Wolves at the Door Page 18

  ‘No, I’m at home. But I’ll be in Bergen tomorrow and over the weekend. After all, she’s managed on her own up till now. I don’t see her everyday situation as that dramatic.’

  ‘If she has any more moments of lucidity, see if you can get some more details out of her. If nothing else, the clothes this woman was wearing. That’s the kind of thing women notice and that could be useful for the police or anyone else conducting an investigation.’

  With that we rang off.

  I sat looking through the window. It was past three and darkness was falling. On the other side of Vågen bay was the building where Knut Haugen had his office. Further up, in the Fjellsiden district, was Telthussmuget, where I lived. Above it I saw the profile of Mount Fløyen. Between the trees I could glimpse white patches of snow right up to Fjellveien. It was as though I could feel a tingling in my calves. Head up there, put on my skis, set off into virgin nature, without a thought about all the humanity below, about something so foul some called it pure evil.

  The phone rang again. This time I could see on the display it was Sølvi. I answered the call, but before I could say a word I heard her voice, loud and shrill: ‘Varg!’

  ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Sølvi!’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘We were out walking, Helene and I, and someone tried to run us down.’

  I almost jumped out of the chair. ‘What?!’ I got up. ‘How…? Are you alright? Both of you?’

  ‘Yes, we…’ She let out a long sob. ‘We’re at home now.’

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘Up the hill here.’

  ‘At home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you see the car?’

  ‘Yes, it was grey, but I have no idea what make it was.’

  ‘The reg?’

  ‘I got some letters and numbers. I’ve rung the police and reported it.’

  ‘Well done. I’ll be over at once.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, wearily, and hung up.

  33

  Sølvi opened the door only after she had checked through the kitchen window that it was me outside. She let me in, locked the door and then turned to me. I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight. Her body was trembling. After a few seconds she freed herself from my embrace, took a tissue from a packet she kept in her pocket and dried her eyes. The look she sent me was cautious and contained something I hadn’t seen there before: anxiety, maybe fear.

  When we went into the sitting room Helene was sitting in her usual place on the sofa. She, too, met me with a look I hadn’t seen before, as though this were my fault. In her hand she held an unopened magazine; it didn’t look as if she had been reading it. There was a wan, dispirited air about her, and I could see she had been crying.

  ‘Hi Helene,’ I said.

  She just nodded mutely back, her mouth pinched shut.

  I turned back to Sølvi and looked at her enquiringly. Tell me what happened. ‘Have you heard from the police?’

  ‘No, but they were supposed to be coming here to talk to us. But first they wanted to identify who owned the car and perhaps collar the person in question.’

  ‘Was it grey?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Could it have been a Volkswagen Golf?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. But it reminded me of…’ She glanced towards Helene and lowered her voice. ‘What you said … what happened to you a few days ago.’

  ‘Yes.’ I hesitated, then said: ‘There’s every possibility this is linked.’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘That’s what I was afraid of. Let’s…’ She glanced at Helene again. ‘Let’s go to the kitchen and make some coffee. You just relax, Helene. Nothing else is going to happen. Varg’s here, and soon the police will be here to talk to us as well.’

  Helene nodded slowly, without looking particularly convinced.

  Sølvi beckoned to me and led the way to the kitchen. There, she turned to me again. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do. We can’t live like this.’

  ‘No, I’m really sorry, Sølvi. Just tell me … exactly what happened.’

  She glanced towards the window. It was pitch-black outside now. Only the street lights and the illuminated windows further up Saudalskleivane showed us where we were. ‘We … we’d just been for a walk up … not quite as far as Mount Geitanuken, we turned back before, because of the snow that was still on the ground. When we were back on the road … We were almost home.’ She pointed through the window. ‘I heard a car behind us, racing down the hill, and I thought: What’s going on? It must be going far too fast. I grabbed Helene and dragged her to the edge of the road, then I half turned and the car seemed to be coming straight at us. I pushed her to the side and threw myself after her.’ She looked at me, eyes open wide. ‘I felt the draught as the car passed, Varg! I think it even touched my jacket. It’s amazing it didn’t hit me.’

  I could feel the anger rising in me. I recognised the situation. It was identical to my own experience. With tensed vocal cords, I said: ‘Did you see anyone behind the wheel?’

  She shook her head. ‘It happened too fast.’

  ‘But you said … you saw the registration plate?’

  ‘Yes, I did. He had to brake before the bend here.’ She motioned with her head to the window. ‘I looked up and tried to focus. I’m fairly sure the letters were S, T, and the first number was seven, the second either an eight or a three.’

  I opened the envelope I had taken from the office. In it was the list of all the registered VW Golfs, last year’s model, in Bergen and Hordaland. I unfolded the sheets and quickly ran my finger down.

  ‘What’s that?’ Sølvi asked.

  I explained, and my finger stopped at a number. ‘The closest I can get to it is this. In which case, it’s a three. It’s registered to a car-rental firm.’

  ‘But is it possible to find out who’s rented it?’

  ‘For the police it is.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘What do you think they’re doing?’

  ‘They’ve probably radioed all the patrol cars to keep an eye out for the car. You gave them the reg as well, I take it?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Who did you talk to?’

  ‘Just the emergency number. I wasn’t given a name.’

  ‘But you were expecting to hear from them?’

  ‘They said they would send someone round to talk to us, yes.’

  I stood with the list of registration numbers in my hand. ‘Of course I could give them a ring myself.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘The car-rental people.’

  She waggled her head and shrugged. Then she turned to the worktop. ‘I’ll put some coffee on and then I have to … I’ve got a chocolate cake in the freezer. I’ll get it out.’ With a glint in her eyes, she added: ‘We have to celebrate, don’t we. Surviving, I mean.’

  I smiled wanly. Then I held my phone in the air. ‘In the meantime I’m going to try this. Can I use your office?’

  She nodded.

  I found the number of the car-rental company and rang. A youthful male voice answered.

  ‘Hello. My name’s Veum. I’m ringing about a car registered to your firm.’ I read out the full number starting with ST-73. ‘It’s been involved in a near collision.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Can you give me the name of the person who rented it?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid we can’t. We can’t give this information to just anyone.’

  ‘We aren’t just anyone. My … partner was almost knocked down.’

  ‘I see. I’m afraid we have to stick to our principles on this. I assume you’ve reported this to the police?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then there’s no more I can say except … Good luck.’

  With that, he rang off, and I stared at the phone, none the wiser.

  I went back to the kitchen. There was already an aroma of chocolate cake issuing from the oven. S�
�lvi was keeping an eye on it through the glass panel and looked up as I entered the room.

  ‘They wouldn’t give me a name,’ I said.

  She didn’t answer.

  Three-quarters of an hour later we were sitting in the living room, eating cake in oppressive silence, when a policeman came to the door. Sølvi went out and opened up. It was Arne Melvær. He was an officer in his early thirties, with auburn hair, a Bulandet dialect and a slightly shy demeanour. I had encountered him many times professionally, but had never managed to get to know him any better.

  When he spotted me, he arched his eyebrows in surprise, but he caught himself and greeted me in a measured tone, without any visible enthusiasm. ‘Veum? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Sølvi is … a friend of mine. We suspect this case has more ramifications than there seem to be at first sight.’

  He blinked, apparently confused. ‘Erm, really?’ Then he pulled himself together and took out a notebook. ‘First and foremost though…’ He looked down at his pad. ‘I’ve been instructed to speak to fru Hegge.’ He looked at Helene, then Sølvi. ‘Have you got a room where we can speak in peace and quiet?’

  ‘I have a little office. We can go there.’

  His glance at me as he followed Sølvi into the hall spoke volumes. I was left with Helene. On the other side of the room, the TV was on: a children’s programme with the sound so low it was clear neither of us was interested.

  I looked at her. ‘This will sort itself out, Helene. It was probably just someone who’d had a glass too many and trod on the accelerator instead of the brake.’ At the same time it struck me that perhaps I ought to tell her the truth. But how honest can you be with an eleven-year-old? How much detail should you give when explaining the background to the incident? Was this just as difficult as it was for a young girl to talk about inexplicable sexual abuse committed against her by an adult, perhaps a father or a close relative?

  She stared at me with the same gravity she had shown all afternoon. But she said nothing, just shrugged her shoulders in a way that reminded me of her mother. Then she grabbed the magazine lying beside her, opened it and pretended to read, if for no other reason than to make it clear she had nothing to say to me. Not now.

  I sat staring into space.

  There was an eerie pattern in this. The deaths of the other three – Karl Slåtthaug the latest. The attempt to run me over a few days ago, and now Sølvi and Helene – even more serious. Now this was dirty. It was no longer an understandable vendetta against three convicted child abusers. This was an act of revenge against me personally, using people who were close to me.

  At the back of my mind an idea was beginning to germinate, one with unsuspected consequences, and not only for me.

  My thoughts were interrupted by Melvær asking if I could join him. I did as he said, with a final glance at Helene, who deliberately ignored me.

  We stood in the hall. ‘Fru Hegge has told me what happened. She also said that you’d been the victim of a similar incident earlier this week.’

  ‘Last Sunday. A grey Golf. But both Hamre and Solheim know about this.’

  ‘I see. I haven’t been able to confer with them yet. So you think there’s a connection between these two events?’

  ‘I don’t just think it. It’s obvious, surely. She gave you what she saw of the car reg, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, to the emergency switchboard.’

  ‘Have you followed it up?’

  ‘Patrol cars were radioed that they should look for a car with the numbers and letters she identified. And a car was sent here, with no result.’

  ‘One car?’

  ‘Yes. We have a manpower problem. On Saturday afternoons and evenings we concentrate mainly on the town centre.’

  ‘Right. So an attempt to run down a woman and her daughter is not a priority?’

  He seemed indignant, on behalf of the police force. ‘Of course they are. Why do you think I’m here? We’ll follow this up, you can be sure of that.’

  ‘Then I think the first thing you can do is ring the car-rental firm in question and ask for the name of the person who rented this car.’ I held up the list of numbers in front of him and pointed to the relevant number.

  ‘Where did you get this list?’

  ‘Solheim sent it to me.’

  ‘I see. Well … I doubt I’ll get an answer over the phone. We’ll have to pay them a call, perhaps get them to ring the station directly. I’ll take care of this once I’m back.’

  Sølvi appeared in the office doorway. ‘Well? What’s the next step? Are there any more questions to answer?’

  Melvær turned to her again. ‘No, I don’t think so. We’ll try and find out who was driving the car and take it from there.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Sølvi said, with biting irony.

  I had nothing to add.

  34

  Melvær had barely got out of the door when Sølvi grabbed my lapels and glared at me. ‘If anything happens to Helene, I’ll never forgive you, Varg.’

  ‘Nothing will happen, neither to Helene, nor to you. I’ll take care of this.’

  She wasn’t so sure of that, judging by her taut mouth and the look she sent me. ‘And what can you do that the police…?’ She didn’t complete the sentence.

  ‘I can focus on this and this alone until I’ve found the person who’s threatening us.’

  ‘Have you got any suspicions?’

  ‘Not yet, but … I have a few leads to follow.’

  ‘Right now?’ She eyed me anxiously. ‘I don’t know if I can be on my own here, just me and Helene for the whole weekend.’

  ‘Well, I can’t get much done until Monday anyway. Shall we simply take this evening off and try to relax?’

  Her face softened and she met my eyes with a tenderness I interpreted as a thank-you for the suggestion. ‘I’ll find us a pizza. You join Helene in the meantime.’

  ‘She doesn’t seem to be as keen on me as she used to be.’

  Sølvi nodded slowly. ‘Well … it’ll get better. It was a scary experience for her, too.’

  ‘I know.’

  I followed her advice and joined Helene. She sat immersed in a book while I watched the news without taking in a fraction of the content. I had an idea about who might be behind these two attempts to strike at me personally and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It lay there smouldering for the rest of the weekend.

  Together with Helene we watched the rest of the evening’s TV without much enthusiasm on any of our parts. Sølvi and I shared a bottle of red wine. We drew the line at one on this night. When Helene had gone to bed, without a goodnight hug for me, Sølvi wanted to hear how I thought we should take ‘precautions’ – making air quotes and with a sceptical grimace.

  I had already given this some thought and I had a few options prepared. Sølvi could take a few days off work and stay at home, but Helene had to go to school and it was probably important for her to maintain as normal an everyday routine as possible. We could also send her away, if there was someone in the family who would step up, but Sølvi rejected this idea out of hand, without any further explanation. She looked very unhappy. ‘I don’t like this situation at all, Varg.’

  ‘You’re not alone in that. Perhaps you should simply take Helene with you to the office for a couple of days, until we’ve got to the bottom of this matter?’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, me. And the police.’

  ‘Well, that’s a possibility of course. But then I’ll have to take her out of school.’

  We agreed that this was perhaps how it would have to be. Later we went to bed, but neither of us was in the mood for a reprise of the previous evening. However, it looked as if I fell asleep before her – judging by the drawn expression on her face in the morning, anyway.

  The mood on this Sunday wasn’t good. We stayed indoors all morning. My phone was as quiet as a sepulchre. No one rang on a Sunday unless something terrible had happened. Sølvi made lunch while I fl
icked through Saturday’s newspapers, which were turning more and more into overgrown weeklies. Helene finished her book and started another. In the background the radio alternated between schmooze, tittle-tattle and last year’s pop songs: nothing worth listening to with more than half an ear.

  I sat philosophising over why the music sounded so much more homogeneous in the 2000s than it had done in most of the previous decades, both the ones I could remember myself and most of those before. Much of modern pop music sounded as if it had been written by robots and performed by lovesick young girls. Not that the young men who performed were any better. And robots had written their songs, too. The drummers and pianists were replaced by synthesisers, and the vocalists’ voices were so similar it was hard to tell them apart. Where was the next Ella Fitzgerald, where the next Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley or Bob Dylan? Weren’t people born with such voices any more? Were they rejected at birth?

  As bedtime approached I floated a suggestion that I might go home, but Sølvi insisted I had to stay, although there was no entertainment on offer this evening, either. On Monday morning we each got into our own car. She took Helene with her to the office. I drove home to change my clothes and then to my office, opposite hers across Vågen.

  35

  I sat down at the desk and took out my notepad. I had what Hans Storebø had told me on Saturday at the back of my mind. I opened my notepad and jotted down a list of the women I had met in the last week.

  The ones who in some way could be linked directly with Per Haugen, apart from Tora, were his daughter Laila and daughter-in-law, Vibeke. I had hardly spoken to Vibeke. And Laila? She was emotionally unstable, with good reason, and was vulnerable in every way. But the mother would surely have recognised her own daughter, even if she was well on her way into dementia? The daughter-in-law, on the other hand. Perhaps Tora had never met her? But still: Did she have a real motive, beyond the absolutely obvious?

  Svanhild Olsvik was an explosive enough woman for her to be a potential candidate. But did she have any connection with Per Haugen, apart from him and her partner, Mikael Midtbø, being convicted of the same kind of crime? Unless Per Haugen had been one of her customers in Flaktveit. Of course, that was a possibility.