Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘You weren’t present?’

  ‘No. It was just her and the children.’

  ‘Do you remember what the police officer’s name was?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ She looked around the room as if the answer hung in the air somewhere. ‘Borgersen, Bergesen, something like that.’

  ‘Annemette Bergesen?’

  ‘Probably.’ She looked at me impatiently, ‘Can we draw this to a close? I have to be at school early tomorrow morning and need to get to bed.’

  I nodded. ‘I’m going. Thank you for talking to me.’ I shifted my gaze to Magne Molstad. ‘This is my card. Contact me should anything occur to you.’

  He examined the card I was holding out to him. ‘What’s this supposed to be?’ He waved a hand in the direction of the card. ‘I don’t need this.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I agree with Haldis. This is a closed chapter in her life, and it was never part of mine.’

  ‘Not even the preface?’

  His mouth twitched as if to tell me that he didn’t find that remark funny. He was right about that. But it was him who accompanied me down and outside while she stayed upstairs.

  ‘Not just between the two of us either?’ I said in a last-ditch attempt.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘You don’t give in, do you.’ After waiting for an answer from me, he added: ‘The answer’s still the same. No. No contact.’

  I got into my car. Life had taught me one thing: I didn’t trust anyone, not even priests. I cast a glance at the neighbouring house, where Stiansen was supposed to live. Some of the windows were lit; however, it was too late to make an unannounced call. For all I knew, he might be swinging the bat in readiness and was simply dying to use it.

  16

  It had just passed ten o’clock when I called Bjarne Bratteli to see if it was still alright for me to drop by later in the evening.

  He hesitated before answering. ‘OK then. When will you be here?’

  ‘In about half an hour.’

  ‘Fine. Ring the bell downstairs.’ He told me the address, but I already had it on my notepad.

  The clouds were beginning to break as I passed Nordhordland Bridge. Above Veten, the highest mountain in Åsane, I glimpsed a few scattered stars, like crushed fragments of glass on black velvet. On the motorway the last queues of the night had dissipated and I had an open road all the way to where I turned off by the entrance to Fløyfell Tunnel. I stopped for the lights at the bottom of the hill.

  I parked in Nye Sandviksvei and followed the house numbers up the street. I found B. Bratteli on one of the nameplates by the entrance to the correct house. I rang the bell beside his name. His voice sounded in the loudspeaker, I introduced myself, the lock buzzed, I opened the door and went in.

  Bjarne Bratteli lived on the seaward side of Nye Sandviksvei and on the second floor. Above the roofs of the housing development in Skuteviken, some of the oldest timber constructions in Bergen, he could see straight out to Europe’s largest freezer in Bontelabo, which was also where, in the summer, the cruisers docked. Now there was an oil rig laid up at the quay.

  He received me dressed in a red-checked flannel shirt hanging over black denim jeans. He was in his late thirties, with slightly untidy gingery hair and a red tone to his skin, as though he had just come out of a sauna. The explanation was provided when I entered his tiny sitting room. An old-fashioned stove glowed against a firewall and the room temperature was closer to thirty degrees than twenty.

  ‘Cold, are you?’ I asked, with a wry grin.

  ‘If you had a job that meant you were outdoors most of the day, you’d be cold too at this time of the year.’

  ‘What’s your job?’

  ‘I’m a kindergarten assistant.’

  That explained the background noise when I talked to him on the phone earlier in the day. ‘But it’s a pleasant job, isn’t it?’

  ‘If you say so. I was working in the North Sea before, but I had an accident at work and was refused permission to go back. So it had to be a land job instead, and after some to-ing and fro-ing that’s where I ended up.’

  ‘OK. Were you physically hurt?’

  ‘Well, I can’t do heavy work any more, so … But you didn’t come here to talk about me, I suppose?’

  ‘No, this is about – as far as I understand – your ex-wife, Laila.’ I sent him an enquiring look, but he didn’t comment. ‘I’ve tried in a variety of ways to contact her, but she seems to have simply isolated herself. She won’t answer the phone. She doesn’t open the door when I ring the bell. The only person she has some contact with is her neighbour, Fatima.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know. I can’t get in touch with her, either.’

  ‘How long is it since you were divorced?’

  ‘Less than a year. She testified in a court case, against her father, and since then she seems to have completely changed character. It was impossible to be in the same house with her any more.’ He paused. ‘But you still haven’t told me who you are and what you’re actually after.’

  ‘You know my name. I’m a private investigator and I’m making some enquiries in the wake of the very case your wife testified in.’

  He looked sceptical. ‘Really? Enquiries for whom?’

  This time I decided to be frank with him. ‘For myself actually.’

  ‘And what…? Ah, were you one of those involved – I’m thinking … the parents?’

  I was immediately a little more reticent. ‘There are so many types of victim in a case like this, Bratteli.’

  ‘Indeed there are. One of them’s right here. I lost my wife because of it.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about Laila?’

  He hesitated. Then his expression changed again. ‘But why are we standing here? Sit yourself down and I’ll get … A glass of beer?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m driving.’

  ‘A Farris mineral water then?’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  He left the room and I heard a fridge door open and close. I looked around. Yes, she had lived here alright. The interior had a feminine touch – in the choice of colours and the artificial flower arrangements hanging from the walls. A big framed photo showed a young, blonde woman with a short skirt and an elegant blouse. She was leaning against a tree in Ole Bulls plass, with the bandstand in Byparken and Mount Ulriken in the background. Some other photos, of a more popular nature, were of animals: a setter with its ears pricked up in one, a huddle of kittens in another and a pair of lions under a tall tree in a third.

  In a conspicuous break with the feminine style, the whole room was cluttered. Clothes were strewn over chairs, several of them near the stove, probably to dry after a wash. On the shelving unit there were piles of DVDs and a heap of men’s glossy magazines. The only books I could see were a Swedish Biltema catalogue and a telephone directory. On the top shelf there was some advanced photo equipment and a small film camera.

  He returned with a bottle for each of us, beer for himself and a Farris for me. No glasses.

  I motioned towards the big photograph on the wall. ‘Is that her?’

  He nodded. ‘When I first met her. She was a good-looking girl. Fun to be with. A model. Actually that’s an advertising photo. It was printed in Bergens Tidende, but we managed to order a copy. That’s all I’ve bloody got left of her. A photo on the wall!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, what did happen? In the first years it was great. We lived together for a couple of years before we got married. I worked on a rig. She had her jobs here. As well as a model, she was a secretary in an advertising agency. A receptionist, you might say. But … she wasn’t comfortable with herself. There was something quite deep inside her, something dark and secret, which she never told me about. Not until … well, this business with her father came up. The police called her in and there was one hell of a commotion.’

  ‘But you were back on land then?’

  ‘What? Ah, you’re thinking abou
t the accident. Yes, I’d been working at the kindergarten for more than a year when all this blew up. But then she lost it. It was as if a dam had broken. She told me about all her experiences as a young girl, with her father, and you can imagine … And there was me working with children five days a week. It wasn’t exactly good to hear.’

  ‘No, I can imagine.’

  ‘And then the problems really started. For us, I mean. She began to drink. She called work and told them she was ill, and when I came home from the kindergarten she was often completely plastered. I got her to see a doctor, but he just prescribed pills. For her nerves. Gradually she began to combine pills with alcohol, and then she was totally out of control. I did what I could to help her. I took all the days off from work I could, but there’s a limit, and as time went on she started going out to drink, too. After she’d agreed to testify, she pulled herself together for a few weeks so that she could make a relatively credible impression. But then it turned out that what she had to say would have no effect on the outcome, and that completely unhinged her. She turned aggressive, violent…’ He stared gloomily into the distance.

  ‘Do you mean she became violent towards you?’

  ‘She was like a thing possessed. All men were the same, she said. She was going to kill us all. Several times she ran into the kitchen and came back brandishing a knife. Waving it in front of my face. In the end, I hardly dared close my eyes in bed until I knew she was asleep. I had to hide the knives, as far as I was able. We split up eventually and she moved out.’ After a short pause he added: ‘It was my flat, you see, at first.’

  ‘But … the neighbours up in Landås told me that people were at her door day and night, but she didn’t let anyone in. And that you were behind that.’

  ‘I was behind it? That must be a misunderstanding. I’ve barely been there myself and after a while I gave up. I just wanted to make sure she was managing, more or less. But I remember her neighbour. A grumpy sort. Came out and said I’d disturbed his afternoon nap. He looked like an afternoon nap the way he was standing! He was a foreigner, too.’

  ‘Well, he may’ve misunderstood then. But … who else would want to contact her, and so often?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I prefer not to think about that. The way she was going at it at the end I imagine she racked up a substantial debt in the most dangerous of markets. That’s where you’ll have to look if you want to find the people going to her door.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘Pills anyway. And you can soon build up quite a debt with these people if your doctor’s realised it’s time to call it a day.’

  ‘There are other doctors.’

  ‘Yes, and there is, as I said, a market.’

  ‘I’d hoped you’d be able to help me contact her.’

  He gestured despairingly. ‘I wish I could. And I can try, of course. But she doesn’t answer when she hears it’s me calling. She just puts down the phone. I could stand outside the house where she lives and wait, but what’s the point? If she doesn’t want any help, fair enough. I only want to help. I loved her for Christ’s sake! We got on well.’

  ‘Until the business with her father?’

  ‘Yes. If people of that ilk only knew how many victims they create. Can you imagine?’ Sitting there, beer bottle in hand, he did look desperate, as though it was the only fixed point in his life now.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I won’t bother you any further. If I manage to get in touch with her I’ll put in a word for you and ask her to contact you herself.’

  ‘You can try,’ he said, resigned. ‘But I doubt she will.’

  I drank up the Farris and got to my feet. He accompanied me out, and we parted without saying much more. I was frightened I had left him in a far worse mood than when I arrived. I wasn’t that cheerful myself. I felt a strange unease in my body and the Farris definitely wasn’t strong enough to eradicate that.

  I carefully looked both ways before getting into my car and pulling away from the kerb. But there was no grey VW Golf waiting for me in the shadow of Mount Rothaugen. Most people, and cars, had snuggled down for the night, and I didn’t see much traffic on my short drive to Øvre Blekevei, where I parked, strolled down to Telthussmuget and let myself in.

  I ended the day with the classic two glasses of aquavit, one for each leg. I rang Sølvi and told her what I was doing.

  ‘Any money in it?’ she asked.

  ‘Not that I’m aware of,’ I replied.

  17

  The first thing I did when I arrived in my office the following day was to ring Bjarne Solheim and ask him if they had made any progress with the list of registered VW Golfs in the district. He answered that they had been promised it this morning and would consider emailing me a copy as soon as they had it.

  I thanked him and sat staring out of the window. January is a quiet month in all ways. The Christmas celebrations are over. The sales are the only thing that brings people to the shops, and most people relax their New Year’s resolutions until they are so palatable that they can be swallowed without resistance and are gone forever – or at least until the following New Year’s Eve. All the indications were that it was going to be a slightly overcast day. The low sun lay like a projector lamp in the east, casting golden light over the roofs in the Vågsbunnen district and across Bryggen dock. There it reflected on the windows of BI-IT, so much so that I couldn’t see whether it was Knut Haugen or his colleague waving to me. Then again, it was highly improbable that they would.

  I returned to my notes. After what I had discovered, there was now one person at the top of my list. From our meeting two days ago I knew when she usually finished work.

  This time I decided to arrive unannounced. I parked in the guest bay in one of the other blocks and walked the last stretch to the high-rise in Dag Hammarskjølds vei. I opened the front door and took the lift up to the tenth floor. There seemed to be a trend among the people I visited: to hide behind doors with no nameplates. I soon realised this was the case here, too. I stood with my back to the peephole in the door after I had rung.

  It wasn’t long before I heard noises inside and the door opened with a crash. I turned and met her eyes.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Svanhild Olsvik barked at me, as charmingly as on the previous occasion. ‘Didn’t we say all we had to say on Monday?’

  ‘Not entirely. Something new’s come up. May I come in?’

  Lightning flashed behind her glasses. ‘No!’

  ‘May I make an appointment then?’

  ‘Appointment? What the fuck are you talking about?’

  ‘Do you still take appointments?’

  ‘Take appointments? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘You can make up your own mind. Either you let me in now or I’ll phone the police, the vice unit, and then they’ll pay you a call instead.’

  She paled visibly, except for two bright-red flushes that had appeared at the top of her cheeks. Mute, she stepped to the side, left the door open and tossed her head towards the flat. I followed her in.

  She seemed to be wearing the same clothes as the last time we met: a black jumper and black cord trousers. She talked all the way into the sitting room. ‘Don’t think you can just come here and spout a load of shit because you reckon you are someone. I suppose this is that bitch you’ve been talking to or what?’

  She spun round, causing me almost to bump into her. I stopped equally quickly, feeling that it wouldn’t take much for her to sink her teeth into me. The flushes had spread, like a contagious rash.

  I stepped aside and looked around. Bare walls, apart from a big poster entitled Leeds United 1998. It was a picture of the whole team, and I recognised the blond hair of a former Viking Stavanger player among them. The poster was attached to the wall with tape and hung slightly askew.

  Otherwise the furniture looked as if it had been picked up from a Salvation Army shop on a rainy day. In a pile in one corner was a little dollhouse surrounded by oversized dolls, like Alices in Wond
erland after eating the cake that made them grow. Large windows opened onto a breath-taking view. You could see to Oasen and even further. One door led to the balcony where Mikael Midtbø had thrown himself off, if I gave credence to that version of events. It was closed now.

  I looked at this big woman. I didn’t feel at all confident about what might happen if she went for me. ‘Tell me … when did you meet Mikael Midtbø, and how?’

  ‘That’s got bugger-all to do with you.’

  ‘You used to live in Flaktveit, I’ve been told.’

  ‘You’ve been told, have you? What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you investigating me?’

  ‘Why did you move?’

  ‘I move where I bloody like.’

  ‘Listen … you have a young daughter.’

  ‘Yes, and so what? I take good care of her.’

  ‘I sincerely hope you do. It didn’t look like it the other day.’

  ‘Didn’t look like it! Have you been snooping on her, too?’

  ‘I happened to see her as she was arriving home from school.’

  ‘Happened! Hah! How did you know it was her?’

  ‘Are there that many girls of her age here?’

  She didn’t answer, but pursed her lips. Her eyes looked as if they might pop out of her head.

  ‘I’ve heard you described as at best a rather frivolous woman.’

  ‘Heard you described! Isn’t that what I said? You’ve been talking to that bitch. I’ll kill her!’

  ‘Do you usually kill people you don’t like?’

  She made a move towards me. Her muscles swelled visibly in her neck, probably in the rest of her body, too. I straightened up, ready to offer resistance if she went on the attack.

  But she didn’t attack me physically. She stood so close to me that I could smell an artificial fragrance coming from her mouth, as though she had just spat out some chewing gum. ‘I’ll tell you what, Veum. I’ve been asking around a bit too. I know a few people who’ve told me I just have to contact them if I need someone beaten up. If that’s what you’re after, just say the word.’