It was the same nice woman sitting behind the counter at the staff entrance. She recognised me at once and confirmed that Vibeke Waaler had said she would meet me. Then she called on the internal intercom, received an answer and not long afterwards the protagonist herself came through a glass door to the left of reception. She shook hands with an expression of curiosity and said: ‘Come with me, Veum.’
She must have been around fifty, but, like most actors, she was in impressive shape, at least as far as her exterior was concerned. No one would call her beautiful, but she had a strong, clear face with a striking though elegantly formed nose, sensual lips with a seductive smile never far away, and direct blue eyes that held you in a somewhat disconcerting way. It wasn’t hard to imagine her in big roles, Lady Macbeth back in 1976, when she wasn’t even thirty, later Hedda, Ellida Wangel and the Queen in
Hamlet
. Now they were rehearsing a new British play, she told me on the way to the dressing room. ‘Authentic language, good dialogue, an interesting role.’
She moved with a confident sensuality, dressed in tight, faded jeans and a clinging black jumper with a deep V-neck, emphasising her youthful voluptuousness. Her hair was casually pinned up on her head and was her only colourless feature: run-of-the-mill blonde; but I suspected that she wore a wig on stage and that was why she wasn’t taking her own hair very seriously at the moment.
I followed her down the corridor, up a staircase to the floor above and into another corridor. When we reached her dressing room she held the door open for me and stood at the side until I had passed, as if to test one element of nearness. Once I was inside and waiting she paused for a few seconds before indicating one of the two chairs and
gesturing for me to sit down. She sat down on the other, by the mirror, crossed her legs and leaned forward with her eyes fixed on mine.
‘Now I’m intrigued,’ she said in a deep, melodious voice that instantly reminded me of radio, a play, in which the femme fatale had just made her entrance.
I quickly looked around. I had been in actors’ dressing rooms before, and this was no different, even if it was the National Theatre. It looked a bit poky. It was a single dressing room and there wasn’t much space to romp around. The mirror behind her was lit up all the way round. On the walls hung pictures of stage roles, some of herself, some of colleagues – in which case they were always signed. I recognised several of Norway’s biggest stars over the years. On clothes hangers along one wall hung garments, perhaps for the new play, because they were very modern and apparently unworn. On a hat stand there was a dark-green cape and a large velvet hat in the same colour with a long red feather, perhaps a souvenir of a Shakespeare performance,
As You Like It, Much Ado about Nothing
or something like that.
‘I’m glad you had time to talk to me.’
She smiled sweetly. ‘What wouldn’t one do for attractive men?’
‘Well … As I tried to tell you on the phone last night, this is about what we know as the Mette Case.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded and immediately looked serious. ‘It was a terrible story. But have there been any developments? Is that why it’s being taken up again?’
‘It’s not officially being taken up. I’m a private investigator, and Mette’s mother, Maja Misvær, has asked me to review the case.’
‘Maja … Yes, I remember her. Very sweet, but … a little tense, maybe?’
‘Nowadays definitely, but you mean in those days as well, don’t you?’
She was still looking me straight in the eye. ‘Yes, I think I remember that.’
‘You had – let me get straight to the point – a … what shall we say? … an experience with her husband…’
She sat looking at me, as though she hadn’t quite understood what I was going on about. ‘Ah, you mean … the New Year…’
I nodded.
‘Who on earth told you about that?’
‘Well, a number of the neighbours – your former neighbours, to be precise.’
‘And what’s that got to do with Mette?’
‘Mm, everyone asks me that, and they’re quite right to, but there’s something about the whole set-up at Solstølen … A female detective who was on the case at that time … she said she felt there was something under the surface which never quite became visible. And I’m wondering if it wasn’t precisely this. These self-styled New Year games. A consequence of … what shall I say? A lack of moral restraint? An imbalance? Something that triggered something else that led to … Mette’s disappearance?’
‘“Something is rotten in the state of Denmark”,’ she quoted solemnly.
‘It was your husband who suggested this activity, I gather.’
She waggled her head coquettishly and looked at me cheerily. ‘Yes, it was. But…’ Her face turned grave. ‘It came like a bolt out of the blue for me – when he suggested the game. But of course I’m used to putting on an act, I mean from a professional point of view, so…’
‘You knew nothing beforehand then?’
‘No.’ Her eyes were pensive. ‘It was probably a way to get back at me.’
‘Get back at you? What do you mean?’
‘Well … we both had a liberal view of who we would allow ourselves to go to bed with. But … it wasn’t always easy to accept when something happened.’
I quickly licked my lips. ‘Truls Misvær mentioned an incident in the theatre. With one of the witches.’
Again she had a distant look in her eyes, as though she didn’t understand what I was referring to. ‘Oh, you mean…’ She laughed a dry, autumnal laugh. ‘Yes, Terje might well have been a little put out that time, but … he got over it.’ After a short pause she added: ‘So Truls told you about that? Well I never. Did he also tell you that Mette wasn’t his child?’
Now it was my turn to be distant. ‘What was that? Mette wasn’t his … but they had Håkon, who was older than Mette. Who could…?’
Ironic smile. ‘How should I know? Maja would be the right person to ask.’
‘But Truls … must have had a suspicion?’
She gracefully shrugged her shoulders with the same wry smile.
‘When did he tell you this?’
‘That night. After we’d … enjoyed ourselves, as much as we could, it was time to cuddle up and relate confidences, wasn’t it?’
‘Maybe.’
‘And that was when he told me.
But how can you be so sure?
I remember I asked him.
Surely you were together, conjugally, during that period too?
Yes, he said, but still … it was obvious who she was like.
Who?
I asked. But, no, he wouldn’t say. He didn’t mention any names. Later I remember looking at her, the little girl. But you know. Children. I wasn’t that interested in children, not then, and they were always so well wrapped up … you know … Bergen, rain, sleet, wind and lousy weather … I wasn’t that curious anyway. I mean Truls Misvær was a one-night stand and never qualified as anything more.’
‘You set the bar high?’
‘Higher than him anyway.’ Now the ironic invitation in her eyes was obvious. But she was an expert at subtexts, it was her stock-in-trade.
‘And him? Was he as sure as you?’
‘What are you referring to now?’
‘Well … if he thought the experience was wonderful perhaps he might have wanted more, later?’
‘Do you mean, did he come scratching at my door at night like a tom-cat?’
‘That sort of thing.’
‘No, he didn’t. I think he knew what was what when he left.’
‘The man you were married to then, Terje…?’
‘Yes?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘One of my biggest mistakes, it has to be said.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Yes, not the only one. I got married a couple of times afterwards too, but … Terje was a bit bohemian and quite romantic, at least to a
young actress straight from drama school and at Den Nationale Scene. Well, we didn’t meet there, but at Wessel, after a performance. And bed beckoned. It often did in those days. I was young and frisky and fancy-free. Hungry for life, you could say. And then, wham, we were married. Yes, I think it probably happened under the influence. But we stuck it out with each other for a few years, didn’t have any kids, thank God, and in 1978 I cast off. I’d had enough offers from here by then. First of all I was at Det Norske Teatret for a few years, then I went to the National in 1982. In fact, I haven’t exchanged a word with Terje since.’
‘Not one?’
‘No, what would we talk about? We didn’t have any children, the house was his – designed and paid for by him. How is he?’
‘Well … he’s got a new wife and … two small children, I think.’
‘Small?’
‘Actually, I haven’t seen them.’
‘Took him a few years to get a new one, then.’
‘Possibly. What I wanted to ask you … it may seem a bit intimate, but … that New Year’s night. Can you remember who Terje ended up with?’
She didn’t seem very interested. ‘No, to tell the truth, I can’t. Who was it?’
‘Randi Hagenberg.’
‘Oh, right. Next door. And?’
‘He … she didn’t really want to and he … was pretty brutal with her. Some might say he raped her.’
She looked more displeased now. ‘Oh, really? Well … if you can’t stand the heat etc.’
‘Was that behaviour … standard for him?’
‘You mean, was he prone to raping?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t rape me, anyway.’ Another little wry smile and a subtext that was not hard to decipher:
It wasn’t necessary…
‘And he never showed any predilections for … children?’
She mouthed a round O, a sign of theatrical surprise. ‘Oh, you were
thinking about…’ She continued undeterred. ‘No, he never told me to get undressed or put a ribbon in my hair when we went to bed. He was exclusively interested in adults. Actually, he was much too absentminded to be interested in anyone apart from himself. I think he regarded me primarily as a trophy, someone he could take from Wessel to show the boys, and next day he would be back, wearing my stocking garter around his wrist, metaphorically speaking.
‘Doesn’t sound like you think much of him.’
‘If I’m honest, Varg … cute name, by the way – you’re the first person I’ve ever met with that…’
Mm? If you’re honest…?’
‘I don’t think much of any men. I’ve simply had too many of them.’ She suddenly made the grand gesture, as though she were on the stage and reciting lines. ‘Give me the great minds – Shakespeare, Goethe, Ibsen – they’re my men. Not the likes of you. It is to the great minds I have dedicated my life and I flourish here, in these corridors.’
For a moment, a form of sadness fell between us, as though we both instantly saw that life was not like this: a stage where you needed a loyal prompter at all times to move safely from one wing to the other without being exposed to whistling from the stalls or a boorish lambasting in the newspapers the following day.
Then she said: ‘But now I need my rest, Varg. I have a role to play this evening. I’m afraid I didn’t help you much.’
I stood up. ‘No, perhaps not, but thank you for receiving me and telling me what you did. About Truls Misvær’s dubious paternity, I mean.’
‘Take it for what it is,’ she said, getting up, and opening the door. ‘I’d better show you the way out.’
‘Thank you.’
Afterwards we didn’t say much more than goodbye and I strolled into Stortingsgata again, puzzled. On the pavement I took out my phone and tapped in Truls Misvær’s number. He answered after a couple of rings.
‘Veum here.’
‘Right! What is it now?’
‘I’ve just met Vibeke Waaler.’
‘Uhuh. And so?’
‘She said … she told me that you’d told her Mette was not your child.’
The other end went quiet, so quiet that finally I had to say: ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what have you got to—’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you what I’ve got to say, Veum. This is none of your business. It has nothing whatsoever to do with anything!’
‘It’s definitely got something to do with Mette.’
‘It has nothing—’
‘So who was the father?’
‘None of your business!’
‘Can I ask Maja?’
After a short pause came the sarcastic answer: ‘Yes, she would probably be the right person to tell you, wouldn’t she.’
Without adding anything further he broke the connection, and I didn’t try to ring him again. It wouldn’t have helped, of that I was sure.
Instead I did as I had planned all along: I rang Thomas and asked if he and Mari were receiving guests. They were.
They had a new flat in Grünersløkka and although there were a few months to go to the birth, Mari was suitably podgy around the middle. They seemed happy and excited, both of them.
I spent a relaxed afternoon with them, then Thomas drove me to the central station and the airport express.
It was pitch black by the time I parked in Øvre Blekevei. I should perhaps have been on my guard, but I hadn’t noticed an Audi with tinted glass parked anywhere. As I rounded the corner to Telthussmauet they appeared from the darkness and walked towards me, Thor with his big, heavy hammer, Flash Gordon bouncing on his toes like a devious Loki from Norse mythology beside him.
If we had been in the Wild West, I would have drawn my Colt 45 and pointed it at them. But this was Bergen and I was no spring chicken. Instead I drew my Nokia, dialled 112 and spoke quickly into it: ‘This is Varg Veum. I’m ringing from Telthussmauet. I have a man who would like to talk to you. Gordon Bakke, address Klostergarten number … er, what was it again, Gordon?’
He stopped immediately, four or five metres away. I remembered the advice I’d been given earlier and kept an eye on his legs. Thor the Hammer kept walking, then he hesitated, stopped and looked at his pal.
I held up the phone in front of them, like a miniature shield. ‘I’ve got them here, Gordon. 112. What was it you wanted to tell the police?’
His dark eyes glinted. I saw the psychopath in him stop and waver: What should he do? What were the chances of getting away?
I moved the phone back to my ear. ‘Hello? Are you there?’
A gruff voice answered: ‘Yes? What’s all this nonsense? Who’s ringing, did you say?’
‘Varg Veum. There’s an old friend of yours here. Gordon Bakke. Some call him Flash Gordon, but he doesn’t look very flash right now. He has a companion they call Thor the Hammer. I’m not sure about his surname. I’m not sure they bother about such things in the zoo.’
‘I hear you. Varg Veum. Address…?’
‘Telthussmauet.’
Flash Gordon made up his mind. He signalled to Thor the Hammer. ‘Come on. Let’s go.’
I said on the phone: ‘Just a minute. It looks as if they may have changed their minds.’
Flash Gordon gave me the finger and looked at me with such
narrowed eyes he seemed to be squinting. ‘Don’t think we’ve done with you, Veum. You think you’ve been smart, but there’ll be other opportunities and then you won’t get away so easily…’
‘Yes, but now they know who to look for afterwards, Gordon. Now they’ve got your name, and Br’er Bear’s too, and at 112 they’ll have logged your names for all eternity.’
He pulled a face and ran a finger across his throat, an unmistakeable sign of his intentions. Then he and Thor the Hammer went in a circle around me and up Fløygaten, which explained why I hadn’t seen their car. Thor the Hammer looked at me with crestfallen eyes, as if somebody had pinched the food from right in front of his mouth.
‘Hello! Hello!’ I heard from my mobile.
‘Yes, hello,’ I said. ‘This is Varg Veum.’
‘Yes, I got that!’
‘The situation appears to have resolved itself, but please log the conversation and file it for possible future use, if you should get a call from a detective at Bergen Police Station.’
‘And why would they ring us?’
‘In case these two come back. They were on the point of physically attacking me – if not worse.’
‘Then I’d recommend you send in a report.’
‘I’ll consider that. Thank you anyway for your help.’
‘Not at all.’
We rang off, and I continued down the alley and unlocked my door. After hanging up my coat I flicked through what was in the post box – two bills and local supermarket advertising – switched on the computer and went through the day’s emails. Surprisingly enough, there was a message from Bjarne Solheim, with an attachment.
We agreed you could see this, Varg. Don’t forget – this is confidential!
The attachment consisted of a list of names – employees of Schmidt, the jeweller, from 1960 to the present day, including summer temps. One of the names on the list stuck out from the others. Now I had another question for Tor Fylling, who shot to the top of the list of people I was going to visit the next day.