Blame The Dead

by Gavin Lyall

  It usually is, these days. I glanced at my watch: I could still catch the two-thirty plane. 'By the way, how did you know I was in Bergen?'

  She cackled again. *You didn't exactly make the society column, son, but you sure got your name in the paper.'

  I winced. Jack Morris wasn't likely to read Norwegian papers, but some Reuter's man might pick it up and… I'd know soon enough. 'Did you know this chap Steen?'

  'The one who got himself murdered? Sure – I know everybody in the shipping biz here. Good surveyor.'

  'Do you have any idea why he was killed?'

  'There was a piece on the radio this morning: it said they'd got a confession from some local lad. Personal squabble.'

  'I don't believe it. He w'as killed to stop him telling me something.'

  She raised her eyebrows. 'That a fact? Have you told the police?'

  'Oh, yes. But as you say – they've got a confession and a suicide. You don't argue with a jigsaw when all the pieces fit. I still don't believe it.' And neither did Vik, and he didn't even know about my Mauser being involved. Just then, the steward trundled in with a tray and two thick crock cups of coffee.

  When he'd gone, I said, 'It still doesn't change the fact that Steenwas going to talk to me. But what was he going to tell me – about the log or the Skadi or something?'

  She blew delicately across her coffee. 'Haven't a damn notion. Maybe how he found the log. Hedid find it, didn't he?'

  'I imagine so. Though I don't see how, in a burnt-out wreck.'

  'It could happen. These guys aresupposed to keep the thing in a fireproof box. But I never thought any of them did. God damn. If I'd known, I'd've had the thing in time for the enquiry.'

  'When did Steen survey the wreck, then?'

  'Just last month.'

  'What? And the collision was last September?'

  'Oh, she was surveyed before, all right – but it doesn't take ten minutes to see if a burnt-out hulk's irreparable. Steen was surveying her for scrap value: see if it's worth cutting her up, now they'll be getting some good weather. But that's Lloyd's business. It's their wreck now.'

  'Was that why he sent the log to Fenwick and not you?'

  She looked at me a little warily, then shrugged. 'Could be. You didn't ever meet this Steen?'

  'Not alive.'

  'Of course. Well… good surveyor.'

  Time was running out. I gulped my coffee and stood up.

  She bounced to her own feet, held out her hand. 'Thanks for dropping in, son. Hope you'll come back with that log.'

  I made noncommittal agreeing noises, turned for the door, and then turned back. 'But if it's really just an insurance case now, why are you so concerned?'

  Her eyes were bright and level. 'Most of my crew died, son. Nothing I can do for them now except pay up on their pensions -and see they don't get more blame than they're entitled to. It's always the easiest way out, to blame the dead.'

  I nodded, didn't say anything, and went on out.

  The gangway was blocked by a line of dockers or somebody carrying up cardboard boxes and crates of beer. Captain Jensen was leaning over the rail with a clipboard checking each box aboard. I waited beside him; he looked at me, grunted, and nodded.

  'Did you know the crew of the Sfeadt?" I asked sociably.

  'I know. Small line, you know everybody. Good men.'

  'The chief engineer still with the line?'

  'Nygaard? He retire. Much worried. Very bad. Hurt the hands.' He held up his own hands in stiff, clawlike positions -and nearly dropped the clipboard. 'I go see him sometimes. At the – how you say? Sjomannshjem. Home of seamen. Take little whisky.' He broke off to yell something at the foreman on the dockside below.

  The gangway was clear. I nodded goodbye, hurried down, and started hunting for a taxi.

  I was in good time; it wasn't half past one when we picked up my luggage (I was going to chance the guns; with the Mauser still in pieces and planted all over my big case it wouldn't look sinister to any metal detector. And the derringer was going to be tucked into my crotch: they're wary about shovelling radiations at you down there, in these gene-conscious days). We zoomed across a high bridge over the south harbour, then through a long tunnel through the mountainside, heading for the airport.

  So that had been Bergen, the economy twenty-four-hour tour. In that you only get one murder, a single beating-up, and just a touch of blackmail; what did you expect, you cheapskate – the St Valentine's Day Massacre?

  I studied the back of the driver's neck – wide and thick and red – and didn't know whether to feel a louse or a small-time gambler trying to ride out a high-stakes game on a small pair. I could tell David that at least I knew what we were looking for now – but not that we were closer to finding it. But what more could I have done? I'd talked to everybody involved, hadn't I? Well, hadn't I?

  I leaned forward. 'Do you know any retired seamen's homes? I think you call it Sjomannshjem.'

  The question surprised him; he wriggled his wide shoulders and said, 'I know one, and I think two more.'

  'What are they called? Their names?'

  He told me one name and it didn't mean a thing. Then, 'The one in Gulbrandsens Gate.'

  'Thanks.'

  I went back to staring out through the steady drizzle. The big suburban houses were thinning out, getting wider-spaced. With a sudden blare a twin-engined jet charged overhead and vanished down behind a hill. I was a couple of hours from home.

  Oh hell.

  'Turn around,' I said wearily. 'Back to the railway station. I forgot something.'

  Twenty-five

  Gulbrandsen's Seamen's Home was over by the south harbour, by the shipbuilding yards, as it turned out. You climbed a street borrowed from San Francisco – so steep that a big house could lose a whole floor in its own length, over through the mixed old and new buildings of the university at the top, and started down the other side – and suddenly you were on the wrong side of town.

  Every town has it. The dull, shabby streets walled with drab apartments and windows like rheumy old eyes. Quiet and still, because noise and movement cost money, and without laughter or anger because those cost something, too. The part that now can't even remember when it did anything but wait in front of a cold stove for it to be time to climb into bed and lie without real sleep, waiting for it to be time to be not really awake again. Every town has it; even Bergen.

  The Home itself was on the corner of Gulbrandsens Gate; a four-storey Victorian building in faded yellow stucco with small tight-lipped windows, barred on ¡the ground floor. I leaned my thumb on the old saucer-shaped bellpush and waited.

  After a long time, footsteps shuffled up inside and the door groaned open a crack and a face looked out at me. It must have been in its late fifties, a sandpaper skin stretched tight over the sharp bones but bunching under the faded blue eyes and hanging loose at the throat. He didn't say anything.

  Td like to see Chief Engineer Nygaard, please,' I said cheerily. The door started to swing shut, but my foot got there first.

  'Hold on, now. At least we could ask the gent if he wants to see me, couldn't we?'

  'He does not want you.' And he leaned all of his weight on the door. I leaned back.

  'You don't even know who I am! I've brought him. a present!' And I waved the half-bottle of Scotch I'd picked up at the Vinmonopolet – the state booze shop – on the way over. If Captain Jensen had been right, that should be the passport.

  The faded blue eyes just looked impassive. 'He does not want visitors.'

  'Just ask him!' I gave the door an exasperated shove and it ripped out of his hands, throwing him off against the wall, scrabbling for support.

  I looked down and he had on one carpet slipper, one stiff shiny boot. So he'd lost a leg sometime. Well… he ought to have enough sense not to get into fights, then.

  He looked at me with pure, patient hatred.

  I said, 'Is Nygaard at home? '

  'Room 14.' A dull, flat tone.

/>   'Thank you, Herr…?'

  'Ruud. Superintendent Ruud.'

  I shut the door and walked down the gloomy hallway, over lino that was uneven and gritty under my feet. And up the uncarpeted stairs. At the turn, I looked back. Ruud was still leaning against the wall, still staring after me. I went on up.

  Room 14 was on the second floor, down a narrow corridor that was dark and had that indefinable but unmistakable smell of old people. Small private noises leaked out around me; somebody coughed rackingly, a lavatory flushed at the third pull, a plate clattered. I knocked on the door.

  At the second knock, a bed creaked and a bleared voice mumbled something, and footsteps moved reluctantly towards the door.

  Maybe he was sixty, maybe more, but it wasn't his age you saw first, it was his defeat. He'd quit, switched off, surrendered. His face was puffy, making his red-rimmed eyes look too small, his stomach bulged out over trousers unbuttoned at the top – but for a big man, the way he peered out was small and furtive. And his breath was a meal in itself, only a week late.

  'Ja? Hva onsker De?'

  I held my ground and tried not to breathe in. 'Chief Engineer Nygaard? I'm James Card from London. I brought you a…' and I showed him the bottle.

  'Oh, ja!'He took it, held it up to stare at it closely – and then I saw his hands. The backs, from where they stuck out of the frayed old sweater, were a mass of crumpled blue-white scar tissues right to the ends of his fingers. The fingernails, the three or four still there, were thick, dirty little wedges. But from the way he handled the bottle the fingers weren't locked: they could move from about half clenched to almost wide open.

  Fire. Only fire does that.

  Then he tried to square his shoulders against the pull of his gut, threw the door wide, and said cheerfully, 'Come in, my friend, come in. I was having a little – you say, snooze.'

  I went in. I could guess what the room would be like – but I was wrong. It was surprisingly clean, bright, and almost tidy. Not that there was much to get in a mess, but the bed was made, if rumpled, and the table, chest of drawers, and shelves had been freshly painted white. There were even a couple of flowers in the glass on the narrow tiled window-sill.

  Nygaard half opened a drawer, changed his mind, and left the bottle in plain view. Then picked up an electric kettle and shook it. 'Would you want some coffee, ja?'

  'If you're making it anyway.' I perched myself on the arm of a middle-aged armchair that was wearing an old but recently cleaned cover.

  He got the kettle switched on, found a jar of instant coffee and a couple of mugs and a bag of sugar, and even that effort made him wheeze a bit. 'Are you a sailor man, Mr – er-?'

  'Card. No.'

  'So why do you visit an old man like me, hey?'

  'I'm doing some work for somebody in Lloyd's of London.' Well, there was a reasonable percentage of truth in that. 'I understand you were in the Skadi when she…'

  He turned his back and the big shoulders trembled. 'No. I do not talk about that.'

  'Sorry.' I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. 'But you're going to have to talk about it to the court if the case ever comes to trial. Why not to me?'

  'Always lawyers, questions, why this and that, all the time. No. Why cannot an old man die by himself, with his own people?' He still had his back to me.

  'You're not dying, come off it.' He didn't answer. 'All right, don't talk about the collision, then. Did you ever meet a man called Steen?'

  He turned around and seemed calmer.'Ja, I meet him, once, twice.'

  'Recently?'

  'A month, I think. Ja.'

  'What did he ask you about?'

  He flapped his arms like stiff wings. 'Always the same, Skadi, Skadi, Skadi.' Then the kettle hissed and he turned away to make the coffee.

  I asked, 'Did you read this morning's papers?'

  'I don't read newspapers. Only the shipping magazine.'

  'Steen got himself killed yesterday. Murdered.'

  He shook his head. 'I did not like him.'

  'Why not?' Though I could see why a neat, fastidious man like Steen – to judge from his clothes and office – wouldn't get on too well with Nygaard.

  He turned round with a couple of steaming mugs. 'Just always questions. Skadi, Skadi, Skadi.'

  His hand trembled as he held out the mug, and just the touch of warmth from it reminded me how cold the room was; I still had my sheepskin coat on. There was a serious-looking electric fan heater in the corner, but Nygaard obviously preferred to use his spare cash for other things.

  For a while we just sipped, and probably he was wondering why I was there as much as I was myself. Then I managed to slop some coffee down my coat collar, and reached for my handkerchief.

  He jerked like a shot puppet. 'No, no! You must not smoke! No light, no!' One crumpled, shivering hand was stretched out towards me.

  Very carefully, I took out the handkerchief and mopped myself. He slumped and half turned away. I said, 'You don't like naked flame? Well, that sounds reasonable, after what you went through.'

  His hand reached for the whisky, then pulled back and patted the thin white strands on his scalp. And then tried to reach the bottle again. He gave me a quick sideways glance that was both sly and hopeful and I wanted to tell him to go ahead and have one. But you can't, not even when you know you can't stop it, you can't be the one to start it.

  Then he picked the bottle up as if he'd never seen it before and studied the label carefully. 'I do not know this type before. It is good,; a?'

  I shrugged. 'Don't know it myself.' Though at more than three quid for a half bottle it had ruddy well better be good.

  He waved the bottle at me. 'You like some in the coffee?'

  'Well…' What do you say? The small eyes looked at me yearningly.

  He said quickly, 'I don't drink in the afternoon. But just once, to, try it, ja?'

  He had the cap unscrewed. Silently, I held out my mug and he shook, rather than poured, a tot in. Then turned his back to me so that, maybe by accident, I couldn't see how much he gave himself.

  'Skol.'He lifted the mug and took a gulp, and smiled easily. 'Is good, ja?'

  'Yes, sure.' A car stopped somewhere outside – a rare enough noise in that street for him to hear it and pause. But he didn't go to look. I sipped on; he gulped.

  Then I asked, 'You ever heard of something called H and Thornton?'

  He had. He gave another jerk, then buried his face in the mug, and came up with a carefully thoughtful expression. 'You say what?'

  'H and Thornton. I think they're a firm of solicitors, or maybe ship surveyors or something.'

  Now he was looking genuinely puzzled. He shook his head. 'No, I do not know them. No.'

  Hell. I'd had him and I'd lost him, but I didn't know how or where.

  Then feet came galloping down the corridor – young feet. There was the briefest of knocks on the door, it slammed open, and she came straight in – and not to wish me a Merry Christmas.

  She was young, tall, blonde, and she might have quite a figure under the dark blue anorak and black ski pants. Right now, she just stood and stared fiercely at me, flushed and panting slightly and with the funny little white student cap on her head knocked sideways.

  'What are you doing here?1 'Having a quiet cup of coffee with Herr Nygaard.'

  She glared suspiciously around, then spotted the whisky. 'Did you bring this?'

  I nodded.

  'It is not good for him!' For a moment I thought she was going to heave it through the window – and so did he. I've never seen anybody look so simply horrified.

  But she controlled herself. 'Who are you?'

  I told her, but it didn't mean anything.

  'Why do you want to see him? '

  'Hold on a minute. Who are you? – his daughter?'

  'No, I am only a student. But I help look after him.' That accounted for the fresh-painted furniture, then, and the flowers and general tidiness.

  "Very charitable of you,' I
said approvingly. 'Nice to know there are still some students who don't spend all their time smashing up the campus and sleeping three in a bed. But I'm not doing him any harm.'

  Ruud's face appeared over her shoulder and he gave me a triumphant leer. A quick man with a telephone, Herr Ruud.

  The girl said, 'You will go, now.'

  I looked at Nygaard. 'It's your room, chum.'

  But he wasn't looking back. So I nodded and said, 'Thanks for the coffee, anyhow.'

  'I thank you for the whisky,' he mumbled back.

  'Any time.' The girl stepped aside and let me through the door, then followed. Ruud stayed in and shut the door.

  She followed me clear down the stairs and out into the street – and then we just stood there in the drizzle and looked at each other.

  She said firmly, 'You are going home, now.'

  'Nope. I'm just standing here admiring the view.'

  That made her blink thoughtfully. Then she had a bright idea. 'I know some students, very rough ones. They will make you go.'

  'Dare say you do know them – every university's got some and they like being known – but they don't know you. Not some pansy do-gooding Christian piece like you. So forget the goon squad; they wouldn't do anything for you.'

  She flushed. 'Then I get the police.'

  'Try for Inspector Vik.' I was standing by a ramshackle old Volkswagen – so old it had the twin rear windows, and so beat up that it looked as if it had been dumped. I patted a wing and then had to stop it going on shaking. 'Yours?'

  'I own one half of it.'

  'Give me a lift back into town and I'll buy the beer at the other end."

  'I do not drink.' But the rest of the idea suited her; at least it got me clear of Gulbrandsens Gate. As she climbed in, she said, 'I am Kari Skagen.' So now I knew her name, it was all right for us to be alone in a car.

  Twenty-six

  As we chugged down the patched-up street, I asked, 'How long have you known Nygaard?'

  'Since before Christmas.'

  'From about when he came to the Home? How did you get to know him?'