Cold Hearts (2 page)

‘That was what you had in mind when Tanya threatened to report what had happened, someone different from the police.’

‘They protect us when it’s necessary, yes. There can be other groups who try to muscle in on our patches. Or crazy folk. They’re queuing up out there, I can tell you that. Everything from drivers of trucks as big as mountains to embarrassed office workers in their tiny Starlets, so cramped it’s tough to do a blowjob inside. And you never know who you’ll meet, you never know who they are when they remove their masks.’

‘These people who protect you, have they got names?’

Her eyes widened a fraction. ‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘No?’

‘No. You’ll have to accept that.’

‘Are they Norwegian?’

‘Yes.’

I ruminated. ‘These people Maggi turned down but Tanya agreed to go with … Do you know any more about them? Did she say anything? Tanya, that is.’

‘Nothing in particular.’

‘The name suggests … Is she Russian?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you put me in touch with her?’

Suddenly she grinned. ‘I’m sure she’ll turn you a trick if that’s what you’re after …’

‘No, that’s not what I’m … How will I recognise her?’

‘She’s very red-haired, let me put it like that.’

‘Dyed?’

She responded with arched eyebrows.

‘Of course I’ll pay her for the time it takes. While I’m on the subject …’ I listened to the hum of the expensive hard disk under the desk. ‘How will you pay?’

A fresh attempt at a smile, but stiffer this time. ‘In kind?’

Her cynicism hit me harder than I had anticipated. I could have been her father. She had been in the same class as my son. Nonetheless she was willing to open the goodie bag, however well-used, even for me.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I prefer cash payments. Or I can fill in a banker’s draft for you.’ It would give my bank a minor shock if they noted some movement in the account, which had been drained down to rock bottom over the last few months, but I took the risk.

She nodded. ‘Just fill it in and you’ll get the money.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask for a small advance.’

‘That’s what we do, too. Afterwards you can never be sure.’

‘Sounds like our professions aren’t so far removed from each other.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

She opened her handbag and produced a few thousandkrone notes. I took them and gave her a receipt. Afterwards she gave me the key to Margrethe Monsen’s flat in Strandgaten. ‘You’ll see
M. Monsen
on the door.’

‘Thank you. I’ll start there. How can I find you?’

She looked past me, towards Bryggen. ‘Round and about.’ She took out a mobile phone. ‘You can have my number.’

I tapped it into mine.

‘And here’s mine.’ I gave her a business card.

She read it and stuffed it in her bag. After a short pause she asked, somewhat hesitantly: ‘How’s Thomas?’

‘He lives in Oslo. Goes to university there. They’re planning to get married this summer. He and his girlfriend.’

Her mouth contorted, half smile, half grimace. ‘Did you know we dated for a while?’

‘No, I …’ I rolled my chair back half a metre and gave a laconic smile. ‘I could have been your father-in-law, in other words?’

‘If a lot of things had been different, yes.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘Well …’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose these things happen.’

For a moment we sat in silence. We finished our coffee. Then she sighed and got up. ‘So we’ve got a deal?’

‘We have.’

I accompanied her to the door. Hege Jensen from Nye Sandviksvei. A migratory bird that had flown off course, much too early in her life, and way, way off course.

I met her gaze one more time. Then she walked towards the lift while I returned to my office, skimmed the few notes I had made, put my computer into hibernation, grabbed the notes and went out into the gloomy January daylight without any great hopes of success.

STRANDGATEN IS ONE OF
Bergen’s oldest streets. From one century to the next, it has wound its way from Torgallmenningen to Nordnes, followed buildings across the peninsula and been shaped by fires and other catastrophes.

The apartment block where Margrethe Monsen lived was in one of the quarters that had lain in ruins after the great explosions of 20 April 1944. I had grown up a few stone throws from there, and if my memory served me well, these blocks were built towards the latter end of the 1950s. At least there was an unmistakable 1950s feel to the entrance: black slate tiles on the floor, locked covers to the refuse shaft on each floor and blue doors with a narrow vertical window in matt wire glass. The front door was locked, but the flat key worked on this door as well.

I found the
M.Monsen
sign on the third floor. I could have taken the lift, but preferred the stairs. I rang the bell several times and stood waiting for a response. Nothing.

I heard someone come into the downstairs entrance and the lift machinery buzz into action straight afterwards. The lift stopped on the third floor, the door opened and a young woman with long, blonde hair pushed a little turbo-pram carrying an eighteen-month-old child in through the door.

She glanced at me, curious.

‘I’ve just rung my sister-in-law’s bell.’ I nodded to the door. ‘But she doesn’t seem to be in.’

‘No, it’s a while since I’ve seen her.’ She opened her bag and took out her key to the door on the opposite side.

‘Mm, do you have any contact with her?’

‘No, no, no,’ she said without drawing breath. ‘Besides we’ve only been here for a few months. And as you can see, we’ve got a tiny tot here to concentrate on.’

Tiny Tot responded at once with a few impatient grunts and movements, suggesting that he wanted to be out of the pram as soon as possible and to get started on the daily razing of the flat.

‘I see.’ I took out the key. ‘I’ll let myself in then to make sure everything is as it should be.’

She looked at me with a combination of suspicion and anxiety.

‘My wife always keeps a spare key in case of emergency.’

‘Yes, I suppose that would be wise.’ She opened her door, pushed the pram in, nodded quickly and closed the door behind her. At once I heard the shrill howls of pleasure from indoors. The tiny tot was free: Run!

I inserted the key in the lock, twisted and stepped inside. For a moment I stood sniffing the air, but I couldn’t smell anything suspicious and closed the door quietly after me.

I was in a very small hall, furnished with an old dresser. Above it hung an oval mirror and as I flicked on the light switch a flattering reddish glow descended over the room.

I opened the door to the right of me. It led into an oblong bathroom with a shower cabinet, toilet, sink, a medicine cupboard with a mirror at the front and a plastic basket for dirty laundry. I peered down. There were a few things there: panties, bras and a couple of blouses. At the back in one corner was a combined washing machine and drier. The door was open, and there was nothing inside.

I opened the medicine cupboard. Shampoo, ointment, hair lacquer, various boxes of painkillers, none of them prescriptions, nail varnish and varnish remover, mascara and lipstick. I found a box of propolis granules and opened it. The contents might appear to look like tiny concentrated lumps of hash, but when I gingerly tasted one of them I soon recognised the sharp flavour of the real McCoy. Beyond that there was nothing unusual present, more the opposite.

I went back into the hall. The next room I came to was the kitchen. It was small and narrow without space for much more than a unit, sink, fridge and dishwasher. Attached to the wall by the window was a small table, the kind that can be flipped up and secured with a bolt. There was a folding chair by the wall, but neither the chair nor the table seemed to have been used of late.

I opened the fridge. Not much of interest there, either. A few jars of jam, an unopened packet of sheep sausage, a dried-up bit of brown cheese. I closed the door at once. This was not where she put her heart and soul.

Through the hall I entered the sitting room. It was like most sitting rooms. The sound system was not as dominant as if there had been a man living here, and the TV was not the latest model. She had a few shelves of CDs and cassettes, but no books. There were some weekly magazines and a couple of newspapers strewn over the floor beyond the shabby coffee table, and the chairs looked as if they had been collected from the Sally Army shop, Fretex, one rainy day fifteen years ago. But the stains were more likely to be from beer and spirits than rain, I feared.

It struck me that there was not a single picture hanging on the walls. There were a few plants in the window, but when I
went over to inspect them I saw that they were artificial and covered with a thin layer of dust.

Out of habit I cast a glance behind the threadbare sofa. Someone had stuffed a blue Fjord Line bag there. I bent over, picked it up and peered inside. It contained some scrunched-up plastic bags, the type you get in supermarkets. SuperBrugsen ones, not that I was any the wiser, all I knew was that at some point she had caught a ferry to Denmark and had been shopping. Perhaps she had even been working on it, an activity that was far from unusual, according to what I had been told. In the bar on the Danish ferry morals were free and wallets even freer. If you were the diligent kind you could fit a handful of cabin visits into a journey.

The door to the adjacent room was ajar. I opened it wide and paused in the doorway.

This was the room where she had invested most of herself. The bed was broad and large. There was a soft carpet on the floor, and the walls were covered in red velvet wallpaper with a silk lily pattern. In the corner of the room was a tall, dark brown wardrobe. I walked over and turned the key. Two doors unfolded. There was a tall mirror on the inside of each one, and from the poles hung a variety of outfits, most black, imaginatively designed and with a selection of openings, all according to your taste.

I went to the bed and folded the quilt to one side. The linen looked nice and fresh. But even here there were no pictures on the walls. To me this seemed more like a workplace than a home. The first thing I had to find out was whether she had another address.

There did not seem to be any personal effects in any part of the flat, unless …

I went back to the hall and opened the drawers in the dresser, one by one. The top ones contained nothing more than a couple of headscarves and some handkerchiefs. The bottom one contained what I was looking for: several large envelopes, a small photo album, a pile of prescriptions, certificates and other papers.

I riffled through the papers. I was unable to find a driving licence, if she had one, a passport or any other kind of ID. Most were old invoices, prescriptions for a selection of medicines, some of them names I knew, others I didn’t. Most seemed to be sedatives and sleeping tablets of various strengths.

I opened the small photo album. It had a dark red plastic cover and an old Tourist Office photo of Bryggen, the German wharf area of Bergen, on the outside. With a text:
Greetings from Bergen.

Most of the photographs were black-and-white, some newer ones were colour. The same woman appeared in the majority of them. As a young girl she had been photographed in a street I could not immediately place, but seemed to be somewhere in Bergen. Further in, there were a few photos taken in booths and a handful of very shaky pictures of her sitting in festive company in what must have been Børs Café. A couple of beach holiday snaps from somewhere in Southern Europe, with her sitting at a little table in front of an umbrella cocktail, smirking at the photographer.

In some of the early pictures there were other children, but whether they were brothers and sisters or friends was hard to say. Many of the photos were taken on a slope with a white building in the background. If I was not mistaken it was Lea Park with Lea Hall in the background, or Solhaug School, as it was called in my days. In which case Hege was right
when she thought Margrethe came from the Minde district of Bergen.

The solitary photograph showing adults was a summery shot taken somewhere in the country, in front of a cabin and with high mountains in the background. It could have been anywhere in Vestland from Ryfylke, south of Bergen, to Nordfjord, north of Bergen. The small girl I assumed to be Margrethe was sitting with two other children, a boy and a girl, at a long wooden table, with five adults, three men and two women, all in their late thirties. It was a fair assumption that two of them were her parents, the others perhaps uncles and aunts, and the two children were her brother and sister. Everyone was smiling for the photographer, and there was a relaxed atmosphere of sun and summer about the small photo, snapped at a time when everything appeared to be better and no one was looking fifteen to twenty years ahead.

The little album was the right size to fit in my coat pocket, and I decided there and then to take it.

I was casting a final gaze around the room when I saw shadows through the windowpane in the apartment door. A second later there was a long, shrill ring at the door.

I held my breath. What should I do? Who could it be? And what did they want? I hoped they would go away if no one opened up. But they did not. They did the same as I would have done. They let themselves in.

FOR A MOMENT WE
stood gawping. One of them closed the door behind them, hard. ‘And who the hell do we have here then? Father Christmas?’

The other grinned. I knew the routine. Abbott & Costello. And they always came in two formats.

The taller of the two spoke. He was approximately forty years old, one ninety tall, broad-shouldered and wearing a dark, half-length winter coat, as though he had just come from the latest board meeting at the bank. The one grinning looked more like his gofer. He was wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans and had a thick, greyish scarf knotted around his neck. Neither was a charmer, in my book.

I realised that in this situation it was important to take the initiative. I stepped forward, proffered my hand and introduced myself as Henriksen from social security.

Big Boy regarded my hand with disdain, as though his greatest dream would be to break it in half. ‘Social security. And what the hell …?’

‘Do you know
frøken
Monsen, by any chance? Since you have the key to her flat, I mean.’

He came one step closer, and I became aware of the strong, somewhat too sweet aroma of his aftershave. ‘Let’s see some ID then,
herr
Henriksen from social security.’

I met his gaze. ‘What was your name, did you say?’

The lean gofer glanced nervously at Big Boy.

‘That’s none of your bloody business.’

‘In that case, my ID is none of your bloody business. But we can phone the police if you’re uncertain about which of us has most to lose.’

‘Kjell,’ said Little Boy.

‘Shut up!’

Kjell glowered at me. Then he placed his hands flat on my chest and pushed me hard. ‘And what is social security doing here?’

I regained my balance and retreated into the sitting room to have greater freedom of movement. Both of them followed. Little Boy positioned himself in the doorway. Kjell followed me in.

‘There are reasonable grounds for suspicion,’ I said. ‘To assume an illegal income, for example.’

He widened his eyes. ‘Illegal income?’

‘Do you know
frøken
Monsen? Do you know how she makes her living?’

‘You, Henriksen … I don’t think the authorities have any business sniffing into …’ He came to a halt. ‘How did you get in by the way?’

I knew that I was skating on thin ice. ‘I was lent a key … by the family.’

‘Rolf …’

The signal he gave had been clear enough, but Rolf was faster than I had expected. He circled round behind his friend. In an instant he had a flick-knife in his hand. He came straight for me, pushed me to the wall with one arm and placed the blade against my larynx, so firmly that I had difficulty breathing. ‘Don’t move!’ he wheezed into my ear. ‘If you do …’

Kjell arced round behind him. ‘Slash him if he makes so
much as one unexpected move!’ he ordered. ‘In the meantime let’s check out who he is, whether he likes it or not.’

He stuffed a hand inside my jacket and groped for inside pockets. He unzipped one and fished out my wallet. Then he took a few steps back and began to rifle through it.

It wasn’t long before there came a protracted whistling sound. ‘Henriksen, hm, as it were. From social security.’

He held up my certificate and Visa card. ‘In which case, who do these belong to? Have you stolen them?’

Rolf glanced to the side. ‘What do they say, Kjell? What’s his name?’

‘Veum, it says. Varg Veum. And here he even has some business cards. Varg Veum, private investigator, Strandkaien 2. Social security, my arse!’

‘A private dick? What the hell he’s doing here?’

‘Well, we can ask him.’

‘Yes, you haven’t quite cut my vocal cords yet,’ I garbled in a forced voice, then felt the pressure from the knife blade relax a touch.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Veum?’

‘The same as you, I would guess. Looking for Maggi.’

‘And under whose instructions?’

‘… The family’s.’

‘The family? Don’t make me laugh. They’ve never given a toss.’

‘The sister,’ I said.

‘The sister?’ Kjell looked at Rolf, who shrugged. Then he turned back to me. ‘And what was it that caused her to miss darling Maggi all of a sudden?’

‘If Rolfie boy could shift the knife a little perhaps it might be possible to have a rather more civilised conversation.’

‘Veum, the conversations we have are seldom very civilised. Especially not when people get in our way.’

‘I could ask you the very same question. What the hell are you doing here? Who gave you the right to break into other people’s property?’

Kjell sneered. ‘Other people’s property? And who the hell do you think owns this property? Maybe you would like to see the rental contract?’

‘So you’re the person responsible for these inviting interior furnishings?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you like it here? This wonderful …’ He broke off as his gaze fell on the blue Fjord Line bag which I had left on the sofa after establishing that it was empty. He strode over, opened it and drew the same conclusion. When he turned back to me, his eyes were small and menacing. ‘Tell me … It wasn’t you who emptied this, was it?’

‘Emptied what? It was empty when I came.’

‘Sure?’

I looked at Rolf. His eyes were alert and sly. ‘Would you mind removing the knife?’The nature of his gaze changed. A flash of humour appeared, and he recited:
‘He who fain the blood of another must early go forth; the wolf that lies idle shall win little lamb meat, or the slumbering man success.’

‘Eh?’

‘Did that go over your head, Veum?’ Kjell said. ‘Rolf is well read, you know.’

‘At any rate, I am not looking for lamb meat.’

‘No? What for then?’ He held the blue bag in the air. ‘What do you know about this, Veum?’

‘What is there to know?’ When he didn’t answer I added: ‘Nothing.’

‘What do you know about Maggi?’

‘Listen to me … She’s been missing since Friday. The family is worried.’

‘The family doesn’t give a flying fuck!’

‘A woman friend then!’

‘Ah, I see! Now we’re getting closer. One of the other girls?’

I shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s my job to find her.’

He fixed me with a stern look. ‘But we’re worried too, Veum. She hasn’t paid her rent, let me put it like that.’

‘And how often does she pay? Every day or once a week?’

‘We have a fixed agreement, and she hasn’t kept her part of the bargain since …’

‘Friday?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Is subletting allowed in this housing co-op?’

He snorted. ‘Now let me give you a piece of good advice, Veum.’

‘I can’t afford it.’

‘Eh?’

‘I already know what you’re going to say.’

‘And that is?’

‘Witless man lies awake all night, thinking hither and thither,’
Rolf interrupted.

‘That’ll do,’ Kjell said. ‘He doesn’t understand anyway. Press the knife into his neck a little harder so that he understands the seriousness of what I’m about to say.’

Rolf followed orders. He pressed the blade in and up so that I had to climb onto my toes to avoid being cut. ‘Stop!’ I groaned.

‘Listen carefully, Veum. You can go back to whoever gave you this assignment and say you’re calling off the whole thing.
You couldn’t find Maggi anywhere, her flat was empty and she’s bound to get in touch when she returns from … wherever it is she’s staying.’

‘And where’s that supposed to be? A holiday? You are aware, are you, that a punter scared her a couple of days ago?’

Again his eyes narrowed. ‘A punter? How do you know?’

I didn’t answer.

‘How do you know, I said! Rolf …’ He motioned to Rolf to press harder. I could feel my skin was on the point of giving.

‘You saw my card. I’m a private investigator. This is how I work.’

‘You’ve been sniffing round the area?’

‘I heard that Maggi had been frightened by a punter, so frightened that she refused a trick with him. If there weren’t two of them, that is. Another woman took her job and was beaten black and blue.’

‘Another woman? Who?’

‘I wasn’t given a name.’ I saw no reason to give it to him.

‘And when was this supposed to have happened?’

‘On Friday.’

‘Friday.’ He looked at Rolf, who relaxed the pressure on the knife a little. ‘Have you heard about this?’

‘No.
Witless man who strays …
’

‘That’ll do, I said!’

‘In other words … If we could start by finding out who the guys were …’

‘You, Veum, won’t be finding out anything at all. If people hear that there’s a private dick snooping around the district, the place’ll be as deserted as the far side of the moon.’

‘People?’

‘You’ve been warned. If you set foot here again …’

‘At the moment I walk around Nordnes at least a couple of times a week.’

‘If you try to contact any of the girls …’

‘Ah, you’ve got more tenants, in other words?’

‘In short, if our paths cross again you’ll be up shit creek. Is that clear?’

‘As clear as
The Moonbeam
, but not quite as wonderful.’

‘Rolf, slice him!’

Again Rolf demonstrated his agility with the knife. The pressure on my larynx went for a second or two as the knife was swung round and I felt a smarting pain down my neck, where with one fast, efficient slash he had cut a line down from my ear to my collarbone. Not deep. Not serious. But sharp enough for me to have to use my handkerchief to stem the flow.

Kjell slung my wallet over, at such a speed I had trouble catching it. He grinned. ‘Got the message, Veum? Next time it’ll be deeper. Right to the hilt. Show him out!’

Rolf did as his lord and master instructed. On the way out I mumbled:
‘Cattle die, kith die …’

‘… you die too in the end,’
he mumbled back, then opened the door and shoved me roughly onto the landing.

Before I had turned he had slammed the door behind me.