Cold Hearts (8 page)

I TOSSED THE STACK OF POST
from the letter box onto the desk. Most of the envelopes had windows, but the view through them was wretched. Several of them contained payment reminders, and some threatened legal action. I placed them in a pile and made a mental note to phone some of my regular contractors, like Nils Åkre.

I went to the window and peered out, but the view from there was not much better. The good weather we had been promised had not materialised. Storms of sleet swept in over the town like biblical swarms of locusts, and we were not far from having darkness in the middle of the day. January is an unreliable month with at least two faces, like the god it is named after. Today it was the one in the surly mood. It would have been tempting to brew up a good cup of coffee, pull down the blinds, put my feet on the table and let the day drift by without announcing my presence to the world. However, this was not one of those days. Switching on the computer, I noticed a message from Cathrine Leivestad waiting for me.

I clicked it open and read:

I opened the attachment and scoured the list:

I printed a copy of the list and put a tick by Markus Rødberg and Hulda Vefring. A quick scan through the telephone directory told me that both still lived in Minde: Markus Rødberg, verger, in Finnbergåsen; Hulda Vefring, teacher, in Bendixens vei. Neither of them answered when I rang, but it was in the middle of the working day.

For the next few hours I surfed the Net, made a few telephone calls and tried to devise a strategy. I rang Hege and asked her if she could give me some more names from Margrethe Monsen’s circle of acquaintances, but she couldn’t. I asked her whether she had ever met the brother, Karl Gunnar. She hadn’t. When I told her that Maggi had said to Tanya that she would be leaving soon, she reacted with loud astonishment. She hadn’t mentioned any such plans to her. Where then? Well, her guess was as good as mine. I didn’t have an answer either …

After a couple of hours I tried Hulda Vefring and Markus Rødberg again. This time Rødberg answered. ‘Yes, hello?’

‘Markus Rødberg?’

‘That’s me.’

‘My name’s Veum. I’m investigating a disappearance and would very much like to speak to you.’

‘To me? About what did you say?’

‘Just to gather some background information. This is about a young woman called Margrethe Monsen.’

Silence for some seconds. Then he said: ‘I see.’

‘May I drop by?’

‘Now, this minute?’

‘Preferably.’

He sighed. ‘Alright then. If I can be of any help. I have to say that the Monsen family … well … we can discuss that when you get here.’

I went to get the car. Half an hour after we had talked I was standing outside a terraced house in Finnbergåsen, a consequence of the 1920s social building programme, after the legendary founder during the employment boom, Grant Lea, had sold most of the area to Bergen City Council. The houses were similar to those in Falsens vei, but here the sunny back gardens faced Lea Park, on the days when there was sun, which made them a degree more attractive in the housing market.

I crossed the front garden and rang the bell.

Markus Rødberg’s hair colour matched his surname, red, though it had faded a little. For that matter there was also a New Testament gentleness about the way in which he received me, reminiscent of the evangelist he was named after. ‘Veum? Come in.’

He was in his late fifties, and rounded at the edges without seeming overweight. His hands were conspicuously small and well manicured; his thick hair had a neat parting and swept elegantly upwards from his forehead. He was wearing dark
brown trousers, a green jacket, a creamy-yellow shirt and a burgundy tie with a hint of check.

He led me into the house, through a tidy entrance hall and into a rather old-fashioned living room with well-worn period furniture that gave the impression they were handed down. The same was true of the large bureau with the oval mirror and the traditional landscape paintings in the gilt frames that covered the walls. On a bookcase I glimpsed several books of a religious nature, a four-volume edition of the Bible in red leather and several classical works: the Four Greats plus Hamsun, Falkberget and Sigrid Undset. There was a 1950s style radio cabinet along one wall, but the tiny portable radio on top revealed that the luxury model didn’t have FM. Hopefully, the record player worked, because there was a stand containing LPs next to the cabinet. The closest was
Ella Fitzgerald’s Christmas
, a recording of carols by the American jazz vocalist from some time in the 1960s, judging by the cover.

He had set the dining table with cups and plates. There was a flask of coffee and a small coffee service ready, and a dish of dry biscuits and tasty coconut macaroons.

‘I’ve made some coffee,’ he said. ‘Please do sit down.’

We sat and he poured some coffee for us both.

‘Sugar? Cream?’

‘No, thank you.’

When, at length, he had finished all his chores he sat down in the chair at the other side of the table. He folded his hands, quietly bent his head, straightened up again and pushed the dish towards me. He looked at me with a gentle expression. ‘So … Tell me more. Margrethe has disappeared, you said?’

‘Yes. I don’t know h… How well did you know the family?’

He sent me an eloquent look. ‘Very well. I don’t know how
you got hold of my name, but I assume it was through the committee.’

‘Yes, I was given a list. You appear on it as the chair.’

‘Yes, I undertook that task. Are you from the police?’

‘No, no, no,’ I said with a disarming smile. ‘I’m a private investigator. This is a private investigation.’

‘Is that so?’ A furrow appeared on his brow. ‘But … before we proceed any further. Has this anything to do with what happened in Falsens vei yesterday?’

‘You know about it?’

‘I read newspapers. It was on the front page of
Bergens Tidende
this morning, if you didn’t see it. I saw from the photo which house it was, so when I made a call and enquired, my suspicions were confirmed.’

‘You spoke to Torvaldsen, I take it?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘I was with him yesterday when we found … the deceased.’

‘But there isn’t thought to be … Was that supposed to have any connection with Margrethe?’

‘For the moment I don’t believe there are any specific suspicions, but everything is being checked of course.’

‘Of course,’ he repeated, like an educated little echo.

‘You know the family, I believe. From when the children were small.’

‘The Monsen family? Yes, I do. How long has she been missing? Margrethe.’

‘Just a few days.’

‘Ah.’ He seemed to be expecting more to come, but when it didn’t, he said: ‘I’ll tell you what I know about them, and you can form your own conclusions.’

I tasted the coffee. It was excellent. Then I took a coconut
macaroon and leaned back in the chair as an indication that he should give himself as much time as he needed.

‘In point of fact I knew the father best. Frank Monsen. We called him Frankie. We grew up together. That is, he was three or four years younger than me, but I remember him from our patch. From the Ritz, where we went regularly, from Lea Park, where we often played football in the schoolyard, or later, when some of us went to Årstad, to the training ground over by Rautjern. He was a little tank, even then. I remember … often when we were sitting in the Ritz …’

‘Is that Kafé Ritz you’re talking about?’

‘Yes.’ He looked at me in surprise, as though it was impossible not to know what the Ritz was.

‘I grew up in Nordnes.’

‘Ah, alright. But for those of us growing up here we went to the Ritz a lot. You know, it was a decent café. You could have lunch there, and the taxi drivers from the rank across the street, by the tram loop, were often there for a cup of coffee and a smoke. The big attraction for us kids was the chocolate counter. If you bought something you were allowed to sit there while you ate, and there was no end to the number of tiny bits we could break the chocolate up into so that we could stretch out the time. But we were sternly scrutinised by the women behind the counter,
fru
Olsen and
fru
Tarlebø, and I remember once, when Frankie had been up and down the shop like a yo-yo, without buying anything, and
fru
Olsen shouted: “Now you’ve all got to go home, Frank Monsen!” Another time she said: “Frank Monsen, I’ve spoken to your mother on the phone. You’ve got to go home.” To which Frankie replied: “We haven’t got a phone.” And in fact he was telling the truth.’

He looked dreamily into the distance. In his mind he was
forty years back in time. ‘And later, when we were teenagers, we often hung around there, playing music on the jukebox, eyeing up girls and so on. But … I was beginning to look for somewhere else to meet. I joined a youth club in Årstad parish, as it was called, and that determined the course of my later life.’

‘You’re a verger?’

‘Yes, but only fifty per cent now.’ He gazed at me with light blue, almost grey eyes. ‘Nerves. They play me up a bit.’

‘I see.’

‘But … Frankie, as I said, he grew up and stayed in the district as well. Bit by bit, though, well, things didn’t go so well for Frankie.’

‘What happened?’

‘Hm, what did happen?’ He met my eyes. ‘So much happens in a human life, Veum. It’s not always that easy to say why. But … I believe the problem started when he was in the army. He was sent to the back of beyond, and when he returned he had an alcohol problem. He had started as a trainee electrician before his military service and continued after his return. He couldn’t hold down any jobs, and had longer and longer periods of absences, and it all became … problematic. We tried to help him as much as we could.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, neighbours, friends. I started doing voluntary parish work early, and Frankie’s parents were active.’

‘So he hadn’t inherited this from his parents?’

‘Not at all. His father was a teetotaller and his mother the same, of course.’

‘A reaction then, perhaps? Did he have brothers or sisters?’

‘An older sister. Things didn’t go well for her. She got married
and moved, well, east. At first she was in Lillestrøm. Now she lives in Asker, I think I heard.’

‘But he still lived in the area?’

‘Yes, in the same house as his parents. They were very young when they married, Else and him. But they were allowed to rent the first floor, where they still live. That is, Else does. Frankie’s dead, of course. And then the children started coming.’

‘Right. And the parents had gone, both of them?’

‘Yes, they died young, sad to say. Now Torvaldsen lives there.’

‘And this Else, was she from here as well?’

‘No. She was his girlfriend, someone we’d met via an acquaintance. A modest girl. Very modest, I believe you could say. We hoped for a long time that having responsibility for her and the children would keep him on an even keel, because it wasn’t as though he couldn’t work. He was a good electrician, it was said, if he turned up. But he had this problem, which was then aggravated by … taking pills. He went to see a doctor to get some help, but this doctor … Well, he prescribed sedatives in such huge quantities that that, in its turn, created a new addiction problem.’

‘Mm. Not that unusual, I’m afraid.’

‘We were thinking of the children, of course.’

‘We? That’s still neighbours and friends, is it?’

‘Yes, you could say so.’

‘That’s how this committee was formed, I understand.’

‘Yes, it … To support Frankie and his family. Both of his parents had died, one after the other, in 1969. Luckily they experienced the arrival of the first grandchild, Siv, whom they worshipped above all else. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such ecstatic grandparents as Nils and Henny when she was born. So sad that they witnessed only the first year of her life.’

‘How did they die?’

‘Of natural causes. Nils of a heart attack. Henny had a stroke, just a few months later. Some thought she died of grief, but it was a stroke, nothing more and nothing less.’

‘And then things became more difficult for Frank and Else, I suppose?’

‘Yes, I don’t think we should underestimate the significance Nils and Henny had for the young parents. You know, Frankie was a mere nineteen when Siv was born, Else was eighteen. And the year Nils and Henny died … that was when he was called up to do military service.’

‘Right.’ I made some notes on my pad. ‘To sum up then. He meets Else, and she becomes pregnant, I guess. Then they marry and move into his parents’ house. Siv is born in 1968, the following year his parents die, and he is called up. He comes back in 1970, is that correct?’

‘Yes, sounds right.’

‘And the same year Margrethe is born. Two years later KG is born. Karl Gunnar. How were these years, the 70s?’

‘Well, I can’t tell you from first-hand experience. Even though we lived in the same area we didn’t really see much of each other. You know what it’s like, you nod to familiar faces, and Frankie was, as I said, a few years younger than me. But I could see that he looked a bit … run-down. Else too. Pale and unsmiling. The children … well, I don’t have such a vivid memory of them. I saw Else pushing them in a pram when they were small, and sometimes I saw them in the playground by Jacob Aalls gate.’ He put on a melancholy smile. ‘On wonderful, sunny Sunday mornings I saw the whole family. I can remember thinking: so things turned out well for Frankie after all.’

‘Although they didn’t.’

He chewed a bit on what I had said before answering. ‘No. I suppose they didn’t, in a way.’