Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  I couldn’t help myself, but I had developed a bit of a soft spot for Sølvi Hegge. I liked the way she expressed herself, her commitment, frankness and the sober way she tackled her grief. And her smile was sardonic and a little despondent; it was the way my old school friend from Nordnes had smiled, when we met so many years later.

  ‘Did you and Nils have children?’

  She sighed, and her eyes glazed over. ‘Helene. She’s ten. Of course, she doesn’t understand anything. It’s impossible to explain … why such things happen, as you know. You can become an atheist for much less.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I would have liked to stay there longer, but there was nothing to suggest she had anything to tell me about Mette, and she hadn’t offered me a cup of coffee, surprisingly enough for a morning visit to a Norwegian office.

  ‘Well, perhaps…’ I got to my feet. ‘If you happen to think of anything that might have some significance for the case, then…’ I passed her my card and she stood up to take it. She was ten centimetres shorter than me and a waft of something reminded me of funerals: king lily and chrysanthemum.

  Her eyes were steely grey as she looked up at me. ‘Why has the case come up now, after so many years?’

  ‘Another mother wondering what actually happened.’

  She nodded slowly. ‘It’s not always that easy to explain.’

  ‘Not for any of us.’

  With those words we parted, for ever, to all appearances. But you can never be sure of anything. Perhaps we would meet again, at a party in some years’ time, and sit smiling philosophically at each other.

  11

  The houses in Bryggen are divided into two parts as a result of the decision at the end of the nineteenth century to demolish all the timber houses and replace them with new brick apartment buildings, after a design inspired by the old trading houses in the German Hanseatic town of Lübeck. The jewellery shop was in the first of these brick buildings, with a sign saying Wilhelm Schmidt & Sons. On my way back from the meeting with Sølvi Hegge, driven by a sudden impulse, I opened the shop door and went in.

  The female assistant, a dark-haired, well-groomed woman in her forties, looked up sharply when I entered. She watched me stiffly as I approached the counter, as though fearing that at any minute I would pull out a gun and start yelling orders at her. It was only when I spoke to her that she appeared to relax, but she still wore a tense expression for as long as I was in the shop.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Veum and I … A case I’m investigating has a connection with what took place here in December.’

  ‘A connection? I don’t understand.’

  ‘To do with the man who was shot outside here, that is.’

  ‘Oh, him!’ She put her hand to her mouth in terror, as though she had almost forgotten him.

  ‘He exchanged some words with one of the robbers.’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘You were…’

  ‘But none of us heard what he said!’ She raised her voice. ‘I’ve explained that to the police countless times.’

  From the room at the rear I heard the sound of an office chair being pushed back. Seconds later, in the doorway appeared a man who I recognised from the newspapers as Bernhard Schmidt. He was a little plump and in his early sixties with thinning hair and a barely visible pencil moustache. ‘What’s the matter, Kjersti?’

  She turned to him. ‘There’s a man here … He says he’s investigating … the robbery.’

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘Not the robbery. Another case.’

  Schmidt looked at me, curious. ‘What was your name, did you say?’

  ‘Veum. Varg Veum.’

  ‘Are you from the police?’

  ‘No, I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘And you’re investigating … another case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please come in here.’

  I nodded to the assistant called Kjersti as I passed. Schmidt closed the door behind us and before I’d taken a seat he said: ‘Are you employed by an insurance company?’

  I failed to answer at once and instead left the question hanging in the air as partial confirmation.

  ‘If so, I would ask you to contact my solicitor, Kristoffer Kleve. There’s no reason to query the list we sent in. It’s a hundred percent in accordance with our inventory, purchasing invoices and whatever else you might like to scrutinise.’

  ‘The thing is…’

  ‘Being forced to open the safe has nothing to do with it. I just kept … personal items there.’

  ‘What I’m trying to tell you is…’

  ‘Items of sentimental value primarily, mementos of those who ran the business before me – my father and grandfather.’ He nervously stroked his pencil moustache, which was greying, like the rest of his frugal hair growth.

  ‘This is not the case I’m investigating, Herr Schmidt!’

  He sat looking at me. ‘Not this case? What the hell are you doing here then?’

  ‘I explained that to Kjersti outside. My investigation is connected with the man who was shot here.’

  ‘I see!’ He glared at me impatiently. ‘He was a casual passer-by, wasn’t he? Is there any reason to believe anything else?’

  ‘No, no. However, every time someone insists there isn’t, I have a feeling that, well, maybe…’

  ‘So let me repeat my question: what the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘I was wondering if any of you heard what was said between the shooting victim and the robbers.’

  ‘Nothing. We didn’t hear a sound, apart from the shot.’ He held his head. ‘Sometimes it feels as if I can still hear it.’

  ‘Yes, I…’

  ‘If only you could imagine how long an experience like this stays with you! One of the assistants has already handed in her cards and I’m not sure how long Kjersti will last. Had she had any alternative, I’m convinced she would have gone on the spot. If the perpetrators of such crimes had any idea of the trauma they inflict on others … well.’ He gesticulated with his hands. ‘I doubt it would make any difference to that type of person, but … mm yes.’ He stood up. ‘As I said, there’s nothing we can help you with, Veum, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ I got to my feet. ‘Aren’t you interested to know what the other case is?’

  ‘Which case?’

  ‘The one I’m actually investigating.’

  He held his head as if to signal that he had rarely experienced so much foolishness in one day. ‘No, I’m not! I’m not in the slightest bit interested. I have more than enough problems of my own.’

  ‘I understand. Which insurance company are you with?’

  ‘That’s none of your bloody business, Veum. Have you got me?’ For an instant his eyes flashed; something new and dangerous, which hadn’t been there before; like a threat – concealed but present nonetheless.

  With that thought at the back of my mind I left the shop with a valedictory nod to Kjersti, who once again had entrenched herself behind the counter with her wary gaze directed at the door, a pose which, from what I could see, she would adopt for as long as she was still in employment there.

  12

  Kløverhuset had once been one of Bergen’s best department stores. From my childhood I remembered the incredible Christmas window displays, in Strandgaten and Strandkaien, and at the front, facing Strandkaien, black-and-white films of Woody Woodpecker and Abbott & Costello were shown for children and adults during Advent until the late 1960s. We stood in the rain and wind, staring up at the flickering images from an antiquated projector placed on a lorry in the midst of us. It was hardly a coincidence that it was here the town’s ‘real’ Father Christmas, the Kløver Father Christmas, had had his prime. After he had called it a day I had myself filled in for one Advent some years back. But once was enough. As in most areas of my life, I achieved only limited success, even as a Father Christmas.

  Kløverhuset had been divided up and today it was a modern shopping centre with ever-chan
ging owners: men’s clothes, women’s clothes, discount jeans, perfume boutiques and shops selling gifts.

  When I located the shop where Sølvi Hegge had said Randi Hagenberg was working there was only one assistant in it. Alone behind the counter, she was leaning against the wall, and every second appeared to be death by boredom. She was barely able to keep her eyelids open enough to focus on me when I entered. She was elegantly dressed, in a tight-fitting green dress with a brown belt on the last hole to emphasise how slim she was, with discreet but effective make-up and flame-red hair in a modern, carefree cut. But her face looked lean and tired, her nose protruded like a beak, too thin and pointed and perhaps also too big.

  ‘Randi Hagenberg?’ I said.

  This seemed to rouse her. Her gaze was a notch more focussed. ‘Yes? What do you want?’

  I told her who I was and why I was there, and she shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Mette? After so many years! Why on earth…?’

  ‘The case will soon be shelved for ever and her mother has asked me to have another look.’

  She shrugged and looked a little resigned. ‘Really? For my own sake, I’ve tried to think about it as little as possible. It was awful. A tragedy.’

  ‘You were there when she disappeared.’

  She examined my face with suspicion. ‘Yes … and?’

  ‘Maja told me.’

  ‘Yes, it’s true. I was at home that day. She came to the door distraught and asked me if I’d seen Mette – you see, we had a little girl of the same age and they used to play together, sometimes in our house, sometimes in theirs. But … I hadn’t. That is … I had seen her playing in the sandpit a bit earlier, but not right before Maja turned up, not then.’

  She looked at me as though expecting more questions. When none was forthcoming she continued: ‘Straightaway I said she could be with other children, in their houses … but no, Maja had been round already. I stood there with Janne in my arms and I could feel myself getting terribly worked up. This is what parents of small children fear most, one of their children suddenly going missing. I called Nils and asked him to take Janne…’

  ‘Your husband was at home?’

  ‘Yes?’ She stared at me in surprise. ‘It was a Saturday.’

  ‘And your son?’

  ‘Joachim? No, he was out somewhere with some friends. Probably playing football or something. That’s what they usually did.’

  I nodded. ‘And then…?’

  ‘Yes, well … then Maja and I … ran out through the gate to the garages.’

  ‘Do you remember if the gate was open?’

  ‘She made a vague movement with her head. ‘No, I don’t … I think it was slightly ajar. That was why we thought she must have gone out.’

  ‘And it wasn’t lockable?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at me quizzically. ‘Can I go on?’

  ‘By all means.’

  ‘Then we ran to the garages, went in one that was open and had a look around, but nothing. No Mette. The other garage doors were locked. We crossed the road – at that time it was open countryside – and searched there. Maja ran down the road in both directions. There was a building site further up, and we went there too, I think, unless that came later. It must have been me who said we should call the police. I accompanied Maja back and we rang from her phone. While we were waiting for them to come … ah, that was when we went to the building site. Many of our neighbours went with us … At least I can remember Tor Fylling … and Nils, of course. He rang Truls, Maja’s husband, and told him about Mette. He was at football training with Håkon, their son. Nils rang the clubhouse and managed to track him down.’

  She gazed into the air, with a gloomy expression. ‘The rest was chaos. The whole co-op was turned upside down for weeks afterwards. We searched high and low, and we were all questioned by the police. Most of us were summoned to the police station to tell them what we knew – again. So that they had it on tape, I think.’

  ‘What you knew?’

  ‘Yes. What we knew about, well, what I’ve just told you. The events of that day, where we were and so on.’

  ‘Did that apply to the children as well?’

  ‘Children? Most were too small.’

  ‘And Joachim? I suppose they wrote down where he was too, did they?’

  ‘Tell me … what are you trying to suggest? Joachim was eight then and I’ve told you where he was. Out with friends playing football.’

  ‘Or something, you said.’

  ‘Did I?’ A kind of sneer flitted across her lips. ‘You’d better ask the police then, if you don’t trust me. They must have it all documented.’

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  She shrugged. ‘What are we supposed to believe? She was never found in the countryside around us … so someone must have taken her, I suppose.’

  ‘You don’t remember anything special about that day? Something that made it stand out from other days?’

  ‘Such as what? There was a telephone that kept ringing and ringing, that was all.’

  ‘A telephone?’

  ‘Yes, in one of the houses across the yard. It rang and rang and no one answered it. And then after a while it started again. This happened again and again. It must have been at Svein and Synnøve’s. They weren’t at home of course. But Tor Fylling and Terje Torbeinsvik were.’

  I nodded without making any comment. After a short pause I carried on: ‘What was your relationship with Maja Misvær?’

  ‘My relationship with Maja? Pretty normal, I think. We’d been neighbours since we moved in, in the early 1970s. Now and then there were some communal functions, but otherwise we didn’t have so much to do with each other. Most of us had small children. Some of us knew one another from before, but Maja and Truls came via Tor.’

  ‘Oh, yes? I understood your husband…’

  ‘My ex-husband! Ex-partner!’

  ‘OK. I understood Nils Bringeland, Terje Torbeinsvik and Tor Fylling were school friends.’

  ‘Yes, they were. And Tor and Helle had been neighbours of Truls and Maja where they lived before, so that was how they came to the co-op. The last family, Svein and Synnøve Stangeland … the link there was Svein. Nils knew him through work. Svein was at the Haakonsvern base and Nils had a contract to deliver forms and so on there. They often joked that they should start their own firm: Bringeland & Stangeland.’

  ‘Your children … how are they getting on?’

  ‘How … what do you mean? Has anyone said anything?’

  ‘The thing is … To do my job I have to try and contact everyone who lived there at the time Mette disappeared, so that’s why I was wondering.’

  ‘But I’ve told you … Janne was three then and Joachim eight!’

  ‘But they’re grown up now.’

  ‘Yes.’ She hesitated. ‘Janne lives in England. She got married there. Joachim … well, he’s just moved. I’m not entirely sure … I haven’t got his new address yet.’

  ‘But he lives in Bergen?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Which part of town?’

  ‘I think it’s … yes, it’s definitely Møhlenpris. Or maybe it was Nygårdsgaten. It’s a bit confusing. He moves a lot.’

  ‘Oh?’ I wanted her to tell me herself, but she fell quiet. ‘His name’s Bringeland, is it?’

  ‘Yes, he … Nils and I were never married. We just lived together. But both children have his surname. We thought Hagenberg Bringeland was a bit too much, and as far as nursery and school and all that were concerned we reckoned it was better for them to have the same surname. Which one we chose made little difference.’

  ‘I’ve heard rumours that Joachim’s on drugs.’

  Her eyes went vacant. ‘I see. Yes … he is, at various times. There’s no hiding it. But … I don’t want to talk about it. It has nothing to do with this case anyway.’

  Two women came into the shop and made a beeline for one of the clothes stands. Randi Hagenberg looked at me with relief in her face a
s she pointed to the women. ‘I’ll just have to tend to these customers.’

  I nodded. ‘I can wait.’

  ‘Oh…’ She struggled to conceal her displeasure.

  I stood flicking aimlessly through a rail of women’s clothes as she went over to the two customers. But who could I surprise with a present from Kløverhuset?

  Behind my skull a latent headache was beginning to build. I had what felt like knotted muscles in my temples, taut and thick. The saliva in my mouth was sticky and slimy, my throat as dry as a bone. The thought of a glass of aquavit created such a craving in my stomach that I almost left the place at once and headed home before the demon turned temperance preacher.

  But I stood my ground. The two women found it hard to come to a decision, but in the end they agreed on a black silk blouse, which was nicely gift-wrapped and paid for with a card. When they left they brazenly stared in my direction, and from the balcony I heard one of them say something and the other laugh, a low, gravelly chuckle of the indecorous kind.

  Randi Hagenberg reluctantly came towards me.

  ‘I have only one more question.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Your husband apparently suggested … Your ex-husband or partner, I mean. Since you did split up…’

  ‘Yes?’ she said impatiently.

  ‘That the reason you split up was something that happened and it was never the same again between you.’

  She flushed to the roots of her hair and when she did answer it was more like a gulp: ‘And who the hell told you that? And what the heck has it got to do with Mette?’

  ‘It…’

  ‘Answer me that, Mr Private Detective.’

  ‘Not…’

  ‘No, you can’t, you see, and now this conversation is over. Is that clear?’ She scowled at me. ‘Clear off! Otherwise I’ll call the security guard.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to…’

  She immediately turned her back on me, stomped to the counter, lifted the telephone receiver and stood there with it in her hand. ‘I mean it! I’m calling…’

  I raised both hands in defence. ‘That won’t be necessary. Call if you like – I’m on my bike. Thank you for your … help. We probably won’t see each other again.’