Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Madonna had crept into a basket under the window and in front of the radiator. She peered up at me and her whiskers quivered as if to inform me that she was following everything that I did. In the hall I had passed a box of sand where she did her business and, walking into the kitchen, I saw a bowl of water and one of cat food, which she still hadn’t eaten.

  In a kitchen cupboard I found some tea. I filled the kettle and put it on the stove to heat while I quickly acquainted myself with the rest of the flat. There were two rooms, a kitchen and a small bathroom with space for a shower cabinet in one corner. The bedroom faced the backyard, and the bed was covered with light-blue linen. On the bedside table there was a pile of books and from the clock radio on a dresser along one wall the time gleamed at me in red figures: 14.45.

  I established there was a back door from the kitchen leading to a fire escape down into the backyard, in case a sudden retreat became necessary from here as well.

  There was a strange stillness in the flat. No sounds from the neighbours and very little traffic in Hans Hauges gate, so there was little more than a distant rumble outside.

  When the water had boiled I made myself a cup of tea, fetched the phone directory from the hall and sat down by one of the sitting-room windows, where the daylight was strong enough to read by. While waiting for Sølvi I could at least see what I might be able to find out in this way.

  The notepad I had been using in prison was in my inside pocket. I started leafing through it, jotting down all the relevant names on a blank page and trawling through the directory.

  Fusa had its own section in the alphabetical part at the back. There I found both Nora Nedstrand and Svein Olav Kaspersen. Sturle Heimark wasn’t registered. I couldn’t find his name in the Bergen section either, which made me put two lines under his name and a question mark beside it on the list. In Bergen I found Hjalmar Hope, with an address in Georgenes Verft, the newly built housing project on the tip of the Nordnes peninsula.

  I also found three of my fellow accused. Mikael Midtbø had an address in Frekhaug, which Hamre had mentioned during the interview a few days ago. Per Haugen lived in Flaktveit in Åsane and Karl Slåtthaug in Landås with a Strimmelen address.

  It tormented me that there was a name missing from the list. The man who had commissioned me to find Karsten, Bønni and the circle that was obviously a gentlemen’s club on the top floor of a disused industrial building in Solheimsviken. How on earth could I discover his name, now, almost a year later? The only other link I had with the circle was Karl Slåtthaug, and being accused of the same depravity as me, he must now be behind bars.

  Karsten and Bønni were first names, so it was a waste of time looking for them. Bønni was almost certainly Bjørn, in Bergensian parlance, but knowing that didn’t help me get much further in my investigation.

  The last name I found was Siggen, whom I would definitely be contacting. Sigurd Svendsbø lived in Skytterveien, a little way out of Sandviken. So they were all nicely dispersed over the whole Bergen region, and there was no doubt that if I was going to have any chance at all to carry out any kind of investigation I would be utterly dependent on a car. In which case I would have to rely on Sølvi. And then it struck me I should have asked her if she had a laptop spare as well, but I doubted she did. It was beginning to look as if I would have to rely on the old methods; the phone directory had been a loyal and resolute assistant for so many years.

  In the kitchen there was a little radio. I went in and switched it on to hear if there was anything about my escape on the news. There wasn’t. Madonna came out, went to her bowl without even giving me a second glance, munched some of the dry biscuits and lapped some water. Nevertheless, I had a suspicion she had primarily come in to see what I was up to. When I bent down to pat her she wriggled away and darted back into the sitting room. After an inspection of the corners she returned to her basket and made herself comfortable again.

  I threw myself onto the sofa, closed my eyes and let my mind wander. It wasn’t particularly enjoyable. I was in a precarious situation. The police were hunting for me, but, for now at least, only in the more obvious places. As yet I had no money, no mobile phone and no car. I barely even had a plan. All I had was a list of names retrieved from a corrupted memory, through mists of booze and abandon over far too long, where other unexploded bombs could be waiting to go off. And when I started investigating I would have to keep as low a profile as possible to avoid being caught.

  Finally I dozed off. When the doorbell rang I jumped into the air and was on my feet as Madonna poked her head out of the basket and subjected me to a green stare. I stumbled into the hall to the intercom. I lifted it without speaking.

  Her voice was low and questioning. ‘Varg?’

  I breathed out, but didn’t answer. I pressed the button that opened the door downstairs, left the front door of the flat ajar and through the crack saw her rushing up the stairs as her eyes sought mine in the doorway. As soon as she was inside I closed the door and twisted the handle. For a moment we stood looking at each other, like two refugees who had escaped by a hair’s breadth from being taken prisoner. She put down the heavy shopping bags she was carrying. Then she cuddled up close to me; I put my arms around her and we held each other tight as though this was all that could help us against what had happened.

  Then she freed herself. ‘Is everything alright?’

  ‘Madonna hasn’t clawed me anyway,’ I said. ‘Not even when I dozed off and she had the opportunity.’

  She nodded to the bags. ‘I brought along some food and clothes. I think they’ll fit although they’re not exactly tailor-made for you.’

  Familiar with the layout of the flat, she hung up the black jacket in the hall wardrobe. She was wearing a black-and-white blouse and a black skirt, as if to show that she was still in mourning. She walked ahead of me into the sitting room and looked around in the gloom. I glanced at my watch. It was five minutes to eight and only the street illumination let light into the room.

  She walked to the window and took hold of one curtain. ‘We can draw them. I don’t have any contact with the neighbours, so I doubt anyone will react if we switch on the lights.’

  ‘Sure?’

  She nodded, drew the curtains and switched on a steel standard lamp in the corner between the three-seater sofa and the two-seater, then bent down and ran a hand along Madonna’s back. The cat stood up at once and rubbed against her calf to demonstrate with the utmost clarity that she made a distinction between people.

  Sølvi had been to the hall to bring in the bags. Now it was time to unpack. She pulled out a bottle of wine, a lettuce, a packet of tagliatelle, some minced meat and a jar of pasta sauce. ‘I assumed you were hungry.’

  ‘Haven’t had a bite since breakfast.’

  She lifted out a black peaked cap with red letters on the front: Berkley. Catch more fish. ‘Thought perhaps you might need something to hide under.’

  ‘Smart thinking,’ I nodded, and tried it on. ‘Yours?’

  She smiled sadly. ‘Left behind by Nils, but I don’t think he ever wore it. Probably one he was given.’

  ‘I’ll take it as a good omen. That I’ll get a bite, I mean.’

  Then she took out the new phone and the little pile of cards. ‘I hope you can work this out by yourself.’

  I held it in my hand and cast a superficial glance at it. ‘Let’s hope so. You don’t have a spare laptop by any chance, do you?’

  ‘No. Should I buy one as well?’

  I hesitated. ‘Let’s see how things go during the first few days.’

  She looked around. ‘I think Lisbeth’s got a broadband connection. She took her laptop with her of course. Come to the kitchen with me so that we can talk while we cook.’

  There was no doubt that she had been here before. She took out the frying pan, a saucepan and the other equipment she needed and started cooking. ‘You can open the wine,’ she said as she rinsed the lettuce in the sink.

  There wasn’t muc
h to talk about actually. I told her what it had been like in the week or so since I had been arrested and once again asserted that I was one hundred percent innocent of the accusations.

  She just shook her head, as though this was a summary of events from a world she could hardly imagine. ‘There must be lots of sick people out there.’

  ‘Sadly, there are.’

  While she continued cooking I sorted out the phone, inserted the SIM card that came with it, registered it in her name and put in the first phone card. Afterwards I tapped in the phone numbers I had in my head, but there weren’t many of those. The others I found with the help of the directory. Before the food was on the table it was ready to be used.

  I had found the mobile and landline numbers of Vidar Waagenes in the directory. I hesitated, then I tapped in his number. After three rings a woman’s voice answered. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Hello. Is Vidar at home?’

  ‘Who’s ringing?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘It’s … Varg.’

  ‘Just a moment.’

  Two seconds later Waagenes was on the line. ‘Varg! Where are you? What on earth happened?’

  ‘I was ill.’

  ‘I can understand that, but throwing up is one thing. It’s quite another to run away from the police. You can imagine the dressing-down Solheim got when he returned with his news.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘As your solicitor I can offer you only one piece of advice: Hand yourself in at a police station. The sooner, the better.’

  ‘I’m up against it here, Vidar. Someone has set a trap for me. I didn’t even know I’d walked into it and … you heard yourself what Siggen said. With the help of modern technology they’ve created such strong evidence that I haven’t a hope!’

  ‘The pictures told their own story, Varg.’

  ‘Did you get copies of them?’

  ‘Yes, Hamre gave me the ones he had, but I haven’t got them here. They’re in my office safe.’

  ‘Go back and study them carefully then. I can’t even remember them being taken. I can’t tell you anything about them. Believe me – I’ve had some terrible blackouts over the last few years.’

  ‘Do you mean that someone fabricated this evidence to trap you?’

  ‘Yes. I haven’t a bloody clue whether it’s me in those pictures or they’ve put my head on someone else’s body with Photoshop or whatever it’s called.’

  ‘But it’s still the police’s job to get to the bottom of this matter, Varg. How do you think you’re going to be able to crack it on your own? With the police looking for you, to boot?’

  ‘Well, how serious is this? Are they going public with it?’

  ‘Not yet. I persuaded them to do a local search for you first. After all, you’re not accused of murder. There’s no reason to believe you’re a danger to the public.’

  Oh, yes, I am! To some of them, I said to myself. If I catch them. To him I just said: ‘No. So, in other words…’

  ‘They’ll keep an eye on the places you usually go – home, office – not twenty-four hours a day, I suppose, but I wouldn’t recommend you go anywhere near them.’

  ‘What about … Sølvi?’

  ‘Is that where you are now?’

  ‘…No, but … do they know about her?’

  ‘I haven’t said a word at any rate.’

  ‘Don’t say anything, if they ask.’

  ‘They already have.’

  ‘…Thank you. Cut me some slack for a few days, Vidar. Either the police catch me, in which case I’ll have to rely on you again. Or else I’ll find something out. But I know time is short.’

  ‘The phone you’re ringing from…’

  ‘New, registered in someone else’s name.’

  ‘You’ve rung my private number. I hope my line isn’t being tapped. This case isn’t so serious that they would get a warrant to go so far. I hope not anyway.’

  ‘It isn’t so serious? It’s the worst abuse of children we can imagine.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, naturally. Your running away, that’s not so serious. They’re probably fairly confident they’ll pick you up. It’s not so easy to stay hidden in the modern world. We leave trails wherever we go, whether we want to or not.’

  Sølvi appeared in the kitchen doorway and signalled that the food was ready.

  ‘Can you read my number on your phone, Vidar?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already noted it.’

  ‘Call me if anything comes up I need to know. If not, I’ll call you.’

  ‘I have to repeat my appeal to you to hand yourself in. You have to trust the police.’

  ‘Right now I don’t even trust myself.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, be careful then, Varg. You may be moving into dangerous territory.’

  ‘I know. Thank you. Talk soon. Bye.’

  I rang off and went to the kitchen, where Sølvi had set the table for us both. I filled the glasses, we clinked without a word and tasted the wine. It lay on the palate, bitter-sweet, a little tart, but not so tart that rowan berries picked fresh from the tree in September came to mind.

  There were two things that had dragged me out of the swamp since March. One was the job I had been given and had resolved in the days it lasted. The other was meeting Sølvi and the relationship that had grown between us. Even though it was still at an early stage, it was enough for me to fasten the top back on the spirits and be able to enjoy the taste of a good glass of wine or two again without drowning it in aquavit for dessert. Still, there were days when I struggled with temperance, but then I put on my trainers and headed for Mount Fløyen or Isdalen Valley at such a speed that the drink I wanted most when I arrived home was water.

  Even now, with uncertainty and fear bubbling away inside me, I was able to close my eyes, have another sip and let the wine roll around my mouth, then put the glass down and tackle the food instead.

  After we had eaten we rinsed the plates and cutlery, took our glasses and sat down on the sofa, close to each other. Madonna observed us from her basket with a condescending expression, as though she knew what we were up to.

  ‘I don’t like it, Varg. I would feel happier if you’d handed yourself in to the police and let them deal with the case.’

  ‘That was what Waagenes thought too. But I have to find out more under my own steam. All I have to go on is a handful of names, some not even complete, and the least I have to be able to give the police is who they are and where they can find them.’

  ‘But you’re all on your own … out there.’

  ‘I’m used to that. And I have you up my sleeve.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘I have to be home by twelve. How are you fixed for bed linen?’

  ‘We can have a look.’

  We went into the bedroom. She folded back the duvet. ‘Looks nice and clean,’ she said, turning to me. She stood up and kissed me lightly on the mouth and began to undo my shirt.

  We made love as if it were for the very last time. Afterwards the sheet was off the mattress on one side and the duvet on the floor. I lay on my back with Sølvi beside me, one thigh over my legs, as if to keep me in place. But I had no plans to flee from here, not until I was forced to.

  At half an hour before midnight I accompanied her to the door. She said: ‘I’ll be round early tomorrow with a rental car.’

  I nodded. ‘Get one of the most common makes. Preferably a Toyota, so that all I have to do is get behind the wheel.’

  ‘And I’ll bring some cash.’

  ‘You’ll get it all back with interest.’

  ‘I’ve already had the interest,’ she said, stroking my cheek.

  Another little kiss, a quick hug and she was gone.

  I didn’t sleep much that night. Whenever I did drop off I woke with a start, ready to rush through the back door if someone was coming in. But no-one came. A couple of times I noticed that Madonna was in the room, making sure I was still there, but she left again without a sound. />
  At half past seven, while the town was coming to life, I got up. I switched on the radio and listened to the local news. Nothing about me. Immediately after nine o’clock my phone rang. It was Sølvi. She was in a Toyota Corolla round the corner in Jens Rolfsens gate.

  I got dressed, put the cap on my head, pulled it well down over my forehead and went out to meet her.

  When we were both in the car she looked at me earnestly. ‘I’m scared, Varg. I don’t like this.’

  ‘I don’t, either. But…’ I grinned wryly. ‘…A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

  ‘I’ve lost one husband like this. I don’t want to lose another.’

  ‘I understand. But I don’t have any other option. It is as it is.’

  ‘And where are you going to start?’

  ‘I reckon I should go to Fusa first.’

  ‘Fusa?’

  ‘To see if any of my old enemies are still there.’

  She leaned forward, put her arms around my neck and her mouth against my cheek. ‘Don’t take any risks! Promise me that…’

  I nodded and promised, but behind her back I had my fingers crossed, at least mentally.

  After she had got out of the car, waved goodbye and walked down to Nye Sandviksvei to follow it to Bryggen, I sat in the car with a worse conscience than I’d had for as long as I could remember. Then she was round the corner and I could think about something else.

  The first thing I did was to ring the insurance company in Fyllingsdalen and ask after Nils Åkre. He’d retired, said the receptionist.

  ‘What! When was that?’

  ‘Oh, before the summer. But I can put you through to someone else.’

  ‘Thank you, but this is … private. I’ll ring him at home then.’

  ‘You can try,’ the woman said grouchily. ‘But I think they’re in Spain most of the year. He was last time I spoke to him anyway.’