Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  He looked furious. ‘I appeared as neither! I’ve never met him. I don’t know where he lived in Fyllingsdalen. And this Per Haugen I knew nothing of until you told me just now.’

  ‘But you’d have liked a chat with him?’

  ‘Had I known … Had I ever guessed what lay behind what happened to Marthe … Believe me, I did what I could to help her out of her mess. I contacted my friends in the Church City Mission, the Inner Mission and the Salvation Army. You must know that there are many Christian organisations that work for people whose lives have been turned upside down.’

  ‘Absolutely. I do know.’

  ‘But it was no use. And she never told me what was bothering her. If she had done, then … maybe it would’ve helped. It does, Veum. Talking things over.’

  ‘Yes, I believe you. We social workers do the same.’

  ‘You’re a social worker?’

  ‘Yes, or I was.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, although I wasn’t entirely sure he did. Then he continued: ‘I made her go to a rehabilitation clinic, at least twice, but she relapsed. In the end, I suppose I gave up. I entrusted her into the Lord’s hands.’

  ‘And that led nowhere.’

  ‘Yes, if that’s how you see it, I suppose it did.’ He stared sombrely into the distance. I couldn’t help but feel for him. It wasn’t his fault his sister had been subjected to a man like Per Haugen when she was small. A neighbour he couldn’t even remember. One of life’s many shadowy beasts, lying in wait for prey, and when one day a victim appears, they set upon her with lust in their hearts.

  Per Haugen. Mikael Midtbø. Karl Slåtthaug. Was Bjarne Bratteli another? How many of them were out there? Was it possible to shine a light on them, one by one, to force them out of the shadows, into the light, so that we could all see them and protect ourselves? I was hardly alone in wishing this. Somewhere out there another person was perhaps on a mission, a lone wolf exacting vengeance, not even on God’s behalf. Or was that precisely what he was doing, and, if so, who was he?

  I sat looking at Magne Molstad. He was still a potential candidate, but I wasn’t at all sure. No smoke was coming from the Vatican chimney while I was watching him. I would have to search elsewhere.

  24

  I was entering Eidsvåg Tunnel when my phone rang. As I didn’t answer, it rang again before I was out. I turned down to the right into a supermarket car park and picked up my phone. It was an unfamiliar number. I rang back, and an excited voice said: ‘Veum?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Ghulam Mohammad. You must come. Someone’s trying to get into Laila’s again. He’s banging on the door and won’t stop.’

  ‘Someone you’ve seen before?’

  ‘Yes, it’s him … her brother.’

  ‘Knut Haugen? But he’ll talk to you, won’t he?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t listen to me. He calls me … horrible words. We should go back where we came from. That sort of thing.’

  ‘I see. I’m on my way. Is Laila in?’

  ‘Yes, but she won’t open the door to him.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  I rang off, reversed out of the parking bay and exceeded the speed limit down Helleveien for a few kilometres towards Fløyfell Tunnel. As this wasn’t peak period, I cut through Danmarksplass like a summer mosquito heading for a sleeping sun worshipper, broke another couple of speed limits and was in Adolph Bergs vei in roughly ten minutes.

  Getting out of the car, I heard angry voices coming from the house. Down on the pavement people had gathered and were staring with curiosity up at the gallery on the second floor. But no one made a move to do anything. This still might have been an everyday event in good old Chicago.

  I took the stairs two steps at a time and ran along the gallery. Knut Haugen was standing, head bowed, shouting through her door at a volume that made the gallery – which was acting as a sounding board – vibrate. ‘Laila! We have to talk. I’m not leaving until you open up. Do you hear me?’

  When he saw me he pursed his lips. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ He looked at Ghulam Mohammad, who had just appeared in his doorway. ‘Right. I see. Darkie’s blabbed.’

  I was up close to him now. I fixed him with an icy stare and said: ‘No one’s blabbed and I don’t see any darkies.’

  ‘So what the fuck are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m investigating a case.’

  ‘Like fuck you are. All you’re doing is snooping and sticking your snout in. That’s what you’re doing.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m trying to talk to my sister, but it’s fucking hard work.’

  ‘Now you’ve used “fuck” three times and she still hasn’t appeared.’

  ‘That’s none of your fucking business,’ he shouted, as if to add defiance to his tirade. ‘Didn’t I tell you to leave my sister in peace?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘So why don’t you leave her in peace?’

  ‘Because there’s something I want to ask her. Let me put my cards on the table, Haugen. I feel more and more certain your father didn’t die a natural death.’

  ‘So what. He deserved it.’

  ‘Deserved what?’

  ‘To die.’

  ‘In that way?’

  ‘In the worst possible way imaginable.’

  His face was red with anger. Ghulam Mohammad followed our conversation as if it were a performance we were putting on especially for him.

  Knut Haugen vented his annoyance on him. ‘And what the fuck are you standing there and gaping for? You can just bloody go back to where you came from!’

  Ghulam Muhammad pulled himself up to his full height. ‘We’ve lived in Norway for more than twenty years. This is where we belong now.’

  ‘His language is better than yours anyway,’ I muttered.

  Then something happened. The door behind us opened a fraction, on the safety chain. From above it Laila glowered at us. Her face was crimson. She fixed her eyes on her brother. ‘I’ll never talk to you again. You’re just like our father – and Bjarne: a pig.’

  I looked from her to Knut. His face had contorted with anger. ‘What are you saying, you little bitch?’

  ‘Don’t you think I saw them? The photos you sent Bjarne – of your own children, of Toril and Elisabeth.’

  He opened and shut his mouth.

  ‘You’re a pig.’ She shifted her gaze to me. ‘You’re filthy pigs, all of you.’ Then she looked at Ghulam Mohammad. ‘And you’re no bloody better, Ghulam.’

  His jaw fell.

  I tried to catch her attention, but her eyes were flitting wildly from one of us to the other. ‘Laila, listen … If you have something specific to say, then…’

  ‘Specific?’ Next to me, Knut snorted. ‘You can hear she’s lost it. The bitch’s out of her tiny mind.’

  ‘Aaargghh!’ she shrieked, spat at us from above the safety chain and slammed the door so hard the concrete walls around us sang.

  For a moment we were stunned, all three of us, found guilty on account of our gender, clearly, as far as I could judge. We looked at each other. Ghulam threw up his arms, rolled his eyes, withdrew into his flat and slammed the door behind him. Not as hard as Laila, but hard enough to signal what he thought of us two, the ethnic Norwegians.

  I eyed Knut. ‘Well?’

  ‘Stark, raving bonkers.’

  I held his gaze. ‘But what she said about the photos you sent to Bjarne…’

  ‘She’s lying through her teeth. You could see that for yourself. She needs sectioning. I’ll bloody make sure she is. Sandviken next stop, no doubt about it.’

  ‘She’s lying?’

  I held his gaze. He stared back. Then his eyes wandered to the side. And he focused on me again. Now it was his turn to throw up his arms. ‘I’m simply not putting up with this, Veum. I’m off.’

  He left. I watched him. I had been lied to before, many times. But life had taught me one thing. The person who lies rarely man
ages to hide it, not completely. And that was the feeling I was left with now.

  Someone was lying to me, and one thing was sure: in such cases as this I seldom gave up until I found out who it was. And why.

  25

  When he was out of the building I turned back to Laila’s door. I rang the bell. I knocked. I put my mouth against the door crack and called her name in as friendly a tone as possible. Nothing. She definitely didn’t want to talk, neither to me, nor anyone else right now.

  I walked to Ghulam Mohammad’s flat and rang his bell. He opened the door warily, as though afraid I would kick it in. When he saw Haugen had gone, relief swept across his face. He looked at me with a serious expression, without speaking.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I said, somewhat redundantly.

  He nodded.

  ‘I wonder if … Laila doesn’t want to talk to anyone just now. Fatima seems to have the best relationship with her. Could you ask her to put in a word for me? She talked with me the last time I was here, so she knows I’m on her side. I can perhaps even help her with her debts. There’ll be people other than her brother here, again and again, until they have what they want or something more serious happens.’

  He listened with the same expression on his face as before, but he nodded a few times along the way. In the end he stroked one cheek. ‘I’ll tell Fatima.’

  ‘You’ve got my phone number. Don’t be frightened to call me. Even if a situation like today happens again. But first of all try to talk her round.’

  ‘I’ll do my best. This must end. The poor woman can’t carry on like this.’

  ‘No. We’ll have to see what we can do.’

  We exchanged a few final courteous looks. He closed the door as warily as he had opened it. I went down to my car.

  The high-rise in the Landåstorget district was the oldest in Bergen, completed in 1957. I drove up, parked at the rear, walked to the library on the first floor of the annexe and gained access to a computer. I ran a search on Knut Haugen again and found confirmation that his address was in Nystuveien. I then ran another search, on the address this time, to see if there were any other occupants. There were. Vibeke Haugen lived at the same address. Her name didn’t produce any hits, except for on the tax list, where it transpired her assets were greater than her taxable income. However, I assumed they corresponded to half of the marital home.

  I thanked the librarian for letting me use a computer and received a friendly smile in return. Back in my car, I reflected for a moment, then made up my mind.

  Nystuveien winds its way between Ole Irgens vei and Starefossveien, apparently named after Starefossen, when it was a little rural area with the overspill from Jølster and other places in the districts around Bergen. The house where I was going had a basement of whitewashed brick and a shiny front door. On the floor above there were large panoramic windows with views of Bergensdalen valley. The space behind them was well illuminated. In addition, there were bright Christmas stars hanging against the glass, an indication that the residents hadn’t finished their Yuletide celebrations. On the way up to the house I passed a thawing snowman bent at the hip, an arthritic terpsichorean.

  From the nameplate I could see I was at the right address and pressed the doorbell. After a while the loudspeaker above the button crackled. A woman’s voice said: ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. Is that Vibeke Haugen?’

  ‘What was your name again?’

  ‘Varg Veum.’

  ‘I have nothing to say. My husband’s warned me.’

  ‘Warned you about what?’

  ‘You. He said if someone turns up with your name, I’m not to open the door or listen to what you say. If you don’t accept that, I’m to … call the police.’

  ‘That’s what I’d call a clear message.’

  ‘So, goodbye, herr Veum.’

  ‘Don’t you have an opinion of your own?’

  ‘Just go.’

  ‘I’ll have another chat with your husband then.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  She sounded so sure of herself that I didn’t see any point in arguing any further. I could of course have hung around to see if she would actually call the police. In which case, I would have the opportunity to tell them something that was unlikely to please her husband. The loudspeaker crackled again: ‘I’ll give you one more chance. Otherwise I’m calling the police.’

  I took some steps back from the house and looked up. She was in the window, directly under one of the Christmas stars, a St Lucia’s Day princess who had arrived too late for the procession. She was wearing a loose white blouse, which reinforced this impression. Her hair was tidy and attractive. She definitely wouldn’t disgrace herself or her husband if she was introduced at a dinner party. But so far only I was present, and the look she was sending me was so cool I could have been a snowman in the process of crumbling myself, standing next to the other one. In her hand she had a mobile phone, which she held up in my direction, as a threat. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin. I had been weighed and found wanting.

  I arched my eyebrows, nodded to confirm I understood what she meant, and left. In the street, I turned round again. She was standing in the window, watching me. I raised a hand to wave goodbye. She didn’t reciprocate.

  Vibeke Haugen, I said to myself. Why so distant, why so cool? Have you also got something to hide? Something you don’t wish to know more about? You too?

  26

  I parked in Markeveien and chose the shortest route to my office. Once inside, I took out my notepad. There was another loose end to tie up, a person I hadn’t yet questioned. I found the number of the neighbour in Frekhaug, the man with the bat: Carl Fredrik Stiansen.

  When he answered I introduced myself and explained: ‘I’m investigating what happened to your former neighbour, Mikael Midtbø.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘You know he’s dead?’

  ‘I saw mention of his death in the paper, yes. We cracked open a bottle of champers to celebrate the event.’

  ‘Right. Is it convenient to have a chat about the case?’

  ‘About what happened when the bastard abused our daughter?’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘What did you say you were? A private investigator?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A bit more effective than the cops, I hope.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Fine. I’m in my office in Kanalveien and can give you fifteen minutes. Shall we say in half an hour?’

  ‘Good. Where in Kanalveien?’

  He gave me the number and name of the firm: Brokonsult AS.

  My loyal Toyota Corolla didn’t have much of a chance to catch its breath in Markeveien. I found a gap in front of a furniture shop in Kanalveien, parked and saw the entrance to the bridge consultancy firm at the given address. There wasn’t a canal in Kanalveien any more, but bridges were sprouting up everywhere. In that sense, the firm was located at a symbolic address.

  A rare sight greeted me – a male vestibule attendant, a youth in a casual outfit: a suit jacket over jeans and an open-necked shirt. He would have been given the boot at an estate agent’s. In this office-scape, he fitted in perfectly. On the walls around him there were large photographs of several completed construction projects. I recognised the newly built bridge over Brennøy Sound in one of them. I had myself been there when the previous one was blown up.

  Behind him, the staff’s work stations were in bays, their heads protruding like small underground trolls. He accompanied me to one of the bays. ‘Carl, you have a visitor.’

  Carl Fredrik Stiansen looked up, nodded and got to his feet. ‘Veum?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Let’s find ourselves a conference room.’

  Without bothering to shake hands, he walked right past me and strode ahead, across the large room, opened a door and led me into a room with a view of Mount Ulriken. We each sat down on a hard chair around a conference table. You had to speak quickly and efficient
ly here, it seemed. No one could sit for long on these chairs.

  Carl Fredrik Stiansen sported the same outfit as the receptionist, and it struck me this might be a form of uniform as well, a combination of masculine efficiency and elegance. As far as I had seen, there was only one woman on the floor, and she’d had her hair cut short so as not to stand out from the others. Stiansen’s hair was shaven down to his scalp, which gave him a military look. He looked pretty fit, too. If he was swinging a wooden bat, you would keep a safe distance.

  He took the initiative. ‘I don’t quite understand what you’re after, Veum. There was never any doubt what that bastard was up to.’

  ‘No? Could you give me your version?’

  ‘Mine…? I wasn’t there, was I. All the things we found out … Well, I’ll tell you my version. Being rung up by the police came as quite a shock. They told us they’d been given our names by our neighbour’s wife, fru Midtbø, and they wanted to talk about our daughter, Trine. We had no idea what was going on, but we were summoned to Bergen Central Police Station, where we met an officer called Solheim.’

  ‘I know him.’

  ‘You can imagine how we felt when he said what the case was about. They’d found pictures on Midtbø’s computer that had been spread all over – not only Norway, but the whole world. And then he showed us some of the photos, and Trine was in two of them. She was lying…’ he gasped for breath and his voice was strangled with pent-up fury as he continued ‘…on a bed, almost naked, with her pyjama bottoms pulled down, and … Well, you can imagine. Partly on her side, but nevertheless! I can feel myself boiling with rage at the mere thought of it.’

  I nodded sympathetically, without speaking.

  ‘Have you got children?’

  ‘A grown-up son and a grandchild.’

  ‘Then you can perhaps understand. We didn’t know where the photos had been taken because Trine had slept over many times at Anne’s house. That’s their daughter. We trusted them, after all. Who could believe this sort of thing about your own neighbours? It’s not written in capital letters outside their house what sort of people they are. They aren’t monsters. They look just like you and me. For all we knew, he could’ve been touching her, fondling her, doing terrible things to her.’