'Wemet in the way that people did in the old days,' she said dreamily from theother chair.
Frølichraised his eyebrows. 'You and your husband?'
'Yes,nowadays people advertise in the paper to get to know each other, or throughthe internet or goodness knows what else. I wouldn't be surprised if you canring up for a partner, but in the old days… in the old days you went to dances…'
Frølichnodded, thinking about the bitterness the eleven-year-old girl must have feltfor the world the day she was deprived of her father. 'Cruel,' he mumbled.
'At avillage hall,' she went on. 'Where the girls stood around like wallflowers and theboys asked you on to the dance floor, after drinking Dutch courage on the stepsoutside first, of course. Real bands with real music. Where men fought forgirls. I suppose you've heard of Alf Prшysen – his song about one step here andone step there and the girl who laughs when you miss a step – and aboutjourneyman joiners. Well, Fredrik and I met at the village hall and he chose meand not the other girl. What I say is: If you've never experienced a properdance at a village hall, you've never lived!'
'That'sright,' said Frølich. He cleared his throat. 'Does the name HenningKramer mean anything to you?'
'Nothingat all.'
'OleEidesen?'
'No.'
Frølichput the photographs back on the table. 'You said Katrine was a little ashamedof her family, or at least she didn't think it was good enough. Was that moreor less what you said?'
'Shewas ashamed of me,' Beate said with bitterness in her voice. 'She was ashamedof this house, of my appearance. Katrine could never accept love from me. Shebecame a snob. It's sad, but the truth is that as her treatment progressed shebecame even more of a snob.'
Frankgave a heavy nod.
'Butthis is not the first time, you know,' Beate said. 'The first time for what?'
'It'snot the first time Katrine has died. The first time was ten years ago. Thedrugs almost killed her.
Andnow she has probably been raped and strangled…'
Theplump woman heaved a deep sigh.
Frølichnodded in sympathy.
'Andall I can think is that she must have died many times in the course of thoseten years…'
Frølichstood up and moved towards the door. Beate Bratterud had sunk into her ownthoughts and he had no wish to drag her out again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Thegreen door had a window with wired glass. A curtain had been pushed to the sideand a head was peering out. Even though the wire distorted the facial featureson the other side it was clear that the face did not belong to a man.Gunnarstranda signalled to the group on the stairs to retreat. Then he movedhis hand towards the door bell and rang again. The person inside fiddled aroundwith the lock and a very young woman opened up. She could have been fifteen,sixteen, seventeen or eighteen years old. Gunnarstranda wondered whether shewasn't fourteen. But he concluded that it was unlikely. She had to be overfifteen. However, she was wearing a lot of make-up; her skin was so stiff itwas like cardboard. She had painted her lips dark red and was scantily clad. Itwas the minimal clothing that gave away how old she was: thin thighs with noflesh – she hadn't finished developing.
'IsRaymond at home?' the policeman asked with a beaming smile.
'No,'she said with a return smile.
'Whoare you?'
'I'mhis girl.'
Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Good morning, good morning,' he said.
'Hi,'she said.
Gunnarstrandaturned to look up at the armed policeman who had positioned himself higher upthe staircase, out of the young woman's field of vision. The man withdrewwithout a sound and left. Gunnarstranda turned back to the young woman andasked in hushed tones: 'Will he be long'
'Heshould be here any minute. I thought you were him now.'
'I'llwait indoors then,' Gunnarstranda said, stepping inside. The hall had beenpainted in dark colours; it was long and narrow as halls often are in oldblocks of flats. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and opened it wide.He peered in. The bathroom seemed unusually modern and very clean. He alsoopened the next door wide.
'Bedroom,'the girl behind him said.
Gunnarstrandaglanced at the dresser drawers scattered across the floor. On the broad, unmadebed were thrown socks, underpants and other things that must have come from thedrawers. Gunnarstranda closed the door again and continued through the flatwith the young woman at his heels. It was clear that she wasn't a hundred percent sure of him. Gunnarstranda went into the sitting room, which was tidy.Raymond Skau collected old LP records. Three of the walls were covered fromfloor to ceiling with shelf after shelf of vinyl. There had to be thousands ofrecords. Only two of the shelves were reserved for CDs. Several years oflistening, thought Gunnarstranda, looking at the fourth wall, which had twohigh windows looking out on to the street. Beneath the windows and between themthe wall was adorned with a huge hi-fi system. The speakers were two large,man-sized columns. He walked to the end of the room and glanced around thekitchen, which was just as messy as the bedroom. Several days' washing up,including encrusted plates, formed small edifices beside the sink alongsidepiles of cups lined with black coagulated coffee. The smell was testimony tothe fact that it had been a long time since anyone had bothered to empty thewaste bin.
Theyoung woman stood in the middle of the floor wringing her hands. 'Who are youthen?' she forced herself to ask.
Gunnarstrandawalked back to the sitting room window, signalled to the officers below, shookhis head and took out his mobile phone.
'I'ma friend of Raymond's,' he confided, wasting no words.
'Myname's Linda,' the girl said, smiling the way that well-brought up girls dowhen they are uncertain of themselves, but are willing to take a chance thateverything will turn out fine.
Gunnarstranda'smobile phone rang. 'Yes,' he said, walking to the window. 'No, Skau isn't here,but he's expected, so I'll wait here until he shows up.' He switched off thephone and pointed to the sofa with an air of authority. 'Sit down,' he said tothe young woman.
Shesat down. Gunnarstranda seated himself on a chair opposite her. 'Have you knownRaymond long?' he asked.
'We'vebeen together for two months.'
Gunnarstrandanodded.
'Tomorrow,'she said, 'is our anniversary.'
'Twomonths is an awfully long time,' Gunnarstranda said with a hint of irony.
'Ican hardly believe it,' she said in her naivety, and smiled as though shecouldn't believe it.
'Didyou meet Katrine?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'No,I don't think so.'
'Blondehair, quite good-looking, but a bit older than you.'
Thegirl called Linda shook her head.
'Worksat a travel agency,' Gunnarstranda said.
Theyoung girl rolled her shoulders.
'ButI suppose you go to school?'
'Projectweek.' She giggled.
'Soyou don't need to go to school?'
'Wedo but…' She giggled again.
'Howold are you?' the policeman enquired.
'Fourteen.'
Gunnarstranda'slips extended into a satisfied smile.
'Whatare you laughing at?' The young girl blushed, as if she thought the policemanwas laughing at her.
'I'mlaughing at Raymond.'
'Raymond'scool, isn't he.'
'Cool,'Gunnarstranda nodded. 'Dead cool,' he mumbled, revealing that hip yoof talk wasnot something he practised on a daily basis. 'Where is he in fact?'
'Withthe oinkers,' she answered.
'Oinkers,'Gunnarstranda repeated, mystified.
'Withthe cops,' she said. 'He rang me from the cop shop. He should have been backages ago.'
'Doyou live here?' Gunnarstranda asked in a friendly voice. 'Do you live withRaymond?' 'Are you crazy?' the girl said. 'I would never have been allowed todo that.'
'Butyou have keys?'