The Last Fix [En liten gyllen ring no]

He said:'What do you think about the way he died?'

'Idon't think he killed himself, if that's what you're asking.'

'Youmean that this was a… murder?' He dragged the question out so that the lastword fell after a longish pause.

Shestraightened up in reaction to his choice of words and the way he said them.She sensed the unspoken, quivering in the air now. She turned and looked out ofthe window through which they both glimpsed the odd car passing the openingwhere the wrought-iron gate had been left open.

'You'llhave to find out, won't you,' she declared.

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'That's one of the reasons I'm standing here asking about a letter.From what I understand Henning was not very communicative… about depression orother troubles that may have afflicted him in recent months.'

'No,he wasn't.'

'Norhis feelings about Katrine Bratterud's death?'

'Hegrieved of course, but he didn't confide in me.'

'Didhe talk about his relationship with her at all?'

'Notvery much.' She faced him again, assessing her words, their meaning andregarding him with renewed interest. Gunnarstranda, for his part, could see hisoutline in the kitchen window, a thin figure with a round, almost bald head andprotruding eyes that appeared double in the reflection.

'Iknew she meant an awful lot to Henning. He was in love with her.' She coughedand repeated with a sigh: 'Love – Henning struggled with that sort of concept.He always had to scrutinize everything from all sides. He made fun of wordslike love; after all, love is based on spontaneous emotion and I suppose he wasfrightened of that – talking about feelings. Henning was the intellectualtype.'

Gunnarstrandanodded.

'Butshe was on his mind a lot of the time. He thought she was important for him andhe for her. I was never introduced, though.'

'Soin the last few days he wasn't down or different from normal?'

Hereyes filled with water. Her mouth trembled. 'He was grieving, but he wouldnever let the grief stop him. That was just the way he was, the way he thought.If he was in love, I mean… if he experienced pain or pleasure because of afeeling like that – jealousy, too, for that matter – he would regard it as adeception, something that would pass. Goodness, it's impossible to explain. AsI said, taking his own life for love – you're talking about someone else.'

'Buthow do you see the case?' she asked tentatively as Gunnarstranda was stillsilent.

'Itdepends on the particular circumstances,' he answered in a toneless voice.

Disconcerted,she raised her eyebrows.

'Iwould have liked to find a letter that told us why he chose to take his ownlife,' the policeman started to explain and at last moved away from the spotwhere he had been standing. 'If I can put it like that,' he mumbled and headedfor the small kitchen table under the window, drew out a chair and sat down.With great care he crossed one skinny leg over the other and fidgeted with acigarette. 'What would you think if it was proved beyond any doubt that Henningdied by his own hand?'

Thewoman's shoulders slumped and she let go of the oven handle. She sat down, too.The detective put a cigarette behind his ear while studying her at the sametime. She didn't give the appearance of crying. All the same, tears wererunning in two fine lines down her cheeks. The dour expression on her face waschiselled into her features, as though the trickle of tears was part of herfacial repertoire that had always been there. Her breathing was normal; herexpression and the stream of tears were all that revealed her internal state.Gunnarstranda realized this was the first time in this case that he had metundisguised, unforced grieving. And he realized that his last question had beenput too soon.

'Letme put it in another way,' Gunnarstranda said in a low voice, leaning acrossthe table. 'Whether Henning was responsible for his own death or not – thereare two working hypotheses I have to have validated or invalidated. The reasonI am working on this at all is because your son had a close relationship withthe woman who was murdered.'

'Sothere is a link between Katrine's death and Henning's death?'

'Iconsider that highly probable irrespective of whether he killed himself ornot.' Gunnarstranda didn't say any more. She was no longer crying. Hercomplexion seemed paler, but the significance of what he had said had sunk inand was now being internalized.

'Youagree with me,' she whispered. 'Henning was murdered.'

'Stopright there.' Gunnarstranda stood up and walked to the window. 'I didn't saythat.'

Helooked outside without finding anything of interest on which to settle his gazebut, still contemplating the street, he asked, 'What was your impression ofKatrine Bratterud?'

'Ididn't have one…' she said.

'Because,'the policeman added, 'you only know her through what your son said about her.You've already said that. But, like it or not, he was having a relationshipwith her, and he did mention her to you, so you must have formed some kind ofimpression, some concept of the kind of woman she was, at least for your son.'

'Yes,I did,' she nodded. 'Henning was twenty-five years old, he lived at home anddidn't seem to have it in him to do much more than immerse himself in his owninterests. He was doing his military service at the drug rehab place. Hethrived on that and liked her. She was a patient there, I understand, trying toget off drugs. She was one of the ones who were successful, I understand…'

'Whatwas Henning interested in?'

'As Isaid, Henning had to get to the bottom of everything, like with love. Whatis it? What is it, in fact? That's what he was like from when he was alittle boy.' She gave an embarrassed smile.

'Andhis interests?'

'Travelling,literature… my God, you should see all the books…' She tossed her head in thedirection of another room.'…they're as fat as bibles, and he read and read…'

'Travelling?'

'Yes,he spent all his money on travelling.'

Gunnarstrandanodded. 'Did you meet her?'

'Thegirl from the rehab centre? Never.'

'Didyou know your son occasionally took drugs?'

Shesat up erect and the expression that had brightened up for a few moments whenshe was talking about her son's literary feats, darkened again. 'Does that makehim a bad person?'

'Of coursenot. Did you know?'

'Yes.'

'Letme be honest with you, fru Kramer. There is a strong likelihood your son diedby his own hand.'

Thewoman on the sofa was taken aback and was on the cusp of objecting again, butGunnarstranda held up a hand. 'The reason I cannot exclude such an eventualityis threefold: first, the way he died – so far it looks like an undeniable caseof suicide. Second, the fact that he was a drug addict…'

'Hewas not,' the woman interrupted with vehemence.

Gunnarstrandaraised his hand in defence. 'Let's not squabble about that. The fact of thematter is that many occasional drug-users often suffer from depression, longand short-term. A psychiatrist would be able to say something more intelligentthan you and I could about whether Henning's death was due to an acutedepression, drugs or no drugs. The third fact that suggests your son hangedhimself is his relationship with Katrine Bratterud.'

'Butwhy would the death of this poor girl suggest Henning would take his own life?'

Gunnarstrandaturned to the window again. In the street a middle-aged lady wearing pinkshorts and a white blouse walked past. She was pushing a pram. 'Give it somethought,' he said.

'Whatdo you think I'm doing? I've been doing nothing else for the last day or so,but it doesn't make sense to me.'

'Whatif Henning killed Katrine?' Gunnarstranda said.

'Areyou crazy? He loved her!'

'Ican understand your reaction,' the policeman said. 'But since I've beenemployed to clear up this case, it would be unforgivable of me not to keep theoption open that he might have killed her. If Henning did do it, you couldunderstand this resulting in a depression, which in turn may have fed tosuicide, especially if he loved her as you say he did.'