Svendsbø stared at me intensely as if to interpret the impression it was all making on me. I nodded and said: ‘Impressive.’
‘It’s been my hobby ever since I was in my teens.’
‘And you make a living from this?’
‘Better now than when I was employed actually. There are enough customers out there needing an independent consultant in this field.’
‘I obviously needed one myself.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, you certainly needed a higher threshold and a more solid firewall.’
‘Is it really so easy to get into other people’s computers?’
‘If you don’t take the correct precautions, it is. Or if you’re stupid enough to click on a link that initially might look innocuous, but in fact hides a bomb. “Logic bombs” they’re called in the trade, and there are enough examples of them, from the Christmas card worm that brought IBM to its knees fifteen years ago to the hackers who infiltrated the Pentagon and other central operation rooms.’
‘I’m a dwarf by comparison then.’
‘And fast asleep, I would say.’
‘Well … But when we met yesterday morning you said you were on the trail of the people who could have planted this material.’
‘Yes, come over here.’
He led me to one of the computers, sat down on the office chair and pointed to another next to him. He connected an external hard drive, which he then opened on the screen in front of him. He pressed a couple more keys and at once I recognised my own email account.
I jerked back.
He laughed. ‘Yes, as you can see, I can read all the emails you’ve sent and received…’ he scrolled through ‘…over the last year. You don’t tidy up much, I note.’
‘Well…’
‘And here we have the so-called deleted elements. There’s quite a bit from several years back. You must have forgotten the command: “Remove deleted elements”?’
‘No, I sometimes find things there that I can still use.’
‘Then it’s better to archive them. Never mind. This is just kids’ stuff.’ He clicked onto some webpages I didn’t recognise at all, where numbers and letters in the strangest combinations flickered past. ‘We’re into the operating system now, Varg, and from here we can go in a variety of directions. With the right commands it’s also possible to get into the guts of your system, putting it crudely, and read the small print there – unless it’s been properly hidden. In which case you often need a password. But with the right software … if I let it whir away for a while it frequently gets through, unless they – the people who commit this kind of cyber crime – have used a very personal password, but they seldom do. Accessibility inside the network is important for them.’
I nodded slowly, trying to follow his lecture.
‘In short. I’ve got into this area and I’ve found several IP addresses that have been in your machine without your clicking on them.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘But now I have to go into hidden catalogues to find out who these addresses are registered to. Here we go up a notch in class. Some people don’t know how to put obstacles in the way. You, amongst others. All you have to do is get into Telenor’s registration lists, or some other operator’s; it’s not that difficult, let me tell you. This is probably how the police worked, maybe with a court order in their pockets. So, in this case, Telenor let them see the lists. I’ve found the other three here who were charged along with you – Midtbø, Haugen and Slåtthaug.’ He looked at me. ‘You’ve contacted Slåtthaug before, by the way. His name was on your contact list, but I didn’t see any messages, not even among the deleted emails.’
‘Really? But that’s so long ago it must have been completely deleted. At least ten years.’
He nodded. ‘In addition, there’s someone who’s computer-literate enough to hide their address or operate under a false flag. There are also the Norwegian Data Protection Authority rules; they set limits for how long a log can be accessible, but you can get round these too, if you take a few short-cuts.’
‘And is there someone like that … working on my log?’
He puffed out his lips and blew, in a way which made him resemble a fish in an aquarium. ‘There is, Varg. And I haven’t cracked the codes yet.’
‘But you’re on the case?’
‘You can be sure of that. It’s Vidar’s top priority.’
‘Another thing, Siggen. Do you know someone called Hjalmar Hope?’
Once again he made a fish-face, as if signalling this was someone he didn’t like. ‘Yeees … but I wouldn’t count him as one of my best friends. Do you suspect he may have something to do with this?’
‘Would that surprise you?’
‘Not really. He’s in the trade, if I can put it like that, but he’s not one of the best. He’s been involved in some shady stuff as well. I think he was a partner in a company in Samnanger, or around there, that was on the police radar a few years back.’
‘That’s right. In Fusa. The very same.’
‘The last time I saw him he was with SH Data.’
A tingle ran down my back. ‘SH Data in Sandsli?’
‘That’s them. I’ve worked for them too on a consultant basis, but Hjalmar Hope is employed there, as far as I know.’
‘Hm. Did you know someone else working there, one … Åsne Clausen?’
For a moment he looked a little disconcerted. ‘Åsne? Yes, but she’s … dead.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘So she can’t have had anything to do with this.’
‘No, no. I was just making connections … as you brought up SH Data. I had a job a few years ago that involved them as well.’
‘She had a son who was a computer whiz by the way.’
‘Yes, I think I’ve heard that before.’
‘I remember she talked about it … It must have been the only time I ever talked to her about anything personal.’
‘But he’s very young, isn’t he?’
He shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue. As I said, I had nothing else to do with her, so … Nor with Hjalmar Hope, for that matter.’ He turned back to the screen. ‘Do you think he could have had something to do with this?’ A couple of taps on the keyboard revealed the unpleasant images. First one, then two more, finally even more.
I slid back in the roller chair. ‘This is just too awful!’
He turned to me. A bitterness seemed to have him in its grip. ‘Yes? I say the same. People like that should burn in hell, if it exists!’
‘They should be punished at any rate … and stopped before they get that far.’
I saw my expression on the screen, ecstatic, as I moved up between the little girl’s slender thighs. I saw myself slumped over her and the desperation on her face. ‘Can you find out if these images have been doctored?’
He nodded. ‘I’ve checked. They haven’t.’
‘They haven’t!? What do you mean?’
‘The light, the resolution, photo-technical details. This is you, Veum, and there’s no manipulation.’
‘But you…’ My mouth was suddenly dry. ‘You can’t believe that … I can’t remember anything about this at all! If it was me I must’ve been completely paralytic.’
His expression was more pitiless now. ‘As if that’s any excuse! It’s still you lying there.’
‘What about … the other photos? It’s not only these ones, is it.’
‘You want to see the whole collection?’
‘I don’t want to, no, but…’
He tapped on the keyboard and an apparently endless stream of images appeared on the screen. He flicked through them and I noticed some were magnified. It was like being shown around a cabinet of horrors. The photos I was in were trivial compared with those of other children … and adults. I had to turn away from the screen so many times.
He stared at me without a scrap of sympathy. ‘Strong stuff, eh?’
My voice was a croak when I answered: ‘This is just so awful! What
goes on in the heads of these people?’
‘Selfish, brutal abuse of power, coupled with the sickest sexuality.’
‘But…’ I pointed to the screen. ‘They aren’t Norwegian, all these photos, are they?’
‘It’s hard to say. As you yourself know, arrests have been made in a number of countries, and many of these images have crossed national boundaries. Perhaps only the ones of you were taken in Norway.’
‘Yes, because I reacted to … Many of the children have dark skins. Some are completely black, others lighter-skinned, but there are no white children – except for…’
‘Who knows what goes on in Norwegian reception centres, Veum? Have you seen the statistics of children who go missing from places like that?’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. But … my God!’ I looked around the hi-tech bedroom. ‘You said yesterday that you had children yourself…’
He smiled wryly. ‘And you can’t see any signs of them? I can show you the children’s room, if you’re in any doubt.’ He motioned to the wall behind us. ‘But like so many others I’m only a part-time father. The mother I lived with found someone else, moved to another part of the country, and here I am.’
‘I know the situation, even if it’s a few years ago now.’ I pointed at the photos on the screen. ‘I assure you … this has nothing whatsoever to do with … I remember none of this. But I’ll get to the bottom of it whatever it may cost. And one of the people I intend to speak to is Hjalmar Hope. Do the names Bønni and Karsten mean anything to you?’
‘Not in this context. But we’ve all known a Bønni at some point in our lives. It must be one of the most common nicknames in Bergen.’
‘Of course. What about Sturle Heimark?’
‘The policeman?’
‘Yes, but he’s retired now.’
He still had reservations. ‘I remember him contacting me a few times for information. He was responsible for parts of the police computer-training scheme.’
‘That’s him.’
‘I talked to him on the phone, that’s all. And I went to the police station to give a couple of lectures that he arranged.’
‘Could I ask you a favour?’
He waited for me to go on, without revealing any great goodwill.
‘Sturle Heimark is also someone I’d like to talk to. He’s supposed to be living in Bergen, but I have no idea where and he clearly has a secret phone number. With all the equipment you have, can you find his address?’
This time he didn’t make a fish-face but something more akin to a hamster’s. He showed his front teeth, smacked his lips and turned back to the computer. He unhooked my hard drive and went onto one of his own programs.
While waiting for the result of his search he tapped his fingers on the desk beside him. He pressed a few more keys, then he nodded. ‘Let’s see … I’ve got a mobile number.’
I leaned forward and made a note.
‘And let me see now … Here’s an address. But of course I don’t know if he’s living there.’
I gazed at the screen and copied it down. Strandgaten with a three-figure number. So it was a long way out. ‘At least that gives me something to check.’
‘Then…’
‘Yes, I won’t take up any more of your time. But let me know if you come across anything.’ I wrote down the number of my new mobile, tore the page out of my notepad and gave it to him. He placed it on his desk without a glance.
On the way out I caught a glimpse of the room next door. There were two bunk beds with brightly coloured linen on, big posters on the wall, bookshelves, Lego boxes and toy chests. It struck me, like a reflection of myself almost thirty years before, that nothing was sadder than a divorced father with a room full of toys and no-one in there, apart from a few times a month. No-one laughing and playing. No-one complaining and crying.
A checkpoint hadn’t been set up in Skytterveien. I managed to get down Helleveien again without any great problems. From there I chose the right-hand entrance to Fløyfjell Tunnel, the quickest route to Sandsli and SH Data.
32
As I parked outside the building where SH Data had its offices, just before the end of the working day, I had a strange sense of déjà vu. I had been there before, around two years ago. Then it had been Åsne Clausen I was waiting for; this time it was someone different.
I found the SH Data number thanks to the mobile phone directory and rang it. When a woman’s voice chirruped an answer, I asked to speak to Hjalmar Hope.
‘One moment please,’ she said, and I rang off. So he was definitely there.
Sitting and waiting in a car park gives you time to reflect. In a way I felt comfortable and safe. The car Sølvi had hired didn’t differ greatly from any of those around, and it would take a lot for the police to find me here. If anyone passed I would raise the mobile to my ear and pretend I was in the middle of a conversation, in case they should wonder why I was just sitting there. In a way I was also outside the daily life of the town. It would soon be thirty years since I’d had a regular job with a monthly salary. True, the working week had been hard to keep within limits, but if I had to go out at night or travel to Copenhagen to bring someone home, at least I was paid overtime and a daily allowance. As a private investigator I was happy when clients paid up after the case was over. All too often I was left with the advance and a string of unpaid invoices. I had never done my own debt collection and that was obvious from my accounts.
In life’s accounts I hadn’t done a great deal better, not that I had the energy to reflect on that right now. I had quite different and far more urgent problems to deal with.
I had the car radio on. The traffic was gridlocked, as usual at this time of day. That made life difficult for those picking up children from the kindergarten, but easier for those on a surveillance job. It wasn’t easy to evade detection in the traffic between Sandsli and Bergen town centre in the midst of the rush hour.
The number of people coming out of the business centre increased as the clock on my dashboard approached five, but it was more like half past when Hjalmar Hope walked through the main entrance. I recognised him at once and slumped lower in my seat to hide behind the steering wheel.
He wasn’t alone. With him was someone I had no problem recognising either. It was Sturle Heimark. They chatted all the way to a dark-blue Audi. Hope got in behind the wheel, and Heimark sat beside him. I had killed two birds with one stone, but I still had no idea what it meant.
When they exited the car park I neatly slipped in behind them. Once again I had the sensation I was reliving something I had experienced before. Hope followed the queue down past the Lagunen Shopping Centre, through Troldhaug Tunnel, along Fritz Riebers vei towards Fjøsanger, where the idyllic beaches along Lake Nordås were replaced by a commanding motorway and from there into the even more congested Fjøsangervei road. At Danmarksplass it was as though the town’s combined car parks were spewing out exhaust for their own pleasure, and movement at the crossroads appeared to be what militarists call a ‘gradual advance’. I sneaked past two cars behind them before the traffic clogged up as we approached the lights at Bystasjonen Shopping Centre.
We crawled through the centre and out towards Nordnes. At Tollbodallmenningen Hope pulled to the side. I turned into the car park in the middle of the wide road and sat watching. They talked for a few minutes. Then Heimark got out of the car. He bent down and said a few words to Hope before raising a hand to his forehead, slamming the door and stepping onto the pavement. Hope pulled away from the kerb and turned towards Nordnesgaten, while Heimark rounded the corner into Strandgaten. That tallied with the address we had found at Siggen’s.
Again I tailed him, but now it was harder not to be noticed. There weren’t so many cars on the streets. Most people had returned home and were already tucking into their evening meal.
But I had a suspicion I knew where Hope was going, as his home address was Georgenes Verft. To get there by car entailed quite a detour, so while he continued dow
n Haugeveien, I parked by the crossroads with Galgebakken and walked from there down to Georgenes Verft, where I sat by the entrance to the USF arts venue. There had been a sardine factory here once, where my mother had worked in her younger days. I had often been to the jazz nights there, and I was always reminded of my mother as I leaned against one of the pillars in the Sardinen club, listening to cool jazz and thinking that at one time this had been the United Sardine Factories. The original Georgenes Verft shipyards had been further inland, but the housing project had moved the name out here.
Hjalmar Hope’s dark Audi suddenly appeared in front of me, and I quickly set off, just in time to see him disappear into the garage complex under the new blocks of flats. I reached the drive in front as his car entered and the garage door automatically closed behind him.
I walked along the path between the blocks, keeping a sharp eye on the fronts to see if lights came on anywhere. After some minutes I spotted a light going on in a flat in one of the furthest blocks with an entrance at the back. I walked over and, sure enough, there was his name by the bell.
I rang and waited.
When he opened up he recognised me at once. But he didn’t react fast enough.
‘Hi Hjalmar,’ I said. ‘Long time, no see.’ I shoved him into the flat, followed through quickly and slammed the door after me.
33
I manhandled Hjalmar Hope through the hall into the sitting room.
It was a modern, streamlined apartment, furnished in minimalist style and about as personal as a furniture catalogue. Through the window we could see between the blocks outside and across Puddefjord towards the old U-boat pens the Germans had built during the war and which to all appearances would be standing there on doomsday.
Despite being several decades younger than me, Hope put up surprisingly little resistance. He had a handful more flab on him than when I had last met him and hardly belonged to those with a membership card for the nearest fitness studio. If he did it lay unused in his wallet. His dark hair was a touch thicker round the ears and a somewhat premature double chin had made his face less distinct. But the dark suit and the white shirt, open at the neck, still placed him in the employed camp, though with an income based on commission rather than a fixed salary.
Wolves in the Dark Page 15