The Writing on the Wall

by Gunnar Staalesen

  With the patience of a saint Birger Bjelland replied: ‘I so rarely visit the places I own, Veum, and when I do, it’s always to talk to the staff, rarely to any of the customers. What are your sources for all these assertions?’

  ‘Press contacts – and representatives of a Women’s Lib group called Ottar, although why I’m not exactly sure.’

  He puckered his mouth as though there was a nasty smell under his nose. ‘Women’s Libbers?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘They’re the worst of the lot, Veum. They paint the devil on a chapel wall if the spirit moves them.’

  ‘For absolutely no reason?’

  ‘For absolutely no reason, Veum!’

  I hesitated a moment. Then I said: ‘Tell me, something I’ve always wondered about, what’s the main activity of this company of yours, Bjelland?’

  He scarcely raised his eyelids. ‘Finance, investments of one kind and another, and loans of all types and sizes … You’re not after a small loan yourself, are you? Interest rates are low just now …’

  ‘One kneecap instead of two?’

  ‘That wasn’t funny, Veum. We run a completely legal business, within the precise limits laid down by the law. Our accounts are impeccable, can’t be faulted and our relations with the tax authorities couldn’t be more cordial.’ As though it was the New Jerusalem he was welcoming me to, he threw up his arms and said in an unctuous, sermonising voice: ‘I’m the whitest lamb on God’s earth, Veum. There isn’t a stain on my reputation. My businesses are run on the highest moral principles.’

  ‘Amen. Hallelujah,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be blasphemous,’ said Birger Bjelland with a rather dopey smile.

  I half stood up. ‘So how come your name constantly pops up in connection with all kinds of unsavoury business? How come nine out of ten investments you put your money in are connected with prostitution and illegal sales of alcohol, gambling and other fine arts? How do you explain that?’

  ‘Can you show me the way to Sodom and Gomorrah, Veum?’

  I glanced round. ‘I thought that’s where we were.’

  ‘The ways of the Lord are inscrutable.’

  ‘And which Sunday school did you go to? Agnostics Anonymous?’

  He raised his hand indolently. ‘Veum, let me give you a word of friendly advice.’

  ‘Please do,’ I muttered.

  ‘Don’t push your luck, old boy. Don’t think that you’re somehow untouchable. There’s nothing sadder than watching good wine turn bad, as it were.’

  ‘Thus spake the wife of Canaan, too.’

  He sighed audibly, looked over at Fred and said: ‘Mrs Helgesen’s almost certainly gone home by now. Can you see Veum out, right out?’

  I stood up and walked towards the door.

  ‘And don’t forget what I said,’ he directed at my back.

  Fred already had his hand on the doorknob when I turned back towards Birger Bjelland. ‘Don’t forget to watch your back too. Be careful, little foot, where you step. Didn’t they teach you that hymn at Sunday School as well?’

  He made no effort to answer; merely smiled that indolent smile of his, which made me think of a shark waiting to attack.

  Fred accompanied me out. Right out. And didn’t even say ‘Au revoir.’

  Thirty-three

  I CALLED KARIN well before five o’clock and assured her that everything was all right. There was nobody behind me in the telephone booth pointing a sawn-off shotgun at my head, and no one had invited me to go for a drive I couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Are you coming up here?’

  ‘There’s still something I have to do. But if the offer can remain open till about midnight, then …’

  ‘But no later than that,’ she said, in a resigned tone.

  ‘Absolutely no later,’ I said.

  ♦

  The Pastel Hotel stuck out from the other buildings in the block like a front tooth painted pink.

  The Week End Hotel had been one of those anonymous bed and breakfast hotels with a bar, dancing in the evening and a rear courtyard I had the most unpleasant memories of. The new owners had stripped off all the previous ornamental façade, not that anything had been lost by doing so. On the other hand, they had painted it in a nondescript pale pink colour that fitted the new name like a glove.

  It was nearly half-past seven when, fresh from the shower and wearing a casually knotted Tuesday tie, I walked through reception into the bar, where there were not many other people besides a couple of middle-aged men and a not quite so middle-aged lady.

  I ambled up to the bar counter, hoisted myself onto one of the stools and ordered a Clausthaler and aquavit. ‘Riding the lame horse today, are we?’ said the bartender with a crooked smile.

  I took a quick look at him. The moustache was apparently the club emblem, even if it looked a bit pricklier than Birger Bjelland’s.

  ‘Are you Robert?’ I asked when he came back.

  He put down the schnapps glass, poured the alcohol-free lager directly into another glass before placing it beside the first, took a cloth and wiped away an invisible spot from the bar counter between us. ‘Who’s asking?’

  I pushed the money over to him. ‘Wilhelmsen.’

  He looked at the money as though it was counterfeit. ‘And why?’

  ‘Your name was recommended …’

  He looked at me suspiciously.

  ‘As somebody who could tell me where to find some decent entertainment on an evening off.’

  ‘Stripping and stuff? You’ll have to go somewhere else for that.’

  ‘What I was thinking of was … more private entertainment, to put it that way.’

  He looked at me with contempt. ‘I know you’re not the law, and your name’s not Wilhelmsen. What the hell are you, then? Journalist? Social worker? From the Church Relief Fund?’

  I turned partway round and looked out over the room. ‘Keep your voice down, Robert. My wife doesn’t know I’m here.’

  He walked a few yards away, fetched a couple of glasses and started to wash them demonstratively.

  I raised my voice. ‘Bit quiet here tonight, isn’t it?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘It quietens down in the evenings, eh?’

  He moved back in my direction. ‘Look, Wilhelmsen or whatever your name is, drink up what you’ve paid for and go stick your fillings in somewhere else, OK?’

  ‘Loud and clear. Message received. Over and out.’

  A woman in her late thirties came into the room, cast an expert eye around her, decided there wasn’t much choice and therefore placed herself strategically two stools away from where I was sitting.

  With a wave to the bartender, she ordered the usual.

  I caught her eye in the mirror above the bar, and she didn’t look away, as keen not to let go as a child clutching treasured marbles.

  The bartender came over with the usual, which appeared to be just whisky on the rocks. As he placed the glass in front of her, he said something I didn’t catch, and after a suitable pause, she cast another, seemingly casual, glance in my direction.

  ‘Your good health!’ I said, raising my glass of aquavit to her. After returning my gesture, she got down from the bar stool and came over to me. ‘Lonely?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say no to a bit of company.’ I nodded towards a table with a few chairs some distance from the bar counter. ‘Shall we sit over there, where it’s more comfortable?’

  The bartender’s eyes followed us as we walked across the floor.

  There was silence for a moment, as we both tried to decide where the situation was heading. She was wearing a little black evening dress that looked slightly crumpled, perhaps from previous visits. Her face was thin, her hair dyed blonde, and close to, I definitely put her at nearer forty. The phone in the bar rang. The bartender answered it and turned his back to us. ‘Did he say anything about me?’ I asked.

  She smiled faintly. ‘That I should watch my step with you. That he
thought you were the law. Are you?’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘No.’

  ‘Not that it matters, if you’re here off-duty, I’ve – met lots of nice policemen here in town.’

  ‘I’m sure you have.’

  The bartender turned and glanced in our direction, the phone still in his hand. It looked to me as if he was trying to describe my appearance, which gave me an unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘So what do you do?’

  ‘I’m in insurance,’ I said, which was not a lie in fact. At some times in the year I was. ‘And you?’

  She sipped her drink. ‘I started out as a guide, at the Old Bergen Hotel among other places. But recently I’ve moved into – escort services and things like that.’

  I looked at her askance. ‘Escort services and – things like that?’

  ‘Mm,’ she said brightly.

  The bartender hung up, but a few seconds later the phone rang again. He answered, listened and surveyed the room. Then he covered the receiver with his hand, looked straight at me and said: ‘Veum? Somebody asking to speak to you.’

  ‘I … You obviously didn’t hear … The name’s Wilhelmsen! It must be for somebody else …’

  The bartender met my eyes, gave a crooked smile, said something else into the telephone and hung up.

  She looked at me. ‘What else are you called besides Wilhelmsen?’

  ‘Svein Vegard. What about you?’

  ‘My friends call me Molly.’

  ‘Oh really? I’ve heard about you.’

  She suddenly looked alarmed. ‘Oh?’

  ‘Good golly, Miss Molly,’ I hummed. ‘Sure likes to ball. Isn’t that how it goes?’

  ‘And would you like to dance?’ she asked, glancing at the tiny dance floor.

  ‘I scarcely think we’ll be bumping into anybody,’ I said, getting up.

  She clasped me tight, her belly pushed forward and with no visible shyness in the way she moved. I could feel the contours of her body more clearly now. Her shoulder blades were like the stumps of severed wings, and there wasn’t much flight in her thin upper arms either.

  The music came from somewhere in the ceiling, dance muzak where it was the rhythm that counted, not precision.

  ‘What branch of insurance are you in, Svein?’

  ‘I work for myself. Often it’s car collisions. And sometimes life as well.’

  ‘So, are you a sort of freelancer too?’

  ‘You could say that. Do you come here a lot?’

  She looked around. ‘Yes. It’s usually quite nice here, a bit later in the evening. Good service.’

  ‘What sort of age group usually comes here, then?’

  ‘A bit older than the usual rowdy discos. And not quite as sophisticated as in most large hotels. It’s just right for me, actually. Sort of an in-between atmosphere, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘No young girls then?’

  She stepped back a few inches and stared up at my face. ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’

  ‘No, no. I was just –’

  ‘Or are you working?’

  I muttered something that was supposed to sound like a denial and pulled her closer.

  For a while we danced in silence. It seemed as though she’d calmed down again. Her hair was tickling my cheek, and her breathing was gentle and close to my neck. Then as though by accident one of her hands placed itself on my neck, where she gently began to caress me with her long cool fingers.

  ‘If you like …’ she said softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a room I can use on the third floor …’

  I glanced at the bar. The bartender was no longer alone. He’d been joined by two other fellows. They stood there, leaning discreetly against the bar counter and looking in our direction.

  One of them I didn’t know. The other was Kenneth Persen.

  Thirty-four

  ‘NOT A BAD IDEA,’ I muttered into her ear, as I felt my whole body tauten.

  The third man at the bar was dark-haired and well dressed, with a slight weasely look. He was the sort I would always suspect of using a knife. That impression was strengthened by the fact that he had his right hand in his jacket pocket as though it had taken root there.

  When they saw I’d noticed them Kenneth Persen turned and said something to the bartender, who nodded and looked at me with What did I say? written all over his face.

  ‘What does it cost?’ I asked.

  Her voice immediately took on a businesslike note. ‘It depends on what you want. It starts at a thousand kroner.’

  I pulled her closer. ‘Is there another way upstairs than through the bar?’

  ‘They’re not bothered in reception. I have an arrangement.’

  ‘But what if I don’t want to be seen?’

  ‘Discretion’s guaranteed,’ she said, almost without making it sound ironic. ‘There are some back stairs, of course, a fire escape. But …’

  Kenneth Persen and the well-dressed weasel had now stepped onto the dance floor, but it was hardly to enjoy a waltz together.

  Quickly I said: ‘Which room?’

  ‘Four-twelve, but …’

  ‘You go on ahead, and …’

  Just as the two champion dancers came right up beside us I let go of her and propelled her towards the exit.

  ‘But …’

  ‘Living it up, are we, Veum?’ said Kenneth Persen, who had exchanged his black leather jacket for a slightly more bar-friendly suede one.

  I nodded at her to go towards the door, but she didn’t take my hint. She remained standing there.

  ‘Where’s Astrid?’ I growled in order to seize the offensive.

  Was it just my imagination, or did his eyes momentarily shift sideways and upwards?

  ‘You know the police are looking for her, don’t you?’

  ‘All I know is we’ve been told to see you out, Veum.’

  ‘Don’t tell me … right out, eh?’

  I looked over at Miss Molly. Suddenly she didn’t seem as youthful, and the look she gave me was neither warm nor all that friendly. With a contemptuous little toss of the head she turned back to the bar, apparently on the lookout for new investors to offer her shares to. Starting at a thousand kroner.

  Kenneth Persen and his well-dressed companion came and stood on either side of me. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to resist, Veum.’

  ‘Nor you either,’ I said and walked up to the bar. ‘I’ll just finish my drink.’

  As I walked past the bar counter, the bartender boomed: ‘See you … Wilhelmsen.’

  Miss Molly had managed to haul in a new arrival, ten years older than me and the happy owner of a flashy wallet bulging with credit cards, which he was already showing her with the same pride as if it had been pictures of his grandchildren.

  In reception I swung round so fast that the two chaps behind me collided. ‘What the f–!’ exclaimed Kenneth Persen.

  ‘What room’s she in?’

  He wasn’t all that quick on the uptake, and again it took a while before he said anything. ‘Who d’you mean?’

  ‘You know damned well.’ I turned to face reception, where a pale, fair-haired youth sat who looked as though he could have been a theology student. ‘Astrid Nikolaisen.’

  ‘Niko …’

  He started to look her up in the guest register, but Kenneth Persen stopped him abruptly. ‘Knock it off! She’s not in any guest book!’

  ‘Here incognito, is she?’ I said.

  The well-dressed fleet of foot one opened his mouth for the first time. ‘Kenneth, our orders were to eject him, not converse with him.’

  ‘What a posh speaker! And where were you educated? Bergen Business School?’ I turned back to Kenneth Persen. ‘I could call the police, of course. Ask them to come and give the place a once-over.’

  ‘They’ve no bloody right!’

  ‘They want to speak to her, I said! Was it you who gave her the smack, as well, eh? Get the lass hooked
on smack then you can have a freebie whenever you like and look after your old age!’

  The weasel’s right hand was on its way out of his jacket pocket. It distracted me enough to enable Kenneth Persen to land a punch on my shoulder, sending me tumbling towards the exit.

  I grabbed hold of the wall but did not have enough time to turn round properly before receiving another blow, also on the shoulder.

  Kenneth Persen towered over me, while the weasel still had his hand in his pocket. ‘Got the message, Veum? Making myself plain, am I?’

  I needed no further convincing to leave the premises. ‘Plainer than ABC,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t need telling twice.’

  I slammed the door behind me and turned demonstratively right, down towards the city centre. At the first corner, I stopped and look back.

  Kenneth Persen stood in the doorway to make sure I really left.

  But he shouldn’t be too sure about that. I was of the old school, the 1956 Bogart model: The harder they fall, the more terrible the vengeance they wreak.

  Thirty-five

  IT WAS LIKE A GOOD, old-fashioned tailing job.

  I’d made a quick tour of the area, popped into a snack bar and bought two hot dogs with plenty of onions to soak up the aquavit I’d allowed myself in the bar, taken my woollen cap out of my pocket, turned up my coat collar and taken up a position in a doorway about a hundred yards from the main entrance to the hotel, with an oblique view of both it and the exit from the courtyard at the rear.

  The weather was changing. The wind was gusting from the south-west, and there were snowflakes in the air. The view in front of me became grainy and blurred, like a photo taken on the move.

  On a chilly Tuesday evening in late winter there wasn’t much custom. A handful of guests, all of them men on their own, arrived with suitcases. A few of them made for the bar and the dance floor. In one or two windows on the upper floors the light suddenly went on and off. Perhaps it was Miss Molly taking the man with all the credit cards up to her room. She surely had a slot he could put his credit card into to debit his account.

  After about half an hour a taxi stopped outside the hotel entrance. The door opened, and the well-dressed weasel ran doubled up against the wind into the car. The passenger gave the destination and, indicator flashing, the taxi turned right at the first intersection.