The Writing on the Wall

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Muus went on: ‘We’re investigating Birger Bjelland’s entourage for this too, of course, starting with the file that was in her computer. But for the time being we’re keeping an open mind.’

  ‘It was like Piccadilly Circus down there late on, according to the receptionist’s register,’ said Helleve.

  ‘Yes, I met – one of them.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Sidsel Skagestøl.’

  ‘That figures. She was there – but came away empty-handed. Furebø’s wife and daughter called …’

  ‘Did they? When?’

  ‘Just before you arrived. They’d been at the cinema and called in to see whether he was ready to come home with them.’

  Half lost in thought, I said: ‘It was something she said when she phoned …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laila Mongstad. It wasn’t Halstein Grindheim after all.’

  ‘Grindheim? The politician?’ Muus cut in. ‘So who was it?’

  ‘That’s just what she was going to tell me. That’s why she asked me to come down.’

  ‘So what the hell did she mean?’

  ‘She was poking around in a case, and Grindheim … she’d identified Grindheim thanks to a photo of his car.’

  Muus glanced at Helleve. ‘Didn’t we seize an envelope with photos in it down there?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got them under lock and key. I’ll go and get them.’

  While he was out, Muus look at me searchingly. ‘Grindheim, Grindheim … Was this the same case, Veum?’

  ‘Yes, but as she said, it wasn’t him…’

  ‘No, as she said … but she’s dead, isn’t she?’

  ‘Tell me, Muus, do you think you’ve really time to retire?’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, Veum. Don’t tempt me …’

  Helleve came back with the pictures. I recognised them at once and quickly leafed through them till I found the right one.

  I placed it on the table in front of them and pointed. ‘The car registration number.’

  ‘Could she have been mistaken, do you think?’ asked Muus.

  If it was the number plate that identified Grindheim, then … The number eight there, for example, is so unclear it could have been a three,’ said Helleve.

  I looked at them. ‘Can we give it a try? Check it against the register of numbers?’

  BelIeve already had his hands on the keyboard and his eyes on the screen. ‘But there’s only Bergen and the county of Hordaland here. It was a Bergen number, though, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded.

  He typed in a few codes before the number itself and sat waiting, as the computer searched for the answer.

  When it came up on the screen he sat there staring at it speechless.

  ‘Well?’ said Muus impatiently, starting to get up out of his chair. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Holger Skagestøl,’ said Atle RelIeve, turning wearily back to face us with the look of someone who has seen it all.

  Fifty-one

  ‘WE’LL DEAL with this part of the case ourselves,’ said Dankert Muus, looking at me sharply.

  I nodded gently. ‘You hardly need to tell me that.’

  Muus glanced at Helleve. ‘Do we know where he lives?’

  Helleve searched through his papers. ‘He’s rented a basement flat from a colleague on the paper … at Bones.’

  ‘Then let’s go and take a look, the sooner the better.’

  ‘Do we know what we’re going to say?’

  ‘We’ll think of something.’

  I stood up. ‘Have a nice day, Muus. For the rest of your life.’

  ‘Without you, Veum,’ he said with a blissful smile. ‘Without you.’

  ♦

  In the car on the way up to Årstadvollen I had so much on my mind that I felt completely at sea. Holger Skagestøl, as a punter, in the same outfit as … But how did that fit in, and what had it got to do with all the rest? Had he, through a misunderstanding, paid for the services of his own daughter? And in that case, had he… Wasn’t it Birger Bjelland and his cronies, after all? Had Helge Hagavik been right: that it was a client?

  When I got to Fløenbakken I did not turn right but carried on heading south.

  I passed the tower block at Mannsverk without pausing, and at the top of Birkelundsbakken turned right.

  I looked at my watch. Quarter to four on a Saturday afternoon.

  Was there anyone in the Furebø family sitting waiting for the football pool results, I wondered?

  I parked the car behind the white Mercedes in the driveway.

  It was Randi Furebø who came to the door, as immaculately turned out as usual. This time she was wearing a simple grey skirt with a waist-length black waistcoat.

  She struggled to control the look on her face when she saw who was at the door.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said, ‘but I really must have a couple of words with Åsa again.’

  ‘A couple of words?’ she repeated sceptically.

  And in a way she was right. I’d probably need more than a couple of words.

  ‘Is she at home?’

  She nodded and stepped passively aside. ‘She’s in her room.’

  ‘Is it all right to speak to her there?’

  ‘Yes, yes it is …’

  From upstairs I heard the voice of Trond Furebø. ‘Who is it, Randi?’

  ‘It’s …’ She had to raise her voice. ‘Veum!’

  Furebø was already on his way down the stairs. ‘And what the hell does he want?’

  ‘I need to have a couple of words with Åsa,’ I said again.

  He was wearing a kind of jogging suit of shiny, dark-blue material. The top hung open. Underneath, he was wearing a white T- shirt with the words ‘Bergen Run’ and the names of some major sponsors on it. ‘Not unless we’re present!’ he said sharply.

  I shot a sideways glance at his wife. ‘If you think it’s a good idea …’

  ‘We want to know everything!’ she said quickly, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. ‘It’s pointless to keep anything back now.’

  Trond Furebø gave a toss of his head. ‘We’ll go upstairs. Can you fetch her, Randi?’

  She nodded, and I followed Furebø up to the spacious sitting room. I was right. The TV was on, and Furebø had already set himself up in a comfortable chair, with the pools coupon, a bottle of beer and a bowl of potato crisps. Now he swung the chair partway round, turned down the volume and looked at me with an irritated expression. ‘Is this really necessary, on a Saturday afternoon, Veum?’

  I sighed. ‘Not if I could help it.’

  ‘Who the devil can help it, then? Our Father who art in Heaven?’

  ‘That’s two you’ve mentioned already.’

  Åsa and her mother came down the stairs, Åsa looking like a sulky child, her mother en route to eternal martyrdom.

  ‘Hello, Åsa,’ I said in yet another attempt to keep the tone light. It wasn’t easy.

  She simply pulled a face but said nothing.

  Randi Furebø glanced at her husband. ‘Shall I put on some coffee?’

  Furebø shook his head sternly. ‘He can have a beer if he likes.’

  ‘He’s driving, so he’d prefer a Clausthaler,’ I said.

  Randi Furebø nodded and went out into the kitchen.

  ‘Veum says he has a few questions to ask you, Åsa,’ said Furebø.

  She glanced in my direction but without actually looking me in the face. She was wearing light blue jeans and a white, full-length blouse. She looked as if she’d just washed her hair, as the ends were still wet. The only thing that jarred was the closed stony expression on her face.

  ‘I’d like to talk a bit again about the day Torild disappeared – and the day after,’ I began cautiously.

  ‘The day after?’

  ‘The Friday.’

  She looked at her father. ‘I was grounded from that Friday onwards.’

  Randi Furebø returned from the kitchen with a glass and an ope
n bottle of Clausthaler on a white tray. ‘Well, not grounded,’ she said. ‘It was because we were anxious about you, Åsa!’ She glanced at me while putting the tray down on the table beside me. ‘We’d no idea what might have happened!’

  ‘No … thank you,’ I said, pouring myself a glass of alcohol-free beer. ‘And from when were you grounded?’

  ‘After I got home from town. There was no school that day.’

  ‘It wasn’t till the afternoon that we heard Torild hadn’t come home,’ her mother added.

  Trond Furebø cleared his throat. ‘Listen, Veum, what’s the point of this, anyway?’

  I kept my eyes fixed on Åsa. ‘The day before, you and Torild were at Jimmy’s when she received a phone call, weren’t you?’

  She twisted about on her chair.

  ‘Weren’t you?’ I said again.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You knew where she was going, didn’t you?’

  ‘Didn’t you, didn’t you? How could I know?’

  ‘You’d received phone calls like that yourself a few times, hadn’t you?’

  ‘Veum!’ Now it was her mother’s turn to react. ‘What are you insinuating? This goes far beyond –’

  ‘Just look at her! She’s blushing with –’ I stopped myself just in time and turned to speak to Åsa in a much gentler tone. ‘You could make money out of it, couldn’t you? Far more than you could expect to get at home, however much you badgered them to raise your allowance.’

  Furebø slammed down his glass. ‘Are you trying to …? How dare you come here and …’

  ‘It was Torild and Astrid who … I just went with them,’ said Åsa faintly. ‘I’m not like that.’

  ‘But they were?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They were on drugs, weren’t they?’

  ‘No. Just – tried them.’

  ‘Tablets?’

  ‘Helge had got hold of some stuff from England, some pills that were supposed to give, to make you, even when you …’ She looked shiftily back and forth from her mother to her father.

  ‘Even when you …’ I repeated.

  ‘Even when you did it on your own!’ she burst out.

  I glanced quickly at Furebø. ‘Ecstasy.’

  ‘What’s that?’ barked his wife crossly.

  ‘Tablets that are supposed to increase libido, or so it’s claimed. Especially popular at so-called House parties. There hasn’t been much of it in Bergen yet, but in Oslo it’s been around for a number of years now.’ Bitterly I added, ‘But it doesn’t increase the sex drive, Åsa! It just does your head in, makes you a nervous wreck and so out of it that … Abroad there’ve been a number of murders under the influence of stuff like this. So it probably won’t be long before we have the first one here. If we haven’t already.’

  ‘Maybe this was what that Satanist had taken?’ said Randi Furebø weakly, as if to change the subject.

  I looked at her askance with a crooked smile, so as not to give her too much hope.

  ‘The day after, the Friday, you were at Jimmy’s again. But then neither Astrid nor Torild was there. Was that why you said that you would do it?’

  ‘I’m not like that! I couldn’t know!’

  ‘But they tempted you with the promise of good money, eh?’

  She looked down then sideways, up at the ceiling, everywhere but at her parents.

  ‘Don’t tell me it was your first time!’

  ‘No, course not! I’d done it before! But I wasn’t like that! I didn’t do it all the time! I tried to stay out of it!’ At last she glanced at her parents: ‘Do you understand?’

  Randi Furebø just sat there, staring at her, as pale and lifeless as a wax doll. Trond Furebø was ashen-faced. His silver hair no longer became him. His boyishness had vanished. In the last five minutes he seemed to have aged ten years.

  ‘Understand?’ he murmured. ‘How can you “understand” something like that? Your own daughter.’

  ‘Åsa!’ her mother whimpered as though she was in pain and the pain had been inflicted by her daughter.

  ‘It was you who was with Judge Brandt when he died, wasn’t it?’

  She nodded. She was still struggling to hold on to her mask.

  ‘They found a bottle of tablets in the bathroom. Did you take them – to make it easier to go through with it?’

  The dam burst. And she broke down, weeping uncontrollably. Tears poured from her eyes and nostrils as she sobbed: ‘He … he was repulsive! The old pig! He was wearing – women’s underwear – and he wanted, I had to take my clothes off and put on something he’d brought with him, in leather and jackboots and, and a sort of whip, and he made me, he crawled round on the floor, and I had to kick and whip him, and in the end he wanted, he lay on his back with his legs in the air like a little baby, and, there was an opening in – I was supposed to sit on top of him and pee on him!’

  Her mother let out a loud gasp. Her father clamped his jaw shut so hard that it cracked.

  ‘But I couldn’t do it!’

  ‘That’s something at least!’ exclaimed her mother as though even the smallest chink of light was worth seizing upon.

  ‘And as if that wasn’t enough he, he had a bad turn, a sort of attack, and that was it!’

  ‘He died, you mean.’

  ‘Yes! I didn’t know it at the time, but I …’

  ‘And what did you do? Did you call for help?’

  ‘I …’ She shook her head. ‘I pulled off those horrible clothes, put my own back on and just ran off …’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Back to Jimmy’s and told them …’

  ‘Told who?’

  ‘Kalle and Helge! They … they took me into the room at the back and said I wasn’t to worry, said I should just forget about it and that they’d take care of everything, then they phoned somebody, and I … I came home.’

  ‘You came home,’ I said lamely. ‘And were grounded?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Without saying a word about it?’

  ‘You don’t think I’d say anything …’ She looked away again. ‘About that?’

  ‘But you were grounded, all the same.’

  Randi Furebø opened her mouth – and closed it again.

  I looked at her. ‘Why?’

  She gestured vaguely and glanced at her husband. ‘Well … we didn’t know what had happened to Torild …’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But, all the same, didn’t the two of your trust her?’

  ‘Trust Åsa? Do you think there was any reason to after what you’ve heard today?’ She looked at her husband again as though waiting for him to say something.

  But Furebø just stared at his daughter as though she was a total stranger who had forced herself upon his attention and demanded to be taken seriously.

  ‘That episode with the leather jacket …’

  Furebø looked at me and snapped: ‘Yes? What about it?’

  ‘I don’t quite see the connection.’

  ‘There wasn’t any connection! This … My daughter, who stands here before you, I almost said, stole it. I insisted she should take it back, and –’

  ‘But the manageress was sure it had been bought and paid for.’

  ‘Sure? She was a complete dope! It was several weeks since it had happened; how could she be so sure?’

  ‘Several weeks? It was just last Wednesday that I went there for the first time, and on that occasion –’

  ‘So what?’

  I turned back to Åsa. ‘What’s your version of the story?’

  ‘About the leather jacket?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It …’ She shot a quick look at her father again. ‘What he says is true. I’d stolen it.’

  I looked at her gently. ‘Listen … everything else is on the table now, Åsa.’

  ‘They know how you – earned a bit extra. Can’t you just as well admit that you bought it, as the lady said, with money you’d earned – doing that?’

  ‘Yes, but
… it was just that Dad hadn’t seen the jacket before – the day you …’

  I looked at Furebø again. ‘Was that when you understood – or at least suspected, what Åsa was mixed up in?’

  ‘Yes, I …’

  His wife gave him a hurt look. ‘You didn’t say anything to me about it!’

  ‘No, I didn’t want you to …’

  ‘But all the same she’d been grounded from the Friday, five days before.’

  ‘Yes?’

  Both of them looked at me for an answer. Even Åsa turned her attention to something other than her own dark conscience.

  I hadn’t taken my eyes off Furebø. ‘No, not because Torild had disappeared but because you knew why she had disappeared, and perhaps even what had happened to her?’

  ‘What?!’

  Randi Furebø looked at her husband uncomprehendingly. ‘Trond? What is he talking about?’

  I leaned forward and stared at him. ‘Where were you on Thursday evening, Furebø?’

  ‘At work, as always!’

  ‘We can check up on that. It’s not completely impossible that you too went into town on a little errand, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Out on … Trond!’

  ‘The police are with Holger Skagestøl at this very moment. They’ve identified the car from a photograph. He’s been caught in flagrante as a client in the area.’

  ‘Which car?’

  ‘Holger!’ Randi Furebø looked from her husband to me. ‘Now I think I’ve taken leave of my senses. I just can’t imagine Holger would go to a – prostitute.’

  ‘Can’t you? What about your husband, then?’

  ‘Veum! That’s completely unwarranted!’ Furebø cut in.

  ‘Is it?’ I turned my attention back to him. ‘Oh yes. Holger Skagestøl told me, as an example of what good friends the two of you were, that you often swapped cars, if the other one’s car was in for repairs. Was that the case one January evening when you picked a girl up in his car? – This is what Laila Mongstad had got wind of. Actually, she perhaps still thought it was Holger. Did she ring you to ask you what you thought? Did you realise that if Holger were faced with these charges, he’d send the ball back to you?’

  ‘She … But what about … You’re forgetting the break-in – from outside.’

  ‘It’s the easiest diversion to create for someone already in the building. One set of footprints in one direction, one in another. But there was no one who said the footprints could go out and then back in, and not as we were supposed to think: in and then out again.’