The Writing on the Wall

Thirty-four

‘NOT A BAD IDEA,’ I muttered into her ear, as I felt my whole body tauten.

The third man at the bar was dark-haired and well dressed, with a slight weasely look. He was the sort I would always suspect of using a knife. That impression was strengthened by the fact that he had his right hand in his jacket pocket as though it had taken root there.

When they saw I’d noticed them Kenneth Persen turned and said something to the bartender, who nodded and looked at me with What did I say? written all over his face.

‘What does it cost?’ I asked.

Her voice immediately took on a businesslike note. ‘It depends on what you want. It starts at a thousand kroner.’

I pulled her closer. ‘Is there another way upstairs than through the bar?’

‘They’re not bothered in reception. I have an arrangement.’

‘But what if I don’t want to be seen?’

‘Discretion’s guaranteed,’ she said, almost without making it sound ironic. ‘There are some back stairs, of course, a fire escape. But…’

Kenneth Persen and the well-dressed weasel had now stepped onto the dance floor, but it was hardly to enjoy a waltz together.

Quickly I said: ‘Which room?’

‘Four-twelve, but…’

‘You go on ahead, and…’

Just as the two champion dancers came right up beside us I let go of her and propelled her towards the exit.

‘But…’

‘Living it up, are we, Veum?’ said Kenneth Persen, who had exchanged his black leather jacket for a slightly more bar-friendly suede one.

I nodded at her to go towards the door, but she didn’t take my hint. She remained standing there.

‘Where’s Astrid?’ I growled in order to seize the offensive.

Was it just my imagination, or did his eyes momentarily shift sideways and upwards?

‘You know the police are looking for her, don’t you?’

‘All I know is we’ve been told to see you out, Veum.’

‘Don’t tell me… right out, eh?’

I looked over at Miss Molly. Suddenly she didn’t seem as youthful, and the look she gave me was neither warm nor all that friendly. With a contemptuous little toss of the head she turned back to the bar, apparently on the lookout for new investors to offer her shares to. Starting at a thousand kroner.

Kenneth Persen and his well-dressed companion came and stood on either side of me. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to resist, Veum.’

‘Nor you either,’ I said and walked up to the bar. ‘I’ll just finish my drink.’

As I walked past the bar counter, the bartender boomed: ‘See you… Wilhelmsen.’

Miss Molly had managed to haul in a new arrival, ten years older than me and the happy owner of a flashy wallet bulging with credit cards, which he was already showing her with the same pride as if it had been pictures of his grandchildren.

In reception I swung round so fast that the two chaps behind me collided. ‘What the f-!’ exclaimed Kenneth Persen.

‘What room’s she in?’

He wasn’t all that quick on the uptake, and again it took a while before he said anything. ‘Who d’you mean?’

‘You know damned well.’ I turned to face reception, where a pale, fair-haired youth sat who looked as though he could have been a theology student. ‘Astrid Nikolaisen.’

‘Niko…’

He started to look her up in the guest register, but Kenneth Persen stopped him abruptly. ‘Knock it off! She’s not in any guest book!’

‘Here incognito, is she?’ I said.

The well-dressed fleet of foot one opened his mouth for the first time. ‘Kenneth, our orders were to eject him, not converse with him.’

‘What a posh speaker! And where were you educated? Bergen Business School?’ I turned back to Kenneth Persen. ‘I could call the police, of course. Ask them to come and give the place a once-over.’

‘They’ve no bloody right!’

‘They want to speak to her, I said! Was it you who gave her the smack, as well, eh? Get the lass hooked on smack then you can have a freebie whenever you like and look after your old age!’

The weasel’s right hand was on its way out of his jacket pocket. It distracted me enough to enable Kenneth Persen to land a punch on my shoulder, sending me tumbling towards the exit.

I grabbed hold of the wall but did not have enough time to turn round properly before receiving another blow, also on the shoulder.

Kenneth Persen towered over me, while the weasel still had his hand in his pocket. ‘Got the message, Veum? Making myself plain, am I?’

I needed no further convincing to leave the premises. ‘Plainer than ABC,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t need telling twice.’

I slammed the door behind me and turned demonstratively right, down towards the city centre. At the first corner, I stopped and look back.

Kenneth Persen stood in the doorway to make sure I really left.

But he shouldn’t be too sure about that. I was of the old school, the 1956 Bogart model: The harder they fall, the more terrible the vengeance they wreak.