Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  The same applied to Haldis Midtbø. After that, there were no more women on my list. I hadn’t registered a female partner for the third dead man, Karl Slåtthaug. There was Anne Kristine Kaldnes, of course, but from her to Haugen and Midtbø there was a distance of so many miles it was futile imagining any connection.

  So I was back to reality and blank sheets of paper. But, as Hans Storebø had said, in cases like this there could be many unknown factors. An in-depth investigation would mean examining the relations between Per Haugen and his neighbours over many years and perhaps not only as an adult. In short, it was an insuperable task for one investigator of my calibre. I just had to admit it.

  And what about the driver of the grey Golf? Neither Sølvi nor I had seen who it was. For all we knew, it could have been a woman behind the wheel.

  I rang the police station and asked for Melvær. He was out on a job, I was told. ‘What about Solheim then?’ He was there.

  ‘Veum?’

  ‘Have you heard that my partner was almost run over by a grey Golf on Saturday?’

  ‘We have the details.’

  ‘And do you remember it was a grey Golf that tried to run me down as well, last weekend? One of the rental cars on the list you gave me has the same first two letters and numbers as the car Sølvi saw. Melvær took down this information from us on Saturday evening.’

  ‘We’re on the case, Veum. There are some legal niceties here, but we reckon we’ll have a name within the day.’

  ‘Will you ring me, if so?’

  He paused before answering. ‘If we have any questions to ask you, we’ll ring. If not … We don’t want any interference in this investigation from – what shall we say? – freelancers.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And that’s all I have to say on the matter. Have a nice day, Veum.’ He put down the phone, as forthright as always.

  The next person I called was Foyn. He hadn’t heard from Mørk yet, but promised he would try to contact him in the course of the day. ‘The death’s mentioned in Tønsbergs Blad today,’ he said. ‘But it’s referred to as a drowning accident. Or “most probably a drowning accident”, to quote them correctly.’

  The next on the list was Ghulam Mohammad. I asked him if his wife had enquired whether Laila would talk to me again. ‘What?’ he answered, in a somewhat distracted tone. ‘No, I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything to me, anyway.’

  ‘Could you ask her to do so? It’s important I talk to Laila. You want her to get some help, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I’ll pass on the message to Fatima.’

  ‘And then tell me when we can talk.’

  ‘And then I’ll tell you,’ he said and hung up.

  The third phone call was to Germany. Frau Schultz answered. She told me her husband was out on a job at that moment and they hadn’t found anything yet about what I had asked them to investigate. ‘We ring back as soon as we have something,’ she said in her somewhat halting English.

  I had no intention of warning the last person on the list of my imminent arrival. Bjørn Hårkløv had his office in Sandsli. I had some difficulty finding the correct address. It turned out that Hårkløv had his so-called office in a building more reminiscent of a workmen’s hut, not so far from where SH Data had their offices – a company I had visited a few times before and had every intention of returning to once I was finished with Hårkløv.

  The hut was at the end of a small side street. The closest neighbour was a car dealership. I parked there and walked the short distance to the hut. A little sign on the wall said that Hårkløv Kreditt resided here. In front of the hut was the black Audi. I took this as a sign that he was at home. This impression was confirmed when I peered through the window I had to pass to reach the white front door. Bjørn Hårkløv stared at me with an expression he had borrowed from a catfish, and when he got up from his chair he didn’t appear to be in a mood to welcome me with open arms. It was more the old bouncer that had come to life in him, rough and brutal. Or were we talking pure evil here, too?

  Before I had reached the door, it opened with a bang. Bjørn Hårkløv came out, slammed the door behind him and marched towards me. Ten centimetres away he stopped. ‘What the fuck do you want here, Veum?’

  ‘To have a few words with you.’

  ‘You can have a few words with the fucking man on the moon, you can. If you stick your nose in my business, I’ll…’

  ‘You’ll what? Ring the police?’

  ‘You just keep the cops away from my business. I have my own methods.’

  ‘Yes, I remember. But it didn’t go very well then, either, did it.’

  ‘I won’t make the same mistake again.’ He towered over me and swelled like a rutting capercaillie.

  ‘You still work for Karsten, I understand.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Same old shit, new packaging.’

  ‘Yer what?’

  ‘Let me tell you something. You’re going to drop the demands all of you are making on Laila Bratteli.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘Says me. I’ve reported the matter to the police. They’ve noted down your name. Of course, they already had it, but now they’ve got it for this case too. If anything at all happens to her, you’re the one they’ll haul in, you can be sure of that.’

  He glowered at me. ‘Oh yeah? Are you going to pay her debts then? You know that won’t happen, Veum. Someone wants that money, whatever it costs.’

  ‘And this someone is…?’

  He pursed his lips and puffed himself up even further. If he went on like this there was a good chance he would burst. I saw him clench his fists, and I prepared to beat a hasty retreat if he made good this threat.

  ‘How long is it since you’ve spoken to Stein Sløvåg, Hårkløv?’

  ‘Eh? I don’t know any … Sløvåg.’

  ‘No? You use his real name, do you?’

  This time he came for me, but not at top speed, more like a large rock rolling down a hill and slowly picking up pace. I quickly stepped to the side, so as not to be flattened in the fall.

  ‘I’m going to crush you.’ He glanced over at the car showroom, where a man stood outside smoking and looking in our direction. Then he lowered his arms. ‘But not here. You’re skating on thin ice now. Make no mistake about it, I’ll get Laila Bratteli’s money. There are people waiting for it. And these people you go round asking questions about … You’re a flea in all of this. Make no mistake about that. A flea!’ He lifted his right hand and demonstrated how little it would take to crush me between his thumb and first finger.

  I searched for something stinging that might linger in the air after my departure, a contribution to the series of Famous Last Words. All I could think of was: ‘Yeah, but watch out for flea bites!’ I doubted this would bother him. But it didn’t matter.

  36

  I strolled back to the car without letting him out of my sight. He watched me until I had got into my car, started the engine and pulled out from where I had parked. Only then did he go back into his hut. ‘Hårkløv Kreditt,’ I mumbled to myself. ‘Creditworthy? Hardly.’

  But I didn’t leave Sandsli at once. I had another job to do while I was there.

  I had been in the big office block before. I found a vacant bay, parked and crossed over to the main entrance. Inside the enormous atrium I nodded to the security guard sitting on display in his glass box with what I hoped passed for nonchalance and then headed straight for the staircase leading up into the building. SH Data was on the third floor; just like the last time, I got no further than the solid glass door. Through it I could see into the bright company rooms, where most of the staff sat at their places, while a few moved from one area to another on who-knows-what errands.

  I didn’t recognise the woman in reception with the short, dark hair, but I addressed her via the intercom at the side of the door. She spoke into a microphone mounted on a headset in front of her mouth like a lollipop while staring straight at me thr
ough the glass door.

  ‘Ruth Olsen. Is she about?’

  ‘Have you got an appointment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what was the name?’

  ‘Veum. Varg Veum.’

  ‘I’ll ask.’

  Ruth Olsen was the ex-wife of Sigurd Svendsbø, who vanished into Bjørna fjord that dramatic autumn evening a year and a half earlier. One of Svendsbø’s daughters had been in many of the photos he had put on the net. Unfortunately I had been in some of them, too. As if that weren’t enough, the self-same Ruth Olsen had been in a relationship with one of the others in the network, as far as I knew, although I was unclear about the background. This man was still in prison. If anyone had a reason to be furious about what had happened, it was her. Perhaps her anger was so great, she’d felt the need to take her revenge on the men who had been convicted along with her ex-husband? The list had been short and snappy. It comprised Per Haugen, Mikael Midtbø, Karl Slåtthaug and – until the contrary had been proved – myself.

  The receptionist nodded to me and said: ‘She’s on her way.’

  I waited for her to open the door, but she didn’t. I stood there until Ruth Olsen appeared. She sent me a fierce glare, exchanged a few words with the receptionist and came to the door herself.

  I had no difficulty recognising her. She was a small, compact woman, elegantly dressed in black trousers and an ice-blue blouse that was in sharp contrast with the deep blue of her glasses. She walked in a jerky, aggressive way that did not invite any form of intimacy.

  She pressed a button on the inside and the door slid open. She came out and waited until the door had closed behind her. Then she locked her eyes onto mine. ‘What on earth are you doing here, Veum? Do you think I want anything to do with you?’

  I made a gesture with my hands, as if to signal my sympathy. ‘I understand that you might not be thrilled to see me, but I was acquitted of any involvement with what went on and the photos you were exposed to … I’ve explained all this before. At the time I was in fact unconscious.’

  ‘That didn’t make it any better,’ she said with a slight tremor in her voice.

  ‘No, but it was actually your husband – your ex-husband who took the photos.’

  ‘They’re still in my brain,’ she exclaimed in a burst of emotion. ‘Sometimes I wake up in the night and can see them, and then I can’t get back to sleep for ages.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘So why have you come here, raking up the past now, when all of us who were involuntarily dragged into this business are doing our best to forget it?’

  ‘Because it’s resurfaced.’ I looked around. ‘Is there anywhere we can talk?’

  ‘We can talk here.’ She gestured. ‘This way.’

  I followed her along the internal balcony. Above us arched a high glass ceiling. From where she was standing we could see down four storeys into the atrium. We could wave to the security monkey in the cage or we could swing over the railing and down if we felt the need.

  She still had the fierce expression on her face. ‘What do you mean the case has resurfaced?’

  ‘Some of the men who were convicted have died. I seem to remember you followed the trials. I saw you in court.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘I had to hear what the bastards had to say for themselves – their excuses.’

  ‘Per Haugen died in October. Mikael Midtbø died in December. Karl Slåtthaug died in January.’

  ‘I see. Not worth a damn, the lot of them, if you ask me.’

  ‘But … that’s not why I wanted to talk to you.’

  ‘Right.’ She gazed at me with measured interest.

  It struck me there was something resigned and distant about the way she regarded me. The woman standing here with me was indisputably one of the victims in this case. One of her daughters was in the images presented to the court – with me, to my mortification. Her ex-husband was revealed to be someone she had probably never remotely considered criminal. The man she had established a new relationship with had turned out to be involved in developing the computer program that had circulated the images and, in addition, a murderer. What right did I have to come here and create even more uncertainty in her life? I was unable to do anything else. Because the growing suspicions I nurtured were too strong.

  ‘Your ex-husband, Sigurd Svendsbø. Have you ever heard from him again?’

  She blanched, visibly. Then her eyes widened and she instinctively took a few steps backwards. She stared at me as if she had seen a ghost, and in a way that was probably exactly what I was evoking by asking such questions. In a voice so weak I had to lean forwards to catch what she was saying, she said: ‘Siggen! What are you talking about? He drowned, didn’t he? You witnessed it yourself. Have you lost your mind or what?’

  ‘It’s just that … no body was ever found, as you know. And now someone from Germany has turned up with a very different name, but the initials are the same, as though, in searching for a new name, he couldn’t quite let go of the old one.’

  ‘What? Now I don’t understand what you’re saying. I can’t follow you.’

  ‘The name Stein Sløvåg, does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Stein Sløvåg? No. Is it meant to be—?’

  I held up my hands. ‘I don’t know, Ruth. That’s why I’ve come to see you. I thought he might try to contact you. That he might be hoping to see his daughters again.’

  ‘See Herdis and Bente again?’ Her voice was stronger now. ‘In his dreams! If so, it will be over my dead body. He has no right…’ She raised her voice a notch. ‘Absolutely no right! To anything. He should just keep well away.’

  ‘This is only an idea off the top of my head. It might be completely wrong. Your ex-husband might be at the bottom of the sea, crab fodder, but I had to ask you the question.’

  ‘Do you know what, Veum? You’ve really rattled me now. There hasn’t been a day since I saw the photos that I haven’t thought, This will never happen again. I’ll protect my daughters with everything I possess. An animal like him will never get close to them. Eugh!’

  At once tears sprang from her eyes, not meek, sad tears, but ones that burst forth like projectiles from a hidden launch pad, a sign of an anger that knew no bounds. I couldn’t get the word Sølvi had used a few days ago out of my brain: a lioness, ready to protect her offspring, even at the risk of losing her own life.

  ‘He hasn’t contacted you then?’

  She came towards me, so close that I could feel the heat of her body, the smell of the strong perfume she used, a lavender scent. Her face flushed, she cried: ‘He has not. I can promise you that.’

  I took out my wallet, gave her my card and said: ‘If you should hear from him, would you mind getting in touch?’

  She looked down at the card with contempt. ‘You? If he contacts me in any way whatsoever, I’ll call the police! You can be damn sure I will.’

  ‘Good. Just do that. But … I’d still like to know.’

  ‘Fine.’ She shrugged and took the card in one hand. Then she said: ‘I don’t promise anything. But … thank you for letting me know. I’m never going to forget this case now. Not until they fish the bastard up from the deep and show him to me. Only then will I get a decent night’s sleep again. Though I’m not at all sure that a good night’s sleep exists for people who have experienced what I have. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, in fact I can.’

  ‘So take this as a final farewell. And I hope I never see you again. Understand?’

  ‘I understand that, too.’

  We gazed at each other for a few seconds. Then she looked away, stepped to the side, walked past me and back to the glass door. She beckoned to the receptionist inside and the door opened like magic, let her in and closed behind her.

  As for me, I had to find my way out without any help. No one had asked me to come here, either. I was used to that. Only very rarely was I a welcome guest. And where I was going later today I was hardly li
kely to be welcome, either.

  37

  The phone rang before I had a chance to get into my car. It was Ghulam Mohammad. ‘Fatima says Laila can talk to you, if you’re still interested.’

  ‘I am. I’m on my way.’

  I got in, started up and drove the quickest route to Sletten. I parked a short distance from the house, then walked back and up to the second floor.

  Mohammad was standing in the doorway as I appeared. ‘She said you should call by phone before you came so that she could hear it was you.’

  I nodded, took out my phone and dialled her number. Her voicemail came on. I answered it. ‘Hi, Laila. This is Veum. I’m outside your front door.’

  Thirty seconds later she opened the door, still with the security chain on. She peered out, as though to ensure I was alone. Then she closed the door, released the chain and reopened.

  I nodded to Muhammad and followed Laila into the flat. From the hallway she led me into the sitting room. It was very simply furnished: a tired-looking coffee table, three chairs around it, an old-fashioned TV set in the opposite corner and that was it. The TV was on, with no sound, and was showing some soap opera from the 1980s, judging by the clothes the actors were wearing. The only picture on the wall was one of the prints they give you when you buy something from IKEA, happy to be rid of them. This one didn’t even hang straight, but had a pronounced slant to the left.

  On the table lay a well-thumbed weekly magazine open at a page showing new fashions, plus some scrunched-up sweet papers and a tin of throat pastilles. In the chair where presumably she had been sitting I saw white pill bottles that had been pushed down into a corner behind a cushion; easily accessible if she should need them. She made a beeline for the chair, plumped down, turned her phone round so that she could read the display and then raised her eyes to me.

  She nodded briefly towards one of the two other chairs. ‘You can sit there.’

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to speak to me.’