Cold Hearts (3 page)

I HUNG AROUND FOR A WHILE
until the blood on my neck had dried. Behind the door on the opposite side I heard irascible screams coming from the tiny tot, but not irascible enough for me to ring the bell and demonstrate my childcare background. Behind M. Monsen’s door I heard muffled sounds that suggested they had already started putting the flat in order for the next tenant. Or were they searching for something? But I didn’t ring to offer them a helping hand.

I sauntered down the stairs and back into the most sterile part of Strandgaten. In the quarter between Nykirken Church and Tollbodallmenningen there was little to feast your eyes on apart from the sale at the vinmonopol on the opposite side, and I supposed that would not be for long, sad to say. A plaque on the wall beyond announced that Edvard Grieg’s childhood home was here. Sontums Hotel had been situated in Tollbodallmenningen, where Ibsen had been accommodated when he moved to Bergen in 1851, but there was not much cultural life in the area any more, apart from the odd buck-ride with a forlorn Anitra. Nowadays it was ticking parking meters that characterised the streetscape. I was glad I was on foot and didn’t have to keep an eye on my watch.

I took out my mobile, rang Karin Bjørge’s work number and asked if she fancied a meal out today. She riposted: ‘And what are you after this time then?’

‘Well, I was wondering if you would mind checking a name for me.’

‘What a surprise. And it would be …?’

‘Margrethe Monsen, born around 1970, I would guess. Grew up in Minde possibly.’

‘You’re as precise as always, I see. What do you need?’

‘Most of all, factual details. Addresses and whatever you can dig up about closest family.’

‘How many generations back?’ She made no attempt to conceal the sarcasm.

‘Parents are enough.’

‘And where were you planning to invite me, did you say?’

‘Pascal’s?’

‘Let’s go for that then. After work.’

‘Half past four?’

We agreed and rang off. I looked at my watch. That gave me a few hours. But until I had something concrete to search for there was little I could do.

I decided to check out Kjell and Rolf a bit more. I glanced at the front door I had just left. I assumed they were not going to spend the rest of the day there. But this part of the street did not offer much in the way of shelter or camouflage, unless you were a car or a traffic warden. I could have crossed the street and queued outside the vinmonopol of course, and shifted places in the queue until Kjell and Rolf emerged, but the problem was that early on a Monday morning in January there were no queues, so I would have stood out like a sore thumb.

They solved the problem by making a personal appearance. Catching sight of me, they came to an abrupt halt. Kjell said a few words to Rolf before making a beeline in my direction.

He stopped in front of me. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hop it?’

I pointed to the pavement at our feet. ‘This is public
property, Kjell Boy. The flat up there belongs to you, doesn’t it?’ I pointed again, to avoid any misunderstandings.

‘And don’t call me Kjell Boy!’

‘But Kjell Boy … We haven’t been properly introduced. Tell me your surname and I’ll address you according to conventional etiquette.’

A large, black Mercedes pulled up. With a grinning Rolf at the wheel.

Kjell looked deep into my eyes once more. ‘Veum … I am warning you for the last time. Don’t tread on my toes. You will regret it!’

He turned around, strode over to the car, tore open the rear door and plumped down heavily on the commodious seat. Rolf saluted with a neutral hand to his forehead, and the car shot forward.

I made a hasty note of the number, first of all in my head, then on my notepad. Before they had passed Nykirken Church I had rung the Vehicle Licensing Agency.

The car was owned by a firm called Malthus Invest. What they invested in was not clear from the name, but it was obviously everything from property to what they would no doubt prefer to call the entertainment industry.

I walked through the pedestrian zone back to my office. I looked out of the corner of my eye at the black screen, which had now allowed the dancing windows to rest, wondering vaguely whether the Internet could have assisted me here. However, I found it safest to get out the telephone directory and leaf through. That, it transpired, was enough.

Malthus Invest had an office in Markeveien. Thus they could have saved the Mercedes the trip to Nordnes. They also had a central switchboard number, but I considered it inappropriate
to bother Kjell Boy any further at this juncture, so I was content to store his number on my mobile for possible later use.

There was one person in Bergen with the surname Malthus. Oddly enough, his first name was Kjell. His home address was in Fyllingsdalen. Street called Storhammeren, although that didn’t mean much to me.

The telephone directory was a tool I had used a lot during my years as a private detective. I sat flicking through it.

I couldn’t find anyone called Margrethe Monsen. Nor, for that matter, Hege Jensen. Either they didn’t have a landline or they had a private number. I glanced at the screen again, but still I didn’t feel competent enough to use the Internet for detective work. A meal at Pascal’s was much more my style.

That may have been why I arrived half an hour before the agreed time. It gave me a chance to have a glass of beer and skim through one of the day’s newspapers. I read that the number of Norwegians with access to the Internet had passed a million. Around two hundred thousand people were online every day. In other words, I was not alone out there. In some miraculous way my office had become connected to the rest of the world, and a familiar refrain had been buzzing in my head for some time:
You’ll never walk alone …

Karin did not have far to walk either and she entered from Valkendorfs gate on the dot. She was wearing a coat and boots, with nothing on her head. She had shaken her umbrella before entering, and bridled at the terrible weather. ‘My God, Varg! Have you seen the floods!’

I nodded. The water was streaming down the gutters, and the last remnants of snow from the morning were now gone.

I gave her a hug, helped her off with her coat and pulled out a chair for her. I was so conspicuously gallant that she peered
up at me and said: ‘And just what is it you’re working so hard for?’

‘What have you got to offer?’ I grinned, taking my place opposite her while an observant waiter dashed up with a menu.

‘I thought
you
were treating
me
?’

‘Here, yes, I am.’

Our eyes met, the way two old friends pass on the street and stop for a chat because it has been such a long time.

We soon decided what we wanted and agreed to share a half-bottle of red with the meal, as we were in a French mood. While we waited for the food to arrive she pulled out a printout of some notes. ‘This is what I found.’

I looked at her expectantly. ‘The info did the trick?’

‘The info? A shot in the dark I would call it.’

‘But …’

‘Yes, you fusspot. I found one Margrethe Monsen with a Minde address, born on 14 April 1970. Falsens vei, if that means anything to you.’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Parallel to Inndalsveien. A friend of mine lived there once years ago.’

‘Right. Is that her present address?’

‘She hasn’t officially moved at any rate.’

‘No address in Nordnes?’

‘Not officially, as I said.’

‘And her parents?’

‘Frank and Else Monsen, née Nybø. But her father’s dead, died four years ago. An older sister, Siv, born in 1968, and a brother, Karl Gunnar, born in 1972.’

‘Addresses?’

‘The mother has the same address as Margrethe. Falsens vei.
Siv lives in Landås, in Kristofer Jansons vei, and the brother’s in prison.’

‘What?’

‘At any rate he has an address at Bergen Prison, and that’s what it tends to mean.’ She passed me the sheet across the table. ‘You’ll find everything there.’

‘Thank you very much. If I didn’t have you I don’t know what I would do.’

‘Find something else to do maybe.’

‘Yes, perhaps.’

The food arrived, and we dug in. She had ordered pork fillet, I chose salted beef. I told her about the little I had to go on, so far. She listened attentively, with a sad expression on her face. I knew why. She was thinking about Siren. We were both thinking about Siren, Karin’s sister who had taken the same route as Margrethe and died of it, ten or eleven years ago.

‘I hope you find her, Varg.’

‘I hope so, too.’

‘Alive.’

‘Yes …’

After the meal we drank coffee, and at length she said: ‘Are you coming back to my place?’

I caressed her hand. ‘If you could let the offer stand for a few hours.’

‘By which you mean?’

‘I have to drive to the red light district first.’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘What have they got that I haven’t?’

‘That’s what I intend to find out. But I’m interested in the information, nothing else.’

‘And you think you’ll get it for nothing?’

‘Doubt it.’

She sighed. ‘Well, well. I suppose it’s a kind of job, too.’

‘But the offer’s still open?’

‘Till midnight, if you’re still interested.’

I paid the bill, and we parted by the sixteenth-century building known as Muren. She walked down Strandkaien to catch the bus. I headed for C. Sundts gate to see if I could get a nibble. To each his own, said the proverbial fox, and in Norway he ended up skinned.

THE RED LIGHT DISTRICT
in Bergen had moved over the years. In olden times it was around Øvregaten where seamen, monks, members of the Hanseatic League and the town’s own citizens had beaten a path up the back stairs to the first floor of the local taverns and hostelries. In the nineteenth century most of the goings-on were to be found in Nøstet until the very last brothel was closed by the police during a major raid in 1875.

In the 1950s and 60s the most obvious signs of street activity were in Strandgaten. After the number of cars increased and the circle of clients became more mobile, business moved out further to Nordnes, to C. Sundts gate, where there is still an abundance of freelance working girls to be seen, from early afternoon to late at night.

For someone who had frequented this area more often than most, though for strictly professional purposes, there was nothing glamorous about this industry. The number of young girls I had found there was not small, from my time in child welfare to the years as a private investigator. For some of them, things had worked out fine. A depressingly high number had been immune to help. So as to get money for the daily dose of drugs they did whatever had to be done with whomever, often for a lower price when competition became too fierce. Market forces held sway in this business as well.

The furthest end of C. Sundts gate was Bergen’s answer to
Ålesund – or vice versa. The area from Muren to Holbergsallmenning burned down in 1901, Ålesund in 1904, and several of the same architects were involved in the reconstruction. Art nouveau-style dominated. The construction work did not start until after the Second World War as the explosion of a Dutch ship in April 1944 had flattened the whole area.

A solitary man driving at a snail’s pace down C. Sundts gate one windy night in January aroused the fullest attention on all sides. No sooner had I opened the window than I had the day’s hottest offers raining down around my ears, in loud falsetto to drown the competitors.

The women gathering round my car were plastered with make-up, wore skirts so short they were damaging to their health and were aged from seventeen to thirty-something, as far as I was able to judge. The youngest was the most modest in self-promotion; the others cackled like a coven of witches on their way to the Midsummer Eve celebrations on Mt Lyderhorn.

‘I’m looking for Tanya,’ I said.

‘Tanya! The Russian slut!’

‘What the hell d’you think she’s got …’

‘… that we haven’t.’

On that point they were in total harmony, the whole bunch of them. But their hasty looks further up the street betrayed them. On the quay outside Nykirken Church there was a girl standing on her own, thin with very red dyed hair.

‘Thank you for the offers,’ I mumbled, rolling up the window to the accompaniment of displeased rejoinders and slighted bangs on the car roof.

I accelerated and pulled into the kerb by her. I rolled down the window on the opposite side. She bent forward and peered
in. Her eyes were nervous. Even though she had not stinted with make-up there were clear marks of punches to her face, round her eyes and on her chin, still swollen from the beating.

‘Tanya?’

‘What d’you want?’ She spoke Norwegian with a slight accent and clear influence of Finnmark dialect.

‘Hege said I should talk to you.’

‘Talk?’ She opened her mouth and ran her tongue lingeringly over her lips in a way that made it clear she was ready for a lot more than talking.

‘I’ll pay the full price.’

‘Full price for what?’

I sent a silent prayer to my contact at the City Treasury who would be assessing my claim. ‘A trick.’

‘Wow! Have you won the lottery?’

‘Are you coming?’

She measured me with her eyes for a few more seconds. Then she changed her intonation. ‘I’m comin’! Course I’m comin’!’

She opened the door, pulled her short skirt so far up that I could have checked whether she still had an appendix, and spread her legs. I glimpsed black panties with dark red lace and a slit with a dark red border.

‘Seat belt. Safety comes first,’ I said.

‘Not with me it doesn’t,’ she said, revealing a row of tiny teeth with brown edges.

I shrugged and put my foot down. She grasped my thigh, high up. As I went to move her hand she resisted. ‘Gotta have something to hold onto!’

‘Yes, but not the gearstick, alright?’

‘Bastard!’

I didn’t drive far. At the top of Nordnesbakken I turned
right into what once had been the terminus for the Nordnes bus. The square was dark, lit by a few scattered streetlamps. In the summer, benches were put out here so that people could sit with a view across Byfjorden. Now it was winter, dark and cold, and the sole view there was the smashed diadem above Askøy bridge and the distant lights.

She looked as if she had been there before. ‘Where do you want to take me? On the back seat?’

I unfastened my seat belt. ‘I’d like to talk, I said.’

‘Yes, but I didn’t bloody believe that! Talk!’ She closed her legs at once, made a vain attempt to pull her skirt down and glowered at me. ‘’Bout what?’

‘About the trick you had last Friday. The trick Maggi refused.’

She was out of the door almost before I could think, but I grabbed her arm, yanked her back in and held on tight.

‘What the hell do you want? You a cop or what?’

‘No. Calm down! I’m not going … to do anything to you.’

She wriggled like a wild cat in my arms, detached one hand and struck out at my face with sharp nails. I grabbed her wrist and twisted it round. The horn went off, and I pressed her head against the car door, locked her in a half nelson and forced her down. Despite this she continued to fight. ‘I’ll scream! I will!’

‘I said I’d pay you for Christ’s sake! Full tariff! What I need is some information.’

‘I’m not saying nothin’. I want double!’

‘OK, OK! I’ll pay you double!’ The tax collector will rub his hands with glee when he reads my expense claims.

She calmed down. Slowly I released my grip, and she sat up. She glared at me and held out a palm. ‘I wanna see the cash!’

I gave her what she demanded, thereby emptying my wallet.

‘Can we make a start?’

‘How do you want to take me, I asked. On the rear seat?’ But this time there was a scornful glint in her eye.

‘You’re fine where you’re sitting, aren’t you?’

‘So so.’ She pulled up the edge of her skirt so that I could see what I was missing.

‘The trick. You remember it, I gathered.’

She nodded. Her mouth tightened.

‘Maggi refused it. Have you any idea why?’

She shrugged demonstratively and thrust out her arms. ‘What do I know! I told her. If the boys hear she’s got so uppity she turns down a trick she’s in serious hot water!’

‘The boys?’

There was another contemptuous glint in her eyes. ‘I think you know what I mean!’

I nodded, and she went on: ‘But she stuck to her guns, and then she said she wouldn’t be here long. She was slinging her hook, she said.’

‘Uhuh! Did she say anything else?’

‘Nope. Just you wait and see, she said.’

‘And maybe she was right, quicker than anyone imagined.’

Again she shrugged. ‘What do I know?’

‘But the trick … Tell me about it.’

Once more her mouth tightened, and her face seemed to darken, as if a shadow had fallen over it. She sat hushed, staring down.

With some circumspection, I said: ‘Are you … afraid?’

She glanced up at me. ‘Afraid? Me?’

‘Listen, Tanya. Even today you’re still carrying the marks of your ordeal. I know you were beaten up. It’s important you tell me what happened. Who were they?’

Another shrug of the shoulders, but not quite as energetic
this time. ‘Two guys.’ After a brief pause she added: ‘But only one did me. The other one waited, round the next corner. When I found out I tried to get away, but the one in the front seat held me down, and the one who got in the back slipped a rope round my neck and threatened to tighten it!’

I could feel myself beginning to boil with anger. ‘Were they Norwegians?’

‘As Norwegian as Satan himself!’

‘How old?’

‘Mm … Two old fellas. Way over fifty.’

‘Thank you …’

‘But not criminals, not as such. No competitors for the boy. No, these were two fine old gents out on the town to beat up a tart because they can’t do it to her indoors.’

‘Where did they take you?’

‘Not far. Down to where the Hurtigruten cruises go, one of the quays there. The one at the back tightened the rope while the one at the front pulled up my skirt, tore my panties off and raped me, with his fist. “You need a real whammer, you do,” he said. “What? Can’t you get it up?” I said, but I should never have said that because that was when he started on me. He hit me again and again, while the one at the back breathed into my ear. I think he was getting off on it from bloody watching. Afterwards they dragged me out and shoved me onto the back seat, face down, and one of them took me from behind. I thought I was going to tear. Because a girl’s a prostitute they shouldn’t bloody treat you like shit, should they? Eh?’

‘Not at all. But this isn’t the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. You know that.’

I thought of Hege, who had been in the same class as Thomas. I thought about Siren whom I had known once, and
Eva-Beate. The number of women who had been subjected to the sort of treatment Tanya had described was not small. They were in the grey area between law and law-breaking and as such easy game for brutes of all kinds, from notorious criminals to top civil servants with an unfulfilled need to make their mark.

‘The one that took you … like that, was that the person in the front of the car?’

‘I think so. Because I had to give the other one a blowjob in the end, and he was a real limpdick, I’m tellin’ you. Not much bloody life in ’im.’

‘And then …?’

‘Well, in the end they closed up my eyes with a few punches and said if I breathed a word to anyone they’d be back to kill me, I could be damn sure of that! I was scared out of my wits. For a while I thought they were gonna do it there and then, but then they gave up, kicked me out of the car and screeched off. I ambled back down the street, but I didn’t take any more soddin’ tricks that night, I went home and took a massive dose of pills so that I could sleep.’

I looked at her battered face. She didn’t look so cocky now, after being reminded of her terrible experience.

‘But … did you ask Maggi who they were? Could she have had the same done to her before?’

‘I haven’t seen ’er since, have I! She took off like a rabbit!’

‘Right … What about the car they were driving? Would you recognise it?’

She rolled her shoulders. ‘It was black. That’s all I remember. Oh, and the three first numbers.’

‘Ri-ight! And they were …?’

‘There was an SP first, followed by 523. I remember that
because the last two add up to the first number, if you know what I mean. I’m not a hundred per cent sure about them, though.’

I noted down the numbers on my pad. ‘Tell me, Tanya. These boys you were talking about, are they the same ones that take care of Hege and Maggi?’

She tossed her head; that was her response.

‘Kjell and Rolf?’

I could see in her eyes that I had hit the bullseye, but she didn’t answer.

‘If so, have you told them what happened?’

She hesitated. ‘That Rolf came and asked. They’d heard a rumour, and he could see the state I was in.’

‘OK. How did he react?’

‘Well, a bit like you. Asked questions, did some digging, about who they could have been and what car they drove. Said if they came again I should refuse to go, but take their number and they would deal with them.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes!’ She almost looked indignant. ‘They’re s’posed to be looking after us! It’s their job!’

‘What a job!’

‘Tell me about it. Who are you anyway? What have you got to do with all this?’

‘Name’s Veum, and I’m a private investigator.’

‘Private investigator!’

I took out a card and gave it to her. ‘I’m looking for Maggi.’

‘So she has gone missing?’

‘Looks like it. When she told you she was going away … did she mention where?’

‘No. I thought she was just dreamin’, the way we all do from time to time.’

‘Mm.’ I fastened the seat belt again and pointed to the card in her hand. ‘Should you remember something later, you can find me there.’

She glanced at the card and nodded.

‘I’ll drive you back then. If that’s where you want to go.’

‘Yes, unless you want … after all you’ve paid!’

‘Not tonight, thank you,’ I said with a crooked smile.

As we were driving back I asked: ‘How long have you been in Norway?’

‘I’ve got a work permit, if that’s what you’re wonderin’!’

‘Oh yes? In the fish filleting industry?’

‘Exactly!’

‘You speak good Norwegian anyway!’

‘Thank you. I picked it up using the natural method, as they say.’

‘Yes, it’s supposed to be the best.’

I dropped her off at Tollbodallmenningen. I remained in the car and watched her until she disappeared round the corner towards C. Sundts gate. I didn’t like the thought of what she was going back to, but there was nothing I could do, not tonight. It was a free country, for most of us. Freedom had a price, though. Some paid the highest rates, and it was seldom those who could best afford them.

Then I put the car into gear and drove to Fløenbakken, where Karin was waiting for me with hot tea and a little something extra. But I was not in the mood. Not for that either. I had an uneasy feeling inside, an icicle in my heart.

Before we went to bed, I borrowed her telephone directory. I couldn’t find Else Monsen. There was an entry for Siv Monsen at the address Karin had found. I rang the number, but no one answered. I left a message on her answer phone,
without saying what my call was about, but she didn’t ring back.

I let it go at that, but I was impatient to get started. I knew from bitter experience that time was a thief. When you arrived where you wanted to go it was often too late. The following morning I got up with Karin and was in my office before eight o’clock.