Chapter Thirty-Four
Gunnarstrandahad just put a pan of potatoes on the stove when the telephone rang.
'Iknow what you're going to say,' Frølich said before Gunnarstranda couldanswer with his usual arrogance. Frølich went on: 'I'm ringing from thearchives.'
Gunnarstrandawatched Kalfatrus swimming restlessly around his glass bowl. The water wasbeginning to get dirty. Algae and sediment. 'Why's that?' he asked looking downat himself. In his hand he was holding a knife with a blob of butter on the tipand a fork.
'Becauseof Tormod Stamnes – the social worker who administered Katrine Bratterud'sadoption. The guy's over seventy years old and in reduced circumstances,' Frølichsaid.
'Reducedin what sense?'
'Hegoes to Lorry during the day. He's one of the boys who hangs his head over hisbeer glass for ten minutes, then drains it in one go.'
'Isee.'
'Howmuch would you be willing to pay for a good motive?' Frølich asked witha grin.
'That'show you want to top up your pay, is it? I've got a frying pan on the go in thekitchen,' Gunnarstranda growled.
'Stamneswas involved in the relocation of Katrine in 1977. But that's not the mostinteresting bit. The crazy thing is that this guy spoke to Katrine the daybefore she was killed.'
Gunnarstrandaput the kitchen utensils down beside Kalfatrus's bowl. His eyes glowed with thefiery intensity of old as he bit his lip and inhaled.
'Thisguy seems a bit dodgy,' Frølich said. 'For a long time he pretended hedidn't understand what I was talking about. But then when I mentioned her nameand said she was dead it gave him a shock. There was a real reaction and it allcame out. She'd been there and he'd given her the name of her real mother.Katrine had got everything he knew out of him. The day before she was killed!'
'Whatwas her real name?'
'Lockert,'Frølich said. 'Katrine's real mother's name was Helene Lockert.'
'There'ssomething about that name,' Gunnarstranda muttered, thinking hard.«- 'I thoughtyou would say something like that,' Frølich whinnied down the line.'Does it ring a bell?'
'Notat this moment.'
'HeleneLockert died when Katrine was two years old. But that's not the mostinteresting thing. The most interesting thing is the cause of death.'
'Andthat was?'
'TheLockert case. In Lillehammer in 1977. Helene Lockert was strangled and left fordead in her house. Killer unknown.'
Chapter Thirty-Five
Afterthe policeman had gone she plucked up her courage and began to tidy Henning'sthings. The thought of being in contact with his clothes still repelled her.Seeing his things lying around, where they'd been left, knowing he would neveruse them again, every little detail reminded her of him, reminded her that hewas dead. Outliving your children is a terrible fate, she thought. It is theworst thing that can happen to anyone. When she had finally brought herself toenter his room, she stood studying the room as though it were the first timeshe had seen it.
Thepoliceman had asked about a letter. But she dreaded going through his drawers,touching his things, confronting her grief, her loss, her emotion. She wasexhausted from thinking thoughts about what he would never achieve, what hiswould never learn, what he would never do or the joys he would never bring her.You should never have dreams, she thought. It's dangerous to dream becausedreams make you vulnerable. Dreams that plummet to earth create the greatestpain. She should never have nurtured dreams for Henning. Everyone has enough todeal with inside themselves. She stood in a daze, contemplating sweaters,trousers, shoes that would never be filled with his body, his spirit or hispersonality.
Ihave to think about something practical, she said to herself. She didn't wantto lift the clothing. It was impregnated with his scent and she knew that wouldbe too much for her. I have to reconcile myself to the fact that Henning isdead, she thought, that he will never come back – not here, not to this life.Her gaze fell on a red book on the bed. The author was Carl Gustav Jung, one ofHenning's favourite gurus. Henning had said Jung was the internalized Hindu;Jung had a theory that time was an illusion. Those were the words he had used.The soul isn't reborn, Mum. We live different lives all the time. While you areliving this life as my mother you're living another life, in another time,maybe as a French citizen in a Paris commune, maybe as a Stone Age woman, maybeas a camel!
'Camel!'she had screamed in consternation, rejecting his suggestion. The incident stillmade her smile. She sat down on the bed. Of course he was right. There had tobe something after death. Something roaming other places, beyond the mortalframe, whether it was called a soul or a spirit or energy. But Henning had notdone away with himself, she was certain of that. The mere idea of doing awayWith yourself would have been totally alien to him; it wasn't a way of thinkinghe would have been able to accept. She should have said that to the policeman.In those precise words. Henning did not understand what suicide was.
IfHenning was living on some other transient spiritual plane, there was stillhope. Hope of a spiritual plane, some form of mental substance – a god. But howwould Henning meet God? After all, he had criticized the Bible as no more thana collection of myths and good stories, and called himself a religiousagnostic.
Hereyes fell on the white marble box he had brought back with him from India lastsummer. She stood up and wondered whether she dared to hold it. A small marblebox decorated with onyx and mother of pearl. She studied the box, foughtagainst her feelings, overcame her desire to turn away and lifted the box up.At once she flinched. There was something inside. A low, dry sound indicatedthat something slid around every time she moved her hand. There was somethingin the little box. A flood of new emotions streamed through her. It had to beprecious. And therefore something secret. Henning had a secret. Would it beright to pry? Or to be more accurate: did she have the strength to pry? Wouldanother unachievable dream issue forth only to dash all her hopes yet again,with all the injustice of fate?
Shefought an internal struggle. With tears in her eyes she removed the lid fromthe little marble box. And found herself looking at a ring.
Aring. She put the box down on his desk and lifted the ring. A heavy ring, abroad ring with two stones inset. She examined it. The ceiling lamp wasreflected in all the facets of the two jewels. The light seemed to be suckedinto the stones and to explode out again. This was no cheap bauble. Shescrutinized the ring. There seemed to be something engraved on the inside.Katrine, she read and burst into tears. The box had contained a vain dream,a dream that might have been better remaining a secret.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Gunnarstrandaused his legs and strolled down Maridalsveien to Beyer Bridge. He needed tothink and he hated changing buses, so he decided to take a tram instead, a tramto the other side of town. He crossed the Akerselva on foot. By the bridgethere was a kind of art installation with balloons. He continued down ThorvaldMeyers gate towards Birkelunden. He tried to imagine Katrine Bratterud at themoment she found out the truth about her biological mother. Katrine at the endof her quest. A social worker who would open the door for her, the door out ofa life lived in dreams. Would she have been disappointed? He supposed not. Thediscovery that the mother had been a murder victim of an unknown killer simplythrew up yet more secrets.
Gunnarstranda'sattitude to the new development in the case was split. On the one hand, it wasnot good to extend the confines of the investigation too far since it isimportant to concentrate your energies on the most fertile, and the mostlogical, ground. In this sense, a murder committed many years ago in adifferent location could be a dead end. On the other hand, the informationabout Katrine's biological mother was so sensational that it would be adereliction of duty to ignore it.