trudging back to the bowl. He took the yellow packet of
fish food, opened it and tapped a bit out with his forefinger. Tiny flakes
floated on the surface of the water. Giddy with happiness the fish about-turned,
swam to the top and nibbled at the food. 'Would you like a name?' he asked the
fish and considered the three wise men in the Bible. The name of one of the
wise men might suit the fish. If the Hindus' theories were right, if the fish
had high negative karma, it might indeed have been one of them. But
Gunnarstranda could not remember the names of the wise men. Yes, he did, one of
them: Melchior. Rotten name for a fish. One was called Balthasar. That was
better, but not very original. He kept thinking. 'You could be called… you
could be called…' This was not his strong suit. He had a sudden inspiration.
'Kalfatrus,' he said aloud and straightened up with satisfaction. 'Good name.
Kalfatrus.'
The
moment the word was spoken the telephone rang.
Gunnarstranda
checked his watch and met Kalfatrus's eyes. 'I don't think we'll be seeing each
other so often in the future,' he said to the goldfish and turned towards the
telephone. He padded across. 'It's Sunday morning,' he continued. 'I haven't
shaved, and, in fact, I had a few plans for today. If the phone rings at
moments like these it can mean only one thing.'
He
placed a hand on the telephone, which continued to ring furiously. The two of
them looked at each other across the room for two brief seconds. A policeman
and a goldfish exchanging glances. Inspector Gunnarstranda cleared his voice,
snatched at the receiver and barked: 'Please be brief.'
----
Chapter Six
Vinterhagen
Neither
of them had much appetite after the autopsy. They stood outside in the car
park, gazing pensively into the air. It had stopped raining, Frank Frølich
confirmed. The wind was making the trees sway and dispersing the clouds; the
hot sun was beginning to dry the tarmac. He considered what they had found out
and wondered how to tackle the case, or to be more precise: how Gunnarstranda
thought the case should be tackled. In the end, the latter broke the silence:
'Did you see the news last night?'
'Missed
it,' answered Frank Frølich.
'Quite
a big deal. Pictures of a helicopter and the whole shebang. But they had a
pretty good portrait, a facial composite. I suppose that gave them the lead.'
'Sure,'
Frølich said, uninterested. The problem was matching them, matching the
lifeless flesh on the table with a name, with a living woman. 'Katrine,' he
said with a cough. 'Wasn't that the name?'
Gunnarstranda
repeated the name as though tasting it on his tongue. 'Lots of women called
Katrine Bratterud. Unusual tattoo on the stomach, so it looks as if we've got
something to go on. But having something to go on is not enough.' Gunnarstranda
studied his notes and pointed to the car. 'To Sørkedalen.'
They
drove in silence with Frølich behind the wheel. Gunnarstranda sat
crouched in the front seat with his light summer coat pulled tight around him,
mute. Frølich was still searching for music he liked on the radio. Every
time the voices in the speakers turned out to be commercials he changed
channel. He kept clicking until he found music he liked. Gunnarstranda looked
down with annoyance at the finger pressing the search button. He said: 'I've
heard that voice three times now. If you click on that station again, I'm going
to demand to know what she's talking about.'
Frølich
didn't answer. There was no point. He continued to search until the husky voice
of Tom Waits emerged through the speakers.
They
passed Vestre cemetery and drove from Smestad up Sorkedalsveien past
camouflaged houses and protected conservation areas. For a while they were
driving side by side with a train on the Шsterеs Metro line. Two small children
in the front carriage were banging their hands on the window
fish food, opened it and tapped a bit out with his forefinger. Tiny flakes
floated on the surface of the water. Giddy with happiness the fish about-turned,
swam to the top and nibbled at the food. 'Would you like a name?' he asked the
fish and considered the three wise men in the Bible. The name of one of the
wise men might suit the fish. If the Hindus' theories were right, if the fish
had high negative karma, it might indeed have been one of them. But
Gunnarstranda could not remember the names of the wise men. Yes, he did, one of
them: Melchior. Rotten name for a fish. One was called Balthasar. That was
better, but not very original. He kept thinking. 'You could be called… you
could be called…' This was not his strong suit. He had a sudden inspiration.
'Kalfatrus,' he said aloud and straightened up with satisfaction. 'Good name.
Kalfatrus.'
The
moment the word was spoken the telephone rang.
Gunnarstranda
checked his watch and met Kalfatrus's eyes. 'I don't think we'll be seeing each
other so often in the future,' he said to the goldfish and turned towards the
telephone. He padded across. 'It's Sunday morning,' he continued. 'I haven't
shaved, and, in fact, I had a few plans for today. If the phone rings at
moments like these it can mean only one thing.'
He
placed a hand on the telephone, which continued to ring furiously. The two of
them looked at each other across the room for two brief seconds. A policeman
and a goldfish exchanging glances. Inspector Gunnarstranda cleared his voice,
snatched at the receiver and barked: 'Please be brief.'
----
Chapter Six
Vinterhagen
Neither
of them had much appetite after the autopsy. They stood outside in the car
park, gazing pensively into the air. It had stopped raining, Frank Frølich
confirmed. The wind was making the trees sway and dispersing the clouds; the
hot sun was beginning to dry the tarmac. He considered what they had found out
and wondered how to tackle the case, or to be more precise: how Gunnarstranda
thought the case should be tackled. In the end, the latter broke the silence:
'Did you see the news last night?'
'Missed
it,' answered Frank Frølich.
'Quite
a big deal. Pictures of a helicopter and the whole shebang. But they had a
pretty good portrait, a facial composite. I suppose that gave them the lead.'
'Sure,'
Frølich said, uninterested. The problem was matching them, matching the
lifeless flesh on the table with a name, with a living woman. 'Katrine,' he
said with a cough. 'Wasn't that the name?'
Gunnarstranda
repeated the name as though tasting it on his tongue. 'Lots of women called
Katrine Bratterud. Unusual tattoo on the stomach, so it looks as if we've got
something to go on. But having something to go on is not enough.' Gunnarstranda
studied his notes and pointed to the car. 'To Sørkedalen.'
They
drove in silence with Frølich behind the wheel. Gunnarstranda sat
crouched in the front seat with his light summer coat pulled tight around him,
mute. Frølich was still searching for music he liked on the radio. Every
time the voices in the speakers turned out to be commercials he changed
channel. He kept clicking until he found music he liked. Gunnarstranda looked
down with annoyance at the finger pressing the search button. He said: 'I've
heard that voice three times now. If you click on that station again, I'm going
to demand to know what she's talking about.'
Frølich
didn't answer. There was no point. He continued to search until the husky voice
of Tom Waits emerged through the speakers.
They
passed Vestre cemetery and drove from Smestad up Sorkedalsveien past
camouflaged houses and protected conservation areas. For a while they were
driving side by side with a train on the Шsterеs Metro line. Two small children
in the front carriage were banging their hands on the window
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