Itwas Gunnarstranda who broke the silence. 'In the first place, Henning admittedpicking up Katrine outside Annabeth s's house. Raymond Skau might have beenthere, standing outside the house waiting for Katrine. He turned up at her workearlier in the day, didn't he. He might have followed her and Eidesen to theparty – we have no way of knowing. Suppose he stood waiting outside the house.He saw Katrine jump into Henning's car, so he followed them. We know Henningand Katrine drove down to Aker Brygge and bought food at McDonald's. They droveoff. According to Henning, a car followed them into the car park byIngierstrand.'
Gunnarstrandafell silent and ruminated on what he had said.
Frølichfilled both their glasses.
Awhite wagtail landed on the veranda balustrade and wagged its tail. 'We have anaudience,' Frølich said. 'A spy.'
'Ifwe focus and think logically,' Gunnarstranda resumed, 'it's clear we aredealing with a casual assailant. Once we have Skau, we'll get the forensicsteam to run a DNA test on him. That takes two weeks and then we'll know if theskin under Katrine's nails belongs to Skau. Then it's just a question of timebefore we find her hair on his clothing. By which point this damned businesswill be an open-and- shut case.'
'Butwhere is Skau?'
'InSweden, I suppose,' growled Gunnarstranda, buttering a slice of bread. 'That'stypical too. I've caught two killers before who thought they could slip intoDenmark or Sweden to take the heat off themselves. In a couple of weeks Skauwill be back, and then he's ours.'
Thetwo policemen sat gazing into the air. Gunnarstranda was chewing and thinking. Frølichcrossed his legs and turned his face to the sun – relaxed.
'Idon't remember seeing any scratch marks on Kramer,' Gunnarstranda said atlength.
Frølichbeamed. His boss still had not dropped the idea of Kramer as the killer. 'Wedon't know where she scratched him,' he said. 'The pathologist will be able tosay whether there are any scars resulting from scratches.'
Gunnarstrandapulled a face, as though suddenly remembering his role as host and Frølich’sas his guest. 'Nice to see you,' he grinned.
'Thankyou. And thank you for the spread.'
'Thankyou. Do you play chess?'
Frølich’sheart sank. Chess. Just as he was feeling at home. Chess – the game with onepiece called a bishop, another a knight. One of them can jump over other piecesin an L shape. He gained time by taking a good swig of beer. Chess, he thought.The game where either the king or the queen has to stand on a square marked Dl.
'Iknew it,' Gunnarstranda said, contented. 'A good policeman loves chess.'
Frankthought of how sometimes he hated chess. Always having to make strategicdecisions, always thinking three steps ahead before you made a move. 'It's arare occasion for me to play,' he said with care.
'Comeon,' Gunnarstranda said, leading him into the cabin to a low table with a blacksurface. 'Friday evening, out in the wilds, whisky, beer and chess,' hecontinued with a smile. 'You've landed in paradise.'
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Thenext morning Frølich left Gunnarstranda's mountain cabin for Drammen,but instead of branching off to Oslo, he bore left for Kongsberg. He left themotorway, continued for a good half an hour and didn't stop until he reachedthe turn-off for the road through Nedre Eiker. He sat in the car looking acrossthe small valley. The housing estate must have been built at some time in theseventies. The houses stood in neat lines. An attempt had been made to blendthem naturally into the terrain, but it had failed as the area consisted of twolarge surfaces sloping downwards into a V-shaped hollow where a stream musthave flowed at one time. Along these surfaces ran rows of two-storey terracedhouses seasoned with the occasional low, single-storey, prefabricated house.Everywhere shingle-covered flat roofs and unsympathetic, square double-glazedwindows prevailed. Here and there more ambitious buildings popped up, some withhuge verandas and walls with 'prosperity pustules' – bulges in the walls with asmall-paned window in the centre; others had more kitschy accessories:imitation Greek pillars at the entrance or multi-coloured leaded windows. Inmost of the gardens, however, bushes and fruit trees had succeeded in reachingmaturity.
Frølichgot out of the car and walked into the estate. Somewhere a lawnmower motordroned; a small girl was sitting alone and forlorn on a seesaw. She stuck afinger in her mouth and stared at the passing policeman with big eyes. On averanda further away a boy sat astride a plastic tractor making brum-brumnoises. Frank discovered the Bratterud house long before he saw the number onthe wall. A sense of hardship emanated from the fragile construction, from theblack holes in the roof, the stains on the flaking paintwork, the crookedpostbox, the overturned dustbin, the grass that had grown so long that wispyflower stems dotted the lawn and the delicate front steps that threatenedimminent collapse.
Thewoman who answered the door was plump around the waist and had unusually bigbags under her eyes and reddish, curly hair. Frølich remembered her fromthe funeral. She was the woman with a handbag permanently hanging from her arm,who had shaken Annabeths's hand after the service.
Frølichintroduced himself. There was a burning in the woman's eyes, a muted yellowglow, a spirit flame nourished by the bags under both eyes.
'Longway from home here,' she said. 'This is Buskerud.'
Frølichresponded with a smile worthy of a TV preacher. 'My main reason for coming isto talk about Katrine on… an informal basis,' he said, patiently placing hishands on his hips.
'Why'sthat?'
'Toget to know her background… upbringing… just to know a little more.'
A biglock of curly, red hair fell across her brow. The woman stroked the hair awaywith a club of a hand. Her fingers were short and stubby, and inflamed with eczema.
'Iwould have liked to ask you in, but it's a mess here.'
'Wecan go for a walk,' Frølich said blithely.
'Strollround the estate with the police? You've got to be joking!'
Sheturned her head and looked daggers at his profile. Hers were the eyes of aderanged bird the second before it flies at someone. Frølich looked awayand noticed that the grey, damp-damaged wood was coming through the paintwork onthe front door. A leak, he thought, and noticed why the steps were crooked. Thebase was beginning to rot.
Thesilence lasted for what seemed an eternity. An insect – a bug of somedescription – with six legs and a three-sided shell lumbered cautiously alongthe hand rail of the steps. Its two feelers looked like aerials and the creatureflourished its antennae in the same way that the blind tap with a stick todetect dangers ahead. Wonder if it knows where it's going, thought Frølich.He looked up again to meet the woman's fierce gaze.
'Well,you'd better come in then,' said the woman at last, turning with difficulty.
'Sitwherever you like, but not in the cat's chair,' she panted, brushing the lockof hair off her brow again. It fell back at once. She pushed forward her lowerlip and blew it away. 'That's the cat's chair. If you sit there you'll have togo home and wash your trousers right away!'
Frølichlooked around and found the kitchen, where the sun was coming in through thewindow and making the stains on the floor shine with a dry, matt lustre. Hetook a wooden chair from the little table under the window and carried it intothe sitting room.
'Shehadn't been home for a long time… to visit you… before she died, I mean… hadshe?' he asked, sitting down.
'Shenever came home.'
Frølichsaid nothing in the silence that followed this outburst.
'Well,now she's dead, and it's sad, but things were bound to go wrong for her. Shewas a pathological liar who knocked about with boys and men from the time shewas so big.' One club-shaped hand indicated a height of a metre off the floor.
'Whatdo you mean by a pathological liar?'