Cold Hearts

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘Yes, but I don’t have a lot to say. I was given her name in connection with a case I have.’ In brief outline, I told her about Margrethe Monsen, my results so far and my short meeting with Tanya Karoliussen on Monday night. I rounded off by referring to her trip in the car Margrethe had refused to enter, and gave her the same number I had tried to check at the Vehicle Licensing Agency: SP-523 …

  ‘No more than the first three numbers?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no. The car was thought to be black, though.’

  ‘No make of car?’

  ‘No.’

  She made a note anyhow. ‘I’ll see what we can find out.’

  ‘As far as I’m informed, both this Margrethe and Tanya had the same – what do you call them? – business manager?’

  ‘Pimp, do you mean?’

  ‘I thought that kind of thing was illegal.’

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘They call themselves Malthus Invest anyway.’

  She didn’t look unduly surprised. ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And they don’t just invest in girls, if I may say so.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘The man who was beaten up in Skuteviken last weekend. Lars Mikalsen. Rumours in the town say he was a courier for Malthus & Co.’

  I had her interest now. ‘A drugs courier?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘But as far as I’ve been told, he refused to lodge a complaint.’

  ‘Don’t you think that’s strange, all things taken into account?’

  ‘No, justice is brutal in those circles. How did you find out about it?’

  I tilted my head. ‘One has one’s connections. Those of us who do not have any police authority to bang on the table.’

  ‘Do you think he will tell us any more now?’

  ‘Not unless you give him special treatment, under the table, as it were, and that is not exactly comme il faut any more, is it.’

  She sent me an old-fashioned look. ‘It never has been, Veum.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. There are black sheep in most pens.’

  ‘Back to the case. Is this in any way connected with the murder of Tanya Karoliussen?’

  ‘You’ve established that she was murdered, have you?’

  She nodded. ‘She was strangled. And …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The sole bright spot at the moment. We found remnants of skin under her nails. If we’re lucky we’ll find the killer’s DNA there. But that particular point is no business of yours. What I was about to say was … Have you anything else to tell me?’

  ‘Have you spoken to Helleve?’

  ‘Yes, I promised to …’ She lifted the telephone receiver, dialled an internal number and got through. ‘Atle? I’ve got Veum here. Fine.’ She cradled the receiver and nodded. ‘He’s on his way.’

  Thirty seconds later Atle Helleve was in the doorway. He shook his head. ‘Two bodies, Varg? A busy week for the private investigator, eh?’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey. Let’s maintain a certain degree of accuracy, shall we. Someone else found the first body. I happened to be in the vicinity, that’s all. As for the other, Inspector Bergesen here phoned me up.’

  ‘Because the girl had your business card on her,’ interjected Annemette Bergesen, not letting the grass grow under her feet.

  ‘And we’ve resolved that matter, haven’t we?’

  She turned to Helleve. ‘Nonetheless, he has a lead on the attack in Skuteviken that Bjarne was dealing with. You know, last weekend.’

  Helleve pushed a chair back and sat down. ‘Really? Tell me more. What’s the connection?’

  I gave him the same account I had given Annemette Bergesen a few minutes before. He didn’t make notes, but I observed the information sticking like a layer of silicon to the inside of his skull. Whether it filled all the cracks I was not so sure.

  When I reached the bit about Malthus he sent an eloquent glance to his female colleague. ‘Malthus. We’ve never been able to get anything on him, have we.’

  She returned his glance. ‘Kjell Malthus is a lawyer. He knows all the tricks of the trade.’

  ‘Let’s haul Lars Mikalsen in for questioning again.’

  ‘Agreed. I’ll tell Bjarne.’ She scribbled on her pad.

  He turned back to me. ‘But it has nothing, in my view, to do with what went on in Falsens vei.’

  ‘Except that the now-deceased Carsten Mobekk and his wife Lill were, in the past, members of a self-established committee to support the Monsen family during Margrethe’s childhood years. An extremely peripheral connection, in other words. By the way, did you realise that their father, Frank Monsen, died as the result of a fall in 1993?’

  ‘A fall?’

  ‘He fell down the stairs when drunk. That was the conclusion. Yet another suspicious fall in the same district.’

  ‘That’s a few years ago now, and I still don’t see a direct connection. You were at the crime scene yourself. It was evident that someone had been searching for something in Mobekk’s office.’

  ‘Yes, was there anything missing though? Items of value? Papers?’

  ‘Impossible to say. Fru Mobekk had no knowledge of what was in his papers. The only object she is certain she cannot find is a candlestick.’

  ‘A candlestick!’

  ‘Heirloom. Heavy as hell.’

  ‘The murder weapon perhaps?’

  ‘Not impossible. But anyway it’s gone, so for the moment we’ll have to register it as … missing.’

  ‘Is there a motive for the murder?’

  Helleve replied with an ironic smile. ‘Nothing we’ve unearthed as yet. We’re looking for leads or motives in his background. Entrepreneurial activities can be shifting sands, and there could be good reasons for him selling up long before he had to. But we haven’t reached any final conclusion yet, and it’s improbable we’ll share it with you.’

  ‘Why did he sell up?’

  ‘No obvious reason. Solid company, as far as we know. But, as I said, we’ll keep checking.’

  ‘But … what about KG Monsen? Have you followed up that lead?’

  ‘Not yet. I thought it was his sister you were looking for?’

  ‘It is. But it’s quite a coincidence that both have disappeared. Don’t you think? Margrethe had even told one of the other women … well.’ I looked at Annemette Bergesen. ‘It was Tanya. … that she would soon be off. And there’s a definite link between KG and Margrethe.’

  Helleve studied me pensively. ‘I can agree on that, Varg. There are some thin threads here, leading from one case to another. But so far all too thin.’

  ‘What about fingerprints? There were a lot of glasses inside. At the crime scene in Falsens vei, I mean. Anything new on them?’

  ‘No, Varg. And Margrethe Monsen wasn’t on our files, I’m afraid to say. But I can give you one tiny snippet of information. During the investigation we came across a stolen car in one of the streets up there. Reported stolen in Åsane some time last Friday. As a matter of form we checked it for fingerprints, and we had a stroke of luck. KG’s prints were on the wheel, gear lever and the driver’s door handle.’

  ‘What! But that must have put you on the trail, mustn’t it? On his trail, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, it did. We’ve stepped up the search. We don’t have her prints, as I said.’

  ‘I can help you there though.’ I took out my wallet, opened a zip and held out the key Hege had lent me. ‘This is to the flat she had in Strandgaten. Owned, as it happens, by Malthus Invest. There should be no shortage of prints inside.’

  He accepted the key with a reflective expression. ‘OK. Thank you. Perhaps we’ll find her there as well?’

  ‘I would be surprised. She wasn’t there the other day at any rate. But if you do, please let me know.’

  ‘You know what that would mean though, Varg, don’t you? It would mean Margrethe Monsen would no longer be your case.’

  ‘Oh, yes, she would! I have to continue my investigations as my employer aske
d.’

  ‘And your employer would be…?’

  ‘I don’t think I am obliged to tell you.’

  ‘Her mother? Her sister? We can ask them ourselves.’

  ‘A girlfriend.’

  ‘From the same ranks perhaps?’

  ‘Not impossible.’

  ‘Might she have something to tell us about Tanya?’ Annemette Bergesen interrupted. ‘In which case it’s important we know.’

  ‘I don’t think so. But I’ll ask her next time we speak. Shall I ask her to contact you direct?’

  ‘Yes, do that.’

  I turned to Atle Helleve. ‘Are you going to go public with the search soon?’

  ‘For KG? We’ll have to, I suppose. For the moment, we’re keeping it internal. Every single patrol car in town has a photo of him on the dashboard. Yesterday we did a door-to-door search in the district up there. Today we’re doing the same elsewhere. Nygård Park, Torgallmenningen, you know … wherever people are on the move.’

  ‘C. Sundts gate,’ Annemette Bergesen added.

  ‘Yes, we’ll give you a copy as well,’ Helleve said.

  ‘What about electronic leads?’ I said. ‘They must have mobile phones, KG and his sister.’

  He gave a paternal nod. ‘Yes, they did have, and we’ve pinged them. Since last Saturday there’s been nil activity.’

  ‘Saturday? That was the last time either of them used their phone?’

  ‘It was definitely the last time KG rang. We checked him first.’

  ‘And where did he ring from?’

  ‘A base station in Bergen centre. Not very helpful, as such.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Since then it’s been quiet?’

  ‘As quiet as the grave, as the cliché goes.’

  ‘But they can’t just have vanished into thin bloody air!’ I said.

  ‘No?’ Helleve watched me, deep in thought. ‘No, I don’t suppose they can, can they.’

  25

  I WOULD HAVE BEEN PREPARED TO SWEAR I would never end up sitting in Holbergstuen supping tea with Paul Finckel. But there we were, and he didn’t look too good.

  ‘It’s my liver, Varg. The doctor’s told me in no uncertain terms. Spring water and tea, that’s what I drink these days.’

  ‘Well, I have to drive later on, so I’ll keep you company.’

  The tea was thin, and Paul Finckel thinner. But then he had made a habit of pumping himself up and down like a rutting toad from one period to another during his life. We each ordered a salad with the tea and behaved by and large like Spinsters Anonymous on a day out: Go wild and don’t spare the Thousand Island dressing. The waitress served us with resigned tolerance. She had probably worked out that tips tended to depend on the choice of menu and there was nothing to be had from us.

  ‘And what about you?’ he asked, almost hopefully. ‘What’s up with you?’

  ‘Me? Nothing? Bit of rheumatism in the wound when there are big fluctuations in the temperature, but it’s around ten degrees summer or winter in town, so … it’s fine.’

  He took an envelope from his briefcase. ‘And now you’re investigating the Gimle case?’

  ‘Well, investigating may be overstating it, but the case cropped up in connection with another one.’ I swiftly put him in the picture, not forgetting Frank Monsen, Carsten Mobekk or Tanya Karoliussen along the way.

  ‘Three deaths, Varg? Bit over the top, even for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘The first was an accident. Looks like it at least. KG Monsen is linked to the killing of Mobekk. Thus far.’

  ‘But has it got anything to do with the Gimle case?’

  ‘Not as such. But KG is involved, of course.’

  ‘Right.’ He opened the envelope and pulled out some photocopies. ‘There were quite a few articles written about the case when it was news. Opinions were divided as to how severe the sentence should be. Most people thought that being exposed to undesired sexual approaches can be such a dramatic experience that a violent reaction is absolutely understandable. The defendant’s young age was the centre of a lot of speculation. All things considered, I believe he got the sentence he deserved.’

  He pushed the photocopies over to me. I flicked through them briskly. The first ones were news stories of the murder itself, along with photographs of the arrest, with the young boy’s face blurred, and others showing him being led into the magistrate’s court with a jacket over his head. Later there were full-page spreads of the trial, with photographs of the prosecutor and the defence counsel and shadowy sketches of KG. Perhaps because of his young age he was never named, not even after his sentence had been passed. “The Boy (16)” was the description that was used throughout. The murder victim, Øyvind Malthus, was mentioned by name in one of the first reports, a couple of days after the murder had occurred. It was the same spread I had found in Rolf Terje Dalby’s bedsit. In later articles and during the trial he was referred to as “The Supply Teacher (24)”.

  The waitress came with our salads, and we pounced on them like starving rabbits. The pale pink dressing dripped onto Paul Finckel’s chin, and he gazed longingly at the juicy steaks that were being served two tables away. It was a dog’s life, no two ways about it.

  Between lettuce leaves he mumbled: ‘But … there was one aspect that never came out in court, I was told by a colleague of mine.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘The victim, Øyvind Malthus, had been on the police’s radar before.’

  ‘For sexual molestation?’

  ‘No. Narc. But the police had never been able to get anything on him.’

  ‘Neither him nor his brother.’

  There was a glint in his eye. ‘So you know him?’

  ‘Malthus Invest,’ I said. ‘With several mobile investments in C. Sundts gate.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Furthermore, there are rumours circulating that the guy who was beaten up in Skuteviken last weekend was a drug mule for Malthus. Lars Mikalsen. Name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Nope. Have we written anything about this?’

  ‘Just a note. None of this is official, but what you’ve told me about Øyvind Malthus puts everything into an interesting perspective. Do you know anything else about what happened at that time? About the drugs connection, I mean.’

  ‘No, I didn’t follow this case in person, so everything is second-hand.’

  ‘What do you know about him? And here I’m thinking of Kjell Malthus.’

  He sopped up the remains of the salad with a piece of baguette and chewed slowly. With a grimace he washed it down with the thin tea. ‘Not so much. He’s known for keeping his cards close to his chest. But his papers are in order. Trained lawyer with experience as a broker before starting out on his own a few years ago.’

  ‘And do you know what he invests in?’

  His face was expressive. ‘A moveable feast, Varg. Everything from barrels of oil to prostitution. Probably not averse to some drugs, so long as the earnings are good enough. I’ve heard speculation verging in that direction, but never anything specific.’

  ‘Right.’ I held up the photocopies. ‘Can I keep these?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘In that case I can see only one solution. To visit the lion in his den.’

  ‘The lion?’

  ‘Kjell Malthus himself.’ I nodded towards his empty plate. ‘Full?’

  He pulled a face, and we asked for the bill. We’d had more festive sittings, there was no doubt about that.

  26

  THIS TIME, DURING BUSINESS HOURS, the front door was open. I took the stairs up to the third floor, where a plain gilt sign beside a grey door announced that this was the residence of Malthus Invest.

  I knocked and entered. The room was furnished in minimalist fashion. No plants, no pictures on the walls, a huge calendar of the current year, basta. On a small table to the left lay a couple of financial newspapers, the latest edition of Kapital and today’s Bergens Avis. F
or an investment company the room was unusually devoid of people. But at least they employed a secretary.

  She was a Mediterranean beauty of the kind that would have made even the girl from Ipanema pale beside her. Golden brown complexion, with long, undulating hair as black as ebony, she looked as if she had been cut out of an advert for exotic travel destinations, and the tight-fitting yellow dress did nothing to dull the impression. But when she opened her mouth I knew that she had not been employed for her Norwegian language skills.

  ‘Ja? What you like?’

  I flashed my nicest smile. ‘Kjell Malthus. Is he in?’

  Her eyes were dark and lustrous. ‘Who I can announce?’

  ‘You can announce Varg Veum. Say it’s important.’

  ‘Varg Veum?’ She had difficulty repeating it.

  ‘That’s right.’

  She got up from her place behind the desk and sashayed to a door at the back of the room, knocked, waited for an answer and opened. It was not long before she came back out, with Kjell Malthus in her wake.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to keep well away, Veum?’ he barked, and the woman in the yellow dress regarded him with alarm.

  ‘We have important things to discuss, Malthus. Do you want to do that in front of your secretary or shall we do it in your office?’

  ‘Maria?’ He glanced at his secretary. ‘There’s not much she hasn’t heard. Isn’t that true?’

  ‘Was never more true word,’ she gleamed.

  ‘However, on the other hand, there are more useful things she can do with her time.’

  ‘Yes, the clients are queueing outside. I could hardly elbow my way through.’

  He sent me a chill glare. ‘We’re first and foremost a Netbased company, Veum.’

  ‘So what’s Maria doing here then? Making coffee and filing her nails?’

  ‘She brightens the place up, don’t you think?’

  Another gleaming smile.

  ‘Does it cost much to hire her? At night, for example?’

  His eyes hardened. ‘Watch your lip or you’ll be leaving head first.’

  ‘And who’s going to do that? You?’ Fair enough, he was taller than me, and a good bit broader, but he would not have things all his own way.