The Writing on the Wall

by Gunnar Staalesen

  He followed us with his eyes until I pulled in to the side and parked behind the other two cars. At which point he immediately set off in our direction. As we got out of the car, he said: ‘I’m sorry, but this is a restricted area for police only.’

  ‘This is the deceased’s mother,’ I said with a small gesture of the hand in the direction of Sidsel Skagestøl.

  The young constable blushed. ‘Oh, I see … I’m really sorry, but I still can’t let you through … Of course, you can look …’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean … Obviously you understand … we’re still carrying out technical investigations down there. To make sure we have all the evidence,’ he said, addressing Sidsel Skagestøl directly.

  She nodded but looked at neither of us. Her gaze was directed towards the steep slope on the far side of the concrete kerb. With the look of someone afraid of heights she moved gingerly towards the edge of the road, leaning slightly back as though afraid of being sucked in by the downward air currents.

  I followed at a discreet distance, conscious of the constable’s eyes on the back of my neck. He said nothing but would certainly let us know if we made any attempt to step over the red-and-white tape cordoning off the police’s preserve around the scene of the crime.

  From the concrete kerb we looked down a steep slope towards an area of newly planted conifers. Under the road a concrete channel had been built to carry one of the streams running down from the mountain behind us. Around the mouth of the tunnel two plain-clothed individuals were carrying out a meticulous examination of what I reckoned must be the actual place where the body had been found, partly beneath the road itself.

  I saw it straight away. There was something that didn’t add up.

  I turned and looked across at the far side of the road. There, the mountainside sloped gradually up towards the top of Fanafjell, the trees like tall dark sentries reaching right down to the edge of the road.

  Slowly I redirected my attention to Sidsel Skagestøl. Tall, erect and silent, she stood there, apathetic almost, staring down the slope not unlike someone contemplating suicide on a bridge, wondering whether to jump or not. Beneath the surface, her feelings were no doubt in turmoil, wave upon wave dashing against the rocks so hard that the spray was visible in her eyes. But she did not jump: just stood there, alone and dignified as though already at the cemetery saying her last farewell before the body was interred.

  She glanced quickly sideways, as if to reassure herself that it was me standing there. ‘I just can’t imagine it.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s best like that,’ I said gently.

  ‘This isn’t where she died …’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘It’s just a – place where … her body was kept. She’s never actually been here herself. Not what was Torild.’

  ‘You’re quite right about that. Now you’ve seen it, I think you should sort of erase the image of this place – not from your memory, because I don’t think you could do that, not for a long time anyway, but from your consciousness, from the place where you are – and where, in a way, your daughter will also always be.’

  She turned to face me. For the first time today she looked me straight in the eye, and the trace of a smile flickered over her mouth. ‘Was that the sociologist in you speaking?’

  I smiled back. ‘Probably. But he’s the one who’s usually right. Inside me, I mean.’

  During the drive back one thought kept coming back to me: Surely the police must also have seen it? The thing that didn’t add up?

  I drove her right back to the door. ‘Shall I come in with you?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really necessary.’ She glanced at the door, where Holger Skagestøl was already coming out to meet us.

  ‘How are you feeling, Sidsel?’ he asked. ‘Did you manage all right?’

  An involuntary twitch ran across her face. She became a paper cut-out someone had suddenly crumpled up. ‘Why shouldn’t I have managed? It was just a place, wasn’t it? Why don’t you go up there yourself? You won’t find Torild – not there either!’

  He made an awkward gesture of the hand and looked dejectedly at me before turning to her again. ‘The children are taking it – well. Alva is with them just now. I called her and asked her to –’

  ‘Oh! I have to put up with that too, do I?!’

  ‘The children can spend the night at their place, Sidsel. Then you can get a proper rest.’

  ‘Who is Alva?’ I asked.

  ‘My sister,’ said Skagestøl curtly.

  ‘It might be best for Sidsel to be with the children.’

  ‘And what business is that of yours, Veum?’

  ‘None, strictly speaking, but she’s been a hundred per cent calm now, during our drive.’

  He grew red in the face. ‘A hundred per cent calm now! What are you implying?’ He rushed up to me as though about to hit me.

  I immediately took a step or two back.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Holger! Don’t be such an idiot! Listen, we can’t leave Alva in there on her own, can we? She’ll wear the children out.’

  Holger Skagestøl controlled himself, cast a final look of irritation in my direction before turning his back on me and following his wife inside. ‘She’s reading to them, Sidsel!’

  Neither of them took the time to say a formal goodbye to me. My duty as a chauffeur was done; and I hadn’t been much of a sleuth either. In fact, the only thing I could be credited with was that I’d more or less just happened to be there.

  I got into the car, turned in the driveway, and then drove slowly down the steep slope to Sædalen, thinking: Surely the police must have seen it?

  Sixteen

  SHOULD I CHANCE IT and call Muus straight away, at the risk of receiving a thorough bollocking as soon as I opened my mouth? Or should I do as he’d told me: mind my own business?

  The problem was that I didn’t have any business at the moment, and the devil makes work … The death notice I’d received in the post lay there smouldering away in my desk drawer, a sword poised over my head, and I preferred to push it out of my mind.

  I called Paul Finckel.

  ‘Oh my God!’ he groaned. ‘Is this the big “Be nice to Paul” day or what? Or have you got something new to tell me?’

  ‘No … It’s just that I’ve been up to the place where the body was found.’

  ‘What? So you didn’t go right down to it?’

  ‘No. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘No, because it’s supposed to be a restricted area for everybody!’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Well, did you go up there alone or what?’

  ‘No, with the girl’s mother. It was she who asked me to do it.’

  ‘With the mother, you say? How did she take it? You do realise this could make one hell of a headline, Varg?’

  ‘You know me, Paul. I don’t want to appear in the paper!’

  ‘You are a news item, Varg! You can’t help it.’

  ‘I can help it if you want anything more out of me, though.’

  ‘OK, only out with it –’

  ‘She took it well, Paul. Shocked and upset, of course, but – quite normal for a mother who’s just lost her daughter. There’s nothing to say, Paul. Nothing to tell you.’

  ‘So why the hell did you call me, then?’

  ‘To ask you one more question.’

  ‘Well, didn’t I just know it?!’ He fumbled with the receiver. ‘Come on, don’t hold back: spit it out and tell uncle!’

  ‘You press people always run something on the witnesses. This jogger who found the corpse, have you got his name?’

  ‘His name? I don’t even know what type of trainers he uses! The police haven’t given us a scrap of information about him.’

  ‘But it is a man?’

  ‘Well, he was certainly referred to as he the first time I talked to them at the station.’

  ‘But you must have some sources down there, surely? No leaks?’

  ‘Not a drop, Var
g, not one … Pretty amazing, actually, don’t you think?’

  ‘Right. That’s just what I thought too.’

  But afterwards I felt reassured. The police had seen it too.

  ♦

  If nothing else, idleness led to restless pacing to and fro across my office floor.

  I glanced at the Nordnes calendar on the wall. Maybe I should take a leaf out of Muus’s book: circle in red the date which Anon had chosen as the day for my final curtain: Wednesday, the following week.

  Was I to conclude that today was consequently my last Friday ever and make it a Friday to beat all Fridays? Ought I to book a suite at the Solstrand Fjord Hotel and invite Karin to come along for a winter weekend she’d never forget? Or, struck by the paralysis that would overcome anyone who received such a message, should I lie down and abandon all hope …?

  For several minutes I racked my brains trying to think who on earth could have thought of sending me such a message. It could be a sort of sick joke, of course, but the only person in my circle of acquaintances who had both the imagination and the lack of taste to do such a thing was the man I’d just talked to on the phone, and in that case, he’d hardly have lost the chance to make some small hint about it. In the course of almost eighteen years as a private investigator I’d obviously trodden on a good many toes but not, I hoped, so hard that anyone would want to go to such drastic lengths to pay me back. At any rate, not if they were thinking of carrying out the threat. In my situation I was afraid it wouldn’t be much use reporting it to the police either. They’d probably ask me to deal with this particular case myself.

  Think about something else: that would be best.

  Twice yesterday I’d caught myself thinking about Judge Brandt. And that was the murder case that Muus had expressly forbidden me from investigating. But he’d not said a word about H. C. Brandt, had he?

  No death notice had appeared in the paper yet, but the rumour factory suggested that, owing to the particular circumstances, the funeral would be a very quiet affair.

  A visit to the widow to express my condolences would hardly be considered tactful or good manners. Yet no one could deny me a visit to the hotel where he’d met his death.

  Seventeen

  BERGEN WAS GOING THROUGH a new building boom, not unlike the one in the seventies. Then it had been banks that had mushroomed on the corner of every block. Now it was hotels. Some people might be tempted to say that tourism had taken over where finance had left off. But if you looked closer at who owned the hotels, it was clear that, in reality, it was only a matter of changing horses. The people behind it all, and the money with which they speculated were still the same.

  The hotel where Judge Brandt had spent his final hours had always been looked upon as one of the best in town, even though a string of different owners over the past few decades had taken a bit of the shine off the reputation it had enjoyed during its heyday. I walked through reception, heading for the restaurant on the first floor, but carried on up the stairs, passed the cloakroom attached to the sitting rooms on the second floor and from there continued on up.

  Considering it was a Friday, there was a good deal of activity in the corridors. It was clear that the last business guests of the week had hung on to their rooms as long as possible, and that a lot of guests were expected for the weekend, perhaps attending some congress or other.

  The chambermaids hurried past, trolleys piled high with bed linen, clean and dirty, stacks of towels and freshly opened cartons of cleaning materials. At strategic points along the corridors stood red plastic crates that quickly filled up with empty bottles from the vacated rooms.

  I stopped one of the chambermaids, a sturdy red-haired piece with freckles and a smile that soon became a frown when, assuming my most official voice, I asked: ‘It was you who found Judge Brandt dead, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Me? No way!’ she said, her alarm emphasising her Sognefjord accent. ‘It was Annebeth, but she’s not in today!’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She’s been off sick ever since …’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Have a word with Gro Anita. They’re flatmates!’

  ‘And where can I find her?’

  ‘On the fifth floor. She’s a big dark lass …’

  I thanked her and went off in search of her workmate, two floors above.

  I ran into her emerging from one of the rooms, her arms full of bed linen. She was not only large and dark but also very pretty with a flattened out southern accent, making it hard to place.

  Her brown eyes looked at me apologetically as soon as I appeared in the doorway. ‘Is this your room, sir? We’re running a bit behind, see, but reception told me you two wouldn’t be checking in before three.’

  ‘I’m not a guest, actually.’

  She pulled a face, pouting slightly with her full lips. ‘So where are you from? Department of Employment?’ She squeezed past me into the corridor and turned right.

  I followed her. ‘No, I’d like to have a word with Annebeth.’

  ‘She’s off sick!’ she said, disappearing through an open door.

  From the door I saw her chuck the dirty linen into a large basket and with quick movements of her hands start to take down a clean set from the shelves along the walls. ‘Yes, so she’s in hospital, is she?’

  ‘No, she’s at home.’

  ‘But in that case, she surely ought to be able –’

  ‘Mind your back!’ she ordered. ‘Look, I’m really pushed!’

  I stepped aside and trotted after her back to the room she’d just come from. Without so much as a glance at me, she began to make the bed.

  ‘It’s quite important.’

  She paused for a moment, straightened up and grimaced as she placed her hands in the small of her back. ‘Who for? You haven’t even told me your name yet!’

  I smiled apologetically. ‘No, I’m sorry, but you – I haven’t had time. My name’s Veum. I represent Judge Brandt’s insurance company, and it’s just a few details about the death that we –’

  ‘Whether he took his own life, eh?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Then his old woman wouldn’t get a penny, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but that rule only applies – for the first two years after the papers have been signed … but …’

  She looked at me defiantly. ‘Yes, well I can’t help you!’

  ‘Not even with Annebeth’s address?’

  ‘Oh, all right then …’ She looked me up and down in the practised way of someone accustomed to fending off heavy advances from travelling salesmen who were still half-asleep. ‘We share a small flat in Steinkjellergaten.’ She gave me the number and the floor.

  I smiled. ‘We’re practically neighbours, then.’

  ‘Hope that doesn’t mean we’re going to be stuck with you hanging round the door every evening from now on!’

  ‘Are there a lot who do that?’

  ‘Enough to be going on with!’ Sighing, she leaned over the bed again but not as a prelude to any dalliance; it looked more as though she was on the rack to judge by her expression.

  I shot out of the door before she had time to ask me the name of Brandt’s insurance company and whether I had any identification.

  ♦

  Steinkjellergaten is at the end of the old road into Bergen from the north. New sets had been put down, but the buildings along Steinkjellergaten still retained a historic look, and the gradient was unchanged.

  The address I’d been given was in the narrowest part of the street. The two girls shared a flat on the second floor according to a handwritten cardboard sign that said: Gro Anita Vebjørnsen and Annebeth Larsson. The last three words had been added later with a different biro.

  The varnished door was newer than the house. To the left of it was a narrow window. The light from the hall inside was just visible through the ribbed frosted glass.

  I pressed the white button on the black doorbell.

  After a while I heard hes
itant padding footsteps within as though the occupant were an old lady. Then silence. No one made any attempt to open the door. It was as if she was just standing there waiting, hoping that whoever had rung the bell would go away.

  But I’d rung too many doorbells in my life to give up that easily.

  This time I got an answer. ‘Who is it?’ asked a muffled voice behind the thick door.

  ‘My name’s Veum. I’m from – the insurance company.’

  After a moment’s thought there was a rattle in the lock and the door opened a crack to reveal a narrow female face peering anxiously at me. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about Judge Brandt. We need to clear up a few details.’

  She had wispy blonde shoulder-length hair, unbrushed, and she peered at me over her large gold-rimmed glasses that had slipped a little too far down her nose. She was pale with slightly feverish rosy cheeks and wasn’t wearing much more than a blue-and-white quilted dressing gown. ‘Have you any identification?’

  I gave her my driving licence, and she studied it carefully. ‘It doesn’t say anything about an insurance company here,’ she said suspiciously.

  I took out one of the visiting cards I’d got a printer friend to run me off before he went bust and set fire to the whole shooting match. If she was pernickety enough to ring to check the number on the card, she’d get no further than my answerphone, which neutrally recorded everything that came in, from funeral dirges to doomsday trumpets. In that case, I hoped she would understand that the Nemesis Insurance Company was one of the smallest and that the telephone operator was at lunch just then.

  But she was not that pernickety. She handed both driving licence and visiting card back to me, swung open the door and muttered faintly, ‘I hope it won’t take too long. I’m off sick.’

  I went into the hall, waited till she had closed the door behind us and followed her into what turned out to be a kitchen looking out onto the back, where a February pigeon sat pecking forlornly at the window frame in the hope of finding some insects that had survived the winter.