Bergen’s Outreach Centre is located in Strømgaten, across the street from the stately old Lysverket building. It was built in 1916, in a style similar to art nouveau. Cathrine Leivestad had north-facing office space and was exposed to the eternal pounding of the traffic by the crossing outside. I remembered her as young, blonde and attractive when she started at social services a year or two before I finished. That was twenty-two years ago, and no one would call her young any more. She was still blonde, but all the sad lives she had encountered in the course of her career had made her leaner than, to be brutally honest, suited her. The skin over her cheekbones was taut, and her lips had become so thin that the smile she flashed me produced no more than a curl at the corners of her mouth.
A few years had passed since we last met, but I could hear that she was well-informed nonetheless. ‘How are you, Varg? I was told you’d been shot in … in Oslo, wasn’t it?’
‘More proof that moving to the capital is the most stupid thing you can do.’
‘But … there are no permanent injuries, are there?’
‘Couple of decorative scars, if you like the rugged look. And confirmation that not even superheroes last for ever.’
She gave a sardonic smile. ‘So you see yourself as a superhero, do you?’
‘Not any more.’
‘You said you wanted to speak about Margrethe Monsen. Have you found her?’
‘I’m afraid not. I don’t suppose you’ve had any recent contact with her, have you?’
‘No. As a rule we don’t keep in touch on a daily basis. Margrethe and the other girls know where to find us, and they know they’ll get the support they need here. Besides, we’re out on the streets as good as every night, but, for myself, I’ve cut down on that side of the job. I have more than enough to do with the admin. Of course, Margrethe’s been in the business for some years, so I’ve met her … in action, so to speak.’
‘Meaning?’
‘No, not that … on the street. But she’s disappeared, you say?’
‘Yes, that is, we don’t know yet for sure. It may have been her own choice. She has been reported missing though, by a colleague from the streets.’
‘Who?’
‘Hege Jensen.’
She nodded. ‘I know her.’
‘Yes, in fact I did, too.’
‘Oh, how was that?’
‘Former classmate of my son, Thomas.’
‘She’s a bright girl, bearing in mind her situation. But haven’t the police been informed?’
‘No, that’s why she came to me. She didn’t seem to have a great deal of faith in the police, and … well, I’ve started making a few enquiries. That was when I bumped into the guys I mentioned on the phone. Kjell Malthus and his sidekick, Rolf.’
Her gaze hardened. ‘Kjell Malthus and Rolf Terje Dalby. God, yes, we know all about them, and we have talked to the police about them on several occasions. Officially, however, all they do is run a rental service, as well as a number of other business activities. Malthus does, that is. Dalby just goes along for the ride. If only you knew how frustrating this is! Even though we all know what they are up to, it requires such enormous resources to establish damning evidence against them that they will be free for years! If you can help us with that, then …’
She looked at me, and I shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see what we can dig up. The first priority is to find the woman.’
‘Tell me what Hege said.’
I briefed her on what Hege had told me, my visit to the flat in Strandgaten, the encounter with Kjell Malthus and Rolf Terje Dalby and the story Tanya had told me on Monday evening.
During the latter part, her face darkened further. ‘Some people reckon they can treat these girls like trash, just because their circumstances have led them to soliciting on the street. A black car, did you say?’
‘Yes. Mean anything to you?’
‘You didn’t get the model?’
‘Afraid not. But the car registration starts with SP-523.’
She jotted that down on her pad. ‘I can ask my colleagues. Many of the customers out there are regulars, aren’t they. Gradually we’ve got to know them by their cars. But …’
‘Yes?’
‘Margrethe turned down a trick, wasn’t that what you said?’
‘Right. May be a blind alley, of course. But I was told she refused the number point-blank, so Tanya took her place. Margrethe may have come up against the same punter before. She may have known there were two of them. And that the second was waiting round the corner. But whether this has anything to do with her disappearance I don’t know. All we do know is that what happened was out of the ordinary, and the following day she was gone. Since then no one has seen her.’
‘The police can track down electronic leads.’
‘The police can do a whole load of things I can’t, Cathrine. But for now I’m the one with the job.’
‘I really hope you find her! Safe and sound.’ After a short pause, she continued: ‘I should tell you something … I’ve known Margrethe for many years, from long before she started working on the streets. Going right back to one of the first years in social services when we saw the initial signs of concern regarding her family. That’s at least nineteen or twenty years ago.’
‘I see. And the cause for concern was … the usual?’
‘Yes, but it was above all the father who was addicted. Alcohol and pills. The report came from the health visitor at the school where Margrethe started. The sister was a couple of years older, but it was Margrethe who set the whole process in motion.’
‘Because?’
‘Well, it was the usual symptoms. Restlessness, inability to concentrate, no appetite, weight below what it should have been. That sort of thing.’
‘Did you go to their home?’
‘Yes, I … you know what it was like. I was still quite new to the job, but I suppose you remember Elsa? Elsa Dragesund?’
‘Do I remember Elsa? I was trained by her as well.’
‘Right. We went to the family home several times, and our conclusion was obvious. The parents were not capable of taking proper care of their children. There was a little boy there too, Karl Gunnar, also undernourished and restless. Only Siv, the eldest, seemed to be coping alright, and that’s the way it has been in her later life as well, so I’ve been told. But that is not unusual. As the eldest in a dysfunctional family she assumed the parental responsibility for both her brother and sister. She got them up in the morning, made their packed lunches, accompanied Karl Gunnar to nursery when her mother could not, picked him up after school, in short …’
‘But the father was the drinker, didn’t you say? What about the mother?’
‘Cowed. Totally under the thumb of the idiot.’
‘Mm, that was the impression I had of her as well.’
‘Have you met her?’
‘I was at her place yesterday, in case Margrethe had gone there. But no.’
‘No …’
‘So what happened? About the report expressing concern, I mean?’
She tossed her shoulders, as if to illustrate her displeasure. ‘A committee was formed.’
‘Oh yes? By whom, and with what purpose?’
‘They were members of the local church council and a few neighbours who got together to offer them support. Great commitment – no doubting that. Even the parish priest was involved and gave his consent to the campaign.’
‘Campaign?’
‘Yes, it became a matter of principle between us, that is, social services and them. They undertook to ensure the children were supported and the family home got all the practical and economic help it needed. We brought the case before the arbitration court, and it ended with our consenting to the committee having a go. Well, I didn’t consent!’
‘No?’
‘Elsa didn’t either. But we were overruled by … management.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Well, we tried, of course, to follow thi
ngs up, but it was not easy. We were dealing with strong personalities. The parish priest, as I said, although he was not one of the most committed. But there was a central member on the council who, by the way, was a neighbour. There was a couple living in the same house as the family and she worked in the school. He worked in public administration.’
‘Torvaldsen.’
‘Possible, yes. Did you meet them as well?’
‘No, only him. His wife is dead.’
She nodded. ‘And a few more. But anyway … I don’t doubt their idealism. “It’s terrible when a family’s broken up,” this council fellow told us. “Can you imagine anything more painful than parents having their own flesh and blood taken from them?” I felt like telling him: Yes, we can. But sometimes it’s necessary, out of consideration for the children. But it was futile. We had been steamrollered, Varg, and you know how it would have ended otherwise. There would have been headlines in the press, photographers waiting outside when we went to take the children. Howling kids, distraught parents, social services as the big bad wolf. Just great!’
‘We’ve been through publicity like that a few times, yes.’
‘So, events took the course they did. For Margrethe.’
‘And things didn’t go too well for the brother either, I understand.’
‘You’ve heard about that, have you?’
‘I spoke to Per Helge yesterday.’
She looked almost desperate. ‘So who had to pay the price for the committee’s idealistic efforts?!’
‘Has it been long since you last spoke to her?’
‘Margrethe? Oh, yes, must be at least a year. As I said …’ She opened her palms, indicating the piles of paper towering up on both sides of her desk.
‘This committee. You were unsure about Torvaldsen. Do you remember the names of any of the other members?’
‘What I remember most is their faces. But … Mobekk, wasn’t he one of them, I wonder. Builder. I had met him before in that context.’
‘Mobekk?!’
‘Yes. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘You’ll find him on the front page of both Bergen papers today. Without any mention of his name though. He was found dead yesterday afternoon. Brutally killed in his own home.’
‘What! But you don’t think that … Margrethe has anything to do with this, do you?’
‘I have no idea. But Per Helge told me yesterday that Karl Gunnar had absconded from prison. And we know he has killed before.’
‘Yes, but …’ She looked worried. ‘My God! You’ll have to tell the police, Varg.’
‘Of course. I have an appointment to see them, after this. But back to the committee. Do you think it would be possible to find out all of their names?’
‘Yes, I can try. Are you online?’
I smiled. ‘I am.’
‘I’ll send you the list if I find it. Just give me your email address.’
I gave her my business card. ‘It’s there.’
‘Thank you.’
We stood up, and she accompanied me to the entrance. In the waiting room there was turmoil. A client was demanding to talk to a counsellor, who by some mischance was not present, but he wouldn’t accept this, not at all, and his voice went more and more falsetto with every sentence he uttered. When Cathrine and I entered he looked as if he was going to pounce on us, as though everything was our fault. And in a way it was. It was always someone else’s fault, never mind who. That much I had learned, in the five years I had spent under the clipped wings of the social services.
We discreetly rolled our eyes to each other. Cathrine retreated to her office. I went out in January’s dying light, to the foot of the hillside.
14
THE MORNING LIGHT ANGLED LOW over the parking floor at the top of Bystasjonen shopping mall and was reflected in the sculpture of Olav Kyrre across the street from the library, giving the large rhododendron bushes opposite Kaigaten forlorn hopes of spring growth. The forecast was cloudy and changeable with glimpses of the sun during the day.
I rang Atle Helleve on my mobile, and he exclaimed: ‘Bloody hell, Varg! You’re up with the larks, aren’t you?’
‘Have you got some time for me if I drop round?’
‘You’ve got something to tell us, I take it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thought so. That’s what Hamre said when he was briefed this morning: “Veum at a crime scene? Definitely not a coincidence.” He was right, Varg.’
‘You yourself asked me to drop by.’
‘Come on over. Tell them downstairs, and I’ll meet you in the foyer.’
I followed instructions, and ten minutes later I was sitting in his office. We were alone. I had nodded to Hamre through his open office door. He was embroiled in a telephone conversation and sent me a mocking look as I passed, but didn’t make a big thing of it.
Helleve was a decent guy, but there was no reason to allow yourself to be duped. He was sharper between the ears than many I had met in this neck of the woods. He was no older than late thirties, but had already achieved a reputation as one of the most competent detectives in the department.
‘Spill the beans then, Varg … What were you actually doing yesterday afternoon in Minde?’
‘No, that isn’t how it was. I’m investigating a possible disappearance, a young woman from the red-light area in C. Sundts gate. Her mother still lives in the flat above Torvaldsen, with whom you yourself spoke. It was a pure fluke that I happened to be outside their house – with Torvaldsen – when fru Mobekk returned home and found her husband … in that state.’
‘Right. So what is it you have to tell me?’
‘This woman I’m looking for … Her name’s Margrethe Monsen and she grew up there. Her family had problems. The father was an addict, the mother pretty helpless. To cut a long story short, social services were contacted, but a local action committee took the initiative and looked after the Monsen family, supported by the church council.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘I’m being sent a list of the committee members, but I already know that Mobekk and Torvaldsen were on it.’
‘How?’
‘An ex-colleague from social services dealt with the case. She remembered Monsen, and the description of the downstairs neighbours matches the Torvaldsen couple.’
‘Torvaldsen’s a widower, as far as I’ve been informed.’
‘Yes, but only since last autumn.’
He smiled good-naturedly, but without relinquising eye contact.
‘I must say you’re well-versed for a casual passer-by.’
‘Torvaldsen himself told me that. She died of cancer. Furthermore, she was a teacher at Fridalen School.’
‘OK, OK, Varg. You’ve passed the oral.’
‘And one more thing. Margrethe has a brother in prison. Known as KG to his circle. Karl Gunnar Monsen. Name ring any bells?’
‘It does sound familiar, I have to confess.’
‘The Gimle case. Do you remember it?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Ye-es. I had something to do with that one, but … A student killed his teacher, or some such thing. And this was KG?’
‘Yes, and he’s on the loose. He didn’t return from leave on Sunday night. Neither he nor his sister has been seen since Friday. Do you know when Mobekk died?’
‘Hey, hey, hey! Not so fast, Varg. All I can say is no, we haven’t established a time of death yet, but the pathologist’s preliminary judgement is that it happened over the weekend, perhaps as late as some time during Sunday night.’
‘He didn’t answer the phone when his wife called on Monday, wasn’t that right?’
‘Mm, and she hadn’t spoken to him since she went east, more than a week ago.’
‘Must have been a knot in the telephone cable.’
Helleve winced. ‘Indeed. But this is nothing for you to concern yourself with, Varg. Strictly speaking, you shouldn’t have overheard any of what was said. In fact, you were only …’ He threw out his h
ands.
I grinned. ‘A casual passer-by. Tell me though … Was he in work?’
He shook his head patiently. ‘He had been in the building trade, but sold his business six months ago. Wanted to cut down, according to his wife. Took on consultancy jobs, as they’re known.’
‘And there were no jobs last week?’
‘Not at the weekend at any rate.’
‘So from the moment Torvaldsen said goodbye on Friday night no one saw him?’
‘Not that we are aware of.’ He leaned forward. ‘But I think we’ll draw a line there, Varg. What I’m interested in is what you can tell us, not what we can tell you.’
‘OK, I think I’ve said pretty well everything I had to say. If I were you I would check where this Karl Gunnar Monsen might be holed up following his disappearance.’
‘Why’s that? Can you back up your suggestion?’
‘There’s a definite connection. I …’
He raised one hand. ‘Just a moment, Veum.’ He went to the door and called down the corridor. ‘Bjarne! Can you come here for a second?’
Seconds later Bjarne Solheim was at the door. He sent me a cheery nod. ‘Yeah?’
‘The fingerprints we found at the scene of the crime yesterday. Have any of them been identified?’
Solheim showed him a sheet he had in his hand. ‘Got this from Forensics a moment ago. Definitive answer. Apart from the wife’s and what we reckon are Mobekk’s own prints there was nothing that could be identified. Nothing matched what we have on file anyway.’
‘And we would have Karl Gunnar Monsen’s prints in the archives, would we?’
Solheim gave a look of surprise. ‘And who is that?’
‘The Gimle case. May have been before you came to the department.’
‘If he was charged and sentenced we have got him in the archives, no question.’
Helleve turned back to me. ‘What makes you connect Karl Gunnar Monsen with the Mobekk murder?’
‘Nothing apart from what I’ve already told you. Mobekk was on the committee taking care of the Monsen kids. But … as far as I could see they were searching for something indoors where we found him. Were there any signs of a break-in?’
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