'I'vebecome acquainted with…' Gunnarstranda paused, searched for words and coughedagain. 'By chance I know the assistant matron at this place,' he continued.'What she told me on the phone today is my small question to you, fru Haugom.'
SigridHaugom sat on the sofa, silent and distant.
Gunnarstrandalooked straight into her eyes. 'I am wondering about the following: Why did youspend a total of one hour with Bueng at this home the day after KatrineBratterud was murdered?'
Chapter Forty-Three
Hepursed his mouth and whistled as he bounced across Egertorget. He avoided twoJapanese tourists; they were each holding a map and looking into the air…four little, three little, two little Indians. One little Indian boy.
Itwould be like visiting a sick patient. A quick, effective visit, the waydoctors did in the old days. One little Indian boy. The arm with the attachécase swung to and fro. He followed the stream of people down Karl Johans gate.A thin man with a harrowed face and long, black hair hobbled towards him with abent back. An angel in disguise, he thought, with a cold smile. Tointercede.
Helaughed aloud at the beggar's pestering for coins. What an angel! He ignoredthe remark the beggar shouted after him. He didn't hear the words. If there wasone thing in this world that was of no consequence it was the junkie, hethought. The ones I loathe most are the down-and-outs.
Onesmall fix! The kind of fix that makes down- and-outs like him spread theirheavenly angel wings when he shoots up an overdose in his stupid, hedonisticdesire for self-extinction.
Hecrossed Skippergata on red, and with his head held high walked straight acrossFred Olsens gate to the station square. He ignored the hooting from the taxithat roared up behind him, then veered left and raced into the taxi rank. Oneman among many. Anonymous in the summer heat.
'Youalready know the answer, I assume,' Sigrid said. 'Otherwise you wouldn't haveasked. In fact, I have thought about you a little, about the kind of person youare. You're the kind who tries to hide your real personality. You camouflageyourself and play the part of a fool with transparent vanity. The comb-over ofyours that you arrange with such care, I suppose so that others, and particularlywomen, will feel sorry for you – nothing is as pitiful as transparent vanity.But I can see through your facade. You're an ordinary man, do you know that?No, you're not even that. You're an underdeveloped little pleb, a man riddledwith complexes.
Youcome here and you already know the answer to your question. Yet you dragyourself up here just for the pleasure of asking the question, to enjoy thesound of the question in your own ears. You are a conceited little worm. Do youknow that?'
InspectorGunnarstranda did not say a word in the subsequent long silence. He looked deepinto the eyes of the woman on the other side of the table. There was a moistgleam in his eyes. However, Sigrid's cheeks burned red with anger.
Shewas the first to place her feet on the floor and break the silent battlebetween them. 'You remind me of a little boy with his chemistry set,' she said.'You're so damned pleased with yourself. The only thing that means anything toyou is to triumph, to show me that you know. But shall I tell you a secret? Thesecret is that you know nothing. You don't have a clue. You haven't theslightest concept of what is important, of what anything means.'
Thepoliceman, who had been sitting there the whole time, unmoved, didn't stir now,either. His moist eyes remained focused on hers until she looked away. 'Youdon't need to look at me like that. It's pathetic. You know nothing, nothing ofany significance. Nothing!'
'Didyou say that to Helene Lockert, too?' Gunnarstranda asked in a brittle voice.
SigridHaugom gave a contemptuous chuckle. 'I was waiting for that,' she said,twisting her mouth into an ugly sneer and mimicking him: Did you say that to…no, fancy that, I didn't.'
'Therewere no suitable words, I suppose?'
'Howthe hell can words help at such a time?'
'Soyou strangled her instead?'
'Saveyour breath, Gunnarstranda.'
'Youstrangled her,' the policeman repeated stubbornly.
'Yes,I did,' Sigrid admitted in a testy voice. 'Do you feel better now? Do you feela perverse potency when you hear such an admission?'
'Katrine,'Gunnarstranda said in a hoarse voice. 'Did she see her mother being strangled?'
Sigridfell silent. Her face, the part around her mouth, froze in a distorted, pensivegrimace. The silence in the room was numbing. All of a sudden she stood up. 'Ican't take this silence,' she said quickly and went over to the window whereshe clung on to the sill with one hand. She held the other to her temple. 'Ihave a headache. You'd better go. This headache will be the death of me.'
Gunnarstrandaturned in his chair and observed her. 'Did she see you doing it?' he repeatedin a low voice.
'Idon't know,' she said. 'I just do not know.'
'Whydid you never ask her?'
'Howcould I?' Sigrid put her other hand to her face. 'I mean it. I get headaches. Ican't have visitors here when I have a migraine,' she sighed.
'Youmean Katrine was killed before you managed to ask her what she knew?'
'Gunnarstranda.Will you, please, go now.'
Thepoliceman rose to his feet, breathed in and reluctantly crossed the parquetfloor. He stood behind her. The sun was roasting outside. The June sun thatbaked the intermittent rain into the ground, creating fertile conditions for growth.Everything green would grow skywards in June, become strong enough to masterflowering, seed setting and ripening through the summer and autumn. Beside thesun lounger, the newspapers and sunglasses on the terrace lay the remains of anold flower bed in which wheat grass and goutweed had taken over and colonizedthe whole area with fearsome energy and vitality. A few poor overwintering wildpansies hung their pale heads in the wilderness. The life-giving sun penetratedthe living-room window and cast a bright yellow rectangle across the woodenfloor and a small corner on the rug where she was standing. The same sunlightcreated a faint image on the window pane. It was an almost colourless image ofthe room they were in, the tables, the chairs, the clock on the wall and twofigures. Gunnarstranda concentrated on the contours of the woman in front ofhim in the glass. She was standing with her eyes shut tight. Her skin wasstretched taut across her forehead and the fingers holding her head were like thewhite veins of translucent leaves.
'Whywere you never questioned by the police regarding the murder of HeleneLockert?' he asked.
Sigridgave a start. 'Are you still here? Didn't I ask you to go?'
'Whyis your name not in the interview reports?' the policeman repeated afterclearing his throat.
Sigridstood on the same spot without moving.
'Thatmust have been a shock,' Gunnarstranda said, stepping closer to her back.'Meeting her daughter again after all these years. Perhaps it was fate. Haveyou wondered about that? Sometimes things do have a meaning.'
'Whatare you talking about?'
Gunnarstrandadrew in his breath and tried to see if there were any changes in the face whoseflat contrasts he could just make out in the reflection of the glass.
'Mywife died of cancer a number of years ago,' he said with a cough. 'All her lifeshe had had one single dream. I mean a real, a genuine dream.' He paused.
'Yes?'Sigrid said at length, either impatient or genuinely interested.
Gunnarstrandahad to clear his throat again. 'Before she died she was given the chance toexperience the dream. But she was not the one to make it happen. She couldn't,she was too ill. She didn't know the dream was reality until it happened.'
'I didn'tdream about meeting Helene's daughter again.'
'Butit happened,' the policeman said. 'Perhaps it was meant to happen.'