Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

‘I did! Was there anything else you wanted to plague me with on an evening like this?’

  I ignored his tone. ‘Several of the neighbours have told me about what you called the New Year games … on New Year’s Eve 1976.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘I see. And was that…?’

  ‘Yes? Carry on, Torbeinsvik.’

  ‘Was that supposed to have anything to do with what happened to Mette?’

  ‘It definitely tells me something about a co-op with a relatively liberal view of morality, if you ask me.’

  ‘I think I told you the last time you were here, Veum. You give the impression of a hopelessly old-fashioned moralist.’

  ‘Aha. It’s possible you may be confusing that with the child welfare officer in me.’

  ‘Possibly! What we did that evening … was a kind of party game. It didn’t create any problems afterwards.’

  ‘It didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, one of the couples left the party before the game began. Those who remained all got divorced later, every single couple. Some wooed their partner for the night, others … did other things.’ Before he could interrupt I continued: ‘And you yourself … happy with your work that night, are you? Good job for you the statute of limitations for rape is ten years, eh?’

  His lips twisted in contempt. ‘So Randi blabbed, did she?’

  ‘Not only her. And only after pressure. This is deep in every single person who took part, Torbeinsvik.’

  ‘Not in my case!’

  ‘No, you were the one who took the initiative. And your wife was in on it.’

  ‘Vibeke…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No, not at all. Anyway, she had nothing to complain about.’

  ‘Now I don’t know where you’re going.’

  ‘No, and it’s got nothing to do with you, either, Veum.’

  I nodded to the door. ‘And you and your present wife, do you practise the same sort of free love? As free as butterflies?’

  He glared at me.

  ‘Butterflies die after a day or two, you know. They don’t have a long life. And that was how it was with the marriages here too,’ I said.

  ‘This still has nothing to do with Mette. Have we finished now?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I got up. ‘Let me put it like this, Torbeinsvik. You’re on my list. If you could rape a neighbour you could certainly have a go at a little girl as well, if the need became too great.’

  He shot from his seat and came right up to me. His mouth smelled and some drops of saliva hit me in the face as he hissed: ‘Once and for all, Veum. I didn’t rape anyone! It was a game. And … the rest I’ll choose to ignore. I could bloody drag you in front of a court for that sort of accusation!’

  I held his eyes. ‘Yes, you do that! Then you’ll have the public’s attention on all your doings out here.’

  He opened the door and almost shoved me into the hall. His young wife appeared again. She looked at us with alarm.

  Once again I turned directly to her. I raised my hands in the air. ‘Paradise on earth and he refuses to listen to me!’

  Then Terje Torbeinsvik pushed me out and slammed the door behind me. I could hear their voices inside, both slightly falsetto, then I ambled down the steps, past the small patch of garden and into the yard.

  At the gate to the road I met Helle Fylling on her way in. She was wearing a dark cape and had a big knitted hat pulled down over her head, which meant I didn’t recognise her until we were face to face.

  She came to a halt. ‘Oh … You.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Me. And now I know a little more about the so-called New Year games than you wanted to tell me when last we spoke.’

  ‘Is that so?’ She didn’t move. Then she added: ‘But I don’t have anything to complain about in that regard.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No! And I don’t have a guilty conscience, either.’

  ‘Is it correct that you and Nils Bringeland just sat chatting?’

  She gawped in amazement. ‘Who told …? Oh, right. He told Randi?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, there you go! No complaints. We had a nice … chat.’

  ‘But you could have ended up with someone else, couldn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and so? I didn’t…’

  ‘You didn’t…?’

  ‘I don’t go to bed with anyone!’ She started walking to her house.

  I raised my voice. ‘You could have had Terje Torbeinsvik, for example.’

  She stopped. ‘Oh, yes? And where are you going with this?’

  ‘Well … I’ve been told he wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

  She stood with a thoughtful expression on her face, as though trying to recall who had ended up with him that New Year’s Eve. ‘Really? Sad for her then. I have to…’ She didn’t continue.

  ‘Yes, what were you going to say?’

  ‘Erm, this doesn’t … You’re investigating the Mette Case. What’s this got to do with that?’

  ‘Well, it’s too early to say. But I cast a wide net. Carry on.’

  ‘I … Some months after New Year Nils came to me … in the street. We bumped into each other by chance.’ She told me their conversation:

  ‘Helle! Something’s come up. I don’t know how to deal with it.’

  She looked at him. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘New Year… You know…’

  She smiled wryly. ‘Yes, Nils, I know.’

  ‘Joachim had an outburst yesterday. We were having an argument, about a note he’d received at school and then it came: “You two don’t care. We saw what you were up to on New Year’s Eve!”’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Yes, I was gobsmacked. New Year’s Eve, I said. What do you mean? And then he told me … “Håkon came over after we were supposed to be in bed. We were upstairs when we heard someone come in and after a while we went down and saw … Mum and…” He almost threw up, Helle. “… Mum and that Torbeinsvik doing it and … yes, doing it … you know what I mean.”’

  ‘No! He saw Randi and Torbeinsvik … making love?’

  ‘Those weren’t the words he used, but … yes. And what was I supposed to say? I had to tell Randi, of course, but what could we do? How can you try and explain that? And at the same time … you and I, we did nothing, Helle! We behaved … properly…’

  ‘Yes, we did…’

  ‘So, what you’re telling me is that Joachim Bringeland, who at that time must have been seven or eight, and Håkon Misvær, who was five, saw what Joachim’s mother and another man in the co-op were doing. And so they wondered, naturally enough, what was happening in the other houses. Do you think they …? No, they couldn’t get in anywhere else.’

  ‘Apart from Håkon’s house, no. The doors would have been locked.’

  ‘At Håkon’s, where the mother would have been … with your husband?’

  I struggled to visualise all this, tried to follow some threads in the weave that now appeared before me. But the image of the two boys got in the way. Now I would definitely have to speak to Håkon – and probably with Joachim again as well.

  Helle Fylling stood looking at me. ‘Yes, not that I believe this had anything to do with what happened to Mette, but it’s a terrible thought. I mean … they were just children!’

  I cast a glance at Torbeinsvik’s house. Had I only known this ten minutes ago…

  ‘Did your husband tell you – afterwards – what he and Maja had done?’

  She sent me a measured look. ‘No, he didn’t. We simply didn’t talk about it.’

  ‘Well, that seems to be a standard answer. No one talked about it afterwards. So at least you all had the wit to be ashamed.’

  She shrank visibly in front of me. ‘Yes, it wasn’t something we … Even if Nils and I … Hm.’

  ‘But that might explain … No, well, what do I know?’

  ‘What were you thinking?’

  ‘All the divorces. Nothing is more fatal to a marriage
than something both partners know, but neither will talk about.’

  She whispered: ‘Yes. Mm.’

  ‘Another minor thing, Helle … Your ex-husband, Tor. In fact, I paid him a visit yesterday. I met your son and daughter-in-law too. Afterwards I heard … Did you know he was under suspicion for what might be termed criminal activity?’

  She opened her mouth and closed it again. ‘Criminal! Tor? What on earth could that be?’

  ‘Receiving stolen goods. Re-spraying, re-building stolen cars and selling them on.’

  ‘Receiving stolen goods? Cars? I think someone’s got their wires crossed.’

  ‘You don’t know about any of this?’

  ‘I never had anything to do with his work, but … I refuse to believe this. He’s never been accused of anything. He’s never been taken to court.’

  ‘No, the cleverest ones never are.’

  She tossed her head. ‘Even if Tor and I split up long ago I … you can tell that one to the marines!’

  ‘Thank you. I doubt there are any marines in Sotra, but that’s where I’m going.’

  She snorted. ‘You won’t get anything out of me as far as that’s concerned!’ Then she walked towards her house and this time it was for good.

  I didn’t have any more questions to ask her anyway. She had given me more than enough to chew on as it was: Joachim, Håkon and … any others?

  29

  I parked my car outside the hostel in Jonas Reins gate, where I had looked for Joachim Bringeland a couple of days before.

  The entrance looked as if Tiny had taken my criticism seriously. At least it looked a little tidier and there was a strong smell of detergent, so strong that it seemed as if they had sprayed the whole area with it, neat. The music from upstairs was a little more muted, as though someone had introduced a new regime on that front as well. But when I knocked on the door to what was called ‘OFFICE. RECEPTION’ no one answered.

  I tried a foray to the floors above, but none of the doors was marked with a name. If anyone answered they just looked at me, lost, when I asked if they knew where Joachim Bringeland was. Some of them obviously didn’t understand Norwegian. A couple of them were so fried they barely knew what their names were, let alone where they lived, and in the last room the music was so loud when the door was opened that the stubble-faced tousle head who stared at me couldn’t manage to understand what I was asking. So I gave up.

  Back on the street, I stood thinking what to do next. Another trip to Nygårdsparken, in the darkness, had little appeal. But the last time I looked, Little Lasse lived near here, to be more precise, in Hans Tanks gate.

  I left the car and walked a block south and a stone’s throw east. Through an arched passageway I came to some rear stairs leading to a cellar. There, behind a window with such poor illumination that only a dim reflection reached the yard, Little Lasse had his place ‘so deep down in the ground’ it was doubtful even the old evil spirit of Robert Johnson’s song would ever have accepted an invite.

  The window was covered by a filthy yellow curtain, which twitched warily to the side after I had tapped on the window. Little Lasse peered out through the crack, nodded when he saw who it was, and immediately afterwards the cellar door was pushed open, heavy and slow as it clearly was.

  Lasse grinned. ‘Varg the Wolf is out hunting?’

  ‘I never rest. Have you got a moment?’

  ‘Yes, I’m not exactly busy. The lady of the house has gone home.’ He ushered me inside. ‘Pull the door to after you.’

  ‘Cellar flat’ might well be what an estate agent with an enfeebled conscience would call this in an advertisement. If the client came from the Kalfaret side of Bergen, or thereabouts, they would have called it a ‘hole’, though nothing more vulgar. I was generous enough to refer to it as a refuge. Even at the Sally Army shop, Fretex, they wouldn’t have taken the furniture, and the cans of beer I saw appeared to be empty.

  Nevertheless, Lasse managed to find an unopened can in a plastic bag he kept under a low table. ‘Would you like one, Varg?’

  ‘Not tonight, thanks,’ I said, my mouth dry at the mere sight. ‘Driving,’ I added, without much conviction.

  ‘You’re only walking distance from home, aren’t you?’

  ‘So are police officers.’

  ‘Well, as you like.’ He lifted the can to his mouth and drank straight from it. ‘I’ll have one anyway.’ After swallowing another mouthful he looked at me from an angle. ‘So there are other reasons for you dropping by, I assume.’

  I nodded, took a couple of banknotes from my wallet and put them on the table between us. ‘An advance.’

  He eyed them and nodded, but didn’t touch them. ‘And the small print?’

  ‘I’ll tell you now. This morning I went on a little drive.’ I told him about the trip to Sotra to pay a call on Tor Fylling, about the Audi with the tinted glass that hung on my tail, like a customs officer behind a suspicious tourist bus, the confrontation with the two guys in the Audi and it turning out to belong to Gordon Bakke, known as Flash Gordon in select circles.

  ‘Plus Thor the Hammer, I take it.’

  I nodded. ‘Others have made the same suggestion.’

  ‘I’d be wary of Flash Gordon, if I were you, Varg. He doesn’t seem so menacing when you see him, but he’s a vicious bastard, and if someone’s put him on your tail you’d better watch yourself when you’re out and about.’

  ‘Funny. Bjarne Solheim, at the police station, expressed it in exactly the same words.’

  ‘There you go. But you wanted to see Tor Fylling?’

  ‘Yes, about an old neighbour actually, to do with the case I’m working on. It had nothing to do with what I gather might be some sort of work as a fence.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard his name mentioned in that connection, but not with the baubles those I deal with steal. It was cars mostly.’

  ‘So you can’t see a connection between Flash Gordon and him?’

  He shook his head and took another swig from the can of beer. ‘But there’s something else you might be able to use…’ He immediately took the two banknotes from the table, as though it was only now he realised he had earned them. ‘You remember that robbery in Bryggen before Christmas?’

  He had my full attention, probably more so than he was aware. ‘Yes?’

  ‘The owner, a certain herr Schmidt … he has used Flash Gordon’s services on other occasions.’

  ‘Right! Such as…?’

  ‘Well, again this concerns the types I deal with. A couple of times the guys I meet in the park have been to his shop and have pinched a watch or two and legged it. Herr Schmidt never bothered to ring the cops. No, he was more interested in setting an example. So he phoned Flash Gordon instead. Flash Gordon turned up in the park, did a round and woe betide the poor bugger who couldn’t return the goods … He got such a beating that no one would contact the cops either, only the hospital.’

  ‘So in other words … if this Herr Schmidt had received a call from a private investigator who, he suspected, was working on the robbery case, on behalf of his insurance company for example, then he would contact Flash Gordon to get him to keep an eye on who said investigator was visiting?’

  ‘Exactly. And if said private investigator was the person I think he is, then there’s even greater reason for him to … as I told you…’

  ‘… Watch his back when he goes out at night?’

  ‘Even in broad daylight, I would say.’

  ‘But you move in these circles … Are there any rumours doing the rounds about who was behind the robbery? The police have obviously drawn a blank.’

  ‘No, in fact there aren’t, Varg. Either they’re pros, in which case they were long gone a few hours after the robbery, on their way to Oslo or Gothenburg; or else they were pure amateurs, and unless they’ve left a trail of evidence behind them they’ll be almost impossible to track down.’

  ‘I’m listening to an expert here, I can see.’

  He grinned.
‘One has picked up the odd thing over the years, even if one doesn’t always stay on the right side of the law.’

  ‘Not to mention the intake of certain beverages…’

  ‘You could put it like that.’ He raised the can in a silent toast, put it to his mouth and drained it. Then he hurled it into a corner of the room, where it joined others of its ilk.

  When I set off walking ten minutes later I followed his advice and kept a good lookout. But there were no tinted Audis, neither there, nor in Jonas Reins gate, and no one tailed me through town and up to Skansen, either.

  There I made my last move of the day. I rang Truls Misvær in Oslo, told him who I was and about the assignment his wife had given me. He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but agreed to meet the next day, for lunch at twelve in Theatercafé.

  Next I rang the National Theatre and asked if it was possible to talk to Vibeke Waaler.

  ‘No, she’s on stage,’ the woman on the phone said.

  ‘So she is in Oslo then,’ I said, as if to myself. ‘Inevitably, if she’s doing a play,’ the woman said acidly.

  ‘And in the morning?’

  ‘She’s rehearsing a new play.’

  ‘So if I pop round tomorrow morning there may be a chance of meeting her?’

  ‘I doubt that, but you can try.’

  ‘Would you be so kind as to pass on a message to her? Write that a private investigator by the name of Varg Veum would like to meet her and it’s about the Mette Case, from the time when she lived in Bergen.’

  This seemed to whet the woman’s curiosity: ‘The Mette Case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’ll get the message alright.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Finally I booked a return air ticket to Oslo for the following day and crossed my fingers it would be worth the expense for Maja Misvær and the bother for me.

  I went to bed without having tasted a drop of alcohol the whole day. Labour dignifies the man, as the saying goes. That undoubtedly applied to private investigators too, as long as they held a steady course and focussed on the next day’s needs. And watched their backs. Do not forget that, I told myself as I sank into the most surprisingly pleasant sleep I’d had for ages.