Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Solheim elevated his fingers from the keyboard as a sign that this was already documented.

  ‘Then I promise we’ll look at this more closely. How many such cars do you think there are in the Bergen region, Bjarne?’

  ‘Mmm.’ He took his time. ‘Probably several hundred.’

  ‘If we collate a list of all the registered owners I’m sure we can email it to Veum to see if he recognises any of them, can’t we?’

  ‘I’ll do that. After all, we have his email address.’ He smirked.

  ‘Laurel and Hardy on a new adventure,’ I said. ‘You don’t seem to be taking this very seriously.’

  Hamre sent me a stern look. ‘We take every single complaint we receive seriously. It’s only a lack of capacity that prevents us from clearing up all of them. And, of course, how much information we’re given.’ He raised his eyebrows sardonically, almost as a challenge to me to bat the ball back.

  ‘And what about the two deaths?’

  ‘Yes, tell us some more about them. I asked Bjarne to dig up what we have on both cases.’

  ‘In other words, you’ve opened files on them?’

  ‘We have, after the duty doctor’s report. A sudden death’s a sudden death. So … what can you tell us?’

  I took out my notepad and opened it. Both obituaries were there. I laid them down in front of Hamre on the desk so that he could examine them for himself, if he felt the need.

  ‘So, there are two deaths. One in October, the second in December. Both obituaries say the deaths were sudden and unexpected.’

  ‘One of the adjectives is redundant, if you ask me.’

  ‘Let’s take the more recent death first. The man’s name was Mikael Midtbø and he died on the third of December. According to the obituary, he left behind two persons, both women, but it isn’t clear from the text what their relationships to him were. One’s called Svanhild and the other Astrid.’

  Solheim tapped on his laptop. ‘That’s correct. His partner and her daughter.’ After a glance towards Hamre he added: ‘A relatively new relationship. When we investigated the case in 2002 he still had an address in Frekhaug.’

  I noted that on my pad. ‘And what do you know about the death itself?’

  Hamre looked at Solheim. ‘Accidental death. A fall, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. From the tenth storey of a housing block in Dag Hammarskjølds vei.’

  There was a tiny pause before I spoke up again. ‘And you’re sure this was an accident?’

  The two policemen exchanged glances. Hamre nodded to Solheim and let him answer. ‘We questioned some people, of course, and we carried out our own investigations. But, as I’m sure you know, if we’re talking suicide, we always keep mum with regard to communicating with the media and so on.’

  ‘And did you conclude it was?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘And what did you base your conclusion on?’

  ‘We talked to his partner, some neighbours and an eyewitness.’

  ‘An eyewitness?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. A woman was passing below with a pram; Midtbø hit the ground only a few metres from her.’

  ‘She saw the impact, in other words, but not the fall itself?’

  ‘Yes, and she was quite shocked, naturally enough.’

  Hamre coughed. ‘His partner also expressed the view that Midtbø had been unstable in the time leading up to the fall.’

  Solheim nodded. ‘Ever since the police action he’d been depressed and irritable. Like certain others…’ He snatched a quick glance at me. ‘He’d proclaimed his innocence. But there was evidence against him too, images, and he didn’t get any support from his then wife, who separated from him while he was on remand.’

  ‘I assume you checked the alibis of all those involved?’

  Hamre sent me a condescending glare and nodded once more to Solheim. ‘Of course. This happened at approximately twelve o’clock. His partner was at work, which colleagues corroborated. Her daughter was at school. We even checked out his ex-wife, to be on the safe side.’

  ‘No one else who might’ve had a grudge against him?’

  ‘Loads probably, if we take a broader perspective, but … There was no evidence to suggest that he hadn’t decided to end his life, on an impulse maybe, bearing in mind the method and the time of day—’

  Hamre interrupted. ‘If there are any sudden new developments, we can pick up where we left off. That’s where we are now. Nothing’s written in stone on this one.’

  ‘In which case it would be a gravestone,’ I muttered under my breath. Aloud, I said: ‘Something new has come up.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The attempt to run me over!’

  ‘Mm. Shall we look at the second case first?’ He gestured towards the two obituaries. ‘As far as that one’s concerned … Per Haugen was an elderly man, seventy-two years old. He was found dead on the Eidsvågsnes headland at Frøviken bay, where he used to go fishing in the morning almost every day. The autopsy report gave as the cause of death drowning in combination with a heart attack.’

  ‘No external signs of violence?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘So you didn’t launch an investigation?’

  ‘We talked to his wife. It was her who told us about his fishing. Otherwise he never went out during the day.’

  ‘They were still married, I take it?’

  Hamre nodded.

  ‘Children?’

  Solheim tapped away. Without raising his eyes from the screen, he said: ‘Two grown-up children. A son and a daughter. Two grandchildren. Neither of the Haugens’ children had any contact with their parents. The daughter was a witness and told the court about how she’d been abused. But it was so long ago that the court couldn’t take that into account in their sentencing.’

  ‘She sacrificed herself for no purpose, in other words.’

  ‘You could put it like that.’

  ‘But both of them were imprisoned, Midtbø and Haugen? And then they were out again by the autumn?’

  Hamre sent me a bitter look. ‘They weren’t given long sentences, and good parts of them were conditional. With regard to Haugen, age must’ve played a part. Both defence counsels referred to the withdrawal of the charges against you – or an earlier suspect, as they called you – as a form of precedence. That’s what’s often so desperate about these cases. The strict requirements for forensic evidence. Maybe someone had hacked into their computers, too? This kind of thing is meat and drink for a defence counsel of the right calibre, and here they definitely received a high degree of support from the court.’

  ‘Well, don’t blame me! I was innocent.’

  ‘We’ve accepted that. Our own computer experts convinced us. May I emphasise “our own”?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But back to the case. At best it’s our word against theirs. Images are damning primarily if they’re of the suspects’ own children – or of others in their circle of acquaintances – and they’re recognisable. If not…’ He leaned forwards. ‘We don’t have the resources to get to the bottom of these cases. But no one should feel safe. We’re improving. Technology’s improving, even in the police force. I’m afraid we can only see the tip of the iceberg here. If you ask me, there’s pure evil out there. In the whole of my police career nothing has shaken me more than meeting the guilty parties in cases such as this one, with children as young as infants victims of sexual abuse.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met pure evil, Hamre. If so, it must’ve been purely pathological.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure it’d be hard for a social worker like you to understand that such evil exists. But we – Bjarne and I, and many of our colleagues – see the victims of this, and for us there’s no other explanation.’

  ‘Absolutely. I share your revulsion and have myself met such victims, back in my social-welfare days, but … Well, there’s a third person on the list too. Karl Slåtthaug, the fourth man to be charged in 2002. Do you know anyth
ing about him? Surely he didn’t get off so lightly, did he?’

  ‘Oh, no? He was let off the hook too. Didn’t even have to report to the police station!’ Hamre’s face was flushed. ‘Bloody defence counsels! Sometimes you wonder what people are like inside.’

  ‘He’s left town, I hear,’ Solheim said.

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Hamre turned to his colleague.

  ‘Far?’ I asked.

  ‘Vestfold. Tønsberg, unless I’m much mistaken.’

  ‘And he’s alive?’

  Solheim shrugged. ‘For all I know, yes.’

  Hamre took over. ‘As you can see, Veum, we’re not complete idiots in the police. We have the usual suspects under surveillance, even if they move away from the district.’

  ‘Perhaps he should be given a warning, at least?’

  ‘A warning? That someone might crash their car into him? If only they had.’

  We sat for a moment looking at each other. In the end, I said: ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘No? You warn him then. In many ways you’re closer to him.’

  The atmosphere in the room was beginning to become oppressive. I made an attempt to change the focus. ‘Re: my own case. There were three men charged at first. But during the operation in Bjørna fjord three more were arrested. The professionals, if I can put it like that. Where are they?’

  He looked at me sombrely. ‘They’re still on remand, but there are appeals in hand for all three of them, so don’t be surprised if you bump into one of them in the street during the next six months or so.’

  ‘Two of them were involved in murder.’

  ‘Which wasn’t that easy to prove so long afterwards. You probably have enemies out there, Veum. Maybe you should get used to taking a long, hard look before you cross the street for some time to come.’

  ‘At any rate, I cleared up the case. What if I hadn’t done the investigating myself?’

  ‘After absconding from remand. Thank you very much. You shouldn’t underestimate the likelihood that we would’ve come to the same result if we’d been allowed to do our job in peace. You are, and have always been, what Americans call “a pain in the ass”, Veum.’

  ‘They have ointment for that, Hamre.’

  Solheim sat tight-lipped listening. I could see his brain overheating, but he said nothing. Not this time, either. The look he gave me was eloquent enough.

  I spread my arms in conciliation. ‘Well … what if I find out there’s really a link between these two deaths, and neither of them died of natural causes…?’

  Hamre smacked both hands down hard on his desk and rose halfway out of his chair. ‘Let me make one thing absolutely clear to you, Veum. You won’t find out anything. If I see you just once in my office before the thirtieth of January I’ll have you hauled before the bloody court again, even if it costs me half my pension!’

  ‘For that money you could just about buy a semi-decent midfielder for FC Brann.’

  ‘There are already two corpses here. We don’t want any more.’

  ‘Ah, you’re thinking about me after all, I can hear. You’re taking my complaint seriously, are you?’

  Hamre looked at Solheim, desperate. ‘What shall we do with this character? Hang him up to dry and let the flies feed off him?’

  We eyed each other. We were both clearly in a droll frame of mind.

  ‘You can go now, Veum. I think we’ve finished talking.’

  ‘Can I expect to hear from you regarding my complaint?’

  He waved an arm, resigned. ‘You’ll hear from us.’

  I stood up and put on my winter coat. ‘Alea jacta est, as the late Julius once said.’

  Hamre turned to Solheim. ‘Would you accompany him out?’

  Solheim rose to his feet. ‘With pleasure.’

  I raised a hand to Hamre. ‘Enjoy your retirement. A beer in ten to fifteen years, wasn’t that what you said? Deal.’

  ‘Let’s make it twenty,’ he said, smiling wryly and shooing me away.

  Solheim accompanied me onto the pavement, without saying so much as a single word of any kind. However, there was one thing I was sure of. I might never meet Hamre again. But Solheim shouldn’t feel too safe. Our paths would cross for certain. That was a guarantee signed and sealed in blood.

  4

  The cloud cover was high and white, like a dull bell jar over the town. I stuffed my hands deep into my coat pockets as I strolled back to the office after the meeting with Hamre and Solheim.

  Back at my post on the third floor I checked the answer machine and saw that no one had asked after me while I was away. Surprise, surprise. I put on the kettle in the hope of brewing a better coffee than I had been offered at the police station.

  While I was waiting for the water to boil I took out my notepad, laid the two obituaries out in front of me on the desk and read the notes I had made during the conversation.

  Both obituaries were very simple. Not only did they use the same language – ‘died suddenly and unexpectedly’ – but there were remarkably few surviving relatives. Under Mikael Midtbø’s name there were only two: Svanhild and Astrid. Followed by information about the funeral, which was to take place in Fyllingsdalen Church, and a final postscript: ‘Please don’t bring any flowers. The church ceremony will conclude proceedings.’ His ex-wife and children were conspicuous by their absence. Per Haugen’s obituary was equally laconic. In his, too, there were only two names: Tora and Hans. After Hans, ‘brother-in-law’ was written in brackets. There was nothing about flowers, but here too the funeral ceremony terminated in the church, in Biskopshavn.

  It was clear that neither Mikael Midtbø nor Per Haugen was considered worthy of a commemorative speech, not even by their closest family, but I was not unaware that some people would have gladly danced on their graves. The absence of overt grief from the surviving family told its own story.

  There was a marked age difference between the two deceased. Haugen was to some extent old enough for the police to have no problem declaring that he had died of natural causes. As for Midtbø, however … a fall from the tenth storey of a block of flats in Fyllingsdalen. Mm. I would have made further enquiries. But my days were filled with leisure; clients weren’t beating a path to my door. The job in Fana had been the only one in the last fortnight. The workload was probably greater in Domkirkegaten, at the police station.

  The kettle was boiling. I took a filter, measured the required amount of coffee and poured the water. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee spread through the room like the perfume of an exotic woman, darkskinned, big smile. On looking more closely, however, I saw her back was bent from lifting far-too-heavy sacks on a plantation in Brazil for what was a pittance when compared with the sums at which her employer in Bergen and in other places was quoted on the stock market. So perhaps her smile wasn’t that big after all. But the coffee was good, no two ways about that.

  I poured myself a cup, took it with me to the computer, booted up and began to search for two people by the names of Svanhild and Astrid in Dag Hammarskjølds vei, 5144 Fyllingsdalen. I couldn’t find an Astrid, but a Svanhild, surname Olsvik, appeared, with an address in what I thought was one of the high-rises by Fyllingsdalen Cemetery. She had a mobile phone and a landline. I jotted down both numbers.

  While I was at it I searched for the surname Midtbø in Frekhaug. Only one name came up: Haldis Midtbø – she also had two telephone numbers. As I clearly had the wind behind me, I tried Haugen too. Per and Tora Haugen lived in Brunestykket, not far from Frøviken bay, where his body had been found. Here there was only a landline number. His brother-in-law, Hans, would have to wait, as I had only his Christian name.

  Cup of coffee in hand, I stared out of the window. The snow lay like a bridal veil over Mount Rundemanen. Bryggen, on the other side of Vågen bay, was conspicuously deserted. The tourist season was months away and Bergensers had other things to do than go for a stroll. Most were probably doing what I was doing – staying indoors in heated offices, shops, or at home. O
nly the fittest were skiing in the nearest mountains.

  I had several options to choose from. I could shut the office for the day, go home, fetch my skis from the cellar, carry them on my back and head for the hills as well. But I wouldn’t make much money if I did that.

  Or I could ring one of the phone numbers I had jotted down and blindly pursue an investigation no one had asked me to set in motion. I wouldn’t earn much from this either, as I was my own employer. On the other hand, I had every reason to be on the alert. The failed bid to run me over the previous evening was still firmly in my mind. There could, for example, be a third way of engineering ‘a natural death’, even if a hit-and-run job would probably make the police sit up and take notice more than they had done in the Midtbø and Haugen cases.

  I got to my feet, went over to the worktop and poured myself another coffee. When I sat down I opened the lowest drawer to the left and gave the bottle of aquavit a reassuring pat on the back. ‘Out of sight, but not out of mind,’ I said to it. But this wasn’t a day for aquavit. Not yet.

  I rang Svanhild Olsvik’s home number. No answer.

  I rang her mobile phone. She answered.

  5

  She didn’t sound very friendly.

  I told her who I was and said I had been asked to investigate her late partner’s death.

  She barked: ‘Who by?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Hah! It’ll be that bitch, I bet.’

  ‘May I visit you at home?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Somewhere else then?’

  ‘I can’t see what the point is. It’s more than a month since it happened, and the police closed the case ages ago.’

  ‘Too early maybe?’

  ‘Too early! What do you mean by that?’

  ‘There are … a few loose ends. I can explain when we meet.’

  ‘If we meet.’

  ‘You must be interested in knowing what happened. Or…?’

  ‘Or what?’

  I could have answered: Or perhaps you know already. But I didn’t. I said: ‘You must’ve asked yourself a few questions afterwards, surely? And your daughter? How did she react to the drama?’