Cold Hearts

by Gunnar Staalesen

  He motioned towards his office door. ‘Come on.’ He turned to Maria. ‘No telephone calls. Just take messages.’

  He closed the door hard behind us and with a brief nod indicated a reasonably comfortable-looking client’s chair. The office was furnished in the same minimalist way as the anteroom. No artwork on the walls here, either. Not so much as a calendar. The desk with the black glass top was clean and tidy, and the only feature that suggested this was a business was the laptop on the left and the two telephones on the right, both cordless, one a mobile.

  ‘So this is the control room of your worldwide empire, is it?’

  ‘Shut up, I said.’

  ‘How many employees have you got? Apart from Maria and Rolf Terje, I mean?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Most on contract, eh? Highly informal contracts?’

  ‘Veum.’ He placed both palms down on the table, with his arms positioned in such a way that he looked even broader, in theory ready to launch himself forward, and it was precisely that impression he wanted to convey. His voice was low and intense. ‘Cut the crap and get to the point.’

  ‘That is not quite so simple. You still haven’t heard from Margrethe Monsen?’

  ‘My relationship with … frøken Monsen is exclusively landlord to tenant. As long as she pays her rent everything is fine by me.’

  I curled my lips into a smile. ‘I hear what you say. What about Tanya? Did you have the same deal with her?’

  ‘Tanya? I don’t know any Tanya.’

  ‘Don’t you? Fru Karoliussen from Kirkenes? In which case, you have missed the opportunity. She was found dead in the sea by the Customs House last night.’

  ‘Oh, her …’

  ‘So you had heard about it?’

  He sent me a blank look.

  ‘Two out of the picture within a week. How does that affect the budget?’

  ‘The budget? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s bad publicity, anyway. For someone who offers protection, I mean. But I suppose the biggest loss was when Lars Mikalsen was met off the Danish ferry last weekend and had his luggage pinched, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Veum, listen here …’

  ‘No, Malthus, you listen here. KG Monsen. Name mean anything to you?’

  Now he no longer made any effort to hide it. His expression was implacably hostile.

  ‘The Gimle case, right?’

  ‘Your brother was killed because he molested one of his pupils. Is it in the family? Homosexuality, I mean?’

  He jumped up from behind the desk. ‘Øyvind was not a fucking poof!’

  ‘No? But you are?’

  ‘Veum …’ His face was a deep red, and the blood vessels on his forehead swollen. This was something experience had taught me. If you want to get one of these macho guys excited, the surest way was to call them homosexual.

  ‘So why was he killed then? Was it a fight for territory? Had KG gone solo and moved into Øyvind’s market? Was it a situation that got out of hand with a fatal outcome for your brother? Control of the school market has always been important in this industry. Everyone knows that. That’s where the clients of the future are groomed,’ I said, then tried to put as much contempt as I could into the next two words: ‘Malthus Invest.’

  ‘I’m not …’

  ‘Yes, you are. It’s just that no one has got anything on you yet. But your time will come, Malthus. It’s waiting for you round the corner.’

  He slumped back into the chair. A storm was raging inside his skull. ‘Veum … Øyvind was my little brother. I had promised my parents I would look after him. When he was killed everything seemed to collapse around my bloody ears.’

  ‘So we’re agreed then.’ I muted my tone. ‘He was not a homosexual. This was a drugs showdown.’

  He didn’t move behind the desk. His glare was still as hostile, but there was something vulnerable and human in his features that had not been there before.

  ‘You must have wanted to take revenge. For the murder of your brother, I mean.’

  ‘He got his punishment.’

  ‘Margrethe’s brother.’

  I let the words hang in the air between us. There didn’t appear to be any reaction, apart from the subdued glare.

  As he didn’t speak I added: ‘Who has vanished without trace, like his sister.’

  Still no reaction.

  ‘No one vanishes without trace nowadays, Malthus.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure about that!’

  ‘Should I regard that as a threat?’

  ‘You can regard it as whatever you fucking want.’ He rose from behind the desk. ‘Anything else?’

  I got to my feet, to maintain some kind of control over the situation. ‘You may not consider these people to have any worth, Malthus. A woman from Russia, down on her luck in her new homeland. A woman with a skewed take-off from Minde – and her brother. For you they may be no more than incomings and outgoings in the annual accounts. Sources of earnings, expendable items.’

  ‘And what’s the bloody point of that? If I can earn money with these girls, as you claim, is it logical that I would get rid of them?’

  ‘No. That’s why I’m asking you: what’s going on? Is there a street war? Is someone muscling their way into your part of the market as well?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Who robbed Lars Mikalsen, for example? An outsider perhaps?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Veum, I’m warning you …’

  ‘Relax, Malthus. I know the package was meant for you. And I’ll promise you one thing. As soon as I can prove the facts, the walk from Strandkaien to the police station will be very short.’

  ‘Strandkaien?’

  ‘That’s where I have my office.’

  ‘Handy to know. Very handy to know, Veum.’ For some reason, every statement he made sounded like a threat.

  ‘If I don’t find them, Margrethe or KG, soon, don’t rule out a second visit. Also handy to know, eh?’

  He glowered at me, but confined himself to indicating the door with one hand, to show which direction he wanted me to go.

  I bowed and took the hint. In reception I winked at Maria. She was as charming as when I arrived. But I assume that is how it is in most investment companies. Red carpet on the way in, account in the red on the way out.

  27

  IT WAS TIME FOR AN EXPEDITION to Minde. On my way to Skansen to pick up my car I dropped by my flat.

  ‘Hello?’ I called out loudly as I unlocked the front door.

  I was not rewarded with an answer, and walking around I was soon able to confirm that she had gone. She had even made the bed and rinsed the glasses before leaving. As far as I could see, nothing was missing. So, the end of the world wouldn’t be this year, either.

  I opened the top drawer of the dresser in the bedroom and took out the small photo album I had found in Margrethe’s flat. I quickly thumbed through to the photo of the cabin, with the three children and the five adults. Even though they were a great deal younger here I still had no difficulty recognising Lill Mobekk, Alf Torvaldsen and Markus Rødberg in the picture. The other woman was most likely Wenche Torvaldsen. The third man was Carsten Mobekk.

  I thumbed back through the album and stopped by the photographs I suspected must have been taken in Børs Café. I recognised him at once. One of them sitting with a raised beer glass and toasting the photographer was Lars Mikalsen. In one of the pictures he was sitting with his arms around Margrethe’s shoulders and saying something to her. I studied the other faces, though without any luck. I may well have seen a couple of them during my visits to the self-same café, and that of course might have been why I had felt I had also seen Lars Mikalsen before, but this made me wonder whether I should have another chat with him before the police – or anyone else – beat me to it.

  Before leaving I tapped in Hege’s number on my mobile. No answer. Not that it necessarily meant anything, but it did give me a tiny feeling of unease in my stomach.
In Øvre Blekevei I got behind the wheel of my new Corolla. I drove past Skansen fire station, through Proms gate and Brattlien towards Leitet and Kalfarlien, keeping the town centre – situated in a hollow and enveloped in January mist – to my right, a quilt of old and new, a jigsaw puzzle that had never been finished because the last piece was always missing, a medieval town waiting for the great infarct, once all the arteries had been blocked. It was safer to hug the hillsides in an elongated arc towards Årstad and Minde.

  I parked in more or less the same spot as last time, by the playground in Jacob Aalls vei. As I turned into Falsens vei, I saw Lill Mobekk coming out of the garden gate in front of her house, wearing the same olive-green coat she wore when she arrived two days ago. We met by the gate to the remnants of the Torvaldsen and Monsen families, one person on each floor.

  We stopped, and she looked at me with puzzlement. ‘Yes?’ I could see that she was struggling to recognise me.

  ‘I’m Veum. I was here on Thursday when your husband … was found.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Now I remember you.’ She scrunched up her face in a blink, as if to hold back the tears. ‘Thank you for helping.’

  ‘It was no more than … How are you?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m still in shock. I’m not sure I’ve taken in what happened. I’m glad I have … Alf.’ She looked at the house in front of us. ‘He’s offered to help me with all the practical details. He and Carsten were best friends for so many years.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. I’m going to see fru Monsen. You know her as well, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Known her for years.’

  She walked ahead of me to the house.

  ‘Ring Torvaldsen’s bell,’ I said. ‘That seems to be the most effective way.’

  Without another word, we waited. When the door opened Torvaldsen sent Lill Mobekk a bright smile, which faded the second he spotted me. ‘Veum? What …?’

  ‘I’m going to see fru Monsen again.’

  ‘Right. Any news on Margrethe?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Margrethe?’ Lill Mobekk queried.

  ‘Yes, she’s gone missing,’ Torvaldsen answered, then added pointedly: ‘Her and … Karl Gunnar.’

  ‘Really?’ I watched her receive the information with unease.

  ‘The day before yesterday you omitted to mention,’ I said to Torvaldsen, ‘that you, your wife, fru Mobekk here and her husband were on a sort of a committee set up to take care of the Monsen family, the children first and foremost.’

  ‘No, I did not. Why would I? I mean … Who are you? A kind of private investigator, I was told.’

  ‘I cannot deny that.’

  Lill Mobekk faced me again. ‘A … detective?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. If you should ever need one, then …’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Torvaldsen said. ‘I think we’ll leave this case to the police. Are you coming, Lill?’

  ‘Yes.’ He held the door open for her. ‘Thank you.’

  I followed them into the stairwell, unbidden. ‘I’ll do the same as last time,’ I said, motioning upwards.

  Neither answered. Torvaldsen let Lill Mobekk into his flat, then closed the door firmly behind him. I went up to the first floor and knocked on the door.

  Else Monsen hadn’t changed her outfit since Tuesday, and the cigarette butt in the corner of her mouth seemed to be a permanent fixture. Her gaze was just as dead, just as lifeless, as she regarded me from the doorway.

  ‘Hello,’ I said with a gentle smile. ‘I was here a couple of days ago. Veum.’

  She looked at me expectantly, although she didn’t make a move to invite me in.

  ‘I was wondering whether I could have a couple of words with you.’

  She stepped aside to let me through, but without uttering a sound. I entered the hall and allowed her to lead the way to the same dismal sitting room as on my previous visit. The parish journal and the magazines lay untouched in the same positions. The portable radio and the TV were as lifeless as before. The ashtray was, if possible, even fuller. The tiny cigarette ends formed a white sugary mound in the middle of the coffee table, a burial mound over dead hours.

  She placed another stone on the mound, took another cigarette from a freshly opened pack and lit it without a look in my direction. I coughed, as if to draw to her attention that I was still present. She raised her eyes to my chest, but no higher.

  ‘Fru Monsen … I asked you the other day whether you’d heard from any of your children. Have any of them contacted you since then?’

  ‘Since when?’ she asked my shirt front.

  ‘Tuesday, two days ago,’ I sighed.

  After a long rumination she concluded the answer was no.

  ‘Tell me … Don’t you have any photos of your children?’

  ‘As adults? No.’

  ‘Not even as children?’

  She turned round at her own pace and her gaze traversed the bare walls, as if there should have been something there, but it had been removed. ‘We did have some.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  She struggled to her feet and shuffled out of the room, the smoke trailing behind her like a bridal veil. I sat and waited. After a couple of minutes she returned with a small cardboard box in her hands. She set the box down on the table and pushed it in my direction without a comment.

  I opened the top flaps and peered inside. It was a little box of surprises: a small jewellery casket, some old newspapers, among which I recognised an article about the Gimle case, a few picture postcards of other parts of the country, some documents including the children’s birth certificates and a handful of framed photographs.

  I picked them up one by one. Else Monsen concentrated on the cigarette, but I noticed her casting sharp glances in my direction each time I picked up a photo, as if to make sure I wouldn’t run off with any of them.

  Several were photographs of babies. For someone who had not seen any of them before, it was difficult to distinguish one from the other.

  I assumed three were confirmation photos, judging by the clothes and age. I recognised Siv without a problem and Margrethe from the small photo album. Karl Gunnar stood erect in a smart, dark jacket with a white shirt, pink tie and hair in the typical mullet cut of the 80s.

  Their expressions varied. Siv was the only person smiling, a rather stiff smile probably at the exhortation of the photographer more than from any inner conviction. Margrethe and Karl Gunnar had distant looks on their faces, as though they were not fully present, neither then nor now.

  ‘Good-looking kids,’ I said.

  She gave a minimal nod and took a huge drag on her cigarette.

  ‘I understand you were given some assistance by a committee for a while?’

  Her mouth tightened a fraction, but still she had nothing to say.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘… The parish thought they could help us. We were … my husband wasn’t a well man.’

  ‘No? What was wrong with him?’

  ‘… It was … his nerves. They had troubled him all his life. He could … Now and then he wasn’t quite himself.’

  ‘I see. He died in an accident, didn’t he?’

  ‘… Yeah.’ She glanced at the door, as if fearing someone would come in and deny it. ‘He fell down the stairs. Out there.’

  ‘In a drunken state, wasn’t he?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, probably. I didn’t see it happen myself.’

  ‘You weren’t at home?’

  ‘Yes, I was, but … I was in here. I thought he was going to the loo.’

  ‘Perhaps both of you had been drinking?’

  ‘… Yes, I suppose we had.’

  ‘And then he fell?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you find him?’

  ‘No, fru Torvaldsen did. People underneath. All of a sudden she was outside ringing the bell, and afterwards it was just a mess.’

  ‘Just a mess?’

  ‘
Yes. Ambulance and police and priest and all at the same time.’

  ‘Police?’

  ‘Yes, but nothing else happened. Frank had fallen down the stairs, under his own steam, so to speak.’

  ‘Were any of the children at home?’

  ‘No, no. They’d moved out. There was just Frank and me here at that time.’

  ‘Margrethe still gives this address as her fixed abode.’

  ‘Oh?’ She regarded me with puzzlement. ‘But it’s … she moved out ages ago.’

  ‘Does post still come for her? Here, I mean.’

  ‘Post?’ She looked as if she did not understand the word. ‘Bills. And advertising brochures. Loads of ads.’

  ‘For Margrethe too?’

  ‘For Margrethe? No, for me!’ She heaved a deep sigh, flicked ash and put the cigarette between her lips again without missing much more than one drag.

  ‘Well … but when your husband died … you said … Siv was the only one to go to the funeral, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she was.’

  ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am …’

  Cigarette smoke hung like a cloud of mist over her part of the room. I held out the photo of Karl Gunnar. ‘Could I borrow this one?’

  She hesitated. ‘Just that one?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve met Siv, and I’ve got better photos of Margrethe.’

  For the first time I detected some emotion in her voice. ‘I want it back again though!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, no problem. If you’d had a photo of him as an adult I …’

  ‘That’s the only one I’ve got.’

  ‘I promise you, fru Monsen, you’ll get it back.’

  ‘What are you going to do with it?’

  ‘Tell me, have the police been here?’

  ‘… Yes, there was a woman.’

  ‘Mm, but you know that Margrethe and Karl Gunnar are missing? The whole police force is out looking for them. That is, for Karl Gunnar. He’s escaped from prison. Margrethe has disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared? Margrethe? She hasn’t been here for years and years.’

  ‘No.’ I was unable to refrain from releasing a little sigh. ‘You don’t have any idea where she could have gone? There’s no … family?’