Death in a Cold Climate (16 page)

‘And yet he seemed such a very ordinary young man,' said Helge Ottesen, in an almost pleading voice. ‘One really wonders if the sort of thing people are saying –'

‘Saying?'

Ottesen was confused and declined to come out into the open. ‘Oh, you know, just gossip, gossip.'

‘Are they talking about spying? Or oil, perhaps?' Fagermo asked the question casually, but when he put forward the second suggestion he saw Helge Ottesen blink so violently that it almost amounted to a flinch. He could have sworn too that somewhere on the table–where?–there was a flicker of movement from someone else too.

Bjørn Korvald said: ‘Whenever anything odd happens in this town people always have explanations like that: Russian activity, American activity, one of the multinationals, one of the big oil companies–the more fantastic it is, the more important it makes people up here feel.'

‘Absolutely, absolutely,' said Helge Ottesen, with such obvious eagerness that Fagermo marvelled at a politician being so transparent. He raised his eyebrows.

‘And yet spying
isn't
unknown around here, is it?' he said. ‘All very tin-pot and amateur, no doubt, with one side knowing exactly what the other is up to, and Norway winking at the antics of both because we're a little country and don't want to offend our big friends and neighbours. But it
does
go on, and it could suddenly get serious–like the U2 incident. Then again, we know from Stavanger what sort of effects an oil bonanza would have. It's perfectly obvious that some very big interests do get involved, and some decidedly murky happenings take place. One sometimes finds the fantastic explanation is the only one that makes complete sense.'

There was an uneasy silence. ‘So what do you think?' drawled Steve Cooling. ‘Was he some kind of small-time spy doing dirty work for one of the oil companies, or what?'

‘Oh,' said Fagermo, holding up his hand in protest, ‘now we're getting too near the bone. I'm just offering a few conjectures, and I'm not going to tell you what I might or might not
think
. What I've got to do is reconstruct what this boy's life has been like these last few years, since he
left school. Reconstruct what
he
was like, come to that. One or other of you that I haven't talked to yet might help me with that. You saw him. What sort of impression did he make on you?' He looked around at the politely hostile faces around the table.

‘Cold little sod,' said Botner, looking up from his near-empty glass. He had been drinking steadily and morosely. ‘You take . . . you take my word for it–cold little sod.'

Helge Ottesen looked pityingly at Botner and raised a significant eyebrow in Fagermo's direction: ‘He was a perfectly well-spoken young chap,' he said. ‘Not a great talker, but I'm not sure I like that in young people. All too much of it among the students, I'm sure you'd agree. No, I'd say he was a very responsible young chap, as far as I spoke to him.'

‘How far was that? Did you have much conversation?'

‘Let me see: not a great deal. But Gladys–that's my wife–Gladys and I tried to make him welcome, since he was a visitor. Told him about the town, what there was going on, what there was to do: the Museum, the churches and so on.'

‘You thought he was here for tourism?'

Ottesen blinked. ‘Well, not exactly. Not at that time of year. But it was just a sort of introduction to the place.'

‘And you didn't talk about anything more personal? Such as his work, for instance?'

Helge Ottesen thought very carefully, with an appearance of trying to remember. ‘Let me see. He said he'd worked on boats, which surprised me rather, because he wasn't what I'd call the type. How can I put it, not to seem snobbish? He wasn't at all
rough.'

Botner threw back his head and roared a drunken laugh. ‘Splendidly democratic! Why don't you say he wasn't an obvious yob or an obvious lout and have done with it?'

‘Now you're putting words into my mouth. All I meant was that he was rather a –'

‘A smooth customer?' suggested Steve Cooling.

‘Was he wearing a ring when he came in?' put in Fagermo quickly.

‘A ring?' said Ottesen, startled. ‘I really couldn't say. Does anyone remember?' He looked round the table. All faces were studiously blank. But this time there
had
been a reaction, a flicker, Fagermo was sure of it.

He said: ‘Well, never mind. Just a detail. Are you all agreed then, he was a smooth customer?'

‘Well certainly he was nobody's fool,' said Ottesen. That's really what I meant. You wouldn't easily put one over him. And though he'd knocked around the world he really seemed to have got something out of it.'

‘Ah!' said Fagermo. ‘He talked about his travels?'

Ottesen was on his guard at once. ‘Er . . . he talked, yes.'

‘Where exactly did you gather he'd been?'

‘Well, let me see, I'm not sure I remember that he specified . . . '

‘If you talked about travel,
somewhere
must have been specified,' pressured Fagermo.

‘Wasn't there some talk about Greece?' suggested Steve Cooling.

‘Yes,' said Ottesen quickly. ‘I think you're right. Gladys and I went there last year, you know, so I think we talked a bit with him about Rhodes.'

‘North Africa? The Gulf States? Iran?' hazarded Fagermo.

‘Not that I remember,' said Ottesen uneasily. ‘Gladys and I have never been there.'

‘No package tours to watch the adulterers being stoned? . . . Sorry, just my sense of humour. Well, this has all been very helpful. All the more so since we seem to have
two very distinct impressions of young Mr Forsyth. On the one hand, he was respectable, well-spoken, responsible. On the other, he was–I hope I'm not overstating it–cold, calculating, ruthless.'

‘The two sides don't entirely rule each other out,' put in Bjørn Korvald.

‘By no means. I realize that. And I've met both views before tonight. Two of his girl-friends, for example, would seem to have lived with two entirely different men. But I'd like to hear more about the second view,' said Fagermo, turning in the direction of Botner. ‘Because that's more the type that gets murdered, isn't it?'

Botner was clearly not quite with them, but sitting back on his bench gazing vacantly at the ceiling with a petulant expression on his face.

‘Don't mind him,' said Dougal Mackenzie. ‘He's drinking to forget.'

‘I've got a grievance,' said Botner distinctly. ‘I've got a bloody grievance. Did I tell you? I was –'

‘Yes, you told us,' said Mackenzie.

‘Well, I haven't told
him
. I was turned down for leave because I was a man. Of the male sex. Masculine in gender.'

‘Oh, don't talk crap,' pleaded Steve Cooling.

‘Let him have his say,' said Fagermo. ‘Then we can talk about something else.'

This seemed to sting Botner. ‘Oh, uppity, aren't we? Well, I tell you it's true. There's not a penny piece for anyone these days unless they're studying
women's
literature, or
women's
history, or women's bloody grammar for all I know. If you're not studying role stereotypes for women in the negro novel or some goddam thing like that, you haven't got a
hope
. It's discrimination, that's what it is! We've become the bloody underdogs!'

‘Well, now you've had your say,' said Steve Cooling,
‘and it's a pity you couldn't do it a bit softer because there's such a thing as lynch law where that subject is concerned, perhaps you could tell the gentleman what he wants to know?'

‘What gentleman?' asked Botner, pulling himself to an upright position and looking round the table.

‘I was wondering,' said Fagermo, ‘now you've told us your grievance, which was very interesting, if you could say why you thought Martin Forsyth was–what was your expression?–such a cold little sod.'

‘Because I remember watching him.' Now he had got away from his sorrows he was speaking more naturally. ‘He was just here by chance, you know, just dropped in–or so he said–but there were certain things he did instinctively. Like right from the moment he sat down at this table he was alert to find out who was the most important person at the table. He just did it instinctively.' He looked round triumphantly at the rest of the table to see if they were impressed by his perceptiveness, but he met studious blankness. ‘Well, he decided that self-important twit Nicolaisen was the most important–which is a bit of a joke, and shows he wasn't as bright as you lot have been trying to make out. Anyway, he tried talking to him first, but he didn't get anywhere, because our Halvard doesn't like the young, and more especially young men, for reasons we all know and needn't go into, so he saw he wasn't getting through and he switched round and let old Ottesen prose on at him–oops, sorry! Forgot you were here!'

‘Oh now, I say–' said Helge Ottesen, but whether in protest at being allotted only secondary importance or at this interpretation of Martin Forsyth's behaviour was not quite clear.

‘And then, he was good at getting beer bought for him. I don't think he bought one after his first. Both that poor
little Bryson girl, who has to count every penny, and that streak of nothing Cooling–there I go again!–bought him drinks just before they left: he knew he wouldn't have to buy them one in return.'

‘I've known other people at this table do the same,' said Mackenzie, with Scottish wisdom.

‘And then he let that girl pour out her boring little life story to him, just because he knew she was an easy lay. I was sitting opposite him and I could see he wasn't listening to a single word, just thinking about his own concerns.'

‘Hell–if you go by that we must all be cold little sods, because we've all done the same,' said Steve Cooling.

‘Wait, wait. He let her give him her address before she left, and he made some sort of a date with her, but after she'd gone he looked at me and said: “In case nothing better turns up.” Just like that. Do you see? He was a right bastard. He was ashamed, not because he'd led her on, but because she's so boring and ordinary. He wanted me to know he was used to a better class of girl than that. For Christ sake get me a drink, someone. I've talked myself dry as a bone.'

Bjørn Korvald obligingly got up, collected glasses and set off for the bar. Satisfied, Botner continued: ‘So I doubt if he ever turned up in
her
bed.'

‘He couldn't,' said Fagermo. ‘He was dead.'

‘Well, he wouldn't have anyway,' said Botner, ‘because he went on to something better.'

‘Oh? How do you know?'

‘I saw him! The next night, with a woman.'

‘Oh, you did, did you? A blonde, I presume, is that right?'

‘Oh, you know.' Botner looked deflated. ‘I thought I was telling you something new. I might have known there were plenty of others who saw them.'

‘Was this on Biskopsvei, above the kiosk there?'

‘Oh no, no.' Botner seemed to be trying to concentrate. ‘Not there. If I'd seen them there I'd have been in my car. And I wasn't in my car. Was I?' He looked around appealingly.

‘Let's take it as read that he wasn't in his car,' said Dougal Mackenzie.

‘Well, then, if I wasn't in my car, where would I be?'

‘Going to see Marit?' suggested Steve Cooling.

‘Got it! Got it! I was going to see Marit. She's one of the girls around the place, you know. I go there sometimes. So does Steve. Sometimes we meet in the street and toss up. That's it. I was on foot, somewhere between my flat and Marit's house. There you are. Now you know.'

‘If you could tell me where your flat is, and Marit's house.'

‘Oh yes–on the edges of Håpet. That's where we both live. A bit of a university slum. And this boy–what was his name?–Forsyth, and this girl, this woman rather, blonde, thirtyish, thirty-five maybe, they were walking along, he with his arm around her, casual, and she talking very high and fast. That's it. And I know where it was. I've got it. It was the corner of Elgveien. They were turning in. He saw me over his shoulder–saw me and grinned. That's how I know. That's how I know he was a cool, slimy bastard.'

‘Elgveien,' said Helge Ottesen. ‘Elgveien.' He looked up at Bjørn Korvald returning with two glasses of beer. ‘Isn't that where you . . . where you used to live, Bjørn?'

Half-way through the question he had faltered, and an air of profound embarrassment came over him.

The goodbyes as Fagermo and Bjørn Korvald left the Cardinal's Hat were genial but edged with unease, like a schoolboy's to his teachers on his last day, uncertain of what relationship each might have with the other in the future. Fagermo was urged to come back often, but like the schoolboy he felt he would not. A policeman does not mingle casually like other men: how many of the normal topics of conversation in the Cardinal's Hat would be discussed with equal freedom with a policeman there? He and Bjørn fought their way through the fug to the cold, clear darkness outside, and stood together uncertainly on the icy pavement.

‘I think we'd better talk,' said Fagermo abruptly. ‘Where shall we go? My office?'

Bjørn nodded unhappily, and they trudged the two minutes' walk past the SAS Hotel and round to the station. As soon as he swung open the door to his office Fagermo realized his mistake. The room was dominated by his desk, and the only natural place for him to sit was behind it. It was no place for a heart-to-heart with a friend about the friend's wife. With a sigh he accepted the inevitable, took off his coat, and sat himself on the swivel chair.