The Writing on the Wall

Six

THE PEOPLE WHO LIVE in Mannsverk have never liked hearing the district called by its original name of Toadsmarsh. But at the end of the fifties, when we were in competition with some boys from that district over a couple of girls from Fridalen, we never called them anything but toads, which unleashed such a backlash that we very soon had to leave the Fridalen girls to their own devices and turn back to the more central parts of town, where it was us who were cocks of the walk.

Astrid Nikolaisen lived in the thirteen-storey block of flats that serves as the landmark for the whole district. The thoroughfare running beneath it became a veritable wind tunnel when the wind blew from that direction.

I found her surname on one of the letter boxes beside the entrance to the lifts but had to search floor by floor along the external walkway to find the right apartment. In addition to the two lifts, there was a staircase at every corner of the building, and I zigzagged my way up to the sixth floor, where I found the same name on a door and rang the bell.

The woman who opened the door looked younger than I’d expected. Despite the heavy make-up, she didn’t look much older than her early thirties. She was wearing tight-fitting slacks and a striped, brightly coloured woollen sweater that seemed long enough to serve as a sort of miniskirt. Her hair was so dark and neat that it almost looked like a wig. ‘Yes?’ she said and clamped her dark red lips together in a kind of turkey-mouth.

‘Veum. I’m from… It is Mrs Nikolaisen, isn’t it?’

‘You can drop the Mrs. But my name is Nikolaisen, yes.’

‘Is Astrid Nikolaisen at home?’

She sized me up. I added: ‘Perhaps she’s your sister?’

In spite of the layer of make-up, I noticed she was blushing. ‘Yes, no, she’s my daughter. Just a second, I’ll see if she’s home.’

She closed the door and I stood outside waiting. From here I could see straight down into the depot of the Bergen Tram Company. The rather random collection of workshops and tower blocks didn’t exactly make Mannsverk a showcase for fifties town planners if they could put up with something like this.

The door behind me opened again.

It was the same woman. ‘What’s it about?’

‘Actually, it’s about a friend of hers, Torild Skagestøl, who’s been missing from home for nearly a week.’

‘And what’s Astrid got to do with that?’

‘Nothing, probably. I just wanted to ask her a few things about – Torild. Who she was with and things like that.’

She still looked a bit suspicious. ‘Are you from the police?’

‘No.’

‘Child Welfare? Social Security?’

‘No, nothing like that. I’m here on behalf of the family.’

‘She’s just got up… But OK then. Come on in.’

As I followed her in, I stole a glance at the clock. It was eleven-forty. Did that make Astrid Nikolaisen a member of social group B or C?

The hall was papered with red lilies on a violet background. Through an open door an advert blared loudly from a local radio station.

She knocked on a door. ‘It’s Gerd. Can we come in?’

I could just make out a muffled ‘yes’ through the door. The woman opened it and stood aside to let me in. As I passed her I caught the scent of perfume: heavy, like lily of the valley kept far too long in an airless room.

The girl inside was just zipping up the front of her tight jeans, not without some difficulty, the whiteness of her plump midriff emphasised by the black bra, which was all she’d had time to put on. The look she gave me was brazen and provocative, and her slightly heavy face was a puffier version of her mother’s, except that it was even more heavily made up, if with slightly blurred features since it was all too obviously the mask she’d been wearing yesterday.

‘Astrid! Put something on!’ said her mother over my shoulder.

I turned to face her. ‘I can wait out here…’

‘No need. Put your sweater on!’

‘Yeah, yeah, bossy britches!’ said her daughter. ‘I’m sure he’s seen a bra before!’

I waited for a few seconds before turning around again. Now she’d pulled on a maroon sweater and was just straightening her dark, slightly red-tinted hair. ‘What’s he want?’

‘To talk about Torild Skagestøl,’ I said.

‘Go on in.’ The mother pushed me gently into the room. ‘Tell him all you know, Astrid. I’m tidying up in the sitting room if you need me.’

Then she left us.

I glanced round. It was quite a small room, furnished with an unmade bed and a cross between a chest of drawers and make-up table in white. There were two beanbags on the floor. By the bed stood an old-fashioned Windsor chair and on the floor beneath the window lay an untidy pile of comics and pop and fashion mags and a handful of pulp fiction. Various items of clothing were strewn about the room as though she’d been looking for something, but I knew from experience that this state of untidiness was very often just how teenagers marked their territory.

She turned her streaky face towards me with a slightly too cynical look for her age. ‘What’s up with Torild?’

‘Aren’t you going to sit down?’

She sat down on the corner of the bed and nodded in the direction of the two leather beanbags. ‘Park yourself there.’

‘I think I’d rather stand, actually,’ I said leaning against the doorframe.

She made a sucking noise between her teeth and shrugged her shoulders without insisting any further.

‘You two are friends, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. We meet up in town now and then but not much more than that.’

‘In town?’

‘Yeah, at Jimmy’s and places like that.’

‘Jimmy’s, that’s an amusement arcade, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, you can play the machines if you like. I just go there for a burger and to hang out with folk there. There’s always some all-right guys there.’

‘Oh? Know any of their names?’

‘No, why should I? What’s it to do with you anyway?’

‘But Torild used to go there too, did she?’

She nodded.

‘And Åsa?’

‘Yeah, she did too. There was loads of us.’

‘What…’ I thought better of it. ‘Listen, places like that are expensive, aren’t they?’

‘So what’s free then apart from coffee and cake at church and stuff like that?’

‘Where did you all get the money from?’

She gave me a look of contempt. ‘From home, of course. Pocket money. A few of us have part-time jobs. I have a Saturday job at the Mecca now and then.’

‘On the till?’

‘Nope, stocking shelves.’

‘Do you sometimes steal things?’

‘What’s the idea? Thought it was Torild you were supposed to be asking about!’

‘Åsa had to take back a leather jacket she’d stolen yesterday.’

Her expression became slightly less cocky. ‘Oh?’

‘Her dad took her down there.’

‘What a pillock!’

‘You mean it was OK?’

‘Well, I’ve never stolen nothing anyway!’ But she avoided my eyes as she said this.

‘And what about drugs, can you get them down there?’

‘Down where? At Jimmy’s? In the loos you can buy anything you like, even at Hotel Norge!’

‘Is Torild on drugs?’

‘Is she on drugs? Don’t make me laugh! That stuck-up tart!’

‘At school they said that -’

‘Oh, at school maybe! Who was it you spoke to? Spotty?’

‘But her parents also thought…’

‘Well she probably was on drugs then, just to try it, like everybody does. But she’s not a smackhead, I can guarantee that!’

‘Hm?’

‘Yes, I mean it.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Nope. Didn’t even know she was missing!’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘The last time? Hey, Inspector Morse, what do you think I am, an elephant?’

‘I can’t bloody remember, can I? Probably sometime last week.’

‘Thursday, Friday?’

‘It wasn’t Friday, that’s for sure. I was at a party.’

‘Thursday though?’

‘Yeah… Can’t be dead certain she didn’t call in at Jimmy’s that day. Her and Åsa. And some guy or other.’

‘A – guy?’

She looked shifty again. ‘Dunno. Could have imagined it. Nobody I knew at any rate.’

‘It could be important, Astrid!’

Suddenly the doorbell rang: three short rings.

She rolled her eyes. ‘Oh Christ, what a bloody din!’

We heard the door being opened outside and immediately after the sound of a man’s voice.

‘I’m off! It’s Kenneth, there’ll be a right song and dance.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They’ll be at it! So the whole street can hear! Get it? Tidying up, was she? You’re not kidding. I bet she’ll be changing the sheets after yesterday…’

‘Was Kenneth here too, then?’

‘No, it was some other guy, wasn’t it?’

From the doorway there was the sound of someone clearing her throat. The woman who’d let me in glanced from me to her daughter. ‘I think it’s time your friend was off now, Astrid.’

‘And me too!’

‘But… don’t you want anything to eat?’

‘I’ll grab a burger or whatever – in town!’

‘OK, if you like…’ Her mother stepped aside to let me pass.

Out in the hall a well-built, athletic-looking man, in a black T- shirt, dark trousers and with tattooed arms had just hung up his black leather jacket on a clothes hanger. He was in his thirties, hair slicked back and glistening with gel; he had a muscular face with deep lines running down from his nostrils.

‘All right, Astrid?’ he said with a cocky smile.

‘All right,’ she said in a clipped neutral tone.

‘She’s on her way out!’ said her mother quickly.

‘She can stay as far as I’m concerned.’

‘She’s on her way out, I said.’

He gave me a hard look. ‘And who’s this guy? Her lover?’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘The daily help.’

He rushed at me, one hand clenched in a fist. ‘I’ll give you daily

help!’

Gerd Nikolaisen stepped between us. ‘He’s on his way! Him as well… He’s just a guy from the…’

‘From the -?’

‘A guy who’s looking for a friend of Astrid’s who didn’t come home.’

‘Torild Skagestø,’ I said. ‘Maybe you know something?’

For a moment he was on uncertain ground. ‘Know something? I… what d’you mean?’

‘You don’t? In that case, you can just go right on into the sitting room. We’ve nothing to say to each other.’

He turned to the other two. ‘Hear the way he just spoke to me? Who’s out of order, him or me?’

Gerd Nikolaisen took hold of his arm. ‘Come on, Kenneth! Let’s go into the sitting room… They’re off anyway.’

He shook himself free. ‘I heard! If you don’t watch your mouth, I might clear off too.’

I could feel my stomach muscles tightening, moved to the door outside and, addressing Astrid’s mother, said: ‘If either of you hear anything about – Torild, we’d be glad to hear from you.’

‘I doubt it… but where can I…?’

The fellow by the name of Kenneth lit a cigarette with a deft movement of the hand, eyes still flashing with anger.

‘You can ring her home. They’re on the class list. Skagestøl. Up in Furudalen.’

‘Shagherstill more like,’ muttered Kenneth.

I passed close enough for him to blow cigarette smoke into my face. Of course, I could have stuck my elbow right in the middle of his ugly mug. But I had better things to do with my time than spend the next few hours in the waiting room at A &E.

‘Sorry to have troubled you,’ I said and left.

Astrid followed me out. On the way down to the lift she said: ‘What an arsehole! He thinks he’s God’s gift just because…’

‘Just because?’

‘Oh, forget it.’

Outside the block of flats I asked her whether I could give her a lift anywhere.

She gave me a look suggesting I’d proposed something more than a friendly lift. ‘Where to?’

I sighed. ‘Well, where are you going? Into town?’

‘Maybe. Yeah, that’ll be fine.’

I unlocked the door on her side before going round to mine. When I climbed in and sat at the wheel, she was already installed in the front seat beside me. ‘If you try anything on, I’ll roll down the window and bawl my head off!’ she said with a dopey grin that made it look more like an invitation than a warning.