The Writing on the Wall

Thirty-three

I CALLED KARIN well before five o’clock and assured her that everything was all right. There was nobody behind me in the telephone booth pointing a sawn-off shotgun at my head, and no one had invited me to go for a drive I couldn’t refuse.

‘Are you coming up here?’

‘There’s still something I have to do. But if the offer can remain open till about midnight, then…’

‘But no later than that,’ she said, in a resigned tone.

‘Absolutely no later,’ I said.

The Pastel Hotel stuck out from the other buildings in the block like a front tooth painted pink.

The Week End Hotel had been one of those anonymous bed and breakfast hotels with a bar, dancing in the evening and a rear courtyard I had the most unpleasant memories of. The new owners had stripped off all the previous ornamental façade, not that anything had been lost by doing so. On the other hand, they had painted it in a nondescript pale pink colour that fitted the new name like a glove.

It was nearly half-past seven when, fresh from the shower and wearing a casually knotted Tuesday tie, I walked through reception into the bar, where there were not many other people besides a couple of middle-aged men and a not quite so middle-aged lady.

I ambled up to the bar counter, hoisted myself onto one of the stools and ordered a Clausthaler and aquavit. ‘Riding the lame horse today, are we?’ said the bartender with a crooked smile.

I took a quick look at him. The moustache was apparently the club emblem, even if it looked a bit pricklier than Birger Bjelland’s.

‘Are you Robert?’ I asked when he came back.

He put down the schnapps glass, poured the alcohol-free lager directly into another glass before placing it beside the first, took a cloth and wiped away an invisible spot from the bar counter between us. ‘Who’s asking?’

I pushed the money over to him. ‘Wilhelmsen.’

He looked at the money as though it was counterfeit. ‘And why?’

‘Your name was recommended…’

He looked at me suspiciously.

‘As somebody who could tell me where to find some decent entertainment on an evening off.’

‘Stripping and stuff? You’ll have to go somewhere else for that.’

‘What I was thinking of was… more private entertainment, to put it that way.’

He looked at me with contempt. ‘I know you’re not the law, and your name’s not Wilhelmsen. What the hell are you, then? Journalist? Social worker? From the Church Relief Fund?’

I turned partway round and looked out over the room. ‘Keep your voice down, Robert. My wife doesn’t know I’m here.’

He walked a few yards away, fetched a couple of glasses and started to wash them demonstratively.

I raised my voice. ‘Bit quiet here tonight, isn’t it?’

He didn’t reply.

‘It quietens down in the evenings, eh?’

He moved back in my direction. ‘Look, Wilhelmsen or whatever your name is, drink up what you’ve paid for and go stick your fillings in somewhere else, OK?’

‘Loud and clear. Message received. Over and out.’

A woman in her late thirties came into the room, cast an expert eye around her, decided there wasn’t much choice and therefore placed herself strategically two stools away from where I was sitting.

With a wave to the bartender, she ordered the usual.

I caught her eye in the mirror above the bar, and she didn’t look away, as keen not to let go as a child clutching treasured marbles.

The bartender came over with the usual, which appeared to be just whisky on the rocks. As he placed the glass in front of her, he said something I didn’t catch, and after a suitable pause, she cast another, seemingly casual, glance in my direction.

‘Your good health!’ I said, raising my glass of aquavit to her. After returning my gesture, she got down from the bar stool and came over to me. ‘Lonely?’

‘I wouldn’t say no to a bit of company.’ I nodded towards a table with a few chairs some distance from the bar counter. ‘Shall we sit over there, where it’s more comfortable?’

The bartender’s eyes followed us as we walked across the floor.

There was silence for a moment, as we both tried to decide where the situation was heading. She was wearing a little black evening dress that looked slightly crumpled, perhaps from previous visits. Her face was thin, her hair dyed blonde, and close to, I definitely put her at nearer forty. The phone in the bar rang. The bartender answered it and turned his back to us. ‘Did he say anything about me?’ I asked.

She smiled faintly. ‘That I should watch my step with you. That he thought you were the law. Are you?’

I shook my head slowly. ‘No.’

‘Not that it matters, if you’re here off-duty, I’ve – met lots of nice policemen here in town.’

‘I’m sure you have.’

The bartender turned and glanced in our direction, the phone still in his hand. It looked to me as if he was trying to describe my appearance, which gave me an unpleasant sensation in the pit of my stomach.

‘So what do you do?’

‘I’m in insurance,’ I said, which was not a lie in fact. At some times in the year I was. ‘And you?’

She sipped her drink. ‘I started out as a guide, at the Old Bergen Hotel among other places. But recently I’ve moved into – escort services and things like that.’

I looked at her askance. ‘Escort services and – things like that?’

‘Mm,’ she said brightly.

The bartender hung up, but a few seconds later the phone rang again. He answered, listened and surveyed the room. Then he covered the receiver with his hand, looked straight at me and said: ‘Veum? Somebody asking to speak to you.’

‘I… You obviously didn’t hear… The name’s Wilhelmsen! It must be for somebody else…’

The bartender met my eyes, gave a crooked smile, said something else into the telephone and hung up.

She looked at me. ‘What else are you called besides Wilhelmsen?’

‘Svein Vegard. What about you?’

‘My friends call me Molly.’

‘Oh really? I’ve heard about you.’

She suddenly looked alarmed. ‘Oh?’

‘Good golly, Miss Molly,’ I hummed. ‘Sure likes to ball. Isn’t that how it goes?’

‘And would you like to dance?’ she asked, glancing at the tiny dance floor.

‘I scarcely think we’ll be bumping into anybody,’ I said, getting up.

She clasped me tight, her belly pushed forward and with no visible shyness in the way she moved. I could feel the contours of her body more clearly now. Her shoulder blades were like the stumps of severed wings, and there wasn’t much flight in her thin upper arms either.

The music came from somewhere in the ceiling, dance muzak where it was the rhythm that counted, not precision.

‘What branch of insurance are you in, Svein?’

‘I work for myself. Often it’s car collisions. And sometimes life as well.’

‘So, are you a sort of freelancer too?’

‘You could say that. Do you come here a lot?’

She looked around. ‘Yes. It’s usually quite nice here, a bit later in the evening. Good service.’

‘What sort of age group usually comes here, then?’

‘A bit older than the usual rowdy discos. And not quite as sophisticated as in most large hotels. It’s just right for me, actually. Sort of an in-between atmosphere, if you see what I mean.’

‘No young girls then?’

She stepped back a few inches and stared up at my face. ‘Is that what you’re looking for?’

‘No, no. I was just -’

‘Or are you working?’

I muttered something that was supposed to sound like a denial and pulled her closer.

For a while we danced in silence. It seemed as though she’d calmed down again. Her hair was tickling my cheek, and her breathing was gentle and close to my neck. Then as though by accident one of her hands placed itself on my neck, where she gently began to caress me with her long cool fingers.

‘If you like…’ she said softly.

‘What?’

‘There’s a room I can use on the third floor…’

I glanced at the bar. The bartender was no longer alone. He’d been joined by two other fellows. They stood there, leaning discreetly against the bar counter and looking in our direction.

One of them I didn’t know. The other was Kenneth Persen.