‘You knew Truls and Maja Misvær from…?’
‘Yes, we were neighbours in Landås, and as far as I remember Mette was born right after they moved in there. I think Maja was well gone when they were moving. I helped Truls to sort things out. He wasn’t much of a handyman.’
I nodded. ‘How well did you know Maja?’
He frowned and looked at me in surprise. ‘How well did I know … What do you mean?’
‘Erm … I was thinking about the New Year games in 1976.’
He flushed a dark red. ‘You’re thinking about … Who the hell told you that? It can’t have been Maja.’
‘No, she didn’t say anything. But several of the others did.’
‘About Maja and me?’
‘Well … What would they say about you two?’
‘Nothing! I mean … nothing but … Tell me, did they really tell you about what went on that night? What an idea!’
‘You’re referring to what you called the New Year games?’
‘We didn’t call it that … Terje called it that! It was his idea.’
‘And the result was…?’
‘You must have heard that too? We each went off arm-in-arm with a new woman, happy and content. Except for one of the couples, that is. They went home before … lots were drawn.’
‘Yes, I heard that.’
‘I got Maja.’
‘And how was that?’
He banged his mug down on the table so hard the ashtray jumped. ‘None of your fuckin’ business, Veum! That’s a private matter. And anyway … what the hell’s this got to do with Mette?’
‘No? Could it have had something to do with her, do you think?’
‘I haven’t got a clue! But … it was obvious who … I told some of the lads at the time. Shall we go out to Askøy and knock the living shit out of him until he tells us what he did with her?’
‘So you were sure it was him?’
‘Who else could it have been? He had previous.’
‘Did he?’
‘That’s what the word was.’
‘I see. But you didn’t do anything?’
‘No, we … came to our senses. After all, it’s the police’s job to deal with all that sort of thing, and if it’d been him they’d have nailed him. No one knows what happened now.’
‘Well, someone, or some people, know.’
He eyed me thoughtfully. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. Someone knows.’
‘You and your wife got divorced some years afterwards…’
‘Yes, and so what? Is that also s’posed to have something to do with…?’
‘Perhaps with the New Year games anyway. You weren’t the only couple to split up.’
‘No, but let me tell you something, Veum. Helle and me had been on the slippery slope long before New Year – in fact, that was probably why neither of us went home when the suggestion came up. I mean … we no longer had anything to lose, emotionally like.’
I nodded without making any further comment. ‘Mm … may I ask if you’ve seen Maja – or any of the others for that matter – since?’
He sent me a surprised look. ‘Well, I lived there for a year after … a year and a half. But then I moved out, and since then I haven’t set foot there, apart from … well, there was Einar’s confirmation; that must have been in 1984. It was held in the communal … the Function Room we called it.’
‘Not once since then?’
‘No. I’ve got more than enough to do here to keep the wheels turning, literally.’ He scanned the wretched state of the workshop. Marita was sitting in the glass box with a mug of coffee to her lips as well now. The work didn’t seem to be piling up there either.
As I left it struck me that, incredibly enough, there were perhaps businesses going even worse than my own. Most people had a car. But most people had worries too and they weren’t beating down my door. Perhaps most people managed well enough on their own, as far as cars and worries were concerned.
As I came out to the forecourt a clapped-out, old Volvo drove to the garage. The car parked and a little squirt of a man jumped out; under his nose he had an unsymmetrical moustache resembling an oil stain. He was in his work gear and glanced at me with minimal interest as he ran into the building.
I got into my car, started up and turned right onto the main road. At Ågotnes I did a U-turn and faced the town again. I had seen what I wanted to see. The dark Audi was parked by the kerb thirty or forty metres down from Fylling Bil Dekk & Karosseri. I considered my options for a few seconds, then I pulled in behind it.
I sat behind the wheel looking at the Audi. Through the darkened glass I could see the silhouettes of two people at the front. They turned and looked back.
I opened the car door and got out. In my hand I had my notebook and I made it obvious I was writing down their registration number. Then both doors opened. Two guys came out, a kind of second-millennium version of Laurel and Hardy, but neither of them made me laugh.
The bigger one was the beefcake type, pumped up on anabolic steroids from his mother’s milk, from what I could tell. He was wearing a black beanie over an apparently shaven skull; the look he shot me was heavy and unambiguous. He wore a kind of shiny red track suit, which was tight and revealed his bulging muscles, from his biceps down to his thighs.
The smaller of the two looked even more dangerous, it was the eyes that did it. I had seen eyes like his before, restless and irascible and always on the move. It was as though his whole body quivered with sublimated aggression, and I knew because of his size he was bound to have a knife or two up his sleeve to compensate for his muscular deficiencies. He was dressed for the occasion too, jeans and a light jacket, which allowed him maximum freedom of movement if he had to draw a knife. His face was pinched, his hair dark and slicked back, and his ears protruded conspicuously.
Laurel spoke up. ‘And what the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’
I looked at him. ‘Me? I’ve always collected car registration numbers. Ever since I was a boy.’
His eyes narrowed, and he came a few steps closer. His friend on the other side of the car did the same, as if controlled by invisible threads.
‘And what the fuck you gonna do with it?’
‘Didn’t you hear? I collect them.’
Two steps forward. I kept an eye on his hands. His right hand was in his pocket, the other one he held at his side, like a gunslinger in a Western before the last duel in Tombstone.
‘Or maybe I should ask … why the fuck are you following me?’
He didn’t answer. Hardy opened his mouth to say something – or he was drawing breath before launching himself into action.
‘I’ve been watching you, all the way from St Olavs vei, and it’s no coincidence you’re parked here. Or have you two got something going?’
Hardy went a deep red, Laurel a corresponding white. I could see the muscles in his jaw bunching. ‘Veum…’
‘So you know my name as well. Is it so strange I’ve taken your number?’
‘Now you just listen here … We know who you are, we know where you live, we know where your office is.’
‘I keep office hours. Why don’t you visit me there if you have something on your minds I can help you with?’
He continued undeterred: ‘We know who you are, where you live, we know where you…’
‘I got all that the first time round! Tell me what you want.’
He held out his left hand. ‘I want you to give me the number.’
I pointed to his car. ‘Have you forgotten it? It’s there.’
‘Thor…’
At first I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I realised it was an order. Hardy, whom he called Thor, lumbered towards me. Laurel did the same, in a mirror-image arc, and, out of nowhere, there was his knife. Clenched in his right hand, ready for use.
I took a step to the side, threw myself through the open car door, put the engine in reverse and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car skidded
backwards, just in time to prevent them reaching me. On the tarmac I spun round and almost ended up in the ditch on the opposite side. Then I straightened the car, changed gear, kept to the far side of the opposite carriageway and put my foot down.
Alongside them I braked sharply, rolled down the window and stuck my head out. ‘You know where to find me. Let me know when you’re coming and I’ll lay on a sports drink!’
Thor stared, his eyes heavy and humourless. Laurel brandished the knife in the air and drew a finger across his throat, as though planning instant suicide. However, it was me he was looking at and I liked his eyes even less than before.
They didn’t try to cross the road, but I had an unpleasant feeling that our paths would cross again on a later occasion. They didn’t follow me either. I kept looking back in the mirror, all the way over Sotra Bridge to the mainland and then over Askøy Bridge out to the next island. No dark Audi to be seen anywhere. Perhaps they had found something else to do. Or else they had deferred the showdown. I was unlikely to have scared them off.
23
With the aid of the map I had lying on the back seat and a helpful lady at a till in the nearest supermarket I managed to find my way to the little house where Liv Grethe Heggvoll lived. It was set back from the main road, hidden behind a tall hedge, with a view of the fjord to the south of Holsnøy island, of the village of Frekhaug in the municipality of Meland, and of Salhus and Morvik in Åsane, with Nordhordsland Bridge like a gigantic belt between it all. It didn’t feel like being out in the country any more, as it would have done twenty years ago, when you still had to catch a ferry to get to Askøy.
Around the house were flowerbeds, a few fruit trees and a tool shed with a padlocked door. I walked down the garden path, searched in vain for a door bell and ended up knocking as hard as I could.
The woman who opened the door was about thirty years old, had short, reddish hair, big blue eyes and, as far as I could see, needed no help from cosmetics to look young and fresh. She was wearing brown cord trousers and a plain, dark-blue jumper. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking at me enquiringly.
‘Liv Grethe Heggvoll?’
‘That’s me, yes.’
I introduced myself, told her my profession and explained that I was actually working on another case and that the Bryggen robbery had thrown up a connection.
‘And?’
‘I was wondering whether you’d be willing to answer a few questions.’
‘Well … I can’t imagine I have any more to say than what I’ve already told the police, but … You’d better come in.’
She opened the door, which led into a pleasant blue hallway. Before we went any further she stopped and looked down at my shoes. I took the hint and did as you often do out of town: removed my shoes. On stockinged feet I quietly followed her into what was obviously her sitting room.
The room had a view of the sea and was simply furnished. The wooden walls were bedecked with landscape paintings and several woven tapestries in mellow colours. In a high-backed rocking chair sat a woman of roughly my age with some knitting in her hands. Her hair was grey with streaks of white and collected at the back in a tight bun, which lent her a severe, almost Puritan, appearance. But she was dressed as casually as the person I assumed was her daughter, in brown trousers and a grey-and-white jumper with a traditional pattern. I guessed, from what she was holding, she had knitted both hers and her daughter’s. When I went in, she looked up, scowled at me, confirmed she didn’t know me and went back to her knitting, without even so much as a hello.
Liv Grethe Heggvoll smiled sadly and whispered: ‘My mother’s in a world of her own.’ In a louder voice she said: ‘A cup of coffee?’
‘Please.’ The coffee was a short cut to everything that was good in this country. Without a cup or ten Norway would grind to a halt. That was probably also why most of us regularly held our stomachs: we could always feel a craving coming on.
While Liv Grethe was in the kitchen I gazed through the window. ‘Nice view you’ve got,’ I said to her mother.
‘Mmm,’ the woman said to her knitting. She had lean facial features, but noticeably black bags under her eyes. Her neck was wrinkled and dry, and in many ways she looked older than she probably was.
On the shelf of a wooden corner-stand there was a framed black-and-white photo of an elderly couple in front of a dark car, from what I could judge, a Fiat from the latter half of the 1960s. The man was much taller than the woman and stood, his arms around her shoulders, with a proud air of ownership as they both leaned against the car. Whether it was the woman or the car he was proud of was impossible to say.
Then Liv Grethe was back with a small tray on which stood three cups and a jug of coffee. ‘You’d like a cup too, wouldn’t you, Mummy?’
‘Yes, please,’ the mother said quietly, looking at her daughter and smiling softly, as though actually thinking about something quite different.
‘She had a nervous breakdown when I was a child,’ the daughter said in a muted voice, but not so low that her mother couldn’t hear. ‘She’s never been herself since.’
I nodded to the photo I had been looking at. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Oh, that…’ She smiled the same sad smile. ‘That’s Grandad and Grandma, the last picture that was taken of him, I think it was 1969. The car was new and Grandad was immensely proud of it. But Grandma didn’t have a driving licence, so after he died it just stood in the garage until they sold it, at some time in the eighties. I can barely remember it. But it’s a nice photo, don’t you think?’
I nodded, and we sat down at the low table where she had placed the cups. The coffee was a bit thin for my palate, but bearing in mind the next eight cups I would drink, statistically speaking, that was probably no bad thing.
‘So … what was it you wanted to know?’
‘About the robbery. Could you tell me what happened?’
‘Well … what should I say? It was a terrifying experience. I’ve never been through anything like it. We … Mummy and I went to town to buy a watch for Uncle Jesper – one of my uncles – for his fiftieth birthday. We hadn’t even had a chance to look at any – the assistant was about to unlock a cabinet to take some out – when the door burst open and three people charged in, dressed in … like shell suits, I suppose. And with those … balaclavas over their faces and … guns. They ordered Mummy and me back against the wall, with the assistants, and then two of them started emptying drawers and cupboards. One of the assistants had to unlock them. The manager came out of the back room, but one of the robbers ordered him back in and went with him. Through the door we could hear him being forced to open … erm … we read in the papers it was a safe. I can’t remember how long this all took. It felt like an eternity, but I suppose it was only a few minutes. Mummy turned to me and whimpered and I was paralysed with fear, terrified … how can I put it?’
‘Yes, it obviously wasn’t a pleasant experience.’
‘No, I’ll vouch for that!
‘But then, when they’d finished…’
‘Yes, they finished, said something or other, don’t move or do anything, and then they ran out and of course that was when the worst part happened. The shot outside. It went through us like an electric shock. For a moment we thought they were shooting at us, but then I realised they weren’t and…’
‘Yes?’
‘Mm, it’s all a bit fuzzy. We stood still. Mummy was clinging to me. One assistant went to the door and screamed: They’ve shot someone! He’s on the ground bleeding! She hesitated a bit, then opened the door and went out for help. Lots of people came, and not long after that we heard sirens, and then the police came.’
‘Tell me … looking back, do you remember what happened before the shot? Was anything said?’
She sat gazing into the distance. ‘I’ve given that a lot of thought, and I told the police what I could remember too, of course. But I … In a way it’s as if the shot has cast a shroud over everything, as if everything started there …
but something was said before the shot. I’m sure of that.’
I leaned forward. ‘You mean … between the robber and the victim?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. At least from the outside.’
‘You didn’t hear what, though?’
‘No, I don’t think so. At any rate, I can’t remember anything. It’s all a blank.’
I nodded. After a while I said: ‘In the papers you’re quoted as saying you thought one of the robbers was a woman.’
She smiled, resigned. ‘Yes, that was something I said spontaneously to the manager when he came out to us, and then he told the police. I don’t know what made me say it, but I suppose it must have been the way she was moving. Somehow, with a little more care, not as unrestrained as the other two. And she didn’t say anything. If it was a woman, that is.’
‘But they spoke in English?’
‘Yes. It wasn’t their native language, though. I could hear that. It must have been to hide who they really were … Eastern Europeans, Norwegians, what do I know? I’m not very linguistically minded.’
‘No? What do you do, actually?’
‘At the moment I’m on sick leave because of a slipped disc. Usually I work in admin at Askøy local council. Office work.’
‘I see.’ I paused. ‘You mentioned … this uncle you were buying a watch for…’
‘Yes, that came to nothing. We ended up buying a lawnmower instead.’
I smiled. ‘Right. You called him Uncle Jesper?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Jesper Janevik by any chance?’
Instantly a wariness that hadn’t been there before flitted across her face. ‘Yes. And?’
I sat flicking through my notebook. ‘His name has cropped up earlier. I mean … in the case I’m working on. The man who was shot in Bryggen is involved as well.’
‘Really?’ Now she looked more confused.
‘That’s why I came here, to see … if there might be more behind the shooting than meets the eye.’
‘I still don’t understand what it has to do with us. Or with Uncle Jesper.’
‘He’s your mother’s brother, is he?’
Where Roses Never Die Page 13