Death in a Cold Climate

by Robert Barnard

  CHAPTER 6

  RELUCTANT WITNESSES

  The morning began for Bjørn Korvald with five minutes of luxurious drowsing in his small, hard bed in the boxlike bedroom of his tiny flat. Reluctantly he heaved himself on to the cold vinyl and pattered into the kitchen to put on the coffee-pot. Then he blundered into the living-room and switched on the radio. The Norwegian Broadcasting Company was providing its usual morning blend of weather forecasts, news headlines, accordion music and religious indoctrination. Bjørn sliced bread, and fetched cheese and sardines from the fridge. Then he threw on a few clothes and slid down to the front gate to fetch Nordlys from the letter-box. He spread it on the table and began to read: the state of the fishing industry; oil exploration north of the sixty-second parallel; letters from crazy teetotalists; letters from dogmatic radicals; foreign news two days old. He browsed contentedly through the usual mixture, ate his sandwiches and then poured himself a second cup of coffee.

  There were few items in the paper that could strictly be called news, and these were mostly of the cyclical, almost ritual kind which punctuated the passing year in Tromsø: someone had thrown himself off the bridge; there had been drunken disturbances on Saturday night–windows had been broken in the centre of town and charges had been brought; the local theatre company was threatening to wind itself up. But there was one item, huddled down on the lower corner of the third page, that was something out of the ordinary. It had clearly been written in a hurry as the paper went to press: a body had been found buried in the snow out in Hungeren . . . murder was suspected . . . a man in his early twenties . . . fair-haired, 1.80 metres high. There were several misprints in the report, but the gist was clear.

  As Bjørn walked down the street to his office in Grønnegate, sliding expertly over the icy patches as if his shoes were skis, his mind was active. Of course it was none of his business. And the body could be anybody’s–though it was fairly clear from the report that the police did not know the identity. He’d heard of Steve Cooling’s conjectures when that boy had been reported missing some weeks ago. He knew Steve hadn’t gone to the police then. So far as he knew nobody else had either. Would anyone go along now?

  Of course the police would probably make the connection between the two–but would they be able to find out who had spoken to him while he was in Tromsø? Not unless one of those who met him in the Cardinal’s Hat went along to them. And since they seemed so disinclined, it might be worth while doing it for them.

  When he arrived at his office he settled the morning paper down on his desk, open at page three, and pondered for a few minutes. Then he took up the phone and rang the police station. Jøstein Fagermo was one of his friends from schooldays–someone he met now and again around town, when they said ‘long time no see’ and how they ought to get together some time, but never got around to it, not from lack of liking but from laziness. On an inspiration Bjørn asked the switchboard operator for him.

  ‘Hello, Bjørn, what can I do for you?’

  ‘You’re busy I can hear.’

  ‘One hell of a case just landed in my lap.’

  ‘Is it the body they found out in Hungeren?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Know anything about it?’

  ‘Well, no, only indirectly, but that’s what I’ve rung about. Tell me, is it the same boy you advertised for some weeks ago? Fair-haired foreigner in his twenties, who disappeared round about Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, it is. Or almost definitely it is. What do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much. I never met him. But I did hear one or two things after the advertisement came out.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, there’s this American student called Cooling. He read the ad, and of course he couldn’t be definite but it reminded him of a boy who’d come into the Cardinal’s Hat just before Christmas and spent the evening there. I don’t know if you know, but there’s a table there where the foreigners collect and talk English–and a lot of Norwegians join them. I do myself sometimes. That’s how I came to talk to this American boy. He’d been asking around the people who had spoken to this boy the night he came in, the ones who’d been sitting at the foreigners’ table–asking whether they thought it could be the same boy, and whether he ought to go to the police.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They all said no.’

  ‘God damn people!’ exploded Fagermo. ‘What makes them treat us like lepers? Do we have some kind of collective bad breath, Bjørn? They run to us soon enough when the least little thing happens, wanting help and protection, but as soon as we ask for a little co-operation –’

  ‘Keep your hair on, Jøstein, this isn’t a press-conference. These were mostly foreigners, remember. Things haven’t been so pleasant for them since the Immigration Ban. Several have been thrown out of the country.’

  ‘Only if they were working without a permit . . . Well, let it pass for the moment. Did this American student know the boy’s name?’

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Damn. Yanks are usually so good about names. They seem to have some sort of mental card-index for them. Did you hear who else was in the Cardinal’s Hat that night?’

  ‘Well, I know he went over and asked a couple of university people at the Pepper Pot–that was where he was eating when he read the ad. I don’t know who they were, but he said they had both been at the foreigners’ table when the boy came in. Then he mentioned a rather pathetic American girl–I think she works at the US Information Office. Quite likely she got the boy’s name. I think there were some others, but you could ask him. Oh yes–he mentioned Ottesen the outfitter–you know, the chap on the Council.’

  ‘What would he be there for?’

  ‘He has an English wife. Anyway, a lot of Norwegians do join the table. I do myself.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Practise my English. And it’s one of the few places you can go where people don’t get into long arguments about the Norwegian language.’

  ‘Point taken. You must invite me along.’

  ‘Any time. But you must have better ways of making contact with these people. Sounds to me as if they may need a spot of intimidation.’

  ‘You know we don’t go in for that sort of thing, Bjørn. You’ve been listening to those people in the Sociology Department.’

  ‘Anyway, I thought I’d let you know. It may save you a bit of time.’

  ‘It will. I’m tied up with the medics most of the morning, and the scientific boys, and then I’m going to get on to Interpol and Scotland Yard. But when I’m through I’ll have to follow up those names . . . Though, actually, I’m quite glad I can’t do it right away.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Last time it was just a missing person. This time it’s murder, and people will notice it and talk about it. It will be interesting to see how many of the people who met him contact me first . . . Bjørn?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you go along to the Cardinal’s Hat tonight?’

  • • •

  In the event, the only one of all those whom the dead man had met at the Cardinal’s Hat to come to the police station of his own accord was Steve Cooling. Shambling into the outer office, his bean-stalk body clad in dirty jeans and tee-shirt, an anorak, and a long woollen scarf, he looked sheepish and uncertain. Hyland and Ekland, officiating in the outer office, when they heard what he had come about took him down for a quick visit to the morgue (where Steve only nodded his head and swallowed ominously), and then passed him through to Fagermo. Steve sat down on the edge of a wooden chair on the other side of Fagermo’s desk, looking intensely uncomfortable.

  ‘I guess I should’ve come earlier,’ he drawled.

  ‘I know you should,’ said Fagermo, without overdoing the heavy hand. ‘You knew the ad was about the boy you’d met, you went around saying someone ought to go to the police, and in the end you never came.’

  ‘Hell,’ said Steve; ‘how d’you know that?’

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sp; ‘Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘You know how it is . . . Everyone said they didn’t want to get mixed up in it . . . In the end, I got scared, and sort of wondered whether I did.’

  ‘You’re not working here illegally?’

  ‘Hell no. I’m not working at all. I’m writing a thesis. Would it have made any difference if I had come?’

  ‘Probably not,’ admitted Fagermo. ‘I suppose we’d just have asked a few people who were there that night about him, then let it go. There was no body at that stage. We’d just have assumed he’d taken off somewhere, or gone home.’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s what everybody said.’

  ‘Everybody?’

  ‘Well–people I talked to. The foreigners, and the Norwegians who come to the Foreigners’ Club.’

  ‘Is that a close little group?’

  ‘Not specially. ‘Course some of them stick together thick as flies on a bull’s tail. But mostly we just meet when we meet.’

  ‘Can you tell me who was there–at the Cardinal’s Hat, I mean–on the night the boy came in?’

  ‘I can, I reckon. Because I’ve been thinking it over, and talking with the others like I said. Right, here’s the list, and this is just for the time I was there: the one he was talking to most was Nan Bryson –’

  ‘Who’s she? What does she do?’

  ‘Nan–hell–she’s American, she does odd things. She’s typist at the US Information Office part of the time, then she does the odd private typing jobs and a bit of translation. She’s not too hot at the translation. Her Norwegian’s all right, but they complain about her English spelling and punctuation. She’s kind of pathetic. She just about makes out, and that’s all.’

  ‘OK, who else?’

  ‘There were a couple of university guys. I know one of them’s called Nicolaisen, but I don’t know about the other. I think they’re in languages. Pretty cold pair–look through you, know what I mean? One of them may come in when he reads the papers today.’

  ‘They may. No sign of it so far.’

  ‘They’re kind of respectable, that’s what I mean. Then there’s this chap has a business in town, always smiling and rubbing his hands. Ottesen his name is. Some kind of men’s shop–men’s clothes. Has a plump English wife–quite friendly.’

  ‘Yes, I know him.’

  ‘Oh yeah–he’s on the Council or something, isn’t he? I suppose you would.’

  ‘Anyone else?’

  ‘Well, I think the Mormons dropped in briefly.’

  ‘The Mormons?’

  ‘Yeah, well, they didn’t stay or sit down, and of course it’s not their scene really, not being able to drink, and all, not even coffee. They were looking for someone, and they just stopped at our table and talked for a bit, just to be friendly. They don’t give us the religion spiel–I think they’re just lonely.’

  ‘Too much competition in the way-out religions field up here, perhaps,’ commented Fagermo.

  ‘Right. Screwballs all over the place. Well, I think that’s all, while I was there.’

  ‘So the boy was still there when you left. Do you know whether he stayed long?’

  ‘I guess so. Someone said he was still there pretty late on.’

  ‘Now–what did you talk about? Did he say who he was?’

  ‘No, I didn’t hear him give a name, or any personal stuff. He just heard us talking English and came and joined us, but he didn’t seem to know anyone there.’

  ‘Hmmm. So he didn’t even say where he’d come from, or why he was there?’

  Steve creased his forehead. ‘I’ve been trying to remember that. I know Trondheim was mentioned. And Bodø came up, and he said, “We’ve put in there.” Or it might have been “We put in there”–like they’d called in on the way up on the coastal steamer.’

  ‘Could be. But I rather think he came by plane. Would you say the boy had probably been working in Trondheim?’

  ‘Hell,’ said Steve, ‘I just can’t remember. I don’t think he actually said that.’

  ‘You think he was actually working in Norway, rather than just here on a visit, though?’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so. We went up to the serving counter together one time, and the way he ordered and had his money ready–yeah, I guess he knew what he was doing.’

  ‘Well, I suppose the Trondheim Aliens Office is a line of enquiry . . . Well, if you didn’t talk about him, what did you talk about while he was there?’

  ‘That’s what I can’t remember. I mean, we were talking when he arrived–you know, English Christmases, American Christmases, Norwegian Christmases–and he was mostly listening for a bit. People asked him how long he was in town, whether he liked it, where he was staying, but he was pretty quiet. You know how it is, when the others all know each other and you don’t know anyone. Anyway, after a bit we sort of got into groups and then I didn’t notice him any more.’

  ‘And what group was he in?’

  ‘Well, he was talking to Nan Bryson mostly.’

  ‘You didn’t hear what about?’

  ‘There is only one subject with her–herself.’

  ‘I can’t wait to meet her. So you don’t think he would have done much talking?’

  ‘Just sat there paralysed like the rest of us, I guess.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d best talk to her next, if I can get a word in edgeways.’

  ‘I’ll give you a tip: she had a date with him a night or two later, only he didn’t turn up.’

  ‘I think I can guess why,’ said Fagermo.’

  • • •

  The speed with which Nan Bryson appeared at the police station after he had rung her at the US Information Office gave Fagermo delusions of grandeur: he felt like a Senate Investigating Committee putting salt on the tail of the CIA. Did she feel guilty about not having come voluntarily, or was she booted down at high speed by her superior, who wanted the Office to remain as co-operative and inconspicuous as possible?

  Fagermo felt less good twenty minutes later when, with less than no prompting towards autobiography, Nan Bryson had only come to the point in her life when she experienced feelings of rejection at play group. Fagermo felt that the case would be stale long before she had got through the more vividly remembered trials of her adolescence.

  ‘That’s fascinating,’ he said, with his warmest smile. ‘But I wonder if you could give me a bit more about what he said to you?’

  ‘I was just trying to give you the atmosphere,’ said Nan Bryson plaintively, the great ghostly brown eyes looking up at him like a spurned spaniel’s. ‘I thought it would be helpful–like how we came to be talking together, and the sort of thing we had going. But I guess you think it’s just me droning on as usual. Stop me if I do it again.’

  ‘Well, now–while you were telling him . . . all this, what was he saying?’

  ‘I guess he was just saying “Yes?” and “Really?” and that sort of thing. You know how the English can say “Really?”–all cold and snooty.’

  ‘You’re quite sure he was English.’

  ‘Oh yeah. He had that sort of glaze, like they have.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I don’t mean he was really snooty, not like upper-crust snooty. He was friendly enough on the surface. But he was a pretty cold guy. He didn’t give any.’

  ‘I see. Then what happened when you . . . exhausted that topic?’

  ‘Well, I guess I said “Now tell me about yourself”. I usually do–like I feel guilty. But by then they’ve had enough.’

  ‘Was that what happened that night?’

  Nan Bryson tried to remember. Clearly she had not thought over the encounter as Steve Cooling had–having in all probability had fresh fields and pastures new to occupy her mind. Finally she said: ‘I think it was. By that stage it was getting fairly late, and things sort of tailed off.’

  ‘Had he told you his name, by the way?’

  ‘I think so . . . Hold it . . . What was it? Brown, that’s it.’<
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  Fagermo had seized his pencil eagerly, and now made a note in his book. ‘And his Christian name?’

  ‘Er–let me see. Charles . . . That’s right, Charles.’

  Fagermo put down his pen, and Nan Bryson fixed her great eyes upon him like a puppy who has tried to lick its master and been spurned. ‘Is anything wrong?’

  ‘The boy said Brown because if you say Smith people are immediately suspicious, and Brown and Jones are the next most common after that. Once he’d committed himself to Brown, he inevitably became Charlie Brown, but he disguised it a bit. If you’d woken up to it, he’d have pretended it was a joke.’

  ‘Hey, that’s real neat,’ said Nan Bryson. ‘But I thought I was telling you something really useful.’

  ‘You were in a way. You told me that the boy wanted to hide his real name.’

  ‘He could really have been Charlie Brown,’ said Nan Bryson, as if unwilling to give up the idea of perfect honesty between them.

  ‘And I could be Queen of Sweden,’ said Fagermo. ‘The boy wanted to keep his identity quiet–which suggests he was here for something crooked, or at any rate secret. He didn’t give any indication?’

  ‘No, none. He wasn’t stupid.’

  ‘I just thought,’ said Fagermo carefully, ‘that it might have had something to do with this US Information place you work at.’

  Nan looked horrified. ‘No–I’m sure it didn’t. I mean I told him I worked there, and he didn’t register at all. Gosh, you won’t be pursuing that line, will you? I mean, I could get into trouble, and it’s the only regular job I have. I mean they like to keep such a low profile, like practically invisible, you know . . . ?’

  ‘I’ll only pursue it if it seems likely to lead anywhere. I just thought you had contacts with some pretty odd characters, up and down the country, one way and another . . . ’

  ‘Oh, that’s just what people say’ said Nan pleadingly.

  Everyone knows it’s a spy-ring, Fagermo felt like saying; the least secret one in the world. But he held his peace. There was no point in getting at an underdog on a matter like that. He said: ‘Was the boy still there when you left the Cardinal’s Hat?’