My phone rang. I fished it out, studied the screen, didn’t recognise the number, but answered at once. ‘Yes? Veum here.’
The voice was thin and a little high-pitched, like a patient chatting while waiting to see the doctor. ‘This is Håkon Misvær. I’m ringing from my mobile. You wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes! Thank you for calling back. It’s about … your sister, Mette.’
‘… Yes?’
‘I’m a private investigator and your mother commissioned me … You know, of course … it’s almost twenty-five years since she went missing, Mette, that is, and now your mother’s asked me to review the case a final time before the statute of limitations comes into effect. Do you follow me?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so I’m talking to everyone.’
‘I have nothing to tell you. I was only six years old.’
‘Yes, I know, but it’s unbelievable what you can turn up by talking.’
‘OK.’
‘Can you set aside some time for me if I come to Ålesund on Monday?’
‘I’m working.’
‘Where?’
‘At Kråmyra. The football pitch up there.’
‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’
‘Yes…’ He didn’t sound particularly keen, but he didn’t object either.
‘I’ll ring you when I’ve passed Vigra. Can I get you on this number?’
‘Hopefully.’ Then he rang off and I saved his number in my directory. I locked the car, opened the gate and walked down the path to the house where Sølvi Heggi lived.
It was built in the seventies or eighties I guessed, with a whitewashed base and vertical cladding on the main floor. I rang the bell and not long afterwards Sølvi Heggi opened the door and welcomed me. ‘Come in…’
She was more casually dressed at home than she had been at the office in Bredsgården, wearing cord trousers, flat shoes of the slip-on variety and a grey-and-black patterned blouse that hung loose over her hips. From what I could see she had put on discreet lipstick, perhaps for the benefit of the visitor, unless she was the type of woman who was forever touching up her appearance, out of habit.
I followed her through a porch into the hallway, where she indicated an open wardrobe with space on the pole and I hung up my jacket. I started to remove my shoes, but she stopped me: ‘No need.’ Then I traipsed after her into the big, tastefully furnished sitting room with tall, broad windows looking out on the same view from the road. There was art on the walls, books on the shelves, quite a large sound system and a television of older vintage in a corner. It was a room in which I could feel comfortable.
In a corner, the one with a view of the fjord – at least if you craned your neck – were a sofa and a table, set with two glasses and a carafe of red wine. One glass was half-full.
‘My daughter’s staying over with a friend. So I’m here alone.’ She looked at me archly. ‘May I offer you a glass?’
I coughed. ‘I’m driving.’
‘You can allow yourself one glass.’
‘Well…’ All of a sudden my throat was drier than a temperance preacher’s on the booze cruiser from Denmark. ‘One then.’
She smiled pleasantly, ushered me to the sofa, filled my glass and her own before seating herself a short arm’s length from me. Her face became serious. ‘You said you would tell me why Nils was shot?’
‘Yes. Obviously it was pure chance that he happened to be passing by, but once there it turned out the assumed main robber was a close acquaintance of his – from their schooldays – and somehow Nils recognised him. It might have been something he said, it might have been the way he moved, at any rate there was something he reacted to. Nils said his name. It might have been shock or sheer desperation, but the robber recognised Nils and shot him – dead. In other words … now he’s no longer a chance passer-by but was potentially a central witness in the case.’
‘Goodness!’ She was taken aback. ‘That changes things – a little anyway.’ Then she took a deep breath. ‘But I don’t know if it makes the grief any easier to bear.’
‘No.’
‘Tell me some more. Who was this man he recognised?’
I told her as far as I was able about Tor Fylling, Einar and Marita, Marita’s summer job in Bryggen, the probable background for the robbery and how I had unwittingly put Schmidt’s henchmen, Flash Gordon etc, on their trail.
‘But why did they follow you?’
‘I went to the jeweller’s after I’d spoken to you the other day. Schmidt suspected I was conducting an investigation for his insurance company and probably concluded I might lead them to the potential perpetrators. Gordon Bakke clearly knew Fylling and about his activities – receiving stolen goods among other things – and assumed, correctly as it happened, that he was their man. They beat him into such a state that finally he told them where he’d hidden the goods, which I imagine by now are safely back in Schmidt’s hands.’
‘Rotten to the core!’
‘You can certainly say that, and of course I agree. Dubious methods. But also pretty effective once you’re on the right track.’
‘So what will the police do?’
‘Interesting question. Shall we ring them and ask?’
She smiled, in disbelief. ‘Can we do that?’
I smiled back. ‘Not this evening maybe, but … another day.’
‘But … this isn’t the case you were investigating.’
‘No, this was literally a side track.’
‘How’s that one going, then?’
‘Not exactly a breakthrough, but … bits and pieces have cropped up. I’d like to ask you…’
‘Ask away.’ She raised her glass for a skål and I was obliged to follow suit. The first sip of red wine tasted like velvet on my palate and I felt the inside of my mouth narrow around the dark-red liquid. Then the first mouthful slipped down my throat like the juice from a rare steak, spreading warmth and unrest throughout my body, where an invisible demon began to bang on his drum with a regular beat: More! More! More…
She observed me with curiosity. ‘That seemed to go down well?’
‘It was terrible.’
Our eyes met and something deepened between us; it was a few years since I had experienced such a rush. I looked away quickly – and down. When I looked up again she was still there, with her eyes perhaps a touch more sardonic now.
‘There was something you wanted to ask me…’
‘Yes. You told me about Joachim last time and later I met him … in Nygårdsparken.’
‘Right.’
‘I’ve heard from a secondary source … Well, perhaps I’d better tell you … or … did Nils ever tell you about some New Year party games they played in Solstølen?’
‘No…’ She smiled. ‘Games?’
‘A kind of party game that ended up … in wife-swapping. For a night.’
She opened her mouth in surprise. Between her front teeth I glimpsed the pink tip of her tongue. ‘No, he never told me about that.’
‘But you said he told you something happened between him and Randi, and that was the reason they split up.’
‘Yes, but he never said what. Does that mean … they…?’
‘Well, that’s perhaps the point. According to my sources, Nils behaved exemplarily that night. He and the woman he drew in the lottery spent the night – at least if she is to be believed – chatting. Nothing else happened. Randi, on the other hand, well, she was raped, in her words, but…’
She nodded slowly, as though she hadn’t quite understood what I was saying. ‘So, put another way, that could have triggered the process that led to them moving apart?’
‘Possibly. But there’s another matter. Joachim and another boy from the co-op, Håkon, little Mette’s brother, must have seen Randi and Terje Torbeinsvik – if the name means anything to you – at it; they also may have seen what was going on in the neighbour’s house, where Håkon’s mother had a visitor.’
Her jaw dro
pped. ‘But … but … that’s crazy, what you’re telling me. They couldn’t carry on like that with children watching!’
‘Well, it wasn’t intentional, of course. And so I’m back where I started. Joachim confronted his parents with this, later, and what I wanted to ask is … did Nils have a theory about how Joachim had ended up today in Nygårdsparken, and when did this all start? In 1977 he was only eight, after all.’
‘No, I don’t think he said anything. He was just sad and depressed by what happened, to Joachim, I mean. Several times he said words to the effect of: We have a bad conscience, don’t we? It’s our fault. We did something wrong. We, the parents. But that’s natural, isn’t it?’
‘Parenting’s a tricky business, but of course it’s not the parents’ fault, not every time. There can be other factors at play too.’
‘But that they could even think of…’ Again she smiled that strange, wry smile of hers. ‘Sounds a bit exciting too.’
‘What do you mean? The New Year games?’
‘Yes…’ Our eyes met over the edge of the glasses. Then she carefully put hers down on the table between us. We were sitting on different sides of the corner sofa, but so close I could have reached out and touched her. ‘Not that I … What you’ve told me about Nils and the neighbour sounds right. Nils was a gentleman of the old school and a kind-hearted person, with great modesty. She chewed her lower lip. ‘For as long as he lived I could never have dreamed of … going to bed with another man.’
I drained my glass. She took the carafe, leaned forward and asked: ‘Another?’
‘The car,’ I said weakly.
‘You can ring for a taxi, can’t you?’
‘I could.’
She filled my glass. ‘Or stay until the morning…?’
I stayed.
38
On Sunday morning I woke up in an unfamiliar bed with what I assumed was a happy widow beside me, judging by the contented sighs coming from her lips. I lay staring at the ceiling and reflecting on how on earth I had ended up in this situation.
I could hardly consider myself a seduced youth, but it had definitely been her who took the initiative, first with her simmering eyes, then filling my glass of wine, which didn’t stop after the first two, then shifting over to my side of the sofa and resting her head on my shoulder, only to turn face-on and lie heavily against me, reach up and place a gentle red-wine kiss on my mouth which, at that point, was in the process of finishing the story of what had happened to Karin three years ago.
‘Oh, poor thing!’ she had said, before we kissed. Whether it was Karin or me she meant, I never found out.
Lying there, I could feel the heat of her body and I said to myself: ‘She’s definitely not too young and we’re both fancy-free, three months in her case; three years in mine…
‘You must think I’m mad,’ she had said in the semi-darkness afterwards. ‘I don’t throw myself at the first man to knock at my door, you know.’
‘I sincerely hope you don’t.’
‘But isn’t there a phrase, carpe diem or something? Seize the day, or night in this case.’
‘Yes, a kind of … nearness grew between us, didn’t it?’
‘You have no regrets?’
‘I never have regrets. That is, yes, I do, but not on this occasion.’
‘Sure?’
‘Cross my heart.’
‘And hope to die, stick a needle in my eye, we used to say when we were kids.’
‘Mhm.’
We had made love like the experienced sea-lions we were, frolicked in the pool as well as we were able, yet with the meek self-confidence born of the fact that we had done this before and we knew most of what there was to know about this. When you are young you think physical love declines with the years. Naturally enough, it doesn’t. You make love as passionately at fifty-nine as when you were seventeen, twenty-two or thirty-three. Less often, but better, as a well-known author said in an interview I had read once many years before.
She had tasted so strongly of soap that I suspected that she had gone straight into the shower after I had announced my impending arrival, to be prepared for all events, and when she came tears rolled from her eyes, but when I asked her if she was sorry, she whispered: ‘No, it was so good … You don’t get better compliments than that at my age.’
Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at me in shock. For a second or two it was clear she had no idea who I was or what I was doing in her bed. Then it dawned on her, she blushed becomingly and met my gaze with an immediate tenderness. ‘Oh! Good … morning…’
She lay half-across me and looked at the alarm clock, which was on my side of the bed. ‘What’s the time?’
‘Around nine.’
She stayed on my chest, stroked my cheek and said: ‘It’d probably be a good idea if you were gone by twelve. I’m expecting Helene.’
‘Right.’
‘But you must have some breakfast first.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I do.’
She swung over, got out of bed on her side, pulled on a blouse before getting up and going to the bathroom. Straight afterwards I heard the sound of water.
We had a peaceful breakfast in her white kitchen; freshly brewed coffee, bacon and eggs, pickled herring from a jar and seasoned cheese. I felt a strange calm in my body, as if this was really something we had done for years and we would continue to do for the rest of our lives.
Before I left, she accompanied me to the door. ‘Will I see you again?’ she asked, almost shyly.
‘I hope so.’
‘Will you contact me?’
‘As soon as I’ve finished the case.’
‘Fine.’ She stretched up, kissed me lightly on the mouth, opened the door a fraction and let me out while she hung back discreetly, in case any of the neighbours should see us.
Driving back to Bergen, I was happy I didn’t meet any police checks. My wine consumption the previous evening had been of such an order I wondered whether I would get through a breathalyser test without them pocketing my licence for a couple of years. I drove to a petrol station and bought two Sunday newspapers. There was a big spread about the arrest of the Shell Suit Robbers, and the police got all the accolades, though after ‘a tip-off from a member of the public’, as they put it. That suited me down to the ground. I had always preferred to keep a low profile as far as the press was concerned, so low that I would barely be visible after my death, if anyone was looking for material for a suitable obituary.
This time I had a good look around after I had parked, but I couldn’t see any Audis with tinted glass. Nevertheless, I fell straight into the trap. I was totally unprepared for them breaking into my flat. As I slammed the door behind me and turned to the clothes stand in the hall I was embraced from behind by far less loving arms than those that had been holding me hours before, and out from the sitting-room doorway came Flash Gordon with a triumphant expression on his little rodent-face.
‘Welcome home, Veum,’ he grinned. ‘Where the fuck do you spend your nights, you slippery bastard?’
39
They had put me in one of my own chairs, bound my arms behind my back, and tied a rope round my ankles and the chair legs and up the back in such a way that I couldn’t move a muscle.
Thor the Hammer stood by the door staring at me. Flash Gordon had his face so close to mine that I could smell the strong throat pastilles in his mouth, mixed with nicotine. There was a small brown stripe round the corners of his mouth, and when he spoke droplets of saliva landed on my face.
‘You should have boarded up your back door, Veum,’ he hissed.
‘Or got yourself a burglar alarm,’ Thor said, grinning like a security company salesman who had just received a commission.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘To get rid of a dangerous witness, since you ask so nicely.’
‘And how will that help you? The police have had your names and numbers for ages. It’s just a question
of time before they haul you in.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘That’ll be after your time, Veum. We’ve been given orders by the highest authority, and there’ll be cash in an account when we’re out.’
‘You…’
‘And we always get out again!’ he guffawed. ‘Always!’
I could feel unease spreading through my body. Was this the plan? Was one last night of bliss what fate had dealt me? Was it already time to pay for the sweetness with pain?
I scanned the room. ‘And who said I didn’t have a burglar alarm?’
Flash Gordon smiled condescendingly. ‘Veum, we came here last night. It hasn’t gone off yet. Perhaps you haven’t paid for it yet?’
‘We’re being filmed.’
For an instant, I saw a shadow of uncertainty sweep across his face. He quickly looked around, searched the corners of the ceiling, the book shelves, the windowsill. Then he turned his attention back to me. ‘Good try, Veum. But I can’t see anything. And they should have been here by now, shouldn’t they?’
‘Listen, Gordon … You and Man Thursday over there. You’ve got enough lives on your consciences. Fylling has too. Schmidt as well, if you carry out his orders. Think about it. Premeditated murder. That’s twenty-one years, with no concessions because of the records you have. And it’s you who will pay the price. Schmidt will get off with a far shorter sentence, you can bet your bottom dollar on that.’
I glanced at Thor the Hammer. I detected some uncertainty there too and gave him another jab in the same direction. ‘What do you think, Thor? Sick of living here among us normal people? Feel like a spell in Åsane until FC Brann have yo-yo-ed between divisions a few more times? Goodbye to all of life’s pleasures, big and small?’
Flash Gordon made a dismissive gesture with his hand. ‘Shut up, Veum! You saw the state Fylling was in. Do you fancy a bit of the same treatment?’
Where Roses Never Die Page 22