Cold Hearts Page 3

  The little album was the right size to fit in my coat pocket, and I decided there and then to take it.

  I was casting a final gaze around the room when I saw shadows through the windowpane in the apartment door. A second later there was a long, shrill ring at the door.

  I held my breath. What should I do? Who could it be? And what did they want? I hoped they would go away if no one opened up. But they did not. They did the same as I would have done. They let themselves in.

  4

  FOR A MOMENT WE stood gawping. One of them closed the door behind them, hard. ‘And who the hell do we have here then? Father Christmas?’

  The other grinned. I knew the routine. Abbott & Costello. And they always came in two formats.

  The taller of the two spoke. He was approximately forty years old, one ninety tall, broad-shouldered and wearing a dark, half-length winter coat, as though he had just come from the latest board meeting at the bank. The one grinning looked more like his gofer. He was wearing a leather jacket and blue jeans and had a thick, greyish scarf knotted around his neck. Neither was a charmer, in my book.

  I realised that in this situation it was important to take the initiative. I stepped forward, proffered my hand and introduced myself as Henriksen from social security.

  Big Boy regarded my hand with disdain, as though his greatest dream would be to break it in half. ‘Social security. And what the hell …?’

  ‘Do you know frøken Monsen, by any chance? Since you have the key to her flat, I mean.’

  He came one step closer, and I became aware of the strong, somewhat too sweet aroma of his aftershave. ‘Let’s see some ID then, herr Henriksen from social security.’

  I met his gaze. ‘What was your name, did you say?’

  The lean gofer glanced nervously at Big Boy.

  ‘That’s none of your bloody business.’

  ‘In that case, my ID is none of your bloody business. But we can phone the police if you’re uncertain about which of us has most to lose.’

  ‘Kjell,’ said Little Boy.

  ‘Shut up!’

  Kjell glowered at me. Then he placed his hands flat on my chest and pushed me hard. ‘And what is social security doing here?’

  I regained my balance and retreated into the sitting room to have greater freedom of movement. Both of them followed. Little Boy positioned himself in the doorway. Kjell followed me in.

  ‘There are reasonable grounds for suspicion,’ I said. ‘To assume an illegal income, for example.’

  He widened his eyes. ‘Illegal income?’

  ‘Do you know frøken Monsen? Do you know how she makes her living?’

  ‘You, Henriksen … I don’t think the authorities have any business sniffing into …’ He came to a halt. ‘How did you get in by the way?’

  I knew that I was skating on thin ice. ‘I was lent a key … by the family.’

  ‘Rolf …’

  The signal he gave had been clear enough, but Rolf was faster than I had expected. He circled round behind his friend. In an instant he had a flick-knife in his hand. He came straight for me, pushed me to the wall with one arm and placed the blade against my larynx, so firmly that I had difficulty breathing. ‘Don’t move!’ he wheezed into my ear. ‘If you do …’

  Kjell arced round behind him. ‘Slash him if he makes so much as one unexpected move!’ he ordered. ‘In the meantime let’s check out who he is, whether he likes it or not.’

  He stuffed a hand inside my jacket and groped for inside pockets. He unzipped one and fished out my wallet. Then he took a few steps back and began to rifle through it.

  It wasn’t long before there came a protracted whistling sound. ‘Henriksen, hm, as it were. From social security.’

  He held up my certificate and Visa card. ‘In which case, who do these belong to? Have you stolen them?’

  Rolf glanced to the side. ‘What do they say, Kjell? What’s his name?’

  ‘Veum, it says. Varg Veum. And here he even has some business cards. Varg Veum, private investigator, Strandkaien 2. Social security, my arse!’

  ‘A private dick? What the hell he’s doing here?’

  ‘Well, we can ask him.’

  ‘Yes, you haven’t quite cut my vocal cords yet,’ I garbled in a forced voice, then felt the pressure from the knife blade relax a touch.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, Veum?’

  ‘The same as you, I would guess. Looking for Maggi.’

  ‘And under whose instructions?’

  ‘… The family’s.’

  ‘The family? Don’t make me laugh. They’ve never given a toss.’

  ‘The sister,’ I said.

  ‘The sister?’ Kjell looked at Rolf, who shrugged. Then he turned back to me. ‘And what was it that caused her to miss darling Maggi all of a sudden?’

  ‘If Rolfie boy could shift the knife a little perhaps it might be possible to have a rather more civilised conversation.’

  ‘Veum, the conversations we have are seldom very civilised. Especially not when people get in our way.’

  ‘I could ask you the very same question. What the hell are you doing here? Who gave you the right to break into other people’s property?’

  Kjell sneered. ‘Other people’s property? And who the hell do you think owns this property? Maybe you would like to see the rental contract?’

  ‘So you’re the person responsible for these inviting interior furnishings?’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? Don’t you like it here? This wonderful …’ He broke off as his gaze fell on the blue Fjord Line bag which I had left on the sofa after establishing that it was empty. He strode over, opened it and drew the same conclusion. When he turned back to me, his eyes were small and menacing. ‘Tell me … It wasn’t you who emptied this, was it?’

  ‘Emptied what? It was empty when I came.’

  ‘Sure?’

  I looked at Rolf. His eyes were alert and sly. ‘Would you mind removing the knife?’The nature of his gaze changed. A flash of humour appeared, and he recited: ‘He who fain the blood of another must early go forth; the wolf that lies idle shall win little lamb meat, or the slumbering man success.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did that go over your head, Veum?’ Kjell said. ‘Rolf is well read, you know.’

  ‘At any rate, I am not looking for lamb meat.’

  ‘No? What for then?’ He held the blue bag in the air. ‘What do you know about this, Veum?’

  ‘What is there to know?’ When he didn’t answer I added: ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you know about Maggi?’

  ‘Listen to me … She’s been missing since Friday. The family is worried.’

  ‘The family doesn’t give a flying fuck!’

  ‘A woman friend then!’

  ‘Ah, I see! Now we’re getting closer. One of the other girls?’

  I shrugged. ‘Anyway, it’s my job to find her.’

  He fixed me with a stern look. ‘But we’re worried too, Veum. She hasn’t paid her rent, let me put it like that.’

  ‘And how often does she pay? Every day or once a week?’

  ‘We have a fixed agreement, and she hasn’t kept her part of the bargain since …’

  ‘Friday?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Is subletting allowed in this housing co-op?’

  He snorted. ‘Now let me give you a piece of good advice, Veum.’

  ‘I can’t afford it.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I already know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Witless man lies awake all night, thinking hither and thither,’ Rolf interrupted.

  ‘That’ll do,’ Kjell said. ‘He doesn’t understand anyway. Press the knife into his neck a little harder so that he understands the seriousness of what I’m about to say.’

  Rolf followed orders. He pressed the blade in and up so that I had to climb onto my toes to avoid being cut. ‘Stop!’ I groan
ed.

  ‘Listen carefully, Veum. You can go back to whoever gave you this assignment and say you’re calling off the whole thing. You couldn’t find Maggi anywhere, her flat was empty and she’s bound to get in touch when she returns from … wherever it is she’s staying.’

  ‘And where’s that supposed to be? A holiday? You are aware, are you, that a punter scared her a couple of days ago?’

  Again his eyes narrowed. ‘A punter? How do you know?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘How do you know, I said! Rolf …’ He motioned to Rolf to press harder. I could feel my skin was on the point of giving.

  ‘You saw my card. I’m a private investigator. This is how I work.’

  ‘You’ve been sniffing round the area?’

  ‘I heard that Maggi had been frightened by a punter, so frightened that she refused a trick with him. If there weren’t two of them, that is. Another woman took her job and was beaten black and blue.’

  ‘Another woman? Who?’

  ‘I wasn’t given a name.’ I saw no reason to give it to him.

  ‘And when was this supposed to have happened?’

  ‘On Friday.’

  ‘Friday.’ He looked at Rolf, who relaxed the pressure on the knife a little. ‘Have you heard about this?’

  ‘No. Witless man who strays …’

  ‘That’ll do, I said!’

  ‘In other words … If we could start by finding out who the guys were …’

  ‘You, Veum, won’t be finding out anything at all. If people hear that there’s a private dick snooping around the district, the place’ll be as deserted as the far side of the moon.’

  ‘People?’

  ‘You’ve been warned. If you set foot here again …’

  ‘At the moment I walk around Nordnes at least a couple of times a week.’

  ‘If you try to contact any of the girls …’

  ‘Ah, you’ve got more tenants, in other words?’

  ‘In short, if our paths cross again you’ll be up shit creek. Is that clear?’

  ‘As clear as The Moonbeam, but not quite as wonderful.’

  ‘Rolf, slice him!’

  Again Rolf demonstrated his agility with the knife. The pressure on my larynx went for a second or two as the knife was swung round and I felt a smarting pain down my neck, where with one fast, efficient slash he had cut a line down from my ear to my collarbone. Not deep. Not serious. But sharp enough for me to have to use my handkerchief to stem the flow.

  Kjell slung my wallet over, at such a speed I had trouble catching it. He grinned. ‘Got the message, Veum? Next time it’ll be deeper. Right to the hilt. Show him out!’

  Rolf did as his lord and master instructed. On the way out I mumbled: ‘Cattle die, kith die …’

  ‘… you die too in the end,’ he mumbled back, then opened the door and shoved me roughly onto the landing.

  Before I had turned he had slammed the door behind me.

  5

  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 coul
dn’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.’