Gunnarstrandawaited.
'Itwas very sad.'
'Why'sthat?'
'Hermother lives in a pretty derelict house. She was living with a man, but she wasalone when we arrived. It was Katrine's birthday and she hadn't remembered. Thewoman hadn't seen Katrine for two years, and she served up tinned spaghetti onpaper plates.'
Gunnarstrandapulled a face.
Sigridsaid. 'Katrine couldn't cope. She ran out and I think that was the last timethe two of them saw each other.'
Chapter Nine
PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda was sitting in his office. He had taken his placebehind his cramped desk on which there was a black computer, an electrictypewriter, a mug jammed with biros, a pile of periodicals, a hole punch, anempty, faded red ash tray inscribed with cinzano in peeling white letters onthe side and a great many loose sheets of paper.
Heundid the buttons of his blue blazer and loosened the tight knot of thetramline-blue tie over his shirt. The chair creaked as he leaned back and crossedhis legs, forcing the trouser material up and exposing one unusually white legover the edge of the sock. One angry black shoe bounced up and down in the air.
Thetelephone rang. He lifted the receiver. 'And thank you, too,' he said. 'I'vejust arrived. Yes, it was great. I seldom go to the theatre. But that's whatit's like being a policeman. I have to sort out a few things here even thoughit's late.'
Onehand rested on the typewriter. The other pulled out the report he had justpounded into shape. He read through it as the voice continued to speak into hisear.
'Theless we say about that the better,' he said, listening for a while, then hegrunted a goodbye and cradled the telephone. He sat gazing out of the window.It was beginning to get dark outside. So it was very late. Nevertheless it wastoo early to see stars in June; all he could see was the flashing green lightof a plane flying so high no sound could be heard.
Therewas a knock at the door. Frank Frølich stuck his head in. Gunnarstrandanodded.
'Likeit?' Frølich asked, closing the door behind him. He lumbered over andslumped down in his chair, which groaned under the weight. He was wearing bluejeans, trainers and a T-shirt with a Friends of Beer logo beneath a blue denimjacket. His wavy, grey hair was in a mess and so long that it was growing overhis ears. He needs a haircut, thought Gunnarstranda, a haircut and to go on adiet. Frølich’s stomach bulged out beneath his ribs, and, sittingupright in a chair, as he was now, it was only a question of time before hewould be able to use it as a coffee table.
'Likewhat?' asked Gunnarstranda;
'Theplay.'
Gunnarstrandatook his time and looked down at himself. He straightened his tie and cufflinks. 'No,' came the conclusion. 'I didn't.'
'Whatwas wrong with it?'
'Thecrowd who took me there.'
'Butthey have nothing to do with the play. What did you see?'
'Faust.'
'I'veheard it's supposed to be shit-hot.'
Gunnarstrandaconsidered this. 'Well, I liked the play. The text is good apart from thesetemptations to which he's exposed. I mean, they were so banaclass="underline" young women insuspender belts and all that. I had expected a bit more from Goethe, not tomention Mephistopheles!'
'Whodid you go with?'
'Falk-Andersen,his wife and his sister.'
'Properbit of match-making, eh?'
'Properpains in the arse more like. Of course, they enjoyed the play.'
'Andwho is Falk-Andersen?'
Gunnarstrandasighed. 'A botanist. Retired academic. Even if I'd tried I'm not sure I couldhave offended any of them.'
'Verygood,' Frølich said. He sat back in his chair with a glazed look, thensaid, 'I've been talking to the people at the travel agency where KatrineBratterud worked.'
Gunnarstrandaraised his arm and checked his watch. He realized he should have eaten a longtime ago and tried to work out if he was hungry.
'Fristadrang,' mumbled the detective inspector. 'Director of Public Prosecutions.'
Thencame the cough. He put his feet on the floor and succumbed to it heart andsoul. Pains shot through his chest, his breathing was like a rotten elasticband and he knew he looked dreadful.
Afterthe attack had finally abated, he swung round his chair, opened the window wideand took out a short, fat stump of a roll-up from his pocket.
'Don'tthink that's very healthy,' Frølich ventured.
Thepolice inspector waited until his breathing was normal before answering.'Nothing's healthy. Working's not healthy, sleeping's not healthy, even thefood we eat makes us ill.' He stuck out his lower lip like a monkey as he litthe roll-up, so as not to burn his lips.
'Whydon't you roll a new one?' Frølich exclaimed in disgust.
'If Ilight them several times, 1 can reduce my smoking to eight a day,'Gunnarstranda retorted. 'Eight a day.'
'Soyou think it's healthier to smoke that tarry goo than to have a few puffs at afresh one?'
'Yousound like Falk-Andersen's sister!' Not to burn himself Gunnarstranda washolding the tiny dog-end with the nails of his thumb and first finger. Thefingers formed a circle and he pursed his lips as he blew the smoke out.
'Idon't give a damn if you smoke yourself to death,' Frølich said indesperation. 'It's the aesthetics of it that I find distasteful.'
'OK,OK,' mumbled the inspector, swinging round and dropping the extinguished, browntobacco-corpse in a long-necked ashtray behind him. He wore a lop-sided smileand fetched a new roll-up from his pocket. 'Nine a day,' he grinned, and litup.
FrankFrølich shook his head.
'You'reright,' Gunnarstranda said, inhaling. 'This one's better; this one won't makeme ill. By the way, Fristad was wondering why we didn't trot out the standardphrases to the press – mutilated body, vicious rape, the worst I've seen in mypolice career and so on.'
'Andwhat did you answer?'
'Nothing.'
'Butwas it rape?'
'Lookslike it,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Wehave to find out what she was doing after midnight,' Frølich said.
'Shewent to a fast food place.'
'Isthat right?'
Gunnarstrandanodded. 'They have identified the food we saw in her stomach as minced meat,bread and potatoes, most probably fast food. So it seems as if it was rightthat she brought up Annabeth s's fine supper. Our problem is to find out whenand where she ate the meal.'
'Iwas talking to her colleague,' Frølich said. 'A lady of about fifty, theaunty-type, you know, with grownup kids, liked to keep an eye on the girl… shesays she was good at the job and attractive and cheerful and happy and allthat.'
'And?'
'Well,she knew the girl was undergoing treatment, off drugs and off bad influences.The lady at the travel agency says something odd happened…'
Thetelephone rang. Gunnarstranda sent it an angry glare. It continued to ring. Frølichasked, 'Aren't you going to answer it?'
Histooth enamel glistened and the lenses of his glasses flashed as Gunnarstrandasnatched the receiver and slammed it down straightaway.
Frølichstared at the dead telephone.
'Goon,' said Gunnarstranda.
'Onthe day she disappeared a guy entered the shop and went for her.'
'That'sthe second person who's told us about the incident,' Gunnarstranda said. 'Thegirl rang Sigrid Haugom on the Saturday and said the same. What does she meanby… went for her?'
Frølichread his notes. 'A roughneck, about forty years old with salt and pepper hair,pony tail, earring and an ugly scar on his arm. The man threatened Katrine andtried to attack her but gave up when Katrine asked… Katrine asked me… asked meto call the police.' Frølich peered up.
'Thislady,' Frølich said, 'was left in shock. She asked Katrine who he wasand why he had flown at her. She says Katrine admitted she had known the manonce, but she had not seen him for many years.'
'Whatis salt and pepper hair?'
Frølichreflected. 'Salt-and-pepper colour.'
'Blackand white?'
'No,more grizzled, a bit like me.'