Yours Until Death (19 page)

‘Tuesday?’

He lifted his head and looked at me like a wounded bull. Red-rimmed eyes. ‘I followed her around like a dog for two or three years, Veum. I talked to her hour after hour. One cup of coffee after another. I did favours … for her. Favours I was in a position to do. Got things for her. Gave her extra days off if she needed them. There was the kid …

And then Andresen left and I thought,
now
! But she was as stubborn and as stand-offish and as righteous as ever. And then I swore to myself – I’m damned if you’re going to go on making a fool of me, Wenche. If there’s a woman on this earth I want, I want you. And you’re damned well not going to get away with it.

‘We used to say – in the mess – you haven’t played your cards right if you meet a woman you can’t lay. Every woman’s got her own code. But all of them have a code. There’s always a weak point. But sometimes it’s damned hard to find it. But then Tuesday …’

‘Tuesday?’

‘Yes. I’d been asking her out to dinner – for a long time. But, well, I’m married, and it had to be a day my wife was out of town. Or something. And she was in Trondheim on Tuesday. Family stuff. So I said to Wenche: how about dinner? And
suddenly
she said yes.’

‘You hadn’t been out together before?’

‘No, as a matter of fact. So you know how I felt. What’s going on, Wenche? I asked myself. What’s happened all of a sudden? Have you got over him all of a sudden? And then …’ He shrugged. ‘Not to make a long story out of it, we went out for dinner and then I took her home. Went up to her flat. I mean, I waited on the stairway until she’d sent the babysitter home. And then I fucked her like I’ve never fucked another woman before, Veum!’ He slammed his fist into his palm. ‘And Jesus!’ he said. ‘And three days later …’

Tuesday. While I’d been sitting and talking with Jonas Andresen. But she had said …

‘It wasn’t the usual, Veum. It was really great. Not something an old pirate like me thinks he’s going to … I mean, once
you’ve seen what’s between one woman’s legs, you’ve seen it all. It’s like going ashore in Marseille, getting a dose of syph, and then going home. That’s not my idea of a change of pace. But then – all of a sudden – all of a sudden, you screw a woman twenty years younger than you and
she
teaches you! Makes you want to cry. Am I right, Veum?’

I grunted. ‘Did she … did she give you any reason to believe that she’d suddenly surrender?’

He looked at me. A crooked smile. Lurking under his nose.

‘Surrender? You sound like an old maid schoolteacher, Veum!’ He shoved his face next to mine. ‘She didn’t
surrender
! She screwed me so it poured. And then she said …’ He clenched his teeth. ‘And then, afterwards, she said it had never been so good. So I gave her something, too.’

‘Trying to make me jealous?’ I said. ‘Or what?’

He looked in my direction. ‘Don’t be a poor loser, Veum. Are you jealous? Had your own plans?’

‘My relationship with Fru Andresen is professional – totally, entirely professional,’ I said.

‘Bullshit, Veum!’ he said. ‘There’s no way a relationship with Wenche can be entirely professional. Take it from me. If anybody could make me consider divorce, it would be
somebody
like Wenche.’

‘She doesn’t like divorces,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t she? Well. Maybe not. But maybe she was ready to try again. Climb up the ladder, if you know what I mean. I’ve got to tell you, Veum, I’ve had hundreds of women but only one wife. I could have divorced, remarried hundreds of times. But what’s the point? It’s always the same in bed. And then you have kids and obligations. That’s what matters – your kids. They’re still there when you die. Am I right? They’re your
footprints on this world. They live after you’re dead. They’re witnesses to what you’ve done. What you’ve been. What you’ve accomplished.’ He straightened up and then slumped. Stared at the floor.

‘I care about kids. My kids. I have an “unofficial” one. I was already married and couldn’t … But I’ve always kept track of that boy. Given him everything I could … Everything I could. I mean, he’s my kid, too. He’s my son too, even if he does have another name. So I’ve never got divorced because of the kids. What’s the point? I’ve got as much being married as I would as a bachelor. Maybe more. It’s easier for them to screw married men. They don’t have to worry about marrying. Am I right?’

Two young men came in. They glanced at Ljosne and sat on the lowest ledge. As far away in the corner as they could. Ljosne blinked at them. Heavy eyelids. But it wasn’t as if he were looking at them – they were just something on the scene. He was looking a long, long way off.

‘And your wife. How does she fit into this?’ I said.

He looked at me. Puzzled. ‘My wife? She takes me as I am. I take care of her. Give her a little number when she needs it which isn’t often, God knows. I mean – there must be a reason why someone like me plays around. Am I right?’

I nodded slowly. ‘I suppose so. That’s how it usually is.’

He lowered his voice. ‘But back to Wenche. She was
something
else! If she ever gets out of there … I’ve got to tell you …’ He suddenly looked me right in the eye. ‘Get her out of there, Veum. Get her out of there for me.’

I stood up. ‘Weren’t we going swimming?’

‘Oh?’ He stood up. ‘OK. We’ve been here long enough.’

We changed into our bathing suits. ‘Ever meet Jonas Andresen?’ I said.

‘A couple of times. He picked her up here at the office. We made a little deal. I … got him some bottles.’ He winked at me. ‘I liked him. But he was a wimp. Twenty metres on the trail and he’d have had it.’

‘But he died,’ I said.

‘But not from running,’ he said.

We swam silently. At first. After the sweat-bath it was like diving into tepid air. You hardly knew you were in the water. Then your skin began to prickle and gradually you woke up. In that green, chlorinated water.

He swam up alongside me, passed me, slowed, and waited for me to catch up. ‘What we were talking about, Veum. About getting a divorce. I had a friend, a really good friend, for six years. Six long good years. She was married and I was married and we never talked about divorce or marrying each other. I’ll say it again. What’s the point? When we had it as good as we did? When you’re married you’ve got to deal with the same old shit, the same old problems – the same old face. Around the clock. Morning, noon, night. While we … We used to meet every two weeks or so, sometimes more often, sometimes not so often, but it was great. It was. Until she married and moved away.’

‘But anyway you two skimmed off the cream, didn’t you? Kept the best for yourselves?’ I said.

‘Well …’

We swam.

‘These favours – this booze – do you make a lot on it?’

‘No, not me. I’m just doing people a favour. People I like. As much for – Wenche – as for myself. Obviously.’

‘So you like yourself?’

‘Of course I do.’ He looked as if he were searching for the right answer. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘But you take money for it.’

‘I don’t make a profit. I don’t do it for the money. Others do. I don’t. Money’s not my main interest.’

‘No. I can see it isn’t.’

‘Women are my main interest. Am I right?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not really.’ I swam past him. And he quickly caught up with me.

‘You’re your main interest,’ I said. ‘You use women. Use them like mirrors to reflect your gorgeous well-trained body. You use women to tell you you’re still a he-man, that you can still … It’s the good old system of use it and throw it away. Women don’t mean any more to you than milk cartons, Ljosne. You drink the milk and throw away the carton. Don’t bother to see where it lands. It could be destroyed. But it could also happen that your milk carton suddenly stands over a body. With a knife in her hand.’

‘You think I …?’

‘I don’t think anything. I’m just saying what I mean. I mean you care about yourself. Full stop. And in a couple of years you’re going to have to depend on your recruits to tell you you still have the old pull. Look around you. You’ve got plenty to get rid of.’

He looked obediently around, a stunned expression on his face. ‘You mean … I …’ He looked at all the young men around the edge of the pool: young men with young bodies. New packages in all sizes, in tight little swimming trunks. ‘You mean I should …’

We reached the end of the pool and I shot out. He was by the ladder.

‘That’s ridiculous, Veum.’ He climbed up. Fists clenched. ‘If we were alone, I’d …’

I stared into his eyes. ‘Try it, Lard-guts,’ I said.

His eyes and hands suddenly fell to his waist. ‘You mean I’ve gained too much weight?’

‘No idea,’ I said drily. ‘I’ve never seen you before. But thanks for the preview. I’ll remember all your good advice. In case I ever get married – again.’ I said the last sentence so quietly that I barely heard it myself.

Then I turned away and walked back to the changing room. He didn’t follow. I got dressed. Laid the clothes he’d lent me beside his and left the sports centre.

It was a long tough curving climb up the bill to the main gate but I walked fast. Not because I needed the exercise but because I had to walk off something. Get it out of my system.

There’s adultery and adultery, I told myself. There’s Jonas Andresen’s kind and then there’s Richard Ljosne’s. And a lot of other kinds, too. Of these two, one was acceptable but the other wasn’t worth a damn or a spit in the wind. Ljosne’s had nothing to do with love. It had to do with gymnastics.

Or it was like a dice game – you try to score ten thousand before anybody else. It doesn’t matter who you play with. Or what happens to them afterwards. As long as you aren’t involved.

That sort of game could lead to corpses. That sort of game could lead to people lying dead in entrance halls. That sort of game could lead to people lying on their sides, bleeding from deep belly wounds.

I went through Security and got into my car. I pushed the accelerator to the floor and revved the motor. I burned rubber swinging out on to the road. Two inside curves and then …

I’ve got to talk to you again, Wenche, I said to myself. About Tuesday. About what really happened.

But not right now. Other errands to do first.

I was hungry, but I didn’t know how long Gunnar Våge stayed in his office so I drove back up to those four high-rises and parked in the usual spot.

I was going to be a fixture out here. Maybe I should think about getting myself a reserved parking place.

I found Gunnar Våge where he’d been the last time. He was alone in the youth club, standing on a stool. He was hanging up a grey paper poster. The message was in red. Described the club’s activities for March. All you had to do was sign up.

There was a course in safe mountaineering for those who could afford an Easter holiday. There was a course in how to build your own radio set for those who might be interested in saying Hello, hello and Goodbye, goodbye to a ham operator in Japan. And ‘our popular course’ in learning how to play the guitar was being continued by popular demand. It was only the fifth year in a row. Most of the musicians had managed to learn the first three stops.

Gunnar Våge fastened the poster with large green-headed pins to the cork bulletin board. A powerful spotlight shone on him and his bald head glistened. He looked at me when I came in and continued with the job. It couldn’t take long and he’d finally have to deal with me. So I waited silently.

He turned slowly. He was wearing shabby corduroys that had shrunk in the wash and were riding up on his ankles, a high-necked navy wool sweater with brown leather
elbow-patches
, and brown shoes. He hadn’t shaved in several days or maybe he hadn’t scrubbed his face. Whatever. It was pale grey. But it could also be because of late nights, or the time of year, or the bright light. Or maybe he didn’t like me and changed his skin colour according to the circumstances. Like a chameleon.
His heavy-lidded eyes were as sorrowful as always, and they didn’t look as if they were expecting me to contribute much in the way of gaiety. His expression said he might yawn any minute now.

‘Hello, Gunnar Våge,’ I said.

‘Hello, Varg Veum,’ he said. ‘Was it something special? There’s open house here at the club tonight and I’m a little busy.’

We stood in the centre of that large concrete room. It could be – as it was – an air-raid shelter, but we could have been the last two survivors of the final atomic war, and I had just asked if he’d like to play cards or maybe Parchese – and he’d said no, he was a little busy.

‘It’s about a knife,’ I said.

‘A knife?’

I nodded. ‘A knife – and a dead man.’

He pursed his lips. Looked aggressive. ‘Aha! Sherlock Holmes strikes again. Oh yes. Looking for a scapegoat? You and the cops. Maybe you’re going to solve the case for them? Pull the Joker out of the pack?’

He took a breath and I looked expectantly at him. He seemed in the mood for another monologue.

‘But it’s too amateurish, Veum,’ he went on. ‘It’s too
substandard
. Hundreds of people carry switchblades. Johan’s not the only one. And if you think all these recent nothings could lead to murder, then you’re wrong, Veum. You’ve made one hell of a mistake … But anyway, you’re being typically stupid, making a bloody fool of yourself …’

He looked as if he were about to leave. ‘Do you know what actually went on on Wednesday afternoon, Våge?’ I said quickly.

He stayed put. Shrugged. ‘No more than what’s in the papers. But I can see you’re looking for a handy scapegoat and who could be handier than Johan? The notorious teenage crook, the famous criminal, the legendary kidnapper, the
cold-blooded
rapist: Johan Pedersen! And they call him Joker. It sounds like a bad American gangster film, Veum. Can’t you see that?’

‘Can’t you see you’re sounding like a bad American gangster film yourself, Våge?’ I said. ‘And you damn well haven’t got Bogie’s charm either. You take the words out of my mouth before I even say them – and they’re words I hadn’t even thought of.’ I moved toward him. Two paces.

‘If –’ he said.

I interrupted. ‘If you can shut up for two minutes and not fall in love with the sound of your own voice, maybe some other poor slob could get a word in edgewise. OK?’

‘Some other poor slob – is that a kind of miniature self-portrait?’

‘Whatever. Call it a five-volume novel if you want to. I know Joker didn’t kill Jonas Andresen, and I never thought of
fingering
him to the cops. The cops aren’t interested in him either, as a matter of fact. They know. I know.’

‘You
know
?’ His lips moved but I didn’t hear anything. For once.

I took advantage of the silence. ‘I was talking to him in the car park when the murder was being committed. Clever, don’t you think?’

‘Clever,’ he said, still softly, but with a sarcastic expression. He reminded me of a disappointed satyr, or a surviving
Champagne
socialist from the sixties. Or an ex-optimist.

‘But Jonas Andresen was murdered,’ I said. ‘With a
switchblade. And that’s why I’m here. You told me a lot of things the last time I was here. About life. Things like that. You also told me you keep an impressive collection of switchblades you’ve confiscated. Here. And I thought – I do think
sometimes
, Våge – I thought: you don’t go out and buy a
switchblade
the day before you’re going to stick it into someone’s belly. A switchblade’s something you already have, something you’re sort of born and brought up with – or it’s something you get hold of. But, as I said, it’s not something you go out and buy, not if you’re thinking of stabbing somebody.

‘But it’s something you could also consider stealing. And that’s the point, Våge. One very simple question – or two. How do you take care of your collection? Carefully? Is it possible somebody could have made a deal with you and got himself a sample of your collection? Have you missed a switchblade lately?’

I held out my hands. ‘It’s so simple, Ginger. May I have this dance?’

I demonstrated a couple of steps. I can be a comedian when I’m in front of an audience I don’t like. And vice versa.

He wasn’t buying it. Said through tight lips: ‘No. I haven’t missed any switchblades lately, Veum. And yes, I take very good care of the collection. And nothing’s missing.’

‘Where do you keep them? Here?’

‘No, Veum,’ he said sourly. ‘Not here. At home, in a locked drawer.’

‘And where do you live?’

‘I live here. Didn’t you know that? It goes with the job.’ looked around. Ironically. I hoped I looked ironic anyway. ‘And where do you stash your laundry?’

‘On the twelfth floor. Here in the building, Veum. In a
charming little two-room apartment with a view of this whole paradise and other related wonders.’

‘Which ones? The so-called market? Hasn’t it moved yet?’

Well, as I said, you haven’t hit pay-dirt, Veum. And I’ve got to say bye-bye.’

I had no charms left to use on him. And something still
bothered
me. I wasn’t sure exactly what. But there was something.

‘The cops lifted the fingerprints from the knife. I take it you wouldn’t mind their taking yours – if I suggest it to them?’

But I couldn’t shake him. ‘Of course not. With the greatest pleasure. I’ve never liked the cops, but – what won’t a person do for his old friends? Certainly, Fred, I’d love to dance. Love to! But not with you.’

I looked at him. At the bald skull, the thin blond curls around his ears, the dark stubble … ‘Well,’ I said, before I turned to leave. ‘Thanks.’ Then I walked out of the door and down that long damp concrete hail. Past the red arrows. Then I stopped.

Stood there. Once he was younger. And he needn’t have been bald. His head could have been covered with tight blond curls. And he’d been too young to have dark stubble on his face. He’d had down on his cheeks then. Or he was better with a razor.

I turned around and walked back. Walked into the club room. He was in his office doorway. He stopped when he saw me but didn’t say anything. He almost looked expectant.

I took two steps into the room and stopped. Then I said, ‘You knew Wenche Andresen, Våge. You did. Once. Once in a photograph album.’

And I could tell by his face I’d hit the bullseye.