Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  Then it was back to the bottle. One open and a second in prospect, until empties clinked wherever I turned, whether at home or in the office. I was the emperor of the empties, and I had hundreds of vassals, empty, silent and glassy-eyed.

  But now for the first time in three years I had a case that occupied my mind. There were some thin threads I felt I was slowly beginning to unravel. Tiny Mette Misvær, who disappeared from her home twenty-five years ago. Her parents’ and others’ lively – or not quite so lively – New Year fun and games. A robbery with fatal consequences for someone who was in all probability a casual passer-by. A possible sex criminal. An unknown killer.

  What had been said between Nils Bringeland and the robbers? Was there anyone who could tell me? The two women from Askøy who had been customers at the jeweller’s? And what did the other neighbours in Solstølen have to say to about the fun and games? What had happened behind the other closed doors, which, nine months later, had repercussions for tiny Mette?

  I got back on my feet, determined to defeat my weaker self. In the kitchen I opened a cupboard, felt in the right-hand corner at the back, where I kept an unopened bottle in reserve. Just having the neck of the bottle between my fingers was enough to make me gasp for air and the sweat to come pouring down again.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. Then I put the bottle down on the worktop and left it there. I boiled some water, brewed myself a cup of tea, thinner than a New Year’s resolution after three months, buttered some crispbreads and manned up for a simple meal, all with the shiny bottle in the corner of my eye, absolutely determined to ignore it. When I sat down at the worktop I stared into the whites of its eyes, chewing the crunchy crispbreads and washing them down with tea and pretending I was living the life of Riley while actually at rock bottom.

  I won the first skirmish. The bottle stood on the worktop untouched, and I left it where it was, like a kind of memento mori for the days to come. I went back into the sitting room, opened my laptop and started hunting for addresses on the net.

  Tor Fylling had two addresses close to each other in Fjell, on the larger of the two Sotra islands: one was the garage he ran, Fylling Bil Dekk & Karrosseri.

  Vibeke Waaler lived in Oslo, in Professor Dahls gate.

  Truls Misvær had an address in Nesodden, the peninsula accessible by ferry from Oslo.

  Håkon Misvær lived in Ålesund, in Ivar Aasens gate.

  The woman whose name was mentioned in the newspapers after the Bryggen robbery, Liv Grethe Heggvoll, was resident on Askøy, with an Ask postal code.

  I couldn’t find an address for Jesper Janevik, nor any other information about him. But he was a cousin of Synnøve Stangeland, who taught at Gimle School, if Maja Misvær’s memory was reliable. And there she wouldn’t have her husband hovering over her. I moved her name to the top of the list and decided to start with her.

  There was another possibility. Late that afternoon I rang Karin’s colleague at the National Registration Office. She didn’t object to my enquiry. ‘This is easier than ever now, with the new computer system,’ she said. I heard her pressing a few keys and soon afterwards she had a result. ‘The only address we have for him, for Janevik, is on Askøy. Postal code Ask. As far as I can see, he’s lived there all his life.’

  I thanked her warmly for her help and jotted down: Ask, with a thick line underneath. Another invisible thread, a coincidence no one had expected to stumble over.

  I didn’t get much more done that day. In the evening I donned a track suit, walked up to Fjellveien and ran from there to the bottom of Isdalen and back again. Nothing more than water passed my lips before I went to bed and the next morning I was in pretty decent shape. At least I was in shape to drive, and the first stop was Gimle School, where I assumed they started early in the morning, as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as I felt on this chilly Thursday in March with hail in the gutters and no obvious signs of spring.

  21

  Gimle School stood in what seemed to be the Catholic part of Bergen, as all the streets were named after saints. The classic 1960s building with three floors and a flat roof was in St Olavs vei. I found my way to the staff room, where I was informed that Synnøve Stangeland was already teaching, but if I didn’t mind waiting, I was welcome to do so. I replied that I would prefer to go for a walk and return in the next break.

  Hence I had an additional half-hour to speculate about the choice of street names. In the closest vicinity I found St Halvards vei, St Torfinns vei and St Sunnivas vei. In Norse mythology Gimle was the name of the golden-roofed hall where righteous men would spend eternity in the company of Odin. Thus, the area was a bizarre mix of Norse faith in gods and Catholic worship of saints. A committee with an immense sense of irony must have been behind this project.

  South of the school was a sports arena, Haukelandshallen, and Brann Football Stadium with its training facilities. There, naturally enough, the symbolism changed, streets were named after sports and such heroic polar explorers as Amundsen and Nansen and their ships, Fram and Gjøa. I wasn’t going to either the South or the North Pole though, but back to Gimle, where I would spend a break with Synnøve Stangeland in the school playground with a view of Mount Ulriken, on which you could see the last snow around the TV mast at the top, like a cake decoration.

  She had insisted we should talk outside. She had looked at me with sceptical eyes behind her narrow glasses when I referred to the brief meeting with her husband two days ago. ‘Yes, that’s right. You were a…’

  ‘Jehovah’s Witness, your husband said. But I’m afraid that’s not true. I’m a private investigator and I’m taking a closer look at the Mette Case, which you might remember.’

  She asked me to wait while she fetched her coat. On our way down the steps she said: ‘Of course I remember it! But why did he say you were…?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’d best ask him that.’

  ‘But … I have nothing to tell you – as Svein’s already said.’

  ‘But you didn’t hear what he said.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. So?’

  ‘Well, I was only thinking … you might have something to add.’

  ‘And what might that be? It was a terrible tragedy. I still think about it regularly. How painful it must be to lose a child, and in this case … Not even knowing what happened to her, where she … is. Even worse.’

  ‘You were at home that day, weren’t you?’

  ‘No, we…’ For a moment she looked away. ‘We were … at the cabin.’

  I tried to catch her eye, but she was evasive. Around us, youngsters watched with curiosity written on their faces. Who was I? they wondered. Why was I talking to Fru Stangeland?

  ‘Or weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, we … we all went there, but Svein … had something to do in town, so he went back.’

  I felt a muscle tauten in my neck. ‘Oh, yes? But you didn’t tell the police this?’

  ‘Yes, we did … I think.’ Still she couldn’t look me in the eye.

  ‘What was it your husband had to do?’

  ‘Well … you’d best ask him that.’

  For a second or two I thought of the telephone Randi Hagenberg had heard ringing – from the other side of the yard. But if it had been in their house, he hadn’t been there either…

  ‘Did you try to ring him that day? At home, I mean.’

  Now I had eye contact, at last. But I read irritation there, as though I had given her what she had been expecting: a reason to react.

  ‘Mm … there was someone who heard a phone ringing and ringing that day – which no one answered.’

  ‘Then it must have been in another house.’

  ‘Yes. Probably.’

  I waited, in case she wanted to add something. She pulled her coat tighter around her, as though she were cold. Under it she was wearing a loose, flowery tunic that hung over her dark-blue jeans and covered most of what she must have had beneath, so as not to overstimulate the imaginations of the
hormonal male adolescents she taught. Not far from us some children were playing with a dark, skin-coloured basketball while a huddle of pale-faced kids admired their shooting skills. I wouldn’t deny that I envied them a little too. My own shooting skills were far from impressive at the moment.

  As she didn’t say any more I continued carefully: ‘A cousin of yours, Jesper Janevik, was in the frame for a while…’

  Her neck flared up and her eyes glinted as she answered: ‘And he was released! But … it destroyed our relationship for ever. I’ve hardly seen him since that time except for at … a couple of funerals. My parents’ funerals. His parents died before. So at least they were spared it.’

  ‘It?’

  ‘Yes, there had been a few incidents … long ago.’

  ‘And you’re sure he didn’t have anything to do with this?’

  ‘Jesper wouldn’t hurt a fly. The way he took care of his sister and his daughter, when she was alone, tells you everything. The cases he came under the spotlight for were … rumours and exaggeration. I know myself how kids of that age can fantasise about something that is completely innocent at the outset. And he was drawn into the Mette Case because he’d visited us a few times! No wonder he didn’t want to set foot in our house afterwards!’

  ‘But … couldn’t you visit him?’

  ‘It just felt unnatural. He didn’t want anything to do with us. In a way, he blamed us.’

  ‘For being drawn in?’

  ‘Because we invited him up, yes. Otherwise, obviously, nothing would have happened. I mean … otherwise he wouldn’t have come … under suspicion.’

  ‘He lives on Askøy, I understand.’

  ‘He lives in Janevik, which he has done ever since he was born.’

  ‘In his childhood home?’

  ‘Yes, in his childhood home.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ve got a lesson in a couple of minutes. Was there anything else?’

  I thought quickly. ‘No, not today. But maybe an—’

  She interrupted me. ‘I’ve got nothing more to say!’

  ‘Not even “good luck”?’

  ‘Good luck?’

  ‘Yes, because, after so many years, you want the case cleared up too, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ But as she concluded the conversation her eyes betrayed her innermost thoughts: she didn’t think I was up to it. With that she turned on her heel and walked with determined step back to her classes.

  I strolled back to my car. There was a strong argument for me heading west for the next part of the investigation. First to Sotra and Fylling Bil Dekk & Karosseri, then to Askøy. Perhaps a trip to Haakonsvern and Svein Stangeland too.

  As I pulled away from the kerb I noticed a dark-grey Audi A3 do the same a few cars behind. The Audi followed me up Ibsens gate and down towards Danmarks plass, and when I crossed over Sotra Bridge a quarter of an hour later, it was still in my wake, with a couple of vehicles between us. When I turned north from Ågotnes, it was still there. But when I braked to drive into Fylling Bil Dekk & Karosseri, it carried on and was soon out of view. The reflection from the car windows made it impossible to see who was inside or how many of them there were, but it made me wonder anyway: what I was doing wasn’t that interesting – or was it? And if so, for whom?

  22

  There was a sense of paint-peeling decline about the garage hiding beneath the sign Fylling Bil Dek & Karosseri. Typically, the second ‘k’ in Dekk – tyres – was missing.

  Around the two-storey building, in which the first-floor windows had curtains and flowers on the window sills, stood ten or so old cars with price tags behind the windscreens, and they weren’t very high either. Sherlock Holmes-style, I deduced that someone was living on the floor above the garage and that the establishment also offered second-hand cars at a price that was unlikely to appeal to anyone except this year’s school-leavers. Such low prices presaged trouble from the very first drive.

  I parked my Corolla beside a rusty 1980s VW, which, to judge from its appearance, should have been cremated long ago, after a brief ceremony. As I stepped out I checked the price: ten thousand kroner.

  A garage door opened. A man in his fifties with a well-rounded taxi-driver’s paunch, curly hair, greying around the ears, and a professional smile on full lips appeared beside me. ‘Interested?’

  ‘I’ve got a car.’

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ he mumbled with a side-glance at the Corolla. ‘But perhaps you need one for madame?’

  ‘And you think she’d like driving around in this?’ I said, motioning towards the jalopy in front of us.

  ‘Well, there are all sorts of women,’ he said, with a chummy wink.

  ‘Tor Fylling?’

  His eyes instantly became more circumspect. ‘Yes … and you are?’

  ‘Varg Veum, private investigator.’

  I let it sink in before continuing. I noticed his eyes quickly check the less-than-impressive array of cars. Were there some he hadn’t registered perhaps?

  ‘You’re not from the tax authorities, are you?’

  ‘No, nor from the Ministry of Transport. I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding Mette Misvær’s disappearance in 1977.’

  His eyes opened wide. ‘Right! After so many years?’

  ‘Yes. Her mother … You know her, don’t you?’

  His eyelids flickered a couple of times, as if to remove any sudden dust he had there. ‘Maja.’

  ‘Yes.’

  I couldn’t help thinking that these two had ended up together during what they called the New Year games of 1976. A somewhat odd couple, if you asked me, however … they had already known each other, they were neighbours in Mannsverk. What had they done that New Year’s Eve? Sat chatting, like Nils Bringeland and Helle Fylling, or gone for it without ceremony, as Terje Torbeinsvik had done with Randi Hagenberg? Would any of them answer if I asked straight out?

  ‘I’m not sure I can help, but … come in. We can’t stand here getting cold.’

  He led me into the garage through a door that could hardly have been washed for the last twenty years. Inside, there was a strong smell of oil and turpentine. From down in the service pit under a car at the front came the banging of metal on metal. In a glass cage at the back of the garage a woman sat looking at us: brown hair with strong, heavy-ish facial features, not that dissimilar to a female gorilla in a zoo. Crackly pop music from a not particularly discriminating radio station blared through the open door.

  ‘Marita! Have you got two cups of coffee?’ Tor Fylling shouted.

  The woman nodded, got up from her seat and stood with her back to us for a few moments. The banging under the car in the middle of the floor stopped and a man in his early thirties, wearing oil-stained overalls and carrying a spanner, crawled up. His hair was darker than Fylling’s, but otherwise he looked identical. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing to do with you, Einar. Just someone who wants a chat with me.’

  Einar Fylling looked suspiciously from his father to me and cast a glance at the glass box, where Marita had finished with the coffee machine and was on her way out with two mugs of steaming black coffee. The logo on the mug advertised a well-known car make.

  Fylling nodded to her. ‘Marita, my daughter-in-law. She takes care of the paperwork here.’

  She nodded.

  ‘And this is Varg Veum. He’s a private investigator, he says. Working on a cold case. Nothing to do with us.’

  Again I had a feeling that, early in the financial year, he was glad this wasn’t a surprise morning visit from the tax authorities. I guessed their book-keeping was as rusty as the cars on the forecourt and with even more hidden blemishes.

  I glanced at the young man. ‘And this is your son, then?’

  ‘This is Einar, yes.’

  Einar nodded briefly, as if to confirm identification.

  The father raised his voice. ‘And he’s busy!’ He motioned to the car and Einar followed his gaze.

  ‘I was just wonde
ring if you needed any help,’ he muttered, before slowly manoeuvring his way back into the pit.

  ‘With what?’ his father mumbled. ‘The business doesn’t run itself any longer and we have to hold on to the customers we have. But I’m glad Einar and Marita work here. I mean … they’re the ones who will take over one day. They even live in the flat above, so they’re all set up.’

  Einar went back under the car with an unhappy expression on his face, and Marita didn’t look that enthusiastic at the thought either. After handing over the mugs of coffee she withdrew to her glass box. The banging from the pit resumed.

  Tor Fylling ushered me to a couple of chairs by a battered work table under a rear window. In the middle of the table was a tin ashtray with Cinzano written on it and so full of cigarette ends that it was like the cornucopia from hell, the Cancer Foundation’s horror movie.

  ‘As I said, I have no idea how I can help you. It was a terrible business, but it’s quite a few years ago now. If Mette had been allowed to grow up she’d have been the age of … well…’ He nodded towards the glass box. ‘Marita, for example.’

  ‘You were at home when it happened, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I can remember it as if it were yesterday, literally. Maja came to the door and asked if I’d seen Mette. But I hadn’t. Not then at any rate, and so she carried on looking. Later it became a huge operation and I joined in the search for her, but, as you know, without success.’

  ‘Yes. Neither your wife nor your child was at home that day?’

  ‘No, they were in town and couldn’t help either.’

  ‘Why weren’t you with them?’

  ‘Well, I … I had something to do in the house, there was a pipe that needed fixing, and anyway … shopping in town has always bored me, even when the kids were small.’ He smiled wanly, as though he was really a little embarrassed about this.