The Writing on the Wall

Twenty-six

ONCE BACK IN THE OFFICE, I tried to call Evy Berge again. But she was in a meeting, they said, for the rest of the day.

I made a note to remind myself to try and call her at home a little later.

My answerphone was in hibernation. No one had tried to call me, not even to record some melodious funeral music.

I opened the drawer containing the homemade death notice. Again I turned the envelope over and looked at the back as though the sender’s name had been written in invisible ink and might only become legible a day or two later.

The postmark was Bergen and the date February 17th. If I took it along to the police station and asked them to put it under the microscope, they might find some prints on it: mine, the postman’s and those of the person or persons who had handled the letter in the postal service. Whether they would also find a further, hitherto unknown, fingerprint I was not at all sure.

With a shrug I put the letter back in the desk.

The bottle was in the drawer below.

I took it out, unscrewed the cork, held the neck of the bottle to my nose and breathed in that incomparable smell of aniseed and caraway.

I couldn’t resist the temptation but stood up, went over to the sink to fetch the beaker, came back and poured myself a couple of fingers of aquavit, the water of life.

– Does the condemned prisoner have a last wish?

– One last glass, Mr Executioner. Granted. (Glugglug)

– I raise my glass to all who are still alive here on earth; I raise my glass to the children whose lives are before them and to the adults who have stuck it out so long. I raise my glass to priests and firemen, presidents and plumbers; to all those who -’

– It was supposed to be a glass, not a lecture.

– Oh, I’m sorry… (Glugglug)

The rest is cunning. Blessed are the simple, for on earth they are fleeced. Victorious are the unscrupulous.

I banged my glass down on the desk. As hard as Sidsel Skagestøl had slammed the door to the rest of her life on me. As hard as someone had torn their daughter from the soil she had been planted in and hung her up like a hunting trophy, somewhere on the dark side of a star where you can search for her till kingdom come and never find her. As hard as they stamp a misdirected letter: Return to sender. Address unknown.

I talked to Karin on the phone.

‘Got anything lined up for this evening?’ she asked.

‘Have to go to a demo at eleven o’clock – people who use prostitutes.’ As she didn’t immediately say anything, I added: ‘A demonstration against them, of course…’

‘I got that.’

‘I’m meeting a lady who probably has some information on the case I’m – well, doing some background work on at the moment… Want to come?’

‘Do you mean it?’

‘You know I don’t like involving you in the practical side of the way I earn my living, but… They might find it easier to talk to me if you were there.’

‘Shall we have dinner first, then?’

I pushed my glass away firmly. ‘Sure. When can I meet you?’

We fixed a time.

Before I left the office Sigrun Søvik rang. Her voice was hesitant and nervous, as if she was not sure she was doing the right thing.

‘If you’re trying to recruit me into the Scouts, you’re a bit late,’ I said, trying to strike a lighter note.

It fell flat. In a hollow voice she said: ‘It’s about the two girls.’

‘Oh? Torild and Asa?’

‘Yes, it’s something I thought of that perhaps – that you ought perhaps to know, but I don’t want to rub salt into the wounds… of the family, I mean, so…’

‘Do you want to tell me now over the phone, or -?’

‘Could we meet tomorrow sometime, over a cup of coffee?’ she said quickly.

‘Sure, why not?’

We agreed a time and place, she hung up, and I made a note of the details.

Be prepared: wasn’t that their motto? But for what? Maybe that was the question. To be or not to be – prepared?

I shook off these speculations and carefully locked the door as I left for dinner with my lady friend from the Population Register Department.