Death in a Cold Climate (18 page)

She subsided a little. This was clearly an answer her walking had evolved, the only possible solution to her personal conundrum.

‘So you were just walking, and thinking. That's very understandable. But you talked to Forsyth for a little while, didn't you? What about?'

‘I suppose about–about his being a foreigner, and what he was doing in Tromsø at that time of year. Things like that.'

‘And then you asked him back here?'

For a moment all rage and shame seemed to have left
her, and she answered dully: ‘Yes,' adding, as if not expecting to be believed: ‘For coffee.' Then, with some of the old defiance she said: ‘You don't know what it's like, only having children to talk to all day long. I get
sick
for a grown-up voice.'

‘I can imagine,' said Fagermo. He could, too. ‘What did you talk about? Yourself? Him?'

‘Oh, we talked about him. A man doesn't want to be burdened with a woman's problems, does he? I–I asked him to tell me about himself.'

It sounded like a whore's ploy, but Fagermo blessed her for it. ‘That's what I was hoping. What did he tell you?'

‘Well, we came home and in fact we–we had a drink. I had some in, for Christmas. I have a lot of friends who might call.' No friends, no calls, thought Fagermo. ‘So we walked back, and it was nice to have someone to–to lean on, and we sat down and I got drinks, and he told me about his travels. It was fascinating. Such interesting things, wonderful places.'

‘What sort of things, places?'

She drew her hand over her forehead distractedly. The strain was telling. She had to think, hard. She hadn't listened, thought Fagermo; she hadn't been interested. ‘I remember a lot about Greece,' she said finally. ‘About a shipping millionaire's yacht. He'd been a crew member. Not one of the millionaires you read about . . . And then there were a lot of Arab places, I don't remember their names, but it was . . . fascinating. And then Iran. I remember that because it was in the news, and of course I'd seen pictures of the Shah and his wife. Isn't it awful about them? Yes, I remember he talked about Iran.'

‘What sort of things did he tell you about? Was it mostly about his work?'

‘Yes, I think so. He had worked there, definitely. Something to do with oil, I think. I remember the names you see
in garages. Yes–I'm sure he had worked a lot with oil.'

‘Can you be more specific?'

The hand went over her forehead again. ‘No. I mean I didn't really understand . . . And of course we talked about other things as well –'

‘I suppose things got more–personal, did they?' Fagermo hated doing it, but he had to know the sort of terms the two ended on.

She flushed up, and the twitch on the side of her face, which had stopped working and distorting her china good looks, began again with redoubled intensity. ‘I know what you mean. I know what you're implying. Well, why not? I'm not ashamed.'

‘I'm not trying to suggest that you should be.'

‘What is a woman to do when her husband–goes off his head? Just settle down calmly and forget all about–that sort of thing? Nobody does these days!'

‘I know,' said Fagermo. ‘Please put it out of your head that I'm trying to put you on trial. It's not even something I'm particularly interested in.'

Her face was crimson now, and her eyes were full. ‘So long as it's understood that I'm not ashamed.'

‘Absolutely. But before things got more . . . down to earth, did he tell you anything about his personal life?'

‘Not much. He was quite reserved, in a way, at that stage. He said he'd been living with a girl in Trondheim.'

‘That's true. Did he say anything about his life before that?'

‘No–we didn't go that far back. As a matter of fact, that wasn't what he wanted to talk about. Not about his personal life.'

‘Oh?'

‘Well, you don't, do you? Not when you're with another woman.'

Fagermo took her point. ‘But you must have got some impression, through all this talk, of what sort of a boy–man–he was. What he was like.'

She pondered, the flush hardly diminished, and her face seemed to be suppressing memories of some bitterness. She said in a low voice: ‘Very self-contained. Very confident. Not very . . . giving.' Then suddenly she looked at him straight, her eyes full of tears, and almost cried out: ‘You know the sort of person! Who doesn't give a damn about anyone but themselves! I've had enough of people like that!'

Fagermo looked unhappily at his knees, she seemed so utterly to fit the category she described. ‘You think that's the sort of person he was, do you?'

She almost wailed: ‘I know it! I know it! All I wanted was a little tenderness!'

‘And you didn't get it?'

‘Get it? He wasn't capable of it! It wasn't in him! He just used me!' Now she was working herself up with remembered rage, the nerve in her face going double time at the thought of her humiliation. ‘Do you know what I was to him? I was a pick-up. An easy lay. He did what he wanted, and that was an end to it. The only difference was he didn't have to pay, and that was the sort of thing he thought about, believe me. He had saved money. There wasn't an
ounce
of feeling in it. He didn't know I was a person. I'll tell you what he was: he was a machine! A beautifully maintained machine!'

‘Is that why you . . . got rid of him? That
is
what happened, isn't it?'

She nodded. ‘Yes. I got rid of him. I don't know if I can make you understand. After all, I know how men think. I expect you're saying “Well, she picked him up, didn't she? That's what she wanted. What's she complaining about?” Oh, you can't tell me anything about men!' But suddenly
she seemed to forget her grievance and speak honestly. ‘He made me feel
dirty
. Filthy. It was the way he talked . . . '

‘Talked?'

‘All the time in here. And then in bed, after . . . The way he talked. It sort of built up. He was so . . . full of himself. How smart he was. How he was up to everybody's tricks, and knew tricks worth two of theirs. Silly jargon like that. Then he kept talking about the ways he had of “making a quick buck”. He had some other expression, what was it? “An easy kill”.' She stopped in her tracks. ‘Funny when you think about it, isn't it? But what I hated . . . what was so insulting that I couldn't stand it any longer was
why
he spoke to me like that –'

‘Why? What do you mean?'

‘Well, I don't suppose he talked like that to everyone. In fact, early on he was quite–as I said–quite self-contained. But then he decided I was nobody. Something he'd picked up off the streets. He found out who my parents were–nobody important–he knew I had no connections any longer with my husband. So I didn't matter, I couldn't harm him. After we–in bed, it got worse. It was like I was his whore, and he paid me to listen to him talking, as well . . . He just
swelled
with his own cleverness. He was going places. The world was still open to a smart operator, it was still possible to “do an Onassis” as he called it–get rich quick. He knew a thing or two that nobody else knew. He just lay there, talking on and on. About how damned smart he was. About his plans. His big plans. He'd made me feel dirty before. Now I felt like some rotten accomplice.'

‘What sort of plans was this he was talking about? Did he go into any details?'

‘I didn't listen very much. I was getting–worked up, I suppose. Angry, I mean. Just lying there, feeling ignored.
I'd served my purpose, and now he could get back to thinking about himself and his great prospects. His shining future. How he was going to do down this person, double-cross that.'

‘Do down? Double-cross? Can't you remember any details? It's very important! Think!'

‘Oh, does it matter, does it matter?' She drew her hand across her wet eyes. She felt nothing about the boy's murder, that was clear. If anything, glad. Seeing Fagermo watching her, she seemed to pull herself together and try to think. ‘It was to do with information. Facts. Data. I don't know what you'd call it. I remember he lay there, with his hands behind his head looking so . . . complacent. And he said something like: “So many people want it. Everyone's interested. That's why I went into this business. It's a sure-fire thing. If you play your cards right you can sell the same info over and over again.” Those aren't his exact words. Does it make sense?'

‘Yes, it could.'

‘And he said: “And then, you see, if you channel the info cleverly, that gives you a hold on the middleman. Once you've done shady business with someone, he's yours–if he's respectable and you've nothing to lose. If you play your cards right, you can squeeze him, too.” I didn't understand what he meant.'

‘I think I do. Anything else?'

‘Oh, I expect so. Plenty more. I just lay there, feeling ignored, and it just washed over me. And it was all very vague–he wanted me to admire his cleverness, but he wouldn't give too much away. He just went on and on, and I lay there, listening to him, and getting sicker and sicker–with him.' She stopped and added emphatically: ‘With
him
, not with myself.'

‘And then what happened? He didn't just go.'

She smiled, a smile of strange self-satisfaction, giving
Fagermo the idea that what had happened that night was a clash of two overweening egotisms. ‘I threw him out. I listened and listened, and finally I couldn't stand it any more, and I got up and threw his clothes at him, and screamed and screamed: “Get out, get out, get out.” '

‘And he did?'

‘Yes, he did. He just got up and dressed, with me screaming at him, and him looking at me . . . sort of, not understanding . . . supercilious. As if he was saying “Stupid woman”.' For a moment she looked uncertain, but then she put a confident front on it: ‘Then he slunk from the house.' She smiled complacently. ‘I don't think he really understood.'

That, Fagermo thought, was probably the problem with Martin Forsyth. He never really understood.

In the course of the next morning Fagermo began to feel the mist imperceptibly rising. That it did so was not the result of any of the international enquiries he had set in motion. Very little had come out of the series of questions he had sent to Interpol. The situation in Iran was such that Westerners were fleeing the country like migrating birds, so concerned to escape the firing-squad, the whip or the bastinado that they even tactfully refrained from enquiring about duty-free grog at the airport. In such circumstances of chaos and panic, little was to be expected from officials of the major oil companies. Feeling helpless, Fagermo decided it was time to turn his attentions to those companies' head offices in Britain and the States, and made contacts with Scotland Yard and the FBI with this in view.

But the first really valuable piece of jigsaw to turn itself up in the box that morning came in the shape of the fair-haired Mormon who enquired for him in the outer office, and was shuffled by Hyland straight up to Fagermo.

‘Good morning,' said Fagermo. ‘Where's Tweedledee?'

‘I've just seen him off at the airport,' said the young man. His going seemed to have made a difference to his companion: he still wore his suit, probably his only gear, but underneath his tie was discarded, and his hair was in a ruffled state and generally far from Madison Avenue. The boy seemed to feel the need to explain his state of liberation. ‘He'll be back in Salt Lake City by tomorrow, turning in his suit. Gee, I envy him. I've got six months
to do. But his replacement doesn't arrive until tonight.'

‘You must feel lost on your own,' said Fagermo. ‘Tell me, do you always go around in twos?'

‘Well, mostly. It prevents unfortunate happenings. There was a young Mormon chap in Britain recently –'

‘Ah yes, I remember,' said Fagermo, who sometimes bought an English Sunday paper when the seamy side of Tromsø life was beginning to seem uninventive. ‘I can see that you have to take care. Well, what can I do for you?'

‘I've remembered where I saw this chap–the boy who was murdered. Is that any help?'

‘Could well be. Depends on how definite you can be.'

‘Pretty definite, as it happens. You see, the fact is, we have a pretty set routine: we do certain areas at certain times–I mean the going round and knocking on doors and giving our spiel, you know. We have it all planned out well in advance and written down: on such and such a day we do these streets in Håpet; on such and such one we do those in Kroken, and so on.'

‘Just like salesmen.'

‘I reckon. So the fact is, if I can remember
where
I saw him, that also tells me
when
I saw him. Right?'

‘I see. Sounds just what we need.'

‘That's what I thought. Now, I'll tell you where I saw him: we were coming down from Nordselvei into Anton Jakobsensvei. It's mostly naval wives around there, and they're often lonely and ask us in just for a chat, especially those that've been to the States. I've had–well, never mind. Anyway, we tend to knock off round about two, because people start cooking their
middags
then. So it was
around
that time–couldn't be more definite than that. Anyway, he was coming along Anton Jakobsensvei from the town end, as if he'd walked over the bridge. I just about recognized him through the gloom, and I was going to stop and talk to him.'

‘Why were you going to do that? I thought he hadn't expressed any great interest in your line.'

‘Hell, no, but nobody much is interested, except students writing papers on us and things like that. But we like to keep tabs on the English-speakers in town, just for someone to talk to.'