The Writing on the Wall

Thirty-six

‘A MAN?’

‘Yes.’ She looked at me unhappily. ‘He said he was ringing from the undertaker’s, but he didn’t sound like an undertaker.’

‘Was he from Bergen?’

‘Yes. Maybe somewhere near, but I’m not certain. I mean somewhere like Kalandseidet, Arna, it was sort of – something wasn’t quite…’

‘When was this?’

‘Just now – half an hour ago.’

‘What did he say? Can you remember as near as possible?’

‘He… The phone rang, and I answered. A man’s voice asked: “Is that Karin Bjørge?” “Yes,” I said. “You’re an acquaintance of Varg Veum, aren’t you?” It gave me the shivers, Varg, I was sure something had happened! “Er, yes,” I managed to get out, “who am I speaking to?” “This is Nedre Nygård Undertakers,” he said. I nearly passed out, Varg!’

‘Nedre Nygård? There’s no such thing as Nedre Nygård Undertakers, that’s for sure.’

‘At any rate, that’s what he said. It could be Nygård Bros, of course…’

‘Nygård Bros?’

She nodded.

‘Well…’ I motioned to her to go on.

‘And then he said: “We’ve been asked to ring round to all Veum’s friends and acquaintances and inform them that the funeral’s on Monday, at one p.m. at Hope Chapel in Møllendal.”’

‘Well, at least there’s hope then.’

‘Then the penny dropped that it was just, that it couldn’t be… So I asked, as calmly as I could, what his name was…’

‘And?’

‘But he just hung up. I stood there, holding the receiver. Completely numb. It was horrible, Varg! Can you tell me what’s going on?’

I held her close as I whispered into her ear: ‘They’re just empty threats, Karin. Don’t think any more about it. Stuff like this just goes with – this line of work.’

‘Maybe you should look for another line of work, then?’

‘Look, I’ll tell you everything.’ I told her about the phone call with the organ music and the death notice I’d received in the post, and as I spoke, I felt anger rising in me, a need to find out who it was who was no longer content to threaten me personally, but also my immediate circle, and when I found out, the person behind it had better be in good shape because it was going to be a tough contest, to the bitter end.

She looked at me wide-eyed. ‘Did it really say… did it give the date as well – in that – death notice?’

I glanced at the clock. It was already twenty-five to twelve. ‘Tomorrow,’ I said gently. ‘It’s Wednesday after all. So, in that respect, a funeral on Monday’s quite appropriate.’

‘Don’t joke about something like this, Varg! Have you… Have you talked to the police?’

‘Yes. There’s not a lot they can do about it.’

‘But couldn’t you get a – somebody to keep any eye on you?’

‘I’m afraid they don’t rate the risk of something happening highly enough for that. The police themselves often receive threats of this sort. If they took everything like this seriously, they’d spend more time watching each other’s backs than keeping order on the streets.’

‘But what… Have you got anything special lined up for tomorrow?’

‘I have to go to Stavanger.’

‘To Stavanger!’

‘Did you manage to find out any of the things I asked you about?’

‘Yes, I – I’ve got it over here…’ She walked over to the wall unit and fetched a couple of pages. ‘I made some printouts. Here, look…’

She sat down beside me, and I pored over the first page.

‘Look, here,’ she said. ‘Birger Bjelland’s mother, Kathrine Haugane -’

‘Haugane?’

‘Yes, that’s her name. Born in 1912. And look here: father unknown.’

‘Well, I’ll be…’

‘Now she’s in a nursing home. “Salvation”.’

‘Sounds just like Stavanger.’

‘Birger Bjelland himself was born in 1945. Then there’s clearly a sister, Laura Haugane Nielsen, born in 1948. Married to Ove Nielsen.’

‘I see.’

‘And here’s the other one you asked about…’

‘Yes, here’s The Knife. Harry Hopsland, born in 1940. Registered as having moved away in 1981. Moved back last year. Address: Nordre Skogveien. A son, Ole Hopsland, born in 1971. Mother – what does it say?’

‘Grete Pedersen, moved to Førde in 1978. They were never married. But his son still lives in Bergen.’

‘So I see. Did you find out where he works too?’

‘Yes, I… Digi-Data. A computing firm, obviously.’

I scribbled everything down in my book before folding the pages up and stuffing them into my inside pocket. I put my arm round her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘Now I have to go to Stavanger tomorrow. The plane could fall out of the sky, of course, but that’s a risk you take every time, so… In many ways, I think it’s safer outside Bergen than actually in it, that is, if we’re going to take this seriously at all, Karin.’

‘I certainly took it seriously when he rang.’

‘I’ve been out on a winter’s night alone before,’ I said to reassure her. But as I said it, I noticed that I wasn’t fully reassured myself. Someone had sowed frost in my heart, an ice rose in my breast.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

If I was to take it seriously, what could I actually do?

Was just one person behind it or more? Had it not been for the fact that the first telephone call had been before I started digging around in the Torild Skagestøl case in earnest, it would have been natural to suspect Birger Bjelland and his entourage. But it was most likely some nutcase who was doing this just to scare people without ever actually trying to carry out the threat in reality.

But the fact that he’d phoned Karin worried me. It meant that he must have a fairly good knowledge of my private life, that he’d also probably tailed me – or us – and found out who she was. But it could also mean that he had the backup, if not of an organisation, then at least of some kind of network.

Karin slept restlessly beside me, mumbled something or other in her sleep and threw out one of her arms.

I reached down to the floor beside the bed, located my watch, lifted it up and pressed the button to illuminate the little screen: one thirty-five.

OK. Let’s say I was in real danger. In that case, what in particular should I keep an eye out for?

We were not in Sicily, my office was not on Chicago’s North Side, and even Soho had an exotic ring for a private investigator in an elongated country not far from the North Pole. In other words, it was not very likely that somebody had placed a car bomb under my Toyota before I set off for Flesland Airport at daybreak. Nor was there any real reason to fear there might be a marksman behind the bushes in the old school garden waiting to focus his telescopic sights on me as I unlocked the car door.

The likeliest scenario was that someone would have a go at me directly with a small firearm or a knife. The very thought of it made me sit up so suddenly in bed that Karin reached her arm out for me and asked drowsily: ‘Is it morning?’

‘No, no,’ I said softly. ‘Go back to sleep. I just have to – get up for a second.’

I got up, padded out of the bedroom, through the hall and into the living room.

I stood at the window, gazing out.

It was a strangely peaceful sight. Bergen at a quarter to two in the morning, scattered snowflakes in the air, the protective ring of black mountains with clusters of buildings here and there, the street lighting like the pattern on a gilded peacock’s feather in the darkness. Store Lungegårds Lake had the air of a black lagoon, a horseshoe of ice on its surface like the skin on milk; and in the tall, ugly towers in Vetlemanhattan all the offices were in darkness except one, from the top of which beamed forth the time and the temperature at that precise moment.

There were not many cars out and about, and it was hardly likely that any of them were on their way to me.

My breathing was calm and regular. In – out. In – out.

Slowly I felt the tension in my shoulders lessen. The painful knot in my stomach began to loosen and behind my eyelids sleep beckoned with its gentle elfin wings.

I went back to bed and lay huddled up to Karin, my arms around her in a kind of tandem foetal position.

I did not waken until the clock radio burst into life with a blaring fanfare from the newsroom, keen to share the latest disasters with us before we began another working day.