The Writing on the Wall

Forty-two

I AWOKE to find her standing beside the bed.

Her voice sounded as though she was in an aquarium. ‘Varg? How do you feel?’

‘Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Are we there already?’

‘You were sleeping so soundly that I hadn’t the heart to waken you. But I must be off now.’

‘Have you had your breakfast?’

She nodded. ‘You’ll take it easy today, won’t you? Promise?’

‘I’ll try not to get too worked up. I’ll move slowly and breathe deeply in and out. More than that I can’t promise, not hand on heart, until the lid is screwed down tight on this case for good.’

She sighed. ‘Well, I should be used to problem children, shouldn’t I? So…’

I smiled reassuringly at her.

‘You look terribly pale.’

I felt pale too, and scarcely had she closed the door behind her than I was in the kitchen cupboard looking for the strongest headache tablets I could find. And I didn’t leave any behind. To be on the safe side, I put the whole bottle in my pocket when I left.

There was no one waiting for me outside. Light snowflakes were falling from a leaden sky, and it was just cold enough for the snow to lie like a shroud over the rooftops.

I opened the letter box and took the post up with me to the office without looking at it.

As I stepped into the office, I glanced at the answerphone. No messages. Then I leafed through the post. Nothing of interest.

Like an aftershock, it dawned on me that it was the silence that was the most threatening thing. It was as though…

As though I no longer existed, as though I was already…

Dead.

Then I called the insurance company and told them what was left of my car. They were none too pleased. But, according to the contract, it was of course quite in order for me to have a hire car, provided I needed it for my job. Which I did, and they told me which hire firm to get in touch with. After I’d rung off, I felt sure they’d immediately added my name to the client blacklist. At any rate, they’d hardly be rolling out the red carpet next time I called in.

I locked the door carefully as I left.

The hire car was an Opel, and I was in no fit state to adjust my driving in the twinkling of an eye, so I lurched in fits and starts round Nøstet and over Puddefjord Bridge before gradually getting the hang of the new pedals.

Digi-Data plc was one of the firms in a cooperative housed in a refurbished factory in Laksevågsiden. The secretary in reception shot a discreet glance at the cuts and scratches on my face and asked whether I knew which was Ole Hopsland’s office. No, I said, and she accompanied me right to his office and held the door open for me.

A young, fair-haired man with a pale face and large round glasses looked absent-mindedly up at us as we came in. I thanked the receptionist for her help and checked that she was on her way back to reception before introducing myself.

‘It’s Veum. Varg Veum. And don’t pretend you’ve never heard the name before.’

He turned beetroot, and his eyes started to flit about. Before answering he fixed them on a point on my shirtfront. ‘Wh-what do you want?’

‘Even the best joke can go too far, right?’

‘I-I don’t know…’

‘Oh yes, you do. And if you insist, we can call the police and ask someone with the proper know-how to come up here, dismantle your computer and take a free trip on your hard drive to see what they find. OK?’

‘Th-there’s no need.’

‘Isn’t there? Good. OK, so out with it and make it snappy.’

He stole a quick look at my face, long enough for him to see the cuts and bruises and the look of contained fury in my eyes, before glancing quickly back down again.

‘Th-there’s nothing to tell.’

‘Oh no? OK. Let me repeat what I just said. I can call the police and -’

‘OK, OK, OK I’ve got it! It was just the old man who… He said he wanted to play a trick on you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did he tell you who I was?’

He shrugged. ‘An old friend, he said.’

‘So he’s in the habit of posting death notices to his old friends, is he?’

‘It was just a j-joke.’

‘Yeah. Nearly killed myself laughing. Maybe that was the idea?’

He looked away without saying anything.

‘Does your dad still drive a motorbike?’

‘Yeah, he… Why?’

‘Oh, just wondered… It’s a long time since I’ve seen him. Maybe I should pay him a visit, before the burial, if you see what I mean…’

He looked at his monitor as though he might be able to creep into it and hide.

‘You’ve never done time, then?’

He made no reply but shifted uneasily.

‘That’ll soon change if I get another letter like that. Got it?’

He nodded.

‘And if you see your dad, don’t say hello from me. I’ll tell him personally.’