handyobjects like a remote control and a mobile telephone.
Helooked at the TV screen. Floyd, with his red- wine nose and red-wine smile,smelled the casserole and then straightened up, poured red wine into a glassand knocked it back in one almighty swig. Frank raised the remote control andswitched off the television.
I mayhave seen Katrine in town, he mused. I might have turned my head for a secondlook… thought that she… or stolen a glance on the tram, noticed her profilewhen she was sitting with her nose in a magazine or a newspaper…
Hisline of thought was broken when the hall door was opened with a bang. Vacuumcleaner first, Mum next. That was how she was. Unstoppable, like the dentist'sdrill in Karius and Baktus.
'Takeit easy!' he growled in a fit of irritation. But she ignored him as always andpersevered with clenched teeth. The mouthpiece of the vacuum cleaner wasalready under the TV.
'Careful,'he shouted.
'Eh?'
Mumpushed the mouthpiece between the cables, the DVD player and the TV.
'Don'ttouch anything!' he roared, jumping up and over to the yellow vacuum cleanerand pressing the off button. The motor died with a slow whine. His motherstraightened up and put her hands on her hips. She said nothing; she stoodthere with her stomach jutting forward, a pose which expunged all opposition.
'Ican manage this myself.' he ventured – in a meek voice. 'Christ, I've got myloose hackle flies here.' He pointed to the feathered trout flies on one cornerof the table. 'The bloody vacuum cleaner might have sucked up my flies.'
Shesent him a stern look.
'I'mtrying to think,' he ventured, in an even meeker voice.
'Sothink somewhere else!' Stomach first – out you go. 'Now I'm here, I'm going tohelp. Go into the kitchen and get some food down you.'
Hewas beaten; he padded out of the room, closed the kitchen door and sat by thewindow looking out on to Europaveien – E6 – and stared down at the queue ofcars crawling its way past.
Acorpse. A woman's dead body, with no clothes on, no jewellery, nothing. Justthe eye-catching tattoo around her navel. Until the pathologist had cut openher stomach and folded the skin neatly to the sides.
Butit wasn't her lying on the table. It was something else. It wasn't herthoughts, her terror as she felt the cord around her neck tighten – until sheblacked out. It's the other her we have to deal with, he thought, and visualizedthe dead body someone had tossed away – tossed away like a used item, like somuch rubbish, like an empty shell. The lack of respect appalled him. Of all theacts the unknown perpetrator had committed against this poor woman, none was asgrotesque as tossing her away, leaving her to lie there without dignity.
I'mbecoming soft, he said to himself. Tonight I'm going to sleep badly; I'm goingto think about her.
Frankchewed at a piece of bread covered with salami and a thick layer of prawnsalad. Then he got to his feet and opened the fridge. He took out a litre ofmilk, checked the date, ripped open the top and quenched his thirst from thecarton.
Atlast there was silence in the sitting room. He could hear her reassembling thevacuum cleaner in the cupboard in the hall. 'No wonder you're not married,' sheshouted to him. 'The way this place looks!'
Hefound some cups and poured coffee that she had brewed in the machine. Heobserved the polished sheen of the kitchen window. At once he regretted hisrecent aggressive tone. 'Thank you,' he whispered, somewhat ashamed, as she satdown at the kitchen table. 'I'll drive you home afterwards.'
'Youwon't ever get me on your motorbike again,' she swore and stood up to find somesugar cubes. Frank smiled at the memory of the time she had sat in the sidecargoing down Ringveien. Mum holding on to her hat while being thrown around likea nut in a shell.
'I'vegot a car,' he assured her.
Sheshook her head. 'Then I'd rather take the
Metro.'She smacked her lips as she chewed the sugar cube and took a mouthful ofcoffee. 'No one in the street is going to be able to say I was driven home in apolice car!'
Frankcut himself another slice of bread. 'It's a civilian car,' he said. 'No policesign or anything.'