Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  This went through me like an electric shock. ‘Really? Who from?’

  Slåtthaug beckoned a waiter. ‘Two more, Svendsen!’

  That was when I should have said no, of course. Once again. But the craving was already too strong. ‘And an aquavit,’ I mumbled.

  ‘And two aquavits!’ Slåtthaug called to the waiter, who gave a routine nod by way of return.

  ‘Who from?’ I repeated, grabbing his lapels and half pulling him up from his seat.

  ‘Relax, Varg. It’s just something I once heard. You know … in our business we meet so many people.’

  Later everything came to a head.

  At some point he sent me accusatory looks. ‘You were the one who got me the boot, Varg. I’ve never forgiven you.’

  ‘Me?’ I thought back. ‘I had nothing to do with it.’ Or did I…?

  It was one of the worst cases I had worked on, and I had to go back ten years in time to locate it. But it was there of course, and I hadn’t forgotten.

  Karl Slåtthaug had been working at a children’s institution, and someone had implied he was giving some of the girls lingering looks, especially the ones approaching sexual maturity. I had been given the job of examining the case more closely by a mother whose daughter was there. It never got as far as specific accusations and it all petered out because of a lack of willingness among the girls to speak. He was better-looking then than he was now, so perhaps they thought they wouldn’t be believed. The local Social Services managers decided, however, that he should be moved on, and a few months later he was given his marching orders. I remembered I had made some enquiries with Cathrine Leivestad, another colleague from that time, but all she could say was that the suspicions had been so strong that Slåtthaug had been requested to look around for something else to do. In that sense he was right. This was reminiscent of the way I had been given the boot twenty years before.

  At any rate his bank account wasn’t empty; the way he was splashing money about, he must have found something to do. When I asked him outright, he looked from side to side before answering. ‘I have my connections.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘Never mind that though, Varg. Let’s have some fun. Let’s order a taxi and I’ll take you to a place you’ve never been.’

  He was wrong about that anyway. Already on the way up Puddefjord Bridge I suspected I knew where we were going. Not long afterwards I was in the lift, making another visit to The Tower, but as a client this time.

  I had probably looked a little doubtful on the pavement, but Karl Slåtthaug had gone on about what was awaiting us. ‘Come on, Varg! Karsten’ll sort us out something nice. They’re lying in their beds like little sylphs, just waiting to be taken.’ As I continued to hold back he added: ‘And what they serve in the bar is tax- and duty-free. But I’m paying! There’s more where this comes from.’

  In the dark-red room we were received by exotic young girls in the same scanty clothes as last time, but when I insisted on sitting at the bar they gradually lost any interest in me. Karl, on the other hand, disappeared up the winding staircase with one of the youngest girls there, after giving the bartender a blank cheque to serve me whatever I liked.

  A woman passed. She had oriental features and was wearing a blonde wig. As she caught sight of me she seemed to be about to smile, but then her face distorted into a mask of terror and dread. She turned away and walked off quickly. For a moment or two I wondered whether I should follow her. However it was my ill-luck that the bartender thought he recognised me, and before I knew what was going on, Bønni loomed up behind me, grabbed me by the shoulders, turned me round and led me through the room. Inside Karsten’s office I was dealt a rabbit punch that sent me flying to the floor. The voices were distant and low, as if packed in cotton, or because they were talking with their backs to me. But I had no problem recognising Karsten’s voice, and I heard what he said: ‘Talk to Hjalmar. He’ll fix it. He’s the computer man.’

  Hjalmar?

  ‘I don’t want to see him here. Is that clear? Drop him to the bottom of Puddefjord if you have to.’

  Bønni lifted me up and carried me through the salon this time. Far away I heard the giggles from some of the girls. Karl Slåtthaug was on his way down from the upper floor with a ruffled shirt and a confused look on his face. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Your guest’s leaving. And I have an absolute ultimatum from Karsten. Bring him here again and you’ll lose your membership.’

  ‘OK, OK! I didn’t mean to … Let me just … I’ll take him. Get me a taxi.’

  Karl Slåtthaug stood supporting me until the taxi arrived, so closely that I could smell the scent of cheap perfume on him. ‘You should’ve come up to the first floor, Varg. That’s where the action is.’

  I mumbled something even I didn’t understand, then the taxi came and we scrambled onto the back seat, followed by extremely sceptical looks from the thin, dark-skinned driver. Slåtthaug dropped me off in the market square, but I couldn’t bear the thought of walking up the mountainside home. Instead I went to the office, curled up on the floor and slept like a log until late in the morning of the next day. I never heard from Karl Slåtthaug again. The police brought his name up in October of the following year.

  25

  On Monday morning I had Vidar Waagenes back in my cell, but this time he wasn’t alone.

  Sigurd Svendsbø was the age I expected a computer expert to be: in his mid-thirties. He moved in a smooth, light-footed way that belied his premature pot belly, undoubtedly a result of too many hours of solitude in front of the screen. His hair was longish, his stubble a couple of days old, and in his left ear he had a small gold ring. Beneath the black leather jacket he wore a red T-shirt emblazoned with EVERQUEST in big, white letters.

  When we shook hands I looked at him a second time. ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Where would that have been?’

  ‘I’ve used Siggen for the last ten years, Varg. You might have passed each other going into or out of my office,’ Waagenes said. ‘I can promise you there aren’t any better computer experts in this town.’

  Svendsbø smiled weakly, but seemed slightly ill at ease. ‘Well, if you’ve got nothing else to do in your free time.’

  ‘Nothing else? You’ve got a family, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, part-time now, though. My night’s sleep went up in smoke when they were littl’uns, and then I had to sit in front of the keyboard until daybreak. Some years I felt as if I’d hardly had a wink.’

  ‘Well, now, we have to make the most of our time.’ Waagenes walked towards the table in the visitors’ room, pulled out a chair for himself, one for Svendsbø on the same side, and motioned towards the other for me. ‘Siggen thinks he’s on the trail of something, Varg.’

  ‘Really! That sounds promising.’

  Svendsbø took a notebook from his inside pocket and looked at me almost guiltily. ‘We weren’t allowed to bring the computer in.’

  Waagenes nodded, displeased. ‘The limited access to media.’

  ‘But I made some notes,’ Svendsbø continued. ‘I still haven’t managed to work through all the elements of your hard drives, and I have to admit the police are right on one point. There’s a lot of filth on them.’ He eyed me as if asking me what I had to say to that.

  I shrugged and showed him my bare palms. ‘So I’ve heard. But I didn’t put it there and I haven’t been on those websites.’

  He nodded. ‘Your log confirms that, by the way. But that’s obvious. If you know a bit about computers you can always edit a log. However, there are always traces left, but then I’d have to go through what’s been deleted from your machines and that’s such a time-consuming job I haven’t been able to get round to it yet.’

  ‘Well, I definitely don’t know much about computers, so editing a log’s beyond me.’

  ‘Of course, but … for someone who has children himself it hurts me to see what some people can put online. One th
ing is images, another is video clips, a third is a description of what they’ve done, what they’d like to do or what they in fact do.’

  ‘And this is open online?’

  ‘No, no. It’s rarely open. It happens in closed forums, where you have to be a member and have a personal password to get in. But for … hmm … people like me it’s easy enough to pass firewalls and other security measures to get in. You can’t bear to look for more than a few minutes though. It simply makes me feel ill.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I would’ve been as well. But … I’ve never tried.’

  ‘I know, Varg. Vidar says the same. If I’d thought any differently I would’ve refused to take the job.’

  ‘OK.’ I could feel I was becoming more and more impatient. ‘Tell me what you’ve found.’

  ‘Let me first explain to you how this kind of thing is done.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m sure you know about Trojan horses and spyware.’

  ‘I’ve heard of them, yes.’

  ‘A rule of thumb is, don’t click on any links that don’t come from people you know or at least trust. This applies to everything from banks to online shopping or emails sent by close friends.’

  ‘Close friends?’

  ‘Yes, this often happens through back doors. Someone has infected the computer or email account of someone you know and sends an email in his or her name. It might contain, for example, a link to a funny clip you should see, a song you’ve been recommended or just a link to a website. If you click on the link – if you watch the clip or listen to the song – you’ve left the door ajar, and you risk being attacked by a hacker, who takes control of your computer.’

  ‘And you think that might have happened in this case?’

  ‘Possibly, yes.’

  ‘But can this person – whoever they are – also put things onto my computer?’

  ‘Yes. They can put software onto your computer – from outside – which means that everything that is transferred from one or several specific addresses isn’t opened at once, but is stored there.’

  ‘Such as huge piles of child pornography?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But won’t that … Won’t it be possible to read on the log that I’ve never opened these webpages? Or that they’ve never been opened on these computers?’

  ‘In principle, yes. But don’t forget the log can be tampered with, both ways. You might have deleted the addresses of all the webpages you’ve been on. But – and this is perhaps even more important – hackers can add addresses of pages you haven’t accessed. How often do you actually check your log?’

  ‘As good as never. Only if I’m searching for a page I’ve been on and can’t remember the address. And that happens very, very rarely.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But you said there’s nothing visible on my log.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. So one possibility is you’d deleted addresses, but I’d be able to tell if you had.’

  ‘I have an even more important question for you. Can you also find out who put all this filth on my computers?’

  ‘That’s a more open question. Again it depends on how clever they – the people who did it – have been. If they’re skilful amateurs I’ll find them soon enough. But if they’re pros – who might’ve been involved in cyber crime – it could be more difficult. But I’ve got a question for you too, Veum. Do you remember anything from the end of last November?’

  ‘End of last November?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I cast around the bare visitors’ room as though the answer lay there and thought back. Last November was just after the incident with Karl Slåtthaug and the chaos that came in its wake. I could feel the muscles in my face twitching. ‘N-no. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  He looked at me in surprise. ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Well, yes. Of course I remember … something. But either nothing happened – in other words, bleak, grey everyday life – or I was on the juice. The last three or four years have been hard for me to get through, Svendsbø.’

  ‘Call me Siggen. Everyone else does.’

  Waagenes turned to Svendsbø. ‘Why are you asking, Siggen?’

  ‘Erm…’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Almost everything that happens on a computer is logged, as you know, either by you or the computer program. By the program, anyway. And as far as I’ve been able to find out there’s none of this material before November 2001. I’ve even got a date: 27th November. That’s when I find the first downloads.’

  ‘27th November,’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes, does that mean anything to you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing. If I’d been able to go to my office I could’ve checked my calendar. And at home in a drawer I must have last year’s appointments book. But I have a nasty feeling we won’t find anything there. It was a period when I didn’t have much going on, if you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Is all this material dated to around then?’ Waagenes asked.

  ‘No,’ Svendsbø replied. ‘But there’s nothing after 1st March 2002. Everything was downloaded over the … one, two, three months between the two dates.’ He counted on his fingers to be sure he hadn’t missed anything. ‘December, January, February.’

  Waagenes turned back to me. ‘And that doesn’t ring any bells, Varg?’

  I shook my head. ‘I hardly know where I was on Christmas Eve.’

  He sent me a despairing look. ‘I don’t know…’

  He was interrupted by a hard knock at the door, which then opened. One of the warders stood in the doorway. ‘There’s a message from the police. Veum’s summoned to an interview.’

  Waagenes’s face flushed. ‘At such short notice?’

  ‘There’s been a development, they said. And this is urgent.’

  I had a sinking feeling. A development, and it was urgent. That didn’t bode well.

  ‘Well, I say! Are you going to transport him there?’

  ‘Yes, we’ll take care of that.’

  ‘I’ll go there in my car. Warn them not to start the interview before I’m there.’

  We got to our feet, all of us.

  Svendsbø held up a hand. ‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you. So, see you at the next crossroads. In the meantime you can rely on me. If there’s anything to find, I’ll find it.’

  I grabbed his hand and smiled wanly. ‘Thank you.’

  Waagenes adopted a positive tone. ‘I think we’ve come a long way already.’ He held up a forefinger, like a strict teacher. ‘Not a word until I’m there, Varg. Don’t let them provoke you.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ I mumbled before following the warder out, where a colleague of his waited with handcuffs, clapped them round my wrists and took me to the waiting vehicle.

  For the short time we were outdoors I inhaled deep into my lungs what I could of the fresh air, like at the starting line of a marathon in which I had no hope of achieving a better result than a finish.

  26

  There was a strange atmosphere around the table as we waited for Waagenes to find a parking spot. From experience I knew it wasn’t easy at this time of day.

  Beatrice Bauge’s mobile vibrated on silent. She checked who wanted to talk to her, made an apologetic gesture to her colleagues and left the room. From the corridor I heard the sound of her voice, less and less clearly as she moved away from us.

  Hamre was accompanied by Solheim this time. Neither of them appeared to be in the best frame of mind.

  ‘So how are you killing time, Veum?’ Hamre asked.

  ‘Reading and thinking.’

  ‘Reading what?’ He leaned forward, interested.

  ‘Books I borrow from the library. Not crime literature though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘In those books, crimes are solved.’

  ‘Yes, but not straightaway…’ He attempted a little smile, without much sincerity, and I answered with a shrug.

  ‘So what do you think about then?’
/>
  ‘Bit of everything, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Anything you’d like to share with us?’

  ‘Not until Waagenes is here.’

  He sighed. ‘OK, fine.’

  Hamre had a briefcase in front of him. Solheim had an open laptop, but he wasn’t looking at it. Beatrice Bauge returned. She glanced at her watch impatiently but said nothing. She also had a laptop open, but, unlike Solheim, she stared intensively at the screen, scrolled down and wrote nothing. Not yet.

  After around a quarter of an hour Vidar Waagenes arrived, suitably breathless to make a credible impression. ‘Apologies. I had to go to the rear car park. There was nothing free around here.’

  ‘We’re ready to begin then,’ Beatrice Bauge declared in business-like fashion.

  Waagenes nodded and checked with me. ‘OK with you, Varg?’

  ‘I have no choice, do I.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Bauge looked at Hamre. ‘Would you like to get the ball rolling?’

  Hamre glanced down, rubbed his hands as if they had got cold waiting, nodded and cleared his throat. Then he leaned forward and directed his gaze at me.

  ‘In cases such as these, Veum,’ he began, ‘we have various categories of sex offenders.’

  He paused for dramatic effect. I watched him without saying a word.

  ‘We’re talking about an international network here, and it’s obvious that the person sitting in Norway and watching abuse on the screen that has taken place in, say, Brazil, is not as guilty as the real abuser. Nor if the assault took place in Askøy, Sotra or any other place around here.’

  After another pause he continued: ‘There are also various categories within the group of viewers, if I can call them that. Some of them are passive and do nothing else. Others choose to share the experience and send the material on – either to someone he or she knows or a network of which they are a member.’

  I motioned with my head to say that this was obvious. Get to the point, Hamre!

  ‘Among the actual abusers there are also categories, but now it is difficult to keep a cool head. We’re talking about abuse of children, Veum, some of them infants, others pre-sexual maturity, though still children. Obviously most people would react with greater revulsion to the rape of a six-month-old baby than the rape of a thirteen-or fourteen-year-old girl.’