He paused for effect before fixing his eyes on his client, saying: ‘According to this report here, Torild Skagestøl was HIV-positive.’
Raw fear spread across his face. ‘HIV? But, but she was on the safe list!’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘The safe list …’
Forty-five
‘LET ME TELL MUUS,’ said Vidar Waagenes, as we made our way back upstairs. ‘I mean, that my client’s willing to make a full confession of complicity after the victim was killed, but that he insists he had nothing whatever to do with the killing.’
‘I think he’s going to be over the moon – Muus, I mean.’
‘But tell me, Veum, what was that about – Friday?’
‘Friday was the day Judge Brandt died, at a hotel in the centre of town, after being with a young woman. It was a false trail.’
He paused on the stairs. ‘Maybe not.’
‘No? Why not?’
He tapped me on the chest with the brown envelope from the Institute of Forensic Medicine. ‘If Judge Brandt was in the habit of going with prostitutes … If I’m not much mistaken, he was part of an exchange trip to Central Africa last year. An initiative aimed at trying to promote our Western legal systems down there.’
‘You mean, that he … That we’re talking about a source of infection?’
‘If I’m not much mistaken, Scandinavian statistics show that there’s a remarkably high incidence of HIV-positives among heterosexual men who’ve had sex with prostitutes during trips to Africa, not least in the central regions.’
‘So he brought something back home with him, then?’
‘But whether this has anything to do with this case, I’ve really no idea.’
‘Everything or nothing, probably.’
In the Personal and Violent Crime Department Dankert Muus was waiting for us with a face like thunder. ‘So what in hell’s name have you two managed to dig up? Been keeping bad company, Waagenes? I mean, even worse company?’
‘Veum’s helped me get my client to talk. He’s ready to confess, Muus.’
A look of reluctant acknowledgement spread over the chief inspector’s normally grim face. ‘Well, I’ll be!’
‘But not to the actual murder,’ Vidar Waagenes quickly added. ‘Just complicity afterwards.’
His enthusiasm collapsed like a burst balloon. Muus eyed the lawyer with suspicion.
‘Does this mean that he knows who did the murder, then?’
‘A client,’ he claims.
‘Oh? But in that case, is there anyone who knows who the client was?’
‘There may well be,’ I interrupted. ‘As you know, I’ve already made a number of inquiries around Birger Bjelland & Co.’
‘Oh? And?’
‘If we get Helge Hagavik to repeat what he’s just told us, then all we need do is call in Birger Bjelland for a – what shall we say? – chat? And I may also be able to add something further.’
‘Such as?’
I recapped most of what I’d found out. About the Persen brothers and Jimmy’s as the intermediary. About the guy called Robert in the bar at the Pastel Hotel and what went on in the rooms there. About Astrid Nikolaisen and the safe list. And lastly, about Dr Evensen, whom I advised them to contact as soon as possible, with or without a lawyer present. The only thing I didn’t mention was what I’d found out about Birger Bjelland’s background in Stavanger. Those cases were long past their sell-by date, and anyway, it was not certain they could be investigated at all now and were perhaps better kept up my sleeve as evidence in a formal prosecution.
‘You’ve certainly not been dragging your feet, Veum, I must say. What about … I heard you’d had an accident?’ He nodded at my face. ‘D’you think it’s connected with all this?’
‘Only indirectly, if at all. I told you about it last time I was here. And I showed you the letter I received. Now I’ve seen all I need to in the person of Ole Hopsland, The Knife’s son. I can’t prove that The Knife was at the wheel, of course, but his fingerprints are the first thing you people should look for. If you find them, I’ll be happy to give you the threatening letter, with the envelope and the whole shooting match, and press charges right away.’
‘The truck was stolen anyway. We’ve established that much.’
‘When was that?’
‘Sometime after five o’clock yesterday, from a depot in Åsane.’
‘Any witnesses who saw it in Fløenbakken?’
‘No, not yet. Not that that necessarily means anything. At that time of day you could park in Fløenbakken without anybody noticing.’
‘Well … I’ve said my piece. I’m making a few discreet inquiries myself in connection with the case. To return to Birger Bjelland, something else cropped up as a result of the report from the Institute of Forensic Medicine.’
His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Vidar Waagenes. ‘Isn’t that confidential?’
‘I’ve, er, engaged Veum to investigate a few things for me. In my view, that makes him entitled to examine all the documents in the case.’
‘We might not have shared that view here.’
‘Can’t we forget that, Muus? I have seen it. Listen. Let’s say that Dr Evensen reported Torild Skagestøl’s positive HIV test to his bosses, and let’s say between ourselves that they’re Birger Bjelland & Co. The consequence is that they have to get rid of her, which they do.’
‘But – not by pretending it was a client who did it, surely? That would blow the whole set-up wide open?’
‘It was Helge Hagavik who claimed it was a client who did it. Don’t forget where he found her! On Fanafjell, with a Satanist emblem carved on her backside. They did their level best to distract attention from the game they were involved in. It was Helge Hagavik who cracked and who, in an almost touchingly naïve way, pretended to have “found” her while out jogging! They hadn’t reckoned with that. A guilty conscience doesn’t rate very highly with that lot.’
‘So you maintain she was got rid of because she was HIV-positive?’
‘I’m just saying it’s a possibility. They couldn’t let her carry on if she was a source of infection, given the risk of exposure. Remember, we’re not talking about some half-baked street prostitution racket here, Muus. We’re talking about a first-class service with judges and certainly many other prominent figures on the list of clients!’
He nodded: ‘We’ll have a word with that doctor. And if we feel we have enough good evidence, I think we’ll invite Birger Bjelland to come in for a little chat too.’ He rubbed his hands with glee. ‘I can’t say I’m not looking forward to it. That would be some way to bow out, getting that fish put away!’
‘Bow out?’ asked Vidar Waagenes.
I pointed at the red circle on the wall calendar. ‘Inspector Muus is retiring soon. Next time we call in he might give us a piece of his retirement cake.’
Forty-six
BACK AT THE OFFICE I called Laila Mongstad to tell her what I’d found out about Birger Bjelland. But she was busy with another case and hadn’t time to talk to me. ‘I’ll ring you tonight, Varg,’ she said quickly before hanging up.
Then I drove up Nordre Skogveien to the address Harry Hopsland had given in the population register. The block he lived in was a beige low-rise building with brown-painted doors, and I found his name on one of the letter boxes.
That was the closest I got.
A middle-aged female neighbour with large bags under her eyes and a nervous cigarette at the corner of her mouth confirmed that it was a Hopsland who’d moved in quite recently. ‘But usually we don’t hear a peep out of him. He’s as quiet as a mouse, except when he’s revving up his motorbike.’
‘Where does he keep it?’
‘At the back.’
‘There was no motorbike there just now.’
‘Wasn’t there? In that case, he’s out.’
My headache had come back with a vengeance. I drove home, took a further dose of painkillers, called Karin and told her I was going to lie do
wn, that she had no need to worry and that I intended to take it easy.
It was dark when she rang, waking me.
When she heard my gravelly voice, she said: ‘Oh, were you still asleep?’
‘Yes, I must have been. What’s the time?’
‘Ten p.m.’
I moved my neck slowly to make sure it had not seized up completely. ‘I must have slept like a log.’
‘Well, I’m sure it’ll have done you good.’
Having made certain I was planning to sleep on, she wished me good night and hung up. Gradually I drifted back to sleep, but shallower now, as though I no longer really needed it.
Laila Mongstad rang at eleven. Her voice sounded tense. ‘Varg? Can you come down? There’s something I have to show you.’
‘Down – to the office?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t Halstein Grindheim, after all.’
I still felt rather groggy, and my arm had begun to ache. ‘Wasn’t it? So who was it then?’
‘Are you coming?’
‘Yes, sure. But you’ll have to give me half an hour.’
‘I’ll wait. Meanwhile, I can … See you then.’
‘Bye.’
I took a quick shower, put on a clean shirt, walked up to Blekeveien and got into my car. I parked on the hill beside the newspaper offices and walked round the corner to the main entrance. At the door I ran into Sidsel Skagestøl on her way out.
I stood aside, and she looked up. ‘Oh!’ she said with a start. ‘It’s you.’ She remained standing in the middle of the doorway.
‘How are things?’
She looked away. ‘Well … Holger isn’t in, if that’s who you’re going –’
‘No, it wasn’t actually. And you?’
It seemed as though she felt the need to explain why she was there. ‘There are so many things to see to, and I reckoned … It was something I thought of, but he’d already left. And I’m not going to where he’s living.’
‘Why not?’
‘What if he had someone there?’
‘A woman?’
‘Yes.’ She looked out at the street. ‘Well, I …’ She nodded towards the Grieg Concert Hall. ‘My car’s over there. Good night.’
‘Good night.’
I stood there, watching her walk away for a moment. Then I went into reception.
The receptionist looked at me suspiciously. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Yes. With Laila Mongstad.’
‘OK. I can ring her and –’
‘She’s expecting me.’
‘Yes, but all the same. Here.’ He handed me a guest badge, and I fastened it dutifully to my coat lapel.
He was still holding the telephone. ‘She’s not answering.’
‘She hasn’t left, has she?’
‘Oh no. Just a moment, I’ll ask in the editorial office.’ He rang another number while keeping a careful eye on me. ‘Yes, hello, it’s reception. Is Laila there? – No? There’s someone down here who says he has an appointment with her.’ He turned towards me. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Veum.’
‘Veum. OK. Fine.’ He replaced the receiver and nodded to me. ‘Furebø’s coming down to fetch you.’
‘Furebø?’
‘He said he knew you. In the evening we don’t let people go up to the offices unaccompanied. We’ve had our fingers burned over that before.’
The lift opened, and Trond Furebø emerged. ‘Veum … I’ll escort you up.’
We both entered the lift, and he pressed the button for the fourth floor. ‘Sorry about the formalities, we’ve no option but to follow the rules laid down for us.’ He glanced at the door. ‘I assume it’s not about Torild?’
‘No, no,’ I said gently. ‘It’s about something completely different.’
The door opened, and we walked out of the lift.
‘I can find my own way now.’
‘Actually, I really wanted to talk to her about a case she was working on earlier today.’
He walked along with me down the empty corridor.
An office door opened, and a man came out with a computer printout in his hand.
Trond Furebø slowed down. ‘Holger! What the hell? Were you in the office? Sidsel’s just been here, asking for you, but we – couldn’t find you …’
Holger Skagestøl looked away, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t up to … So I …’ He nodded towards the empty office he’d just come out of. He looked at me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’ve got an appointment with Laila Mongstad.’
‘Oh? In connection with …’
‘Er …’ I said, repeating the not entirely accurate assertion that it was about another case.
‘Well, I’d – better be getting back to work.’ He walked past us heading for the stairs down to the main editorial office. ‘Are you coming, Trond?’
‘Yes, I’m just escorting Veum …’
We walked on.
The swing door closed behind us. In the large open-plan office most of the desk lamps were switched off. Only a couple of computer screens were still on.
Over at Laila Mongstad’s desk, both lamp and screen were on.
‘Laila?’ called Trond Furebø. ‘Are you there?’
There was no reply.
I walked faster. ‘Laila?’
He saw her first – and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Laila?’ he said for the third time, like a kind of exorcism.
I carried on into the room, unable to stop until I had placed my fingers on the side of her neck to feel for her pulse.
My heart was pounding in my chest, and my fingers were as cold as ice against her skin.
Laila Mongstad lay slumped over the desk in an awkward twisted position, as if trying to avoid touching the keyboard.
I looked at her screen. One of her hands still lay on the keyboard, pressing down one of the keys, where she had written a last message to the world: kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
I turned and looked at Trond Furebø.
He stood there, staring, hands at his sides, with an expression of utter horror on his face: ‘Is, is she – ?’
‘Yes. I think you’d better go and call the police.’
Forty-seven
ONLY WHEN I was alone with her did it seem to dawn on me what had happened.
I stood there with a feeling of paralysis, impotence and rage, as if slowly filling up with filthy brackish water, a dark and disgusting liquid I would never manage to wash myself clean of.
She lay head on one side, her reading glasses on the desk, staring glassy-eyed, still wearing a look of disbelief. From this angle you could see a lightly camouflaged crown on the back of her head from which her hair grew in a kind of whorl, and the hint of silvery grey at the roots showed she would probably have been going to the hairdresser’s again soon.
It was impossible to say whether she had been jumped from behind while working or had been murdered as a result of an argument. But it was not very likely in those empty offices that someone had crept up on her without her hearing something and turning round to see who it was. That is, unless she had been so engrossed in what she was doing that …
I leaned forward and read the file name on the screen: BJELLAND.DOC
‘Oh Jesus wept,’ I said to myself.
Trond Furebø came back. ‘They’re on their way,’ he said grimly. ‘I’ve informed the editor too.’
‘So long as you haven’t tipped off the other papers …’
He looked at me in disgust.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it – like that.’
‘Did you know her, Veum?’
‘Yes, we were – old friends.’
The door leading into the editorial offices flew open, and Holger Skagestøl came in. ‘I can’t believe what I’ve just heard! It can’t be true!’
We didn’t reply, but watched him as he saw the evidence with his own eyes. He stood there in front of Laila M
ongstad with an expression that mirrored some of my own emotions: fury, impotence and dull shock. ‘It can’t be true!’ He looked round helplessly. ‘In here? Here in these offices?’ He turned towards me. ‘What’s it all about, Veum? Did it have something to do with – Torild?’
‘I don’t know. I looked at Trond Furebø. ‘What case was she working on? I mean, earlier today.’
‘A child welfare case. It was her pet subject. If she ever got wind of a child in distress, she went to work like one possessed and wouldn’t rest till she’d got at the truth.’ He looked down at her, shame-faced, as though feeling he had said something wrong. ‘What … what d’you think can have happened?’
‘Somebody’s been a bit too rough on her,’ I said grimly. ‘Maybe she didn’t see eye-to-eye with the desk about splashing it all over the front page?’
‘Veum!’ exclaimed Holger Skagestøl, and Trond Furebø followed him with: ‘I don’t think I like your tone of voice.’
‘No, there’s something about sudden death that makes me put my foot in it and say silly things. Just can’t help it.’
Skagestøl looked down at Laila Mongstad’s short neck. ‘She was a first-class reporter. Never let go until she’d got to the bottom of a case, and the copy she handed in was unbelievably well researched.’
Hearing loud voices out in the corridor, we all looked up at the door to see Atle Helleve, Peder Isachsen and a uniformed officer coming in.
Helleve said a curt hello to me. ‘I’ve let Muus know. He’s on his bike.’
‘That must be a sight for sore eyes.’ Oops, I’d done it again. Isachsen looked at me angrily. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure this time?’
I ignored him and turned to Helleve. ‘Laila Mongstad. A reporter. I talked to her on the phone only a short time ago. When I got here, there was no reply when the man on reception paged her. Furebø accompanied me up here, and we – found her like this.’
Trond Furebø nodded in confirmation.
‘And what did you talk to her about, Veum?’
I pointed to the computer screen. ‘About that man there.’
The Writing on the Wall Page 25