Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  “You know, you could be right. Diabol got my name mixed up before, remember?”

  “Yes, that’s right, he did. So, do you think this Diabol could have got the wrong Carl Oppenheimer?”

  “Well, it’s possible, I suppose. But there’s obviously nothing to be done about it now.”

  Robbie hunched his shoulders and stared gloomily at his friend. “Apparently not,” he said sadly. “Poor Carl.”

  They continued their train journey in companionable silence, both lost in their own thoughts.

  

  They reached their destination quite late that afternoon, and it was growing dusk as they approached the apartment where the Heglunds lived. It was a tall block situated not far from Oslo Central station. The imposing building, in some ways, looked more like a prison than residential apartments. But inside, it was much more pleasant. The main hall was well-lit and carpeted, and the walls were painted in a soothing pale green. There were a few pot plants in evidence, which added a homely touch to the place.

  The Heglunds’ flat was located on the third floor, which was reached by a rather unwieldy lift that carried them creakingly and slowly upwards. As it hit the third floor, they were practically thrown off their feet as it jerked to a halt.

  They stepped out into a long corridor, with warm, russet carpeting along its length, soft lighting and a pleasant aroma of lavender polish. The Heglunds’ flat was the last one on the right side. As they stood outside the door, they almost wondered why they had come. They just hoped the couple would be pleased to hear what they had to say.

  Robbie pressed the bell with determination. The door was opened almost immediately by an ancient-looking, bent-up little woman. This couldn’t be the grandmother, surely? She must be the great grandmother.

  “Hello,” said Robbie. “We are here to see Mr and Mrs Heglund, the parents of Marianne Dahl. Are they in?”

  “Yes, we are,” she replied. So, she was the grandmother. At least she understood English, which was a blessing. A man, looking a good twenty years younger, came to the door and shook Robbie and Bernard by the hand. “Come in, please. We have been expecting you.”

  “Er, thank you,” replied Robbie, following them into the flat, with Bernard trailing behind. “You were expecting us?”

  “Yes,” said Torrad Heglund. “The police called us. They told us you were coming to see us. They said they hoped you were not going to cause trouble and to call them if you did. But I can see you are not trouble.” And he smiled at them.

  “I hope you won’t think so, after you’ve heard what we have to tell you,” said Robbie, averting his eyes from the open face of Mr Heglund.

  “What news do you have, young man?” asked Mrs Heglund, addressing Robbie, as she ushered them both into the living room and invited them to sit down.

  Torrad said something to his wife in Norwegian. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.

  “No, thank you,” said Robbie at once. “Listen to what I have to say first. You might just want to kick us out afterwards.”

  The Heglunds looked bewildered. “I don’t understand,” said Torrad. “Do you have news that will upset us?”

  “I fear so,” said Robbie. “You see, I’ve seen your grandchildren.” Bernard gave him a startled look. He didn’t think he was going to break it to them quite so bluntly.

  Edda Heglund clapped her hands in joy. “You have? Where?” she cried.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to raise your hopes,” said Robbie. “I saw them, but they were in the spirit world. They were ghosts. Do you know what that means?”

  Torrad’s face took on a horrified expression. Mrs Heglund just looked puzzled. She turned to her husband, who again spoke to her in her native language. Then it was her turn to look horrified.

  “You mean they are dead?” she screamed at Robbie.

  He cast his eyes down to his shoes. “It looks that way, I’m afraid,” he murmured.

  Edda Heglund let out a yell and collapsed into her husband’s arms. A yell, being the same in any language, Robbie and Bernard knew that she had taken this news as badly as they feared.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Robbie, “but I had to tell you the worst because something positive could come out of this, if you stop and think for a minute.”

  Torrad glared at him. “I think you’ve done enough damage, Mr – er, Dr MacTavish,” he said sternly. “You come here with some story about seeing the ghosts of our grandchildren – how do you think that makes us feel? You cannot possibly state that they are dead, can you? You saw some sort of a vision. That’s no proof. How dare you upset my wife like this? Please go – now!”

  Robbie and Bernard rose to leave. They had done what they had set out to do, but they hadn’t succeeded in convincing the couple of their story. Perhaps it was inevitable.

  Edda Heglund stopped them as they were about to go out of the door. “Wait,” she called in a small, thin voice, completely calm now. “You tell us that you have seen our grandchildren? They could have been real, couldn’t they? I mean alive. Not – ghosts at all?”

  Robbie saw a way now to help soften the blow. “I don’t know for sure, Mrs Heglund. All I can tell you is that I saw them under a tree in the forest near their home. Pretty blond children, the little girl had her hair in a plait, and they were both dressed in blue. They could have been playing or just waiting for some help. They tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand what they said. I was on holiday then with my friend here. I couldn’t rest when I got back to England, and I made it my business to find out what had happened to them. I came back to Bergen to find them again, but the tree where I saw them has been cut down.”

  “It would,” said Mr Heglund. “It’s the Christmas market. So they are alive?”

  “I didn’t say that, Mr Heglund. My friend here, Bernard, was with me, but he didn’t see them. That’s why I fear they may have been ghosts. Do you understand?”

  “But your friend could have been looking elsewhere and missed them, couldn’t he?” Edda Heglund asked, hopefully.

  “Yes, Mrs Heglund,” Robbie sighed. “It’s possible.” He didn’t have the heart to contradict her further.

  Bernard touched her arm gently. “Mrs Heglund, if your grandchildren have passed over, they may be trying to get in touch with someone to tell them about what happened to them and, I’m sorry to have to say this, also to tell them where their bodies are. Also, they will probably know who their murderer is. Do you see?”

  As before, Bernard was able to pour a little oil on troubled waters. Mr Heglund still looked very cross, but his wife was calm, almost serene. She seemed to understand. He told them that he and Robbie would make every effort to find out what happened to their daughter and grandchildren.

  “Phew! That wasn’t easy,” observed Bernard, once they were out in the dark street once more.

  “But they needed to know,” said Robbie grimly. “We must come back and see them tomorrow, Bernie, once they’ve had a chance to assimilate what we’ve told them. Maybe, by then, they’ll be able to tell us something about this man that helped out on their daughter’s farm.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea? Don’t you think we’ve upset them enough already? And don’t you think they would have told the police all about this man? They’re not likely to tell us anything new, are they?”

  Robbie shrugged. “I only know I need to do this, Bernie. I must talk to them when they’ve calmed down. You never know, the police could have missed something.”

  “Do you think that’s likely?”

  “I don’t know, Bernie, I only know we’ve got to try. Anyway, we’d better book into a hotel for the night. Come on.”

  Bernard thought his friend was taking too much on himself. If the tree had still been there, all well and good. If he had seen the children again, all well and good. And if Carl had still been alive to translate what they said, all well and good. But with all these things no longer possible, what other options did Robbie have?
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br />   

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Torrad Heglund, as he opened the door to Robbie and Bernard the following morning. His welcome was nowhere near as friendly as it had been the evening before. “My wife has been upset enough without you two coming along to stir it all up again. Can’t you leave us in peace?”

  “Believe me, Mr Heglund, there’s nothing I’d like better than to do just that,” said Robbie, “but those children are crying out for help, and I’m not going to turn my back on them. Now, I just need to ask you a few questions, that’s all. That can’t hurt, can it?”

  Mr Heglund stared at him, then looked at Bernard. His expression softened after a moment and he sighed. “All right, you had better come in,” he said.

  His wife was standing in the living room as they entered. She looked friendlier than her husband, but she had obviously been crying. Robbie apologised for disturbing them again and sat down in the chair indicated by the old woman. Bernard sat in the chair opposite. The bereaved couple held hands and seated themselves on the sofa in the middle of them.

  Edda smiled thinly. “Well, what would you like to know, gentlemen?” she asked.

  “This man the police are looking for, the one your daughter apparently hired to help out on the farm, have you any idea who he is?” Robbie asked.

  Edda looked at her husband, who shrugged dismissively. “You must understand, Dr MacTavish ...”

  “Robbie, please,” interrupted that gentleman.

  “Yes – thank you,” replied Mr Heglund. “You must understand, er – Robbie, that we didn’t see so much of our daughter since this man came along. We did not approve of him, you see.”

  “Why was that?” asked Robbie.

  “We did not like that he was – well, to be blunt, he was sleeping with Marianne. She told us he was some odd job man, not one of our class. A mere peasant.”

  Robbie nodded, as if in sympathy. “But how do you know he was sleeping with her? Did she tell you?”

  “No, it was things the grandchildren said.” Torrad Heglund looked almost shamefaced. “I know what you think, that we are snobs.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that,” said Robbie, untruthfully.

  Bernard came forward now and leaned towards the distraught man. “We understand, of course,” he said, also untruthfully. “We just wondered if you knew anything about this man at all. Something you didn’t tell the police, but have since remembered?”

  “No, we know nothing about him, only that he is of lower class and took advantage of our daughter,” said Edda Heglund, looking ready to cry again.

  “I see,” said Robbie. “Never mind, it was worth a try.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Edda suddenly. “Now you say it, I do remember something Marianne told me the last time she visited.”

  “When was that?” Robbie leaned forward eagerly.

  “It was last Christmas. She came with the children to spend Christmas with us here in this apartment.”

  “Right,” said Robbie. “What did she say?”

  “Just that she was employing this man to help out at the farm. We were pleased then. It was only later when we realised he had moved in. That he wasn’t just working there…”

  “Did she know who he was – I mean, when he turned up looking for work? Had she ever seen him before?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. She thought she knew him from somewhere, but wasn’t sure,” said Edda, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.

  “This is interesting, Mrs Heglund,” he said eagerly. “So she may have known him? He may have lived nearby? In Bergen itself? He may even be living there now.”

  “Well, yes, it is possible, I suppose,” said Edda. “But the police questioned so many people about this man, and no one seemed to know him. I think the police assumed he was a stranger and had left Bergen altogether. They said he could be anywhere by now.”

  “But there’s just a chance that he’s still living there,” Robbie persisted. “Did your daughter describe him to you at all?”

  Edda Heglund screwed up her already very creased-up face in concentration. “I told the police all I knew about him at the time. Marianne did say he wasn’t very good looking. She said he was – how did she put it? – a ‘big brute of a man’. But it is hardly enough for the police to find him, is it?”

  Robbie had to agree. “So you told the police this?” he asked.

  “Yes,” replied Edda.

  “Hmm. I don’t suppose she mentioned his name to you?” Robbie wasn’t hopeful.

  Torrad Heglund interrupted at this point. “Do you know, I believe she did,” he said.

  “Can you remember what it was, Mr Heglund?” Robbie gave Bernard a quick look. It was as if he was saying ‘this could be the break we have been looking for, Watson’.

  “Wait – let me think,” said Torrad, slowly. “Not his full name – just his first name. It began with an ‘H’ I think. Or was it a ‘B’?”

  “Right – go on, try to think, Mr Heglund, please.”

  “I am trying,” he said with irritation. “Give me a chance. No, it’s gone. It could have been Baldric, possibly, but I don’t think that is quite right.” He sighed. “Sorry, I wish I could remember.” He looked at his wife. “Can you remember, dear?”

  “No,” she replied. “I only wish I could. I’m sure it wasn’t Baldric, though.”

  “Never mind,” said Robbie, “At least we’ve got some sort of a description of him.”

  He got up, pulling Bernard up with him. “Come on, man, let’s go,” he said. “Don’t you worry, Mr and Mrs Heglund, we’ll find your daughter’s killer and find out what happened to your grandchildren. Never fear!”

  Edda smiled at them. “Thank you for taking such trouble,” she said, accompanying them to the door. “I don’t know why you should – after all, you don’t owe us anything. You don’t even know us.”

  Robbie took the old lady’s hand and cupped it gently in his own. “I have an obligation in this matter, Mrs Heglund. That is all.”

  

  Shortly after their second visit to the Heglunds, the pair of amateur detectives checked out of their hotel and made for Oslo Central station. On the rickety steam train heading back to Bergen, Bernard asked Robbie what he hoped to achieve with the meagre information he had gleaned from the bereaved couple.

  “After all, it’s not much, is it?” he pointed out.

  “Not in itself, no,” agreed Robbie. “But we know the man’s quite big and unprepossessing, and that his name is something like Baldric. He’s probably a native of Bergen, too, so people might know him when we circulate his description.”

  “Circulate? What do you mean? Are we going to print a ‘wanted’ poster or something?” Bernard was at a loss.

  “No, of course not. We’ll just ask around. In the bars and shops, maybe,” he replied. “And we must go back to that wood again. If we go back to the lake, I think I can more or less remember where that tree was in relation to it. I think I need to then sit there for a while and see if the children reappear to me.”

  “But that could take ages,” grumbled Bernard. “And I need to get back for Harvest Festival. Remember?”

  “We’ve still got a few days, Bernie, don’t be difficult. Don’t you want to help solve this crime?”

  Bernard looked at his companion with something like exasperation. “Not really, no. I think it’s a matter for the Bergen police. Why should we get involved? It doesn’t really make much sense to me.”

  “Bernie, Bernie! You know why.”

  “All right,” said Bernard grudgingly. “But without that tree, I don’t see what you can do. Don’t you think you should get back to your patients? You’ve been neglecting them lately.” He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and matches.

  “I know, old boy. Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But there’s something driving me on with this. I can’t stop now. You can go back to London, if you like. But I must stay at least another couple of days.”

  B
ernard lit his pipe and began to draw on it. “No, I’ll stay with you, Robbie. I admire you for what you’re trying to do. I just wish I was more hopeful that something would come of it.”

  “Don’t be defeatist! We’ll get there, I’m convinced of it. Now, how about a slap-up dinner when we get back to Bergen?”

  

  The next day dawned bright but cold. Autumn mists were beginning to appear but had dispersed by mid-morning. Bernard and Robbie got their inevitable, unappetising packed lunch from the hotel’s catering staff and headed off to the forest once more.

  They came to the lake shortly before midday, and the sun was now pleasantly warm. Bernard was all for eating his lunch straightaway, but Robbie suggested they save it for at least another hour. It could be a long day. Bernard sighed and folded up his cheese sandwiches again.

  They made their way to the spot where Robbie thought he had seen the children. But it was difficult to be sure they were in the right area now that the trees had gone. The forest paid dearly for people to enjoy their Christmases. However, Robbie was determined to sit it out. If the children were still haunting the place, sooner or later they would find him again, he was sure of it.

  By ten minutes to two, Bernard couldn’t wait any longer. Sitting beside Robbie, he opened his cheese sandwiches, which were now even less appetising and very sweaty. But he was starving, and they were soon safely inside his stomach. He swigged down the lukewarm tea and rummaged around for the apple and banana he had also been given by the hotel. Robbie, unlike his friend, didn’t feel in the least tempted to eat his lunch. Bernard willingly helped him out.

  The afternoon wore on and Robbie stood up to stretch his legs.

  “How much longer are we going to stay here?” Bernard asked, looking up at his friend, shielding his eyes from the sun as he did so.

  “I don’t know, Bernie,” he replied. “I just need to stay a bit longer, although I fear the children aren’t here now.”