Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘This meeting is off the record, but you said you had a tip-off for me.’

  ‘Yes, I do, if you have one for me.’

  She eyed me coldly. ‘In our government department we don’t do bartering. I thought you knew.’

  ‘Really? OK. Then let’s call it an exchange of … background material. You’ve worked – to my knowledge – with vice as much as violent crime over the last few years. I gave you a name: Svanhild Olsvik. My understanding is that you haven’t got anything on her?’

  ‘By vice you’re thinking…?’

  ‘Prostitution perhaps.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘She could’ve done it from home.’

  ‘Of course she could. In which case, she might easily have passed under our radar. We’ve got a pretty good overview of street prostitution. The prostitutes who advertise on the net, very often under ‘massage’, we know about too, we think, even if our attempts to prove it have met with varying success. We have to carry out raids and catch them in the act. And then there are all those who go to hotel rooms and advertise beforehand, via mobile phone numbers. But they’re constantly on the move and are hard to stop. As I said, however, the name you mentioned isn’t in our files.’

  ‘In the autumn she moved in with a man convicted of child pornography offences: Mikael Midtbø, who died in December as a result of what your colleagues defined as suicide. Now she lives alone with her daughter. Social services received a number of expressions of concern regarding her while she lived in Flaktveit. I saw her daughter myself a couple of days ago. She didn’t look very happy.’

  ‘OK. But we can’t take any action because you’ve seen a little girl who doesn’t look happy.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘Was that what you wanted to tip me off about?’

  ‘No, there’s another woman. The daughter of another sex offender, also dead now. A drowning incident. Per Haugen.’

  ‘Was he charged with you?’

  ‘The charge against me was dropped.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. But he was involved in the same case.’

  I leaned forwards. ‘It’s shocking what goes on behind closed doors, Annemette. And now with the net as a portal to…’ I stretched out my arms to the window overlooking Strømgaten ‘…the whole world.’

  She had turned serious. ‘I know, and we’re working on the case. I can tell you in confidence that if we’d had a more generous budget, we would’ve formed a unit to specialise in this. And there’s an understanding of this at the highest echelons, so maybe in a few years. We need officers experienced in IT, in network building and, not least, in the shady byways of the internet, to get to the bottom of this activity. The case you were involved in was a foretaste. Those boys weren’t so smart. They left too many tell-tale signs after them. But we can already see how the villains have discovered new methods and are always several steps ahead of us. But they shouldn’t feel too confident – we’re on their trail, if not on the scale we’d hoped for. Yet.’

  She drained her cup of coffee and looked towards the door. ‘This daughter of … who did you say? … Per Haugen.’

  ‘Yes. She’s on drugs. An obvious result of what she was subjected to as a child. Now she’s run up a substantial debt and her life’s being threatened by debt collectors.’

  ‘I see. Any names?’

  ‘Laila Bratteli.’

  ‘Address?’

  I gave it to her.

  ‘And who does she owe money to?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘But the heavy’s name is Bjørn Hårkløv and he drives around in a black Audi.’

  ‘Tell me something new. Registration number?’

  ‘I … Oh, yes, a young security guard at Sletten took a snap of it earlier today.’

  ‘And this guard’s name is?’

  ‘Kalle Blomkvist.’

  ‘No kidding?’

  ‘No. And he can confirm what I’ve told you. He was on duty this morning. It can’t be that difficult to get hold of him.’

  She looked at me despairingly. ‘Varg – since it appears we’re on firstname terms now – if you saw our schedule you’d know I can’t set up a big initiative without having something more concrete to go on than this.’

  ‘You can find Hårkløv’s address on the net. If he’s ever in his office, that is. And one more thing. The last time I had anything to do with him he was a henchman in the employ of a certain Bruno Karsten, a German Mr Big with his own branch in Bergen. Organised crime with a wide catchment area.’ I repeated my refrain: ‘Drugs, prostitution and cybercrime.’

  She studied me pensively, took out a notebook and jotted down the few details I had given her. Then she slapped the book shut and put it in the smart little shoulder bag she had with her. ‘Great. I’ll pass this on to the department, then those higher up than me will have to take the decision.’ With an acidic smile she added: ‘But when they find out who tipped us off, well…’

  She didn’t say any more, but I took the point. With a quick nod she got up and left. I was left sitting next to an empty coffee cup. Now I had a choice. Another cup or the car? I followed Winnie the Pooh’s example and chose both. I ordered another cup and sat, notepad in hand, deep in thought. Were there any more leads I could follow in these rather loosely connected cases?

  I should confront Bjarne Bratteli with what Laila had told me. Perhaps talk to her brother again as well. And as Magne Molstad was the only priest in the case, perhaps I should make some discreet enquiries about him. It might also be interesting to have a chat with the neighbour who owned the wooden bat, Carl Fredrik Stiansen. The challenge was probably to find a connection between Per Haugen and Mikael Midtbø beyond the patently obvious. In that regard it would be interesting to talk to Karl Slåtthaug, even if it seemed it would involve a trip to Tønsberg at my own expense.

  I walked to my car. From the roof of Bygarasjen I had a panoramic view of Bergen in all directions. The mountains here were close together: Ulriken to the south, Løvstakken to the west and Fløyen to the east. In the north the sky towered over the island of Askøy, bluish-green with a final streak of red where the sunset had splashed blood. From here everything looked harmonious and peaceful – if you ignored the traffic and the cars buzzing like angry wasps all around me – but I knew from bitter experience that behind the façades it could all be anything but. There, the most incomprehensible abuse could take place and, indoors, we were regularly in a state of confusion, often with long-lasting consequences – for ourselves, too; for the way we regarded our fellow human beings.

  How many such incidents could a single individual endure? How many tragedies did we have the strength to digest? Was the time perhaps ripe for me to clock off as well and leave people of those inclinations to get on with their dirty lives on their own without being disturbed by what they called ‘none of my business’?

  An immense protest rose within me. Priests have a calling, they say, so why couldn’t a poor social worker-cum-private investigator have the same? My calling was to delve into misery and see what I could find. If just one small child had a better life because of me, it was worthwhile. The thought of all those who’d had their lives destroyed was hard to bear. My job was given to me, if not by a heavenly power, then by fate. But it didn’t pay cash up front. It barely paid after delivery, unless you rang an appropriate debt collector and asked him to sort things out for you.

  But I hadn’t got that far. Not yet.

  21

  I drove to the multi-storey car park in Markeveien and walked down to my office. There was no one waiting for me by the hotel reception desk. No one clawing at my door to get in. I unlocked, switched on the light, turned on the kettle to brew myself another cup of coffee and booted up the computer.

  My first search was for Bjørn Hårkløv. The address of Hårkløv Kreditt was in Sandsli, which was a short distance from Flesland Airport, if he had any jobs out of town. I didn’t discount the possibility that he had. Standard practice
in his line of business was often to send debt collectors from Bergen to Oslo and vice versa. Some believed doing that left fewer traces, but the authorities had been aware of this modus operandi for a long time. On the other hand, perhaps the collectors weren’t as easily recognised on the streets of the other town, so there was some advantage. If he was still Bruno Karsten’s extended arm in the Bergen district Hårkløv would probably have to travel to Germany as well, to update his lord and master on the state of affairs in the old Hansa town.

  The private address was the same as the one he had when I last had to deal with him. It was in Dag Hammarskjølds vei, a low block of flats not so far from where Svanhild Olsvik lived. Was he perhaps one of those who had promised her robust assistance if she needed it?

  A general search of the net revealed only that Hårkløv Kreditt appeared on several web pages, with a telephone number and an address and a short description: ‘credit investigation etc’. What lay behind ‘etc’ was probably the most important part of their activities, which I had seen demonstrated in Sletten a few hours earlier.

  I tried a new search, this time for Carl Fredrik Stiansen. A private address in Frekhaug came up. In addition, I discovered he was on the prize list for various regattas in the vicinity, Round Askøy and others; he was rarely the winner, but definitely in the top tier. In a photo published by the local Nordhordland newspaper he stood beaming on the deck of a boat called Alice and, sure enough, another search informed me that Alice Stiansen lived at the same address in Frekhaug, his wife from what I could see. Carl Fredrik Stiansen looked like a well-built man who could handle a bat if necessary. Under profession it stated he was a civil engineer, but omitted to say where.

  The last person whose telephone number I found was Hans Storebø in the Sund district, Per Haugen’s brother-in-law and uncle of the children. This was something I could take up with him: the relationship between the two siblings, Laila and Knut.

  I dialled the number without any luck. Thirty seconds later he rang back. From what I could hear he was outdoors. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘This is Veum. We met yesterday, at your sister’s.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I remember.’

  ‘Since then I’ve met Knut and Laila, your two – your sister’s children.’

  ‘Well, that’s more than I’ve done for many a year. That ship sailed a long time ago.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  ‘How are they?’

  ‘Laila got the short straw. She has a difficult life. Divorced, on pills, debts in a murky market – in brief, tough.’ He listened to what I had to say without commenting. ‘The brother seemed to be coping better. Good job, wife and children, as you told me. Slightly aggressive attitude maybe, but I suppose that’s understandable when this subject comes up.’ He still didn’t comment. ‘But Laila seemed bitter, towards her mother too.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘She felt betrayed by her. She said she’d told her mother what her father had been doing while it was all happening. To no avail. And when they both testified in court the mother said she’d never noticed anything of the kind. She simply didn’t believe anything the daughter said.’

  ‘Yes, I was in court too. Of course, that hurt. But I’ve never confronted Tora with this. It would be too difficult.’

  ‘Laila must’ve felt totally alone in the world. Let down by everyone. Her father, her mother, and later her husband.’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘She … Well, that’s another matter. But there’s every reason to suppose he may’ve been involved in something as well.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Most of this is news to me, Veum. As I told you yesterday, I haven’t had any contact with Laila or Knut since they were very small. But Tora knowing as well, and Laila going to her and saying … That’s almost incomprehensible. But as I also said yesterday, Tora’s a slightly naïve soul, and after what we experienced during the war she’s shied away from anything that might draw attention.’ He sighed aloud. ‘She didn’t exactly get her wishes fulfilled when all this business with Per Haugen blew up.’

  There was a short silence. Then he said: ‘Well, I’ve promised to accompany her to her medical examination on Friday. Tora, that is. I don’t think I’ll discuss with her what Laila said. I’m frightened she’s on her way into the mists, and something like this will only confuse her. And she’s confused enough as she is.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s too late to do anything about the guilt she must be feeling anyway.’

  ‘Yes. Was there anything else you had on your mind?’

  ‘No, not at the moment. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Oh, I have plenty of that. Time’s far from the biggest problem you have at my age.’

  We concluded the conversation with a couple more platitudes. His last words rang in my ears. Time was a moot concept. Some people had too much on their hands, others too little. One person had to accompany his sister to the doctor; the other had to pay a debt the following day to stop it growing. I knew whose shoes I would prefer to be in. I was equally clear about who I had most sympathy for.

  I looked at my watch. I wondered when the kindergarten where Bjarne Bratteli was employed closed for the day and if he went straight home. I’d give him an hour or two. This time I wasn’t going to warn him of my arrival. Not until I was standing at his door.

  22

  I parked by the kerb and rang the doorbell of B. Bratteli. Shortly afterwards his voice came over the loudspeaker: ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘Veum. Something new’s come up.’

  ‘Something new? About Laila?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This isn’t such a convenient time.’

  ‘I’m afraid I have to insist. It won’t take long.’

  I heard him talking to another person, away from the microphone, so that I couldn’t catch what he was saying. Then he was back. ‘Right.’ The lock buzzed and I pushed the door open.

  He was standing in the doorway, waiting for me. He didn’t invite me in. ‘What was it you had to say?’

  ‘We-ell.’ I motioned towards his door. ‘Can we go in?’

  He sent me a resigned look. ‘I thought you said it wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘But it will take some time.’

  He sighed, giving me a displeased expression, which might have worked wonders in the kindergarten, but cut no ice with me. Then he shrugged his shoulders, pushed the door wide open and went into the flat ahead of me.

  He wasn’t alone. Knut Haugen was sitting in the chair where I had sat the previous evening. He half stood when I entered, as if to show that he possessed a certain degree of politeness, nodded a greeting and sat down again. He was wearing the same dark suit as he had in his office, but he had changed his tie, not that it had any impact at all. Above his head hung the photograph of his sister in much better days. Even now, having met her, I had trouble recognising in her the cheery elegance of those days.

  There were two mugs of coffee on the table where they had been sitting. Bratteli moved a dining-room chair, which looked like an heirloom and stood out from the rest of the furniture, into the middle of the floor. He motioned for me to sit there. He sat down in the other one and made no move to offer me any coffee.

  ‘You’ve already met my brother-in-law, I understand,’ he said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘We’re both worried about Laila.’

  Knut Haugen nodded in agreement.

  ‘With good reason,’ I said and told them briefly about the incident with Bjørn Hårløv that morning.

  ‘A debt collector?’ Haugen said. ‘Working for whom?’

  ‘A few years ago he represented a German by the name of Bruno Karsten. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  They looked at each other and shook their heads in unison, like twins.

  ‘Organised crime. Drugs, prostitution and cybercrime.’ I paused, but there was no reaction. ‘His name’s Bjørn Hårkløv. Hårkløv Kreditt, if you should need him.
’

  Bratteli mumbled, ‘Drug debts.’ He looked at his brother-in-law. ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘If not drugs, pills at any rate,’ I said.

  Haugen narrowed his eyes, but whether it was because he was shortsighted or because he was trying to appear dangerous was hard to say. ‘I’ll contact him. This has to be cleared up.’

  ‘You can try,’ Bratteli said. ‘But I wouldn’t be too optimistic if I were you. At least not on Laila’s behalf.’

  I looked at Haugen. ‘You might remember … she had a friend when she was small. A girl called Marthe.’

  Haugen nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I remember her.’

  ‘She took her own life a while back.’

  He blinked, several times in a row. ‘What are you saying? Little Marthe who…? Well, of course she wasn’t so little any more.’

  ‘Do you remember her surname?’

  ‘Mmmm,’ he answered. ‘Something beginning with M. Moll, Moll … Molstad!’

  I studied him. ‘Molstad?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Do you remember if she had a brother called Magne?’

  ‘Ye-es. She had a brother who was a few years older, but I don’t recall his name. Could’ve been Magne, for all I know.’

  ‘And he became a priest?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that,’ he said, stressing the final word.

  ‘But she and Laila spent a lot of time together?’

  ‘Yes, I do remember that. They were what you would call best friends, I suppose. It was terrible to hear she’d … How did she do it – take her own life?’

  ‘She jumped off Askøy Bridge.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘You can say that again. According to Laila, it was a direct consequence of also being … Of your father abusing her.’

  He looked at me with sombre eyes and shook his head ruefully. ‘Now it’s coming out.’

  I shifted my gaze to Bratteli. ‘This kind of thing can have long-term consequences. Your whole life’s marked by early experiences.’

  He met my gaze and nodded slowly. ‘Yes. It…’