Authors: Jorgen Brekke
Siri Holm liked Gunnar Berg much better when he was talking about ballads and folklore than when he was droning on about classifications. He showed an involvement in the subject that might actually be taken for good spirits. It almost made him a little sexy. For a brief moment she stood there, considering the idea of seducing him. But then she told herself, Those days of being a woman footloose and fancy free are over for you, Siri, my girl.
“So you’re saying that the author wrote only one ballad?”
“Not necessarily. If he didn’t use another pseudonym, then it seems that he had only this one ballad printed in Trondheim. But both the pseudonym and the title point to Sweden as their place of origin. In Stockholm, there was an inn called the Golden Peace. It was just one of a number of inns where people would get drunk, which they did with great frequency. The water quality in Stockholm was terrible then, and so they drank liquor, which didn’t spread infection as much. The Golden Peace actually still exists today. In fact, it’s something of an institution in the city. I’ve been there myself.”
Siri gave Gunnar Berg a look. She had heard of the Golden Peace. Vreeswijk sang about the place: “
Here we’re all equal, you know, red ones and blue ones—skinny and fat.
” But no matter how hard she tried, she just couldn’t picture her colleague sitting in a pub, getting even slightly tipsy.
Berg went on: “There’s something special about sitting in that place, imagining all the troubadours who drank there, having a grand old time and presenting their ballads for almost three hundred years. But in our case, the title doesn’t refer directly to that inn, even though it may have inspired the song. I think it’s describing sleep, the most golden of all peace. If our Jon Blund lived in Stockholm, he was most likely a contemporary of the famous troubadour Carl Michael Bellman, the true genius of the ballad tradition. But Blund undoubtedly lived in his shadow. It’s even possible that he belonged to Bellman’s circle of friends and drinking companions.”
“One of Bellman’s shadows,” she said, mulling over the possibility. “Here in Trondheim. This is interesting stuff. Has anyone done any research on the subject?”
“No, oddly enough. Many of our broadsheets are real cultural treasures, but since they’re also part of the folk culture, they’re not taken as seriously as more canonized music and poetry.”
She thought about what he’d just told her.
“But it’s unusual for valuable items like this to disappear from the library, isn’t it?” Holm then asked. She’d worked less than six months at the Gunnerus Library, and she’d thought that the case of the legendary Johannes Book, which had been the target of an attempted theft, was an exception. “I mean head librarian Hornemann seems very strict when it comes to security.”
“Yes, but unfortunately it does happen. You wouldn’t believe how many people have tried to walk off with valuables from the library. And the theft of the Jon Blund ballad got a lot of attention before you started working here. A police report was filed and everything. But the only result from the investigation was that it revealed how lax our security was. Hornemann’s strict attitude on security is a consequence of the theft of that broadsheet. I think it was a real wake-up call for him. A library patron signed in under a false name and then was given access to the broadsheets. The ballads are stored in boxes, with several in each box. That was the only one the thief took. Presumably he just stuck it in his pocket and disappeared.”
“Do you know what name the borrower used?”
“I remember it all too well. Anyone who listens to Bellman’s work would recognize it.”
“What is it?” asked Siri. Until just then, she’d thought that his interest in ballads extended only to the printed versions.
“Grälmakar Löfberg,” he told her.
“And who was that?” she asked.
“Grälmakar Löfberg is one of the many figures who show up in Bellman’s songs. Bellman created a whole universe that he populated with both fictional and real people who lived in Stockholm at the same time he did. Most of them were outsiders and drunkards. Often they were people who had fallen from grace and ended up in the gutter. There were lots of people like that in Stockholm during Bellman’s day. Löfberg was not a central figure in the songs, so the only thing we know about the real person was that he was a quarrelsome sort. And Bellman wrote a lovely funeral hymn about his wife.”
Siri had a strange feeling that this was somehow significant.
She thanked Gunnar Berg for his help, realizing that she now liked him better than before. As she closed the office door, she felt something in her stomach. Was it a kick? No, of course not. It was too early for that. She was less than four months along. Her stomach was just growling, that was all. But these days even the slightest stirring in her stomach reminded her of the tiny person inside.
“The little bell rings to the big bell’s toll,” she sang softly as she stroked her stomach and smiled.
* * *
The new singer was someone he knew from before.
He assured himself that everything was in order this time.
Then he lit a cigarette. The fly was not buzzing inside his head. Slowly he exhaled. Then he looked at the pink vocal cords in the jar of alcohol. They had begun to fade; the pink was slowly disappearing, as if their real demise hadn’t yet occurred. But they still looked as though they might be able to sing from the bottom of the jar. What had been wrong with them? Why hadn’t they worked the way they were supposed to?
Then he heard the dog barking. Why did I bring that mutt inside? he asked himself. He couldn’t stand dogs that barked.
Down in the basement he walked over to the stall where he’d put the dog. The animal stopped barking and retreated to a corner with his tail between his legs the minute he opened the door. Then he began kicking it. Eventually he went out and knelt down on the mattress that he’d left outside the storeroom. She was inside, but she didn’t make a sound. He could hear that his new songbird was breathing hard even though she was gagged. He wondered if she’d heard what he’d done to her dog.
With trembling hands he picked up the music box from the floor. Slowly, he turned the key until the spring was tightly wound. He set it back down and listened. A sad, metallic tune filled the basement. There it was: his lullaby, and it was just as beautiful as always. Tears ran down his cheeks. He sat and stared at the twirling singer wearing the white jacket until he felt calmer. Then he picked up the music box again.
That’s enough for now,
he thought as he got to his feet.
We can play it again later
. Then he cleared his throat. He decided that he ought to say something to her, so he cleared his throat again.
“Good morning,” he said finally. Just those two words. Then he turned on his heel and went back up the basement stairs.
The fact that
she was standing upright was the only indication that she was even alive. But then she said: “Thank you for taking the time to come here.”
Elise Edvardsen sounded as if she were speaking to two workers she had hired. She stared blankly at Chief Inspector Singsaker, swaying. For a moment he was afraid that she was going to faint and pitch forward into his arms, and he wasn’t at all sure that he’d be able to hold her up, even though she was awfully thin. At that point, all Singsaker knew was that she was an aerobics instructor married to an optician, and that they lived in a house at the end of Markvegen with a big yard and old trees that blocked the view from the neighboring houses.
Instead of collapsing, Elise pulled herself together and stepped to one side to allow the officers to come in. Singsaker entered first, followed by Mona Gran.
The husband, Ivar Edvardsen, sat on a chair in the living room. He was a short, plump man who looked worn-out. Even though Singsaker realized that his haggard appearance must be due to the situation, he had the feeling that Mr. Edvardsen always looked that way.
The two police detectives sat down on the sofa after shaking hands with him. He didn’t say a word, merely nodded a greeting.
“Would you like something to drink?” asked Elise, who still hadn’t sat down. “Coffee?”
Singsaker and Gran both declined the offer. Ivar was holding a cup in his hand, but Singsaker guessed that the man hadn’t even taken a sip, and that by now the coffee had grown cold.
Elise sat down on the only unoccupied chair.
“Maybe we’d better start at the beginning,” said Singsaker, getting out his notebook. Both parents looked at him as if they were having trouble comprehending his words.
“When did you last see your daughter?”
“Julie?” said Elise, sounding distracted.
“Yes, Julie,” said Singsaker patiently.
“But we already told the police everything,” said Ivar, speaking for the first time. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched for such a stout man.
“We apologize,” said Gran, “but at the start of an investigation we often go over things more than once. It’s important for us to hear what happened in your own words, since we’ll be handling this case from now on.”
Singsaker nodded agreement. It was Gran’s direct but sensitive manner that made him sure that she would become an outstanding detective.
Mr. and Mrs. Edvardsen glanced at each other. Maybe they were able to communicate without words, as some couples did after many years together. Singsaker used to do the same with Anniken. His ex-wife had left him for a plumber. When she later regretted what she’d done, Singsaker had forgiven her. He forgave her and then moved on with his life. He didn’t miss her, but he did miss the feeling of knowing someone so well. He wondered how long it would take before he and Felicia reached that point. Would they ever get there?
“I said good night to Julie a little before ten-thirty and then went to bed,” said Ivar Edvardsen. “My wife talked to her until she took the dog for a walk, and she went to bed before Julie came back home.”
Singsaker glanced at Elise, then began looking around while he listened to the others talking, their voices becoming a humming sound in the background. He only vaguely registered that Gran had begun asking them the usual, routine questions.
Hanging on the wall behind Ivar was a wedding photograph of the couple. They were young; she was dressed in white and he was in black. They looked contented, convinced of their future happiness. Singsaker thought about the red dress that Felicia had worn when they got married. The only other people present at the ceremony were Siri Holm and Thorvald Jensen. He recalled the numbing haste with which they’d fallen in love. He pictured the wedding scene, the second one in his life, as if an old 8mm film played in his mind, just slightly too fast. Had it happened too quickly? No, they couldn’t have done it any other way, not if it was going to amount to anything, not if they were going to be together. And they were right for each other. The doubts he had were not about the two of them. He and Felicia had all the time in the world. Things couldn’t have been better. It was the haste of the wedding. Had that been the right thing to do?
“I think we have enough preliminary information, don’t you, Singsaker?” he heard Gran say as if from far away, bringing him abruptly back to reality.
Problems with his ability to concentrate. That was what his doctor had told him, adding that he was just going to have to learn to deal with it.
In Singsaker’s profession, he had to hide this weakness as best he could. An inability to concentrate was not something a policeman could live with. But in a surprisingly short time he’d become expert at covering up these sorts of gaps.
“Yes, although we may need to come back to a few things later on,” he said, even though he had no idea what they’d been talking about. Then he took a chance and selected a topic, speaking directly to Elise Edvardsen.
“How would you describe your daughter?” he asked her.
She didn’t reply immediately. She looked from Singsaker to her husband. For a moment, Singsaker was afraid that he’d blundered and asked about something they’d already discussed. But then she opened her mouth and said, “Well, what can we say about her?” She was staring at a spot just above her husband’s head.
“She’s a very talented young lady,” said Mr. Edvardsen.
“Oh, shut up, Ivar!” The rebuke didn’t seem to surprise him as much as might have been expected. “For God’s sake! Julie has disappeared. These officers aren’t here to listen to us talk about how beautifully she sings or how many goals she’s stopped in handball games.”
“I realize that, Elise,” said her husband with restrained indignation.
Gran stepped in and got the conversation back on track. “So, if you’re being perfectly honest, how would you describe her?”
“To be perfectly honest, she’s a teenager with a capital
T.
And I’m not handling it very well.”
“I understand. A lot of door slamming?” said Gran.
“What I can’t handle is how irrational she is. I know I should be more patient with her.” She glanced at her husband, who smiled wanly.
“Does she have a boyfriend?” asked Gran.
“No,” said Ivar firmly. But his wife was quick to correct him.
“We can’t be sure that it’s not still going on.”
Singsaker took over. “So she did have a boyfriend?”
“His name is Fredrik. They’ve broken up and gotten back together about ten times. We never know whether they’re on or off.”
“And was it Julie or Fredrik who broke it off each time?” asked Singsaker.
“Who do you think? Don’t misunderstand me. I love my daughter very much. And if anything has happened to her, I don’t know—” Here Elise broke off and took a few deep breaths before going on. “But Julie isn’t easy to deal with. She’s moody. Sometimes I feel sorry for Fredrik, the poor boy, even though I can’t say I like him much. He’s too timid for a girl like Julie.”
“Have you told Julie what you think of her boyfriend?”
“No, we don’t talk much. In the past few weeks we’ve done nothing but argue about stupid things.”
“Like what?”
“Just nonsense. Clothes, mostly. Julie put on some weight, so she went out and bought a lot of new clothes with the money she had been saving to buy a moped.”