‘You bloody keep my daughter right out of this!’
‘By all means. It’s you I want to talk to.’
‘OK then. But it’ll have to be somewhere with lots of people around. The café in the square inside Oasen. Could you be there in … half an hour?’
I did a quick mental calculation. ‘I can jump on a bus. Give me a bit more time in case I’m unlucky with the schedule.’
‘Three quarters of an hour. Not a second more.’
‘And how…?’
But she had already hung up. I would have to hope I knew who she was when I got there.
In fact, catching a bus was the best option. I put my computer on standby, pulled out the plug of the kettle, slipped on my winter coat and rushed off. The services to Fyllingsdalen went through Olav Kyrres gate and I jumped on a bus at the last moment, so in fact I was able to alight by Oasen within the thirty minutes she had first suggested. I ran through the entrance by the office of the insurance company that had given me plenty of jobs, that was until a few years ago, when my contact moved to pastures new and the link was lost, which meant my financial status sank a few more notches.
A long corridor with a view into one of the supermarket chains in the mall led to the large square in the centre of the massive building. They had planted a few palm trees in large containers to give the impression that you were in the middle of the natural phenomenon the mall was named after. For me, the name Oasen had never appealed. Most of Fyllingsdalen was greener than the brick desert here. But then the shopping centre known as Lagunen was no sheltered idyll either. The choice of names for malls in the Bergen region owed more to a yearning for sunnier climes than what they were: overcrowded ant hills paying their dues to commercialism.
I stood at the entrance to the café that occupied a large part of the square and looked around, obviously searching for someone I knew – or didn’t know. I met the gaze of a robust, dark-haired woman sitting in the middle of the room and wearing black glasses and black clothes, from her jumper to her velvet trousers. She glared at me and I seemed to recognise the voice on the phone in her eyes.
I looked at her with raised eyebrows and she returned a belligerent glare. It had to be her. ‘Svanhild Olsvik?’
She nodded.
There was a free chair at her table. She had an empty cup of coffee in front of her. ‘I’ll go and get a coffee. Would you like a refill?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ll be off soon.’
‘I won’t be a moment.’
I joined the queue at the counter, poured myself a coffee from the machine and ended up behind an elderly Bergensian lady at the cash till. She was so immersed in her account of her grandchild’s merits that I just elbowed in, threw the money on the counter and said to the listening head that she could keep whatever was left over, which she accepted absent-mindedly, sweeping the money into her apron pocket without even so much as a question as to whether I wanted a receipt.
I hurried back, coffee spilling into the saucer, sat down on the free chair and adopted my most charming expression. ‘I apologise for bothering you during your working day.’
She shrugged. ‘It’s over.’
‘What’s your job?’
‘Cleaning consultant,’ she answered with a defiant look, in case I should be so bold as to call her job anything else. ‘I can’t understand why I’m talking to you.’
‘I’ll be as brief as possible. Let’s get straight to the point. Your partner, Mikael Midtbø, died after falling from the tenth floor of the block where you live. The police have called it a suicide. Is that your view, too?’
Her face, if possible, stiffened even more. ‘My view? What do you mean?’
‘Well … that’s quite a brutal way of taking your life. Most people would choose another method.’
‘What do you mean? That he …? That someone pushed him off?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Surely the police would’ve investigated the case further, wouldn’t they? All they did was to talk to me – twice – and then nothing happened until I received a phone call telling me they’d decided it was suicide.’
‘And you were happy with that?’
‘If there was anyone who wanted to kill him it was that bitch, but he would’ve never let her in after all the trouble she’s caused.’
‘That bitch, as you call her. Are you referring to his ex-wife?’
‘She was the one who started all the rumours about him. You can bet your bottom dollar she’s the one who reported him to the police, too. She wanted to make sure she kept the kids. And to do that, she used the dirtiest of all the lies.’
Her face had loosened up now. Muscles twitched, her eyes wandered from side to side and her whole body was in motion. It was obvious that this was a matter that engaged her. She made a powerful impression in all ways. A large woman she may have been, but there was nothing flabby or limp about her. She seemed more like a bundle of muscle, a well-trained heavyweight wrestler. I could truly imagine the energy with which she set about the floors as a cleaning consultant.
‘Right. Did they keep in touch?’
‘Touch! He was banned from visiting his children. If he was ever seen near where they lived in Frekhaug, she would ring the police. And she never showed her face out here of course, as I was trying to tell you.’ She shifted uneasily. ‘But now I’ve got to go.’
‘Wait a minute. If we assume the police are right – in other words, that it was suicide – did you notice anything that pointed in that direction, in the time before he died? Was he depressed, quick-tempered, unstable?’
She pulled a long face. ‘Depressed, quick-tempered, unstable? You talk like a social worker.’
‘Well…’
Then she appeared to remember something. Her expression changed, from aggressive to more thoughtful. ‘Though something did change in him after he received a phone call.’
‘A phone call? Who from?’
‘“Do you believe in demons, Svanhild?” he said. “Get away,” I said. “Demons?” “Yes,” he said. “As much as I believe in the devil and hell,” I said. Then Astrid came home from school and there was no more talk about that, until the evening when she’d gone to bed. “What did you mean about demons earlier today?” I asked him. Then he looked, like, well, scared and he said: “There’s a pastor coming here tomorrow. He can help me,” he said. “A pastor?” I said. “A bloody priest? What do you want with him?” “Well, he insisted,” he said, and so I said he should just ring and cancel, but then he didn’t want to talk about it any more. But I could see it was on his mind for the rest of the evening, even while we were watching a decent action film on TV. And the following day it happened.’
‘He fell to his death?’
‘Yes, but now I’ve really got to go. I must be at home when Astrid comes.’
‘OK. Mm … did you tell the police this? About the phone call?’
‘I don’t remember. Maybe.’ She stood up, took a big, dark-blue puffer jacket from the back of her chair and put it on. ‘You’d better ask them.’
‘Which school does your daughter go to? Løvås?’
She immediately leaned over me. Towering above me, her girth increased by the puffer jacket, with the nastiest expression I had seen since I was an army recruit, she made an even more aggressive impression than before, bordering on dangerous. ‘That’s got bugger-all to do with you. If you go anywhere near my daughter I’ll fucking well report you. Have you got that?’
‘Loud and clear,’ I said. Sergeant, I added, in my head, but that was where it stayed. No reason for any slips of the tongue.
With long, bouncing strides she disappeared from the café and left in the same direction from which I had entered the mall. I stayed put and finally tasted the coffee, which had died a silent death in the meantime, and tasted like it.
But now I had something to chew on. I took out my notepad and wrote a single word on it: Pastor. After some deliberation I added a question mark. I wanted to
know a bit more about him.
6
Emerging from the mall, I stopped and looked around. In many ways I liked the way Fyllingsdalen was organised. Possibly that had something to do with the expanse of flat space, but it was much better laid out than the district to the north of Bergen, Åsane. This local mall was within walking distance for quite a lot of the area’s inhabitants. You could see them on their pilgrimages with their roller bags, all the elderly women – and some men – who had been to Oasen to shop or were on their way there. Young mothers with prams full of shopping and some students carrying plastic bags bulging with beer cans – and perhaps the odd soup packet or two – completed the picture.
The two high-rises by the cemetery towered up against the rear of Mount Løvstakken and the range of hills leading to the suburb of Krohnegården, and they were close enough for me to stroll along one of the paths in their direction. There was a chance I might fall victim to a flying tackle from Svanhild Olsvik, but I had to take that risk. After all, I was in a line of business where you had to be prepared to live dangerously.
When I arrived at the correct block, I took in the façade. This wasn’t the first time I had been here. In the early seventies, while I was still in social welfare, I had visited a woman here – Johnny-boy’s mother – who had been stripped of her parental rights. It wasn’t a happy memory, and I quickly repressed it.
At the front of the building the balconies faced west. Once again it struck me that I would probably have chosen a less brutal form of suicide than jumping from the tenth storey to the ground, without even considering that a young mother might be passing by with a pram, according to what Solheim had told me.
In my mind I tried to imagine him lying on the ground and the extent of his injuries. Had he landed head first, which would have caused fatal damage? On his side? Or on his legs, with no chance of remaining upright, like a pole vaulter after an unassailable world record, forty metres up … and down? A chill ran through me, at the mere thought of it.
He had asked his partner if she believed in demons. Was he afraid that he himself was possessed by them? Experience told me that people who felt they were possessed by demons could do the most gruesome things, to themselves and others. Was that what had happened? Had he heard a voice telling him to jump? Was this unknown guest, the pastor, the person who had evoked the demon, as some preachers were in the habit of doing, even in such enlightened times as our own? Was jumping the only way of exorcising the demon or silencing the voice? In which case, what was the legal position of the pastor? Would the police consider taking this further? Would I…?
While I was standing lost in thought, a little schoolgirl traipsed up the last part of the path from Løvåsen. She walked with her eyes staring downwards, dragging her feet, as though she had absolutely no desire to go where she was going. She was wearing a blue anorak with a leather collar and dark-brown trousers, possibly cords. On her back she was carrying a light-coloured faux-leather satchel.
As she came into the square she appeared to be walking even more slowly and she looked neither left nor right. There was a sullen, noticeably sad expression on her face. In front of me I saw a textbook victim of bullying on her way home from school, without a girlfriend, an outcast from the herd, with no one but adults to relate to.
I couldn’t be sure, but the body shape and the way she walked reminded me of Svanhild Olsvik. Her gait was far from bouncy, but her body had the same robust frame, even though she was barely eight or nine years old.
I stood watching her. There was nothing to suggest she had noticed a man standing near her. When she reached the entrance to the block, she seemed to hesitate there too, ever so slightly. Then she raised her hand, opened the door and went in.
Through the glass in the door I watched her walk through and press a button by the lift. Shortly afterwards, the door opened, she stepped inside, the door closed again, and she rose, not exactly to heaven, at any rate not yet, and she wouldn’t be going there with her mother at her side either, now that I recalled her mother’s language.
Unconsciously, I raised my eyes as the lift rose. When I reached the tenth floor I caught a glimpse of a movement in one of the windows, a head darting back so as not to be seen. But she wasn’t fast enough and I saw who it was.
Heaven would have to wait. I went back to Oasen.
7
Back in my office I flipped through the notes I had made during my visit to Fyllingsdalen. I sat looking at one word: Pastor? Beside it I had written: Demons?
I didn’t discount the possibility that some preacher had convinced Mikael Midtbø that he was possessed by demons and that this was perhaps a good enough reason for him to throw himself into the abyss. Wasn’t there, somewhere in the Bible, a story about Jesus delivering a man from a legion of evil spirits and transferring them into a herd of pigs that rushed down a steep bank into a lake and drowned? But more important than that, if this pastor were involved, could he be traced?
I took a risk, called the police and asked for Solheim. When he came to the phone, he said acidly: ‘Veum? You didn’t waste any time.’
‘I have just one question. I was chatting to Svanhild Olsvik, Mikael Midtbø’s partner.’
‘Were you indeed?’ His sarcasm almost scorched the line. ‘Didn’t Hamre tell you to steer clear of all this?’
‘He did, but the way I see things, this case has a personal dimension now. Have you got the list of the Golfs in the Bergen area?’
‘Not yet. But we’ve started the process.’
‘My question is: did Svanhild Olsvik tell you about a pastor who had rung Mikael Midtbø and arranged to meet him the day before he died?’
He went silent. I could hear him tapping on his keyboard. ‘No-o. There’s nothing about it here anyway.’
‘Right. She wasn’t sure whether she’d told you or not. Don’t you think this sounds interesting? Worth having a closer look?’
‘A phone call from a pastor the day before Midtbø died? Well, I’ve made a note of it now. I’ll confer with Hamre.’
‘Would be great if you took it further. After all, your resources are much better than mine for things like this.’
‘Tell me something we don’t know, Veum.’
‘Get Telenor to find the caller’s number and the name of the caller.’
‘You don’t have to tell us how to do our jobs. I’ve made a note. Thank you.’
With that he hung up.
I continued to muse. It would be interesting to have a word with ‘that bitch’ in Frekhaug, that was if she was willing to talk to me. Strictly speaking, no one had commissioned me, apart from myself, which meant my enquiries had as much authority as a greenfly had at a gathering of crows.
I found the note I had made on Haldis Midtbø and called one of the two numbers – the mobile. There was a voicemail that said she couldn’t take the call right now and asked me to leave a message. I tried the landline number, but there was no answerphone and the ringing went on and on until I twigged there was no reason to wait any longer. Then I called the mobile again and asked her to contact me.
I wasn’t particularly optimistic about getting a response and I was right. She didn’t call back.
I went back to the list of numbers I’d made earlier in the day. Tora Haugen answered after a few rings. Her voice sounded reedy and anxious. ‘Yes, who is it?’
‘The name’s Veum. Am I talking to fru Tora Haugen?’
‘Yes, but I’m not married. I’m a … widow.’
‘Yes, I know. My condolences.’
‘Thank you.’
I thought on my feet. ‘I’m making some enquiries about your late husband’s death.’
‘Enquiries? Are you the police?’
‘No, but I’m a kind of investigator. Private.’
‘I see.’ Her intonation didn’t change. There was something monotonous, impersonal, about the way she spoke.
‘Is there any chance I could have a chat with you? Face to face.’
‘Well, whenever is convenient for you.’
‘Tomorrow morning, maybe.’
‘OK, fine. I’ll make a note. At around eleven?’
‘Yes. Have you got my address?’
‘Brunestykket. You’re in one of the high-rises, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. On the second floor. You can ring downstairs.’
‘Let’s say that’s arranged then.’
‘Yes.’
We rang off. I made a note and hoped she had done the same.
Strategically, I realised there was no point in annoying Haldis Midtbø with another call now. I would give her until after working hours and think about trying her again in the evening.
Outside my windows darkness was beginning to fall. January is a lustreless month. The town still had Christmas decorations up, but it was as though all the glitter had lost its shine. The Christmas trees were dropping their needles, behind shopfronts staff were doing the stocktaking, Bergensians were either back at school or at work, and as for myself, I felt like a Christmas gift that had been returned to sender because of an incomplete address. Not many idle days have to pass before depression hits me like a low-pressure system from the west, and there is no shortage of those.
After celebrating Christmas and New Year with Sølvi and Helene I had decided to stay at home for a couple of days. Helena would soon be twelve and still hadn’t completely come to terms with this man who came and went without any fixed routine. I could clearly see in her eyes that it wouldn’t be long before I took the deceased father’s place in her head or heart, or wherever it was deceased fathers resided.
Instead I went home and cooked myself a simple meal: pieces of chicken in a sweet-and-sour sauce. Afterwards I secured my skis to my back, walked to Proms gate and caught the Fløibane funicular. There was something liberating about living in Norway’s second-biggest city and winter being only a seven-minute ride in a cable car away from ski slopes that waited discreetly for weeks after the last remnants of snow had disappeared from the streets of Bergen.
Wolves at the Door Page 3
