Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Haugen made a show of looking at his watch, a Rolex costing half my annual income. Only if it was a good year, mind you. ‘I must go. Dinner’s at half past six today. We’ve talked about what was on our minds, you and I, Bjarne.’

  ‘We have more to talk about, you and I, Haugen,’ I said.

  ‘Really? But not now. It’ll have to be … later.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘OK.’ This didn’t appear to be something he was looking forward to. ‘You’ll have to ring the office and make an appointment with the secretary.’

  ‘The young lady I greeted the other day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Haugen got to his feet. Bratteli did the same, eyeing me as he did so – a barely concealed instruction to follow suit. As I made no attempt to comply, he said: ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you came here to tell me about the debt collector and Laila?’

  ‘There’s another matter now that your brother-in-law’s going.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He sighed loudly.

  Knut Haugen nodded goodbye and went into the hall, where he put on his coat and went out of the door.

  Bratteli returned quickly. ‘Right. What was it you had to say?’ He stood in the middle of the floor to make it clear that he didn’t have much time for me.

  ‘Your ex-wife told me this morning why she was precisely that: your ex. And why she ended the marriage.’

  ‘I’m not with you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘It was a break-up that arose from the circumstances. Primarily her pill consumption and her uncontrollable drinking.’

  ‘She said she’d caught you watching child porn on the computer.’

  ‘Child—?’

  ‘Images of young children in a variety of situations. Not exactly something you’d want to present at a parents’ meeting. Or to talk about at home, either. Images of an exceedingly gross nature.’

  ‘And she said this after only a few short seconds?’

  ‘Short seconds?’

  He looked away. ‘Not that this is any business of yours, Veum.’

  ‘Well, we’re probably talking here about a duty to society, which each and every one of us should respect.’

  ‘You don’t understand. In this job I have…’ He paused. I waited, and after a little while he continued: ‘We have to familiarise ourselves with this material … to a certain extent.’

  ‘Really? To what end?’

  ‘To prevent this sort of thing going on.’

  I ran my hand down the back of my head and neck. ‘And you have to study it in detail to prevent it spreading?’

  ‘Detail? I was looking … I had only just clicked on it when Laila came in, saw what was on the screen and kicked up one hell of a fuss.’ He raised his voice. ‘But I understood her reaction. With her background. Perhaps I would’ve reacted in the same way myself. Believe me … I’m not like that.’

  ‘And you expect me to believe you when your wife didn’t?’

  ‘Listen to what I’m telling you. With her background it’s not surprising she was suspicious. She was damaged as a result of her childhood.’

  ‘Exactly. And so the least you could do was take precisely that into account.’

  ‘Naturally enough, I didn’t think she would … turn up like that.’

  ‘And she obviously saw them for longer than the short seconds you talk about. She gave a pretty detailed description.’

  He looked down. ‘She demanded I show her the images again. I didn’t feel I could deny her that.’

  ‘No? She also said you might’ve taken some of the photos yourself. At the kindergarten.’

  He flushed. ‘You mustn’t believe that! I could never have done that to … That would be a total betrayal of … What do you imagine the parents would’ve said? The children? No, no, no. That’s impossible. I admit I was looking at the pictures. To see what they were. But that’s all. I’m not like that.’

  ‘You’ve just said that. What do you mean by … “like that”?’

  ‘A paedophile. Like her father. Like so many others. I was just … curious.’

  ‘It has a lot of names.’

  ‘And you? Are you so pure? Have you never opened a page like that on the net?’

  I got up from the chair. ‘No, Bratteli. In fact I haven’t. Not even for study purposes.’ I pointed to his shelving unit. ‘But the last time I was here I noticed that you had a lot of photo equipment and a film camera.’

  ‘It’s my hobby. Is that banned too now? You and all the others are so self-righteous.’

  ‘Not all of us, unfortunately.’ I gestured towards the door. ‘Your brother-in-law, Knut – does he know about this?’

  ‘About what? Laila’s allegations?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t mentioned them. Do you think he would’ve come here to talk about what we could do to help her if he’d … If she’d told him?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  I walked towards the door. He made a move to grab my arm. ‘What are you going to do now, Veum? You’re not taking this any further!’

  I turned to him. ‘You can give it some thought this evening and over the next few days. What do you reckon?’

  ‘Don’t you bloody dare! If you do…’

  ‘If I do…?’

  ‘I won’t answer for the consequences.’

  ‘For me or for…?’

  ‘For you, yes.’

  ‘Shall I take that as a threat?’

  ‘Take it as whatever you bloody want.’

  We stood sizing each other up. Physically, he didn’t frighten me. But you never knew what a desperate person might resort to. For all I knew, he had access to a VW Golf or other murder weapons.

  ‘Let me put it like this, Bratteli: right now I have other matters to puzzle over. But with regards to your job … I would keep away from anything connected with such activities, whether on the net or in reality. I’m going to make some enquiries and if I have the slightest suspicion that you’ve violated the law, then … And you can take that as a threat, so now we’re even.’

  He put on a slightly tougher face, but I noticed to my satisfaction that he looked away first. Without saying another word, I left him hanging in the air, like a conjuror’s rabbit, totally disorientated.

  Back in my car, I found the number of Magne Molstad and rang him. He answered after a couple of rings. ‘Yes, hello?’

  ‘Veum here. We met yesterday.’

  ‘Yes. How can I help?’

  ‘Did you have a sister called Marthe?’

  After a conspicuous silence, he replied: ‘Yes.’

  ‘She committed suicide.’

  ‘Yes, she did unfortunately.’

  ‘Could we meet and have a chat about this?’

  ‘What has this to do … with all the other stuff?’

  ‘I think you might know. However, if not, I can explain.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Face to face.’

  ‘But … Alright then. We can meet tomorrow. At twelve.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘There’s a café in the middle of Knarvik Shopping Centre. Or better, we can meet in Åsane. The Åsane centre instead. The café’s more or less in the middle. There’s a bookshop right next to it. We can meet in front.’

  ‘OK.’

  Without further ado he rang off. I made a mental note that he wanted to meet a bit further away from home than Knarvik. Not that this was necessarily of any importance.

  As I started the car I looked in my rear-view mirror. Fifty metres behind me a car pulled out without signalling. I reacted instantly. It was a Golf, of that I was fairly sure, and it was grey.

  Nye Sandviksvei arched round towards Sverresborg Fortress, where I indicated to go left up Helgesens gate. I waited for an oncoming car to pass. The Golf re-appeared in the mirror, keeping the same distance as before. I turned up Helgesens gate with an eye on my mirror. The Golf continue
d towards the town centre.

  For a moment I wondered whether I should turn round in the Stølen area and give chase. But I rejected the idea. It would be so far ahead of me by the time I had turned, and at Mariakirken I would have to decide which road to follow. I carried on up to Skansen and parked in Øvre Blekevei, as usual.

  I felt a need to think about something else. But when I rang Sølvi it turned out she was busy with a friend and then looking after Helene. So it was going to be an evening alone in Telthussmuget instead, with a very basic meal: salami, beetroot and potatoes, a beer with the food and then whatever was left in my bottle of aquavit. It gave me everything it had, until it was empty. That was more than enough for me. When I went to bed I slept like a log through the night, so much so that I could barely get out of bed when the alarm clock rang; and I had what felt like the onset of a physical depression.

  These days cases like the present one could do this to me. It was, I observed, the surest sign that I was getting old. That, and what I saw when I looked in the mirror. On a morning like this I refrained from doing that.

  23

  There was an email from Inspector Bjarne Solheim waiting for me when I reached the office. I opened the attachment and found a long list of the previous year’s VW Golfs registered in Bergen and Hordaland.

  I quickly scrolled down through the list without finding any names I immediately recognised, except for a couple of highly peripheral acquaintances I could in no way suspect of having tried to run me down one winter’s evening by Lagunen. I printed the list and went through it again, car by car. The only thing I noticed was that twelve of them were registered to four car rental companies. I doubted very much I would be given the names of people who had rented the cars if I rang around. The police, on the other hand, would.

  I called Solheim and, speaking in my nicest voice, I said: ‘Hi Bjarne. Varg here. Thank you very much for the list.’

  ‘Veum,’ he stated, in a much more measured tone. ‘Did you recognise any of the names?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. No one I could suspect of this crime anyway. But … the ones registered to car rental companies…’

  ‘Yes, we noticed them.’

  ‘Would it be at all possible for you to get the names of the people who used the cars?’

  ‘Mmm. I would think so. Might have to confer with the legal department, but I’d assume so.’

  I coughed. ‘When you’ve got a list, could you let me see it, too?’

  ‘Yes. We could probably consider that. This case doesn’t exactly have top priority, but…’ Before I could interrupt him, he added quickly: ‘Of course we’ll check it. You’ll hear from me when I have the list. Bye.’ And he rang off.

  I put down the phone and went through the piece of paper in front of me again. I could of course search through the listed names on the net to see if any priests turned up. But for the moment I would have to make do with the man I was meeting at twelve.

  Cognisant of the time it usually took to find a parking spot there, I got into my car and drove to Åsane at eleven. Magne Molstad appeared on the stroke of twelve, even if no church bells rang to announce his morning service this time. I had taken up a position outside the bookshop and so had enough time to familiarise myself with the covers of several Christmas bestsellers still displayed in the windows. I hadn’t received any of them for Christmas; I could count on three fingers the presents I had received: one from Sølvi, one from Helene and one from little Jakob in Oslo, doubtless chosen by his parents, Thomas and Mari. Useful presents though, all of them.

  Molstad appeared like a genie from a lamp. This time, too, he made a strikingly grey impression, reinforced by his colourless clothes: dark-grey trousers, grey clerical shirt and a winter coat that was a composition in grey. His hair, eyebrows, everything was grey on grey. I put him in his mid-forties, but I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was ten years older.

  We headed for the café and decided on a table. I treated myself to a round of waffles and a cup of coffee. He followed my example, hardly unknown fare for someone with long experience of parish meetings.

  ‘You didn’t want my card last time we met, but here we are again anyway,’ I said when we had both sat down.

  ‘I couldn’t see that we had anything else to discuss,’ he said, looking at me expectantly.

  ‘OK, but at that time I didn’t know you had a sister called Marthe. Who took her own life a while back.’

  ‘I just don’t understand the link between that and what you wanted to talk to Haldis about.’

  ‘We can come back to that. Tell me a little about your sister.’

  He seemed fairly happy and his gaze wandered down the long atrium of the shopping centre before he said anything. ‘Well, what is there to say about Marthe? Life took a wrong turn and she ended up on drugs, became addicted and in the end she committed suicide. I officiated at her funeral; the turnout was sparse.’ He sent me a dejected look. ‘A wasted life.’

  ‘And what was the cause, do you think?’

  ‘Well, what can I say? Everything went fine for me. There was nothing at home that could’ve caused this.’

  ‘Your dialect suggests you moved here.’

  ‘Yes, we came from Ålesund when I was ten and Marthe four. I kept my dialect, I suppose, at least most of it, while she switched to the Bergen dialect and never spoke anything else.’

  ‘She had a friend called Laila.’

  ‘Yes, I think she did, in Helleveien. They lived in one of those high-rises, didn’t they?’

  ‘In Brunestykket, yes. Does the name Per Haugen mean anything to you?’

  ‘Per Haugen. No, can’t say it does.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Veum, as a priest you meet so many people in the most varied of contexts, but I definitely can’t remember that name from any such occasions. Who is it?’

  ‘Laila’s father.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ His face took on a pensive expression. ‘Well, I have to admit I don’t remember many grown-ups from there, except the parents of the children I became friends with, and there was no one called Haugen among them.’

  ‘She had a brother called Knut. How old are you?’

  ‘Me? Forty-three.’

  ‘Then he was probably a bit younger than you.’

  ‘I see. Well, I don’t remember anyone called Knut anyway.’

  We sat in silence for a while. I ate a couple of waffles and took a swig of coffee.

  He broke the silence. ‘I still don’t understand the connection here. Can you explain?’

  ‘Yes.’ I put down my cup. ‘This is how it is. Laila Haugen, whose name is Bratteli now, is in the same situation as your sister was. I’m thinking … addicted.’

  ‘Really? So?’

  ‘This Per Haugen was arrested eighteen months ago along with … a few others, all on the same charge. One of them was Mikael Midtbø.’

  He hesitated. ‘You mean … he was someone who sexually abused children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Slowly the mists began to lift. ‘Are you saying … that’s what happened to Marthe when she was small?’ He had two angry lines in his forehead, between his eyebrows.

  ‘According to Laila, yes.’

  ‘So this … this father of Laila abused Marthe?’ His face had gone a wan colour.

  ‘And his own daughter. And in all likelihood many more.’

  ‘But that’s, that’s … monstrous! Why wasn’t he reported?’

  ‘Well, you could ask that. But the two victims I’m aware of were small girls, five to six years old. They were scared to speak up. Which was his doing. Perhaps they didn’t know how to express themselves, and would they have been believed, more than thirty years ago?’

  ‘But … didn’t she have a mother, this Laila? A sibling? Did no one see anything?’

  ‘She had a brother, the Knut I mentioned, a couple of years older than her. But he … well.’ I shrugged. ‘And yes, she had a mother. Laila told me she’d even said something
to her, at a later point, but she didn’t react. What’s a small child supposed to do in that case?’

  ‘This is terrible to hear. Now I understand … Well, why you’re making connections with Haldis … with Mikael Midtbø. But, this mother, has she never been called to account?’

  ‘I suppose you’re one of those who believe in a higher court?’

  ‘What?’ He seemed confused. ‘Yes, yes I am … but judgement is mine, saith the Lord, and we can only pray that we’re treated with mercy when our day comes.’

  ‘Then I can tell you that this woman, Tora Haugen, is passing into the darkness of senility and can hardly be confronted with anything at all any more. When the case came to court she denied everything and protected her husband, who accordingly was given the same mild sentence as … Mikael Midtbø.’

  He sat shaking his head, still distressed by what I had told him. ‘But why have you come to me with this, Veum?’

  ‘Because you’re one of the links.’

  ‘One of the … What are you talking about?’

  I thought carefully. ‘To me it looks as though some people have had a lethal dose of fate here.’

  ‘By which you mean what?’

  ‘Your sister’s dead. She took her own life. Mikael Midtbø’s dead. He – apparently – took his own life. Per Haugen’s dead.’

  ‘What? Him, too?’

  ‘He drowned. An accident maybe or … well…’

  ‘But for goodness’ sake I’m not a link.’

  ‘You’re linked to Per Haugen through your sister. Her tragic life and ultimate fate are almost certainly a result of what she experienced as a child. You’re linked to Mikael Midtbø through your relationship with his wife.’

  ‘Relationship?! We didn’t have a relationship, not until … afterwards.’

  ‘After what?’

  ‘After they separated. We talked about this the day before yesterday. There’s no link.’

  ‘But Mikael Midtbø was expecting a visit from a priest on the day he died. At any rate, someone he called a pastor. You denied it was you the other day, but now I’m thinking it could still have been you.’

  ‘And to what purpose?’

  I opened my palms. ‘What do I know about how priests think? To extend a placatory hand? To make him regret his actions, to pray to God for forgiveness? Or maybe you appeared as an avenging angel, on God’s behalf?’