There was a strong smell of burnt rubber, oil and petrol.
A voice called out: ‘Hello? Anybody there?’
I stuck my head up above the bushes, still holding the handle of the car door in one hand. For a moment there was a deathly hush around me.
Then Karin emerged from the dark crowd of people streaming towards me. ‘Varg! Are you hurt?’
‘No, I …’ Apart from a feeling of tenderness between elbow and shoulder and the sensation that someone had used a vegetable grater on my face, I felt surprisingly all right. But when I shook my head to say that everything was OK, there was an echoing sound I’d never heard the likes of before, and with it came stabbing pains, as sharp and piercing as my voice had just sounded. I leaned forward and covered my mouth, overcome with sudden nausea.
‘Hey, you!’ shouted the same man’s voice as before. ‘Was it you driving that truck?’
‘N-no,’ I mumbled.
‘No!’ shouted Karin, relaying me.
‘Well, who the hell was it, then?’
The sirens had now reached Fløenbakken. With an effort, I straightened up, and for the first time took a proper look round.
The place looked as though a bomb had hit it. The vicar’s wife from Fana would never recognise her Toyota now. It didn’t take much imagination to see that they were quite angry, as were the owners of the two cars I’d parked between.
True, one of them had only had one side of the rear torn off, yet I doubted whether it would ever be driven again. The other two looked more like accordions than cars, while the crash had hammered mine into a ball, now lying on its roof among the bushes, no more than half a yard from where I’d landed myself. The car that had been beside it wasn’t a pretty picture either. Doors, lamps, lights and the remains of bumpers lay scattered over the whole area.
The juggernaut towered monster-like over the whole scene. The driver’s door was hanging off like a torn ear, but there was no doubt who had emerged victorious from the collision.
‘Veum … is that you?’
‘Yes …’
I recognised the two police constables from before. Ristesund and Bolstad were the sort you could talk to. Both were from west Norway, both had moustaches. Bolstad’s was reddish brown; Ristesund’s black.
‘Any idea what happened?’ asked Bolstad.
I gestured vaguely with one hand. ‘Somebody or other who ran amok with an articulated truck.’
Ristesund glanced at the truck driver’s seat. ‘Damn right he ran amok. And then? Just vanished into thin air?’
‘I wasn’t – exactly – all there …’
‘Can’t you see he’s hurt?’ said Karin irritably.
Bolstad took out his notebook. ‘So did you witness what happened?’
‘No. I just live here!’
‘Is any of this your car, Veum?’ asked Ristesund.
‘That,’ I mumbled. ‘What’s left of it.’
He gave a little chuckle. ‘Hope you’re insured.’
‘It’s insured up to the hilt. Will that do?’
‘Was it you they were after?’ said Bolstad.
I looked round and said softly: ‘I’d keep my voice down if I were you, with all these car-owners right next to us.’
‘But?’
‘I went down to see Muus a few days ago to tell him about a threatening letter I’d received. You could say I’ve just received another, with a genuine first-day issue stamp on it this time.’
‘Any idea who might be behind it?’
I made a vague gesture. ‘No more than last time.’
I noticed Karin’s eyes on my face. I looked down. She knew me better than Ristesund and Bolstad did.
‘And you didn’t see who did it? Who it was, I mean?’
‘God, no. It all happened so fast. I was just getting out of my car, and bang! If I’d still been in the car, there wouldn’t be much of a peep out of me now.’
‘Nothing that might help to identify him?’
‘He was wearing a helmet.’
‘Helmet?’
‘And … as I lay spread-eagled over there in the bushes, I heard a motorbike being started up.’
Bolstad walked over to the patrol car. ‘I’ll put out a call to tell the other cars to keep an eye out for a motorcyclist. And also to run a check on the number plate of – that thing.’
Given the cold, most of the neighbours had now satisfied their curiosity. The only ones left were the two hapless car-owners and a woman I assumed was married to one of them. They stood there shaking their heads, while carrying on a hushed conversation, now and then scowling at Karin and me.
Bolstad returned. ‘The articulated truck belongs to a firm in Åsane. They’re ringing the boss now to find out whether it’s been stolen.’
Ristesund looked at me. ‘I think you should pop down to A&E, don’t you?’
‘Yes, you should,’ said Karin quickly.
Bolstad agreed. ‘We can ring for a taxi. Unfortunately, we still need to hang about here for a bit. If you think of anything else, don’t forget to contact us.’
‘No, I – I’m due to call in at headquarters tomorrow morning anyway. We can talk about it then.’
‘Are you going to ring now?’ said Karin in a worried tone. I didn’t mention it, but I seemed to hear her words twice, like an echo.
♦
At Accident and Emergency, they thought I’d come out of it surprisingly well. There were no fractures in the arm, and as for my head, it was little more than slight concussion. If I took it easy for a week, the symptoms would just disappear.
I didn’t nod because it hurt to do so. Nor did I shake my head. I also avoided Karin’s eyes.
A week – that was an eternity by my reckoning. Anyway, I had an appointment: Thursday, two o’clock, at police headquarters.
They attended to the cuts on my face from branches and thorns and dispatched me back into the world without any further advice.
As we stood waiting for the return taxi afterwards, I said: ‘I think I’ll go back to my place this evening, Karin.’
‘But why – ?’
‘I have the feeling your neighbours won’t be all that pleased to see me again.’
‘I don’t think you should take that –’
‘Besides, I don’t want to expose you to any danger.’
The taxi arrived. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she said.
The taxi ride home was enough to make me feel sick again. The outer door downstairs was locked. All was in darkness in the flat of the widower on the ground floor.
When I let myself in upstairs I opened the door carefully and took a good look around before stepping inside. But no truck stood there on the kitchen floor ready to go into action as soon as I showed my face.
As we sat on my old sofa, bought in a sale in 1974, each with a cup in our hands, she gave me a worried look. ‘You look – furious, Varg.’
I clenched my fist. ‘I am furious.’
‘Because of – what happened tonight?’
‘That too … but mainly because of what happens to girls like Torild Skagestøl … Damn it, there’s a far bigger network of shady clients out there than there is of people trying to help, for God’s sake. Hotel staff, doctors, taxi drivers and pimps – and then guys like Birger Bjelland, our Pontius Pilate from Stavanger!’
‘Did you find out anything down there?’
‘Yes, I did actually. I’m going to get him this time, Karin!’
‘But not for a week!’
‘Not before tomorrow anyway …’
She looked at me reproachfully. ‘Varg …’
I put my hand over her mouth. Our eyes met. Then I put my face close to hers, placed my hands on either side of her head and held it tight. I was fifty; she was a few years younger. There was no landscape that gave me such peace to walk in as hers.
Thou art fair my love … Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet … Thy temples are like a pomegranate … Thy breasts are like two young roes that are twin
s, which feed among the lilies … Until the day break and the shadows flee away, I will get me to the mountain of myrrh, and to the hill of frankincense … Thou art all fair my love there is no spot in thee …
Later, when she had fallen asleep, I once again lay listening to the sound of her breathing, yet could not fall asleep myself.
Sleep is the prelude to death. If you stay in bed too long, there is no telling what might happen.
Forty-two
I AWOKE to find her standing beside the bed.
Her voice sounded as though she was in an aquarium. ‘Varg? How do you feel?’
‘Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Are we there already?’
‘You were sleeping so soundly that I hadn’t the heart to waken you. But I must be off now.’
‘Have you had your breakfast?’
She nodded. ‘You’ll take it easy today, won’t you? Promise?’
‘I’ll try not to get too worked up. I’ll move slowly and breathe deeply in and out. More than that I can’t promise, not hand on heart, until the lid is screwed down tight on this case for good.’
She sighed. ‘Well, I should be used to problem children, shouldn’t I? So …’
I smiled reassuringly at her.
‘You look terribly pale.’
I felt pale too, and scarcely had she closed the door behind her than I was in the kitchen cupboard looking for the strongest headache tablets I could find. And I didn’t leave any behind. To be on the safe side, I put the whole bottle in my pocket when I left.
There was no one waiting for me outside. Light snowflakes were falling from a leaden sky, and it was just cold enough for the snow to lie like a shroud over the rooftops.
I opened the letter box and took the post up with me to the office without looking at it.
As I stepped into the office, I glanced at the answerphone. No messages. Then I leafed through the post. Nothing of interest.
Like an aftershock, it dawned on me that it was the silence that was the most threatening thing. It was as though …
As though I no longer existed, as though I was already …
Dead.
Then I called the insurance company and told them what was left of my car. They were none too pleased. But, according to the contract, it was of course quite in order for me to have a hire car, provided I needed it for my job. Which I did, and they told me which hire firm to get in touch with. After I’d rung off, I felt sure they’d immediately added my name to the client blacklist. At any rate, they’d hardly be rolling out the red carpet next time I called in.
I locked the door carefully as I left.
♦
The hire car was an Opel, and I was in no fit state to adjust my driving in the twinkling of an eye, so I lurched in fits and starts round Nøstet and over Puddefjord Bridge before gradually getting the hang of the new pedals.
Digi-Data plc was one of the firms in a cooperative housed in a refurbished factory in Laksevågsiden. The secretary in reception shot a discreet glance at the cuts and scratches on my face and asked whether I knew which was Ole Hopsland’s office. No, I said, and she accompanied me right to his office and held the door open for me.
A young, fair-haired man with a pale face and large round glasses looked absent-mindedly up at us as we came in. I thanked the receptionist for her help and checked that she was on her way back to reception before introducing myself.
‘It’s Veum. Varg Veum. And don’t pretend you’ve never heard the name before.’
He turned beetroot, and his eyes started to flit about. Before answering he fixed them on a point on my shirtfront. ‘Wh-what do you want?’
‘Even the best joke can go too far, right?’
‘I-I don’t know …’
‘Oh yes, you do. And if you insist, we can call the police and ask someone with the proper know-how to come up here, dismantle your computer and take a free trip on your hard drive to see what they find. OK?’
‘Th-there’s no need.’
‘Isn’t there? Good. OK, so out with it and make it snappy.’
He stole a quick look at my face, long enough for him to see the cuts and bruises and the look of contained fury in my eyes, before glancing quickly back down again.
‘Th-there’s nothing to tell.’
‘Oh no? OK. Let me repeat what I just said. I can call the police and –’
‘OK, OK, OK I’ve got it! It was just the old man who … He said he wanted to play a trick on you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did he tell you who I was?’
He shrugged. ‘An old friend, he said.’
‘So he’s in the habit of posting death notices to his old friends, is he?’
‘It was just a j-joke.’
‘Yeah. Nearly killed myself laughing. Maybe that was the idea?’
He looked away without saying anything.
‘Does your dad still drive a motorbike?’
‘Yeah, he … Why?’
‘Oh, just wondered … It’s a long time since I’ve seen him. Maybe I should pay him a visit, before the burial, if you see what I mean …’
He looked at his monitor as though he might be able to creep into it and hide.
‘You’ve never done time, then?’
He made no reply but shifted uneasily.
‘That’ll soon change if I get another letter like that. Got it?’
He nodded.
‘And if you see your dad, don’t say hello from me. I’ll tell him personally.’
Forty-three
DR EVENSEN’S WAITING ROOM was half-full of people, but there were no young girls among them. His secretary looked at me sceptically through the window into her office. When I went over to it she slid the hatch aside and waited expectantly. She was a woman in her forties, with dark-brown hair and the glassy look of someone wearing contacts.
‘Is Dr Evensen in?’
‘Yes, but we’re not accepting any new patients.’
‘I just wanted a word with him.’
She glanced towards the other waiting patients. ‘As you see, there are a lot of people waiting to see him.’
‘Give Dr Evensen a call and tell him it’s about Torild Skagestøl.’
‘Torild Skage …’
‘Sound familiar?’
She hit a few keys and looked at the screen. ‘She’s not a patient here.’
‘Astrid Nikolaisen, then?’
‘No. She isn’t either. What’s this about?’
I leaned closer to the hatch and lowered my voice. ‘You can tell Dr Evensen that a man called Varg Veum is here, and that he’d like to talk to him about Torild Skagestøl, Astrid Nikolaisen and all the others. And if he feels he’d rather not talk to me, tell him in that case I’ll come back with the police.’
She looked at me in alarm before slamming the hatch shut just an inch or so from the tip of my nose, lifting the phone, keying in a number and after a moment’s wait, starting to speak.
When she had finished she looked as though he had berated her and only opened the hatch wide enough to tell me that Dr Evensen would see me as soon as he had finished with his current patient.
The other people in the waiting room, who had followed the episode with more or less unconcealed curiosity, looked at me, disgruntled. An older lady stood up and went over to tap on the windowpane. When it was opened she barked: ‘What’s the idea? I’ve already been waiting over an hour!’
‘Yes, I’m really sorry,’ said the receptionist with obvious signs of strain, ‘but there’s … Unfortunately, we’re running a bit behind, and some – cases just have to be seen first! I hope you understand …’
‘Bah! Some cases!’ On the way back to her chair the lady looked me up and down. ‘You’re a politician, I expect? They always come first in the queue, don’t they?’ she said to the others with a look that suggested she was expecting a round of applause. But all she got was the nervous rustle of a magazine and one or two nods of approval.
Considering the looks that followed me in, I might well need a doctor myself soon. But in that case, I would go to a different one. The only thing Dr Evensen looked as though he might consider writing out for me was a one-way ticket to the nearest mortuary.
He sat behind his desk, his face about as expressive as a cod’s head down at the fish quay. He was about my age, two or three years older perhaps, but with a good deal more grey in his thin swept-back hair. He was wearing a white doctor’s coat with a stethoscope protruding from one of the pockets. His glasses were old-fashioned, with dark brown, almost black frames; he had thin lips and a cold look. The only sign of nervousness was the way he silently drummed his fingers on the desk.
‘I didn’t catch the name,’ he said, repeating slightly as though seasick.
‘Veum,’ I said, still standing just inside the door.
‘And what was it you wanted?’
‘I wanted to discuss something called “the safe list” and a few young women, one called –’
‘And on whose authority have you come here?’
‘On the greatest authority in the world,’ I said. ‘On the authority of all who have children!’
He looked at me lugubriously. Then he nodded towards the chair as though I were a patient to whom he had to give a sentence of certain death.
I sat down. ‘I think you know what we’re talking about. There’s no point beating about the bush. Torild Skagestøl is dead, one of the other girls has spilled the beans. The only thing that might help you now, once the police get going, is whatever Birger Bjelland had over you.’ He didn’t react to the name at all. His look remained just as dead and glassy as before. Then he lifted the receiver and keyed in an eight-figure number.
Faintly I heard a woman’s voice answer.
‘Dr Evensen here. Is he there? Yes, it is. Thank you.’
He looked at the window. It was still snowing. The roar of the traffic from Strandgaten sounded strangely muffled. I wondered whether it was on account of the snow or whether he had particularly well-insulated windows.
The Writing on the Wall Page 23