Cold Hearts (10 page)

FROM HER FLAT IN BENDIXENS VEI HULDA
Vefring had a view over Årstad Sports Club training ground in Rautjern and the small parkland area around it. In the clubhouse on the other side of the pitch there was a children’s nursery, and as I got out of the car I heard the gleeful screams of children playing. It often occurred to me when I was outside on jobs, which not infrequently were tied up with death and misery, that the backcloth was often an everyday event: children playing, a distant siren, building works, an aeroplane passing overhead. Everyday life that I had to interrupt with a message not nearly as popular as that of the famous messenger of antiquity from Marathon.

From Hulda Vefring’s living room window the training ground resembled a gigantic flying carpet, ready to take off for brighter times. The shale was grey, the grass around it winter green and the treetops bare. Summer was still a long way off. There were no passengers on board.

Hulda Vefring had scrutinised me with a sharp, schoolmarm’s gaze as I introduced myself at the door, but I had passed the inspection, and she let me in without further ado. She was a slender, thin woman with a trophy-shaped head; her hair was white, cropped and clung smoothly to her scalp. Easy to cut, practical to maintain.

The flat gave the same impression: clean and tidy. The furniture was simple and functional, nothing very old-fashioned.
Most of it seemed to date from the 1970s, as though she had performed a cull when she joined the ranks of pensioners. There was not even a trace of the abundance of potted plants that women of her generation often tended with care. The arrangement of flowers was meticulous: a few orchids in simple vases, a bonsai tree on a nest of tables in one corner, a small cyclamen on a mantelpiece.

‘So Margrethe has disappeared, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘How long?’

‘Since before the weekend.’

She looked at me with concern. Her nose was sharp with a rounded arch, her eyes bright blue, her complexion a fine network of neatly etched wrinkles. ‘I see.’

‘And her brother has disappeared, too.’

Angry ridges appeared between her eyebrows. ‘What? Anything else? What about Siv?’

‘No, Siv’s fine. I spoke to her myself as recently as yesterday.’

‘Hm.’ She seemed displeased. I had the feeling my grade had dropped at least one level in the last minute. ‘And why are you visiting me?’

‘Well, I’m collecting background information. I’ve just come from seeing Markus Rødberg.’

‘Mm.’ She pursed her lips in a way that spoke volumes. ‘You’re a private investigator, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it possible to live on that?’

‘So far it has been.’

‘Hm.’ There was still no enthusiasm to be detected in her eyes. ‘Tell me then. What is it you want from me?’

I noticed that there was little point addressing
frøken
Vefring
in the informal form and I concentrated on using the most polite intonation I could muster. ‘I understand you were a member of this committee formed to assist the Monsen family with everyday living.’

‘Yes, that’s correct. I … Well, a colleague of mine,
fru
Torvaldsen asked me if I might give some assistance. After all, Siv was in my class. Wenche –
fru
Torvaldsen, that is – had grown up in the area. In fact, she was my pupil when I started at Fridalen. In my very first class.’

‘People here seem to be loyal to the districts where they grow up.’

‘Yes, indeed. Well, Wenche came from Langhaugen in fact, so moving to Minde was a step down. But on the other hand … Well, we do stick together. We’re like a little town within a town.’

‘What was your impression of the Monsen family?’

‘I’d had Frank at school as well. In the first and second classes before they had male teachers. A class of boys. One of the last.’

‘He was a bit … restless, I’ve been told.’

‘A bit? Ha! He was a fidget from the very first morning. But unfortunately for him … the uphill road was long and hard, and by the time we set up the committee there was already something resigned about him, a lost soul.’

‘Lost soul?’

‘Yes, now please do not analyse everything I say,
herr
Veum! I am not myself a believer of the convinced breed. I take one day at a time and keep eternity on hold. What I meant was there was something dejected about him. He was unable to cope with everyday life, and it has to be said, he did not receive much support from his wife. A more anonymous individual I have never met.’ Then she added, ‘Barely at school,’ whatever she meant by that.

‘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.’

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.