Where Roses Never Die (16 page)

I parked my car outside the hostel in Jonas Reins gate, where I had looked for Joachim Bringeland a couple of days before.

The entrance looked as if Tiny had taken my criticism seriously. At least it looked a little tidier and there was a strong smell of detergent, so strong that it seemed as if they had sprayed the whole area with it, neat. The music from upstairs was a little more muted, as though someone had introduced a new regime on that front as well. But when I knocked on the door to what was called ‘OFFICE. RECEPTION’ no one answered.

I tried a foray to the floors above, but none of the doors was marked with a name. If anyone answered they just looked at me, lost, when I asked if they knew where Joachim Bringeland was. Some of them obviously didn’t understand Norwegian. A couple of them were so fried they barely knew what their names were, let alone where they lived, and in the last room the music was so loud when the door was opened that the stubble-faced tousle head who stared at me couldn’t manage to understand what I was asking. So I gave up.

Back on the street, I stood thinking what to do next. Another trip to Nygårdsparken, in the darkness, had little appeal. But the last time I looked, Little Lasse lived near here, to be more precise, in Hans Tanks gate.

I left the car and walked a block south and a stone’s throw east. Through an arched passageway I came to some rear stairs leading to a cellar. There, behind a window with such poor illumination that only a dim reflection reached the yard, Little Lasse had his place ‘so deep down in the ground’ it was doubtful even the old evil spirit of Robert Johnson’s song would ever have accepted an invite.

The window was covered by a filthy yellow curtain, which twitched
warily to the side after I had tapped on the window. Little Lasse peered out through the crack, nodded when he saw who it was, and immediately afterwards the cellar door was pushed open, heavy and slow as it clearly was.

Lasse grinned. ‘Varg the Wolf is out hunting?’

‘I never rest. Have you got a moment?’

‘Yes, I’m not exactly busy. The lady of the house has gone home.’ He ushered me inside. ‘Pull the door to after you.’

‘Cellar flat’ might well be what an estate agent with an enfeebled conscience would call this in an advertisement. If the client came from the Kalfaret side of Bergen, or thereabouts, they would have called it a ‘hole’, though nothing more vulgar. I was generous enough to refer to it as a refuge. Even at the Sally Army shop, Fretex, they wouldn’t have taken the furniture, and the cans of beer I saw appeared to be empty.

Nevertheless, Lasse managed to find an unopened can in a plastic bag he kept under a low table. ‘Would you like one, Varg?’

‘Not tonight, thanks,’ I said, my mouth dry at the mere sight. ‘Driving,’ I added, without much conviction.

‘You’re only walking distance from home, aren’t you?’

‘So are police officers.’

‘Well, as you like.’ He lifted the can to his mouth and drank straight from it. ‘I’ll have one anyway.’ After swallowing another mouthful he looked at me from an angle. ‘So there are other reasons for you dropping by, I assume.’

I nodded, took a couple of banknotes from my wallet and put them on the table between us. ‘An advance.’

He eyed them and nodded, but didn’t touch them. ‘And the small print?’

‘I’ll tell you now. This morning I went on a little drive.’ I told him about the trip to Sotra to pay a call on Tor Fylling, about the Audi with the tinted glass that hung on my tail, like a customs officer behind a suspicious tourist bus, the confrontation with the two guys in the Audi and it turning out to belong to Gordon Bakke, known as Flash Gordon in select circles.

‘Plus Thor the Hammer, I take it.’

I nodded. ‘Others have made the same suggestion.’

‘I’d be wary of Flash Gordon, if I were you, Varg. He doesn’t seem so menacing when you see him, but he’s a vicious bastard, and if someone’s put him on your tail you’d better watch yourself when you’re out and about.’

‘Funny. Bjarne Solheim, at the police station, expressed it in exactly the same words.’

‘There you go. But you wanted to see Tor Fylling?’

‘Yes, about an old neighbour actually, to do with the case I’m working on. It had nothing to do with what I gather might be some sort of work as a fence.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard his name mentioned in that connection, but not with the baubles those I deal with steal. It was cars mostly.’

‘So you can’t see a connection between Flash Gordon and him?’

He shook his head and took another swig from the can of beer. ‘But there’s something else you might be able to use…’ He immediately took the two banknotes from the table, as though it was only now he realised he had earned them. ‘You remember that robbery in Bryggen before Christmas?’

He had my full attention, probably more so than he was aware. ‘Yes?’

‘The owner, a certain herr Schmidt … he has used Flash Gordon’s services on other occasions.’

‘Right! Such as…?’

‘Well, again this concerns the types I deal with. A couple of times the guys I meet in the park have been to his shop and have pinched a watch or two and legged it. Herr Schmidt never bothered to ring the cops. No, he was more interested in setting an example. So he phoned Flash Gordon instead. Flash Gordon turned up in the park, did a round and woe betide the poor bugger who couldn’t return the goods … He got such a beating that no one would contact the cops either, only the hospital.’

‘So in other words … if this Herr Schmidt had received a call from a private investigator who, he suspected, was working on the robbery case, on behalf of his insurance company for example, then he would
contact Flash Gordon to get him to keep an eye on who said investigator was visiting?’

‘Exactly. And if said private investigator was the person I think he is, then there’s even greater reason for him to … as I told you…’

‘… Watch his back when he goes out at night?’

‘Even in broad daylight, I would say.’

‘But you move in these circles … Are there any rumours doing the rounds about who was behind the robbery? The police have obviously drawn a blank.’

‘No, in fact there aren’t, Varg. Either they’re pros, in which case they were long gone a few hours after the robbery, on their way to Oslo or Gothenburg; or else they were pure amateurs, and unless they’ve left a trail of evidence behind them they’ll be almost impossible to track down.’

‘I’m listening to an expert here, I can see.’

He grinned. ‘One has picked up the odd thing over the years, even if one doesn’t always stay on the right side of the law.’

‘Not to mention the intake of certain beverages…’

‘You could put it like that.’ He raised the can in a silent toast, put it to his mouth and drained it. Then he hurled it into a corner of the room, where it joined others of its ilk.

When I set off walking ten minutes later I followed his advice and kept a good lookout. But there were no tinted Audis, neither there, nor in Jonas Reins gate, and no one tailed me through town and up to Skansen, either.

There I made my last move of the day. I rang Truls Misvær in Oslo, told him who I was and about the assignment his wife had given me. He didn’t sound overly enthusiastic, but agreed to meet the next day, for lunch at twelve in Theatercafé.

Next I rang the National Theatre and asked if it was possible to talk to Vibeke Waaler.

‘No, she’s on stage,’ the woman on the phone said.

‘So she is in Oslo then,’ I said, as if to myself. ‘Inevitably, if she’s doing a play,’ the woman said acidly.

‘And in the morning?’

‘She’s rehearsing a new play.’

‘So if I pop round tomorrow morning there may be a chance of meeting her?’

‘I doubt that, but you can try.’

‘Would you be so kind as to pass on a message to her? Write that a private investigator by the name of Varg Veum would like to meet her and it’s about the Mette Case, from the time when she lived in Bergen.’

This seemed to whet the woman’s curiosity: ‘The Mette Case?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’ll get the message alright.’

‘Thank you.’

Finally I booked a return air ticket to Oslo for the following day and crossed my fingers it would be worth the expense for Maja Misvær and the bother for me.

I went to bed without having tasted a drop of alcohol the whole day. Labour dignifies the man, as the saying goes. That undoubtedly applied to private investigators too, as long as they held a steady course and focussed on the next day’s needs. And watched their backs. Do not forget that, I told myself as I sank into the most surprisingly pleasant sleep I’d had for ages.

Oslo in March can be anything from the first glimpse of spring to the last bitingly cold day of winter. I had been lucky on this occasion. It was beautiful spring weather all day.

I got off the Airport Express train at the National Theatre stop and took the escalator up to the Earth’s surface again, where I was blinded by sunlight as I emerged at the rear of the large theatre building. It was situated magnificently between Stortingsgata and Karl Johans gate, like an outrider for the Royal Palace further up the hill and with the old university edifice as a loyal attendant on its left. At the opposite end of Spikersuppa, the pool alongside Karl Johans gate, stood Stortinget, the Norwegian Parliament. Thus, within a very confined area there was Parliament, the Symbol of Royal Power, the Temple of Knowledge and the Citadel of Dramatic Art; you could hardly display the capital city in a more concentrated fashion. You didn’t have to go far down side streets to find those who really ruled either: the Supreme Court and Finance.

The staff entrance to the National Theatre was down in the cellar from Stortingsgata. Behind a counter sat a nice lady, she flicked through some pieces of paper in front of her, but was forced to conclude with an apologetic smile that, no, there was no message from Vibeke Waaler. As I refused to accept this as a final answer, she made some internal calls, which culminated in her telling me that Fru Waaler was rehearsing on the Amfiscenen stage, but she would be finished by two if I wanted to try again then.

‘Right, does that mean you can give her a message saying I’ll be back then?’

‘Yes, we could do that. Of course, we can’t guarantee Fru Waaler’s
time, but…’ She smiled a little condescendingly, as though Fru Waaler had admirers at the door every single day of the week, from early till late, and I was hardly among those at the head of the queue.

Somewhat disconsolate, I trudged out into the sunshine again. The sky was high and blue above the capital, like the backdrop to a cheery 1940s comedy with Lillebil Ibsen and Per Aabel in the main roles. At five to twelve I was standing by the entrance to the Theatercafé waiting for Truls Misvær. At twelve sharp a man arrived, wearing a grey suit and a light-coloured coat, alert and slim with fair hair casually bordering his collar, as if ready for a quick visit to the closest fitness centre. We looked at each other enquiringly, swiftly introduced ourselves, and, after handing in our coats, he led the way to the inner rooms, nodded to the waiters, as if in familiar surroundings, and went straight to a window table facing Stortingsgata, where we had almost complete privacy.

‘I had it reserved,’ he said in polished, elegant Bergensian, showed me to a seat on the opposite side of the table and sat down with his back to Stortinget, so that he was facing in the right direction if celebs such as Erik Bye or Wenche Foss should pop their heads in. A waiter was quickly at our sides, handing us a menu. Truls Misvær cast an experienced eye over it, ordered the house’s Caesar salad, and I was unoriginal enough to follow suit. With the food he ordered a glass of red wine for himself, but I was thinking of my car at Bergen Airport and my general condition and chose a non-alcoholic beer. Once this was done, he leaned back in his chair, regarded me as if I were a potential business partner and said: ‘So who are you, Veum, and what are your qualifications? What makes you think you can find out what the police gave up on twenty-five years ago?’

In broad strokes I filled him in on my background, from my time in child welfare up to the present day, without mentioning the adversities I had struggled with over the last three years, and the resulting financial and private difficulties.

When I had finished he looked at me sceptically. ‘And you, a one-man band with no access to computer systems, registers or whatever else there is, are going to find something – I repeat – the police gave up on
years ago?’ He raised his arms aloft. ‘Maja’s crazy to invest her money in this!’

‘You’ve lost all hope, in other words?’

‘Hope of what, Veum?’ he snapped.

‘Of finding out what really happened to Mette on that September day in 1977.’

He stared back stiffly. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I have. Nothing would make me happier, of course, if Maja – if we were finally to have an answer – but to be frank … I doubt you’re the right man to give it to us.’

‘Well,’ I said, shrugging. ‘All I can say is that I’ll do my best to unearth more.’

‘I mean … the police hauled in everything that lived and breathed with regard to potential sex offenders. One was even in custody for a few days…’ He looked to me for a response.

‘Yes, I’ve spoken to him. Jesper Janevik.’

He nodded, although he didn’t look particularly impressed. ‘They found nothing. We searched everywhere around, they scoured Nordåsvatnet, they spoke to all the neighbours.’

‘Yes, on that subject. Were the relations between neighbours there a little special?’

His eyes appraised me. ‘In what respect?’

I didn’t get an answer because the waiter arrived with the salads and drinks. Misvær nodded to acknowledge the fast service, sipped his red wine, motioned for us to start and set about his salad at a speed that suggested he was only minutes away from being expected at a conference and there was no time to lose.

Between mouthfuls I said: ‘I was thinking about the way you entertained one another, let us say, on New Year’s Eve 1976.’

He snorted. ‘You’ve been muck-raking, I can hear.’

‘According to my sources, you carried off the main prize that evening.’

He cast an involuntary sideward glance across the street to the National Theatre. When he met my eyes again, I nodded assent.

He opened his fork hand. ‘What do you want me to say? Has this got anything to do with Mette?’

‘God knows, but it says something about the moral climate in which she was growing up.’

He looked thoughtful, and for a second or two it was as though his eyes became turbid, then he concentrated on the salad again. ‘Do you know why it’s called Caesar salad?’ he asked.

‘No idea. I doubt Julius Caesar invented it.’

‘No, he didn’t. It was in the 1920s, an Italian restaurant owner called Caesar who lived in San Diego but had his restaurant in Tijuana, on the Mexican side of the border, to avoid prohibition restrictions.’

‘And what’s that got to do with the New Year party games?’

‘You’re not very quick on the uptake, are you. The idea was to change the subject.’

‘Yes, I can understand that you don’t like talking about it. Did you know that you were being watched?’

For a moment he stopped stuffing his face. ‘Watched! Vibeke and … By whom, if I might ask?’

I kept him waiting while I swallowed and drank a mouthful of beer. ‘You know, Misvær, that even if you don’t want to talk about it, I know most of what went on that night already. I know who was where, I know what happened in most of the places and – I’ve just found this out – I know that Joachim Bringeland and your son, Håkon, watched what went on between his mother and Terje Torbeinsvik.’

Now he was visibly shaken.

‘And I’m not ignoring the possibility that it made them – how shall I put it? – curious? You know boys at that age … they may have gone back to your and Maja’s house to see if something similar was happening there.’

He had put down both his knife and fork now. He held his throat with one hand, ran his index finger around the inside of his collar, as though it were too tight, and scanned the room to make sure no one else could hear what we were talking about.

‘And it was of course,’ I concluded, not without a certain satisfaction at the way I had tripped him up.

He stared at me, his eyes black now. ‘Vibeke and I … we … She
came from … Perhaps it was the theatre circles, perhaps it was just her.’

‘The theatre circles?’

‘Yes, aren’t they famous for being a little more … liberal? She told me about an incident, one that had taken place only a few days before.’

‘Before New Year?’

‘Yes. She said … it was after the performance. She was playing Lady Macbeth that winter. She had been leaning over her make-up table – with her dress pulled up – and was … erm, taken from behind … by one of the witches.’

‘One of the witches?’

‘Yes, well … the witches were played by men in that production.’

‘I see.’

‘And then there was a knock at the door, and without waiting … in came Terje, her husband, and caught them in the act, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, I understand. This has happened before.’

‘Yes, I suppose it has.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘Nothing! That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Nothing happened. It became a good story. Terje laughed. Vibeke laughed. The guy playing the witch … yes, he started laughing too. And then they all got on with their own business and that was the last of it. Terje drove Vibeke home – he was there to collect her – and since … Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? They had no inhibitions. It was typical that they came up with this game, or whatever we should call it.’

‘Well. Every one of the couples joined in, except one.’

‘Yes.’ He looked down, started fidgeting with the rest of his salad. ‘So you think Håkon and Joachim … that Håkon saw Maja with … well, it would have been Tor.’ Then it was as though something seemed to dawn on him. ‘Perhaps that’s why he wanted to be with me when we split up a few years later?’

‘Why not? He’d seen his mother in action. You were frolicking with Vibeke at her place.’

‘Yes.’ He evinced a wan smile. His face was beginning to assume a normal colour again. ‘Yes,’ he repeated. ‘That was quite an experience, that was. She was worth…’

As he didn’t complete the sentence, I pursued the point. ‘She was worth what, Misvær? The divorce? What happened to Mette? What…?’

‘What happened to Mette has nothing to do with this!’

‘No? Are you sure?’

For the last time he put down his cutlery. The plate in front of him was empty. ‘What could the connection be?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I’ll certainly have to talk to your son about this.’

‘To Håkon?’ He looked at me darkly. ‘He lives in Ålesund.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘He does something with the football club. AaFK. He was a pretty promising player once himself, but then his form went. He was mostly on the bench at FC Brann. Then he got an offer from Wiggen – the coach at Ålesund – to go there, but it didn’t work out, either. No wonder though. He was too old to kick-start his career, if I can put it like that.’

‘So he’s not active anymore?’

‘No, but he’s still connected with the club. Ground staff … something like that.’

‘And he’s never talked to you about … what they saw that night?’

‘Never! Do you think I’m sitting here and putting on an act?’

I waited. ‘No, I don’t think so. In that area you probably don’t have the same talent as your old flame across the street.’

Again he glanced in that direction. ‘She’s not … There was never any repeat, unfortunately. And not long after, she left Bergen and came here.’

‘Which you did too.’

‘Yes, but … ha! No connection. I moved only a few years ago, and I haven’t seen Vibeke Waaler anywhere else but on the stage – from the auditorium – for the last twenty years. Have you spoken to her?’

‘Not yet. But I have arranged to meet.’ I shot a glance at my watch. ‘Shall I pass on your regards?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No,’ he said. After a short pause, he added: ‘You just go, Veum. I’ll take care of this…’ He nodded towards our empty glasses and plates.

‘Thank you.’

He shrugged. ‘One expense less on Maja’s bill?’

‘That’s one way of looking at it.’

Without exchanging any more pleasantries we parted company. Truls Misvær beckoned to the waiter for the bill. I crossed the street in a further attempt to gain an audience with Lady Macbeth.