'Ohyes,' she said, indifferent. 'How's Little Napoleon?'
'Asalways.'
'Ihope someone puts that little bugger in his place one of these days.'
'He'sa good policeman.'
'He'swhat your father would have called a right basket.'
'You'reonly-saying that because you don't know him.'
'Yes,thank God.'
Franksighed. 'He's a widower. He hasn't got enough to do. That's the whole problem.In a way he's married to the job.'
'Youare, too,' she said.
'Youget hooked. You can't avoid it.'
'How'sthat?'
'It'slike this murder. It's a crazy thing to happen but it's impossible not to becaught up. Nor to want to sort it out.' 'That's all, is it? Or is it becauseyou daren't come to grips with other things in your life?'
.There she went again. Frank shook his head in despair. Before he managed to sayanything the telephone rang.
'Talkof the devil…' Frank's mother muttered. 'There he is, Little Napoleon ringingfor his foot- soldier.'
'Areyou alone?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Likea mackerel in Drobak Sound,' Frank said, taking the cordless telephone into theother room.
'Tellme when you're alone.'
'Now,'Frank said, sinking into the sofa again. 'I thought you were going to the theatre,'he continued.
'I amgoing to the theatre. Soon. I want you to go out to the rehab centre tomorrow.Talk to the lad with the goatee and ask him if he had anything going with thegirl. If you can find anyone else who knows her, talk to them, too. Will youshut up!'
'Ididn't say a word,' Frank said.
'Iwasn't talking to you. I was talking to a woman grumbling away outside. That'sdone it. Now she's as mad as hell. Good, that's made my day. Well, see you.'
'Seeyou,' Frank said, staring at the telephone.
Chapter Eight
Thewoman who opened the door was closer to fifty than forty and had at one timebeen very attractive. She was slim, of medium height, dressed in a nice greysuit with a skirt reaching above her knees. She regarded Gunnarstranda withexpectation and mild interest, like a nurse.
'MayI come in?' he asked straight out.
'Ofcourse, my dear. Please excuse me,' she said, beaming a broad smile which madeher even more attractive. Her hair was completely grey, like silver, andGunnarstranda guessed it was dyed. He assumed she had been blonde once.
'Annabethhas told us everything. It has hit us hard. But I didn't expect a visit fromthe police so quickly.'
Shewas bare-legged and moved with grace, without a sound. She showed him into aliving room and invited him to take a seat. 'Back in a moment.'
Thesound of classical music could be heard through concealed speakers. It wasThe Magic Flute, Mozart, one of the few pieces the policeman knew well. Thesinging made him sentimental. It made him think of Edel. And as he pursued thememory, the man and the woman in the opera were singing in unison: 'AufWiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen.'
Gunnarstrandalooked around. The CD cover lay with today's newspaper on a coffee table infront of the suite. Otherwise the room was dominated by tables: small antiquetables in elegant mahogany, one table in each corner, one alongside each wall,several bearing antique lamps, American-looking Tiffany lamps with shades ofcoloured mosaics.
Gunnarstrandastood on an oval rug with an oriental pattern. The rug lay in the middle of thefloor and softened the sound of his shoes which had made such a hard, formalclick on the oak parquet flooring. He stood on the rug, rocking on the balls ofhis feet. He listened to Pamina warbling her way through an aria as SigridHaugom was rattling cups in the kitchen. On the edge of his awareness he couldhear water running from a tap. He ran his eyes along the walls. A room of goodtaste, he thought, more taste than function: no books, no TV, but a suite ofcomfortable furniture, tables, lamps and pictures on the walls. His interestwas caught by a potted plant on the window sill and he strode over. It was abonsai tree and it was not thriving. He lifted up the pot and studied the plantwith interest. His conclusion was that the poor tree was dying. He stoodlooking outside, lost in thought. The window was south-facing and the gardenstretched gently down to a green hedge concealing a pair of tramlines behind.But over the hedge you could see the classic outline of the inner part of Oslofjord, the islands, Bunnefjord and Nesodden. One of the blue Color Lines shipswas rounding the headland towards Drobak and into the Skagerrak.
'Sugaror milk?' came a voice from behind.
Heturned and saw that the reason he had not heard her coming in was that she wasbarefoot. 'I take it black, thank you.' He put the plant pot back in its place,crossed the floor and sat down in one of the stylish chairs around the low ovalcoffee table whose wood gleamed wine-red.
Shesat down on the sofa diagonally opposite him. After a moment or two she grabbedthe remote control from the table and cut off the man's song. Tamino hesupposed. They exchanged looks as the silence enveloped them.
'Gunnarstranda,'Sigrid said as though tasting the word. 'Unusual name.' She squinted at himwith a cheeky smile playing on her lips: 'Do you like the name?'
Thepoliceman examined the elegant porcelain cups for a few seconds, considered thequestion, scented the atmosphere in the room and noted his surprise that shehad asked such a personal question without any unease. He stroked thegilt-edged plate, then looked her straight in the eye and smiled. 'What sort ofquestion is that? No one likes their name, do they?'
Shecocked her head, satisfied with the answer: 'I suppose you're right.'
'Yes,'Gunnarstranda said, sampling the coffee and informing her with a tiny nod ofthe head and an appreciative pursing of the lips that it was good. 'In our cultureit's the women who have been obliged to change their names; man's lot has beento accept his identity and to perpetuate the name.'
Shestared into space for a second before gathering herself. 'But if you didn'tlike your name you could have changed it, I suppose. It's possible.'
Gunnarstrandaleaned back in the chair. 'I didn't come here to talk about me,' he mumbled,crossing his legs. 'But now that we're on the subject, I disliked my name as achild. And for a long time I thought everyone did – dislike their name. Butthat's not the case. And as I grew older I realized that I disliked peopletaking pseudonyms and aliases even more.' Taking in the room with a sweep ofhis arm, a gesture that was intended to include the splendid view, the lavishinterior and her general social affiliation, he continued: 'Well, what is alady like yourself doing in a place like…'
'… arehab clinic for drug abusers? Nothing could be more normal,' Sigrid said. 'Ibelong to the mediocre majority of women in West Oslo. I am one of those whohave tired of shopping and housewives' holidays on the south coast and havedecided to go back to work now that their children rate friends higher thanhome.'
'Whenis that?'
'Whenchildren enter their teens, or the child, in our case. We went to school at thesame time: Joakim to senior high school, me to Diakonhjemmet University tostudy social work. I've been working with Annabeth for three years now.'
'Joakim- is that your son?'
Shenodded.
'Whatdoes he do now?'
'He'sin the US, studying economics at Yale.'
'Notbad.'
'Veryright and proper, you mean, for herr and fru Haugom of Grefsen.'
'Soyou're a little critical of the boy's choice of education?'
'Let'sjust say working with drug addicts puts Western capitalism and financialpolitics in perspective.'
'Interesting.'
'Why'sthat?' She curled her legs up under her on the sofa.
'Becauseyou appear to be middle-class, but you choose to work with drug addicts and arecritical of…' He searched for words.
'Ofour official drugs policy,' she completed, pensive and focusing in front ofher.
'Howdo you get on with the patients?'