‘Absolutely. So you can go on holiday. We’ll find her before you do, I suppose.’
‘Have you picked up Lars Mikalsen?’
‘Bjarne’s on his way there now.’
‘Then I hope he has more luck than I did.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was there about half an hour ago, and no one answered the door.’
‘And what were you …?’ He broke off. ‘Well, alright! This is an impossible task. I suppose we knew that already.’
‘What is?’
‘Getting you to stay out of the way, Varg. Have you made any progress?’
‘Not with respect to the disappearance, no.’
‘So what are you doing now?’
‘Sitting in a car park in Fyllingsdalen, waiting for their sister, Siv.’
‘Well … get in touch if anything comes up.’
‘May I venture a thank-you for doing the same?’
‘You may, but I doubt it’ll help.’
With that, the conversation was over, and I continued to listen to Miles & Co while keeping an eye on the entrance to the insurance company.
It was closer to three quarters of an hour before she appeared. I had just begun to wonder whether she had left by the rear exit when she came out, peered round and walked in my direction. I opened the car door to show her where to come, although that didn’t seem to make her jump with joy. The distaste on her face was easy to read as she bent forward and looked in. ‘What is it now then?’
‘Wouldn’t you like to sit down?’
‘Have you found her?’
‘No. Not yet.’ I indicated the front seat with an open palm. ‘I’ll drive you home, as I said.’
‘Well, alright.’ She got in without enthusiasm. Only when I had reversed out of the marked bay and put the car in first gear did she fasten the seat belt. ‘The quickest route is via Bønestoppen.’
‘Do you drive yourself?’
‘I haven’t got a car.’
I lowered the music and bore left at the first roundabout. ‘So other people give you a lift, do they?’
She snorted quietly, as a sign that it was none of my business.
Three roundabouts later we began the ascent to Bønestoppen. ‘Your father’s death was dramatic,’ I said as we passed the social housing by Lillehatten.
‘Dramatic?’
‘Yes. Losing his life in the way he did must class as … not very usual anyway. I suppose you know that, being in the branch you are.’
‘He didn’t have any life insurance, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
‘So no one gained financially from his death, in other words?’
I could feel her eyes on my face. ‘What are you implying, Veum?’
‘I’m not implying anything at all. You were the one who didn’t think there was anything dramatic about falling down the stairs at home and breaking your neck with fatal consequences.’
‘I didn’t say … I said you were over-dramatising. It was an unlucky accident. He and Mum had been drinking, and well … you know the rest.’
‘There was a lot of drinking in your childhood, wasn’t there,’ I said quietly.
‘Yes, there was!’ She inhaled in a sharp gasp. ‘It’s not for no reason that we’ve … None of us has very happy childhood memories.’
‘Your brother reacted with such force when he was subjected to what might have been a sexual approach. Such force that I wonder whether … he might have experienced something similar before.’ I weighed my words carefully before adding: ‘At home, for example.’
We were at the top of the hill now. As we began to descend towards Bønes we passed a yellow bus at a stop. Without any warning she undid her seat belt and grabbed the door handle. ‘Let me out! I’ll catch the bus.’
I drew in to the side, braked and held her arm. ‘Siv! Take it easy. I didn’t mean to …’
Her face was crimson. ‘Let me go! I’ll shout for help!’
‘Listen to me.’
‘Help!’ she howled, and struggled to get free. ‘Heeeelp!’
I let go of her arm, and her jacket sleeve was up. I caught a glimpse of the scars Nils had told me about. Then she twisted away, prised open the door and jumped onto the pavement while waving at the bus driver in desperation.
I yanked on the handbrake, killed the engine and jumped out on my side. ‘Siv!’
The bus driver was crouched over the steering wheel staring at Siv. As I reached her and grabbed at her arm, he opened the door.
She hissed at me: ‘Let go!’
Some frightened passengers on the pavement side of the bus watched with wide eyes. A man got up in the central aisle as the driver shouted to us: ‘What the hell’s going on?’
‘Let me on!’ Siv shouted.
The man in the aisle was by the driver now. ‘Do you need some assistance, frøken?’
‘Yes! This man. He’s harassing me.’
The passenger was no heavyweight and in his mid-sixties. He hesitated to alight and join us. The driver, on the other hand, was a great deal stronger. Now he got to his feet. ‘Let her go, or I’ll call the police!’
‘No!’ Siv shouted.
‘Please do,’ I said. ‘Ask for Hamre or Helleve and give them my regards. Veum’s my name.’
‘Don’t!’ said Siv.
They looked from her to me, bewildered. I let her go, but she didn’t move. ‘The choice is yours, Siv,’ I said in a low voice. ‘The police or me.’
Tears appeared in her eyes, and her lips quivered. ‘Can’t I just catch the bus?’
I swallowed. ‘Let me drive you home. That’ll be the simplest anyway. I promise … I won’t ask any more questions if you don’t want to tell me anything. No one can force you. Not me at any rate.’
The driver slumped back down behind the wheel. ‘What’s it going to be, frøken?’
She made herself look up at him. ‘It’s fine. You can go.’
‘OK, but first of all Prince Charming will have to get his bloody car out of the way!’
The passenger was sending me stern looks, as if telling me to watch out or he’d …
I responded with a glare to make him think twice, and his eyes wandered to the side. Then I gently led Siv back to the car, held the door open for her and waited until she was in before walking round to my side, while the bus driver made a show of sitting on the horn and whistling angrily.
I ignored him, got behind the wheel and started up. I waited until Siv had put on her seat belt before signalling to move out and drove at an unhurried pace down the hill with the bus half a metre behind me to the next stop, where some impatient prospective passengers were looking at their watches as we passed.
In deafening silence we drove to Landås. Not a word was said. It was so quiet that after a while it cannot have been solely unpleasant for me. When we stopped in front of the starshaped houses in Kristofer Jansens vei, she remained in her seat staring into the middle distance, not showing any signs of wanting to get out.
I glanced at her. In a cautious voice, I said: ‘I couldn’t help seeing the scars on your arm.’
She flushed and pursed her lips. She gulped, and I could see she was fighting with herself. Then the dam burst. A strangled sob forced itself up her throat, tears flooded out, she hid her face in her hands, leaned forward against the dashboard and wept without restraint.
I let her cry. After a while I bent over and stroked her shoulders and back. She leaned even further forward, into as close as you could get to a foetal position in a car seat.
Crying fits like this are like rainfall in a gale. It sweeps across the landscape, the sky darkens, and there is a sudden deluge with a power that seems supernatural. When it is over, the clouds drift by, patches of blue sky appear above and – on good days – a ray of sunshine.
Siv Monsen’s crying stopped, too. But there wasn’t much sun as she lifted her head, took out a pack of tissues from her bag and dried her tears. Her face was pale and blotchy, and ther
e was an air of infinite vulnerability about her lips. It was an expression I had seen before in far too many children. The reflection of a lost childhood.
‘It was Dad,’ she whispered. ‘But only when he had been drinking. Always when he had been drinking. Then he came up to us in the loft.’
The words came, slow and halting. This was not something she was used to talking about, to strangers. ‘At first it was me. Later it was Margrethe, too. He never switched on the light. It always happened in the dark. We heard him come in. For many years I knew he was coming to me. After he began with Margrethe as well, it was almost worse. When I heard the sound of his shuffling steps in the loft it was as if I couldn’t breathe. Then he was standing in the doorway. I could see his silhouette against the outside light. He would close the door behind him, and I would hear him groping his way in the night. Who would he choose … her or me? Next … I would feel him lift the duvet … his hands on my body. Or I would hear him creeping towards Margrethe, and that was almost even worse, because I could hear everything that went on, and I was so ashamed! Ashamed that I was so relieved it wasn’t me, but her. I would lie listening to his coarse breathing, smelling the stench of alcohol, feeling so nauseous that I could have vomited. But I didn’t dare move, could not say a word. Afterwards … I found it impossible to sleep without the light on.’
‘And this persisted for many years, did it?’
‘Right up until I left home! With Margrethe not long after, I suppose.’
‘But Karl Gunnar …’
For the first time she looked straight at me. ‘No, never. He wasn’t interested in him at all. But of course he lay there in the dark listening to everything as well.’
‘You never tried to talk with someone about this?’
‘No. Who?’
‘A teacher. A health visitor at school. This committee that was set up.’
She shook her head. ‘It was impossible. Margrethe and I didn’t even talk about it.’
‘But there were signs. When the health visitor reacted to Margrethe’s condition. Were you never asked about … anything?’
‘Never. Fru Torvaldsen and fru Vefring … they said everything would be fine when they started taking care of us.’
‘But it wasn’t?’
‘No.’ After a pause she added: ‘There was perhaps more order in terms of homework and eating and so on. But not the rest. Things just carried on.’
‘It’s not always easy to detect … for outsiders.’
She didn’t answer that, and I went on: ‘What about your mother? Didn’t she understand what was happening?’
‘She must have done! She wasn’t a complete idiot, I suppose. But she probably thought that in that way … she was free. Why do you think we never visit her?’
‘She still seems very weighed down by it all. Was she ever … were you ever hit?’
‘Margrethe and I weren’t. Karl Gunnar was, a few times. But that was when he came from school with a teacher’s note – there were other incidents.’
I sighed. It was not an unusual picture that she was drawing, not for someone with my background. The most important difference was that now, despite everything, someone was daring to come forward with their experiences. Until a few decades ago it was hushed up. No one talked about this, from the most Christian of homes to the most radical. But it had to be admitted: there was more of this behind closed doors in religious communities. In other circles they found satisfaction for their drives in a more acceptable way.
‘But you all got away in the end.’
‘Got away! Kalle had to go to prison to escape. That might be why he killed the boy. To escape.’
‘Do you mean that?’
‘What do I know? And Margrethe … you know where she’s ended up. She must have thought that’s how it was meant to be. Wasn’t used to anything else. When she was old enough she knew how to exploit it. There were advantages, she could buy herself things, be out longer, if not …’
‘If not …’
‘… she threatened to tell someone. To go to the police.’
‘How old was she when she moved out?’
‘Eighteen. Autumn, 1988.’
‘1988? Why then?’
‘Why not? She couldn’t stand it any longer, either.’
‘But she never told the authorities that she’d moved.’
‘Oh? Well, I suppose she didn’t take that very seriously. She didn’t get much more than her tax code in the post, and I’m sure she could manage without that.’
‘Not an easy childhood for any of you, I can see.’
She slapped the dashboard. ‘Do you know who I blame most? Not my father. He was just a pathetic bastard. Not my mother. She was a zero. But the sodding committee. These self-righteous neighbours who were so proud of all the things they were going to do – and then they weren’t any better! I can never forgive them. Once I went to him, Rødberg, and asked for help. But all he did was hush it up. He said that I shouldn’t, that it was a one-off, that I had to forgive. And then he wanted us to pray together. Pray to God for forgiveness of all our sins. I could have spewed. I ran out, out of his house and back home to … hell!’
‘A one-off?’
‘Yes.’
‘But surely you told him …?’
‘Yes!’ she interrupted. Then she held her head. ‘Ohhh! This is driving me mad!’ When she turned to me again it was with a sombre, distressed expression. ‘What’s happened to them, Veum? Where are they?’
‘Margrethe and Karl Gunnar?’
She nodded. ‘They were here …’ She gazed up at the star-shaped building. ‘Friday night.’
A second or two passed before what she had said sank in. ‘What! Here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
She shrugged. ‘Kalle was going to spend the night with me, as usual, but this time he had Margrethe with him as well. Something had happened. I don’t know what. She was very, very upset. The next day they said they were moving on, they had a plan. But I didn’t believe them. I thought they were dreaming. But they did anyway. All of a sudden they were gone, and you and the police came to the door asking after them. Could … could they be safe somewhere … abroad?’
‘Do you think so?’
She slowly shook her head.
‘They would have contacted you, wouldn’t they?’
‘Yes, they would.’
I brooded. ‘Listen, Siv … there’s something I have to tell you that very few people know. About what happened to Carsten Mobekk. The police have found Margrethe’s prints at the crime scene. On a wine glass. And in one of the streets up there, in a stolen car, both of their prints.’
She looked at me, with such vacant eyes that for an instant I feared she had not understood what I had said.
‘You said yourself that the people you blamed most were those on the committee. Perhaps Margrethe and your brother felt the same?’
‘But … No, I refuse to believe that. Margrethe?’
‘Or both of them?’
‘And so?’
I splayed my palms. ‘It might have happened in a moment of passion. They could have been so frightened by what they had done that they just fled – as far as they could.’
‘Where then? They didn’t have anywhere to hide!’
‘Nowhere?’
‘No!’
For a while we sat in silence. At length I vaguely indicated her arm. ‘When did you start self-harming?’
Again her face darkened. ‘Don’t remember.’
‘Was it … to punish yourself?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It was something I did. There was no one else I could … be bad to.’
‘But you know it’s unfounded. There’s no reason whatsoever to punish yourself for the abuse others have committed.’
‘I know that, yes. But it’s not so easy to … Sometimes I just have to do it! It’s like a kind of … high. Something has poisoned me, for ever.’
/> ‘Yes, I know. Have you tried to get any treatment for it? Talked to a psychologist? What about the company doctor?’
‘He’s taken an oath of confidentiality!’
‘But perhaps he recommended you to have treatment, as well?’
‘Yes, he did. But … I thought I could cope without. I’m used to … coping alone. The last six months have been better after I …’
‘After you …?’
‘Got a … boyfriend.’
‘Not … Nils Åkre?’
She shook her head. ‘No, no, no. My goodness, he’s a colleague.’ She looked up at the apartment block. ‘But now I think I have to …’
‘Perhaps that was who you were expecting the other evening when first I, then Nils came … and disturbed you.’
She tossed her head. ‘Maybe. I have to go, I said!’
‘One last question, Siv. After you moved out … did you see … did you ever meet your father again?’
Her lips tightened into a fierce grimace. ‘I went to his funeral, and I would have liked to dance on his grave! No, Veum. I never saw him again, and I would … If I had been able to, I would have killed him myself!’
‘Do you think someone else … did precisely that?’
‘Did … what? Killed him?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who could have done it?’
‘I suppose your mother was the closest.’
‘She could never have done it.’
‘Your brother or sister?’
‘Kalle was inside. And Margrethe? She’d also moved out before his death. None of us was at home even!’
‘Who did he go to, do you think, when his needs were too great? Back to your mother? Could it have been too much for her?’
‘I don’t know! I know nothing about this. The day I moved out I drew a line under the life I had lived to that point. Since then I’ve tried to start afresh, live a new life … without such occurrences. Since the funeral I haven’t even seen her, my own mother!’ She opened the door and set a foot on the tarmac. ‘But now I have to go.’
She got out of the car. I leaned over and tried to catch her eye. ‘Thank you for telling me all this, Siv. I don’t know if it will help me to trace Margrethe, but at least it gives me a better background for understanding her. Understanding all three of you.’ Your mother as well, I might have added. But I didn’t. I don’t think she would have understood that. I barely did myself.
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