Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  I caught her eye. ‘Back to Karl Slåtthaug’s meeting. Is there anyone else here, apart from you, he might’ve spoken to in more detail?’

  Her face tautened. ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘When you were together…’ Her face, if possible, became even tauter. ‘Did he ever mention anything that might indicate he knew some priests?’ She shook her head. ‘Magne Molstad. Does that name mean anything to you?’

  ‘Never heard of him. That I can remember, anyway. We … He didn’t say any more about … the past. He was a bit secretive. Perhaps that was why I…’ She didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘…was attracted to him?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘Well … these children who disappeared: you said that the siblings were sixteen and seventeen. What about the two who disappeared in October?’

  ‘Moira was … They were both sixteen. Amina’s probably sixteen now.’

  ‘Both are over the age of consent.’

  ‘Yes?’ Again she looked at me defiantly, as if I had provoked her in some way.

  ‘Nationality?’

  ‘They were from Afghanistan.’

  ‘And the siblings?’

  ‘Isaac and Hirute. Originally from Eritrea.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard a word from any of them since they left?’

  She shook her head and symbolically chewed her lower lip.

  I made a note of all the names in case I came to need them. Then I gave her my card. ‘If you remember anything else, you have my address here. Or if Karl Slåtthaug should turn up. In which case, he should contact me at once.’

  She glanced at my card and nodded. We finished our coffee and she accompanied us out. We got back into the Jaguar. Before Foyn turned out of the drive, he braked and half turned to me. ‘Why have I got the feeling there’s something you haven’t told me, Veum?’

  ‘Well…’ I hesitated.

  ‘Because I’m right, aren’t I? Why do you think Slåtthaug’s in danger? Because of the conviction you were talking about in there?’

  ‘Yes. There were four men arrested on the same charge. Three of them were convicted and sentenced. Two of them are dead as a result of what have been described as fatal accidents. The third person on the list is Karl Slåtthaug.’

  ‘And the fourth?’

  ‘Is me.’ I hastened to add: ‘But the charge against me was dropped.’

  He opened and shut his mouth. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘A brandy’s waiting for us later in the day, didn’t you say?’

  ‘A Bache-Gabrielsen’s waiting for you when the day’s work is done. Is there anyone else you’d like to visit before we see Mørk?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and I didn’t need to tell him who.

  29

  Nøtterø Savings Bank had its head office in Teie, which is on the island of Nøtterø. We passed Kanal bridge and it wasn’t long before we were there.

  There wasn’t much going on at Teie Market this Friday in January. We parked right in front of the red-brick bank. In a yellow timber building on the opposite side of the market was a bakery, to the west of us a modern church, also in red brick. Once inside the bank, we were told that Pål Vassbotn was busy and wasn’t receiving anyone.

  That gave Foyn a chance to bristle his feathers. ‘Tell herr Vassbotn that Svend Foyn is here on behalf of a client, and we need to talk to him now.’

  For some reason, that helped. I assumed it was the distinguished family name that gave him the extra authority in Tønsberg and district. The statue of the great Svend Foyn, the founder of modern industrial whaling, was firmly located in front of the cathedral in town, the workers’ houses he had built were still in use, and Svend Foyns gate cut through the centre of town on the other side of the strait between the island of Notterøy and Tønsberg. Svend Foyn was the human equivalent of Slottsfjellet Tower, putting Tønsberg on the map for perpetuity.

  Vassbotn came out in person to meet us. He was dressed as I remembered him from the webpage: grey suit, white shirt and a tie. Regular features with a determined chin, bright blue eyes and a short, blond fringe. He was the type you had to meet a lot of times before you recognised him in the street.

  He appeared to know Foyn. ‘What’s this all about? Who’s the client you’re representing?’

  Foyn nodded towards me and I flashed my most amiable smile. ‘Veum,’ I said.

  He shook his head as if to say that the name was completely unknown to him.

  ‘This is about the refugee reception centre in Olsrød.’

  ‘Right?’

  ‘Can we speak in a more private place?’

  He sized me up for a couple of seconds. Then he looked demonstratively at his watch, a Rolex as far as I could discern, which I had been told was the finance world’s self-promoting character reference. ‘Five minutes.’

  He spun on his heel and led us briskly into a side office with open windows facing the customer-service area. Inside, he turned to us and remained on his feet – a clear signal that this was not going to take long.

  I took the hint and went for a quick, efficient approach too. ‘You know of course that some children have gone missing from the centre over the time it’s been in existence: Moira, Amina, Isaac and Hirute.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t remember any of these names myself, but…’

  ‘When you employed Karl Slåtthaug as the director, did you check his criminal record?’

  ‘Slåtthaug? He came with the best references from the organisations where he’d worked.’

  ‘Volunteer organisations?’

  ‘Yes … I suppose they were.’

  ‘Not from the police?’

  He blinked. ‘Should we have done?’

  ‘Yes. He’s been in prison for downloading and disseminating images of child abuse. There’s also some suspicion that children may’ve gone missing from institutions where he’s been employed before.’

  He was in shock. ‘What are you saying? I had no idea. But then … I’ll summon him to a meeting as soon as I have … time.’ He glanced up at the wall clock in the customer area.

  ‘For the moment that’s not possible.’

  ‘And why not?

  ‘Because he’s gone missing.’

  ‘Gone missing! Slåtthaug? Since when?’

  ‘Since a couple of days ago.’

  ‘A couple … I suppose the police are looking for him?’ He shifted his gaze to Foyn. ‘Why are you here, Foyn? I presume the police are taking care of the matter.’

  Foyn smiled genially. ‘Maybe not very quickly. He might be in hiding.’

  ‘Oh, yes? Well, I can ring him anyway.’

  ‘He’s not picking up,’ I said.

  He eyed me with irritation, and I carried on: ‘So I assume you didn’t check his criminal record.’

  ‘No. We may not have done. I regret that. We’re a private foundation. There’s a lot to think about.’

  ‘These children who have gone missing – hasn’t that worried you?’

  ‘Of course it’s worried me! Us. But we reported the disappearances to the police, didn’t we.’

  ‘Yes, you did. But when nothing happened, did you follow the matter up?’

  ‘Well, we … Actually that wasn’t my sphere of responsibility. I assumed…’ He paused, and in a slightly weaker voice added: ‘…Slåtthaug had done that.’

  I met his eyes. ‘Well … I hope you’ve learned a lesson for when you appoint his successor.’

  ‘Successor? He hasn’t resigned.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Not yet…’

  ‘It’ll be a union case anyway,’ I said, turning to Foyn. ‘Anything you’d like to ask herr Vassbotn?’

  Vassbotn got agitated again. ‘Who is this client of yours actually, Foyn?’

  ‘Client?’

  ‘You can have my card in case you remember any more details,’ I said, taking a business card from my wallet and passing it to him.

  He looked at it as though it were something he had
picked up from the gutter. He pulled a grimace to show he would definitely not be taking any notice of it. ‘Private investigator?’

  I nodded.

  ‘From Bergen?’

  ‘Right on both counts.’

  ‘We don’t have any of them in Tønsberg. Fortunately.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ After a short pause, I added: ‘But then you have Foyn.’

  On our way out to the car, Foyn said: ‘I like your style, Veum. You gave him short shrift. Impressive, I must say. More than a touch of “Gimme a B. Gimme an R. Gimme an A. FC Brann” about it.’

  ‘Yes, shame FC Eik-Tønsberg doesn’t have the same touch at the moment.’

  ‘Not at the moment, no.’

  We sat in the Jaguar, and once again I felt like a king visiting the town. ‘What do we do now? Lay a wreath at the statue of Svend Foyn?’

  ‘Pay a call on Mørk at the police station, I think.’

  But when we arrived, Mørk wasn’t there. He had been called away, we were told. When Foyn asked what the call was, it obviously helped to be the person he was. A body had been found in the strait between the islands, the desk officer said.

  ‘Where?’ Foyn asked.

  ‘By Ollebukta Bay,’ came the answer.

  30

  Foyn turned down towards the strait between the island of Nøtterøy and the mainland. ‘Byfjord,’ he said, pointing west. ‘The strait we call Kanalen,’ he said, nodding down towards the sea as he parked.

  This time Hulda came with us. Foyn attached a chain to the dog’s collar and let her down from the back seat. She tagged along with us good-naturedly, down to the quay beside the sea, obviously happy to be active at last.

  A thin film of ice lay over the water, like a covering of greyish-white plastic. We walked down to what was clearly a marina. Several piers led out into the sea and there were moorings in the sea and on the piers. Some big cabin cruisers were scattered around in the water, but most of the berths were empty.

  ‘Doesn’t this water freeze over when it’s really cold?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve got de-icing machines to keep the marina open,’ Foyn said. ‘I keep my dinghy here in the summer, but in winter I bring it ashore.’

  By a small red house at the foot of one pier a crowd of people had gathered, facing the sea. An ambulance and a number of police vehicles were parked nearby, and uniformed officers were putting up a cordon to keep rubberneckers at a distance. Two men in wetsuits were tying straps around something in the water. On the quay, paramedics in orange gear were holding a stretcher at the ready.

  Foyn said: ‘Let’s go over.’

  We headed in their direction. We were stopped at the cordon by a female officer with dark hair in a ponytail. She refused to let us under the cordon.

  Foyn shouted over her shoulder: ‘Mørk!’

  A man as tall and well built as himself turned in our direction. He mouthed: Foyn?

  ‘We have some information. A possible ID.’

  Alright.

  Mørk motioned to the officer to let us in. She lifted the cordon, looking doubtfully at Hulda, and we bent down to crawl underneath, Hulda at Foyn’s side, as if she wasn’t sure the permission applied to her as well.

  On the wall of the red house a sign said it belonged to Tønsberg Boat Club. ‘There are nightwatchmen here in the summer,’ Foyn said. ‘Not now though, as there are hardly any boats.’

  He led the way to the policeman. Mørk was bare-headed, with hair that matched his surname – dark; he wore a loose grey coat over the brown suit and white shirt, open at the neck with a casually knotted tie with red and blue stripes, like a kind of medal ribbon under his collar. When we were close up I noticed his dark-brown, sensitive eyes, in sharp contrast to the otherwise masculine impression he gave.

  He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Varg Veum. Private investigator.’

  ‘From Bergen,’ Foyn added.

  ‘I can hear that,’ the policeman said, eyeing me sceptically. ‘Private investigator?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well.’ He extended a hand. ‘Wilhelm Mørk. Inspector.’ He turned back to Foyn. ‘What did you say about an ID? Do you know the deceased?’

  ‘We may do,’ Foyn said.

  ‘We … I have a suspicion,’ I said. ‘The reason I’m here is that the person I wanted to talk to has been reported missing. And … I can explain the details later, but … in the last six months there have been two other deaths of a similar nature to this one, from the same milieu, so to speak.’

  ‘All we know is that a body has been found in the sea. Obviously dead, but we don’t know what happened, what the cause of death might be, whether it was an accident or … something else. In short, I have to say you’re a step ahead of us if you already suspect you know who it is. Impressively so. Conspicuously so, too, I might add.’

  Foyn nodded to me. ‘It’s Veum you need to talk to, Mørk.’

  ‘The person we’re looking for is called Karl Slåtthaug. He’s the director of the child refugee reception centre in Olsrød.’

  ‘Really? Is he someone you would recognise?’

  ‘If he isn’t in too bad a state. I’ve met him many times.’

  Mørk nodded and turned to the crowd behind him. ‘He’s on his way up from the water now, so let’s…’ He motioned to Foyn and me to follow him to the edge of the quay.

  Foyn tightened the lead on Hulda and held her close. Two uniformed fire officers pulled carefully at the straps their colleagues in the sea had attached to the body. They hoisted it up to the edge of the quay while one of the men in wetsuits clambered up a ladder beside them. He held one hand underneath the body, which hung in what looked like a long hammock. With a firm grip the two on the quay grabbed one end of the broad canvas and turned the head of the dead man shorewards. Two more officers came over, and the four of them lifted the body onto land and the waiting stretcher. They folded the canvas to the side, so that the water could run off him, and beckoned to the paramedics in the ambulance.

  ‘Just a moment,’ Mørk said in an authoritative voice. He held my arm and led me to the stretcher.

  It came as no surprise or shock. Despite having been in the water for what I judged was a day or two, he was easy to recognise. If there were any courts of law in the hereafter, this was where Slåtthaug was heading now. He had been released from earth forever.

  31

  After a formal interview at the police station, we agreed, at Foyn’s suggestion, to meet for a glass or two at the Grand at nine that evening, Mørk, Foyn and I. The close relationship between Foyn and Mørk impressed me. I had never experienced anything of the sort in Bergen, not even with Vegard Vadheim while he had been alive.

  As the last plane was therefore out of the question, I checked in at the Grand Hotel, which was in the same block as the police station, and went with Foyn to a part of the town called Fjerdingen, where he lived in Reidar Sendemanns gate. It was a side street off Hertug Guttorms gate, where Karl Slåtthaug had lived, and from the crossing between the streets we were able to see straight up the hill to Slottsfjellet Tower. We rounded the corner and Foyn pointed to the house number Anne Kristine Kaldnes had given him, a building with white laminate sheets on the front and green doors and window mouldings.

  ‘I’d like to have a dekko in there,’ I said, looking up at the house front.

  ‘You’ll have to make do with my humble abode,’ Foyn said.

  He had a nice flat in a red timbered house which, to judge by the architecture, was more than a hundred years old. Hulda soon found her regular spot in a large basket in the corner. As for me, I got to taste his best cognac, a Bache-Gabrielsen XO, which, according to the label was très vieux. As old as the house, for all I knew.

  We had a bite to eat at a local pizzeria by the market place. At nine o’clock we were waiting in the bar at the Grand. From a window in the corner we could see down Øvre Langgate and straight into the floodlit old fire station with the characteristic tower t
hat had given a name to the pub on the first floor: Big Ben. We each had a beer and another brandy while waiting for Mørk. He arrived at closer to half past nine than nine, cast a quick glance at what we were drinking and ordered the same.

  Mørk had tightened his tie since we met on the quay, and the brown suit was considerably more elegant than I was used to among his colleagues in Bergen. I noticed a couple of women in the room watching him as he passed, but they stopped when they saw him join male company and immediately started chatting.

  ‘Private investigator? Can you live off that?’

  ‘Barely.’

  ‘And what do the police say when you turn up unbidden at crime scenes?’

  ‘I’m already on their blacklist, so they don’t say much now. Besides, I don’t usually.’

  ‘Oh, yes? I had a quick chat with one of my colleagues in Bergen, and he said the opposite. “Veum? A body as well, was there?” he said.’

  ‘Hamre?’

  He grinned. ‘You’re old friends?’

  ‘Soon be thirty years.’

  ‘But he was right. We had a body and you appeared. With our local celeb.’

  He glanced at Foyn, who raised his glass and toasted us. ‘To friends, old and new,’ he said.

  ‘OK, Veum. Slåtthaug had a bank card and a driving licence in his inside pocket, so we’ve confirmed your identification. We also spoke to a colleague of his at the refugee centre, and she said he hadn’t turned up for work as usual. She’d been to his flat and it had been empty. Obviously a close collegial relationship,’ he said with an eloquent wink and glanced from Foyn to me as though to hear if we had any comments.

  ‘Obviously,’ Foyn said, and I nodded in assent.

  ‘Seemed so, yes,’ I said. ‘What also worries me is the children missing from the centre.’

  ‘You’re thinking about the teenagers who went missing?’

  ‘Yes. Child refugees are a very vulnerable group, and without the control parents or similar can give, they can easily end up on the skids.’

  ‘Most go to Oslo,’ Foyn added. ‘The drugs community soon picks them up. The boys are forced into various types of criminality and the girls are quickly pressed into prostitution. And what do the authorities do? Little to nothing.’