'Sorgenfri was the name of the palace belonging to Christophe, the Haitian king who committed suicide when he was taken prisoner by the French, or as they called it Sans Souci. So, carefree. Carefree Street. Sorgenfrigata. He pointed the cannons at the heavens to avenge himself on God, you know.'
'Well…'
'And I suppose you know what the writer, Ola Bauer, said about this street? I moved to Sorgenfrigata, but that didn't help much, either.' Aune was laughing so much his double chin was wobbling.
Halvorsen stood outside the door waiting. 'I met Bjarne Mшller as I was leaving the station,' he said. 'He was under the impression this case was done and dusted.'
'We just need to tie up a few loose ends,' Harry said, unlocking the door with the key the electrician had given him.
The police tape in front of the door had been removed and the body taken away; otherwise nothing had been touched since the evening before. They went into the bedroom. The white sheet on the large bed shone in the half- light.
'What are we looking for then?' Halvorsen asked as Harry drew the curtains.
'A spare key for the flat,' Harry answered.
'Why's that?'
'We presumed she had a spare key, the one she gave to the electrician. I've been doing a bit of checking. System keys can't be cut at any locksmith; they have to be ordered from the manufacturer via an authorised locksmith. Since the key fits the main door and the cellar door, the housing committee with responsibility for the block of flats wants control of them. Therefore flat residents have to apply for written permission from the committee when they order new keys, don't they. According to an agreement with the committee, it is the authorised locksmith's duty to keep a list of the keys issued to every single flat. I rang Lеsesmeden, the locksmith in Vibes gate, last night. Anna Bethsen was issued two spare keys, thus making three in all. We found one in the flat and the electrician had one. But where is the third? Until it has been found, we cannot rule out the possibility that someone was here when she died and locked the door on their way out.'
Halvorsen nodded slowly: 'The third key, mm.'
'The third key. Can you start over here, Halvorsen, and I'll show Aune something in the meantime?'
'OK.'
'Right, and one more thing. Don't be surprised if you find my mobile phone. I think I left it here yesterday afternoon.'
'I thought you said you lost it the day before.'
'I found it again. And lost it again. You know…'
Halvorsen shook his head. Harry led Aune into the corridor towards the reception rooms. 'I asked you because you're the only person I know who paints.'
'Unfortunately, that is a slight exaggeration.' Aune was still out of breath from the stairs.
'Yes, but you know a little about art, so I hope you can make something of this.'
Harry opened the sliding doors to the furthest room, switched on the light and pointed. Instead of looking at the three paintings, Aune sucked in his breath and walked over to the three-headed standard lamp. He took his glasses from the inside pocket of his tweed jacket, bent down and read the heavy plinth.
'I say!' he exclaimed with enthusiasm. 'A genuine Grimmer lamp.'
'Grimmer?'
'Bertol Grimmer. World-famous German designer. Among other things, he designed the victory monument which Hitler had erected in Paris in 1941. He could have been one of the greatest artists of our time, but at the zenith of his career it came out that he was three-quarters Romany. He was sent to a concentration camp and his name was erased from several buildings and works of art he had worked on. Grimmer survived, but both his hands had been shattered in the quarry where the gypsies worked. He continued to work after the War although he never attained the same magnificent heights because of his injuries. This must be from the post-War years, though, I would wager.' Aune took off the lampshade.
Harry coughed: 'I was actually thinking more about these portraits.'
'Amateur,' Aune snorted. 'You would do better to concentrate on this elegant statue of a woman. The goddess Nemesis, Bertol Grimmer's favourite motif after the War. The goddess of revenge. Incidentally, revenge is a frequent motive in suicides, you know. They feel it is someone's fault their lives have been unsuccessful, and they want to inflict this guilt on others by committing suicide. Bertol Grimmer also took his own life, after his wife's, because she had a lover. Revenge, revenge, revenge. Did you know that humans are the only living creatures to practise revenge? The interesting thing about revenge-'
'Aune?'
'Oh yes, these pictures, you wanted me to interpret them, didn't you? Hm, they look not too dissimilar to the Rorschach blot.'
'The pictures you give to patients to prompt associations?'
'Correct. The problem here is that if I interpret these pictures, it will probably say more about my inner life than hers. Except that no one believes in the Rorschach blot any more, so why not? Let me see…These pictures are very dark, possibly more angry than depressed. One of them clearly isn't finished, though.'
'Perhaps it's supposed to be like that, perhaps it forms a whole?'
'What makes you say that?'
'I don't know, perhaps because the light from the three individual lamps falls perfectly on its own picture?'
'Hm.' Aune placed an arm over his chest and rested a forefinger on his lips. 'You're right. Of course you're right. And do you know what, Harry?'
'No. What?'
'They mean nothing to me at all-please excuse the expression-absolutely bugger all. Have we finished?'
'Yes. Oh, by the way, there is just one minor detail, since you paint. As you can see, the palette is on the left of the easel. Isn't that extremely impractical?'
'Yes, unless you're left-handed.'
'I see. I'll have to help Halvorsen. I don't know how I can thank you.'
'I know. I'll add an hour to my next invoice.'
Halvorsen had finished in the bedroom.
'She didn't have many possessions,' he said. 'It's a bit like searching a hotel room. Just clothes, toiletries, an iron, towels, bed linen and so on. No picture of the family, no letters or personal papers.'
An hour later, Harry knew exactly what Halvorsen meant. They had gone through the whole flat and were back in the bedroom without having turned up so much as a telephone bill or a bank statement.
'That's the strangest thing I've ever experienced,' Halvorsen said, sitting down opposite Harry at the writing desk. 'She must have cleaned up. Perhaps she wanted to take everything with her, her whole person, when she went, if you know what I mean.'
'I do. You didn't see any signs of a laptop?'
'Laptop?'
'Portable PC.'
'What are you talking about?'
'Can't you see the faded square on the wood here?' Harry pointed to the desk between them. 'Looks like there's been a laptop here and it's been moved.'
'Does it?'
Harry could feel Halvorsen's probing eyes.
In the street, they stood staring up at her windows in the pale yellow facade while Harry smoked a stray concertinaed cigarette he had found lying in the inside pocket of his coat.
'That family business was strange, wasn't it,' Halvorsen said.
'The what?'
'Didn't Mшller tell you? They couldn't find the addresses of her parents, brothers, sisters or anyone, just an
