Hewent over to the desk. There was a pencil case on top. Beside it a littlewooden box. He raised the lid. Inside there were coins, badges, a few hairpins,a tampon in plastic packaging, a couple of lighters, buttons and other odds andends. He replaced the lid.
Gunnarstrandaopened the bedroom door. A broad double bed took up most of the floor space. Itwasn't made. Two duvets lay entwined. The bed sheets were rumpled. A yellowbath towel lay strewn across the bed.
Heopened the wardrobe. The clothes inside were hung in order. He closed thewardrobe and turned to the dresser under the window. There was a can ofhairspray on the dresser. It stood on top of a small white cloth in which hername, Katrine, had been embroidered in red cross-stitch.
Hebreathed in before opening the top drawer. It was crammed full with lacy thingsfor women – bras and panties. The next drawer was the same. On the left of thebed there was an old bedside table made of high-quality wood. The top was dusty.On it was a novel. The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy. The novellay on top of a magazine. Tique.
Gunnarstrandaopened the bedside-table drawer. A pen rolled around inside. It was a shinysilver Parker. Under it an exercise book. Gunnarstranda took it out. It was anA4 format notebook. He opened it. There were pages of neat looped handwritingin blue ink. He read.
Idrove down a straight road with green trees on both sides. Now and then Ipassed huge fields of yellow sunflowers nodding their heads to greet the sun.The road stretched on into eternity. But the car went slower and slower. It wasrunning out of petrol. I didn't want the car to stop. I wanted to keep going,to be moving. However, in the end the car stopped all the same. I felt heavy,as always when things go wrong. I looked around. The car had stopped at acrossroads outside a wooden shed. It looked like some sort of garage; it wasabandoned with smashed window panes and a crooked roof that someone had triedto repair with multi-coloured corrugated iron and faded green pieces ofplastic. Beside the shed stood an abandoned car. It was an elegant red sportscar, a Porsche. The contrast between the stylish red car and the derelict shedwas beautiful, almost a pleasure to see. My gaze wandered to and fro betweenthe shed and the car. It was as though I had to convince myself it was thecontrast I wanted to see, not just the car. Yellow cornfields with the greenmarble effect of as yet unripe corn stretched along both sides of the road.Dark green spruce trees formed a threshold to the forest beyond and enclosedthe field in the distance. Behind the field the mountains towered up towardsthe sky. On the road to the right a cloud of dust rose behind a car. The carcreated movement in a painting of a blue sky, white cauliflower clouds, loomingmountains and the delicate colours of the terrain. I turned up the volume ofthe radio and lit a cigarette, not because I felt like one but because thesight of a woman smoking in a car with the music pounding through the speakersmade me part of the picture. It was confirmation that I existed.
BjørnSkifs was singing 'Hooked on a Feeling'. The car coming closer was a rusty,beat-up Opel, an old model. The car didn't slow down for the crossing. Itsmashed into the side of the sports car, knocking the door into the passengercompartment and pushing the light Porsche across both carriageways and into theditch. On the radio a male voice choir sang 'oggashakka oggashakka' and thedriver of the Opel seemed to have his mind set on escape. The rear wheels werespinning, sending up a cloud of grit and road dust into the air. Then the carjumped backwards as it freed itself from the Porsche. Another cloud rose as itcame to a halt The red Opel shot forward and rammed the side of the Porsche forthe second time, like an angry billy-goat. The sound of splintering glass waslike a tiny rustle of paper against the roar of the music through the speakers.The Porsche rocked; it took the blow like a severely wounded stag. For a fewseconds the music was all there was to hear, until the sound of a screamingstarter motor rent the air. The Opel started up again. The same thing wasrepeated.
Anothercrash. The Porsche was rocked again by the bang and slipped further into theditch. At some expense to the Opel. It was stuck too. I switched off the radio.The silence was deafening. I crushed my cigarette in the ashtray and looked atthe weird sculpture of two entangled cars as a transparent, sun-glitteringcloud of dust fell to earth and cleared the air. The derelict shed wasunchanged. The corn swayed in the light breeze and there was not a sign of lifeanywhere.
Suddenlythe Opel moved. The window was rolled down on the driver's side. Something wasthrown out and fell to the ground. It looked like two crutches. I opened thecar door, put one foot on the ground and straightened my skirt. It was cooleroutside than I had expected. The light wind was chilly. The gravel on the roadcut into my bare feet. I stopped, unsure of myself. Then a foot appeared out ofthe Opel window. A black shoe, a leg. The leg with the shoe fell on to theground with a thud. Another foot appeared in the car window. Another leg with ablack shoe fell to the ground. The next thing to be seen in the window was aman's bald head. The man had a wreath of curly hair over his ears and woreglasses. After the head came his upper torso. Finally, the man tumbled to theground head first. I closed my eyes because I didn't want to see him break hisneck and die. On opening my eyes I saw him roll around and then lie still. Buthe was not dead. He soon crawled into a sitting position and wiped his facewith both hands. The man had no feet and no legs. His legs had been amputated,and his thighs were two short stumps under loose trouser material. 'Can Ihelp?' I asked, feeling stupid. The man didn't seem to hear me. He rolled uphis trousers and attached the two prostheses lying on the ground. I wentcloser. I froze. 'Can I help you up?' I repeated and heard my voice crack.
Thesight of my shadow made the man stop and look up. He was bleeding from themouth and nose. 'I can't hear you,' he muttered and patted his ears. 'I thinkI've gone bloody deaf'
Ipicked up the crutches and passed them to him. The look he gave me was one ofsurprise. He tried to stand up, but toppled over. I didn't know what to do,except to grab his arm. By supporting himself on the crutches as I lifted hemanaged to stand up. 'Thank you,' he mumbled and hobbled off. Soon he was gone.He looked like a clown swinging on a trapeze in a rat's cage. Click, clack,click clack.
Iwalked back to my car and got in. The hobbling figure was approaching theforest at the margins of the picture. I felt cold and lonely. The cripple hobblingaway on his crutches became smaller and smaller. He didn't look back once.
Gunnarstrandalowered the notebook and looked up, deep in thought. He discovered that he wassitting on her bed. He hadn't noticed that he had sat down. On her bed. A long,blonde woman's hair lay looped on the sheet. He jerked around sensing thatsomeone was looking over his shoulder. But no one was there. He sighed andflicked through the rest of the notebook. It was filled with writing. The sameneat, light-blue handwriting, page after page. Just the last four or fivesheets were blank. The policeman closed the notebook and put it back in thedrawer. Then he stood up and slowly made his way back to the living room. Hestopped at the front door and looked back at the attractive flat that had oncebelonged to Katrine Bratterud. Leaving the place felt different from enteringit. It felt quite different. Closing the door and locking it, he wonderedwhether it had been a stupid idea to undertake this visit. I don't know, hesaid to himself. I don't know.
Chapter Thirteen
FrankFrølich saw the man sitting on the chair outside number 211 as soon ashe turned into the corridor. It had to be Bjørn Gerhardsen. He waspunctual but still appeared impatient, with his arms folded in front of hischest and one foot bouncing up and down in annoyance. Frølich lookedahead, passed him without a nod and continued on to the next door. Here heturned and glanced at Gerhardsen before entering.