Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  30

  Oslo in March can be anything from the first glimpse of spring to the last bitingly cold day of winter. I had been lucky on this occasion. It was beautiful spring weather all day.

  I got off the Airport Express train at the National Theatre stop and took the escalator up to the Earth’s surface again, where I was blinded by sunlight as I emerged at the rear of the large theatre building. It was situated magnificently between Stortingsgata and Karl Johans gate, like an outrider for the Royal Palace further up the hill and with the old university edifice as a loyal attendant on its left. At the opposite end of Spikersuppa, the pool alongside Karl Johans gate, stood Stortinget, the Norwegian Parliament. Thus, within a very confined area there was Parliament, the Symbol of Royal Power, the Temple of Knowledge and the Citadel of Dramatic Art; you could hardly display the capital city in a more concentrated fashion. You didn’t have to go far down side streets to find those who really ruled either: the Supreme Court and Finance.

  The staff entrance to the National Theatre was down in the cellar from Stortingsgata. Behind a counter sat a nice lady, she flicked through some pieces of paper in front of her, but was forced to conclude with an apologetic smile that, no, there was no message from Vibeke Waaler. As I refused to accept this as a final answer, she made some internal calls, which culminated in her telling me that Fru Waaler was rehearsing on the Amfiscenen stage, but she would be finished by two if I wanted to try again then.

  ‘Right, does that mean you can give her a message saying I’ll be back then?’

  ‘Yes, we could do that. Of course, we can’t guarantee Fru Waaler’s time, but…’ She smiled a little condescendingly, as though Fru Waaler had admirers at the door every single day of the week, from early till late, and I was hardly among those at the head of the queue.

  Somewhat disconsolate, I trudged out into the sunshine again. The sky was high and blue above the capital, like the backdrop to a cheery 1940s comedy with Lillebil Ibsen and Per Aabel in the main roles. At five to twelve I was standing by the entrance to the Theatercafé waiting for Truls Misvær. At twelve sharp a man arrived, wearing a grey suit and a light-coloured coat, alert and slim with fair hair casually bordering his collar, as if ready for a quick visit to the closest fitness centre. We looked at each other enquiringly, swiftly introduced ourselves, and, after handing in our coats, he led the way to the inner rooms, nodded to the waiters, as if in familiar surroundings, and went straight to a window table facing Stortingsgata, where we had almost complete privacy.

  ‘I had it reserved,’ he said in polished, elegant Bergensian, showed me to a seat on the opposite side of the table and sat down with his back to Stortinget, so that he was facing in the right direction if celebs such as Erik Bye or Wenche Foss should pop their heads in. A waiter was quickly at our sides, handing us a menu. Truls Misvær cast an experienced eye over it, ordered the house’s Caesar salad, and I was unoriginal enough to follow suit. With the food he ordered a glass of red wine for himself, but I was thinking of my car at Bergen Airport and my general condition and chose a non-alcoholic beer. Once this was done, he leaned back in his chair, regarded me as if I were a potential business partner and said: ‘So who are you, Veum, and what are your qualifications? What makes you think you can find out what the police gave up on twenty-five years ago?’

  In broad strokes I filled him in on my background, from my time in child welfare up to the present day, without mentioning the adversities I had struggled with over the last three years, and the resulting financial and private difficulties.

  When I had finished he looked at me sceptically. ‘And you, a one-man band with no access to computer systems, registers or whatever else there is, are going to find something – I repeat – the police gave up on years ago?’ He raised his arms aloft. ‘Maja’s crazy to invest her money in this!’

  ‘You’ve lost all hope, in other words?’

  ‘Hope of what, Veum?’ he snapped.

  ‘Of finding out what really happened to Mette on that September day in 1977.’

  He stared back stiffly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I have. Nothing would make me happier, of course, if Maja – if we were finally to have an answer – but to be frank … I doubt you’re the right man to give it to us.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, shrugging. ‘All I can say is that I’ll do my best to unearth more.’

  ‘I mean … the police hauled in everything that lived and breathed with regard to potential sex offenders. One was even in custody for a few days…’ He looked to me for a response.

  ‘Yes, I’ve spoken to him. Jesper Janevik.’

  He nodded, although he didn’t look particularly impressed. ‘They found nothing. We searched everywhere around, they scoured Nordåsvatnet, they spoke to all the neighbours.’

  ‘Yes, on that subject. Were the relations between neighbours there a little special?’

  His eyes appraised me. ‘In what respect?’

  I didn’t get an answer because the waiter arrived with the salads and drinks. Misvær nodded to acknowledge the fast service, sipped his red wine, motioned for us to start and set about his salad at a speed that suggested he was only minutes away from being expected at a conference and there was no time to lose.

  Between mouthfuls I said: ‘I was thinking about the way you entertained one another, let us say, on New Year’s Eve 1976.’

  He snorted. ‘You’ve been muck-raking, I can hear.’

  ‘According to my sources, you carried off the main prize that evening.’

  He cast an involuntary sideward glance across the street to the National Theatre. When he met my eyes again, I nodded assent.

  He opened his fork hand. ‘What do you want me to say? Has this got anything to do with Mette?’

  ‘God knows, but it says something about the moral climate in which she was growing up.’

  He looked thoughtful, and for a second or two it was as though his eyes became turbid, then he concentrated on the salad again. ‘Do you know why it’s called Caesar salad?’ he asked.

  ‘No idea. I doubt Julius Caesar invented it.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. It was in the 1920s, an Italian restaurant owner called Caesar who lived in San Diego but had his restaurant in Tijuana, on the Mexican side of the border, to avoid prohibition restrictions.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with the New Year party games?’

  ‘You’re not very quick on the uptake, are you. The idea was to change the subject.’

  ‘Yes, I can understand that you don’t like talking about it. Did you know that you were being watched?’

  For a moment he stopped stuffing his face. ‘Watched! Vibeke and … By whom, if I might ask?’

  I kept him waiting while I swallowed and drank a mouthful of beer. ‘You know, Misvær, that even if you don’t want to talk about it, I know most of what went on that night already. I know who was where, I know what happened in most of the places and – I’ve just found this out – I know that Joachim Bringeland and your son, Håkon, watched what went on between his mother and Terje Torbeinsvik.’

  Now he was visibly shaken.

  ‘And I’m not ignoring the possibility that it made them – how shall I put it? – curious? You know boys at that age … they may have gone back to your and Maja’s house to see if something similar was happening there.’

  He had put down both his knife and fork now. He held his throat with one hand, ran his index finger around the inside of his collar, as though it were too tight, and scanned the room to make sure no one else could hear what we were talking about.

  ‘And it was of course,’ I concluded, not without a certain satisfaction at the way I had tripped him up.

  He stared at me, his eyes black now. ‘Vibeke and I … we … She came from … Perhaps it was the theatre circles, perhaps it was just her.’

  ‘The theatre circles?’

  ‘Yes, aren’t they famous for being a little more … liberal? She told me about an incident, one that had taken place only a few d
ays before.’

  ‘Before New Year?’

  ‘Yes. She said … it was after the performance. She was playing Lady Macbeth that winter. She had been leaning over her make-up table – with her dress pulled up – and was … erm, taken from behind … by one of the witches.’

  ‘One of the witches?’

  ‘Yes, well … the witches were played by men in that production.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And then there was a knock at the door, and without waiting … in came Terje, her husband, and caught them in the act, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. This has happened before.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it has.’

  ‘And what happened then?’

  ‘Nothing! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nothing happened. It became a good story. Terje laughed. Vibeke laughed. The guy playing the witch … yes, he started laughing too. And then they all got on with their own business and that was the last of it. Terje drove Vibeke home – he was there to collect her – and since … Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? They had no inhibitions. It was typical that they came up with this game, or whatever we should call it.’

  ‘Well. Every one of the couples joined in, except one.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked down, started fidgeting with the rest of his salad. ‘So you think Håkon and Joachim … that Håkon saw Maja with … well, it would have been Tor.’ Then it was as though something seemed to dawn on him. ‘Perhaps that’s why he wanted to be with me when we split up a few years later?’

  ‘Why not? He’d seen his mother in action. You were frolicking with Vibeke at her place.’

  ‘Yes.’ He evinced a wan smile. His face was beginning to assume a normal colour again. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘That was quite an experience, that was. She was worth…’

  As he didn’t complete the sentence, I pursued the point. ‘She was worth what, Misvær? The divorce? What happened to Mette? What…?’

  ‘What happened to Mette has nothing to do with this!’

  ‘No? Are you sure?’

  For the last time he put down his cutlery. The plate in front of him was empty. ‘What could the connection be?’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’ll certainly have to talk to your son about this.’

  ‘To Håkon?’ He looked at me darkly. ‘He lives in Ålesund.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘He does something with the football club. AaFK. He was a pretty promising player once himself, but then his form went. He was mostly on the bench at FC Brann. Then he got an offer from Wiggen – the coach at Ålesund – to go there, but it didn’t work out, either. No wonder though. He was too old to kick-start his career, if I can put it like that.’

  ‘So he’s not active anymore?’

  ‘No, but he’s still connected with the club. Ground staff … something like that.’

  ‘And he’s never talked to you about … what they saw that night?’

  ‘Never! Do you think I’m sitting here and putting on an act?’

  I waited. ‘No, I don’t think so. In that area you probably don’t have the same talent as your old flame across the street.’

  Again he glanced in that direction. ‘She’s not … There was never any repeat, unfortunately. And not long after, she left Bergen and came here.’

  ‘Which you did too.’

  ‘Yes, but … ha! No connection. I moved only a few years ago, and I haven’t seen Vibeke Waaler anywhere else but on the stage – from the auditorium – for the last twenty years. Have you spoken to her?’

  ‘Not yet. But I have arranged to meet.’ I shot a glance at my watch. ‘Shall I pass on your regards?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ he said. After a short pause, he added: ‘You just go, Veum. I’ll take care of this…’ He nodded towards our empty glasses and plates.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He shrugged. ‘One expense less on Maja’s bill?’

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

  Without exchanging any more pleasantries we parted company. Truls Misvær beckoned to the waiter for the bill. I crossed the street in a further attempt to gain an audience with Lady Macbeth.

  31

  It was the same nice woman sitting behind the counter at the staff entrance. She recognised me at once and confirmed that Vibeke Waaler had said she would meet me. Then she called on the internal intercom, received an answer and not long afterwards the protagonist herself came through a glass door to the left of reception. She shook hands with an expression of curiosity and said: ‘Come with me, Veum.’

  She must have been around fifty, but, like most actors, she was in impressive shape, at least as far as her exterior was concerned. No one would call her beautiful, but she had a strong, clear face with a striking though elegantly formed nose, sensual lips with a seductive smile never far away, and direct blue eyes that held you in a somewhat disconcerting way. It wasn’t hard to imagine her in big roles, Lady Macbeth back in 1976, when she wasn’t even thirty, later Hedda, Ellida Wangel and the Queen in Hamlet. Now they were rehearsing a new British play, she told me on the way to the dressing room. ‘Authentic language, good dialogue, an interesting role.’

  She moved with a confident sensuality, dressed in tight, faded jeans and a clinging black jumper with a deep V-neck, emphasising her youthful voluptuousness. Her hair was casually pinned up on her head and was her only colourless feature: run-of-the-mill blonde; but I suspected that she wore a wig on stage and that was why she wasn’t taking her own hair very seriously at the moment.

  I followed her down the corridor, up a staircase to the floor above and into another corridor. When we reached her dressing room she held the door open for me and stood at the side until I had passed, as if to test one element of nearness. Once I was inside and waiting she paused for a few seconds before indicating one of the two chairs and gesturing for me to sit down. She sat down on the other, by the mirror, crossed her legs and leaned forward with her eyes fixed on mine.

  ‘Now I’m intrigued,’ she said in a deep, melodious voice that instantly reminded me of radio, a play, in which the femme fatale had just made her entrance.

  I quickly looked around. I had been in actors’ dressing rooms before, and this was no different, even if it was the National Theatre. It looked a bit poky. It was a single dressing room and there wasn’t much space to romp around. The mirror behind her was lit up all the way round. On the walls hung pictures of stage roles, some of herself, some of colleagues – in which case they were always signed. I recognised several of Norway’s biggest stars over the years. On clothes hangers along one wall hung garments, perhaps for the new play, because they were very modern and apparently unworn. On a hat stand there was a dark-green cape and a large velvet hat in the same colour with a long red feather, perhaps a souvenir of a Shakespeare performance, As You Like It, Much Ado about Nothing or something like that.

  ‘I’m glad you had time to talk to me.’

  She smiled sweetly. ‘What wouldn’t one do for attractive men?’

  ‘Well … As I tried to tell you on the phone last night, this is about what we know as the Mette Case.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded and immediately looked serious. ‘It was a terrible story. But have there been any developments? Is that why it’s being taken up again?’

  ‘It’s not officially being taken up. I’m a private investigator, and Mette’s mother, Maja Misvær, has asked me to review the case.’

  ‘Maja … Yes, I remember her. Very sweet, but … a little tense, maybe?’

  ‘Nowadays definitely, but you mean in those days as well, don’t you?’

  She was still looking me straight in the eye. ‘Yes, I think I remember that.’

  ‘You had – let me get straight to the point – a … what shall we say? … an experience with her husband…’

  She sat looking at me, as though she hadn’t quite understood what I was going on ab
out. ‘Ah, you mean … the New Year…’

  I nodded.

  ‘Who on earth told you about that?’

  ‘Well, a number of the neighbours – your former neighbours, to be precise.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with Mette?’

  ‘Mm, everyone asks me that, and they’re quite right to, but there’s something about the whole set-up at Solstølen … A female detective who was on the case at that time … she said she felt there was something under the surface which never quite became visible. And I’m wondering if it wasn’t precisely this. These self-styled New Year games. A consequence of … what shall I say? A lack of moral restraint? An imbalance? Something that triggered something else that led to … Mette’s disappearance?’

  ‘“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”,’ she quoted solemnly.

  ‘It was your husband who suggested this activity, I gather.’

  She waggled her head coquettishly and looked at me cheerily. ‘Yes, it was. But…’ Her face turned grave. ‘It came like a bolt out of the blue for me – when he suggested the game. But of course I’m used to putting on an act, I mean from a professional point of view, so…’

  ‘You knew nothing beforehand then?’

  ‘No.’ Her eyes were pensive. ‘It was probably a way to get back at me.’

  ‘Get back at you? What do you mean?’

  ‘Well … we both had a liberal view of who we would allow ourselves to go to bed with. But … it wasn’t always easy to accept when something happened.’

  I quickly licked my lips. ‘Truls Misvær mentioned an incident in the theatre. With one of the witches.’

  Again she had a distant look in her eyes, as though she didn’t understand what I was referring to. ‘Oh, you mean…’ She laughed a dry, autumnal laugh. ‘Yes, Terje might well have been a little put out that time, but … he got over it.’ After a short pause she added: ‘So Truls told you about that? Well I never. Did he also tell you that Mette wasn’t his child?’

  Now it was my turn to be distant. ‘What was that? Mette wasn’t his … but they had Håkon, who was older than Mette. Who could…?’