Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘Did the police examine her?’

  ‘Yes, they did. She was sent to a doctor – a female – who carried out a discreet check-up. At any rate she established that Trine hadn’t been “penetrated” – the doctor’s word. But what else he might’ve done…’ He bared his palms. Then he leaned over the table. ‘Do you know what I mean, Veum? People like him deserve the death sentence.’

  ‘That might be a bit—’

  ‘Then he should be castrated! At the very least.’

  ‘Now…’

  ‘They’re released again! And they can move to a new town and just carry on with the same activities. How long was Midtbø sentenced to exactly? If it had been up to me there would’ve been posters of him put up wherever he settled. “Watch out! A paedophile’s moved into the neighbourhood.” Like they do in the States.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that. In some places.’

  ‘Then you know where they are and you can keep an eye on them. But in Norway? Here they’re patted on the head – “There, there. Now don’t do that again! Promise me you’ll be a good boy and we’ll let you out tomorrow.” Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ I did.

  ‘But they’re not the bloody victims here. What about the children whose lives they’ve ruined? Maybe forever?’

  ‘Yes. Have you noticed anything about … Trine?’

  He looked at me intently. ‘No, luckily we haven’t. She’s still as trusting. Fortunately I don’t think she was fully aware of what was going on. Of course there was a lot of gossip among the neighbours and probably at school. But as there was no evidence of a serious assault, then … well, we’ll have to see. I’ve heard things can come to light many years later.’

  ‘That was probably why he was set free so soon. They couldn’t find anything else – apart from the photos.’

  His lips tightened. ‘You should’ve seen them.’

  ‘I can understand why you were angry. Haldis Midtbø said you appeared at their door brandishing a bat.’

  He looked down for a moment. Then he fixed me with a stare. ‘Yes, well … I have to admit … That was the evening the police rang us. I was so angry. I hit the roof. Alice tried to hold me back, but … I grabbed the bat and strode off to the neighbour’s. If he’d been at home I would’ve bloody smashed…’ He paused. ‘I would’ve beaten him up so badly he wouldn’t have been able to stand upright for several days.’

  ‘Would that have helped, do you think?’

  ‘Helped? It would’ve taught him a lesson.’

  ‘And you had a bat to hand?’

  He glared at me. ‘Doesn’t every well-equipped home have one?’

  ‘Mine doesn’t.’

  ‘At any rate, I had one. But unfortunately he’d already been arrested, so it was never used.’

  ‘Not that night.’

  ‘No.’ Suddenly he reacted. ‘Not that…? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I was just thinking. As you had a bat, you must’ve used it for something. In this country it’s mostly used as a weapon. In criminal circles.’

  ‘I studied in England. We played cricket there. I brought a cricket bat back as a souvenir.’

  ‘Mhm?’

  ‘Mhm, yes. You don’t need to look so sceptical. It’s true! But … a weapon in the house can always come in handy.’

  ‘I can see. But … you were aware Midtbø had been released.’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He shrugged. ‘I must’ve heard, I imagine.’

  ‘In Norway, they let them out, you said.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant in general.’

  ‘He didn’t come back to Frekhaug then?’

  Again I could see the rage building in him. ‘No, that would’ve been all I needed. If I’d met him in the street…’

  ‘You would’ve gone indoors for your cricket bat?’

  His face darkened. ‘He would’ve definitely got the benefit of my opinion.’

  ‘Do you know where he moved to?’

  With wary eyes, he replied: ‘No. Where?’

  ‘Or how he died?’

  ‘What are you babbling on about? No, I don’t know where he moved to or how he died!’ He took out his phone, flipped the lid and checked the time. ‘That’s more or less the quarter of an hour I promised you. In fact, it’s more.’

  ‘He moved to Fyllingsdalen. He fell from the tenth storey of a high-rise and died.’

  ‘Fell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, it’s an efficient way of disposing of rubbish.’

  ‘Throwing it off the balcony?’

  He gave an involuntary grin. ‘Yes? I didn’t see an obituary anywhere, a word about how much he was missed or what a good father and husband he had been. All I saw was news of his death.’

  ‘And you took note?’

  ‘As I said, we cracked open a bottle of champagne. Seriously.’ He stood up as a sign the audience was over. ‘In fact, now I have to do what they pay me for here.’

  ‘And that is … to build bridges?’

  He nodded, clearly unwilling to expand.

  ‘Per Haugen. Does that name mean anything to you?’ I said, getting up.

  ‘Eh? Per Haugen? Who’s that?’

  ‘Karl Slåtthaug?’

  ‘Never heard of him. What are you trying to say?’

  ‘Consider it a test. Neither of these names means anything to you?’

  ‘Not at all. Have we finished the kiddies’ games now?’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘You still haven’t said what you’re actually investigating.’

  ‘Well, it’s the circumstances surrounding the death of Mikael Midtbø … and one other person.’

  ‘Another person?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, you don’t think I would … sacrifice the rest of my life for a sack of shit like Midtbø, do you?’

  ‘You weren’t that angry?’

  ‘I was angry, yes, but not that much.’

  ‘One last question: what make of car do you drive?’

  ‘Car? A Volvo estate. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Curiosity, that’s all. A form of statistics … you might say.’

  He looked at me, puzzled. Then he shook his head. Without saying much more he accompanied me to the young man in reception. He was working in front of a computer. For all I knew, he was designing a bridge, too.

  I walked back down to my car. In my head I had no problem seeing Carl Fredrik Stiansen swinging a bat and chasing Mikael Midtbø onto the balcony in Fyllingsdalen, then dropping the bat and tipping Midtbø over the railing to his death.

  I could identify with his anger. To protect our children we might well do something we normally considered impossible, even killing another person. But most people would suppress these emotions and let the mills of justice grind, however slowly. As for myself, I had grown up as an only child and never experienced home as anything but the safe haven it was supposed to be. As a father to my son I had been away a lot because of my job, but when I had been at home I had been present and later – as a divorced father – I had grasped every opportunity I had to be there for him. For me, as for fathers like Carl Fredrik Stiansen, it was incomprehensible that anyone could commit such crimes on their own children – or anyone else’s.

  But the case didn’t stop there. There was another trail I hadn’t followed far enough yet. I would have to ring Foyn to find out whether he had discovered anything about Karl Slåtthaug. And I would have to continue looking both ways – twice – before I crossed the road.

  27

  I was still in the car when Sølvi rang to see if I wanted to join Helene and her for dinner. I said yes at once. This was exactly what I needed after all the misery. A harmonious meal in Saudalskleivane. I didn’t even drive home; I went straight there.

  Sølvi welcomed me in the hallway. I put my arms around her, ran my hand down her spine to where she became rounder. I patted her backside a
nd she kissed me on the cheek. Did that make me an old pig? Hardly. She was no more than ten years younger than me and a grown woman. I confined myself to a friendly stroke of Helene’s hair – an appropriate way for adults to greet children they like.

  In the dining room the table was set, and there was a lovely aroma of beef stroganoff or something similar wafting in from the kitchen. While Sølvi was finishing there, Helene was sat curled up on the sofa with a girls’ magazine, and it struck me: in a year and a half she would be a teenager and on her way into a stage of her life when she would be subject to attention from not only boys of her age but also males older than her – and perhaps some much too old. There was something innocent and pure and beautiful about her sitting there – blonde hair, slightly untidy curls and a little smile playing around her mouth as she read. She was wearing casual clothes: dark-red trousers and a striped jumper. Her hair was gathered together with a light-blue ribbon and there was still something childish about her face – she wore no make-up. She would make an attractive woman, as her mother was, and hopefully just as sensible, even when she was confronted by difficult situations.

  If you delved into filth, as I did, however, it was hard not to think about the other possibility: that someone might subject her to awful acts, against which she had no protection. Nevertheless, judging by all the outward signs, Helene had had a secure childhood. The worst that had happened to her was that she had lost her father prematurely and in a very dramatic way. The reflective and perhaps grieving expressions that occasionally flitted across her face were undoubtedly signs of the impact this had had.

  And I thought: most children are like that. Most children live safe, protected lives with parents who love them. But some – indeed, not only some, but all too many – experienced the contrary, what should not happen; what ought to be a guarantee of security turning into something else, a safe haven becoming a spewing volcano, a Vesuvius speedily laying waste to Pompeii and leaving no more than stiffened figures, drawn in ash, fossilised in their own fates.

  Sølvi came in from the kitchen with the food. My sense of smell hadn’t been quite accurate. At close range it turned out to be a meat stew, not too distant from boeuf bourguignon, served with sparkling water for Helene and a glass of red wine for each of the adults. Neither of us complained about the service, neither the old man nor the young girl.

  Eating together like this, I flashed back more than thirty years, to the time when another trio – Beate, Thomas and I – sat around a similar dinner table, probably with cheaper food than Sølvi served, but in the same format: two adults and a child. The child had been a boy and younger than Helene was now; the two adults had been younger than Sølvi and I. But there was still a kind of harmony and symmetry to the image, which filled my body with a strange peace, a break from the dark circles I had been moving in over the last few days.

  Sølvi served us second helpings and poured herself another glass of red wine. I still wasn’t halfway through my first. After the meal we moved over to the sofa. Helene was asked to make us some coffee, which she did without protest.

  We behaved like a small family. Helene still had some homework to finish; Sølvi and I each immersed ourselves in our own pile of newspapers. Eventually we watched the news and the following TV programme.

  Then my phone rang. I looked at the display. It was the same message as once before: Unknown number. I stood up and went towards the hall. Away from Sølvi and Helene, I responded to the call, but didn’t speak. Nor did my interlocutor. This time there were no sounds of traffic in the background; there was only a heavy, ominous silence. Then the connection ended. I made an annoyed gesture with the phone as if I wanted to shake the caller’s name out, not that it helped much.

  I went back to the others. Sølvi looked up at me quizzically, but I just shook my head. ‘Nothing important.’

  However, I couldn’t draw a line under it. This was the second time in a couple of days that someone had rung me and I had been met with silence, a veiled threat it wasn’t hard to imagine was connected with at least one of two matters: the hit-and-run attempt up by Lagunen, and the investigation I was carrying out on my own initiative following the incident. Or – if they were connected, as I feared – both. But whoever he or she was, they weren’t going to intimidate me. This just made me even more determined to get to the bottom of what was going on.

  At ten Helene went to bed. Sølvi had opened another bottle of red wine and was now onto her fourth or fifth glass, but I was a few glasses behind. If it had been aquavit, then perhaps…

  She peered at me over her wine glass with a dark glow in her eyes. ‘How’s the case you’re working on going? Have you got any further?’

  ‘Not really, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I can see that in your face. There’s something bothering you.’

  I hadn’t told her about the incident on Sunday, when I was almost run over near Lagunen. I had only briefly mentioned the articles about the two deaths I had noticed and that I was investigating the circumstances around them off my own bat. This was probably because of the backdrop to the deaths. We had never talked about what happened in the dramatic weeks that autumn about a year and a half ago, when she had herself broken the law by hiding me from the police. And not only that; she’d had some days when perhaps she hadn’t been one hundred percent sure how innocent I was in that matter.

  I hesitated. ‘I’m swimming in pretty murky waters. There are men who commit sexual crimes against children in a way that suggests it’s both systematic and – to some extent – organised.’

  ‘Like … last time?’

  ‘Yes. In fact, some of the same characters are involved. Ones who’d been released.’

  Her jaw fell. ‘What! They’re out again? Already?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you said … “who’d been released”.’

  ‘Two of them are dead.’

  ‘Dead? You surely don’t mean … someone killed them?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to find out.’

  She compressed her lips. Then she said: ‘And why? Does anyone mourn their passing?’

  ‘Mm. A spouse in one case. Probably the second man’s partner as well.’

  ‘Yes, but … no one asked you to do this. Why…?’ Suddenly a light came on in her eyes. ‘You’re frightened something similar might happen to you?’

  ‘The charge against me was dropped, but … well, there was a minor incident on Sunday. It might’ve been a coincidence, but … I was almost run over, in a dark side street, up by Lagunen.’

  ‘Run over? But … what were you doing there?’

  ‘I was on a job. Something completely different. A car loomed up out of nowhere and … well, I had to throw myself to the side to avoid being hit.’

  ‘Out of nowhere?’ She expressed her amazement with the whole of her body. ‘I assume you’ve reported this to the police?’

  ‘Of course. But you know how efficient they are.’ I grinned.

  ‘Oh, Varg.’ All of a sudden she was around my neck. ‘You have to watch out. I don’t want anything to happen to you, too.’

  I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed her tight. In a much calmer voice than I felt inside, I said: ‘Nothing’ll happen, Sølvi. First of all, I was innocent, as innocent as I could be. They weren’t. And, secondly, I’m on my guard. They probably weren’t.’

  She straightened up, keeping her arms around my neck. But she moved away a little, as if to see me properly. ‘I can well understand someone doing something like that.’

  ‘By which you mean…?’

  ‘I can understand someone taking the law into their own hands, with animals like those men out on the street again, less than a year since they were sentenced. It’s just absolutely terrible.’

  ‘It’s all tied up with the law. The burden of proof. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Law. Burden of proof. I’m telling you, Varg, that if anything like this had happened to Helena…’ a sudden savagery
distorted her features ‘…I would’ve killed them with my bare hands. I wouldn’t have hesitated. I’d have been like a lioness. And I think that’s how most women would react.’

  I looked at her. Women constituted only a tiny percentage of the murder statistics in Norway. Not as victims, sadly, but as the guilty party. But what she said took root in me, like a moment of inspiration. On the occasions women committed a murder it was often a reaction to something exactly like this, a crime perpetrated against them, against a sister or their children. These murders were personal, directed against the perpetrator. Perhaps it was just the short lapse of time between these two deaths that had made me react. Perhaps there was no connection other than the fact that both men had committed the same type of crime. Perhaps there wasn’t a hypothetical pastor I should be looking for, but two women: one for each fatal incident, if they did indeed turn out to be murders.

  She stretched out a hand, took her wine glass, drained it, set it back on the table, kissed me with her lips apart, wet with wine, and mumbled: ‘Let’s not talk about this. Let’s. I want…’

  There was no doubt about what she wanted. Not long afterwards, we were in her bed, two rooms further along, and for a passionate hour I forgot all about eyebrow-raising fatalities and any other context except the love-making of two people embroiled in a mixture of red-wine-induced euphoria and rhythmical gymnastics.

  Afterwards we lay, slowly getting our breath back. My phone rang. She sent me a wry, provocative look: Are you going to answer it or let it ring?

  I let it ring, but picked it up to see if it was anyone I knew. I hadn’t entered his name in my phone yet, but I recognised the number. It was Foyn from Tønsberg.

  I sent her an apologetic expression. ‘I think I’ll have to answer this one.’

  She shrugged. Then started kissing my chest and working her way downwards, like a further provocation: Now or in a while?