Mirror Image: The present mirrors the past in a chilling Varg Veum thriller E-Book

Gunnar Staalesen

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Varg Veum
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 414

Beschreibung

As Bergen PI Varg Veum investigates two different cases, it becomes clear that they are uncannily similar to harrowing events that took place thirty-six years earlier… A gripping instalment of the award-winning Varg Veum series, by one of the fathers of Nordic Noir. `As searing and gripping as they come´ New York Times `One of my very favourite Scandinavian authors´ Ian Rankin `The Norwegian Chandler´ Jo Nesbø ________________________ Bergen Private Investigator Varg Veum is perplexed when two wildly different cases cross his desk at the same time. A lawyer, anxious to protect her privacy, asks Varg to find her sister, who has disappeared with her husband, seemingly without trace, while a ship carrying unknown cargo is heading towards the Norwegian coast, and the authorities need answers. Varg immerses himself in the investigations, and it becomes clear that the two cases are linked, and have unsettling – and increasingly uncanny – similarities to events that took place thirty-six years earlier, when a woman and her saxophonist lover drove their car off a cliff, in an apparent double suicide. As Varg is drawn into a complex case involving star-crossed lovers, toxic waste and illegal immigrants, history seems determined to repeat itself in perfect detail … and at terrifying cost... A chilling, dark and twisting story of love and revenge, Mirror Image is Staalesen at his most thrilling, thought-provoking best. ________________________ `Every inch the equal of his Nordic confreres Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbø´ Independent `Staalesen continually reminds us he is one of the finest of Nordic novelists´ Financial Times `There are only two other writers that I know of have achieved the depth of insight in detective writing that Staalesen has: Chandler, and Ross MacDonald …´ Mystery Tribune `Employs Chandleresque similes with a Nordic Noir twist … simply superb´ Wall Street Journal `Masterful pacing´ Publishers Weekly `The Varg Veum series is more concerned with character and motivation than spectacle, and it's in the quieter scenes that the real drama lies´ Herald Scotland For fans of Henning Mankell, Jo Nesbø, Jorn Lier Horst, Harlan Coben and Jussi Adler-Olsen

Leseprobe

Bergen PI Varg Veum is perplexed when two wildly different cases cross his desk at the same time. A lawyer, anxious to protect her privacy, asks Varg to find her sister, who has disappeared with her husband, seemingly without trace, while a ship carrying unknown cargo is heading towards the Norwegian coast, and the authorities need answers.

Varg immerses himself in the investigations, and it becomes clear that the two cases are linked, and one has unsettling – and increasingly uncanny – similarities to events that took place thirty-six years earlier, when a woman and her saxophonist lover drove their car into the sea, in an apparent double suicide.

As Varg is drawn into the complex case involving star-crossed lovers, toxic waste and illegal immigrants, history seems determined to repeat itself in perfect detail … and at terrifying cost…

A chilling, dark and twisting story of love and revenge, Mirror Image is Staalesen at his most thrilling, thought-provoking best.

Mirror Image

GUNNAR STAALESEN

Translated by Don Bartlett

Bergen, Norway

Contents

Title Page1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 About the Author About the Translator Copyright

1993

1

I had seen her coming long before our paths met.

We were walking, from opposing directions, over the part of the mountain range Bergensians call The Plateau, as if it were the only one in the world. She was coming from Mount Ulriken and heading towards Mount Fløien. As for myself, I had just climbed Trappefjellet and was following the line of cairns over what was known from olden times as Alfjellet. It was a Thursday, mid-April and the thermometer was fluctuating between one- and two-figure temperatures. Down on Midtfjellet I had heard the sandpiper’s characteristically sharp wheet-wheet. Under the drifting clouds, the first wedge of greylag geese was flying north, driven by an inexplicable longing for Møre. Spring was on the way. But there were still patches of snow lying on the plateau. In the marshes above Hyttelien you sank deep into mud if you left the path.

All of a sudden, she was gone, like the seductive forest creature of Scandinavian folklore, the hulder. Over the last part, where giants had been said to roam, before Borga Pass, a dip in the terrain like an enormous fingerprint, she was lost to view. For a moment I stood staring, then she reappeared on my side of the pass, climbing with great agility. I stepped off the path to let her by.

She was dressed sportily with a light rucksack on her back, brown breeches, a green anorak and a white woollen hat. As she strode past, she smiled fleetingly and called out a cheery ‘Hi’, the way that mountain walkers do.

‘Hey,’ I heard her exclaim after she had passed, ‘aren’t you…?’

I turned and met her gaze.

‘Veum?’

‘That’s me.’

I speedily focused to gain an impression of her. Her eyes were bluish-green and bright. She was taller than me, more like one metre eighty-five. Yet there was something decidedly feminine about her clean-cut features, her full lips, smooth complexion, and cheeks rosy-red from the bracing mountain air. A few beads of sweat had collected in the blonde down above her top lip; otherwise she seemed surprisingly unaffected, breathing easily like a marathon runner coasting downhill.

She took a couple of steps down towards me, as if to bring us onto the same level, removed one grey knitted mitten and stretched out a hand. ‘Berit Breheim.’

‘Hi.’ We shook hands.

‘I’m a lawyer, sharing an office with, among others, Vidar Waagenes.’

‘Right. But I don’t think we’ve… ’

‘No, but I know who you are.’

‘Shame I can’t say the same.’

‘Actually, I’d been thinking about ringing you.’

‘Strange coincidence. Meeting here, I mean.’

She gave a wry smile. ‘I often walk across the plateau if I have something serious on my mind I need to mull over.’

‘And you have now?’

‘I know you’ve been in contact with Vidar a few times.’

‘You might say we’ve enjoyed mutual benefits.’

‘I was considering offering you an assignment.’

‘In connection with a case you’re handling?’

‘No, this is … private.’

‘So long as it isn’t … I mean, I don’t take marital cases.’

‘I’m not married,’ she said, making it sound like an invitation.

‘Nor me.’

‘Then that makes two of us.’

‘Well, not on principle… ’

‘No, nor me.’ She smiled mischievously.

‘Could you come to my office early tomorrow, at eight?’

‘You’re an early bird, aren’t you.’

‘I’m busy for the rest of the day and I’d like you to get started at once. I hope you haven’t got too much else going on at the moment.’

I made a vague gesture with my hand, so as not to promise too much. But she didn’t need to worry. I had zero else going on.

‘Do we have a deal then?’

‘So long as I hear the alarm clock.’

She smiled politely. ‘Enjoy the rest of your hike then.’

‘And the same to you.’

I could have walked back with her, of course. My hike wouldn’t have been any shorter as a result. However, she had said she had something to mull over – the following day’s meeting maybe – so it was best not to disturb her. As soon as I was on the other side of Borga Pass, I turned to see how far she had walked. She did the same. With the pass between us we waved to each other before continuing in our respective directions.

It was fine. I had a few concerns of my own. Some solitude would do me good.

2

Taking a human life does something to you.

It would soon be two months since the late February evening when I despatched a man called Harry Hopland to whence he had come, yet still his final gaze was seared in my memory. He had cursed me as he plunged from the edge of the half-finished concrete building. His curse had echoed through every single hour of the sleepless nights I had endured since.

The woman in my life for the last eight years – my old friend in the national registry, Karin Bjørge – had tried to console me as far as she could:

‘It wasn’t your fault, Varg. It was self-defence. It was him or you.’

‘But I could’ve saved him,’ I had reasoned. ‘I could’ve had him arrested.’

‘And what then, eh? He would’ve probably come out of prison with the same grisly intentions as this time.’

She was right. I knew she was. Nevertheless, it had been a troublesome period. I slept badly. Harry Hopsland haunted my dreams, and when I appeared in the ante-chamber of Breheim, Lygre, Pedersen & Waagenes at one minute and thirty seconds to eight next morning I felt as if my head was full of steel wool and petrol, a grey, indefinable mass that could catch fire at any moment.

Two secretaries met me – a classic pair: one older, with an attractive network of wrinkles around her eyes, dark, elegantly coiffured hair, discreet yet tasteful clothes, light, airy glasses perched halfway down her slender nose; her colleague, twenty-something, blonde, with morning-weary eyes, far more youthfully attired: tight black trousers and a blouse so red it would have aroused even a stuffed bull. The signs on the desk apprised me of their names: Hermine Seterdal and Bente Borge.

I politely addressed the older of the two. ‘I have an appointment with Berit Breheim. My name’s Veum.’

Her dark eyes gleamed. ‘Ah, yes, you’ve been here before, haven’t you. You saw herr Waagenes.’

For an instant I regarded her with surprise. Was this someone I had left an impression on or did she just have a good memory?

‘Fru Breheim’s expecting you. It’s the second door on the right. You’ll see her through the glass panel.’

‘Thank you very much.’

I followed her instructions, tapped on the door, met Berit Breheim’s eyes inside and stepped in. ‘Good morning.’

She smiled. ‘Good morning.’

The office furniture was simple and arranged strategically. The desk by the window, facing the door; a small nest of tables and two chairs in one corner, a bookshelf weighed down by law books in the other.

She rose and walked around her desk. ‘Cup of coffee?’

‘Please.’

She went to the door. ‘Bente, bring us some coffee, would you?’

The younger secretary said, ‘Of course’, and Berit Breheim returned.

She was dressed soberly: cream-coloured silk blouse, black skirt and silvery stockings; she was shapely and athletic, but more discus thrower than high jumper, if you had to guess which discipline. ‘I’m due in court at ten.’

‘You’ll win.’

She opened her mouth to answer, but at that moment Bente Borge came in with two stylish, slim, white coffee cups, a small bowl of sugar and a jug of cream, and an Italian-designed flask of coffee, all on a Merlot-red tray that matched to perfection the black wood of the table between the two red leather chairs.

Berit Breheim poured the coffee and behaved as I had expected: she got straight to the point. ‘As I was saying when we met yesterday, this is a private and personal assignment.’

I nodded, waiting.

‘I have a sister called Bodil. She’s a couple of years younger than me. Thirty-eight to be precise. She’s in – how shall I put it? – a difficult marriage.’

‘I hope you’ve remembered that I don’t— ’

‘Yeah, yeah, Veum. But this isn’t that kind of case.’

‘Fine.’ I splayed my hands as a sign that she should carry on.

‘Fernando, her husband, is Spanish. Fernando Garrido, a marine engineer by profession and employed as an inspector in a local shipping company, TWO – short for Trans World Ocean. It used to be known as Helle Shipping.’

I leaned forward. ‘Has it got anything to do with Hagbart Helle?’

‘You’re well informed, Veum. I like that. Yes, it has. But Hagbart Helle’s dead. Think he died in 1989, and the company was sold. The owners live in London, but the company’s registered in – surprise, surprise – Jersey. The branch in Bergen is run by a certain herr Halvorsen. Bernt Halvorsen, unless I’m much mistaken. Not that I have anything to do with them, but since you asked.’

‘That’s my style. I ask questions.’

‘The problem is that they’ve gone missing. Both Bodil and Fernando.’

‘I see. And you think there’s something suspicious about that?’

‘Suspicious? … Erm, well not really. If it had been, I would’ve gone to the police. But there are some circumstances that make me uneasy.’

‘And what would they be?’

‘Ten days ago, on Palm Sunday, I was summoned to Bergen Central Police Station to assist Fernando. He’d spent the night in a cell for disturbing the peace and needed legal assistance. I immediately rang Bodil to hear what she had to say.’

‘And…?’

‘Well, it was nothing very dramatic. At first, they’d been celebrating a wedding anniversary. They’d been married for ten years, I think.’

‘Then they should’ve been over the seven-year itch.’

‘Well, anyway, they started arguing. One thing led to another and, in the end, they were making such a din that the man in the house opposite rang the police.’

‘Nosy neighbour, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Too bloody nosy, if you ask me. What business is it of his? Cases like this are usually solved amicably. If there’s someone with a bit of common sense to talk them round.’

‘But the police thought there were grounds for arrest?’

‘He’d become quite aggressive, they said. You know, Mediterranean temperament and all that. But I can assure you, he was pretty desperate when I saw him there, in the drunk tank.’

‘But you got him out?’

‘Yes, yes, no problem. I drove him home myself. But I didn’t go in with him.’

‘No?’

‘I thought it best for them to talk things through, on their own. The two of them. I’ve been married. I know what such situations are like.’

‘An experience shared by many.’

‘You too?’

I nodded. Then I said: ‘Tell me … You and your sister, how close are you?’

She shook her head. ‘As close as you can expect when you live your own lives and you’re preoccupied with your own things.’

‘Have they got children?’

‘Bodil and Fernando? No.’ She grinned. ‘We’re not the most fertile, neither her nor me, it seems.’

‘That’s fine, the world being as it is. What does she do?’

‘She’s in insurance.’

‘Not marine insurance by any chance?’

She raised her eyebrows ironically. ‘How did you guess? But to my knowledge, she’s stopped.’

‘I see.’

‘She wanted to go it alone, as a freelance consultant.’

‘And how’s that panning out?’

‘Well, it’s probably too early to say.’

‘OK. So, you drove him home, on the morning of Palm Sunday? But the story doesn’t end there?’

‘No. I gave them a few days. And when I rang on the following Wednesday, no one answered the phone. But it was Easter week after all, so nothing strange about that.’

The family had two holiday cabins, one in Hjellestad and one in Ustaoset. To be on the safe side, she had rung there as well, to no avail. She had spent Easter in Bergen, herself.

‘Actually, I had to prepare for the case I’m busy with now, but the weather was so fantastic, wasn’t it, so I spent most of the days outside. I walked the plateau several times and on Good Friday I went to Gulfjellet to do some skiing.’

‘Sounds sensible.’

On the Tuesday she started to become seriously concerned. By then she had rung them several times with no response.

‘Where do they live?’

‘In Morvik in Åsane. We’d always had a little cabin there. They’d had it pulled down after Pappa died in 1983, and built a house on the plot.’

‘No shortage of holiday homes, I can see.’

‘We hardly ever used the one in Morvik. It was in such a terrible state. The cabin in Hjellstad was from Mamma’s family, and the one in Ustaoset they bought … in 1950. Around then anyway. But … Shall we get back to the point?’

‘By all means.’

‘I drove out there and rang the bell. Several times. No one answered. In the end, I went down to the boathouse. I knew they kept a spare key there. I found it and unlocked the cabin, not without some apprehension, let me tell you. But my fears were groundless. Or perhaps in fact they weren’t. The cabin was empty. There wasn’t a living soul in there.’

‘Nor a dead one, I take it.’

‘No.’

‘I suppose you rang TWO and asked after Garrido?’

She sent me a patronising glare. ‘Naturally. But all they could tell me was that he was away.’

I nodded. ‘You still haven’t contacted the police?’

‘Would I be sitting here and talking to you if I had?’

‘Hardly.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What about Spain?’

She shrugged. ‘That’s a possibility of course.’

‘Where does your brother-in-law live?’

‘Near Barcelona. His father had a little ship-building company, but he’s dead now. An older brother’s taken it over.’

‘Have you rung them?’

‘No … And I don’t want to worry them either for no reason.’

‘Well… ’ I flicked through my notes. ‘So, what do you think might be going on?’

‘Mm … They might be on some kind of trip, to make up, to draw a line under this episode. In which case, it would be very embarrassing if I contacted the police while they were away.’

‘But you don’t feel completely at ease?’

‘No.’ She opened a little brown envelope that had been on the desk. ‘Here’s the key. Go and see what you can turn up.’

‘You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary when you were there?’

‘No. If you don’t find anything, I’ll have to ask you to drive to Hjellestad and perhaps to Ustaoset, to be absolutely sure.’

‘It sounds like you fear the worst?’

She hesitated. Then she seemed to take a decision. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone in our family had entered into a death pact.’

‘Really?!’

‘We have previous.’

‘Ah, I’m beginning to understand.’

‘What do you understand?’

‘Well, I think it’s best you tell me about that too.’

3

A black car, a 1952 Opel Olympia, two years old, was going far too fast along the winding road to Hjellestad. The tarmac was wet and black, and the rain-heavy September darkness had erased the contours of the countryside around them. The light from the headlamps reflected on the road, making the surface like a mirror, a gigantic bob run they were hurtling down with no idea of where the journey would take them.

Johan! Careful!

The man at the wheel didn’t answer. The muscles in his jaw flexed and he had his eyes fixed intently on the tarmac in front of him. He was wearing a dinner jacket. On the back seat lay his musical instrument, a tenor saxophone, still not packed away in its case. The woman with the cascading, dark-red hair had mascara running down her cheeks, and the tears were still audible in her voice. Do you think he’ll come after us? she sobbed, half turning her head.

Why would he? Don’t you think he had his fill?

You shouldn’t have punched him so hard. What if you’d…?

It was either him or me. Which of us would you prefer to have a split lip?

Blood was spurting everywhere!

Who started it?

Started it…? She gazed into the distance.

He stretched out a hand and stroked her thigh reassuringly. A shiver ran through her. They sailed round the final bend like a bobsleigh crossing the finishing line. He parked under the dark treetops, pulled the handbrake, turned to her and said: Journey’s end, fru Breheim…

‘There was never any doubt that they’d been up there,’ Berit said, looking at me with a strange glow in her eyes.

‘Up there?’

‘In the summer cabin in Hjellestad. It’s secluded, in a forest. They found … His saxophone mouthpiece was there.’

‘Perhaps he’d been playing for her?’

‘“The One I Love Belongs to Somebody Else”?’ she said, followed by an audibly ironic question mark.

‘What happened?’

‘Exactly: what did happen? We may never know the details, but the outcome was fatal. At some point during the night they got back in the car. Whoever was driving must’ve been very drunk because when the car was found, a few days later, both rear wings were damaged and the full length of one side of the car was scored.’

‘Where was it found?’

‘In the sea at Hjellestad. A boat owner noticed a patch of oil on the water and light shining up from the bottom. He called the police. The car was hauled ashore by a crane and they were inside, my mother and … her friend, their arms wrapped around each other in a final embrace, as though neither of them had made any attempt to extricate themselves from the vehicle and swim to the surface. That was how the idea they had a death pact arose.’

‘And the police were happy to accept that?’

‘I never heard anything to the contrary, but I couldn’t have been more than six then, and Bodil was two. We were shielded from most of it, and later … well, Pappa never talked about it.’

‘What year are we talking about?’

‘1957.’

‘Where were you and your sister when all this took place?’

‘Staying with an aunt in Nye Sandviksvei. Pappa didn’t come to collect us until the Sunday evening, and I knew at once something was amiss. His top lip was swollen and I can still remember asking about Mamma. But he didn’t answer, and Aunty Solveig took us home. Again and again, I’ve tried to recall my impressions of that day, and of the subsequent ones, but all I can see is fragments. Pappa with a swollen lip, Aunty Solveig bursting into tears, Bodil screaming and screaming and no one consoling her. I have absolutely no memory of the funeral, although I’m told I was present. The next thing I’m sure I can remember is Pappa coming home with Sara and saying they were going to get married. But that wasn’t until 1958. Everything in between has gone.’

‘I understand.’

‘Some years later, in 1960 and then 1964, Bodil and I were joined by two half-brothers, Rune and Randolf.’

‘But this death pact, as you called it, where did that come from?’

‘Someone I met later. Many years later. Hallvard Hagenes. He was a nephew of the man Mamma died with, Johan Hagenes.’

‘Hallvard Hagenes, the musician?’

‘Yes. He plays the saxophone too. Anyway, he told me what was said about the incident in his family, even if it wasn’t a topic they were fond of discussing.’

‘And they called it a death pact?’

‘Yes. And it struck me as I was thinking through what … Well, what else would you call it?’

‘Well, if the police didn’t query the death then, there’s probably no reason to do so now, so many years later. But… ’ I leaned forward, ‘however interesting this might be, is there any reason there would be a link between the events of 1957 and your sister and her husband’s disappearance now, thirty-six years later?’

‘No, no, no. None at all. I was only trying to explain the reasons for my concern.’

‘This cabin in Hjellestad that you just asked me to go and check, is it the same one that your mother and her friend, as you called him, stayed in before they drove into the sea?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘I assume you have your key too?’

‘Yes.’ She opened a desk drawer. ‘And a key to the cabin in Ustaoset, if need be?’ She took out a ring with three keys on and indicated two of them. ‘This is for Hjellestad. This is for Ustaoset. And this is for the tool shed in Hjellestad.’ She pushed them across the table to me and I put them in my pocket with the key to the house in Morvik that she’d handed me earlier.

‘What about a photo of your sister and her husband? Have you got one?’

She nodded. ‘Of course. I thought you’d ask. Here… ’

She gave me an envelope. I opened it and shook out the picture inside. It was a thank-you card with a wedding photograph mounted on it. The wife had straight blonde hair, which appeared to be tied in a bun at the back. She had a classical face, pretty, slightly rounder than her sister’s, perhaps, but the similarity between them was obvious. The husband was dark-haired and clean-shaven. His smile revealed white teeth, his eyes were dark. The photograph was too small to glean any sense of their personalities.

‘This is all you have?’

‘Yes, it’s the only one I could find. We don’t take many photos in our family. Perhaps because they remind us of how fragile a family portrait can be. Suddenly there’s a person missing and we can’t explain why.’

‘Mm, I see. But how old is this one?’

‘They got married in 1983.’

‘Ten years ago, in other words. Maybe they haven’t changed so much?’

‘I doubt you’d have any problem recognising them.’

‘Let’s hope not.’

She snatched a hurried glance at her watch. ‘Anything else you need? A small advance maybe?’

‘Well, as you’ve brought the subject up, I do have some bills baring their teeth at me whenever I show my face in the office.’

‘Five thousand kroner enough?’

‘That’ll cover the first few days anyway. Expenses are extra.’

‘Naturally. You don’t need to teach a lawyer how to write invoices.’

‘I suspected as much.’

She took my account number and promised to transfer the sum at once. She had no idea what she had set in motion. The bank would reel in shock. The rates at Oslo Stock Exchange would instantly be rocketing. As soon as I was outside, I cast around for the nearest branch of my bank. I would have to withdraw the fee before it was swallowed up by an outstanding bill.

4

Outside my office window, everything was as it had been.

Spring had taken a shot across the bow. Driving rain was battering the town, a south-westerly gale at its back. The buds that only a few days ago had been ready to divest themselves of any clothing at the slightest evidence of sunshine, light-green and naked, for everyone to see, had curled up and withdrawn into themselves. Up on Rundemanen peak there was still a sparse, iridescent layer of snow staring at us coldly, as if to tell us not to sleep too soundly. Overnight frosts were not off the cards yet.

There was a message on my answerphone. ‘Torunn Tafjord here. I’m a freelance journalist trying to make contact with private investigator Varg Veum. I’m calling from Anfa Hotel, Casablanca. Local time is 8.30 am. Friday. Can you phone me back on 00212 2200235?’

‘Casablanca?’ I said to myself. This sounded like a joke in poor taste. I replayed the message and jotted down the number.

Torunn Tafjord? Somewhere, deep down inside my mental hard disk, I seemed to recognise her name; if not from elsewhere, then from the by-line of some reports in those national newspapers based in Akersgata and district. But from Casablanca?

I dialled the twelve numbers and waited. After three beeps she picked up. ‘Hello?’

‘Varg Veum here. I’m calling from Bergen. Is Rick there?’

She chuckled. ‘No, he left a while ago. Thanks for ringing back so quickly.’

‘How can I help?’

‘You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?’ There was an unmistakeable twang of Sunnmøre in her Norwegian, especially noticeable in her ‘r’s. But her accent was honed and polished, which from my experience placed her origins in Ålesund.

‘I can’t deny it, I suppose.’

‘You’ve been recommended by a colleague of mine in Bergen, Ove Haugland.’

‘Ah, Ove. How is he?’

‘Well, I think. Recently, I’ve only spoken on the phone with him. Anyway, he was sure you’d be able to help me.’

‘Let me hear what this is about first.’

‘It’s about a ship belonging originally to a company in Bergen.’

‘I see.’

‘The company’s called Trans World Ocean.’

‘I’ve heard of it.’ I stretched out a hand for my notepad, opened it and began to make notes.

‘The ship’s called the Seagull. Right now, it’s here, in Casablanca, bound for somewhere in Norway called Utvik, and coming from Conakry in Guinea.’

‘Utvik in Stryn or Utvik in Sveio?’

She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure. It’s one of the reasons I’ve contacted you.’

‘Would you like me to find out which?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you tell me anything about what freight it’s carrying?’

‘Not yet. But I have my suspicions.’

‘Would you like me to investigate that as well?’

She hesitated again. ‘Only covertly.’

‘And by that you mean I shouldn’t stroll over to the Trans World Ocean offices, wherever they are, and ask them point blank?’

‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be a very good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t think they would appreciate it, and I’d rather they didn’t suspect someone was on their trail.’

I glanced at my notepad. Under ‘Trans World Ocean’ and ‘the Seagull’ I’d written a name. ‘Now tell me, Tafjord— ’

‘Please call me Torunn.’

‘Have you ever contacted anyone at Trans World Ocean?’

‘No, never.’

‘Does the name Fernando Garrido mean anything to you?’

‘No. Should it?’

‘I don’t know. But this is the second time in very few hours that I’ve heard the name Trans World Ocean. Such coincidences always make me a bit – how shall I put it? – uneasy.’

‘Very understandable. And what was the other time?’

‘I think I should keep that to myself for the moment.’

‘Right, OK. So what do you think? Can you do me this favour?’

It is a flaw in my character, I know, but I find it hard to say no to women. They didn’t even have to be as nice as Torunn Tafjord. ‘I can give it a go,’ I said. ‘Finding out which Utvik it is shouldn’t be a problem. Will you be staying in Casablanca?’

‘No, I’m going to follow the ship north. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.’

I’d heard that one before. It was how things usually finished with the women in my life. ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you,’ they said. Then I never heard from them again.

‘Do you remember what Ilse said to Rick?’ I said and mumbled: ‘Unless it was the other way around.’

‘What’s that?’

‘“We’ll always have Paris.”’

‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘Don’t forget to ring me when… ’

We left it at that. At least we had achieved this. We would always have a phone conversation between Bergen and Casablanca.

After we had rung off, in our respective towns, I consulted the telephone directory to find out where the TWO offices were. No surprises there. The latest additions to the Bergen shipping industry were not situated by Vågen with a view of Skoltegrunn Quay and the huge cruise ships that soon would be the only ones to dock during the brief summer season from May to September. The TWO offices were in Kokstad, where they barely have a view of anything, except for evergreens, industrial buildings and planes landing at and taking off from Flesland Airport.

I made a note of the address and took it with me as I left. But first I had to head off in the opposite direction.

5

If you wanted to go to Morvik in Åsane at this hour of the day, without a definite return time in mind, you have to drive. I went up to Nedre Blekevei to get my car, a Toyota Corolla, 1989 model, which I drove around while trying to persuade my insurance company to buy me a replacement for the car I had smashed up in February. This was an event I preferred not to be reminded of. It had been a dramatic winter, even by the standards of my profession.

I followed the directions Berit Breheim had given me. The house I was looking for stood at the bottom of a steep hill, marked PRIVATE ROAD, a stone’s throw from the sea and with a neighbour’s house between it and the main road of Morvikvegen. The neighbour’s house was a prefab with a white plinth and stained panelling, the type bought by half the staffrooms in every school. I glanced up as I stepped out of the car. A face quickly withdrew, but not so quickly that I didn’t notice.

The house belonging to Bodil Breheim and Fernando Garrido had a little more format to it. It was on three levels and had been built in a kind of new functionalist style: box-shaped with white wood-cladding. On the eastern side there was a large terrace and, on the slope to the north, well-established snowdrops, blue and white crocuses and clusters of butter-yellow primroses. A garage had been built into the rock face. I tried the door. It was locked.

The front door was made of polished teak with dark-green leaded windows. Before I used the key, I rang the bell. No one appeared and the door remained shut. Keeping an eye on the neighbour’s house, I let myself in.

I looked around. The hallway was large and light. Daylight entered through large Velux windows. On the wall opposite hung a tall, narrow picture, an explosion of colour without any obvious theme. A spiral staircase led to the first floor and a slate-tile staircase to the basement.

I felt uneasy. Walking through a house where actually I had no business to be, where I was an unbidden guest and I could never be sure what I was going to find, has always gone against the grain for me.

I searched through the house, systematically, floor by floor. I started at the bottom, where I found a rustic room with a well-stocked bar facing the terrace. Two sliding doors opened onto it when temperatures allowed. At the back of this floor there were storage rooms, a laundry, two toilets, a shower room and a sauna, all dark and closed now. Clean towels hung on hooks and everything looked ship-shape and Bergen fashion.

The sitting room on the main floor was the size of a tennis court. The whole wall facing the sea was made of glass, framed by heavy, light-green velvet curtains that could be drawn when it was dark, if they wanted to dance naked on the table. The furniture was solid enough to support them. The pictures on the walls had the same bright colours as in the hallway: gold, ochre and azure, with a sunny, Mediterranean feel to them. A top-notch B&O sound system adorned the shorter wall, and a quick glance around the room confirmed that there were at least four speakers. From the window I saw the roof of a boathouse and a concrete jetty protruding into the sea. Across the fjord lay the island of Askøy, a barrier against the sea swell.

The kitchen displayed the same elegance and the same unconstrained budget. At any rate, it wasn’t a lack of means that had forced Bodil Breheim and Fernando Garrido to flee. They could live here for months; all they had to do was sell one of their frying pans.

Finally, I went up to the first floor. I started with the bedroom overlooking the sea. Inside there was a large double bed, a white dressing table with a chair in front, a portable TV on a nest of tables at the foot of the bed and two good armchairs in the corners, where they could enjoy the view if they were so inclined. I continued to the guest room, where the bed was made, in case one of them wanted to spend the night alone. Two small studies, both equipped with computers, a spacious bathroom and two separate toilets completed the picture. Everything smacked of perfectionism and orderliness.

The last room I came to was a child’s room. It too faced south, and daylight flooded in. Alongside one wall was a child’s bed, recently made. On the walls there were pictures of animals and flowers. But there wasn’t a trace of a toy or of the child who must have lived there at one time. There was a strangely abandoned and homeless feel to the room generally, as though it actually didn’t belong there.

But she had said …

I took out my latest investment, a technological development I hadn’t been able to reject. The tyranny of telephone boxes was over. All good private investigators had a new friend. Now we swanned around with bulky mobile telephones attached to a belt, ready to draw them at the first beep. Mine was a Nokia 101, weighing in at around three hundred grams, with a range that increased from day to day, as mobile network coverage grew. It had no problem contacting the office of Breheim, Lygre, Pedersen & Waagenes, anyway.

It had more of a challenge with Berit Breheim though. She was in court and not available, she was afraid, said a woman I thought I recognised as the older of the two secretaries in the ante-chamber. I thanked her and rang off.

For the time being, I let the empty child’s room tell its own story, as the sole anomaly in the tastefully furnished home. Before leaving the house, I checked to see if it was possible to open the garage door from inside. It was. I used the automatic switch on the wall in the hallway and the door outside swung open. But the garage was empty. All I could see inside was a set of winter tyres along one wall and a tool cabinet that was as well-equipped as the house. The garage smelt of a car, but the tools showed no sign of any use, from what I could tell. Another question I would have to ask Berit: did they have a car and, if so, where was it?

Unless there was someone else I could ask…

I closed the garage door, locked it behind me and looked up at the neighbour’s house. The face was back, but this time it didn’t withdraw. I nodded and indicated that I was coming up.

6

He was waiting in the doorway as I came up the gravel path. From the first moment he struck me as a man who had entered his fifties on the wrong foot. He was ungainly and thin with sharp features and a nervous smile, a man who might have been quite charming if he could be bothered to make a bit of an effort. He had an unlit fag in his mouth and stared at me with dark, almost febrile eyes.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you the police?’

‘No, no… ’ I proffered a hand. ‘Veum. I’m here on behalf of the family.’

He proffered his own, warily, as though frightened what I would do with it. ‘Sjøstrøm.’

‘I was wondering … These neighbours of yours down there, Bodil Breheim and Fernando Garrido, do you happen to know if they are on their travels?’

He sent me a suspicious look. ‘Well … I haven’t seen them since Easter.’

‘Ah, right. And the house is empty.’

‘You’ve checked, have you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, as I said, the last time I saw either of them must’ve been … the Wednesday of Easter week.’

‘And that’ll be ten or so days ago.’

‘Yes, it’s a while.’ He looked past me, as if to make sure they hadn’t appeared in the meantime.

‘To be frank, Sjøstrøm, the family’s becoming concerned. They’ve employed me to do some checking. Would you be willing to answer a few questions, do you think?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes, as their closest neighbour you must’ve seen the odd thing or two?’

‘Of course, by all means, if I can help at all. Would you like to come inside?’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and followed him in.

The contrast with his neighbours’ house was striking. The hallway was dark and cold. I followed him up a staircase and through a door, and we entered his sitting room. Through the panoramic windows I could see the top part of his neighbours’ house, the sea below and Askøy across the fjord. A worn old armchair was turned to face the window. Beside it was a little table and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette ends, doubtless his regular observation post.

He hadn’t always lived alone. In many ways this was half a house, although he had tried to disguise the fact. He had moved the pictures around on the wall, but light patches revealed that there had been more hanging there before. Judging by those that were left, I considered her taste superior to his, unless the half remaining were hers. The only one that caught my attention was a reproduction of a tall ship in full sail against a sky of grey, drifting clouds. The furniture filled approximately half the room. The three-piece suite now consisted of only one, a sofa, and the marks on the carpet revealed where the other two had stood. But he had been allowed to keep the coffee table. It was almost a surprise that they hadn’t sawn it in half while they were dividing up their assets.

Two solitary dining-room chairs and a wealth of floor space made me feel as though I was back in the dance class of my childhood, standing by the wall like a castaway with an ocean between the girls and us. A lone fish swam around in a big aquarium. On the floor where there had once been a partition, he had placed a radiogram and a pile of LPs. Obviously, she had taken the CD player and TV with her. His window on the world was a small portable TV in the corner. It was on, of course, but with the volume turned down, showing what seemed to be a Brazilian soap opera, with temperamental women silently erupting in emotional outbursts on the tiny screen. He made no move to switch it off, and all the time I was there, his eyes kept veering to the side, as if to make sure he didn’t miss anything important.

‘A fifty/fifty split, I see,’ I commented.

He eyed me sullenly. ‘She got first choice, as was her wont.’

‘That was how she got you, wasn’t it.’

He sniffed and moved one of the dining-room chairs to the coffee table. Then he sat down on the sofa. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked with an expectant expression on his face.

‘As I’ve already mentioned, we’re not at all sure how serious this is. But the fact is that your neighbours have been gone since Easter, and the family’s started to worry. How do you get on with them?’

‘With them down there?’ His face reddened. ‘Well, I’m going to be absolutely frank with you, Veum. We’ve always got on badly.’

‘I see. Any special reason?’

He got up with difficulty and beckoned me over to the window. ‘Just look.’ He pointed downward. ‘When my wife and I moved here in 1978, there was only a little cabin there. We could see right down to the fjord. You could follow every boat that passed. Some of us derive great pleasure from that. Following the traffic on the sea. The Hurtigruten ship. The Westamaran hydrofoils. The cargo boats. But then – in 1983 – they took over, demolished the cabin and over a few years they had that skyscraper erected in its place. Bye-bye, view. Bye-bye, boats.’

‘But they gave you notice, I suppose?’

‘Notice? I suppose you think they needed to, do you?’ He rubbed his thumb against his first two fingers. ‘With money you can buy exemption from the rules. Any idiot knows that.’

‘Well… ’ I imagined a textbook fallout between Norwegian neighbours here. ‘So, in other words, your relationship wasn’t the best?’

‘Damn right it wasn’t. They are, excuse my Bergensian, a couple of real arseholes, both of them.’ With that, he turned his back on the window and slumped back down on the sofa.

I followed him. ‘Anyway, back to the fact that they’re missing. You said yourself you hadn’t seen them since the Wednesday of Easter week, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, it must’ve been Wednesday. They drove off in their car.’

‘Right. I noticed the garage was empty. Do you know what make of car they drive?’

‘A BMW 520, pretty new.’

‘That’s detailed.’

‘I know a bit about cars.’

‘Colour?’

‘Dark blue.’

‘Do you know the number as well?’

He thought for a couple of seconds. Then he gave it to me.

I wrote it down in my little notepad. ‘Did you notice if they had any luggage with them?’

He sent me a disgruntled look. ‘I don’t hang out of the window watching their every movement, you know.’

‘No, no. So, in other words… ’

‘No, I didn’t notice if they had any luggage with them.’

‘But you did see both of them leave?’

He hesitated for a moment. ‘I can’t be sure. He was definitely driving. I’m certain of that.’

‘You were on holiday yourself, were you?’

‘Not in the usual sense. I’ve taken early retirement. Heart trouble, you know. About four years ago I had a serious heart attack. The doctor was convinced my divorce caused it.’

‘So, you had more than enough opportunity to follow what was going on?’

‘You mean… ’ He nodded towards the window. ‘Down there?’

‘That too.’

‘Yes … But I don’t exactly keep a log.’

‘No, no,’ I hastened to add. ‘I didn’t mean … But it’s true that it was you who rang the police when there was some commotion down there that Palm Sunday weekend.’

‘Yes, I felt it was my duty.’

‘What had been the problem? Loud music?’

‘Music? I would’ve coped with that. They were having one hell of a ding-dong. The way she was howling, you would’ve thought he was killing her.’

‘And, of course, you have no idea what the row was about?’

‘Don’t I now?’ He sent me an eloquent look. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, you’re probably the only person who can answer that question.’

‘Another man, obviously.’

‘Whom you’d seen out here?’

‘It’s no secret that she’s very… ’ He formed two pairs of rabbit ears with his fingers. Air quotes. ‘“Alone”. Garrido is away a lot, travelling, inspecting ships all over the world, from what I gather. And she has the occasional visitor.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ve observed at least two different men down there while Garrido was away. What happened on the Saturday before Palm Sunday, in my view, is that Garrido came home unexpectedly, a day early.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I could hear their voices from right up here.’

‘You’re still talking about the evening?’

‘No, no. This was mid-morning. I heard the loud voices and went to the window. Garrido and this guy were standing outside the house and shouting at each other. No idea what the problem was, but they definitely weren’t of one mind.’ A broad grin spread across his face as if to say it was better entertainment than the TV. ‘And that night the racket started again.’

‘But by then the other man was long gone, I assume?’

‘Yes, yes. Garrido was on the point of chasing him up the hill, I can tell you.’

‘This man … Do you have any idea who he was?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘A fancy pants. Well dressed with a trim beard and a red Ferrari, which he usually parks up by the main road when he visits.’

‘Age?’

‘Same as Garrido. Mid-thirties.’

‘And he was often there?’

‘Well, often … He’d definitely been there several times before. What do I know? Perhaps he had other irons in the fire too.’

‘You’ve mentioned one man. But didn’t you say there was another?’

He nodded. ‘The other one plays the saxophone.’

I sat up straight. ‘Saxophone? How do you know?’

‘I’ve heard him. He played for her when he came round.’

‘Not exactly softly if you could hear him all the way up here?’

‘Veum, it was at night and I always sleep with the window open. Even in February. And their house is not that far away.’

‘No, OK. February this year?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And what did this guy look like?’

‘You’ll have to find that out for yourself.’

‘You only heard him?’

‘No, but I know his name.’ When I didn’t answer, he continued: ‘I saw him in the paper, a picture of the band he played in.’

‘And you noted his name.’

‘Well, I recognised him, didn’t I. You never know what might come in handy one day. Such as now for example.’

‘Forward-looking of you. And what’s his name?’

‘Hallvard Hagenes.’

A chill ran down between my shoulder blades. For the sake of appearance, I wrote down his name. I should have been surprised perhaps. However, for some reason I was not.

7

In the very old days, it would have taken me a good day to travel from Morvik in Åsane to Hjellestad in Fana. Even by car I would have had to reckon on a few hours of winding roads. That was until parts of this stretch were upgraded to motorway standard in the 1980s. Now I drove on autopilot with a tiny delay at the toll booths in Helleveien; then it was through the Fløifjell Tunnel and out the other side of Bergen. In the last bit, after the Blomsterdalen turn-off, the road bore some similarity with the bad old days, and I had to slow down and drive with increased caution.

By the marina in Kviturspollen there was feverish activity. The sailing community had defied the rain storms and the biting wind. Now it was all about getting ready for the first of May, when all leisure-boat owners were going to sail their boats in procession across By fjord to demonstrate against high taxes and the increase in VAT.

I stopped a couple of times and had to consult Berit Breheim’s directions before I found the small, demarcated parking spot, not so far from Bergen Sailing Association. From there I followed her route through the forest to the cabin. The path was easy to find through the blueberry shrubs and the dark-green moss. In the trees above, the season’s first sopranos were singing their arias with gusto. Between the trunks I glimpsed Raunde fjord and the mountains on the island of Sotra.