Cold Hearts Page 11

  ‘And the children?’

  ‘I knew Siv best. She was a decent girl. Good at school, tidy in everything. Always did her homework and never missed a day, as far as I can remember.’

  ‘So there was nothing wrong with her health?’

  ‘Nothing at all. This was not the case with Margrethe, however. But she must have inherited some of her mother’s qualities. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of initiative in her tiny carcass. She was thin and bony, suffered from a lack of vitamins, couldn’t concentrate in class, in short … That was when the health nurse and social services stepped in.’

  ‘But all of you on the committee undertook the responsibility to look after her and her siblings?’

  ‘Yes, we did. But Wenche, Carsten Mobekk and Markus Rødberg were the ones on the committee who took the initiative.’

  ‘Have you heard what happened to Carsten Mobekk?’

  ‘No, I …’ Her eyes widened until an expression of disbelief spread across her face. ‘Was Carsten Mobekk the man who … down in Falsens vei?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, that was what I was thinking when I read about it this morning … hoping it wasn’t someone I knew. So it was. You know … I’ve taught most of the children in this district – well, until I retired. They’re all grown up now. Even my last batch must be way over twenty. But … I have a feeling I know them, all of them. So when something like this happens … how strange that it should be Mobekk.’ She shook her head. ‘Well, I never went to their homes. As a rule the meetings were held at herr Rødberg’s, and sometimes here. How is Lill taking it?’

  ‘She’s in shock, of course.’

  Again she pursed her lips, in the same way as when I first mentioned Markus Rødberg. It was like an unconscious reaction, and it reflected – as I interpreted it – a form of disapproval.

  ‘I don’t suppose the police think … this has anything to do with the disappearance of Karl Gunnar and Margrethe, do they?’

  I hesitated for a second. ‘There’s no reason to assume that for the time being. But … now we’re talking about him, Karl Gunnar, what impression did you have of him as a boy?’

  She gave this question some thought. ‘He was a … survivor. We meet types like him all the time. However difficult the circumstances they grow up in, some float to the surface. Like small corks on the river of life.’

  ‘Like small … that’s a poetic image, frøken Vefring.’

  She put on a dry smile.

  ‘However, sometimes the current can be too strong, even for small corks, can it not?’

  ‘Indeed,’ she replied succinctly. ‘And I’m afraid we all know how things went for Karl Gunnar.’

  ‘Yes. Do you know anything about the case?’

  ‘No more than was in the newspapers, and what people said.’

  ‘And what did people say?’

  ‘Well … that it was molestation. Or an attempt. There is nothing else to say about the case. It was a terrible tragedy, for all parties concerned.’

  ‘Could you imagine any reason why he would react in such a violent manner?’

  ‘No, but boys of his age … they can be highly unpredictable and have a very short fuse if they’re teased.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right.’ I paused before continuing. ‘I have to ask you this, since you knew the children so well. Now that both Margrethe and Karl Gunnar have disappeared. Do you know anywhere they might go? Childhood friends, any other connections?’

  She slowly shook her head. ‘No, no one apart from Siv. I would imagine they got in touch with her.’

  ‘She says they didn’t.’

  ‘Well … Then I’m afraid I can’t help you any further. I have to confess that after the committee finished their work seven or eight years ago I haven’t had much contact … neither with the children nor with the other committee members.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Her mouth narrowed again. ‘I don’t know how proud we can be of the outcome.’

  ‘So perhaps you concluded that it would have been better to let social services handle the case as they wanted, back in 1978?’

  She nodded briefly. ‘I can’t rule out that possibility, herr Veum.’ She got up as a sign the session was over. ‘Shall we say that’s all?’

  I got up, too. ‘Almost all.’

  She sent me a sharp look. ‘Almost?’

  ‘Frøken Vefring … I have a feeling you’re holding something back.’

  Her cheeks flushed. ‘Holding something back? What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m used to interpreting signals, and I think I caught some disapproval when we touched on … some of the other committee members.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘And so what? Having worked together in close union it would hardly be surprising if there had been some conflicts.’

  ‘Would you mind specifying what these conflicts were?’

  ‘They won’t have had anything to do with Margrethe’s and Karl Gunnar’s disappearances!’

  ‘Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that?’

  ‘Something happened.’ Her facial expression told me that this was not something she was happy to talk about. ‘Don’t ask me what. But at some point between 1989 and 1990 … some ill feeling arose between several of the other members. I had the impression something had happened between Rødberg, on the one hand, and the Torvaldsen and Mobekk couples, on the other. Which no one wanted to talk about, but it hung in the air … like a toxic atmosphere at every single meeting we held. It was almost a relief when the Karl Gunnar business happened and we had something else on our minds.’

  ‘Did you ever try to confront the others with this ill feeling? It must have made your work harder?’

  ‘Let me confide in you, herr Veum. In my work I’ve always had to deal with conflict. To deal with people who don’t like each other, talking behind others’ backs and savouring the malice this brings. I’ve grown quite a thick skin, I can tell you. Furthermore, I knew this work was coming to an end. When the Karl Gunnar business was finished, in a way our task was completed as well. There was no longer any need for us.’

  ‘I see. Well, in that case I’d like to thank you for taking the time to speak to me.’

  ‘Time is what I have most of, herr Veum,’ she said sardonically. ‘Although from a statistical point of view I have little left.’

  She escorted me to the door. Then a thought seemed to strike her. ‘There was one thing by the way …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You asked about childhood friends. Karl Gunnar had a best friend. They were inseparable all the way through school. They got up to quite a few pranks. It would be worthwhile checking to see if they were still such good friends.’

  ‘Yes? Do you remember the name of this friend?’

  ‘Do I remember? I remember the names of all my pupils, herr Veum. All of them.’

  ‘Impressive. And the name was …?’

  ‘He grew up in Falsens vei as well. In one of the Vestbo blocks. Good family. Father taught Norwegian. Lektor Dalby.’

  ‘I see!’

  ‘The boy’s name was Rolf Terje Dalby.’

  18

  I FOUND A PARKING SPOT at the far end of Strandgaten. Back in the office, I checked the answer machine and the computer, but no one had tried to get into contact with me since Cathrine Leivestad earlier in the day.

  I resorted to the natural method, opened the telephone directory and looked for Rolf Terje Dalby. I couldn’t find him. A quick call to Karin Bjørge and I had his address. A house in Rosenbergsgaten.

  ‘At least that’s the last official one,’ she added.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Nothing to thank me for this time, either,’ she said and rang off.

  I dialled the number of my old friend, Paul Finckel, the journalist.

  ‘Varg? I can see it’s you.’

  ‘You’ve got a rear-view mirror on your phone, have you?’

  ‘It can be useful now and again. What are
you after this time?’

  I still wasn’t sure if it was sarcasm, depression or a common hangover that coloured his life these days. ‘The Gimle case. Can you remember it?’

  He cranked the cerebral handle a few times before answering. ‘Yes. The PE teacher killed by an aggressive pupil or something like that. Never much of a case. Too open and shut for that. 1988 or 1989.’

  ‘1989. You couldn’t dig up some archive material, could you, and meet me for a beer?’

  ‘Yes to the former. With all the usual provisos. No to the latter. Doc’s instructions.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Been told to stop drinking.’

  Then I knew. It was depression. ‘Wow …’

  ‘You don’t need to envy me, Varg.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  Despondent, he said: ‘But we can meet for a cup of tea tomorrow morning some time. Can’t make it before.’

  ‘Half past eleven at Holberg. Is that OK?’

  ‘If I live that long,’ said Paul Finckel, and he rang off.

  I was tempted to call Atle Helleve to find out how far they had got in the course of the day, but realised it would be best to keep my distance. I didn’t have that much to offer, anyway. Not until I had checked the home of Rolf Terje Dalby. I made that point number one in my plan of action, locked the office door and left.

  It was a shade past four o’clock, but already dark as I entered Rosenbergsgaten from Sverres gate, right behind the large cinema building. The house where Dalby lived was a classical grey house with a chimney, built in the late 1800s, judiciously modernised and redecorated not long ago. Unlike in the ever-increasing number of city centre blocks the ground entrance door was unlocked. I stepped in and checked the names on the letter boxes. I found Dalby on one of them. To be on the safe side, I checked the others. No names I recognised there.

  I ascended the semi-dark staircase, illuminated by over-sized lamp globes on each floor. I reached the top without finding his name on any of the doors.

  I went back down and spotted a door at the back of the hall. I wandered over, leaned forward and squinted in the darkness. On a bit of cardboard fastened to the door with two pins was written Rolf T Dalby.

  I rested my head against the door and listened. It was a solid, wooden door with no glass of any kind. No sounds.

  I cast around. No bell.

  I had been in blocks like this before. On the opposite side of the hall there was a door leading to the cellar. It was locked, but not so much of a problem that I couldn’t open it inside a minute with the help of a hairpin I always kept in my pocket for such purposes. Inherited from Beate; that was how long I had been carrying it around.

  From the cellar a door led to the back yard where a fire escape wound up the house. The doors to the fire escape looked about as secure as the cellar door.

  I wouldn’t have to climb far, no more than one floor. I scanned the yard. There was a light in several windows, and I heard children’s voices, the sounds of cooking, a radio on full blast. But everyone was busy. No one was in the back yard.

  I mounted the iron steps. The green door that by my calculations led to Rolf Terje Dalby’s modest bolthole was locked. I leaned over from the staircase and peered into what must have been the kitchen. There was no light to be seen. The flat seemed to be as good as dead. If anyone was there they were in a coma. The likeliest scenario was that no one was at home.

  I had a choice to make. Even when entering the cellar I had been on the outer fringe of legality. But I could always have said that the door had been unlocked. If I entered the flat I was in breach of the law and risked being charged if caught red-handed. On the other hand, if I told the police I was hunting an escapee from Bergen District Prison …

  I decided to take the risk, took out the hairpin and went to work as though I had never done anything else. It took a bit longer this time. The lock was slower, but with some extra jiggling I managed it.

  I scanned the adjacent houses again. Then I pressed the handle and pushed. I stepped inside, closed the door quietly behind me and stood holding my breath. Not a sound. I was met by the stench of a messy kitchen. Filtered light descended from outside, and I glimpsed worktops piled high with unwashed plates, cups and glasses, a plastic bin full of beer bottles on the floor and some plastic bags of indefinable content in one corner.

  A couple of the bags aroused my curiosity. SuperBrugsen was printed on the outside. Had he brought them from Margrethe’s flat, or had he been on the Danish ferry as well?

  I peered inside. The contents appeared to be relatively fresh. A milk carton squeezed flat still had two days to run. The crust of bread was dry, but not green with mould.

  Was there perhaps an additional explanation? Had he been the one standing on the quay welcoming someone off the Danish ferry carrying … food? Or what?

  The door to the next room, which turned out to be a sitting room-cum-wardrobe-cum-bedroom was ajar. I prodded it open, just to confirm that it was empty. The impression of wretched bedsit existence was reinforced. If this was where Rolf Terje Dalby resided I could well understand that he preferred to live elsewhere. It wasn’t a place he could invite escapee school friends, either.

  Now that I was there I conducted a fleeting, superficial search of the room, pulled out dresser drawers, looked behind furniture and in the cheerless toilet, which had a little window facing the back yard as well.

  I found two objects of interest. In one of the dresser drawers there was a colour photograph, standard album format, of two young girls I would have guessed to be fourteen or fifteen years old. Their clothes and hairstyle suggested it had been taken some time in the 1980s. Both were smiling at the photographer. Even though she was about fifteen years younger I recognised Siv Monsen as one of them. I flipped over the photograph, but there was nothing written on the back.

  In the same drawer I found a large yellowish-brown C4 envelope. In it were a number of press cuttings, and after taking them out I saw that all of them were about the Gimle case. None showed a photograph of Karl Gunnar Monsen, but there were sketches of him drawn by the courtroom artist, although they would have been of no use to identify the man.

  There was one photograph of the victim, marked as private. A young man with cropped hair and a round face, wearing a checked shirt open at the neck. Øyvind Malthus was the name. A somewhat rare surname, but not so rare that I had not met someone with the very same only two days before.

  19

  MALTHUS INVEST had its offices in Markeveien, half a block from the law courts. It was therefore a short walk if they had any legal business outstanding. The door at street level was locked.

  It was almost half past five when I rang the number from outside the arched façade that had once belonged to Bergen Telecommunications, in later years Telenor. I let my gaze wander up the building. There was light in some of the third-floor windows where, according to the sign in the entrance, Malthus Invest had its offices.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice on the telephone was brusque, but I had no difficulty recognising the bundle of charm that was Kjell.

  ‘Veum here.’

  ‘What!’ It sounded as if he could not believe his own ears. ‘Didn’t I give you explicit instructions, Veum?’

  ‘This is with reference to the Gimle case.’

  His disbelief seemed to have risen a notch. ‘What?’

  ‘The Gimle case. Surely you remember it? Can I come up?’

  ‘Come up?’

  ‘I’m standing on the pavement across the street.’

  He appeared in the window above and looked down. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Invest, isn’t that what you call your business? What if I wanted to invest some money? Could you give me some useful tips?’

  ‘The most useful tip I could give you, Veum, would be to keep well away from my hunting grounds, and I mean well away.’

  ‘So far away that there was no chance of a chat, do you mean?’

  He rang o
ff without any further comment and moved from the window. I stood there for a while. But nothing happened. No one came out. No one called my mobile phone. People passed by, for the most part on foot, some got in and out of their cars, but everyone was in a hurry, it seemed.

  So I called it a day. Ambled down to Børs Café and had a reasonable meal, with water, not beer, which made the regulars look at me as if I were something the doorman had hauled in from the street and chucked in a corner. After a cup of coffee I went out into Nordnes to get my car. I circled the blocks between Nykirken Church and the Customs House twice, but could not see Hege or Tanya anywhere. Then I left the red-light district and drove to Møhlenpris. The discovery of the SuperBrugsen bags, first in Margrethe’s flat, then at Rolf Terje Dalby’s bedsit, had given me a yen to chat with someone who had just been to Denmark, if I was to believe Little Lasse.

  I went to at least a couple of houses in Konsul Børs gate before I found the right one. His name was not beside any of the bells but on a letter box in the hall: L.Mikalsen. I followed the instructions I had been given by Lasse and climbed as high as I could go. As in many older buildings in this part of town, the loft was also used for accommodation. Here it was divided into at least four bedsits, and on one of them was the same name, written in felt pen on a yellow Post-it and stuck to the door with tape.

  I knocked discreetly and waited.

  No one opened, but listening at the door I had a clear sense that there was movement inside.

  I knocked a bit harder. ‘Hello? Lars Mikalsen? This is Veum. Varg Veum. I’d like to have a chat.’

  No answer, nevertheless I still had a strong sense someone was at home.

  ‘I can pay you for whatever time it takes! The alternative is I tell the cops all I know. And then it’s not certain you’ll get out as fast as …’

  The door clicked. It swung open and a face that had been subjected to a severe beating came into view. He glanced at me, then at the stairs, as if to reassure himself that I was alone, before returning his attention to me. ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘A missing persons case. Can I come in?’