Where Roses Never Die

by Staalesen, Gunnar

  Ironic smile. ‘How should I know? Maja would be the right person to ask.’

  ‘But Truls … must have had a suspicion?’

  She gracefully shrugged her shoulders with the same wry smile.

  ‘When did he tell you this?’

  ‘That night. After we’d … enjoyed ourselves, as much as we could, it was time to cuddle up and relate confidences, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And that was when he told me. But how can you be so sure? I remember I asked him. Surely you were together, conjugally, during that period too? Yes, he said, but still … it was obvious who she was like. Who? I asked. But, no, he wouldn’t say. He didn’t mention any names. Later I remember looking at her, the little girl. But you know. Children. I wasn’t that interested in children, not then, and they were always so well wrapped up … you know … Bergen, rain, sleet, wind and lousy weather … I wasn’t that curious anyway. I mean Truls Misvær was a one-night stand and never qualified as anything more.’

  ‘You set the bar high?’

  ‘Higher than him anyway.’ Now the ironic invitation in her eyes was obvious. But she was an expert at subtexts, it was her stock-in-trade.

  ‘And him? Was he as sure as you?’

  ‘What are you referring to now?’

  ‘Well … if he thought the experience was wonderful perhaps he might have wanted more, later?’

  ‘Do you mean, did he come scratching at my door at night like a tom-cat?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. I think he knew what was what when he left.’

  ‘The man you were married to then, Terje…?’

  ‘Yes?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘One of my biggest mistakes, it has to be said.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘Yes, not the only one. I got married a couple of times afterwards too, but … Terje was a bit bohemian and quite romantic, at least to a young actress straight from drama school and at Den Nationale Scene. Well, we didn’t meet there, but at Wessel, after a performance. And bed beckoned. It often did in those days. I was young and frisky and fancy-free. Hungry for life, you could say. And then, wham, we were married. Yes, I think it probably happened under the influence. But we stuck it out with each other for a few years, didn’t have any kids, thank God, and in 1978 I cast off. I’d had enough offers from here by then. First of all I was at Det Norske Teatret for a few years, then I went to the National in 1982. In fact, I haven’t exchanged a word with Terje since.’

  ‘Not one?’

  ‘No, what would we talk about? We didn’t have any children, the house was his – designed and paid for by him. How is he?’

  ‘Well … he’s got a new wife and … two small children, I think.’

  ‘Small?’

  ‘Actually, I haven’t seen them.’

  ‘Took him a few years to get a new one, then.’

  ‘Possibly. What I wanted to ask you … it may seem a bit intimate, but … that New Year’s night. Can you remember who Terje ended up with?’

  She didn’t seem very interested. ‘No, to tell the truth, I can’t. Who was it?’

  ‘Randi Hagenberg.’

  ‘Oh, right. Next door. And?’

  ‘He … she didn’t really want to and he … was pretty brutal with her. Some might say he raped her.’

  She looked more displeased now. ‘Oh, really? Well … if you can’t stand the heat etc.’

  ‘Was that behaviour … standard for him?’

  ‘You mean, was he prone to raping?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He didn’t rape me, anyway.’ Another little wry smile and a subtext that was not hard to decipher: It wasn’t necessary…

  ‘And he never showed any predilections for … children?’

  She mouthed a round O, a sign of theatrical surprise. ‘Oh, you were thinking about…’ She continued undeterred. ‘No, he never told me to get undressed or put a ribbon in my hair when we went to bed. He was exclusively interested in adults. Actually, he was much too absentminded to be interested in anyone apart from himself. I think he regarded me primarily as a trophy, someone he could take from Wessel to show the boys, and next day he would be back, wearing my stocking garter around his wrist, metaphorically speaking.

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you think much of him.’

  ‘If I’m honest, Varg … cute name, by the way – you’re the first person I’ve ever met with that…’

  Mm? If you’re honest…?’

  ‘I don’t think much of any men. I’ve simply had too many of them.’ She suddenly made the grand gesture, as though she were on the stage and reciting lines. ‘Give me the great minds – Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen – they’re my men. Not the likes of you. It is to the great minds I have dedicated my life and I flourish here, in these corridors.’

  For a moment, a form of sadness fell between us, as though we both instantly saw that life was not like this: a stage where you needed a loyal prompter at all times to move safely from one wing to the other without being exposed to whistling from the stalls or a boorish lambasting in the newspapers the following day.

  Then she said: ‘But now I need my rest, Varg. I have a role to play this evening. I’m afraid I didn’t help you much.’

  I stood up. ‘No, perhaps not, but thank you for receiving me and telling me what you did. About Truls Misvær’s dubious paternity, I mean.’

  ‘Take it for what it is,’ she said, getting up, and opening the door. ‘I’d better show you the way out.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Afterwards we didn’t say much more than goodbye and I strolled into Stortingsgata again, puzzled. On the pavement I took out my phone and tapped in Truls Misvær’s number. He answered after a couple of rings.

  ‘Veum here.’

  ‘Right! What is it now?’

  ‘I’ve just met Vibeke Waaler.’

  ‘Uhuh. And so?’

  ‘She said … she told me that you’d told her Mette was not your child.’

  The other end went quiet, so quiet that finally I had to say: ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, what have you got to—’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell you what I’ve got to say, Veum. This is none of your business. It has nothing whatsoever to do with anything!’

  ‘It’s definitely got something to do with Mette.’

  ‘It has nothing—’

  ‘So who was the father?’

  ‘None of your business!’

  ‘Can I ask Maja?’

  After a short pause came the sarcastic answer: ‘Yes, she would probably be the right person to tell you, wouldn’t she.’

  Without adding anything further he broke the connection, and I didn’t try to ring him again. It wouldn’t have helped, of that I was sure.

  Instead I did as I had planned all along: I rang Thomas and asked if he and Mari were receiving guests. They were.

  They had a new flat in Grünersløkka and although there were a few months to go to the birth, Mari was suitably podgy around the middle. They seemed happy and excited, both of them.

  I spent a relaxed afternoon with them, then Thomas drove me to the central station and the airport express.

  It was pitch black by the time I parked in Øvre Blekevei. I should perhaps have been on my guard, but I hadn’t noticed an Audi with tinted glass parked anywhere. As I rounded the corner to Telthussmauet they appeared from the darkness and walked towards me, Thor with his big, heavy hammer, Flash Gordon bouncing on his toes like a devious Loki from Norse mythology beside him.

  32

  If we had been in the Wild West, I would have drawn my Colt 45 and pointed it at them. But this was Bergen and I was no spring chicken. Instead I drew my Nokia, dialled 112 and spoke quickly into it: ‘This is Varg Veum. I’m ringing from Telthussmauet. I have a man who would like to talk to you. Gordon Bakke, address Klostergarten number … er, what was it again, Gordon?’

  He stopped immediately, four or five
metres away. I remembered the advice I’d been given earlier and kept an eye on his legs. Thor the Hammer kept walking, then he hesitated, stopped and looked at his pal.

  I held up the phone in front of them, like a miniature shield. ‘I’ve got them here, Gordon. 112. What was it you wanted to tell the police?’

  His dark eyes glinted. I saw the psychopath in him stop and waver: What should he do? What were the chances of getting away?

  I moved the phone back to my ear. ‘Hello? Are you there?’

  A gruff voice answered: ‘Yes? What’s all this nonsense? Who’s ringing, did you say?’

  ‘Varg Veum. There’s an old friend of yours here. Gordon Bakke. Some call him Flash Gordon, but he doesn’t look very flash right now. He has a companion they call Thor the Hammer. I’m not sure about his surname. I’m not sure they bother about such things in the zoo.’

  ‘I hear you. Varg Veum. Address…?’

  ‘Telthussmauet.’

  Flash Gordon made up his mind. He signalled to Thor the Hammer. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’

  I said on the phone: ‘Just a minute. It looks as if they may have changed their minds.’

  Flash Gordon gave me the finger and looked at me with such narrowed eyes he seemed to be squinting. ‘Don’t think we’ve done with you, Veum. You think you’ve been smart, but there’ll be other opportunities and then you won’t get away so easily…’

  ‘Yes, but now they know who to look for afterwards, Gordon. Now they’ve got your name, and Br’er Bear’s too, and at 112 they’ll have logged your names for all eternity.’

  He pulled a face and ran a finger across his throat, an unmistakeable sign of his intentions. Then he and Thor the Hammer went in a circle around me and up Fløygaten, which explained why I hadn’t seen their car. Thor the Hammer looked at me with crestfallen eyes, as if somebody had pinched the food from right in front of his mouth.

  ‘Hello! Hello!’ I heard from my mobile.

  ‘Yes, hello,’ I said. ‘This is Varg Veum.’

  ‘Yes, I got that!’

  ‘The situation appears to have resolved itself, but please log the conversation and file it for possible future use, if you should get a call from a detective at Bergen Police Station.’

  ‘And why would they ring us?’

  ‘In case these two come back. They were on the point of physically attacking me – if not worse.’

  ‘Then I’d recommend you send in a report.’

  ‘I’ll consider that. Thank you anyway for your help.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  We rang off, and I continued down the alley and unlocked my door. After hanging up my coat I flicked through what was in the post box – two bills and local supermarket advertising – switched on the computer and went through the day’s emails. Surprisingly enough, there was a message from Bjarne Solheim, with an attachment. We agreed you could see this, Varg. Don’t forget – this is confidential! The attachment consisted of a list of names – employees of Schmidt, the jeweller, from 1960 to the present day, including summer temps. One of the names on the list stuck out from the others. Now I had another question for Tor Fylling, who shot to the top of the list of people I was going to visit the next day.

  33

  When I turned into Fylling Bil Dekk & Karosseri at ten o’clock the following day the place seemed totally dead. Even if the weather was good it had been cold overnight and there was rime frost on the fields, like stardust across the countryside.

  None of the cars had been sold since my last visit and no one came out to try and palm one off on me either. There were no sounds coming from the garage, and the windows behind the curtains on the first floor were dark and lifeless.

  I got out of the car, walked over and felt the door. It was locked and a security services sticker, frayed at the edge and therefore perhaps invalid, warned me not to attempt to gain entry.

  I took a few steps back and looked up and down the front of the house. No signs of life; but it was a Saturday, so perhaps they were the late-breakfast types at the weekend. I went for a walk around the building and, sure enough, on the right was a little set of steps up to a side door with a bell and a sign, which said: Marita and Einar Fylling.

  I pressed the bell and from where I stood I could hear it ringing on the first floor. But no one came to open up, no one opened a window upstairs and there was no indication that anyone was at home.

  I went back to the car, took out the map and found a route to where Tor Fylling lived. It was five minutes back into town, in the direction of Kolltveit. I drove slowly towards Kolltveit while following the map. As I was about to turn right an Audi with tinted glass swerved into the main road in front of me, so suddenly that I had to jump on the brakes to avoid a collision. The Audi turned towards town in the left-hand lane until it straightened up, but not so fast that I couldn’t recognise the number. It was Flash Gordon and Thor the Hammer, still out seeking adventure.

  I made no attempt to follow, I turned right and up the steep hill they had come down, with a great deal more on my mind than a few seconds before. I crested the hill with a view on all sides, then went down into a hollow, where there was an old white farmhouse surrounded by bare trees, with the foundations of a demolished factory to the south and a run-down henhouse that looked as dead as the garage I had just left. It must have been many years since any poultry flapped their wings around this farm and the local hawks must have had to search for other hunting grounds years ago.

  Nevertheless there were more signs of life here than at the last stop. Two cars were parked outside, both considerably newer models than the sale items on the garage forecourt. One was a shiny Mercedes, a 2001 model; the other a not quite so well-tended Opel Vectra, two or three years old.

  I turned in and parked the car. No one came out to welcome me. I got out and closed the door behind me. Still no reactions from inside the farmhouse.

  I felt an acute need for something to strengthen my resolve and instinctively put a hand into my inside pocket, where I sometimes kept a hip flask, but all I found was my wallet, and that was lean enough as it was.

  I approached the house with care. The front door was in a little porch on the eastern side of the building. There was no sign of a door bell, and when I knocked no one came to open up.

  I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. I stepped inside. In the dark hallway there was a worn, dirty rag rug on the floor, and a staircase up to the loft on the right. I stopped and listened. From deeper inside the house I could hear some indefinable sounds, voices it was difficult to understand and a scraping noise, as though something was being pushed along the floor.

  I walked towards the sounds, careful not to make my presence known. I came to a door that had once been white, and to a limited extent still was, though not exactly dazzling. The door was ajar, and now it was possible to hear what was being said.

  A woman I recognised as Marita said: ‘Give me a compress! He’s bleeding like a pig.’

  ‘Shit!’ said someone I thought was her husband. ‘I’ll bloody smash those crooks!’

  I hesitated for a few more seconds. Then I gently pushed the door in, so gently they hardly noticed.

  Within a few more seconds I had an overview of the situation. Tor Fylling lay stretched out on the floor with a pillow under his head. His mouth was open and horrible gurgling noises were coming from his throat; it would be wrong to say that he looked particularly well. It was a long time since I had seen a man who had been given such a beating. His face was swollen, his eyes were glued together, and in his gaping mouth I could see several teeth were missing. He was almost unrecognisable. One arm lay in an unnatural position across the floor and the way he was moaning suggested he was in great pain. Around him the furniture lay scattered in all directions, and the scraping sound I had heard from outside must have been when they pushed a broken chair – possibly used as a weapon – away from his head.

  When Einar Fylling finally noticed someone standing in the doorway, I coughed a
nd said: ‘Have you rung for an ambulance?’

  Marita looked up from the floor, where she was holding a compress to Tor Fylling’s head. ‘Bloody hell! Oh, for f—’ The choice of language revealed that none of them had attended Sunday School much in their childhoods.

  ‘Veum’s the name … Well, have you?’

  Einar Fylling charged towards me. ‘I’ll fucking smash you!’

  I retreated, but not quickly enough, and I met the door frame. He grabbed my jacket, pulled me back and hurled me sideways into the room, at some distance from where his father lay.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve done nothing!’

  He came towards me again, fists raised and ready to strike. ‘Oh, no? Who the hell put them on to us, then, eh? Only ten minutes after you left, they turned up!’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Flash Gordon and a sidekick!’

  ‘But they were tailing me!’

  He punched the air in front of me, initially to mark his territory. ‘So you admit it?’

  ‘Let’s say I know who they are and they’re not on my guest list either.’

  He came closer. I assessed the situation. He was a tall, strong lad, if a bit cumbersome in his movements. His wife followed us closely from where she was sitting beside Einar’s father.

  I nodded in his direction. ‘He’s going to die unless you get some medical help.’

  ‘You’re going to die too, Veum.’

  ‘Einar!’ Marita said.

  ‘Will one more or less make any difference?’

  This time he punched to hit, but I did the Ali shuffle and feinted. To my left there was a window. If I could smash it I had a way out. But then I would have to act fast. Again he came towards me and I lost my balance as I tripped over one of the overturned chairs. I fell headlong and his punch sailed past, but the next second he was by me, pulling at my ankle and twisting it, forcing me to move with it. I banged my forehead hard against the floor and saw stars. Then he pulled me in, my forehead banging against the floor again and again.

  Marita screamed: ‘Einar! What are you doing?’