The Writing on the Wall

Fifty

‘WE REALLY MUST STOP meeting like this,’ she said the next morning, leaning over to my side of the bed and running her fingers gently over the scratches on my face.

I grimaced.

‘I mean it!’ she said. ‘One of these days I’m going to be called in to scrape you up off the ground in little pieces.’

‘So long as you don’t lose any of them,’ I said, trying it on.

‘That’s not funny!’

I ran the tip of my tongue over my dry lips. ‘Shall we make some coffee?’

‘But there’s no point trying to talk any sense into you! You’re just like -’ She stopped herself, but I knew what she’d almost blurted out: just like Siren.

‘That – reporter who was murdered. You knew her very well, didn’t you?’

‘Not as well as this.’

‘Do you, do they know – who did it?’

I looked aside. Did we know, actually?

‘If it turns out to be my fault that she… it’d be two deaths in one day I’d be responsible for.’ I looked up at her awkwardly. ‘I think I feel the burden of them on my shoulders already.’

The light outside her windows was sharp and white. The temperature had suddenly risen ten degrees, yesterday evening’s layer of snow had melted, through the open bedroom windows the twitter of birds could be heard from the trees in the old school garden, and there was an unmistakable feeling of spring in the air. February was on the way out. March was just round the corner, full of expectation like a young girl on the way to her first date.

Besides, it was Saturday; and we could linger as long as we liked over breakfast. We made bacon and eggs, sliced up some tomatoes and let them sizzle a little in the fat before putting them on our plates. We drank low-fat milk and coffee, ate slices of bread with honey and rosehip jelly, divided the Saturday paper in two and read it so slowly that it almost looked as though we were looking for something quite out of the ordinary; a code hidden in the text.

Laila Mongstad had made the front page again, but this time without her by-line. They hadn’t even revealed her name. For the time being, the case was being linked to what they called a ‘break-in at the newspaper’s offices in the evening.’ It was still too early to establish whether it had been pure chance that it was a ‘journalist on the evening shift’ who was the killer’s victim, or whether the attack was aimed at that journalist personally.

All I found on the other case was a little one-column announcement that ran:

Man found dead in Sandviken

A man in his fifties was found dead late yesterday evening, the victim of an accident on an industrial site in Sandviken. The deceased was already known to the police. The duty police officer, Inspector Arvid Paulsen, would not comment on the death other than to say that the usual investigations would be carried out.

Karin pushed her part of the paper across the table to me saying: ‘There’s a death notice for that judge here.’

‘Oh?’

I turned the paper and read:

‘Tora,’ I said almost to myself, ‘T for Tora.’

She looked at me over the top of her coffee mug. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, just thinking aloud.’

After breakfast I took a long warm shower while Karin was out buying more papers. In the Oslo tabloids the killing of Laila Mongstad was given full coverage, and she was named too. They had also dug up a ten-year-old photo of her from a Press Association directory. One paper carried a full interview with ‘a colleague on the evening shift’, Bjørn Brevik, who said a possible connection between the murder and the fact that Laila Mongstad had been working very hard for several months on exposés of what he referred to as ‘the Bergen underworld’ couldn’t be ruled out. The paper’s editor would not comment on the death at all, other than to say that he ‘found it shocking and highly regrettable’.

The death in Sandviken was not mentioned in any of the papers.

It was past one o’clock when there was a call from the police station. ‘Veum? Muus here. We’ve arrested Birger Bjelland. Do you think you could come down and make a full statement?’

‘Now? Right away?’

‘Any reason to postpone it?’

I gave Karin an apologetic look, mumbling: ‘No, I suppose not.’

Half an hour later I was down at the station, where Muus met me looking as though he’d been awarded the Royal Golden Order of Merit. In fact I couldn’t ever recall seeing him in such good spirits. ‘We’ve got him this time, Veum!’

‘Let’s hope so.’

I accompanied him up to his office, where Atle Helleve sat reading a paper while waiting.

‘No Saturdays off for you either?’ I joked.

With a sigh he folded the paper. ‘Far from the madding crowd on a day like this? Not likely!’

‘My goodness, a well-read policeman,’ I added.

‘We come in all shapes and sizes, you know.’

Muus looked slightly lost for a moment. ‘Let’s not waste any time. Sit yourself down, Veum, and let’s go through all the details.’

And that’s exactly what we did.

Again I went over everything I’d dug up about Birger Bjelland’s operation, the safe list, Jimmy’s and the Pastel Hotel, Dr Evensen and Bjelland’s other henchmen.

This time I added what I’d unearthed in Stavanger, if only to colour in his background.

Helleve was doing the note-taking. He wasn’t just well read but an ace on the keyboard too.

When I got to the events of the previous day they really started to prick up their ears. The battle with The Knife brought out a hint of the old Muus again. He leaned forward, bared his teeth and said: ‘That sounds like what the legal people usually call “involuntary manslaughter”,’ Veum…’

‘It was self-defence,’ I said.

‘… not least considering the history you two have – between you, I mean.’

‘Well, if we’re going to consider their whole life story,’ Helleve started to say.

Muus cut him off. ‘On the other hand… it would be one hell of a lot of paperwork.’ He glanced at the magic red circle on the wall calendar.

I followed his eyes. Then I looked at the date on my digital watch: February 27th. ‘Well, I’ll be damned, Muus! Congratulations! Is this, can this really be, your last day?’

He looked at me equivocally. ‘In principle, yes, Veum, but I’m afraid there’s going to be a certain amount of paperwork to do next week, on overtime, so to speak. So, in other words, I think we can say thanks for seeing The Knife out, but…’ He leaned slightly to one side and fixed me with his eyes. ‘… if ever I hear you’re mixed up in anything like this again, Veum, I’ll come back out of retirement even if I’m already on the other side, right?’

I nodded, uncertain how grateful I should appear. ‘But… What about the murder of Laila Mongstad? Have you found out anything there?’

‘Nothing definite yet.’

‘What about the cause of death?’

Muus let his eyes rest on me for a moment before deciding to reply. ‘A heavy blow to the back of the head that must have knocked her out. After that she was just strangled.’

A shudder ran through me. Struck on the head – and strangled… The neck I had…

Muus went on: ‘We’re investigating Birger Bjelland’s entourage for this too, of course, starting with the file that was in her computer. But for the time being we’re keeping an open mind.’

‘It was like Piccadilly Circus down there late on, according to the receptionist’s register,’ said Helleve.

‘Yes, I met – one of them.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Sidsel Skagestøl.’

‘That figures. She was there – but came away empty-handed. Furebø’s wife and daughter called…’

‘Did they? When?’

‘Just before you arrived. They’d been at the cinema and called in to see whether he was ready to come home with them.’

Half lost in thought, I said: ‘It was something she said when she phoned…’

‘Who?’

‘Laila Mongstad. It wasn’t Halstein Grindheim after all.’

‘Grindheim? The politician?’ Muus cut in. ‘So who was it?’

‘That’s just what she was going to tell me. That’s why she asked me to come down.’

‘So what the hell did she mean?’

‘She was poking around in a case, and Grindheim… she’d identified Grindheim thanks to a photo of his car.’

Muus glanced at Helleve. ‘Didn’t we seize an envelope with photos in it down there?’

‘Yes, I’ve got them under lock and key. I’ll go and get them.’

While he was out, Muus look at me searchingly. ‘Grindheim, Grindheim… Was this the same case, Veum?’

‘Yes, but as she said, it wasn’t him…’

‘No, as she said… but she’s dead, isn’t she?’

‘Tell me, Muus, do you think you’ve really time to retire?’

‘Don’t tempt me, Veum. Don’t tempt me…’

Helleve came back with the pictures. I recognised them at once and quickly leafed through them till I found the right one.

I placed it on the table in front of them and pointed. ‘The car registration number.’

‘Could she have been mistaken, do you think?’ asked Muus.

If it was the number plate that identified Grindheim, then… The number eight there, for example, is so unclear it could have been a three,’ said Helleve.

I looked at them. ‘Can we give it a try? Check it against the register of numbers?’

BelIeve already had his hands on the keyboard and his eyes on the screen. ‘But there’s only Bergen and the county of Hordaland here. It was a Bergen number, though, wasn’t it?’

I nodded.

He typed in a few codes before the number itself and sat waiting, as the computer searched for the answer.

When it came up on the screen he sat there staring at it speechless.

‘Well?’ said Muus impatiently, starting to get up out of his chair. ‘Who was it?’

‘Holger Skagestøl,’ said Atle RelIeve, turning wearily back to face us with the look of someone who has seen it all.