Cold Hearts

by Gunnar Staalesen

  I tried to recapitulate the conversation I’d had with Siv a week and a half ago. ‘Don’t forget that it was me who put her on the trail.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. I had a chat with her, must have been last Tuesday. Picked her up from work and drove her home. She told me that Margrethe and Karl Gunnar had stayed with her over Friday night. They’d said they were planning to go on their way, which they did … on Saturday. Since then she hadn’t heard a word from them.’

  ‘And you forgot to tell us this?’

  ‘Forgot? I found this out on Thursday afternoon, and the next morning I was lured to Flesland and locked up by Malthus and Dalby. How’s that case going by the way?’

  He raised a hand in defence. ‘Let’s take one thing at a time, shall we, Varg?’

  ‘Well … We touched on what happened to Mobekk of course, and I’m afraid I happened to mention … the fingerprints you’d found, Margrethe’s and Karl Gunnar’s. Hers at the crime scene, and both of theirs in the stolen car.’

  His face went puce. ‘You’re afraid you happened to mention!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a damn cheek. Happened to mention! Bloody hell, Varg. Perhaps you’re the one who triggered this whole chain reaction. She puts two and two together, goes to her childhood home, for some reason or other goes into the cellar and opens the freezer … and finds them there.’

  ‘Have you … questioned her?’

  ‘Questioned? It’ll be a long time before we get the opportunity. She’s been admitted to Sandviken Hospital. According to the doctor in charge she’s in a state of serious psychosis. It’s impossible to contact her, and also in a legal sense she’s beyond our reach.’

  He sat glaring at me.

  I said: ‘What about … the other case? The robbery of Lars Mikalsen.’

  He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Let’s take this point by point, Varg. Lars Mikalsen denies everything. The situation being what it was, we had no reason to hold him. He’s already at home in Møhlenpris.

  ‘But …’

  ‘We don’t have a scrap of evidence. Where are the drugs, for example?’

  ‘Well, I assume you searched everywhere.’

  ‘We’ve searched everywhere they could conceivably be. But you know … They could have buried them somewhere. Put them in a safety deposit box. Sent them in a registered package to themselves. So far they haven’t turned up anyway.’

  ‘But he knew Margrethe?’

  ‘That was more or less the only thing he admitted. That he’d had a few beers with her at Børs Café now and then. And that he knew the brother, of course. It’s a small world. But he denied, in the strongest terms, that they had attacked him when he came off the Danish ferry. His line is now that it could have been a man from Østland he’d had an argument with in the bar the night before.’

  ‘These Østlanders.’

  ‘He flatly rejects any suggestion that he was smuggling drugs. He’s never done that kind of thing, he says. You can take my word for it.’ Helleve grinned and splayed palms. ‘Again … burden of proof, Varg. We have to have the package, at the very minimum.’

  ‘But Malthus and Dalby …’

  ‘They deny everything, of course, as well.’

  ‘They can’t!’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘I’ll testify against them. Unlawful restraint and … what lawyers call serious threats.’

  He nodded. ‘Fine, Varg. But how much will they get for it? Two years tops. Besides, Malthus denies all knowledge of this. He pins the blame on Dalby, which in the best-case scenario may cause the alliance to develop cracks and Dalby to start talking. But discipline in these circles is fierce. Dalby knows that if he says too much, he risks a very unpleasant period in prison. And Malthus is sitting on the resources, economic as well as legal.’

  ‘Hell! And the pimping?’

  ‘Will you get one of the women to testify against him? Can you present their financial accounts? It’s an uphill struggle. Don’t you think we’ve been there before, Varg? “Bergen, Bergen, Bergen,” he quoted. “Norway’s biggest village. Doesn’t matter where you go, home is uphill.” Anything else?’

  ‘Not that I can think of?’

  ‘Well … then I’ll have to sift my way through my piles of paper and see if I can strike gold. Have a very lively weekend, Varg. Celebrate with moderation.’

  ‘Thank you. Not a lot to celebrate, is there.’

  ‘No, you’re right.’

  I found the way down to street level and into what optimists call fresh air. January still hadn’t relinquished its grip. I had a feeling that the whole town found itself in a kind of collective depression, brought on by the grey weather and the thermometer, a lethal alliance in this rain-laden town, kilometres and kilometres from all climate zones. Indeed, in a way, a climate zone in itself.

  On rare occasions I wished I lived elsewhere. This was one of those. As far away as it was possible to go. But, as on most days, I didn’t get any further than my office.

  My letter box was empty. There were no messages on the answer machine. No one needed me.

  40

  SLOWLY LIFE began to stir again.

  I rang Cathrine Leivestad a few times to hear how things were going with Hege. The answer was discouraging. She was on the streets again. ‘We can’t stop her, Varg,’ she said. ‘It’s a free country. What she does with her body is her decision.’

  I rang Thomas and told him about my meeting with his old classroom girlfriend. He did not allow himself to be affected and was more interested in telling me that Mari and he had decided to get married. ‘That’s nice,’ I said, but still went back to Hege: ‘She said you’d gone out together for a while.’ ‘Yes, I suppose we did. But not for long.’ After a short pause he added: ‘I’m sad to hear that.’

  Alf Torvaldsen was brought before the magistrates’ court again. This time there was no doubt what verdict the court would reach. He would be under lock and key until the trial came up, a temporary date had been set for May or June.

  Kjell Malthus and Rolf Terje Dalby were charged with unlawful restraint and serious threats. The trial against them was scheduled for April, and I was already anticipating meeting them in court with mixed feelings. When I called the number for Malthus Invest an automatic message announced that the business had closed down until further notice. Enquiries could be directed to a specified number. I rang it, and a woman’s voice answered: Kristine. I asked if Kjell was at home, but he wasn’t. He was away, the woman said, before her tone sharpened. ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked. ‘Veum,’ I said, and she cut the connection without any further ado.

  At the end of March I was visited in my office by Vidar Waagenes, early one Thursday morning. He rejected the offer of a cup of coffee and sat down in my client’s chair. ‘I thought it would be better if you heard this from me before anyone else, Varg.’

  I looked at him expectantly and motioned for him to continue.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Alf Torvaldsen died in his cell early this morning. A massive heart attack. His life couldn’t be saved. The burden of all the accusations was too heavy to bear.’

  We sat observing each other. I sensed a mute accusation in his eyes.

  ‘He had confessed to three murders, hadn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Under very mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘We-ell.’

  ‘We-ell?’ He seemed affronted. ‘I’m convinced I would have had a good case. A manager on the local council attacked in his own home by two dubious young people with a criminal background.’

  ‘Neither you nor I was there when it happened, Vidar. Therefore I reserve my right to repeat my reservation: We-ell.’

  ‘I last visited him yesterday. He was in despair that what he and his wife had considered an idealistic mission, committing themselves to three children with a very difficult home life, should have been turned upside down as it has been … by you and those like you.’

  ‘May I be so bold as to remind you that two of
the children are dead and the third is in Sandviken Hospital for an indefinite period. That is the concrete result of their so-called idealism.’ He was about to say something, but I continued: ‘And the two dead children died at your deceased client’s hand.’

  ‘It was self-defence. If the case had come before a court I’m sure the jury would have understood the tricky situation in which he found himself.’

  ‘And what about Tanya Karoliussen? Was that self-defence as well?’

  ‘She tried to rob him.’

  ‘And that justified him killing her? But perhaps that is how it is in your world as well? The life of a prostitute is not worth as much as that of a manager on the council. A drop in the ocean, eh, Vidar?’

  ‘You know I don’t think like that, Varg. I don’t have figures for all those I have defended, also from life’s shady side. For me a case is a case and an individual an individual. But there are nuances in this case to which neither you nor the police have paid sufficent attention.’

  ‘Let’s say that then until the contrary is proven.’

  As he left I sat back with a feeling that it would be a long time before he sent me a job again.

  A couple of hours later Helleve rang and told me what had happened. I pretended I hadn’t already heard. In passing, I asked what progress they had made with the investigation. He hummed and hawed, then said there was a good chance the case would be shelved until new evidence appeared.

  A week later Alf Torvaldsen was buried at Solheim chapel. There wasn’t a big turnout, for a variety of reasons. I didn’t attend.

  On a couple of evenings I drove out to C. Sundts gate and looked for Hege. I spotted her on the second. But as I pulled in and rolled down the window, she moved away as if she didn’t want to talk to me. I engaged the handbrake, got out onto the pavement and followed her. When I called her name she turned and made it clear she did not want anything to do with me. At once a dark-haired man with a mass of coarse stubble appeared from a doorway and blocked my path. He asked me what I wanted, with an obvious accent. And what did that have to do with him? I replied. His face darkened. If I wanted another girl he would get me one, pronto. I watched Hege in the distance, she rounded the corner towards Strandgaten. No, thank you, I said. Did he have a business card I could have … for later use? But evidently he didn’t, so I turned on my heel and went back to the car. I was furious inside. Hege had new protectors, this time of foreign origin. What annoyed me most was that there was little I could do about it. As Cathrine had said, we lived in a free country. She could do with her body what she wanted.

  In April I summoned up the courage, drove to Sandviken Hospital and asked if it was possible to visit Siv Monsen. The duty doctor said it was, but we were unlikely to get much out of it, neither Siv nor I. She didn’t talk to anyone. Not even the most skilled therapists had broken through her firewall. I said I would like to venture an attempt anyway. Afterwards my name was registered in the visitors’ book and I was ushered to a lounge with a view of Munkebotn and Sandviksfjellet mountains. The trees on the slopes bore a touch of mauve. It was a question of days before spring would break out with green hair fluttering in the wind.

  Siv sat with her back to the window, her skin so pale it could have been transparent. If you squinted, you could see right through her. She was wearing a blue and green jumper with long sleeves and dark jeans. She didn’t react to my arrival in the room, and when I sat down beside her, I saw that her gaze was vacant, blank.

  I said her name, but she didn’t react to that, either. I tried a few standard questions. How are you? … Have you any contact with others in the ward? No response.

  I looked around. A young girl sat at the other end of the room, peering at us over the top of a magazine and openly giggling. A man of my age sat in between toiling over a jigsaw. He seemed to be very fcocused and had not registered that I was there. A little woman in her fifties appeared in the doorway, scanned the room, but turned around and was gone, possibly because she had noticed a strange face.

  After a further couple of attempts I gave up. I patted her gently on the hand, got up and said: ‘I’ll be back another time, Siv. When you’re in better shape.’

  On my way out, I was stopped by the doctor. ‘Well? Did you make contact?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘Catatonia, provoked by shock, combined with acute depression.’

  ‘And what’s the prognosis for the treatment?’

  He looked at me with doleful eyes. ‘Hard to say. It can go both ways.’

  ‘Has she had visits from anyone else?’

  He flicked through the records. ‘Not many. I remember them both. A colleague from work and a friend, about the same age.’

  ‘Nils Åkre?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And the friend?’

  ‘Leif Larsen.’

  ‘Leif Larsen?’ I was taken aback. ‘Do they have to show ID?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Not her mother?’

  ‘No.’ He looked, if at all possible, even more doleful.

  I thanked him for his kindness and went out into the spring sunshine. April is a deceptive month. All of a sudden there could be sleet in the air, a greeting from a delayed winter. I ambled down to the car and a thought struck me: I might have had summer tyres fitted a week too early.

  Home once again, I checked the telephone directory for Leif Larsen. Leif ‘Shetlands’ Larsen, Bergen’s Second World War hero, had clearly left his mark because there were quite a lot of people with that name, in Bergen alone, and I had no reason whatsoever to visit any of them. Besides, she had said that she had a male friend, hadn’t she?

  Towards the end of April the case against Malthus and Dalby came to court. I was called as the principal witness and did my best to avoid their eyes when I gave evidence. The Defence Counsel did what he could to sow doubt around my statement, but it was not so easy to knock me off my perch. Both received a conviction, Dalby’s was more severe than Malthus’s, based on a legal judgment that was too sophisticated for me to understand in its entirety. The prison sentence was not much of a deterrent: eighteen months for Dalby, twelve for Malthus. I thought to myself: eighteen months. That was what my life was worth. I would have to get into training before they were released. It was evident they themselves considered the punishment too severe. Both appealed, and the appeal trial was scheduled for August or September. Something else to look forward to.

  May passed somehow. I had a few minor cases, a couple of them for Nils Åkre. Life was back on track.

  But I couldn’t get the case out of my head. Back in town after the wedding in Løten I followed an impulse, drove up to Minde, parked the car and went to the house in Falsens vei.

  There were new curtains on the ground floor and there was a new sign on the door. I rang Else Monsen’s doorbell without getting an answer. So I rang the bell on the ground floor. The young woman who opened had a little child in her arm and looked somewhat flurried. When I explained the situation she nodded and stepped aside. ‘Yes, she is undoubtedly a bit special,’ she commented before I took the stairs to the first floor. ‘We’ve just moved in.’

  I knocked on the door upstairs. Only after a long wait did I hear sounds inside. There was some fiddling with the lock, and Else Monsen appeared.

  She had not changed much. Perhaps there was an element of new pain visible in her face. If so, that was all. But the cigarette was in place, and if I was not mistaken she was wearing the same outfit as on the first time I visited her: beige pullover and brown trousers.

  ‘I’m Veum. Do you remember me?’

  She nodded and turned around, confident that I would follow her. We entered the sitting room. There were no changes there either, apart from the fact that she had emptied the ashtray. It was already well on the way to filling up again.

  ‘You ha
ven’t visited Siv, I understand.’

  She looked at me with a tiny scrap of surprise in her eyes. ‘I never go out.’

  ‘You don’t? How do you do your shopping then?’

  She held the glowing cigarette in front of me, as if to show what generally constituted her shopping. ‘I have what I need delivered to the door every Friday.’

  ‘But do you know where she is?’

  She shrugged. ‘Isn’t she at home then?’

  I sighed. ‘Listen, Else. There is something I’m wondering about. When Siv came here that day in January that I’m sure you remember … did she have something with her?’

  ‘With her. A heavy bag.’

  ‘A bag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And … where is it now?’

  ‘It was lying around. In the end, I put it in the cupboard.’

  ‘Does that mean … it’s still here?’

  ‘No, it’s not here any more.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘No, her friend came to collect it.’

  ‘Her friend?’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he said anyway.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Oh …’ She waved her hand airily, causing the cigarette smoke to settle like a silk veil between us. ‘Several weeks ago.’

  ‘Did he say his name, this friend?’

  She delved into her memory, so deep that she went dizzy. ‘Leif, wasn’t it, think it was.’

  The following day was a beautiful, hot June day. I drove to Sandviken, found a vacant parking spot and approached the same ward as on the previous occasion. There was a new doctor on duty, quite a young woman, and when I asked after Siv, she smiled and pointed to the park at the rear of the house. ‘You’ll find her there,’ she said. ‘With Leif, I dare say …’

  41

  THEY WERE SITTING ON A BENCH in relaxed poses, enjoying the summer day like any other lovers. She was wearing bright, airy summer clothes. Her hair was full of life, as if she had just washed it, and she had more colour in her cheeks than when I visited her in May. He was wearing light, baggy shorts and a dark red singlet. He’d had his hair cut short and had grown a moustache since I had last seen him, and the marks of the beating were gone, but I had no difficulty recognising him.