Everything like before, p.18
Everything Like Before, page 18
Until this point Carl Lange had looked the policeman in the eye. Now he lowered his gaze, standing for a moment with eyes downcast before slowly beginning to remove his trousers. He felt an intense defiance within, but it was impotent, resigned almost, so instead of going to the bedroom and changing he undressed right in front of them. He then stood in his green briefs with the light corduroy trousers in his hand. The policeman took them without a word. Carl Lange went to the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He took his time. He found himself unable to think straight. From the living room he could hear the sound of low voices. He put on a pair of trousers almost identical to the pair he had handed over. The telephone rang. He went in to the living room and picked it up.
“Yes?”
“It’s Robert. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“I…are you calling from home?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll ring you back in a little while.”
He replaced the receiver quickly. Then looked at the policemen and said:
“Was there anything else?”
“Not at the moment. Here’s a receipt for the coat and trousers. We’ll be in touch. You don’t have any travel plans in the near future?”
“No.”
“Try not to take this personally.”
“No kidding. By the way I didn’t catch your name.”
“Hans Osmundsen.”
“Hans Osmundsen.”
He went over to the desk and wrote his name on the back of an envelope, then turned and said: “Well, that was everything.”
They left. Carl Lange stood by the window watching the car start up and drive away.
Then he went to the kitchen and looked in the mirror. He was aware he had to return a call but he put that to one side. He found the blue plastic washbasin and filled it with hot water, then went to the bathroom and fetched a safety razor and a scissors. A few minutes later his beard was gone. He looked at himself, thinking: why did he ask if I’d been shopping at Irma?
When he had rinsed the basin and returned it to the cupboard he went to make the call.
“It’s Carl. I had my mother over, she was just on her way out when you called.”
“Ah, of course, I understood it was something or other. Well, anyway, I was calling because I’ve a colleague visiting from Germany, West Germany, a nice guy who I’m sure you’d get on well with, he speaks English, but his wife is with him and she understands only German, and that’s not exactly my strong suit. So I was wondering if you had the opportunity to pop by this evening – do you?”
“Now, let me think. This evening? I’m working on something with a tight deadline, you see.”
“Really. That’s a shame. Still, do try and make it over, Carl, if you can.”
“Okay, I’ll try but I’m not promising anything.”
“Alright, Carl, thanks.”
He put the phone down and remained standing, thinking: if they weren’t bluffing about the description, why didn’t they arrest me? They must have been bluffing. Or else they’re giving me enough rope to see what I get up to?
Carl Lange began pacing back and forth across the not particularly lengthy floor; he went over the conversation with the policeman again, attempting to deduce the gist of what he had said. He arrived at no other conclusion than the obvious: he was suspected of having raped an underage girl.
* * *
—
A couple of hours later, Carl Lange left the apartment. He did not meet anyone on the stairs; if however he had, that person would have observed that he looked different. He had not only shaved off his beard; his hair was noticeably shorter and he was wearing a peaked cap he had not used in years. He was dressed in dark-colored trousers and a well-worn, almost threadbare, reefer jacket. No one who knew him would have had any difficulty in recognizing him but he looked different. The description no longer matched.
There were two reasons that Carl Lange went out. He wanted to see if the police were keeping him under surveillance, in which case he wanted to shake them. That was one reason. The other was an increasing desperation that made the apartment feel cramped: he had been fingered (at Irma? – by whom?) as a sexual offender, and two policemen had, after meeting and speaking to him, upheld that suspicion. They had met him and spoken to him, and he had not managed to convince them that he was not a sexual offender!
His first reason for going out was soon cleared up. No one was following him. With the benefit of hindsight, this became obvious to him: of course there wasn’t; the police could hardly imagine that he’d go out straight away and commit another rape.
But the second reason compelled him to keep walking the streets, without being able to put any of the humiliation behind him. At one point he considered heading straight for the police station to call on this Osmundsen and tell him who he was, but he was stopped by a paralyzing counter-argument: who I am?
* * *
—
He did not go to Robert’s place; that seemed impracticable, not least because he had altered his appearance. He pulled out the telephone lead. He tried to work but gave up. He was troubled by a memory that had cropped up while he was out roaming the streets. It was old, over twenty years old, the children had been small. They had an eight-year-old friend who liked looking after them. One afternoon he had been lying down for a rest in the bedroom, with only a light blanket over him when she came in, probably to ask about something or other. He had no recollection of what was said but while they were talking she began fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt. This he found arousing and he got an erection. He would have liked her to stay there and fiddle not just with the shirt button but with him, it was utterly preposterous but that was how it was. This was the memory that troubled him.
He took two sleeping pills and lay awake for a long time.
* * *
—
Next morning he alternated between sitting and pacing about, waiting for the telephone to ring. He had no idea how long they needed to examine the clothes they had taken but he was determined not to sit around waiting indefinitely to be cleared. Better to be proactive, he thought despondently.
The telephone did not ring so he went to the police station. He felt a mixture of aggression and fear. He asked to speak to Hans Osmundsen. He had to wait. He no longer knew what he was going to say. Everything he had planned to say now either seemed meaningless or he had forgotten it.
Osmundsen, sitting back in his chair, was neither friendly nor unfriendly.
“Take a seat,” he told him, but said nothing more.
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you,” Carl Lange said.
“Oh? Why’s that?”
“I want to get this business over with.”
“With regard to your involvement, you mean?”
“Yes. It’s not particularly pleasant to have this suspicion hanging over you.”
“The examination of your clothes has yet to be completed. Not that that necessarily means anything one way or another. As I’m sure you understand.”
“You mean it could serve to convict me but not to rule me out?”
“Precisely. You’ve shaved, I see. And cut your hair?”
Carl Lange did not reply. Osmundsen said:
“Yesterday you didn’t answer as to whether you had any witnesses who could confirm that you were home the night before last.”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I don’t have any witnesses. You don’t normally have witnesses to testify to your innocence. I’ve never had any need of witnesses.”
“You haven’t?”
“No.”
“Think back. To about eight years ago.”
Carl Lange was taken aback, did not understand.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“No? On the street, on St. Olavs Gate, does that ring a bell? You were taken into custody.”
“Oh, that. Yes, I remember now.”
“You’d forgotten about it?”
“Yes.”
“But now you remember?”
“I just said that.”
“And the details, do you recall them?”
“Yes, but what’s that got to do with this case?”
“Perhaps a great deal. Perhaps nothing. It’s too early to say.”
“Now listen here!”
“One moment, Lange. I have the police report in front of me. Let me sum up the main points. A patrol car was dispatched to 8 St. Olavs Gate in response to a call about an intoxicated girl who had lain down on the pavement to sleep. It was just before midnight and it was cold. By the time the police arrived a small crowd of eight to ten people had gathered and you were one of them. When the three officers attempted to bring the inebriated girl along with them you protested, saying she was supposed to go back to your place. You stated that she’d agreed to this and were so fiercely opposed to her being taken from you that the officers found it necessary to take you into custody. The girl was a minor.”
Carl Lange sat in silence for a long time. He was stunned. Eventually he got to his feet.
“Just sit down,” Osmundsen said.
Carl Lange remained standing. He stood loathing the man in front of him. He said:
“Thank you for the synopsis. I don’t know whether you’re the one being dishonest or the person who wrote the report. Once I’ve left, you might take the trouble to read my version of events, if it hasn’t been shredded that is.”
“I have read it.”
“In that case, you must also know that I was fined for obstructing the police. And that when I refused to pay the fine, it was waived, and the case was dropped. Why was that, do you think?”
Osmundsen looked at him but said nothing.
Carl Lange continued:
“The police report stated that I was intoxicated. That was untrue and I told them the staff of the restaurant I was at could confirm that. Furthermore, it stated that I was violent and had, among other things, been involved in a scuffle with an old man with a walking stick. However, I could also prove I had a three-day-old fractured rib. I was able to pick that police report apart, bit by bit, that’s why the case was dropped.”
“Yes, those officers did a poor job and it was to your benefit. They considered the whole thing a trivial matter and didn’t take down the names or addresses of any of the witnesses. But what are you getting so worked up for if everything you said checked out?”
“And how can you sit there so calmly when nothing you say checks out?”
“Why have you shaved off your beard and cut your hair?”
Carl Lange’s first thought was to snap at him, to say it was none of his business. But he held back. Instead he said:
“Because I have an imagination.”
He turned and left.
* * *
—
Carl Lange was at home. He paced the room. The telephone rang; he did not answer it. This was not how the world should be. The ringing continued for a long time. It might be the police, it might be anyone. He was not there. He went through his defeat at the hands of Osmundsen yet again, thinking about what he should have said. The only thing he was happy with was his parting shot. All the rest had been lacking and far too defensive.
It was not hard to understand Osmundsen’s sense of triumph in being able to produce the eight-year-old case, especially when he could point to the fact that the girl had been underage, which incidentally he hadn’t been aware of. He’d been walking up St. Olavs Gate that night, seen the figure lying against the cellar wall and thought it was a boy. Sleet was falling and he couldn’t bring himself to just walk past. He spoke to the figure but got no response. A young couple passing by stopped. He explained that he had a fractured rib but if they managed to give the guy a shake and bring him around, he could come home with him, as he lived nearby. “It’s not a he,” the woman said. “It’s a she.” He replied that it made no difference. They managed to bring her round. She wanted to go with him. At that moment the police car arrived. He tried to explain the situation and asked if it was really necessary for them to take her in. Their brusque rejections made him angry and he told him they were behaving in a pig-headed way. That was all it took; one of the officers placed him in an armlock, the pain of which was only exacerbated by his fractured rib, and he let out a scream. He was then bundled into the car and driven to the police station at 19 Møllergata.
This was what Osmundsen had used against him. He could see the logic in it. A middle-aged man wanted to bring a drunk underage girl home with him. He understood that was how it could look, especially now. He was a suspect. A social act had, in the light of the suspicion that had arisen, become asocial, criminal.
Carl Lange found that following his visit to the police station he was less preoccupied with being under suspicion of rape than with Hans Osmundsen the person, or rather, what he stood for. Hans Osmundsen was an enemy. In Carl Lange’s eyes he represented the cold, intelligent arrogance of power. His résumé of the police report had been a master class in exactly that; nothing he had said was expressly untrue but it had been thoroughly tendentious.
Carl Lange decided to pay him another visit.
* * *
—
However, Osmundsen called upon him instead, the following afternoon, together with the large policeman who had accompanied him previously. They had Carl’s clothes with them. He did not offer them a seat even though they stood towering over him. Nor did he ask them anything. He said:
“I was actually planning on calling on you.”
“That so?”
“I was surprised I haven’t been presented face-to-face to the girl in question. Or her to me, rather.”
“And you’re saying this now, after you have changed your appearance?”
“Well, you could always procure a matching fake beard for the occasion.”
“We could. But you’ve also cut your hair.”
“I do so at regular intervals. Are you unwilling to take a chance on her not recognizing me?”
Osmundsen did not answer, instead he said:
“The girl is still in an unstable condition after what happened. Her doctor won’t allow her be exposed to anything that may cause her further trauma.”
Carl Lange was silent for a few moments, then he said:
“I see. So that’s the reason. Why didn’t you tell me that right away? Why are you toying with me?”
“Why did you shave off your beard and cut your hair?”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“Your answer didn’t make any sense to me.”
“Because I didn’t want to have the same appearance as a rapist.”
“There are probably more clean-shaven rapists than bearded ones, just so you know.”
“That wasn’t a particularly intelligent comment.”
For the first time, Osmundsen looked uncomfortable. There was a flicker in his eyes. But he did not respond. Carl Lange said:
“But I doubt you came all this way just to ask me that.”
“We brought your clothes.”
“It takes two of you to return my clothes?”
“You haven’t asked about the results.”
“That wouldn’t be particularly smart. If I did, you might think I was unsure of whether or not you’d found something. Isn’t that so?”
“So you’ve thought it through. You’d like to give the impression of being confident we haven’t found anything?”
“Yes.”
“Suppose we have found something.”
“Then things would have turned out the way you wanted.”
“We found traces of semen.”
Carl Lange didn’t reply. He didn’t need to think very long to know that what Osmundsen was saying could be true and he felt himself blush with shame. He was simultaneously gripped by anger; this was his private life, an intimate matter, taboo for all but himself.
“You’re very quiet,” Osmundsen said.
“I don’t respond to trickery. You haven’t found anything of relevance to the case so just swallow the defeat. You’re a pretty vile individual, but you’re no doubt aware of that.”
“You’re getting pretty carried away. I’m trying to solve a vile crime, the vilest kind I know of.”
Carl Lange knew he had over-reacted but his anger hadn’t subsided and he said:
“Meaning then you’re allowed resort to vile tricks?”
“I’m just telling you what we found.”
“Sure. And what conclusions do you draw from that?”
“Nothing definite. But your reaction was considerably stronger than I expected.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Tell me something, have you found any other suspects apart from me?”
Osmundsen merely looked at him.
“Are you even looking for anyone else? Since, as you say, you are trying to solve the vilest crime you can think of. Am I the only person in the whole of Oslo who matches the description given by a terrified girl?”
“Are you attempting to cast doubt on the description she has given?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Osmundsen was silent.
Carl Lange turned and walked to the window, stood with his back to them.
“We’ll be in touch,” he heard Osmundsen say. He did not turn around but heard them leave.
* * *
—
Carl Lange was unable to work. He brooded. He took pills to help him sleep and woke feeling sluggish. Two days passed. He brooded but got nowhere.
