Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  I thrust him down onto his steel-grey, brushed-nickel-framed sofa and stood over him in a pose I had borrowed from Humphrey Bogart, a man I was sure he had never heard of.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ he said, looking up at me, eyes wide.

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  His gaze shifted to the side. Then it returned, and he nodded. ‘I remember you alright, but what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘Your fish business in Fusa went belly up, literally. I went there earlier today and had a chat with your partner, Svein Olav.’

  ‘The salmon farm was more suitable for Svein Olav than … the other venture, yes.’

  ‘But you’re still in the computer industry, I see. You’re a dab hand at computers, I heard someone say.’

  He glared at me while waiting for me to go on.

  ‘SH Data. What do you do there?’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  ‘Did you know Åsne Clausen?’

  He seemed to be caught off guard. ‘Åsne? Yes, but she’s…’

  ‘Yes, she’s dead. Absolutely correct. Did you have anything to do with that?’

  He flew into a rage. ‘What the hell are you trying to say? That I had something to do with … I barely knew her. That was right after I started there, and she … took her own life, they said.’

  ‘And the reason for it?’

  ‘Was private. Something to do with her husband. What do I know?’

  ‘But you know Karsten?’

  His eyes widened and the tip of a tongue darted out and licked his lips, like a small reptile that had an existence of its own in his mouth. ‘Bruno?’

  ‘Yes.’ I could feel myself becoming unsure. Bruno?

  ‘Only peripherally. I gave him a hand a few times, with their computer system, when they set up.’

  I tried to look as if I knew more than I did. ‘And then?’

  He shrugged. ‘Afterwards they’ve managed on their own, I assume. Why are you asking? That had nothing to do with SH Data.’

  ‘Bønni, do you know him?’

  He had started to regain control. ‘Tell me, what are you after? Why have you come here asking me all these meaningless questions? I’ve a good mind to ring the police.’

  ‘Svein Olav said you don’t ring the cops.’

  He snorted. ‘Svein Olav!’

  ‘He’s not the only person you’re in contact with in Fusa.’

  ‘Oh, no?’ Again he was on his guard.

  ‘It’s less than half an hour since I saw you drop off Sturle Heimark in Tollbodallmenningen.’

  Silence. On Puddefjord the express passenger boat Snarveien passed on its way from Sukkerhus Wharf to Kleppestø on the island of Askøy. In Laksevåg the street lights had come on. It was past seven o’clock now and darkness was settling over the town.

  ‘What are you two up to?’

  He chewed his lips as if to keep the reptile inside. ‘We have … erm … common interests.’

  ‘And they are…?’

  ‘He’s pretty hot on computers too. We’re running and developing a project.’

  ‘A computer project?’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘He’s a former police officer.’

  ‘Yes, so what? Because you’re retired doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to work. That’s precisely…’ He bit his lip.

  ‘That’s precisely why you contacted him?’

  He didn’t answer.

  I went for a bold move. ‘You know the police still have him on their radar after the suspicious death in Fusa, don’t you?’

  ‘Suspicious? What the hell are you talking about now?’

  ‘Svein Olav brought it to my attention at the time. Sturle Heimark was back home on a lightning visit the weekend his uncle, Knut Kaspersen, died.’

  There was some violent churning of his jaw muscles, as though the little reptile was trying to get out. ‘Svein Olav should just shut his gob!’

  ‘But he won’t, you see. Perhaps you should send him a greeting like the one I received in March the year I dropped in on you.’

  For a second or two I saw a glint of triumph in his eyes, as if the memory of it pleased him. Then he came back down to earth. ‘A greeting?’ he said with the most innocent of expressions. ‘I’m not quite with you there…’

  Suddenly there was a ring from his inside pocket: a syncopated blipblop I had never heard before. He kept eye contact and took out his phone, the very latest model. He looked at the display. ‘Talk of the devil. Sturle Heimark. Shall I answer it?’

  Before he could make a move the ringing stopped.

  I hesitated. Then I said: ‘Is it you who put the filth on my computer?’

  He looked up at me in surprise. ‘What filth?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘No, I don’t. Honestly…’

  His phone beeped twice, also a kind of two-step syncopation. He opened the message and read the display. He glanced up at me. ‘But perhaps this is the answer.’

  Before I could react he had deftly tapped in a response to the message. He had a little smile on his face now. ‘So the police are after you, are they, Veum?’

  ‘Heimark sent the message, did he?’

  The smile changed to a smirk. ‘He still has his contacts…’

  Another message blip-blopped in. This time I reacted. I leaned forward, got my left arm under his chin and forced his head back as I grabbed the hand holding the phone. He tried to wriggle free and held the phone tight, but I managed to grasp it from him.

  I moved away and looked at the unfamiliar display. The whole message was visible at the bottom, beside a message symbol: Keep him there. I’ve rung the police.

  ‘Shit!’

  I met his eyes. And a huge grin. Between the shiny teeth the little pink reptile head protruded again.

  He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Give it to me!’

  ‘I’m taking it with me,’ I answered, and stuffed it into my pocket. Then I strode across the room to the balcony door facing the path. I opened the door and poked out my head.

  I could hear sirens from the district around Skottegaten and Strangehagen. Hjalmar Hope grabbed my arm and squeezed, trying to drag me back in. I turned, pulled him towards me, sank my knee in his flabby stomach and freed my arm. With a whimper he slumped to the floor in front of me.

  Then I was through his flat and outside at the back again. I quickly got my bearings. Behind the building, steps went up the steep mountainside to Nordnes Park and Nordnes School. As I ran up the steps in long strides I saw the reflection of blue lights from the area between USF and Georgenes Verft.

  Hjalmar Hope was on his feet and I could hear him shouting from the balcony at the front: ‘Here! Here!’ Unless I was much mistaken his biggest worry was that I had run off with his phone. I continued my escape to higher ground.

  34

  With the taste of blood in my mouth I ran up the last stretch to Nordnes Park. At the top I stood panting and listening for signs that someone was following me. But I didn’t stop for long. I quickly cut down through the old elementary school and what had once been the Seamen’s Institute. I came out in Haugeveien and at the top of Tollbodallmenningen I stopped to check my surroundings.

  I was in the area where I grew up now, and even as I was making my escape, images and associations flickered through my brain. As a child we had heard stories about people having to go ‘underground’ during the German occupation and groping their way around in the darkness. This was roughly how I felt now. In the town that was mine I was an outlaw. I didn’t have to watch out for the Gestapo, but it would have been very inconvenient to be hauled into the police station before I had made some progress towards finding any answers.

  Not far from where I was standing lived Sturle Heimark, but he was the last person I wanted to call on now. I found the messages between him and Hjalmar Hope on the phone I was holding.

  The first one read: The police are aft
er V. Veum. Charged with possession of child porn.

  Hope’s reply was brief: He’s here.

  And then Heimark’s response: Keep him there. I’ve rung the police.

  Relieved to have been a step ahead of them, I put the phone in my pocket. From my own phone, I called Sølvi.

  ‘Varg! Where are you?’

  ‘In Nordnes with the police hard on my heels. Can you come into town?’

  ‘I’m on my way. I’ve organised childcare, but … What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Drive along C.Sundts gate, turn into Strandgaten by Tollbodallmenningen…’ I racked my brain. ‘Park in front of Nykirken so that I can see you from Nykirkeallmenningen. I’ll come down when the coast is clear. But if there are lots of police in the streets near the centre flash your lights three times before you switch off the engine. OK?’

  She sounded doubtful. ‘This is crazy, Varg. It’s as if we’re in a film!’

  ‘A very bad film, if you ask me. Are you coming?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  We rang off and I kept walking.

  At the corner of Nordnesveien and Nykirkeallmenningen I stood waiting, ears pricked, eyes peeled. There were no sirens to be heard, no blue lights to be seen. I hoped they were concentrating their efforts around USF, along Skottegaten and in Georgenes Verft. From here I had good avenues of escape in several directions, but it would be better to see them before they saw me because I wouldn’t have much chance against a fresh recruit from police college.

  While I was waiting I switched on Hjalmar Hope’s phone again. It obviously wasn’t secured with any form of code. I went through his contacts list and there I found Svein Olav, Sturle H and Bruno K. Was Karsten a surname then? That should make it easier to search for him. None of the other names was familiar, apart from one: Severin C. Wasn’t Åsne Clausen’s son called Severin? As far as I could remember … yes, he was.

  In Strandgaten a dark-grey Volvo S40 that I recognised as Sølvi’s pulled into the kerb by the western exit of Nykirken Church. I watched carefully. She didn’t flash her lights; in fact she switched off the engine as soon as she parked.

  In my childhood the section of the timber buildings around Schrødersmuget that had survived the explosion of the Dutch ship loaded with explosives in 1944 was still standing to the north of Tollbodallmenningen. I had classmates who lived there. But those houses were gone now, replaced by blocks of flats in around 1960. I strode alongside them now, down to the corner of Strandgaten, looked right and left, crossed the street and got into the back seat of Sølvi’s car.

  ‘Hi. Thanks!’

  ‘Are you going to stay there?’

  ‘I’ll duck down when we move off so that no-one can see me.’

  She rolled her eyes, a clear sign that she still didn’t like the film I had persuaded her to join me in. But she started the car and moved towards the centre.

  ‘Did you see any police?’

  ‘One car passed, but it seemed to be going up towards Klosteret.’

  As we passed the church I lay down flat on the back seat and stayed like that until we were out of the market square and on our way through Bryggen. Only then did I dare to sit up again.

  ‘And the rental car?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll have to go back for it later. It’s in Haugeveien.’

  She turned into Sandbrugaten, past Mariakirken and up Nye Sandviksvei. Halfway up Hans Hauges gate she found a parking space. The street was deserted. There was nothing to suggest that anyone had found out where I was hiding. A couple of minutes later we were in the flat. We drew the curtains and switched on the lights. Madonna darted out to see who was visiting this time, confirmed to her approval that it was Sølvi and carried on into the kitchen for some food.

  When Sølvi returned she looked at me with concern. ‘How long do you think you can avoid the police?’

  ‘I have no idea. For as long as possible.’

  ‘Have you made any progress?’

  ‘A few names have cropped up, which I’ll have to investigate.’

  ‘I’ve brought my laptop with me. You can have it until this is all over.’ She looked around. ‘I think Lisbeth’s broadband connection is here somewhere.’

  I nodded towards the corner sofa. ‘There it is.’

  ‘By the way … Helene’s got a sleepover with a friend from her class, so I can … stay here.’

  I instantly pulled her close. ‘Then we’ll have to try not to spend the whole night on the internet.’

  ‘No … shall I make some food while you get online?’

  ‘What’s your password?’

  ‘It’s not very original: Helene1992.’

  She kissed me lightly on the mouth before going to the hall and collecting her laptop and a plastic carrier bag full of food. While she went to the kitchen, I connected up, clicked on Internet Explorer and began to search.

  There were several hits for Bruno Karsten, but none that told me anything more than that he was involved in a number of companies, either on the board or as a general manager. On the tax list he was recorded as earning between three and four hundred thousand kroner a year, and his net worth was zero. Which told me that he belonged to those who had learned the tricks. There were no interviews with him and I couldn’t find an address or a telephone number for him.

  It was impossible to search for Bønni, but there was another name that stuck in my memory. Skarnes. The first search revealed only a town in Hedmark. I refined the search: Skarnes Bergen, but that didn’t produce a relevant answer either. When I enlarged the geographical area to Skarnes Hordaland, there were more hits, but only one of them referred to a person. Someone called Ole Skarnes had a postal address of Lepsøy in the municipality of Os. He was the only one I found, and when I searched the name there were no further personal details and no photos. In the recesses of my mind I could hear the echo of a woman’s voice: ‘Skarnes. His name’s Skarnes. He’s the devil incarnate. Him and Bønni and Karsten. But there are more. Many more.’

  Skarnes. Bønni. Karsten.

  ‘And you? Your name?’

  ‘Magdalena. The chosen one.’ I made a note of the name and address on the list of people I ought to investigate further.

  I deliberated. Then I delved for references to Severin Clausen. Despite his youthful years there were several hits. ‘Fifteen-year-old Severin Clausen’s favourite subject is computers’ was the first I found. The article said that computer technology was the optional subject Severin liked best, and the teacher praised the young student, whose grade was a consistent A. ‘A future computer expert’ was the verdict of the journalist behind the feature. Another hit told readers that Severin (16) had created his own computer game, which he wanted to present to the top game companies in the hope of having it launched internationally. There was no follow-up article to say whether he had succeeded in his venture. There were several articles saying more or less the same. He appeared in a couple of photos from The Gathering, a five-day computer party in Hamar, Easter 2001. I had a strong feeling that I should try and contact Severin (now seventeen?), if for no other reason than to ask him what his connection with Hjalmar Hope was.

  A search for his father, Nicolai S. Clausen, produced a large number of hits, and also several photos, largely in connection with press conferences or other business initiatives in the media. On the tax list he was recorded as earning just over a million kroner and had a net wealth of several million kroner.

  The next targets were my three co-accused: Mikael Midtbø, Per Haugen and Karl Slåtthaug.

  Mikael Midtbø was the youngest, thirty-seven years old with an address in Frekhaug. Beyond that, there was nothing on the Net. Per Haugen was seventy years old according to an article from two years ago in Bergensavisen, where he was among a random selection of Bergensians asked whether they had any comments regarding the proposed staging of the Winter Olympics in Bergen and Voss. He had no comment to make other than ‘By then I’ll be dead, so I don’t have an opinion’. He was de
scribed as being a completely anonymous-looking elderly gentleman. I couldn’t remember ever having seen him before. Beyond that, there was nothing of interest.

  Karl Slåtthaug had been more active in the media. He appeared in various contexts, as a chief fundraiser for many charitable purposes, mostly street children, in Eastern European countries and South America. He had written papers on the debate about child welfare and the importance of having a full provision of institutions in this area, both public and private. In addition, he was committed to environmental issues, both in the controversy surrounding wind turbine farms, which he supported, and drilling for oil in the Barents Sea which he opposed.

  There was nothing about the case that led to him being given the boot from Social Services, naturally enough. It happened before news coverage had managed to spread fully across the Net. But it stuck in my mind like glue, and it occurred to me that perhaps I ought to take a trip out to the children’s institution he had been obliged to leave and see if anyone was more willing to discuss the case now than they had been at the time. Cathrine Leivestad would be the key person to contact.

  I didn’t get a great deal further because I was invited into the kitchen to taste a bouillabaisse, which in fact contained only two of the six prescribed types of fish – one red, one white – in addition to an abundance of vegetables.

  ‘Shall we pick up the car this evening?’ Sølvi asked, standing with an as yet unopened bottle of white wine in her hand.

  ‘Probably wise to wait until tomorrow morning,’ I said.

  She smiled, unscrewed the top and filled the glasses, which were already on the table.

  Later we didn’t spend much time in front of the screen.

  35

  The following morning we got up early and Sølvi drove me to Nordnes. She dropped me where she had picked me up, and while she drove around the tip of Nordnes and along Haugeveien to check if there was any obvious surveillance of the rental car, I walked up to Fredriksbergsgaten, which rose behind what was left of the old church hall. I waited until she called me on her phone and confirmed she couldn’t see anything suspicious around the parked car.