The Writing on the Wall

Forty-six

BACK AT THE OFFICE I called Laila Mongstad to tell her what I’d found out about Birger Bjelland. But she was busy with another case and hadn’t time to talk to me. ‘I’ll ring you tonight, Varg,’ she said quickly before hanging up.

Then I drove up Nordre Skogveien to the address Harry Hopsland had given in the population register. The block he lived in was a beige low-rise building with brown-painted doors, and I found his name on one of the letter boxes.

That was the closest I got.

A middle-aged female neighbour with large bags under her eyes and a nervous cigarette at the corner of her mouth confirmed that it was a Hopsland who’d moved in quite recently. ‘But usually we don’t hear a peep out of him. He’s as quiet as a mouse, except when he’s revving up his motorbike.’

‘Where does he keep it?’

‘At the back.’

‘There was no motorbike there just now.’

‘Wasn’t there? In that case, he’s out.’

My headache had come back with a vengeance. I drove home, took a further dose of painkillers, called Karin and told her I was going to lie down, that she had no need to worry and that I intended to take it easy.

It was dark when she rang, waking me.

When she heard my gravelly voice, she said: ‘Oh, were you still asleep?’

‘Yes, I must have been. What’s the time?’

‘Ten p.m.’

I moved my neck slowly to make sure it had not seized up completely. ‘I must have slept like a log.’

‘Well, I’m sure it’ll have done you good.’

Having made certain I was planning to sleep on, she wished me good night and hung up. Gradually I drifted back to sleep, but shallower now, as though I no longer really needed it.

Laila Mongstad rang at eleven. Her voice sounded tense. ‘Varg? Can you come down? There’s something I have to show you.’

‘Down – to the office?’

‘Yes. It wasn’t Halstein Grindheim, after all.’

I still felt rather groggy, and my arm had begun to ache. ‘Wasn’t it? So who was it then?’

‘Are you coming?’

‘Yes, sure. But you’ll have to give me half an hour.’

‘I’ll wait. Meanwhile, I can… See you then.’

‘Bye.’

I took a quick shower, put on a clean shirt, walked up to Blekeveien and got into my car. I parked on the hill beside the newspaper offices and walked round the corner to the main entrance. At the door I ran into Sidsel Skagestøl on her way out.

I stood aside, and she looked up. ‘Oh!’ she said with a start. ‘It’s you.’ She remained standing in the middle of the doorway.

‘How are things?’

She looked away. ‘Well… Holger isn’t in, if that’s who you’re going -’

‘No, it wasn’t actually. And you?’

It seemed as though she felt the need to explain why she was there. ‘There are so many things to see to, and I reckoned… It was something I thought of, but he’d already left. And I’m not going to where he’s living.’

‘Why not?’

‘What if he had someone there?’

‘A woman?’

‘Yes.’ She looked out at the street. ‘Well, I…’ She nodded towards the Grieg Concert Hall. ‘My car’s over there. Good night.’

‘Good night.’

I stood there, watching her walk away for a moment. Then I went into reception.

The receptionist looked at me suspiciously. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Yes. With Laila Mongstad.’

‘OK. I can ring her and -’

‘She’s expecting me.’

‘Yes, but all the same. Here.’ He handed me a guest badge, and I fastened it dutifully to my coat lapel.

He was still holding the telephone. ‘She’s not answering.’

‘She hasn’t left, has she?’

‘Oh no. Just a moment, I’ll ask in the editorial office.’ He rang another number while keeping a careful eye on me. ‘Yes, hello, it’s reception. Is Laila there? – No? There’s someone down here who says he has an appointment with her.’ He turned towards me. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Veum.’

‘Veum. OK. Fine.’ He replaced the receiver and nodded to me. ‘Furebø’s coming down to fetch you.’

‘Furebø?’

‘He said he knew you. In the evening we don’t let people go up to the offices unaccompanied. We’ve had our fingers burned over that before.’

The lift opened, and Trond Furebø emerged. ‘Veum… I’ll escort you up.’

We both entered the lift, and he pressed the button for the fourth floor. ‘Sorry about the formalities, we’ve no option but to follow the rules laid down for us.’ He glanced at the door. ‘I assume it’s not about Torild?’

‘No, no,’ I said gently. ‘It’s about something completely different.’

The door opened, and we walked out of the lift.

‘I can find my own way now.’

‘Actually, I really wanted to talk to her about a case she was working on earlier today.’

He walked along with me down the empty corridor.

An office door opened, and a man came out with a computer printout in his hand.

Trond Furebø slowed down. ‘Holger! What the hell? Were you in the office? Sidsel’s just been here, asking for you, but we – couldn’t find you…’

Holger Skagestøl looked away, embarrassed. ‘I wasn’t up to… So I…’ He nodded towards the empty office he’d just come out of. He looked at me. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve got an appointment with Laila Mongstad.’

‘Oh? In connection with…’

‘Er…’ I said, repeating the not entirely accurate assertion that it was about another case.

‘Well, I’d – better be getting back to work.’ He walked past us heading for the stairs down to the main editorial office. ‘Are you coming, Trond?’

‘Yes, I’m just escorting Veum…’

We walked on.

The swing door closed behind us. In the large open-plan office most of the desk lamps were switched off. Only a couple of computer screens were still on.

Over at Laila Mongstad’s desk, both lamp and screen were on.

‘Laila?’ called Trond Furebø. ‘Are you there?’

There was no reply.

I walked faster. ‘Laila?’

He saw her first – and stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Laila?’ he said for the third time, like a kind of exorcism.

I carried on into the room, unable to stop until I had placed my fingers on the side of her neck to feel for her pulse.

My heart was pounding in my chest, and my fingers were as cold as ice against her skin.

Laila Mongstad lay slumped over the desk in an awkward twisted position, as if trying to avoid touching the keyboard.

I looked at her screen. One of her hands still lay on the keyboard, pressing down one of the keys, where she had written a last message to the world: kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk kkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk

I turned and looked at Trond Furebø.

He stood there, staring, hands at his sides, with an expression of utter horror on his face: ‘Is, is she -?’

‘Yes. I think you’d better go and call the police.’