Death In Oslo

V

The young police lawyer was bored. He had been fining people for nearly three hours in an attempt to empty the overcrowded cells. Over half of them were teenagers whose bodies were still not rid of the national-day celebrations. They stood in front of him, one after the other, with hangovers, staring at the floor as they stammered their polite apologies and promised never to do it again. A couple of older drunk drivers tried to drum up an argument, but piped down when threatened with continued detention, and were then released on bail.

The remainder were old acquaintances. Most of them were in fact grateful for free accommodation in a place that was at least warm and dry. The police lawyer had never seen the point in fining people who then had to go to social services to get the money to pay the fine. But he was just doing his job, and soon enough he’d gone through the list.

‘How’s things?’

The young man held out his hand to Bugs Bunny. He normally gave arrestees nothing more than a nod, but Bugsy was in a class of his own. He was a thief by profession and had been a very good one in his day. But he had lost all the fingers on his left hand during a disastrous attempt to blow a safe in the seventies, and alcohol had consumed the rest of his body since then. His real name was Snorre. He had been given his nickname in the days when he still had teeth, because they were so big, and it had stuck ever since. Now he kept himself busy by stealing from lorries that had been left open, cellar storerooms with simple padlocks, and the odd shop. But he was always caught. The notion of modern surveillance equipment had passed him by. He would stand there, resigned, with the stolen goods under his arm as the alarm sounded and the security guards came bounding over.

Bugs Bunny had never physically hurt another person.

‘Not good,’ he complained and sat down carefully on the spindly chair.

‘You don’t look good either,’ the police lawyer said.

‘Cancer. Down below. Really bad.’

‘Are you getting any help?’

‘Pah, not a lot they can do now, you see.’

‘So why did you attempt to break into a chemist shop then?’

‘The pain. The bloody pain.’

‘You’re not up to a chemist shop, Bugsy. Alarms and all that. And the stronger drugs are locked away in a store cupboard that I quite honestly don’t think you could bust, even if you did, against all odds, manage to get into the shop. It was a bit stupid of you, you know.’

Bugsy moaned and rubbed his neck with his left hand.

‘Yes,’ he mumbled. ‘But fucking hell, it hurts.’

The police lawyer tipped his chair back. It was quiet in the small room, and they could hear an argument going on out by the front desk. Someone was crying – it sounded like a young woman. The police lawyer looked at Bugs Bunny’s face, and he could have sworn he saw tears in the worn old man’s eyes.

‘Here,’ he said suddenly and took his wallet out of his jacket pocket. ‘The offies are open again today. Get yourself something strong.’

He handed him a five-hundred-kroner note. Bugs Bunny’s toothless mouth dropped open in disbelief. He shot a glance at the uniformed policeman on duty by the door, who just smiled and looked away.

‘Thanks,’ Bugs Bunny whispered. ‘You guys are something else.’

‘Yes, but I can’t get rid of these,’ the police lawyer said with his hand on the documents. ‘I assume that you’ll be up in the magistrates’ court, as usual.’

‘Course, yeah. I stand for what I’ve done, you know. Always. Thank you, thanks.’ He stroked the banknote.

‘You can go then. And stop breaking into places. You’re not up to it any more, OK?’

Bugs Bunny got up as carefully as he had sat down. He stuffed the money in his pocket. Normally he would be out of the station as fast as his thin legs would carry him. But now he stood there, swaying slightly, apparently in his own world.

‘Ten past four, it was,’ he said suddenly. ‘That’s when the President got in the car.’

‘What?’

‘Was watching TV yesterday, and realised that the lady I’d seen in the morning was the one you’re all after.’

The police lawyer peered at him as if he hadn’t quite understood what he’d said. Then the uniformed policeman by the door took a step towards the arrestee.

‘Sit back down,’ the police lawyer said.

‘You said I could go.’

‘Sit down, Bugsy. Let’s go over this first.’

The old man sat down again, reluctantly.

‘I’ve just told you all there is to tell,’ he said sullenly.

‘I just want to get this completely clear. Where were you yesterday morning?’

‘I’d been at a party at Backyard Berit’s. Lives down in Skippergata. Was going home, you know. I looked at the clock as I passed Central Station. Ten past four. Then a woman and two blokes crossed the square. They got in a car. The woman was blonde in that way older women are. Bottle blonde. Was wearing a red jacket, just like the one on TV.’

The police lawyer said nothing. He got hold of his snus box and put a pillow under his lip. Then he held the box out to Bugsy, who packed half the contents over his destroyed gums. The man in uniform put a hand on his shoulder, as if to prevent him from running away.

‘And this was yesterday,’ the policeman said slowly. ‘The seventeenth of May?’

‘Yep,’ Bugsy replied, irritated, and spat out a black gob. ‘I might not be at my best, but I’m not so bloody gone that I can’t remember national day!’

‘And it was ten past four. In the morning. Are you sure of that?’

‘Yes, I just said. And now I want to go to the offy.’

He pulled out the five-hundred-kroner note and smoothed it over his knee. Then he neatly and carefully folded it again and put it back in the other pocket. The police lawyer exchanged looks with the policeman.

‘I’m afraid that may have to wait,’ he said. ‘But we’ll get you some painkillers in the meantime.’

He picked up the phone, but had problems hitting the right numbers.