Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Svendsbø bent down and did what he had been told. When he had finished, Hårkløv stood up, took hold of my arms, dragged me off and dumped me on the floor staring up at the ceiling, next to an old, worn-out armchair with an indefinable, nauseating stench, as though someone had once relieved themselves in it.

  I raised my head. Astrid was sitting open-mouthed and wide-eyed. She was breathing heavily and great tears were running down her cheeks. By the coffee table Svanhild Olsvik was crushing the empty beer can with masculine force, then she took another from the table and opened it with a loud hiss. The look she sent me was stony and intransigent. Bjarne Bratteli stared mutely at me, one arm partly round his camera stand, as if to protect it from attack. Knut Haugen was moving up and down on the balls of his feet, still apparently waiting for something to happen. As though this wasn’t enough. Carefully, I lowered my head and half turned to the side so that I could keep an eye on everyone in the room.

  ‘What the hell do we do now?’ Haugen said.

  Svendsbø shrugged. ‘We have to shut him up. For good.’

  Hårkløv grinned. ‘That’s easy enough. The sea’s right outside the door.’

  Haugen said: ‘You … You two are going to…?’

  From the camera Bratteli said: ‘Now listen here…’

  I raised my head again and looked straight at Haugen. ‘They’re going to turn you into a murderer, Knut.’ I shifted my gaze to Bratteli. ‘You, too.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Hårkløv said, took a step forwards and kicked me hard in the ribs.

  ‘Mummy,’ Astrid whimpered. ‘What are they talking about?’

  ‘Don’t take any notice. You just do as they say, like always.’

  The girl scowled at her mother. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, she sobbed aloud and her body twitched violently, then she forced her lips together so that not a sound would emerge, whatever punishment might ensue.

  Svanhild Olsvik turned to the others. ‘Aren’t we going to do what we’ve come here for?’ With pointless emphasis, she added: ‘Don’t forget she has to go to school at the usual time tomorrow.’

  ‘With him there on the floor?’ Bratteli said.

  Hårkløv bent down, lifted me and sat me with my back against the nauseating armchair. ‘Perhaps he’d like to watch?’ he said with a grin. ‘After all, you have a taste for that sort of thing, don’t you, Veum?’

  I started to say something, but his raised hand stopped me. ‘And you just button it! One word from you and we’ll tape your mouth so hard you won’t even be able to breathe.’

  ‘Why don’t we get rid of him right now?’ Svanhild Olsvik said.

  ‘Don’t you think we should torture him a bit first?’ Hårkløv answered. ‘Mentally, then … physically.’

  ‘We owe him that,’ Svendsbø declared unemotionally. ‘I lost my wife because of him.’

  ‘Who hasn’t?’ Bratteli said. As they all turned to him, he added: ‘Lost a wife, that is.’

  ‘She died,’ Svendsbø said.

  ‘And Veum will, too,’ Hårkløv rejoined.

  Wisely, I held my own counsel.

  ‘Why do you think I targeted your woman?’ Svendsbø continued, fixing his eyes on mine. ‘And her little daughter?’ He seemed to be getting het up at the thought. ‘You should fucking find out what it feels like, too! Losing the person you love. No longer being allowed to see your own children.’

  ‘She isn’t my…’

  Hårkløv kicked me in the ribs. ‘Shut your mouth, I said.’

  ‘And you tried to kill me first.’

  Hårkløv leaned over me and pressed the roll of tape against my face, hard. ‘Your very last warning! Do you understand?’

  Svanhild Olsvik had moved over to her daughter. She had taken a paper tissue and dried her tears. ‘Stop crying!’ she snarled. ‘You’ve done this before.’

  The daughter looked up at her mother with lifeless eyes. I could feel myself flinching inside. I had met fathers who abused their daughters. But a mother…?

  ‘Fuck her,’ Svendsbø said. ‘It doesn’t matter if she cries. It just makes it more realistic.’

  Bratteli went to the door of the far room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Hårkløv bellowed.

  ‘Outside for a piss. Is that not allowed or what?’

  Hårkløv glanced at Svendsbø, who shrugged. ‘As long as you don’t fall into the toilet out there.’

  Bratteli went out.

  I watched Svanhild Olsvik with new eyes now. A rogue lioness? ‘So this is what you offered your clients. Free access to your daughter.’

  This time Hårkløv kicked me with such vehemence I fell back and almost knocked myself out on the concrete floor. Semi-concussed, I heard Svanhild Olsvik say: ‘Shouldn’t we shut him up once and for all?’

  ‘Mummy!’ Astrid screamed hysterically.

  Her mother spun round and slapped her daughter so hard it echoed all around the hall.

  Haugen said: ‘Listen…’ I noticed he had started to look uncomfortable as well.

  ‘This game stops right here,’ Bratteli said from the doorway.

  The others in the room gaped at him. Even Astrid stopped crying with a half-stifled gasp.

  ‘Says fucking who?’ Hårkløv said, and moved away from me.

  Sigurd Svendsbø looked around, suddenly unsure what was happening.

  ‘I do,’ Bratteli said. ‘I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, but I’m no murderer! And I’m not planning to become one, either.’

  If I’d had my arms free I would have applauded. Hårkløv turned to Svendsbø, and I watched them exchange wordless reactions to the new situation.

  ‘You can count me out, too,’ Haugen said, demonstratively moving away from the others. ‘This has gone too far.’

  Bratteli held up his phone. ‘The police are on their way.’

  ‘What!’ shouted Svendsbø. ‘For Christ’s sake. Bønni…’ He pointed to the door.

  Hårkløv gesticulated towards me. ‘And this pain in the arse, what shall we do with him?’

  ‘He’ll have to wait. This is about us now. They can stop us at the bridge.’ Svendsbø headed for the door. Hårkløv stared unhappily at me. Then he followed Svendsbø.

  Bratteli stepped aside. As they passed, Hårkløv sent him a stern glare. ‘Your time will come, too. You can be dead sure.’

  Svanhild Olsvik walked towards the door as well. ‘Wait for me!’ Without a look back at her daughter, she disappeared out of the door, on the heels of Svendsbø and Hårkløv.

  Bratteli watched her leave, open-mouthed. From my position on the floor I said: ‘She knows she’ll lose her parental rights to her daughter now. This will be a social-services matter.’

  Haugen and Bratteli looked down at me, a perplexed expression on their faces. ‘Might be an idea to cut me free?’ I said.

  Haugen freed me while Bratteli released Astrid from the chair.

  I stood up, my muscles aching after the battering Hårkløv had given me. When Astrid was free she looked from Bratteli to Haugen with obvious fear in her eyes. Then she ran straight to me, wrapped her arms around me and hugged me tight, her sobs long and painful, and her body trembling with despair. The two other men in the hall turned their backs, as though ashamed to be in the same room as us. I held her tight and gently stroked her shoulders. ‘There, there,’ I said. ‘It’ll all be fine now, Astrid. Everything’s going to be fine.’

  But everything is a big word. I was frightened I had promised her too much.

  43

  The police came, if not with bugles and fanfares, then with sirens blaring, which fell silent at the gate. Not long afterwards we heard running feet outside; Bjarne Bratteli was standing in the doorway to receive them.

  Immediately he was led into the hall by uniformed police officers, two of them with secured weapons. Right behind them came Bjarne Solheim and Annemette Bergesen, both in civvies. They soon had an overview of the situation. Bergesen walked over to where Astrid and I we
re. The little girl clung to me even more tightly. Solheim guided Haugen and Bratteli into the opposite corner and motioned for the officers to take charge of them, then he turned to me, stroked his crew cut and raised his eyebrows. ‘Veum?’

  ‘Did you manage to stop them at Sotra Bridge?’

  ‘Stop whom? We weren’t given any info about the car or the individuals concerned. Just an emergency call to get here as fast as possible to this address, and there was a small child involved.’ He looked at Astrid.

  Bergesen said: ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  I said discreetly: ‘A few days ago we talked a little about a woman. This is her daughter.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  I whispered: ‘Escaped in the getaway car.’

  ‘Have we got a description of the car?’ Solheim asked.

  ‘I assume it was Bjørn Hårkløv’s.’ I looked questioningly at Haugen.

  ‘Yes. It wasn’t mine. I’ve got the key on me.’

  ‘Then it was Hårkløv’s. A black Audi. I assume it’s registered in his name.’

  Solheim beckoned to one of the officers. ‘Find the registration number and put out an alert.’

  ‘There are three people in the car. There were, anyway. Bjørn Hårkløv, an old acquaintance of yours, Sigurd Svendsbø and…’ again I lowered my voice ‘…Svanhild Olsvik.’ I gave them Svanhild’s address in Fyllingsdalen and noticed that Astrid had let go of me. She had lifted her hands to her ears when her mother’s name was mentioned. I gently held her close to me.

  ‘Svendsbø?’ Bergesen queried. ‘Wasn’t he the one involved in the previous abuse case? The one who was presumed drowned?’

  ‘Yes.’ To her quizzical gaze I said: ‘Not everyone waits until Easter. People wake from the dead at Christmas, too.’

  Solheim came over to us. ‘Well, we’ll secure the place and take some photos. Could you tell us what actually went on here, Veum?’

  ‘Luckily I arrived in time to break it up, but you can see the camera. They were going to make a video with…’ I nodded silently towards Astrid. ‘When I arrived, I was spotted before I had a chance to contact you, and the most hard-bitten of this bunch were all for depositing me in the sea. You would’ve been rid of me for good, Solheim. But one of those two over there – Bjarne Bratteli – reached a point where he didn’t want to be part of this, neither as an accomplice, nor as a passive spectator. He was the one who rang you.’

  ‘And the other one?’

  ‘Knut Haugen, son of the late Per Haugen, whom you might know.’

  ‘And this Bratteli, who’s he?’

  ‘He was the one who would do the filming. At any rate, it’s his equipment over there. He works in a kindergarten.’

  Bergesen shook her head in resignation. Solheim’s face hardened even further. He said: ‘They’ll have to be brought in and charged.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And what was your role this time, Veum?’

  ‘It’s the same case we’ve been discussing several times over the last week. I was still after a potential murderer. A man or woman. What’s more…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s admitted it now. It was Svendsbø in the grey Golf who tried to run down Sølvi and me. Have you found it?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Solheim turned to Bergesen. ‘What shall we do with her?’ He looked down at Astrid.

  ‘I’ll take her with me to child welfare.’

  ‘We can go in my car,’ I said. ‘She seems to feel safe with me.’

  ‘Yes. Wonders will never cease,’ Solheim said with a crooked smile and turned to his colleagues. ‘Folks! Supply the two gentlemen over there with a pair of top-quality cable ties and take them to the station for questioning.’

  Bratteli opened his mouth to protest, but caught himself and then accepted the situation. Haugen didn’t protest either and followed him out. Both were accompanied by a police officer.

  As they were about to pass, Bratteli stopped and turned to me. ‘I hope you’ll tell them what my role was in this.’

  ‘For good and ill, I have to say.’

  ‘At any rate I’m not a paedophile, like…’ He glanced at Haugen. ‘But they forced me. Even when Laila was living at home, she got into debt to them and I didn’t have enough bloody money. Then they contacted me directly.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Him … Hårkløv. He said they would cancel the debt if I did them a favour. And so I took the photos in the kindergarten.’

  The officer beside him signalled that she was getting impatient. ‘Come on now!’

  ‘Afterwards they had a hold on me. I could’ve lost my job.’

  ‘You definitely will now anyway.’

  ‘But I saved your life. Don’t forget that.’

  I nodded. He pinched his mouth shut and walked on.

  We waited a little before following, Annemette Bergesen first, Astrid and I behind. The little girl had her hand firmly in mine. I thought I might have to go to wherever child welfare placed her as well before the evening was over, so that she would feel secure.

  Fortunately it didn’t turn out like that. One of the women in the child-welfare office, which was just off the street where the main police station was, managed to gain her confidence in the hour we chatted, to such an extent that when I finally made a move to go Astrid just looked up at me with her big eyes and raised a hand in a little wave. I left her with a heavy heart, but I felt confident she would have expert help where she was going.

  Before going home I popped by the crime squad to hear how it was going with the search for the black Audi and the wanted persons. I heard that Svanhild Olsvik had been arrested at her home address. She hadn’t opened the door when the police rang her bell, but she was stopped when a taxi pulled up in front of her block an hour later and she tried to leave the building with two suitcases and a rucksack. The Audi and the two others hadn’t been seen yet.

  I drove home and had a nervous night’s sleep. Before going to bed I called Sølvi and warned her that someone might still try something against her or Helene, even if the chance of this happening was probably less now than before. I asked if she wanted me to go over, but she said no. In a weary voice, she added: ‘We can manage fine on our own, Varg.’

  At eight o’clock the next morning I received a phone call from Annemette Bergesen. She told me that the grey Golf had been found abandoned on the island of Bjorøy, by a holiday home, which under closer examination turned out to have belonged to Sigurd Svendsbø’s late parents and therefore in reality was his. Svendsbø and Hårkløv were still at large, both of them.

  When I went down to the office and switched on the computer there was a message from the Tønsberg police. Mørk had sent me the passenger lists for the Widerøe routes between Bergen and Torp on the relevant days the previous week. They were in attachments and he asked me to report back as soon as I had been through them, to tell him if there were any names I recognised.

  I opened the attachments and combed through them systematically. I scrolled down the lists until my fingers stopped in mid-air over the keyboard and the mouse lay as lifeless as if it had been caught in a trap.

  There was a name I recognised. I moved a tiny bit up the list to see what the date was. From Bergen to Torp on Wednesday, 7th January. I moved to the list of passengers on the day after. Return from Torp to Bergen on Thursday, 8th January, the same day Foyn informed me that Slåtthaug had been reported missing.

  I didn’t call Mørk back, as he had asked me to do. Instead I grabbed the phone, found the right number on the list and dialled it. Not long afterwards we had arranged to meet.

  44

  I crossed Sotra Bridge on this day too, but drove past the side road I’d taken the previous day and continued south. All depending on the volume of traffic, it would take me between forty-five minutes and an hour to reach where I was going. Sund was the most southerly of the three districts forming the island kingdom west of Bergen.

  Temperatu
res were still wintry, only three to four degrees, but the cloud cover had broken and the golden January sun angled in low over the countryside. The light breeze sweeping over the bonnet didn’t have the slightest effect on the motion of the car. The roads were dry and fine, with occasional patches of snow at the edge, like filthy putty.

  Passing the white wooden church in Fjell, I had to brake for a scruffy, grey dog crossing the road with its nose in the air, as though it personally owned this stretch. When I accelerated again, it walked along the stone wall around the church, sniffing, as though searching for hidden scents.

  Further south, I branched off to the east and then drove south again. After some kilometres I came to a chapel on the right-hand side, also white, but with blue window frames and ledges. On an impulse I pulled in, stopped in front of the noticeboard by the entrance and got out of the car to read the notices. One of them prompted a nod of recognition: 3rd Sunday in Epiphany, 18th January, 6:00 p.m. Congregation meeting. Children’s choir. Sermon by Pastor Storebø. All heartily welcome.

  I got back into my car and drove on. From the description he had given me, it couldn’t be far now. A couple of kilometres further south a gravel track led off from the main road. Only a green post box on a stand set back from the road told me someone lived there. The low, white house stood behind a screen of trees at the end of the track. It was a typical west-Norwegian smallholding, probably dating back to the 1920s, with a plain, grey farmhouse. As I pulled up in front of the house, the door opened and Hans Storebø came onto the stoop. ‘Welcome to my farm, Veum,’ he said with a warm smile.

  When I first met him, at Tora Haugen’s, the heavy folds around his mouth reminded me of a bloodhound. Here he reminded me more of a good-natured farm dog. He was wearing a blue-and-white traditional sweater, grey trousers hanging loose around his legs, and around his neck protruded the collar of a brown, checked flannel shirt. ‘I have some coffee and biscuits for us,’ he said, beckoning me to follow him.

  Through a small porch, where a steep staircase led up to an attic under the pitched roof, he led me into the kitchen and what in bygone days had probably been the parlour. It was a little room that would then only have been used on holy days. There were still remnants of the old carved furniture. On a chest of drawers along one wall was a big wireless, where I could imagine they collected once or twice a day to listen to the weather forecast and the news. The weather forecast was more important. But this scene was broken by the TV in one corner and the large, black, leather Stressless chair, which was strategically placed at the correct angle for the screen.