Cold Hearts (11 page)

MALTHUS INVEST
had its offices in Markeveien, half a block from the law courts. It was therefore a short walk if they had any legal business outstanding. The door at street level was locked.

It was almost half past five when I rang the number from outside the arched façade that had once belonged to Bergen Telecommunications, in later years Telenor. I let my gaze wander up the building. There was light in some of the third-floor windows where, according to the sign in the entrance, Malthus Invest had its offices.

‘Yes?’ The voice on the telephone was brusque, but I had no difficulty recognising the bundle of charm that was Kjell.

‘Veum here.’

‘What!’ It sounded as if he could not believe his own ears. ‘Didn’t I give you explicit instructions, Veum?’

‘This is with reference to the Gimle case.’

His disbelief seemed to have risen a notch. ‘What?’

‘The Gimle case. Surely you remember it? Can I come up?’

‘Come up?’

‘I’m standing on the pavement across the street.’

He appeared in the window above and looked down. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘Invest, isn’t that what you call your business? What if I wanted to invest some money? Could you give me some useful tips?’

‘The most useful tip I could give you, Veum, would be to keep well away from my hunting grounds, and I mean well away.’

‘So far away that there was no chance of a chat, do you mean?’

He rang off without any further comment and moved from the window. I stood there for a while. But nothing happened. No one came out. No one called my mobile phone. People passed by, for the most part on foot, some got in and out of their cars, but everyone was in a hurry, it seemed.

So I called it a day. Ambled down to Børs Café and had a reasonable meal, with water, not beer, which made the regulars look at me as if I were something the doorman had hauled in from the street and chucked in a corner. After a cup of coffee I went out into Nordnes to get my car. I circled the blocks between Nykirken Church and the Customs House twice, but could not see Hege or Tanya anywhere. Then I left the red-light district and drove to Møhlenpris. The discovery of the SuperBrugsen bags, first in Margrethe’s flat, then at Rolf Terje Dalby’s bedsit, had given me a yen to chat with someone who had just been to Denmark, if I was to believe Little Lasse.

I went to at least a couple of houses in Konsul Børs gate before I found the right one. His name was not beside any of the bells but on a letter box in the hall:
L.Mikalsen
. I followed the instructions I had been given by Lasse and climbed as high as I could go. As in many older buildings in this part of town, the loft was also used for accommodation. Here it was divided into at least four bedsits, and on one of them was the same name, written in felt pen on a yellow Post-it and stuck to the door with tape.

I knocked discreetly and waited.

No one opened, but listening at the door I had a clear sense that there was movement inside.

I knocked a bit harder. ‘Hello? Lars Mikalsen? This is Veum. Varg Veum. I’d like to have a chat.’

No answer, nevertheless I still had a strong sense someone was at home.

‘I can pay you for whatever time it takes! The alternative is I tell the cops all I know. And then it’s not certain you’ll get out as fast as …’

The door clicked. It swung open and a face that had been subjected to a severe beating came into view. He glanced at me, then at the stairs, as if to reassure himself that I was alone, before returning his attention to me. ‘What d’you want?’

‘A missing persons case. Can I come in?’

He weighed me up. Then nodded briefly, turned and motioned me to follow.

The room had been built beneath the slanting roof. In the lowest part there was a bed, a dresser and a bookcase. I hoped he wasn’t in too much of a hurry when he got up in the morning. In which case he would bang his head on the ceiling. In the middle of the floor there was a shabby coffee table and along one wall a no less shabby sofa. On the opposite wall there was a shabby wall unit that housed a small TV, a hi-fi system and an assortment of books and journals. I noticed a few of the titles. There was everything from the history of philosophy to psychology and social science textbooks. Several current affairs books and a not insubstantial number of thumbed literary books, predominantly paperbacks with creased spines.

Lars Mikalsen was in his late twenties with longish hair, a couple of days’ stubble on his chin and eyes that were so gummed up it was a job to see the colour of them through the
slits. He was barefoot and clad in a grey T-shirt and blue jeans. I noticed him dragging one leg and clasping his shoulder from time to time. There was no doubt that whoever had given him the thrashing had left their calling sign. His face was crooked and swollen, clearly marked by the punches. Nonetheless I had a vague sensation that I had seen him somewhere before.

‘Have we met before?’

He did the best he could to focus on my face. ‘Not as far as I can remember.’

‘Who gave you the pasting?’

He flinched and snapped: ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Veum. I’m a private investigator.’

‘Private … and what the hell has brought you here? A missing persons case, did you say?’

‘Correct. My task is to find a young woman who’s gone missing. Margrethe Monsen. Some people call her Maggi.’

A tic convulsed his face. ‘What makes you think I’ve got anything to do with it?’

‘Do you know her?’

‘Not that well. I know who she is.’ Before I could say another word he added: ‘We have mutual acquaintances.’

‘Oh yes? Who’s that then?’

He sent me a vacant look. ‘No one that’s any concern of yours.’

‘So you know how she makes her living, do you?’

He shrugged. ‘Course. She’s not exactly my girlfriend, though.’

‘No?’

‘No. What the hell do you want, I said!’ His mood shifted, from sulky depressive to aggressive. And he still hadn’t invited me to take a seat.

I took stock. ‘You’ve just been to Denmark, I hear.’

‘I hear!’ he repeated with disdain. ‘And so what?’

‘Listen, Lars,’ I said, approaching him. ‘I don’t run around punching people. So you can relax. But I can get pretty irritated too, especially when I meet people who beat about the bush. I would recommend you answer my questions and otherwise keep your mouth shut. Is that OK with you?’

His eyes evaded mine, as far as I could tell, and he was a lot meeker when he said: ‘You mentioned something about … paying.’

‘Do you need money?’

‘I should have been doing a round in the park.’

I nodded. Then I thrust my hand in my inside pocket, pulled out my wallet and took out a couple of five-hundred notes. ‘Twins,’ I said, holding up the notes. ‘Once we’ve finished talking.’

He stared at them intently and nodded.

‘Are you ready to answer some questions?’

He shrugged. ‘Depends on what you intend to ask.’

‘About what’s already been in the papers. I quote from memory: Man Assaulted in Skuteviken. Unwilling to Report Assault. It’s not far from Skolten to Skuteviken, and rumour has it you came in on the Danish ferry, loaded with H, but were met by someone on the quay. Who took you for a drive. And relieved you of your baggage.’

A shiver ran through him, but he said nothing.

‘One and a half million in street value, word has it. For which you are responsible.’

He licked his swollen lips and nodded, as far as he was able.

I leaned forward. ‘Who met you on the quay, Lars?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve told everything to …’ He raised
his hand halfway up to his face. ‘I didn’t know them. Total strangers.’

‘Really?’

‘Two guys. Strong. They said Ma … said they’d been sent.’

‘Ma … as in Malthus?’

Another shudder went through him. ‘I didn’t say that!’

‘No, but that was how I interpreted it.’

The expression across his face spoke of desperation, and I hastened to add: ‘But I won’t use this against you. I’ll take your reaction as confirmation and make a mental note.’

As he didn’t protest I felt even more secure. ‘Two strong guys, you say. And they took you for a drive?’

His gaze flitted about and ended up on the floor, roughly where my shoes were. I struggled to hear what he said as he mumbled: ‘They said they’d been told to fetch me, but then they turned towards Skuteviken, and the one sitting beside me pressed a gun into my ribs and told me to lean forward and keep my gob shut. They didn’t drive far, straight to the open ground between two warehouses. There they grabbed my case, took … what I had in the bags, and then they beat me up.’

‘Why when they already had the booty?’

‘They said … this was only a foretaste. If I told the police – or anyone else – about what had happened they would give me an even tougher going-over next time. In fact I wasn’t going to tell anyone anyway, but as I staggered along the street this taxi driver stopped and picked me up, and I was so black and blue that I was unable to protest until I was at A&E and the doctor called the cops. I never bloody asked for any attention!’

‘You were questioned by the police, but refused to say who did this.’

‘I don’t know who they were! They were from Østland, total strangers to me, and I told Ma … even Rolf and …’

‘We can use their full names, Lars. Kjell Malthus and Rolf Terje Dalby. I know who you’re talking about.’

‘Nonetheless, they beat me up as well.’

‘Malthus? I thought he was the general manager of this show.’

If possible, his eyes narrowed even further. ‘He can be a brutal bastard. I warn you. Keep well away from him if he has a score to settle with you!’

Another useful pointer to bear in mind. ‘And what did you tell them?’

‘Same as I told you. About the two from Østland.’

‘And no one has a clue who they are? It must be someone trying to muscle their way into the market. If not, they’re free-booters out for rich pickings. In which case they hit the jackpot this time. One and a half million in street value …’

He shifted his gaze upwards until it stopped at around my chin. ‘But what’s this got to do with Maggi?’

‘I’m asking myself the same question. Without trespassing onto your territory … could you give me a tip about how you transported these goods? Unless I’m very much mistaken you were at SuperBrugsen and went shopping first?’

For a second or two he looked almost impressed. ‘How …?’ As I didn’t expand, he continued: ‘I’ve used this trick several times. I go to the meat counter in SuperBrugsen. Afterwards I pop into a pub and go to the loo. There, I repack, chuck a fair bit of the meat away, making sure there is enough left to confuse the sniffer dogs, slip the plastic bags containing the drugs in the middle and carry it on board with the cans of beer, tins and other groceries from SuperBrugsen. It’s worked well to
date. But then I’ve been lucky going through customs as well. But how the hell did you …?’

‘Let’s say I’ve come across quite a few SuperBrugsen bags of late. They have told me a story I’m not sure you’d like to hear.’

‘Not connected with Maggi?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘That was why you came here, wasn’t it? Because you were looking for her?’ As I didn’t answer he went on: ‘I can tell you that if Maggi’s behind this she’s in deep shit if she gets caught.’

‘If Maggi’s behind this … You said yourself there were two bruisers from Østland.’

‘Yes? But …’ He was searching for words. ‘Someone must have told them I was on my way, mustn’t they?’

‘Did Maggi know about it?’

He looked puzzled. ‘No … not as far as I know.’

‘It could equally well have been the dealers in Denmark, couldn’t it?’

‘Stabbing a regular customer in the back? You can’t make me believe that.’

‘So who could it have been?’

‘I’ve got no idea!’ All of a sudden he looked almost unhappy. ‘Everyone beats me up. The two who came to meet me, Malthus and Rolf. The police take me in for questioning, and now you come here pestering me. But I don’t know anything! I don’t have an earthly …’

I sat watching him. Then I leaned forward. ‘Listen to me, Lars. Someone I spoke to described you as a kind of … eternal student. I can see from your books that you’re well read. How the hell did you get into this business?’

He crouched over with his elbows on his knees and his long
hair rumpled and unkempt. Then he squinted up at me, as if from far back in his life, the time when he had been a different person with quite a different career ahead of him. Despondently, he rubbed his face and glanced at the bookcase beside him. Then he shrugged and began to talk.

‘Things did not go well. You’re right. I took psychology as my foundation subject. But there was a waiting list to go any further. So I took social studies to fill the gap. But still I didn’t get to do my main course. So I started doing history, but without much motivation. And you know where the university is.’ He tossed his head towards the slanted window above us. ‘The closest neighbour is Nygård Park. There were quite a few of us who went there for a spliff. Got to know the crowd. Moved onto stronger stuff, and it was not long before we were hooked, myself … and lots more. It all had to be financed, and if you didn’t want to sell your ass or do break-ins there was only one thing that was any good. Become another link in the chain. For many years I’ve turned over enough for my own consumption, and then came the offer of bigger earnings, if I was willing to risk the Denmark trip.’

‘And you’ve done that … how many times now?’

He wavered. ‘Many. And nothing has ever happened until now.’ Again he looked unhappy. ‘Just when, at long last, things were beginning to go OK.’

‘Go OK?’

He smiled sadly. ‘I had a girlfriend. This was the last job I was going to do. My part of the profit would have gone towards moving abroad, perhaps to a rehab centre in the Danish countryside. And then this bloody happens. Now I’m sitting here and who the hell will have me now, do you think?’

‘If she’s a decent girlfriend surely she won’t blame you for
what has happened, will she? Oh no …’ A notion struck me. ‘It’s not Maggi, is it?’