Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  I usually walked up to Halvdan Griegs vei and branched off onto the floodlit trail. There, I could do two loops, an upper and a lower one. Apart from the danger of being sent flying by fitness-crazy business managers training for the Birken race or groups of local company staff who didn’t go any further than the Kvamskogen circuit, at this time of the evening you could ski in fairly lonesome splendour up there among the snow-covered spruce trees. The cloud cover had broken and between the drifting clouds appeared a surprisingly large crescent of the moon, closer to the earth than at other times of the year. Once again it struck me that our loyal satellite probably saw more than most of us guessed. It was just a shame that it never revealed its secrets, but allowed us to find out everything on our own, as far as that was at all possible.

  There was a virgin purity about the snowy countryside up there that filled my body with a composure it rarely felt – there was invariably an unanswered phone call to follow up.

  I had skied halfway down towards the Skansemyre residential area before the snow became so thin that the undersides of even my old wooden skis began to suffer. I took them off and carried them on my back over the last section, past the sign saying that a competition had been organised on this ski-jumping hill in 1948, on Midsummer’s Eve of all days; mind you, with snow transported from Finse, 1,222 metres above sea level. There were still some rocks sitting at the start position, recalling past fearless spirits, the memory of which would soon be preserved only by the sign down near the road.

  Once at home, I took a shower, poured a glass of dark lager and a little snifter of aquavit and dialled Haldis Midtbø’s number again. When she answered she sounded as amiable as Svanhild Olsvik had. It occurred to me that perhaps it was this kind of woman the men in their lives had preferred: dragons, as a friend of mine used to call them.

  ‘Yes,’ she barked.

  ‘Good evening. I’m sorry to disturb you, but—’

  ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Veum. Varg Veum.’

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘I left a message on your voicemail earlier today.’

  ‘I don’t respond to public surveys.’

  ‘No, neither do I. Or at least it would have to be a very—’

  Once again she interrupted me. ‘Get to the point.’

  ‘This concerns your late husband.’

  ‘I have no late husband.’

  ‘No? Well, I apologise. Of course I should’ve started by … Weren’t you married to Mikael Midtbø?’

  ‘My ex-husband.’

  ‘Yes, but you do know that he’s dead, don’t you?’

  ‘Let me make myself clear. This is a closed chapter in my life. Was there anything else?’

  ‘You’re aware of how he died?’

  ‘I suppose he died like the pig he was.’

  ‘After a fall from the tenth floor of—’

  ‘Listen, whatever your name is…’

  ‘Veum.’

  ‘Veum, the pig I was married to caused me enough problems in my life. If he’d fallen from the tenth floor and I’d seen him, I’d have happily picked him up and thrown him off the tenth floor again.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Thrown him off again? To me that sounds as if you were there when it happened.’

  That silenced her, for a while anyway. Then came an ice-cold: ‘What do you mean?’

  It was my turn to weigh my words. ‘Well, actually what I mean is … if you were willing to have a little chat with me … that at any rate would free you of any possible suspicion hanging over your head.’

  ‘Suspicion? Tell me, who are you actually?’

  ‘Varg Veum. I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Investigator?’

  ‘Yes, with years of experience of child-abuse cases. I’m sure that’s something you wouldn’t mind talking to me about.’

  Her voice changed tone. ‘I see. But then it would have to be … No, the safest is probably that we … that you come here. To us, here at home. But it can’t be before the children have gone to bed. Tomorrow, at around this time.’

  ‘Nine o’clock?’

  ‘Something like that. And, Veum … my husband will be here.’

  ‘Your…?’

  ‘My present husband.’

  ‘I see. That’s fine, of course. Then we have an arrangement.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly and rang off. It was only afterwards it struck me that she hadn’t given me her address, but it would be online anyway, and I assumed it would be correct.

  At this point I was fairly satisfied with the results of the day’s activities. I had two appointments the following day, so I wasn’t going to be idle then either. Because that was another hallmark of January: the month when everything went quiet, waiting for something to happen. In February, if not before.

  8

  The arrangement I had made with Tora Haugen was that I should be at hers at eleven. I left in good time, parked in Helleveien and ambled over to the characteristic high-rises of Brunestykket.

  I remembered well seeing them being built. From Nordnes peninsula we could look straight out to the Helleneset headland. In the early sixties something was growing there that we had never seen before. ‘They’ve got loads of them in Junaiten,’ one of my former classmates told us – Piddien, who had been to sea for the first time, and was home after sixteen months and acted as if he were an old salt. ‘Skyscrapers,’ he added, significantly, and sent a long arc of spit in their direction. ‘You can take a lift up to the top and see all the way to Nordnes, heh, heh.’

  Later we heard credible rumours that these buildings were built in such a way that they swayed in the wind. We told each other we were the lucky ones, living safely in Fritznersmuget, or at a pinch in one of the new housing blocks that rose from the ruins after the war, and not in a house that could make you seasick. Anyway, they had lifts in the Seafarers’ Care Home and the Troye building by Tollbodallmenningen, if that was what took our fancy.

  The building site had been given the name Brunestykket, the ‘brown bit’, after a piece of land where local farmers never managed to get anything to grow. Situated on one of the town’s windiest headlands, the location was not perfect. During the first years after they were built, there were reports of cladding coming loose in gales and storms, and rain seeping into the apartments. Later, quite a lot of repairs were done, apparently with variable success.

  From the outside the blocks looked sturdy enough, at any rate, but then I had never been in one until now. I found the name P. Haugen beside one of the bells at the front and assumed the P stood for Per. The door was locked. I rang and waited for an answer. Surprisingly enough a man’s deep voice answered, but before I could ask if I was in the right place, the lock buzzed and the same voice said: ‘Come on up. We’re on the second floor.’

  I entered a large hallway with panoramic windows facing the sea. I had a choice between the lift and stairs. As I was only going to the second floor I took the staircase.

  The man waiting for me in the doorway was wearing dark-grey trousers and a red-checked shirt under a dark-blue cardigan. He was in his stockinged feet and definitely gave the impression he belonged there. I guessed he was around my age, perhaps a few years older. He had dark, combed-back hair with long streaks of grey. The deep folds on both sides of his broad mouth evoked comparisons with a congenial bloodhound. He stood there with a patient, but not unfriendly, expression on his face, waiting for me to reach the landing.

  On my way up the last steps, I slowed down and said: ‘I have a meeting with Tora Haugen.’

  He nodded. ‘I know. I’m her brother. She’s not so keen on meeting strangers any more.’ When I reached the top he extended a hand. ‘Hans Storebø.’ His dialect placed him in the coastal area to the west of Bergen – Øygarden or further south.

  We shook hands. ‘Varg Veum.’

  ‘Interesting name. Tora said you were an investigator.’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘For the police?’

  ‘No. Private.’

  He arched big, bushy eyebrows the same colour as his hair. ‘Really? This is about my brother-in-law, is it?’

  I confirmed it was and looked towards the doorway behind him.

  He took the hint and half turned. ‘Yes, do come in.’

  He pointed to a coat stand inside the door where I could hang my jacket. I followed his example and slipped off my shoes, quickly checking that I hadn’t put on the socks with toe ventilation this morning, and followed him through the narrow hallway, a round mirror on one side and cupboard doors on the other. Before we entered the sitting room he turned to me and said in a low voice: ‘She’s been deeply affected by this situation. She might seem a little incoherent.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘She’s having a thorough medical examination later this week, but, well, there’s some reason for concern.’

  I nodded without saying anything and we continued inside.

  The windows in the slightly old-fashioned sitting room faced Byfjord to the south-west, so that you could see, in widescreen format and over a large distance, the rainclouds this morning’s radio weather forecast had promised us for later in the day. The dark teak furniture with rose patterns in discreet colours gave an impression of the thirties rather than the sixties, so I assumed the Haugens had brought the furniture from somewhere else, either when the building was new or at a later point.

  A table was set with coffee and pastries for three. There was a small selection of cakes and biscuits in a glass stemmed dish in the middle of the table. Tora Haugen resembled a little bird, sitting, slightly stooped, at the end of the table. She looked up anxiously as we entered. She was dressed in black and white: black trousers and a white cotton sweater. Her face was narrow and lean, her hair completely white. If her brother looked like a bloodhound, she reminded me of an anaemic lap dog, barely able to raise its head to look at us.

  Hans Storebø showed me in, and when he talked to his sister it was with clear diction and more slowly than he had spoken to me. ‘This is herr Veum, Tora. He’s come to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Oh?’ she said, seeming a little surprised.

  ‘We spoke on the phone yesterday,’ I said amiably.

  ‘Ah…’ She thought for a moment. ‘That’s true. Please take a seat.’

  I established that she was one of the last survivors of the time when Norwegians used the polite form of address and told myself I would have to try and adapt.

  ‘A cup of coffee?’ Storebø asked, taking a white Thermos flask from the table. I nodded and he filled three cups. Another glance. ‘Sugar? Cream?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  He put a splash of cream in his sister’s cup, used a pair of tongs to put two sugar cubes in his own, and we sat down on either side of Tora Haugen, him with his back to the window, me facing the view. It was impressive even in grey weather. I could just imagine what it would be like from the top floor.

  Storebø focused on me again. ‘What was it you wanted to know, Veum?’

  ‘Well…’ I shared my attention between the two of them. Tora Haugen still looked surprised, as though she didn’t quite understand who I was or what I was doing here. ‘I wanted to ask about the circumstances of her husband’s death.’ I looked straight at her. ‘Your husband died suddenly, didn’t he? There were no warning signs?’

  She continued to look at me. Then she nodded gently. ‘Yes, Per’s dead.’ She appeared to be pensive. ‘He died on me. When was it again?’ She gazed at her brother.

  ‘In October, Tora,’ he said with a fleeting glance in my direction.

  ‘Yes, that’s what I have noted down, too.’ I nodded emphatically. ‘My condolences.’

  The shadow of a smile flitted across her face and was gone as quickly as it had come. ‘He was buried in Biskopshavn. That’s our church.’

  Hans Storebø nodded in agreement, but without saying a word.

  ‘But when he died … My understanding was that it was early in the morning and that he … That they found him down by the sea?’

  She looked at me with big, light-blue eyes. ‘He was Sjur Gabriel.’

  Now it was my turn to look surprised. ‘By which you mean?’ I had slipped into the informal form and corrected myself.

  Her brother coughed. ‘What she means is … I don’t know how well acquainted you are with Amalie Skram’s The Hellemyr People, Veum.’

  ‘Well, we read it at school.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose most people in this part of the country did. So of course you know it comprises four classic novels. But it’s said that Amalie Skram had living models for the characters of Sjur Gabriel and Oline Hellemyren. They’re supposed to have lived not far from here, up in what we call Fagerdalen nowadays. Even now you can see the remains of Olaplassen – the small farm they lived in. And they probably had their boatshed down in what’s known as Frøviken, where my brother-in-law regularly used to go fishing in the morning. Just like Sjur Gabriel in the books, although he fished in the fjord. Still, that’s what she means. He never went out during the rest of the day. She had to go to the shop, however heavy her bags were. Well, I tried to give her a hand, but I don’t live in town, do I, so…’

  ‘Was it like that for many years? Him not going out, I mean.’

  ‘No. It started with the case a couple of years ago, as you know yourself, otherwise you wouldn’t be here, I suppose.’

  I nodded. ‘He isolated himself, in other words?’

  ‘Yes. People stared at him. They obviously knew who he was and what he’d done, most of them. That sort of thing spreads through a community in no time at all. Before that, he was the outgoing type, kind to everyone, big and … small.’ The last word came after some hesitation, as though he didn’t want to go too deeply into that side of things.

  ‘And then he was found in Frøviken – he’d either drowned or had a turn, I was told.’

  ‘Yes. They couldn’t say what came first, but I think they said the most likely scenario was that he’d had a turn, perhaps a heart attack, and fell into the sea. And then he drowned.’

  I looked at Tora Haugen. She was gazing at the fjord with a faraway expression in her eyes, as though she hadn’t been following what we had been saying.

  I lowered my voice and said: ‘Do you know if he’d received any threats? Leading up to the incident.’

  He sighed. ‘Well, he didn’t say anything. And as far as I know, there was nothing in writing either. I’ve been through her papers and haven’t found anything there.’

  I faced Tora again. ‘Fru Haugen,’ I said to catch her attention, and she turned meekly in my direction. ‘Tora … Fru Haugen, can you remember if you received a visit before your husband … died? An unexpected visitor? Or someone you didn’t know?’

  ‘My husband? What do you mean?’ She looked to the side. ‘He’s gone now, Per has. He won’t be coming back.’

  I looked at Storebø again, and he sent me an eloquent look back while vaguely nodding and gesturing with one hand, a movement he completed by grasping the coffee cup, raising it to his mouth and taking the last sip.

  He set down the cup, glanced at me and said: ‘Bit more, Veum?’

  ‘No, thanks. I think that’s enough. Mm … a pastor. Does that ring any bells?’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘A pastor? The parish priest, do you mean? He officiated when Per was buried. He’d been here and talked to Tora, but I was present too. Beyond that I have no idea what you’re after.’

  ‘Alright. You might not know … your brother-in-law’s death is not the only one this autumn. One of his co-accused suffered the same fate.’

  ‘Really? No, I didn’t know.’

  ‘And he was a much younger man, not yet forty.’

  He looked serious. ‘Yes, life can take many turns if you don’t know how to steer it.’

  I glanced quickly at Tora before concentrating on him again. ‘I was wond
ering … I’d like to go to Frøviken to see where he was found. Would you be interested in joining me?’ As he appeared to hesitate, I said in a hushed voice: ‘There are a few things we perhaps ought to talk about without her present.’

  He studied me thoughtfully. Then he nodded. ‘Yes, I understand. Of course I’ll join you.’ He pulled his chair back from the table and stood up. In a loud, clear voice he addressed his sister again: ‘I’m going for a little walk with herr Veum, Tora. We won’t be long. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she said in the same delicate tone she’d had all the time. It was like a child’s voice, as though the elderly woman was returning to where she had once been, a time of innocence far from all the trivialities of the day and life’s many turns, to which her brother had just referred.

  I stood up, but she remained seated. I shook her hand before leaving. It was a limp handshake, as if life was ebbing out of her, with a kind of resigned serenity, the way some people are when their partner has died and they themselves will soon follow.

  Without another word Hans Storebø and I walked together to the hallway. We shared a shoe horn and put on our outdoor clothes, then strolled down the stairs and out.

  9

  As soon as we were outside the building, I said to Hans Storebø: ‘There are a number of unanswered questions that I thought we might run through without your sister being present.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I never met Per Haugen. But I know of his case. Can you give me a picture of the person he was?’

  He showed visible signs of disapproval. ‘Let me put it like this, Veum. When he was alive, as time went on, I had very little to do with my brother-in-law. It would perhaps be more correct to say there was no contact at all. It’s only now, after his death, that I have proper contact with Tora again.’

  ‘And the reason for the break was…?’

  ‘Well, we were very different types. I felt that early on. Nevertheless … it was only when all this came up that I saw behind his façade. There was something calculating, something distant about the way he treated people. His children … he didn’t seem to have a relationship with them, either. It was mostly Tora who took care of everything … at home and otherwise.’