Cold Hearts Page 12

  He weighed me up. Then nodded briefly, turned and motioned me to follow.

  The room had been built beneath the slanting roof. In the lowest part there was a bed, a dresser and a bookcase. I hoped he wasn’t in too much of a hurry when he got up in the morning. In which case he would bang his head on the ceiling. In the middle of the floor there was a shabby coffee table and along one wall a no less shabby sofa. On the opposite wall there was a shabby wall unit that housed a small TV, a hi-fi system and an assortment of books and journals. I noticed a few of the titles. There was everything from the history of philosophy to psychology and social science textbooks. Several current affairs books and a not insubstantial number of thumbed literary books, predominantly paperbacks with creased spines.

  Lars Mikalsen was in his late twenties with longish hair, a couple of days’ stubble on his chin and eyes that were so gummed up it was a job to see the colour of them through the slits. He was barefoot and clad in a grey T-shirt and blue jeans. I noticed him dragging one leg and clasping his shoulder from time to time. There was no doubt that whoever had given him the thrashing had left their calling sign. His face was crooked and swollen, clearly marked by the punches. Nonetheless I had a vague sensation that I had seen him somewhere before.

  ‘Have we met before?’

  He did the best he could to focus on my face. ‘Not as far as I can remember.’

  ‘Who gave you the pasting?’

  He flinched and snapped: ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Veum. I’m a private investigator.’

  ‘Private … and what the hell has brought you here? A missing persons case, did you say?’

  ‘Correct. My task is to find a young woman who’s gone missing. Margrethe Monsen. Some people call her Maggi.’

  A tic convulsed his face. ‘What makes you think I’ve got anything to do with it?’

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Not that well. I know who she is.’ Before I could say another word he added: ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘Oh yes? Who’s that then?’

  He sent me a vacant look. ‘No one that’s any concern of yours.’

  ‘So you know how she makes her living, do you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Course. She’s not exactly my girlfriend, though.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. What the hell do you want, I said!’ His mood shifted, from sulky depressive to aggressive. And he still hadn’t invited me to take a seat.

  I took stock. ‘You’ve just been to Denmark, I hear.’

  ‘I hear!’ he repeated with disdain. ‘And so what?’

  ‘Listen, Lars,’ I said, approaching him. ‘I don’t run around punching people. So you can relax. But I can get pretty irritated too, especially when I meet people who beat about the bush. I would recommend you answer my questions and otherwise keep your mouth shut. Is that OK with you?’

  His eyes evaded mine, as far as I could tell, and he was a lot meeker when he said: ‘You mentioned something about … paying.’

  ‘Do you need money?’

  ‘I should have been doing a round in the park.’

  I nodded. Then I thrust my hand in my inside pocket, pulled out my wallet and took out a couple of five-hundred notes. ‘Twins,’ I said, holding up the notes. ‘Once we’ve finished talking.’

  He stared at them intently and nodded.

  ‘Are you ready to answer some questions?’

  He shrugged. ‘Depends on what you intend to ask.’

  ‘About what’s already been in the papers. I quote from memory: Man Assaulted in Skuteviken. Unwilling to Report Assault. It’s not far from Skolten to Skuteviken, and rumour has it you came in on the Danish ferry, loaded with H, but were met by someone on the quay. Who took you for a drive. And relieved you of your baggage.’

  A shiver ran through him, but he said nothing.

  ‘One and a half million in street value, word has it. For which you are responsible.’

  He licked his swollen lips and nodded, as far as he was able.

  I leaned forward. ‘Who met you on the quay, Lars?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve told everything to …’ He raised his hand halfway up to his face. ‘I didn’t know them. Total strangers.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Two guys. Strong. They said Ma … said they’d been sent.’

  ‘Ma … as in Malthus?’

  Another shudder went through him. ‘I didn’t say that!’

  ‘No, but that was how I interpreted it.’

  The expression across his face spoke of desperation, and I hastened to add: ‘But I won’t use this against you. I’ll take your reaction as confirmation and make a mental note.’

  As he didn’t protest I felt even more secure. ‘Two strong guys, you say. And they took you for a drive?’

  His gaze flitted about and ended up on the floor, roughly where my shoes were. I struggled to hear what he said as he mumbled: ‘They said they’d been told to fetch me, but then they turned towards Skuteviken, and the one sitting beside me pressed a gun into my ribs and told me to lean forward and keep my gob shut. They didn’t drive far, straight to the open ground between two warehouses. There they grabbed my case, took … what I had in the bags, and then they beat me up.’

  ‘Why when they already had the booty?’

  ‘They said … this was only a foretaste. If I told the police – or anyone else – about what had happened they would give me an even tougher going-over next time. In fact I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway, but as I staggered along the street this taxi driver stopped and picked me up, and I was so black and blue that I was unable to protest until I was at A&E and the doctor called the cops. I never bloody asked for any attention!’

  ‘You were questioned by the police, but refused to say who did this.’

  ‘I don’t know who they were! They were from Østland, total strangers to me, and I told Ma … even Rolf and …’

  ‘We can use their full names, Lars. Kjell Malthus and Rolf Terje Dalby. I know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Nonetheless, they beat me up as well.’

  ‘Malthus? I thought he was the general manager of this show.’

  If possible, his eyes narrowed even further. ‘He can be a brutal bastard. I warn you. Keep well away from him if he has a score to settle with you!’

  Another useful pointer to bear in mind. ‘And what did you tell them?’

  ‘Same as I told you. About the two from Østland.’

  ‘And no one has a clue who they are? It must be someone trying to muscle their way into the market. If not, they’re free-booters out for rich pickings. In which case they hit the jackpot this time. One and a half million in street value …’

  He shifted his gaze upwards until it stopped at around my chin. ‘But what’s this got to do with Maggi?’

  ‘I’m asking myself the same question. Without trespassing onto your territory … could you give me a tip about how you transported these goods? Unless I’m very much mistaken you were at SuperBrugsen and went shopping first?’

  For a second or two he looked almost impressed. ‘How …?’ As I didn’t expand, he continued: ‘I’ve used this trick several times. I go to the meat counter in SuperBrugsen. Afterwards I pop into a pub and go to the loo. There, I repack, chuck a fair bit of the meat away, making sure there is enough left to confuse the sniffer dogs, slip the plastic bags containing the drugs in the middle and carry it on board with the cans of beer, tins and other groceries from SuperBrugsen. It’s worked well to date. But then I’ve been lucky going through customs as well. But how the hell did you …?’

  ‘Let’s say I’ve come across quite a few SuperBrugsen bags of late. They have told me a story I’m not sure you’d like to hear.’

  ‘Not connected with Maggi?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘That was why you came here, wasn’t it? Because you were looking for her?’ As I didn’t answer he went on: ‘I can tell you that if Maggi
’s behind this she’s in deep shit if she gets caught.’

  ‘If Maggi’s behind this … You said yourself there were two bruisers from Østland.’

  ‘Yes? But …’ He was searching for words. ‘Someone must have told them I was on my way, mustn’t they?’

  ‘Did Maggi know about it?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘No … not as far as I know.’

  ‘It could equally well have been the dealers in Denmark, couldn’t it?’

  ‘Stabbing a regular customer in the back? You can’t make me believe that.’

  ‘So who could it have been?’

  ‘I’ve got no idea!’ All of a sudden he looked almost unhappy. ‘Everyone beats me up. The two who came to meet me, Malthus and Rolf. The police take me in for questioning, and now you come here pestering me. But I don’t know anything! I don’t have an earthly …’

  I sat watching him. Then I leaned forward. ‘Listen to me, Lars. Someone I spoke to described you as a kind of … eternal student. I can see from your books that you’re well read. How the hell did you get into this business?’

  He crouched over with his elbows on his knees and his long hair rumpled and unkempt. Then he squinted up at me, as if from far back in his life, the time when he had been a different person with quite a different career ahead of him. Despondently, he rubbed his face and glanced at the bookcase beside him. Then he shrugged and began to talk.

  ‘Things did not go well. You’re right. I took psychology as my foundation subject. But there was a waiting list to go any further. So I took social studies to fill the gap. But still I didn’t get to do my main course. So I started doing history, but without much motivation. And you know where the university is.’ He tossed his head towards the slanted window above us. ‘The closest neighbour is Nygård Park. There were quite a few of us who went there for a spliff. Got to know the crowd. Moved onto stronger stuff, and it was not long before we were hooked, myself … and lots more. It all had to be financed, and if you didn’t want to sell your ass or do break-ins there was only one thing that was any good. Become another link in the chain. For many years I’ve turned over enough for my own consumption, and then came the offer of bigger earnings, if I was willing to risk the Denmark trip.’

  ‘And you’ve done that … how many times now?’

  He wavered. ‘Many. And nothing has ever happened until now.’ Again he looked unhappy. ‘Just when, at long last, things were beginning to go OK.’

  ‘Go OK?’

  He smiled sadly. ‘I had a girlfriend. This was the last job I was going to do. My part of the profit would have gone towards moving abroad, perhaps to a rehab centre in the Danish countryside. And then this bloody happens. Now I’m sitting here and who the hell will have me now, do you think?’

  ‘If she’s a decent girlfriend surely she won’t blame you for what has happened, will she? Oh no …’ A notion struck me. ‘It’s not Maggi, is it?’

  He sneered at me. ‘Can you imagine that? No, it’s not Maggi! It’s a decent girl. Someone who would finally get me back on an even keel. The one I had been waiting for all my life.’

  I had my own thoughts on this. He was not yet thirty years old, and some of us had been waiting a good deal longer than that.

  ‘And what’s her name?’

  In a burst of passion he said: ‘Not even if you beat me up, like the others did, will you find out! I’m still living in hope that everything will be alright.’

  ‘Tell me … have you told her what you were doing?’

  ‘I had to justify why I was leaving, didn’t I. To explain that this was the last job, and I was stopping for her.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll forgive you.’

  ‘And what use will it be? I’m sitting here, to all intents and purposes, one and a half million kroner in debt. And the debt becomes due sooner than you imagine. If you can’t pay, the interest soars from one day to the next. What the hell can I do?’ Again the look of naked desperation on his face. ‘Can you tell me that, eh?’

  I sat looking at him. ‘There is no simple solution, but … are you willing to go to court with any of this?’

  He frantically massaged his brow. ‘Court? Are you out of your mind? First of all I would get a hefty sentence myself, and then I would drag the others down with me. I would be dead before the month was out, even if I was locked up in solitary on Bjørnøya Island!’

  ‘Would you rather rot in an attic room in Møhlenpris?’

  He looked around him. ‘At least I’m alive here! For as long it lasts. Think about that, whatever your bloody name is.’

  ‘Veum.’ I passed him my business card. ‘Here you are. Should you change your mind about spilling the beans. If you ask me, it’s the one chance you’ve got.’

  He read the card with slow, meticulous care, then nodded. Whether that was because he had managed to read what was there or whether it meant he might contact me I would perhaps never know.

  ‘You said … poor Maggi if she was the one who gave you away. How bad would the outcome be for her? Is it conceivable that they would kill her?’

  He looked at me darkly. ‘It’s not impossible. Look what they did to me. They’re desperate to get the drugs back.’

  ‘KG, do you know him?’

  ‘KG? He’s in prison, isn’t he?’

  I nodded. ‘Maggi’s brother. But I suppose you knew.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s disappeared as well. Escaped, they say.’

  ‘Really?!’ The friendly attitude was about to evaporate. Anger was taking control again.

  ‘Would he be able to protect her?’

  ‘Against those guys. Not a snowball’s chance in hell. But what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘Well, nothing except that you said you knew Maggi.’

  ‘So why do you ask such bloody stupid questions?’

  ‘Let’s put it like this. It’s my job to ask questions. Not all of them are equally popular, but very few of them are unfounded.’

  He glowered at me. Then he shook his head, as if to emphasise that there was no understanding me, my opinions or what I wanted from him. His eyes focused on the two banknotes I still held in my hand. He nodded in their direction. ‘You promised me …’

  I looked down. ‘Yes, I might have done at that. Buggered if I know whether you deserve them, but … OK. Here you are.’

  I gave them both to him. He looked as if he needed them, or what he could get for them. Nothing to punch the air about, perhaps, but enough to get him through the night and all its problems, a situation which for that matter he shared with most of us, in one way or another.

  For me, though, it was not night yet. First of all I had to go to Landås to try another shot in the dark.

  20

  ACCORDING TO MY INFORMATION, Siv Monsen lived in Kristofer Jansons vei, which winds its way between Natlandsveien and Slettebakken. Together with the parallel street Adolph Bergs vei it constituted the area known, way back in the 1960s, as Chicago, not entirely without justification.

  The number I had found in the directory was for one of the typical star buildings, the blocks that had been designed in a kind of star formation, with three wings leading off a central entrance. There were three of them up towards Natlandsveien and six in Kristofer Jansons vei. Siv Monsen lived in one of the middle ones, and I found an unmarked parking spot by the small common on the opposite side of the street.

  The front door was open. I went in the entrance and took the stairs up until I saw Siv Monsen’s name on one of three doors on the second floor. I rang the doorbell and stood waiting.

  ‘Veum?’ Her face above the security chain in the narrow crack between door and frame was pale. Her short hair was wet and untidy, as though she had just washed it, and she had a towel hanging round her neck. She was wearing faded jeans and a loose checked shirt with long sleeves. ‘What do you want?’

  I motioned towards the security chain. ‘Someone you’re frightened of?’

  ‘No
… force of habit.’

  ‘Are you going to let me in?’

  ‘What do you want, I asked?’

  ‘I’m still looking for your sister, and your brother hasn’t shown up, either.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ She rolled her eyes and made a show of sighing; however, she did close the door again so that she could unhitch the chain and let me in. ‘I haven’t got an awful lot of time.’

  I followed her into the hall. ‘This won’t take long.’

  ‘You can hang it there.’ She pointed to a wardrobe to the left of the hall. ‘The sitting room’s in here.’

  I hung up my coat and followed her.

  She had two views, one down towards Lake Tveitevannet and another where a door led to a balcony, west, over the Birkeveien intersection. The room was furnished with simple taste. The walls were white, the furniture modern with a combination of chromium-plated steel tubes and cushions. There was a large glass coffee table, and in the middle a bunch of winter-grown tulips in a slim crystal vase. Along the wall was a plain shelving system. Holding predominantly teaching material for banking and insurance. A couple of gaudy novels were the extent of the literature section. The TV and the hi-fi, however, looked to be top quality and well above the lowest price range, judging by the brands.

  She looked at her watch. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got any time to offer you anything, but … take a seat.’

  I obeyed and chose one of the chairs by the glass table. She remained on her feet as if to stress how pressed she was.

  I indicated one of the other chairs with an upturned palm. ‘Won’t you …’

  With an impatient gesture she sat down, on the edge of the chair. ‘I can’t see how I could have any more to tell you. I told you everything I know yesterday.’

  ‘Sure of that?’

  ‘Course I’m sure!’

  ‘In the meantime, however, Carsten Mobekk has been found murdered in his flat in Falsens vei.’

  She eyed me, ashen. ‘So it was him? Well, I thought it was his house. In the newspaper.’

  ‘You knew Mobekk, didn’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘He was on the committee that was supposed to help you when you were growing up.’