Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘This is more than I’d hoped for. Thank you. Let me know how much you had to pay, and I’ll transfer the sum with the fee.’

  ‘Ja, ja. Thank you. Two hundred euros will cover everything. And we have a deal on possible co-operation if necessary.’

  ‘You have my word, Bernhard.’ Then I added ‘Herr Schultz’ to be on the safe side. ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen, Herr Veum.’

  I clicked off the screensaver, opened my email account and sat waiting. Every so often I impatiently pressed Send/Receive and eventually an email from Hanne u. Bernhard Schultz arrived, with a paper-clip icon to say there was an attachment.

  I quickly scanned his email. Schultz thanked me for the job and hoped we could continue to work together. He wished me luck with the rest of the investigation and hoped the attached photocopy of Mr Stein Sløvåg’s passport might be of some help. It was as though I could hear the laborious way he expressed himself, but I hurriedly opened the attachment, clicked on the copy of the passport photo and magnified it as much as I could.

  Actually it came as no surprise. My suspicions were confirmed. He had grown a beard and dyed his hair and beard a dark colour, but behind this disguise I recognised him. The last time I had seen him we were standing face to face on a slippery rock facing Bjørna fjord. Then he had disappeared, but not forever. Now he had returned from the dead, on a passport photo sent to me from Germany, under the melodious pseudonym he had chosen himself: Stein Sløvåg. There was no longer any doubt: Sigurd Svendsbø was staring at me from the screen like an old photo from police files. Wanted. Now more than ever.

  41

  I called Solheim.

  He sighed aloud. ‘What is it now?’

  I quickly told him what I was looking at and offered to send him the copy of the passport. He adopted a much gentler tone as he accepted, then added: ‘But this is still our case, Veum. You do nothing. Is that understood?’ When I didn’t answer at once, he repeated: ‘Understood?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve understood. Good luck.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  I had understood. But I still had a few loose ends to tidy up in the other cases, and the first person I was going to talk to was Bjarne Bratteli.

  Before I did anything I checked the time: 16:45. Then I called Sølvi. She answered after two rings. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi. How’s it going?’

  ‘We’ve come home. Helene’s bored and now she wants to visit a friend from her class, but I’ve said she has to stay here. She’s not pleased. She’s slamming doors and has locked herself in her room.’

  ‘Mm. I’m sorry. But now the police know who rented the car. It’s just a question of time before they find him. That’s what they say anyway.’

  ‘How long then?’

  ‘A day or two, maximum, they told me.’

  ‘I hope that’s right. Keep me posted. Now I’d better make her something to eat or she’ll be annoyed about that, too.’

  ‘If anyone rings the doorbell, don’t open unless you can see who it is.’

  ‘And if it’s someone I don’t know, call you?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘Very reassuring,’ she said, and rang off with no further comment. I stared at the phone, then put it down carefully, afraid it might snap at me, too.

  So what was the plan? Initially, Bjarne Bratteli. I had a swift bite to eat at Brasserie Lido, just around the corner: fried saithe with onions. At around half past six I drove to Nye Sandviksvei in the hope of catching him at home. Before I had found a parking spot I saw another car turn in and park in front of the entrance to the block where he lived. It wasn’t a Golf; it looked more like a BMW. It was black and had such a long bonnet it reminded me of a cartoon version of a melancholy wolf. I had met the man who stepped out of the car before – and in the same place. It was Knut Haugen.

  I drove on, pulled into the kerb on the east side of the street and parked. In front of me was the steep rock face up to Rothaugen School. To the right, the last line of houses in the street. To the left, the International Blue Cross building towered up with its sallow-brown cladding. When there were polls in Bergensavisen or Bergens Tidende for Bergen’s ugliest building, the IBC always achieved a podium finish.

  I switched off the engine and sat looking in the rear-view mirror at the entrance fifty metres behind me on the opposite side. Haugen spoke into the intercom and was buzzed in. OK, another meeting of the brothers-in-law? If so, they met more often than was usual in families where most of the members didn’t talk to each other.

  But this time it wasn’t a long meeting. Five minutes later they both came out. Haugen opened the boot lid and Bratteli put in two leather bags – the kind you use to transport film and camera equipment. I sank even lower in the front seat, but neither of them looked in my direction. They got into the car and immediately afterwards passed me, heading north and around the bend by Rothaugen. I started the engine, pulled out and followed. Follow the money, they said in the States. Cherchez la femme, in France. My motto was much simpler: Follow the car.

  The black BMW went down Sandviksveien and continued along the E16 towards Åsane. After passing the old ropewalk on the left, they turned off and into Fløyfjell Tunnel.

  In recent decades, the mountains around Bergen had changed into overgrown Swiss cheeses with extensive holes in all directions. From Fløyfjell Tunnel Haugen drove on to Nygårds Tunnel, across Puddefjord Bridge, and then into another tunnel, Løvstakk, which actually dated all the way back to 1968. It led to Fyllingsdalen, and I could feel my excitement growing as they branched off to Dag Hammarskjølds vei, continued along it in a curve to the east, and then back west. It struck me that we were on the way to where Bjørn Hårkløv lived, but it turned out that they were going a little further. When the BMW turned in towards two high-rises, I couldn’t go on. But I had kept several cars between us all the way, so I drove into the car park by one of the low blocks in the area and waited there, careful not to lose sight of the BMW.

  Knut Haugen sat at the wheel while Bjarne Bratteli got out of the car, crossed the car park and went into the block where Svanhild Olsvik lived. I would have been a poor PI if I hadn’t assumed that was where he was going. It wasn’t much more than five minutes before he was out again. He wasn’t alone this time though. With him came Svanhild Olsvik and her daughter, Astrid. The mother held her daughter’s hand, but she still lagged behind, as though this was against her wishes. She glared at her mother and said something it was impossible to catch from this distance. The mother just shook her head firmly and said something back. Bratteli held the rear door open for them. Svanhild Olsvik lifted her daughter up and put her in the car, then followed her in. Bratteli closed the door behind them and sat at the front. Less than a minute later the car was off again.

  To reach the main road they passed perilously close to where I was parked, and now I had sunk so low in my seat that it must have looked as if the car was empty. I heard the low whine of the passing car, waited a few seconds, sat up warily and turned to find them. They were at the end of Dag Hammarskjølds vei, waiting for a gap in the traffic. Then there was a quick blink to the right and the car headed for Oasen Shopping Centre. I sat upright, started the car and followed them. The excitement was still there, but now it was joined by another, even stronger, feeling: one of intense aversion.

  My head was a seething mass of thoughts. During the drive from Nye Sandviksvei to here, so far two of the cases had meshed together. The deaths of Mikael Midtbø and Per Haugen were both represented in the car ahead of me, and I had a strong feeling it wasn’t going to stop there. The feeling grew with every kilometre we covered in our discreet procession. There was more traffic now, and I had to alternate between having a vehicle or two between us and keeping enough distance for them not to recognise me.

  They left Fyllingsdalen and drove into Bjørgeveien, or Burmaveien as we used to call it on our teenage cycle trips in this area. It had received that name because its constru
ction was started during the war and people in town compared it with the building of the strategically important road from Burma to China. We also used to whistle the theme from The Bridge on the River Kwai as we cycled through, although we had no idea why.

  From here I followed the black BMW to Loddefjord and further along Lyderhornsveien before it headed towards Sotra Bridge and went over it. There was still quite a bit of traffic on the roads, and I was able to keep several cars between me and them.

  A little way after the bridge they indicated left, stopped and waited for a couple of oncoming cars to pass and then raced down to the sea. I performed the same manoeuvre, but because of the distance I had kept, I was held up for a long time and lost sight of them. When I finally crossed the opposite lane and went down the side road to the southeast, there were thin veils of exhaust fumes in the air, showing where they had been. I followed cautiously. There were several turn-offs to bigger and smaller houses, but as I approached the sea there were fewer of them. To the north I could see a large industrial plant. Now I was descending to an area where there had been light sea-related industry, much of it abandoned now because the fish-processing sheds had been moved, and the oil industry required more room and deeper waters.

  I looked to the right and left to see if I could locate the black car. On the seaward side I spotted a closed gate with a clear warning in the form of a sign saying: No admittance to unauthorised personnel. Down towards the sea I glimpsed a large, grey timber structure with a stone quay into the connecting strait, Kobbeleia. At the bottom of the drive, in front of the building, was the black BMW. It was empty. The occupants had gone, in all probability into the building.

  I started up the car and drove five hundred metres further down, where the road terminated in a kind of turnaround. With a view to making a quick escape I doubled back so that the nose of the car pointed upwards, then parked on the far edge of the turnaround, up against some wintergreen juniper bushes. I took a torch from the glove compartment, stuffed it into my pocket, got out of the car and walked back up the road.

  The darkness was in my favour. I opened the gate, closed it neatly behind me and ran the risk of being seen as I walked down the drive to the BMW. It was deathly quiet. The only sounds I could hear were a plane coming in to land at Flesland Airport to the east and the regular drone of a ship’s engine in Kobbeleia – I could make out the stern of a passenger ferry heading south, probably no further than Denmark.

  Once down by the BMW, I veered off the drive and onto the bare rock to the south, in order to get a better view of the building and the location. Even in the dark I could see signs of wear and tear in the woodwork, great light patches where the paint had peeled off. There was an entrance at the rear, and from one of the four windows facing me came some light, but the rolled-down blinds prevented me from seeing what was going on inside.

  I felt an unease growing within me. I didn’t like the idea that there was a little girl in the company of two adult males who had shown an unhealthy interest in children, and a mother with a dubious reputation. The connection between this bunch and two of the three suspicious deaths over the last six months didn’t make me feel particularly comfortable, either.

  From where I stood, I could see two windows high up on the south wall. There were no blinds and a dim light seeped out from inside. But it was impossible to climb up without a ladder. Nevertheless I made my way down there and stood measuring the distance up to the two windows. I reckoned it was at least four or five metres. I looked around for something to stand on, but found nothing. Then I sidled along the wall to the corner facing the sea. The ground beneath me sloped away to the water, and the building rested on wide concrete pillars with open space underneath. And there I found exactly what I needed: a ladder.

  Again I listened. All I could hear was the distant mumble of what could have been the waves lapping onto the bare rock below or else voices from inside the house. Then I heard a shrill girl’s voice cut through the night: ‘I don’t want to, Mummy! I don’t want to!’

  Quickly I hauled up the ladder, carried it around the corner, found a secure position for it in a hollow in the ground and placed it against the wall. I looked around me. Then I shinned up, carefully raised my head to window height and peered inside.

  42

  It was a heart-breaking sight. The little girl, Astrid, was sitting fully clothed on a wide chair, as far as I could see, with her arms bound to the arms of the chair and her legs bound to the legs. The expression on her face was one of despair and her eyes were staring at her mother, who held a can of beer in one hand and her face partly averted, as if not wishing to look at her daughter. A man with dark hair and a trim beard held a roll of gaffer tape in front of Astrid’s face, without moving, as though threatening her rather than doing anything in particular. It was Sigurd Svendsbø, or Stein Sløvåg, as his passport said now.

  They were in a large hall with bare walls, illuminated only by some bright spotlights mounted on stands and directed towards the little girl in the chair. There was some other furniture – a sofa and a suite of chairs around a coffee table, placed carelessly against the rear wall.

  Between five and ten metres away from the chair stood Bjarne Bratteli. He was rigging up a camera on top of a stand with the lens pointing at Astrid. The third man in the room, Knut Haugen, stood with his back to me, his shoulders stooped, as though waiting for what was going to happen.

  I couldn’t stand still and watch. I shinned back down the ladder. Too late I heard a car come screaming down the short section of road between the gate and the disused industrial building. The headlamps swept over the walls, and for a few seconds, just as I jumped off the ladder, I was bathed in light.

  I flung myself back against the wall in the hope that I hadn’t been seen, while grabbing the phone from my inside pocket. Then I heard heavy footsteps from around the corner and an imposing figure appeared.

  ‘What the…? Veum!’

  It was Bjørn Hårkløv, and I dropped my phone.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘Stretching my legs. And you?’

  He didn’t bother answering; he came straight for me. I looked around. If I was lucky I could run around him. In my younger days I might have succeeded. I was almost past him when he grabbed my arm and wrenched it so hard that I lost balance and fell headlong. At the same time he directed a well-aimed kick into my ribs and the air hissed out of me as if from a burst balloon. Then he lifted me up and banged me so hard against the wall, it felt as if he was planning to use me as a battering ram to get inside.

  For a moment everything went black. When I came to with a start he was half carrying, half dragging me into the building. He kicked the front door shut behind him. I raised my head and studied my surroundings. We were in a room with wardrobe cabinets along one wall, most of them ajar, as abandoned as the rest of the building. Two closed doors in a short wall used classic pictograms to indicate they were toilets, one for women, one for men.

  A door at the opposite end of the room burst open. Knut Haugen appeared in the doorway, closely followed by Sigurd Svendsbø.

  ‘What the hell?’ exclaimed Haugen.

  ‘Veum,’ Svendsbø said, and I didn’t like his tone one bit. It was as if this was the moment he had been longing for.

  ‘Look what I found, Siggen,’ Hårkløv said, not even bothering to conceal the identity of his interlocutor. ‘Keep a watch outside.’

  ‘Do I need to?’ Svendsbø answered. ‘I’ve got you, haven’t I. But…’ He looked at his watch. ‘Late, aren’t you?’

  ‘I was delayed. But it looks as if I came in the nick of time.’

  ‘In time to be nicked. Now the wolf’s at your door,’ I mumbled, to remind them I was still present. ‘I don’t suppose you imagine I came without back-up, do you?’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Hårkløv sneered in my direction. ‘The cavalry? I didn’t see any.’

  ‘They’re on their way.’

  Svendsbø glanced e
nquiringly at Hårkløv, who shook his head firmly. ‘He’s bluffing.’ He forced me forwards in a classic police half-nelson. ‘I’ll soon shut him up.’

  Svendsbø nodded with an ominous expression, as though this were even more of what he had been looking forward to. Haugen stepped to the side to let us through. I was led, stooped, into the immense hall. As I passed Svendsbø, I turned my head towards him. ‘Sold your soul to Poseidon, have you?’

  He just arched his eyebrows by way of a response.

  ‘Poseidon? What the fuck’s he talking about?’ Hårkløv said and led me into the hall.

  Astrid looked at me in despair from where she was sitting, unable to move in the chair. Her mother was still standing there with a can of beer in her hand. She raised it to me in a kind of welcome.

  Over by the camera Bjarne Bratteli was unable to hide his surprise when he saw who was on his way in. ‘Veum?’

  Svendsbø said: ‘Veum’s trying to be witty. The last time he saw me I was disappearing from sight into Bjørna fjord. Poseidon’s the Greek god of the sea. Get it?’

  Hårkløv still appeared puzzled, but shrugged his shoulders as though it didn’t matter.

  To me, Svendsbø said: ‘Well, I’ve always been good at holding my breath under water. I reached one of the skerries past the diving platform, and as soon as you’d gone I made it to land.’

  ‘Bruno Karsten helped you, I would guess. And he could use a man with your qualities in Hamburg, too.’

  Hårkløv forced me down with one arm up my back and my face on the floor. He sat on me heavily. ‘Gimme that tape.’

  Svendsbø handed it to him, and Hårkløv wasted no time in taping my arms together, so tightly that I could barely move them. ‘Here,’ he said to Svendsbø, and passed him the roll. ‘You do his ankles.’