Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘My God!’ I opened my palms in a gesture of defiance. ‘You commissioned me, Clausen, because of your suspicions. Until that moment I’d never heard of you or your wife, and the photos had been taken a long time before then!’

  ‘Yes…’ He reverted to his previous, slightly confused expression. ‘I suppose they had.’

  ‘But you tailed her here in Bergen!’ Severin retorted.

  ‘Yes. I’ll admit that, but it was a total fiasco. She – your mother – spotted me and told me to stop what I was doing. But then she called on me a few days later and placed the photos of your father and his … girlfriends … on my desk. From then I had nothing more to do with the matter. The rest was a discussion between her and your father, and I know nothing about what was said between them, and nor do I take any responsibility for it.’

  ‘So you don’t know who she was with, either?’

  I splayed my hands. ‘How would I know that?’

  He blinked behind the thick lenses. ‘If I ever get hold of him…’ He didn’t complete the sentence. Then he turned back to his father. The looks they exchanged weren’t very affectionate, at least not on Severin’s side.

  ‘I loved her,’ Nicolai Clausen said lamely. ‘I realised too late, but I … She was everything in my life and after she … passed on … it was a black hole. My ability to work. Money. Business. It all just evaporated.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  Clausen looked at me vacantly.

  ‘He got the big E!’ Severin said.

  ‘The big E?’

  ‘The elbow, from Grandad. Grandad bought him out and side-lined him. He’s been sitting there with his jaw drooping ever since.’

  ‘Severin,’ his father whimpered.

  ‘You’re pathetic!’ Severin said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you, she’d still be here.’

  Clausen looked down. ‘Well…’

  Severin’s lips quivered as he turned back to me. ‘I came home from school that day, but there was no-one at home, no-one I could see. No-one in the kitchen and no messages. For some reason I went up to the first floor. As though on some intuition. I don’t know. And … there she was, hanging, at the top of the stairs, with a tipped stool under her. I ran up, grabbed her legs and lifted her, but she didn’t react and I took the stool…’ His voice broke. ‘Put it underneath her, got up and unhitched the noose around her neck so that I could carry her down and lay her on the floor, but … it was too late. I knew at once. The staring eyes. The rank smell of … Ugh! I’ll never forget it, not if I live to be a hundred.’

  I nodded. Then I ventured: ‘And I understood from your father … there was never any doubt that it was suicide? No-one else could have done it, could they?’

  His blank eyes went from me to his father. ‘Him, you mean?’

  ‘Him or someone else?’

  He had gone so pale that the red pimples on his face stood out even more than usual. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No-one ever considered that.’

  Nicolai Clausen tried once again to stand up straight. ‘There was never any talk of … anything like that. She chose to do … what she did. End of story. The guilty party is here.’

  The son’s eyes flashed. ‘And if there’s a hell you’ll burn forever!’

  I faced Severin again. ‘What happened afterwards?’

  He removed his glasses, took out a tissue and started to clean his glasses as if that would help him to see backwards in time. When he put them on again he met my gaze, more composed now. ‘I tried to ring him. But of course he was busy. So I rang Grandad instead, and he came and … sorted everything.’

  ‘Sorted everything?’

  ‘Yes, he rang the doctor we normally use and later he spoke to someone he knew in the police.’

  ‘Aha. You don’t remember any names?’

  ‘Dr Hermansen.’

  ‘I meant in the police.’

  ‘No. Grandad knows so many officers.’

  ‘But they came to examine the scene?’

  He looked at his father. ‘No … it wasn’t necessary. Grandad told them what had happened and that was it.’

  I made a mental note of another name on my list, in bold: Kåre Kronstad.

  Then I addressed Clausen again. ‘Did you try to find out who he was, this other man in her life?’

  ‘There was nothing to find.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He shrugged and threw up his arms in one movement.

  ‘Weren’t there any clues, among her papers, on her phone?’ I looked at the son. ‘Her computer?’

  ‘I often wondered,’ Clausen mumbled. ‘Perhaps he was at her funeral. Perhaps he was among those accompanying her to the grave?’

  ‘A colleague?’

  He shrugged. ‘But … I have to finish cooking so that we can eat.’

  I turned back to Severin. ‘I hear you’re a bit of a computer whiz.’

  He scowled at me. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did your mother get you started on that?’

  He answered sullenly: ‘Yes. Probably.’

  ‘You went to work with her sometimes, I imagine?’

  ‘When I was smaller, yes. She and someone called Ruth. They shared an office and Ruth taught me quite a bit. More than Mum actually.’

  ‘What’s the rest of Ruth’s name?’

  ‘Olsen.’

  Another one to have a chat with, I thought.

  ‘Does the name Hjalmar Hope mean anything to you?’

  He eyed me suspiciously. ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘You’re on his phone contact list, I … found out.’ I glanced at Clausen. He was interested in what we were discussing, I noticed.

  ‘Right. He’s … I mean he was one of Mum’s colleagues. He helped me a little with … something I’m developing.’

  ‘The computer game I read about on the Net?’

  ‘Yes, he’s got contacts. He offered to help me get it launched.’

  ‘For a tiny commission, I take it?’

  He shrugged. ‘Surely that’s not so unreasonable?’

  ‘So that’s how you know him?’

  ‘Yes. How else?’

  ‘Well … he’s got so many irons in the fire, good old Hjalmar has – so I gather.’

  ‘Irons in the fire?’

  ‘Just an expression.’

  He seemed more irritable now. ‘Were there any other questions?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Then I think you should do as the old boy said. Get out so that we can have something to eat.’

  Clausen nodded in agreement. ‘Yes. And high time too.’

  I looked from one to the other. Right now I thought it fairly improbable that either of these two would have hacked my computer and left child porn there. To all outward appearances they had more than enough to deal with as it was. I didn’t envy them the atmosphere they would have over dinner, today as on all other days since Åsne Clausen had left them for good and in the most definitive way possible. Whether she had done it by her own hand I was not at all sure, but for the moment that was not my major focus, so I let it drop. There were enough ghosts in the room as it was.

  I thanked them. Neither of them escorted me to the door. Nor did I hear a single word before I closed the door behind me. I walked down to the car and flicked through my mental notepad. What now? Sturle Heimark perhaps?

  But I was getting hungry. I postponed a possible visit to Sturle Heimark until later in the evening and drove via Leitet and Skansen to Hans Hauges gate. As I turned from Bakkegaten into the street I slammed on the brakes.

  I pulled into the kerb, switched off the engine and ducked behind the steering wheel to hide my silhouette against the lighting behind me.

  There was a police car with its lights on in front of the house where I had spent the night. Two uniformed officers were talking to a woman by the front entrance. It was hard not to recognise her. It was Sølvi.

  40

  Unsure what to do, I sat staring at what was going on. Had they tr
acked me down already? Surely Sølvi wouldn’t have informed on me?

  From this distance it was impossible to interpret what was being said, but it looked as if the officers were satisfied with what Sølvi was telling them. They said polite goodbyes, got in their car and drove towards me. I ducked down to the floor as though searching for something I had lost. I saw their headlights sweep past and heard the sound of the engine. I only ventured to poke my head up when it was totally quiet.

  I scanned the pavement. It was empty. Sølvi had either gone inside or returned home. I took out my phone and called her.

  She answered at once. ‘Hi.’

  ‘It’s me. What was all that about?’

  ‘Where are you? Did you see?’

  ‘At the end of the street.’

  ‘Well, it turns out that some neighbours had noticed that there were lights on in the flat and as they thought Lisbeth was away they rang the police. I happened to be coming here when I saw them, but it gave me a shock.’

  ‘Same here. Did you manage to put their minds at rest?’

  ‘Yes, I told them about the cat and that I popped in every day to feed her. I said I might’ve forgotten to switch off the light yesterday.’

  ‘And they didn’t ask about me?’

  ‘Not at all. I’d guess they were thinking along the lines of a burglar. Are you coming over?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We hung up, I parked properly and set off across the street. I quickly unlocked the door, took the steps two at a time and slipped inside the door, which she had left ajar.

  She met me in the gloom of the hallway and at once I saw there was something wrong. The way she looked at me, the lack of a smile, told me something had happened.

  I shut the door behind me, walked towards her and held her shoulders. She stared up at me with an expression on her face as though she no longer knew who I was.

  ‘What is it, Sølvi? Has something happened?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes.’ Then she gently freed herself from my hands. ‘Come with me into the sitting room. There’s something I have to show you.’

  Once inside, Madonna stuck her head up from the basket and appraised me with her green eyes, in a Cleopatra-like pose, aristocratic and distant. On the coffee table lay a C4 brown envelope and with a sinking feeling I realised what was in store for me.

  ‘Sit down, Varg,’ she said, motioning towards the sofa. She sat down on the chair opposite and reached forward for the envelope. I saw her name and address on the front, typewritten on a sticker.

  She was pale when she pulled the now familiar photos out of the envelope.

  ‘Don’t believe your eyes, Sølvi! That’s not me.’

  Her voice was tremulous. ‘It’s not you? I can see it is!’

  ‘I told you right at the outset. This is material someone has planted. Either it’s touched up or…’

  ‘Touched up? This is you in the photos!’

  ‘But just look at them.’

  ‘Don’t you think I have?’

  ‘Look properly.’

  She placed the five photos on the table in front of us and bent over them with an expression on her face as if she were being forced to examine a putrescent animal.

  ‘Can’t you see? First of all, I have my eyes closed in all of them, and that isn’t out of bloody ecstasy. It’s because I’m unconscious. Someone has slipped me a Mickey and placed me in this situation without my knowing.’

  She raised her face and looked at me, still sceptical.

  ‘Look at that one, for example. At the top. My hair isn’t visible because someone’s holding onto it to keep my face upright for people to recognise me. I couldn’t do that to a child, Sølvi. You have to believe me.’

  The scepticism was beginning to fade in her eyes. ‘I want to, Varg! But you have to understand … it looks absolutely genuine!’

  ‘That’s what the police thought too,’ I said bitterly. ‘Is it any wonder I had to go out and spew up when they showed me these?’

  ‘And this child…’ She placed her finger on the photo where the desperate child’s face was in focus. ‘It’s not someone you know, is it?’

  ‘Not at all!’

  Suddenly her eyes flooded with tears. And a sob came from her throat. ‘You have to understand, Varg! I was so frightened. Naturally I thought of Helene and that you might’ve done … the same to her.’

  I leaned across the table and grasped her hands firmly. ‘Hand on heart, Sølvi. This is an impossibility. It has never happened. Surely she would’ve said if it had? If even you don’t trust me, I have no-one left to rely on any more!’

  She got up from the chair, came round the table and plumped down on the sofa beside me. Then she cuddled up to me, laid her face against my neck and cried silent tears. ‘I was so frightened,’ she repeated. ‘So very, very frightened.’

  I let her cry. Once more Madonna raised her head and sent me an accusatory stare because I had made her surrogate mother weep so bitterly. She was on the point of launching herself at my face and leaving her claw marks on it.

  While Sølvi cried I studied the light-brown envelope. It had stamps on and a postmark. Her name and address were correct and precise, with the postal code and everything. That concerned me even more. Who the hell had found out about this? Who knew about our relationship apart from Vidar Waagenes? The same person who had hacked my hard drive and gained access to my emails? Or someone else?

  After her crying subsided she carefully extricated herself, straightened up, stretched and kissed me on the mouth. ‘Sorry, Varg. I didn’t mean to … But you have to concede they do look genuine, and how could I have not been taken in?’ With renewed anger she added: ‘This must be pure, unmitigated evil on the part of the man or men behind this. They must really wish you ill.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No doubt about that.’

  ‘What did you do to them?’

  ‘If I knew that I’d be closer to an answer.’

  ‘Oh? Have you found out anything?’

  ‘Impossible to say.’ I gave her a quick summary of the day’s events, from the abandoned tower, via the conversation with Little Lasse and the visit to OIB with Cathrine Leivestad.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘An ex-colleague from Child Welfare.’

  ‘Right.’

  For a moment I wondered if she was jealous. ‘She’s trustworthy. And there’s another woman I have to talk to again.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘She called herself Magdalena last time I met her.’ And I hastened to add: ‘Several years ago. She’s a director at OIB. Actually her name’s Maria Nystøl.’

  ‘And when do you want to talk to her?’

  ‘Perhaps this evening. How long can you stay?’

  ‘I can’t stop over tonight.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Actually I have to be getting home as soon as possible. Helene’s with a friend. I just had to talk to you because of … those.’ She motioned towards the envelope and the photos.

  ‘Take them with you and keep them somewhere safe. You never know. There may be fingerprints or other clues on them. I’ll keep this.’ I separated the photo of the young girl’s face from the others. ‘In case she should turn up in real life, as it were.’

  She nodded, gathered the photos together and put them back in the envelope.

  I followed her into the hall and we fleetingly kissed goodbye.

  ‘Let’s stay in touch,’ I said.

  She smiled with tears in her eyes. Then she was gone, and the door was closed quickly behind her.

  I went into the sitting room and directed a triumphant gaze at Madonna. ‘You’re going to have to put up with me for a while longer, my little friend,’ I said aloud.

  But she didn’t even bother to raise her head this time, just showed me the back of her neck: thin and narrow and aloof.

  41

  Knøsesmuget is a long, narrow street and stretches from Klostergaten, across Skottegaten, right down to St Hansstredet, binding the whole
of the western side of the Nordnes peninsula, like a piece of twine around an unexpected present.

  It had stopped raining at around ten that night, when I rang the bell of the white house midway along the alley where Maria Nystøl lived. I saw the blinds in the right-hand window stir. Immediately afterwards I heard a safety chain being lifted inside, the door was opened and Maria invited me in with a less than friendly toss of the head. As soon as I was inside she banged the door shut, and she didn’t give me a hug either. I had experienced much warmer welcomes elsewhere. Before we did anything she made sure to lock up thoroughly.

  ‘I guessed you’d make a reappearance,’ she said. Her hair wasn’t as tightly combed back as earlier in the day, but she was dressed in tight blue jeans and a dark-brown jumper with the contours of her white bra visible, shining through the pattern. Her mouth suggested a sullen, dejected state of mind, which in a way reminded me of the Brigitte Bardot films of my youth.

  With another toss of her head she showed me into the sitting room, which was behind the blinds facing the alley. I wasn’t sure, but as far as I could remember, we had been in only the bedroom and the kitchen the last time I was here. The room was pleasantly furnished, with well-worn furniture, suggesting that she would probably have bought it secondhand rather than new. There were no bookshelves in the room, and the pictures on the wall were the kind you bought in an interior-design store, exhibiting no more of her personal taste than a predilection for black and green contrasts separated by a red stripe. There was a TV in one corner of the room and, on the table, a bottle of red wine and a half-full glass.

  ‘Would you like some wine?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m driving.’

  She paused. Then she said: ‘You weren’t so abstinent the last time you were here.’

  I smiled stiffly. ‘No. I was pretty plastered, as far as I remember.’

  She scowled at me. ‘You can say that again.’

  She plumped down in one chair and indicated with her head that I should sit in the other.

  ‘But I do remember a little more,’ I said, sitting down. ‘And I thought you wouldn’t perhaps want us to discuss it while Cathrine was present.’