Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  There was a workaday, reassuring quality about the whole situation that filled me with an acute longing for the times thirty years ago when Beate, Thomas and I had constituted a little family. Beate had played with Thomas in the sitting room while I knocked up a simple meal in the kitchen: Thomas, still not capable of forming words correctly, let out whoops of enthusiasm, Beate laughed, the steam from the pans settled on the window pane like dew, the radio was on low in the background … moments like these would never return. Thomas and Mari lived in Oslo and were expecting their first child in a few months, Beate was living the merry widow’s life in Stavanger, and I was wandering restlessly through life’s back streets, where it was always dark and those who were out seldom had good intentions.

  Once again I saw the sandpit where Mette had been playing on that fateful Saturday in September 1977. When Thomas had been six and lived with Beate and her new husband in Sandviken. I had been making my living as a PI for two years already, without impressive results to show for it. I had stumbled on my first corpse, and Dankert Muus had long had me on his hate list. And Mette – what had happened to her?

  So far no one had found the answer and from where I was standing, looking around the yard, I was not at all sure the answer was to be found here. But it was worth a try. I didn’t have much else to do.

  The house where a new family had moved in was of no interest. I had already talked to the architect. That left two houses. I chose the one on the far left. A simple door-sign told me this was where Synnøve and Svein Stangeland lived. They had been living there when Mette disappeared, they had children of approximately the same age and they were the only couple that hadn’t split up. Furthermore, they had a relative who had been on the police’s radar in 1977. The latter point was not uninteresting.

  I pressed the doorbell. It wasn’t long before the door opened and a somewhat chunky little man stood in the doorway. He had thin, dark hair, which was combed forward into a fringe and lay flat on his scalp, pale skin and a suggestion of a rash on his chin, neck and at the corners of his mouth. He stared at me inhospitably. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Svein Stangeland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The name’s Veum. I’m a private investigator.’

  He arched his eyebrows. ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Maja Misvær has asked me to examine the details surrounding the disappearance of her daughter, Mette.’

  A twitch seemed to go through him. Then he came out onto the step, pulling the door to behind him and said gruffly: ‘Yes?’

  I nodded towards the door. ‘Could we have a little chat?’

  ‘We have nothing to say. We were at the cabin the day it happened and we were unable to help. Not then and not later.’

  ‘But you had children yourselves. You must have been alarmed by what you heard?’

  ‘Of course we were alarmed. Everyone was. But I just told you we have nothing to say about the matter.’

  ‘Yes. I heard you. You were a close acquaintance of Nils Bringeland’s, I understand.’

  ‘Yes. What has that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You must have heard he was killed during the jewellery robbery in Bryggen last December?’

  ‘Naturally. Let me just repeat … what has this got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, in a way it’s the cause. Maja Misvær’s afraid more people will pass on before they’ve said what they know.’

  ‘Aha. Did she think Nils knew something?’

  ‘Not from what she’s said to me. But that’s why I’m doing the rounds now. To find out if anything might have been overlooked at the time.’

  ‘And you’re such a smartarse you’re going to find what the police, with all their resources, couldn’t?’ There was a glint of mockery in his eyes. Then he turned to the door. ‘Well, as I said, I’ve nothing to tell you.’

  ‘You had a relative under police investigation at the time.’

  He stopped in mid-turn, seemed to close his eyes, as if to count to ten, slowly opened them and turned round fully. ‘Not again! The police left no stone unturned then and they had nothing on him. He was innocent. He’s been a victim of gossip and slander all his life.’

  ‘Is he your relative? Jesper Janevik?’

  ‘No, he’s my wife’s. Her cousin. But we never see him anymore.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s obvious. All that went on then. He was placed in custody as well!’

  Suddenly the door opened and a woman with short-cropped blonde hair and narrow glasses stuck out her head and looked at us anxiously. ‘What is it, Svein?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s just a Jehovah’s Witness. Go back in.’ He yanked the door to and she didn’t try to open it again.

  ‘Jehovah’s Witnesses work in pairs,’ I mumbled.

  He looked around angrily and snapped back: ‘All this chit-chat behind our backs!’

  ‘Chit-chat? About Jesper Janevik?’

  ‘Yes! As though everything were our fault, because he’d come to see us a couple of times.’

  ‘But he was released. He was never charged.’

  ‘No, because he never had anything to do with the case.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘One hundred percent.’

  ‘That sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you stayed here?’

  ‘We hadn’t done anything wrong! Why should we move? You can…’ He paused. Once again he scanned the yard as though searching for something to catch his gaze.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You ask the others about their damned New Year party games! Ask them about that … Veum, was that your name? And see what answers you get.’

  ‘Party games?’

  ‘Yes! Synne and I know nothing about them either. We went home!’ Without another word he turned to the door, opened it, stepped inside, swivelled, sent me a look that might have knocked me over if I hadn’t been prepared, and then slammed the door.

  I stared at the closed door. New Year party games?

  With one more question to ask I walked next door and rang the bell at Helle Fylling and Lars Svendsen’s house. Perhaps, at least, they could give me an answer.

  16

  Here, at any rate, I was invited inside. The man of the house opened the door here too, a surprisingly elegant man for an accountant. His golden-yellow hair was high and thick, went back in waves and curled gently over his ears. He had broad, well-tended eyebrows and glasses with a light-brown frame, a colour that matched his hair to perfection. He was wearing a dark suit, as though on his way to a meeting, but he had no worries about inviting me in when I had explained my assignment, and there was nothing to suggest he was in a hurry to get away. Perhaps he just dressed like that: at home and to go out.

  ‘You’ll have to talk to my wife,’ he said as he led me through the hall to the sitting room. ‘I … erm … arrived on the scene later.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand. Your relationship with the Mette Case is…’ I stopped in the hall to hold him back before we went in.

  He just looked at me blankly. ‘Yes, well, I don’t know anything about it, of course. My wife has told me, naturally. But at that time I just followed it in the press, like most other people, I assume. It was a case that occupied people’s minds. Is there a new approach since you’ve reopened it?’

  ‘Yes, now it’s just me. I’m a private investigator, as I told you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, but … if you discover anything will you pass it on to the police?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that goes without saying.’

  He nodded with satisfaction, opened the leaded-glass door to the sitting room and led me in. ‘Helle … there’s a gentleman here with a few questions for you.’

  Helle Fylling stood up beside a low table, on which there were two cups of coffee and two cognac glasses, which sparkled enticingly. Yet again I had an unpleasant dry sensation on my palate, as though it were fine sandpaper, new and rigid and ready for use.

  She was a small-limbed
woman with well-kept hair like her present husband’s, auburn in colour with a studied cowlick across her forehead. She was wearing a plain grey dress, tight to her slim body, as if to emphasise that she was not carrying a gram too much, more the opposite if you like your women full-bosomed.

  She sent me a quizzical look. ‘A few questions? I don’t understand.’

  I introduced myself and said: ‘This is about the Mette Case.’

  ‘Oh, that…’ For some reason I had a feeling she was relieved. She came round the table to shake hands. ‘Helle Fylling. Pleased to meet you.’

  I nodded and mumbled: ‘Pleased to meet you too.’

  ‘Can I offer you anything?’

  I stared longingly at the cognac glasses. ‘Just a cup of coffee, thank you.’ After a tiny pause I added: ‘I’m driving.’

  She nodded and smiled. Her husband said: ‘I can get it. It’s you he wants to talk to.’

  ‘Thank you, Lars.’

  She showed me to a chair and I sat down. I glanced around me. The big windows faced out on to the little planted garden between Solstølen and the houses to the west. A tall hedge marked the boundary between the properties. The furniture in the room was as elegant as the attire of the two people living there, period style in dark, polished wood. On the walls were large paintings, all with easily recognisable motifs, but in a more impressionistic style than classic landscapes. In one an apparently naked young man rode a horse along a beach, but the man and the horse were stylised in such a way that no one could be offended by the picture. Another was divided horizontally between a lush flower meadow and an intensely blue summer sky, where a solitary bumble bee hung in the air above one of the flowers, eagerly anticipating honey or other goodies.

  Lars Svendsen came in with a cup and a saucer, placed them down carefully and poured coffee from a shiny silver Thermos that was already on the table. Afterwards he sat down, raised his cup to his mouth and took a little sip while watching us from the side-lines in a kind of umpire position.

  Helle Fylling looked at me expectantly. ‘How can I help? I wasn’t at home when it all happened.’

  ‘No? Where were you?’

  ‘It was a Saturday. I was in town with the kids. I think we went to the cinema and later a burger place.’

  ‘And you didn’t hear anything … from your husband?’

  ‘No, not until we got back home. He thought the children would only be alarmed, and they were still hoping to find her, weren’t they? Mette, I mean.’

  ‘How old were your children then?’

  ‘It was 1977, wasn’t it?’ I nodded and she continued: ‘Asbjørg was ten and Einar eight.’

  ‘Older than Mette, in other words.’

  ‘Yes, they never played together. Asbjørg had to look after her when she was smaller and had to be pushed around in a buggy, but when she was … three, it must have been … that was over.’

  ‘And Håkon? Her brother.’

  ‘Yes, he and Einar kicked a ball about now and then. But there were two years between them, so that was a bit of a difference. But I remember Håkon was good for his age, actually. I think he ended up playing for FC Brann, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  ‘No, you’re right. So … have you any idea what might have happened to Mette?’

  She looked at me a little helplessly. ‘No, what can I say? It was a terrible business. We were very frightened afterwards. I doubt there was a child playing outside without adults around. A few couples here had children. Randi and Nils, Svein and Synnøve, and … there was Håkon too. Only Terje and Vibeke didn’t have any. I’m not sure if you know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a sort of overview now. Many of you knew one another already, I’ve been told. Sort of round about.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew Maja and Truls Misvær, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we’d been neighbours before. In Landås. And then Tor – my ex-husband – knew Terje and Nils from before. They were old school friends. When we were offered this place, we thought of Maja and Truls, who lived in the same building in Mannsverk, and then they were asked to join the co-op as well.’

  ‘Would you say you were close friends?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I would. I suppose we all were up here. We had gettogethers over in the architect’s house. In the function room, as we call it.’

  ‘And everyone joined in?’

  She hesitated. ‘Yes … when there were communal arrangements. There were private parties too. Christening celebrations, big birthdays, parties with … other friends. From outside, I mean.’

  She glanced at Lars Svendsen, as though that was where he came into the picture. He just smiled gently, leaned forward for his cognac glass, raised it to his mouth and sipped the contents.

  I leafed through my notes. ‘At that time someone was held in custody, then released after police discussions.’

  ‘Yes, that … I remember it.’

  ‘He’d been visiting your closest neighbours, Svein and Synnøve Stangeland.’

  She waited and watched.

  ‘You can’t remember … you never heard of any incidents in that regard?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. Not at all. Before this happened, we didn’t even know who he was. I mean, we all had visitors at one time or another, and this man … What was his name again?’

  ‘Jesper Janevik.’

  ‘Yes, I should have remembered. He … Well, I could barely recall seeing him, and we asked the kids afterwards, carefully, but they hadn’t seen anything … strange, as we put it. Anything unseemly would have been beyond them.’

  I flicked through a few more pages, only for appearance’s sake. I knew what I was going to ask. I looked up, my head tilted, and said: ‘One of the neighbours mentioned something about … “New Year games” …?’

  Her jaw fell. Two small, bright-red patches appeared high on her cheeks, as though someone had pressed them with their thumbs, hard. Gradually her slender neck turned scarlet.

  For the first time, Lars Svendsen contributed to the conversation. With a little smile, he said: ‘Are we talking ski-jumping here?’

  Helle Fylling’s face was noticeably stiffer when she answered: ‘New Year games? I don’t know about anything … like that. Who told you about this?’

  ‘Erm … some of the others.’

  ‘Then I suggest you go back and ask them what they’re talking about.’

  ‘My understanding was they hadn’t taken part.’

  ‘Right.’ I could see from her eyes she immediately knew who. ‘Well, at any rate, I don’t know what they meant.’

  ‘And it couldn’t have anything to do with Mette’s disappearance?’

  ‘What importance can it have? New Year party games … After all, she disappeared in … September, wasn’t it? No, this is just rubbish, a waste of time.’

  I nodded and made a note in my book: Just rubbish?

  ‘Your previous husband, Tor Fylling, he ran a car repair workshop, I understand?’

  ‘Yes, he still does. In Sotra. He doesn’t live far from it, either.’

  ‘Has he also got a new … partner?’

  ‘Lars and I are married.’

  ‘But your ex?’

  She shrugged. ‘To be quite frank … women come and go. That was how he was. If he has someone, it’s hardly likely to be for ever.’

  ‘I see. What about your children?’

  ‘Asbjørg will soon be thirty-five. Her husband’s in the Norwegian Agency for Development Co-operation, so they’re in Africa at the moment. Tanzania. But Einar lives in Sotra. He and his wife work for Tor, actually, both of them. Einar’s followed in his father’s footsteps and works in the garage, while Marita’s in the office doing the accounts and so on.’

  ‘But you have contact?’

  ‘Yes, yes. They visit us. It’s harder with Asbjørg. It’ll soon be two years since they left and the contract’s still got a year to run. They only come home in the holidays.’

 
‘Well,’ I said, opening my hands. ‘Then I won’t disturb you any longer. But…’

  She looked at me nervously. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I may be back.’

  ‘If there’s anything I can help you with, to do with Mette, then by all means…’

  I noticed that she stressed it had to be relevant to Mette, and I didn’t feel the invitation was especially sincere. Perhaps she was one of those people who always feared the worst when strangers came to the door, whether they were Jehovah’s Witnesses or a lousy PI from Strandkaien 2.

  Lars Svendsen accompanied me to the door and bade me a measured farewell, as though he had been contaminated by his wife. And that wasn’t so surprising. These things tend to go in families.

  Before leaving, I asked him: ‘You don’t place any importance on these New Year games either?’

  ‘No, as I said … the New Year means ski-jumping. Nothing else.’

  ‘With an Austrian on the podium?’

  ‘That kind of thing.’

  ‘Well … If anything should occur to either of you, here’s my card.’ I passed it to him, and he stuffed it into his pocket without a second glance. So far, so bad. There was obviously nothing else to be gleaned here. Not today.

  17

  I crossed the yard and rang the bell at Maja Misvær’s. She opened the door at once. When she saw who it was she exclaimed: ‘Oh! Have you got anywhere?’

  ‘Not yet, I’m afraid. But I realised … I’d forgotten to take the photo you promised me.’

  ‘Yes, what a nuisance. It struck me after you’d gone. Come in!’

  I followed her through the hall into the sitting room, where the television was on, but the volume was so low it was hard to hear what was being said on the screen. On the coffee table was an open newspaper next to a cup of coffee.

  She pointed to the cup. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please, but only if you’ve got some on the go.’