Frølichrolled down his window. 'Christ, it's hot,' he groaned. 'And now I have donemost of this area, but there's still no sign of Raymond Skau.'
Theyouths from the minibus stood hanging around the entrance to the chapel.
'Loadsof bloody great gravestones here,' Frølich said at length.
'Youdon't say!'
'Yes,obelixes and stuff.'
'Obelisks.'
'It waswordplay. A comic series.'
'Really?'
'AGaul, a fat guy who carries around obelisks on his back – called Obelix.'
'Well,I never.'
'Yes,indeed.'
'Well,well.'
'Haveyou seen anyone?' Frølich asked.
'HenningKramer, Annabeth s and the crew you saw from the centre. Ole Eidesen isaround…' Gunnarstranda motioned towards the entrance where Eidesen had gone in.
'Talkedto anyone?'
'No.'
'Perhapswe ought to give Kramer another grilling?'
'Nottoday. Besides, we'd better find holes in his statement first.'
'Seenanything of Gerhardsen?' Frølich asked.
Gunnarstrandachecked his watch. 'He's still got a couple of minutes.'
'Doyou think her mother's here?'
'Iwould assume so. After all, she is the next of kin.'
'Terriblebusiness,' Frølich mumbled. 'Terrible business.' * 'I suppose we shouldgo through the park grounds again,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Shouldwe go in and say hello to her mother?'
'Iwould like to, but this is not the time or place to do aggressive police work.'
'Right,'Frølich said, wiping the sweat with a tissue he produced from his jacketpocket. 'Right,' he repeated. 'I suppose that means I'll have to drive to herplace.'
'Forthe time being the grounds seem quite appealing,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Idon't think so.'
'ShouldI interpret that as a no to searching the grounds again?'
'Needlein a haystack.'
'Doyou have any ambitions to be a public prosecutor at some point?'
'Andthat's why I should sweat in the grounds?'
'Notnecessarily, but if there's any point in checking anything to do with this poorgirl, there must be an underlying theory that the assailant is sneaking aroundin the bushes here or is sitting in the chapel listening to what a wonderfulperson he has destroyed. Look at Silver Fox…'
Gunnarstrandastopped talking and both policemen followed Sigrid Haugom with their eyes. Sheclosed the door of a parked Mercedes. Frølich whistled. 'Jeez, what abody,' he mumbled.
'She'stoo old for you, Frølich. That's Sigrid Haugom. Katrine's confidante.The one who asked me if I liked my name.'
'Whodo you think the old codger is?'
Gunnarstrandarolled his shoulders. 'Tax inspector from the outer isles – who knows. But theodds are it's her husband. In which case his name is Erik Haugom.'
Bothmen followed the couple with their eyes. She was graceful, with an hourglassfigure, cultured and suitably dressed for the occasion; she even wore a blackshawl over her shoulders. He seemed like a good-looking guy, straight back,firm backside with a sullen grin on his ruddy face.
'Guesswhat his job is,' Gunnarstranda said.
Frølichtook his time to answer. Both policemen were following the couple with theireyes. As they passed the last parked car before the chapel, the man stopped,took a comb from his back pocket and combed his hair back in the reflectionfrom the car window.
'Noidea,' Frølich concluded.
'Theylive in Grefsen in an architect-designed house full of old junk they haveaccumulated from antiques auctions here and in London. The son studies at Yaleand they each have a car of their own. He has a Mercedes; she has a BMW.'
'Supposeshe must be trying to put something back,' Frølich mumbled. 'Since sherehabilitates drug addicts.'
'Buthow do you think he earns his living?'
'Noidea.'
'Doctor,of course.'
'Doctor?'Frølich sneered. 'I know who the bugger is!'
'Youdo?' Gunnar said, uninterested.
'Yes,Erik Haugom? Doctor? He's a bloody celeb. The guy has his own column in severalnewspapers!'
Gunnarstrandastared at Frølich. His expression was reminiscent of someone who hadjust sampled tainted food. 'Did you say celeb? Do you use such words?'
Frølichwas not listening. His face was one big, moist grin. 'I still read Haugom'scolumns. He calls himself a sexologist. The guy knows everything that is worthknowing about anal sex, group sex, urine sex… you name it.' He paused as thoughremembering something. 'They look quite respectable,' he mumbled. 'I mean…she's…'
Gunnarstranda- who was still observing the other policeman as if he were an object he wouldhave to tolerate for the time being, but which he had high hopes would soon beoff his hands – opened his mouth and said in a toneless but earnest voice,'Don't come out with any more idiocies now.'
'No.'Frølich went quiet.
Theysat watching the couple greet the man from the funeral parlour. A gust of windcaught Sigrid Haugom's silver hair and she reacted with an elegant toss of thehead. They went inside.
'Comeon then,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Eh?'
'Saywhat you have to say.'
'Youdon't like me saying these things.'
'Butsay it anyway, for Christ's sake.'
Frølichcleared his throat. 'Well, she's a cracker, despite being fifty-something,isn't she? With that ass, I mean, she's a cracker.' He paused.
'Well?'
'Well,just imagine all that guy knows about sex…'
'Shutup!'
'Itold you you didn't like the comments I make.'
'I'mgoing for a walk,' Gunnarstranda said, and got out. He crossed the car park andfollowed the female gardener who was strolling towards a grave. She knelt downand began to remove stubborn blades of wheat grass and goutweed from betweenthe low-growing asters and sea lavender. Gunnarstranda threw his jacket overhis shoulder and breathed in the perfume of freshly mown grass and sweet summerflowers mixed with the faint stench of.decomposition. The silence surroundingthe graves made him think of Edel. He strolled down to her grave. On the way hepassed an open grave and a pile of earth covered with a tarpaulin. He went onto the area where Edel's urn was kept. The mauve carpet phlox he had plantedthe previous year had grown so big that it had spread across the little bed infront of the gravestone and on to the lawn. There were still a few small mauveflowers glistening between the seed pods against the green background. Hecrouched down and closed his eyes for a few seconds. He saw her in front of awindow watering a potted plant. He opened his eyes and tried to remember whenthat had been and why he could visualize that particular image. But once it wasgone, he couldn't picture it as clearly. He was unable to say how old she hadbeen then or what clothes she had been wearing. Nor could he recall the type ofplant she had been watering.
Heturned away from the grave and strolled back towards the chapel, walked past itand by the south side where another funeral had just finished; grief-strickenmourners were observing each other, relaying their condolences and holding eachother's hands. Gunnarstranda felt out of place and withdrew. A thin man infilthy jeans was sitting beside a mower on a lawn some distance away.
Gunnarstrandapaused in the middle of one of the gravel paths that ran as straight as anarrow up to the huge cemetery. The path was broken by numerous other smallpaths crossing it and creating small squares all over the grounds, plots fencedoff by tall, green cypress hedges. Some elderly women were walking down; atractor crossed the path right in front of them, then re-crossed the path,closer this time. Gunnarstranda could see the hopelessness of the task oflooking out for suspicious persons in the grounds. He walked around the chapel.In the east wall of the crematorium there were the urns of the first members ofthe Norwegian Crematorium Association. He stepped closer and tried to decipherthe inscriptions on the urns. All of a sudden he recognized a name, an elderlyneighbour from his boyhood days in Grunerlшkka. He read the man's name oncemore and experienced a strange feeling of awe.
Sothis was where he had ended up. Gunnarstranda was reminded with a smile of theold crackpot in the window at the top of Markveien shouting propaganda for thecrematorium. I'm telling you, you young whippersnappers, the crematorium isthe future! he had screamed – and earned himself gales of laughter. Now hewas here on the stand of honour – a handful of ashes in a clay pot.