'Ohthat? Well, Bueng was a ladies' man, a Casanova, had a number of women on thego. We had a theory about jealousy and brought in a stack of women forquestioning, but that trail petered out, too. Hell, I hate cases that are nevercleared up!'
Horgenrose to his feet. 'They never give you any peace,' he added to himself.
Gunnarstrandathrew the cigarette out of the window and folded his hands in front of hischest. 'Gut instinct? Was it Bueng, off the record?'
'No…or I don't know. I think he was given a pretty thorough going-over.'
'Butwhat do you think deep down?'
Horgengave a laconic smile. 'Forget the Lockert case. It's nine to one that thesuicide victim raped and killed Helene Lockert's daughter. Are you a bettingman?'
Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'This Lockert trail may be a shot in the dark, but I had anidea,' Gunnarstranda said. 'If you've given the case a lot of thought, and I amsure you have, then you've kept tabs – haven't you? – checked a few things out,and my idea was…'
'Youridea was…?'
'…that you might know where I could find old Bueng.'
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Noone answered his knock. He opened the door and walked in. 'Hello,' he shouted,still without any response. There was a solitary armchair situated under awindow. He went in further and stopped where the wall ended and the room turneda corner. An elderly man lay sleeping on a bed in the alcove to the right. Theold man was fully dressed. The policeman hesitated, in two minds. He lookedround at the bare walls. A room devoid of any personal touch. For one briefmoment he saw himself living his last days in this way. It was a possibilityafter all. He was alone. Or he might become ill. Seeing himself on the bed forthat brief instant made him see the room with new eyes. The man living here haddone nothing to personalize the room. A creeping sense of shame overcameGunnarstranda for bursting in, for standing there as if the room were his own,an intruder in another man's home, a man who didn't know he was there.
Theman on the bed was sleeping soundlessly. Only the heaving chest covered withthe grey woollen sweater bore witness to the fact that he was breathing.Gunnarstranda's eyes flitted across the dressing table with the closed drawersand the shelves of the bedside table. An old portable radio, a Radionette,stood on the dresser. The aerial was broken and its shiny stump pointed intothe air at an angle.
Gunnarstrandaran his eyes over the sleeping man once more. Bueng was thin, long andgrey-haired with a sharp profile: his skin was wrinkled, but the nose wasstraight; his chin long and pointed; his lips sensitive but severe.
Thepoliceman exited and closed the door behind him. In the corridor he stoodlooking around, perplexed. Perhaps you weren't allowed to personalize yourroom, he wondered. Perhaps there were house rules, barracks regulations, likein the army. The walls of Bueng's room were bare. No pictures, no books.
Awoman in a long skirt with a shawl over her shoulders came tramping down thecorridor. She looked fifty-ish and seemed to be an employee of the institution.There was something quite natural about the way she held herself; she enteredthe corridor with self-assurance as though she had paraded down it countlesstimes. A woman with auburn hair, kind eyes and a charming slanted smile. 'May Ibe of help?'
'Bueng,'Gunnarstranda said.
'Rightbehind you.'
'He'sasleep,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Aha,'the woman said with another charming slanted smile. 'I see.'
Gunnarstrandanodded and experienced a rare moment of gentle tenderness for a stranger.
'Waithere,' she said, patting him on the shoulder, and continued down the corridorfrom which she disappeared into an office. Soon afterwards Gunnarstranda hearda bell ring in the room behind him. It rang for a long time. Eventually thesound was cut short and a gruff voice said something inside. The office door atthe end of the corridor was opened and the woman with the shawl peered out.'Knock on the door,' she mouthed and mimed knocking motions with her fist.
Gunnarstrandafollowed instructions.
Buengopened the door a crack. 'Yes,' he said in a friendly, inquisitive voice.
Gunnarstrandaintroduced himself. 'I'm a policeman,' he added.
'Ohyes?' Bueng said. 'Policeman, yes. Policeman.'
Theman suffered from Parkinson's disease. The shaking of his arms caused him tokeep hitting the door frame with his hand – as if he were tapping a melody.
Gunnarstrandaglanced towards the office door whence the woman with the shawl sent him herbroadest beam yet.
Gunnarstrandatook a deep breath. 'Would you like to come for a walk with me?' he asked andheard the woman with the shawl approaching from the right.
'Bueng'slegs are not very strong,' she explained.
'Butwe have some wonderful benches in the garden.'
Buengmanaged to walk unaided although his progress was slow. His hands and armsshook without cease. Gunnarstranda held the front door open for him. Theyexchanged glances. Bueng raised one shaking arm. 'Bloody shakes,' he mumbledand shuffled slowly into the sun. It was a beautiful garden with high cypresshedges, gravel paths and fine, waxlike begonias growing in lines along theedging stones by the path. But those who tended the flowers didn't have a clueabout roses, the policeman noted. In the middle of the lawn was an ailing shrubrosebush with no flowers. A strong, thorny, light-green sucker had shot upbetween the sparse leaves, like a spear. In front of this monstrosity of a rosewas a green bench around which a dozen or so small sparrows were hopping andpecking at biscuit crumbs on the ground. The two men took a seat on the bench.The conversation flowed without a hitch as long as they talked about nurses andmedication. However, Bueng clammed up when Gunnarstranda asked about HeleneLockert. 'This is about her daughter,' the policeman explained. 'Katrine. Shehas been killed.'
'Thedaughter,' Bueng mused.
'Yes,'said the policeman.
'Birthscan't be undone,' Bueng mumbled, then added, 'It's the only dream you wake upfrom and you can never go back to sleep.'
'Mm…,'Gunnarstranda said, wondering how to proceed.
'Andnow you say she's dead. The girl, too,' the old man declared. They sat lookinginto the distance. Gunnarstranda felt an ache in his fingertips to search hispockets for a cigarette.
'Wewere going to get married,' Bueng pronounced at length. 'Though nothing came ofit.'
'No,'the policeman concurred.
Silencedescended over both of them once again. Gunnarstranda stuffed his hands in hispockets to rummage around for cigarettes while trying to devise a strategy toproceed. On a bench further up two elderly ladies were sitting and eatingmuffins.
Aftera while they heard steps on the gravel and Bueng glanced up. 'Don't let him gethis hands on anything,' he murmured. 'He ruins everything he touches. The otherday he was fiddling around with the hedge clippers for hours and as soon as thehandyman started them up they fell apart. Some help. And then afterwards he hadto tamper with a brand-new lawnmower. It was kaput by the time he'd finishedwith it.'
'Whoare you talking about?' Gunnarstranda asked in a whisper.
'Himover there. The one with the grey hat. Now he's off to do some repairs. I cansee that by the way he's walking.'
Thepoliceman followed his gaze and saw an elderly man wearing a grey beret on thegravel path, striding out with his legs splayed to the side. In his hand he wasswinging a large wrench to and fro.
'Bueng,you had a lot of women apart from Helene Lockert in those days,' Gunnarstrandainterrupted with a firmness of purpose. 'Now those days are gone. A lot ofwater has flowed under the bridge. No one is interested in past sins anylonger. Who were you with at that time?'
'Ah,death, yes,' Bueng said philosophically. 'You only have to walk down KarlJohans gate to see how ineffective death is. No, you can see it here. Look atall of us!'