‘Veum. I’m a private investigator.’
‘Private …’
‘Could she be at your mother’s?’
‘My mother’s? I doubt that.’
‘Hasn’t she got a telephone?’
‘Who? Margrethe?’
‘Your mother.’
‘No. We’ve … She’s never had one. Listen, I’m on my way to work, and I’ve got a bus to catch.’
‘Could we meet?’
‘Meet? I’m going to work. I’ve just told you.’
‘Where do you work?’
She mentioned the name of the same insurance company in Fyllingsdalen I did assignments for now and then.
‘Well, I’ll drop by. Perhaps we could have a chat during your lunch break?’
‘No, not there, but … There’s a café in the Oasen mall. Right by the market. We can meet at twelve.’
‘Great. How will I recognise you?’
‘I’m blonde and have a red coat. I can sit with Bergensavisen open in front of me.’
‘Not the most original idea, that, but fine. I’ll find you. I’ll be the middle-aged man with grizzled hair desperately looking around.’
‘I have to get my skates on.’
She rang off, and I sat with the receiver in my hand for a moment, before putting it down gently as if it were a raw egg.
So far, so good.
The next call was to the Vehicle Licensing Agency. Where they were not as accommodating as they had been on the previous occasion. The lady answering the phone was as cheerful as a funeral director on Good Friday. Although I claimed I was ringing about a collision it was impossible for her to give me all the car registrations beginning with SP-523. She invoked the Data Protection Act and recommended I contact the police first. If an accident had been reported and they had received an enquiry, she might view the matter in a different light. I tried to argue but before I was halfway into what I had planned to say she had put the phone down. No funerals at Easter; we appreciate your understanding.
The third call I made was to an old colleague in social services, who was now in the Norwegian Correctional Services, Per Helge Brubak. At once he sounded a bit more cheerful. ‘Hi there, Varg! To what do I owe the honour?’
‘I was wondering if you knew a fellow called Karl Gunnar Monsen.’
‘KG, yes.’
‘KG?’
‘That’s what they call him. In his community.’
‘And he’s in prison?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
‘What’s he in for?’
He hesitated. ‘What’s this about, Varg?’
‘I’m really just collecting background information. He’s got a sister who’s gone missing, and … well, some people are worried.’
‘Which of the sisters is that?’
‘You know them?’
‘By repute alone. Through KG.’
‘This one’s called Margrethe and she works on C. Sundts gate if you get my drift. Not at one of the offices, though.’
‘OK. I’m with you.’
‘Well, as I said … what’s he in for?’
‘You’ll remember the case if I mention it, but his name was never made public, so … the Gimle case.’
‘Gimle as in Gimle School?’
‘Yes, there was a teaching assistant who was pawing some of the boys in PE, and one of them – KG – reacted with violence. Over-reacted some would say.’
‘He killed him, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. Hit him on the head with a dumbbell until … well, he was left lying there. With his head caved in.’
‘How old was he?’
‘KG? Sixteen and a half.’
‘How long ago was that?’
‘Eight years.’
‘And how long was his sentence?’
‘He’s been in therapy for the whole period, and he’s approaching the end of his sentence now. He attends classes in town and his rehab is almost over.’
‘I see. Do you know if he has any contact with his sisters?’
‘With the elder one, yes. But not much. You know where the other sister has ended up. I would guess we’re dealing with a relatively difficult upbringing here.’
‘Do you know any specifics?’
‘No, he’s always been quite closed. Hard to get close to. Unless we talked about football.’ He sang the Bergen football song refrain: ‘Hei-a Bra-ann!’
‘Do you think he would talk to me?’
‘What about? I cannot imagine he knows what’s happened to his sister.’
‘I suppose not, but could you ask him for me?’
‘By all means! I can ask.’
‘Thank you. Ring me when you have an answer.’ I gave him my mobile phone number and then, as an afterthought, my email address.
The last person I rang was Cathrine Leivestad, with whom I worked for the last year at social services. She had changed offices and was now in the Outreach Centre for prostitutes. I asked if she would have any time if I popped round.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Maggi Monsen. Margrethe. Does that name mean anything to you?’
‘I know who she is, yes.’
‘She’s disappeared.’
‘Really! But what …?’
‘You know the type of milieu she grew up in, and one of her – let’s say colleagues – has initiated a search for her. I thought you might be able to give me some background details, about her and some others …’
‘And you were thinking of …?’
‘Two guys I bumped into. One called Kjell Malthus, the other Rolf.’
Her voice took on a bitter edge. ‘Great. We know both of them as well.’
‘In a nutshell …?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t have any time until tomorrow, Varg. I’ve got meetings until late evening today.’
‘When tomorrow then?’
‘Can you be here at eight?’
‘In the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I’m not there my alarm clock will have let me down. As well. See you!’
Hardly had I put the phone down when it rang. It was Per Helge Brubak. ‘I played it by ear, Varg. Rang the prison to talk to KG. But … it turns out he’s done a runner.’
‘A runner!’
‘Yes. He had a pass this weekend and should have returned on Sunday night, but he didn’t turn up.’
‘Oh yes? How long has he been out?’
‘Since Friday after class. He left school at three. Since then no one has seen him.’
‘Well, I’m damned. The same day as his sister went missing.’
‘Exactly.’
‘But … I suppose an alert has been put out?’
‘An internal one, that’s all so far. He’s not thought to be dangerous to anyone apart from himself.’
‘Himself? You mean he’s suicidal?’
‘No, no, no. What I mean is … he’s not dangerous, not to anyone else, that’s what I mean.’
‘Anyone got any ideas as to what he might have done? Did he have a girlfriend on the outside? Good friends? Something like that.’
‘Not as far as I know, I’m afraid to say. He was a lone wolf. No contacts outside prison of which I am aware.’
‘But where did he live when he had a pass?’
‘With his sister. The elder one.’
‘Siv?’
‘Yes. At least that was the address he gave.’
‘Well … thank you very much. If he contacts you, could you let me know?’
‘Will do.’
He rang off, and I sat looking into middle distance. Two of the three had gone missing, and both on the same day. That was not a coincidence. All I needed now was for Siv not to appear as arranged in the Oasen mall. There was only one way to find out. I locked the office door and walked up to Skansen for my car.
8
FROM THE EARLY 1970s the first real shopping mall in the Bergen area was Oasen. Sletten shopping centre was older, but it s
till had the traditional market square formation you also found in Landåstorget and other places in Bergen’s ever-increasing circle of satellite towns. Oasen was completely covered by a superstructure. It protected the public from rain and goods from the sun in a perfect symbiosis, and it was no surprise that the mall with its location in the centre of Fyllingsdalen became a magnet for the ever-growing population there.
Since that time there had been enormous competition from other shopping centres in new districts, and it had itself increased in size, the last time three or four years ago. Nonetheless, it had maintained its status in the locality, and the café in the middle of the mall by the large square was the scene of regular battles for unoccupied tables. The surest victors were very mature women who used their bulging handbags as sledgehammers during the marauding invasion, and God help anyone who sat down on a coveted seat if they could not marshal their defences. They were on the ropes before they knew what was going on, and they needed more than a count of ten to stagger to their feet.
Siv Monsen was sitting, as I had assumed, with a lot of other people reading today’s Bergensavisen, but the way she was holding the paper, very high up and visible, as in a commercial, drew me in her direction, and she met my quizzical expression with confirmation in her eyes.
‘Siv Monsen?’
She nodded.
‘Varg Veum.’
We shook hands, and I went to the counter and ordered the same as she had: a cup of coffee and a cinnamon twist. I balanced the feast on a tray back to the small table and a free chair she had succeeded in defending, and sat down.
Siv Monsen was an ordinary, attractive young woman, in her late twenties according to my mental notes. She had removed her red coat and was wearing everyday clothes: dark blue trousers and a plain turquoise blouse with long sleeves. Her hair was blonde and short, except for a seductive curl that fell over her forehead and she kept flicking to the side. Her make-up was discreet, and her face bore clear, compact features surrounding a fleshy nose. The tiny smile she sent me was brief and professional, as though we were located on separate sides of a barrier.
‘What do you do in there?’ I asked by way of an introduction.
‘At work?’ As I nodded, she answered: ‘I’m a consultant.’
‘Which means?’
‘I generally sit answering the phone and advising customers.’
‘I’ve had lots of assignments for your company. Nils Åkre is my contact.’
She sent me a chilly look, as if to say that if I wanted to inform her about my acquaintances I had come to the wrong person. ‘I see.’
‘But … today I’m interested in Margrethe.’
She cast a quick look around, raised her coffee cup to her mouth, took a sip and set it down again. ‘So I gathered.’
‘It looks as if she’s disappeared.’
‘Yes … how long has it been?’
‘Well … how long is it since you last saw her?’
She twirled her cup. ‘A week. New Year some time.’
‘Are you often in touch?’
‘We meet on a regular basis, yes.’
‘So you know how she makes her living?’
Sharp, angry intake of breath. ‘Of course I know! And don’t you ask me if I’ve tried to talk her out of it. What good does it do? You can’t be the big sister all your life. People have to make their own decisions.’
‘Your mother?’
‘Yes? What about her?’
‘Does she know?’
‘I doubt it. Impossible to say.’
‘Your brother? Are you in touch with him as well?’
‘Our Karl? Not very often.’
‘No? But he used to stay with you when he had a pass out.’
‘Now and then, yes, he did. He …’
‘I know he’s in prison.’
‘So why are you asking me then?’
‘Because, as of now, he has gone AWOL.’
Her face twitched. ‘What? Him as well?’
‘Him as well? Do you mean that Margrethe has … gone AWOL?’
‘I just mean … gone missing. Him, too.’
‘At about the same time in fact. Last Friday.’
‘Friday,’ she repeated, as though finding it difficult to assimilate the word.
I nodded.
She leaned forward. I caught a faint whiff of her perfume, as discreet as the rest of her. ‘But … The police have organised a search, I suppose?’
‘Only departmental for the time being. Neither of them has contacted you, I assume?’
‘No. Neither Karl nor Margrethe. I had no idea about this until you told me.’ Her reaction was visible now. There were two red patches at the top of her cheeks, and I could see her pulse throbbing in her throat.
‘Could they have contacted your mother, do you think?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘She hasn’t got a phone, I’ve been led to believe. Should I go round and see her?’
‘Have fun, if you do!’
I produced the small photo album I had taken from Margrethe’s flat in Nordnes. She regarded it with suspicion. Next she made a show of glancing at her wristwatch. ‘I have to go back to work soon.’
‘Won’t take a moment.’ I opened to two pages. ‘This is Margrethe, isn’t it?’
She took a quick look and nodded.
I flipped through until I found the photograph of the three children and the five adults outside a cabin somewhere in Vestland. I held it out for her. ‘And this is all of you?’
She screwed her head half round, as if to view the photo from the right angle. Then she nodded.
I pointed to Margrethe, then to the second girl and at length to the boy. ‘Margrethe, you, your brother. Which ones are your parents?’
She moved her head from side to side. ‘They’re not there.’
‘Aren’t they? Who are they then?’
She shot to her feet. ‘Now I do have to go.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
She cast another swift glance at the photograph. ‘They were some neighbours. We had been invited to their cabin. What’s that got to do with all this?’
‘Nothing, I imagine.’ I gave her my business card. ‘Look, if either Margrethe or your brother contacts you, would you let me know?’
She accepted the card without looking at it, shrugged and left.
I ate the rest of the pastry, drained my coffee cup and went in the same direction as she had gone. Instead of descending to the car park I turned right by the exit, headed for the reception desk at the insurance company and asked if Nils Åkre was in. He was. He could even speak to me. I had a sticker bearing my name attached to my lapel and found my way to his office under my own steam, as usual.
Nils was sitting behind his desk, in the middle of a phone conversation. He motioned me to a free chair with a wave of his hand and carried on talking. When he had finished he cradled the receiver, looked at me quizzically and said: ‘What brings you here? Run out of assignments, have you?’
‘No, today in fact I’m here as a kind of customer.’
He arched his eyebrows. ‘Is that right? If it’s life insurance you’re after I’m afraid the incident in Oslo sent your premium through the roof, however good a business contact you are in other ways.’
‘Now I have no close relatives and Thomas has become self-sufficient, so if you had been following, Nils, you would have known that I don’t actually have any life insurance with you any more, and the personal accident and sickness insurance I was offered I couldn’t afford.’
‘Well, there you go. If you can’t keep away from the fireworks in Tiger Town then … But that’s not why you’ve come, is it?’
‘No, it’s not.’
Nils Åkre and I had a nice line in patter from way back, and the number of jobs he had pushed in my direction over the years was not so small. Apart from that, we were as different as it was possible to be. He was an ardent family man, a little overweight and had no ambitio
ns in life other than to reach pension age in good enough shape to cash in on all the benefits from the insurance policies he had taken out over the years. I guessed that then he would emigrate to Provence, a class higher than Costa del Sol, to enjoy his retirement there.
‘This is about a colleague of yours. Someone called Siv Monsen.’
He looked at me blankly. ‘I see.’
‘She told me she worked here. As a client adviser.’
‘That may be correct. Have you spoken to her?’
‘Yes.’
‘In what connection, if I might be so bold.’
‘In total confidence, of course.’
He gave an indulgent smile, and nodded.
‘A family matter. Her sister has gone missing … and perhaps also her brother.’
‘Mm … that sounds dramatic. Why come to me?’
‘Well, I thought you might have something to say.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘What about?’
‘Well … Sometimes you chat to your colleagues, don’t you. Also about private matters.’
‘Varg, Siv Monsen and I are not exactly bosom pals.’ He swivelled his chair towards his computer screen, clicked a couple of times and searched down a list until he came to her name. He nodded, moved the mouse and nodded a second time.
I couldn’t read the text from where I was sitting, but I assumed that some personal details had come up.
‘Employed four years ago. Customer adviser. No other remarks apart from the purely factual.’ He swivelled his chair back towards me. ‘Since I don’t know her in person I’m afraid I can’t help you with any further information, Varg.’
‘Fine … but if anything comes to your ears, you know where to find me.’
He smirked. ‘Outside Lido Café, begging from passers-by?’
We got up. I looked at him. ‘Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want … any more details?’
‘Goodness, no, Varg. I have more than enough to think about with our everyday stuff without worrying about one of our employees’ private relationships.’
‘Well … Give my best regards to the Good Samaritan, if you should bump into him in the lift or wherever.’
‘Same to you. I’ll get in touch whenever we have a case for you. One of our own, that is.’
‘Thank you. Without you all I doubt I would have survived.’
Cold Hearts Page 5