Dreamless (17 page)

Bayer followed suit, downing his drink in one gulp.

“But what about the dead man? Did you ever meet him?” asked the police chief.

“I heard he was a simple vagrant who earned his keep by singing and gambling.”

“Precisely. Our city lacks musicians of high quality. Don’t people of your social class often hire troubadours from the inns or itinerant fiddlers to play at your festivities?”

“You certainly are thorough. You don’t give up easily, do you? Those are qualities that I value in you, though I know that not everyone shares my view,” said Engel with a sigh. “It’s possible I heard something about a Swedish troubadour out at Ringve. That was at least two months ago, and I haven’t seen him since. But now you really must excuse me. I have important matters to tend to. Business related to the society, you know.”

Bayer nodded respectfully.

“I hear things are going well with that,” he said.

“Yes, the boys have made remarkable progress. Our city now stands at the forefront for developing our own Norwegian scientific research.”

The “boys” Engel was referring to were no less than Bishop Johan Ernst Gunnerus, university president Gerhard Schøning, and State Councilor Peter Frederik Suhm; together they had established the Trondheim Society seven years ago. The latter two pioneers had since moved away from the city, but thanks to the efforts of all three men, the society had attained an excellent reputation in scientific scholarship, not only in Norway but also in the rest of the world. This meant that the society could soon expect to receive the royal stamp of approval and call itself the Royal Norwegian Scientific Society. Bayer was proud of this achievement. This man, holding a schnapps glass and leaning back in a chair that had cost more than a police officer earned in a year, was a major contributor to the society’s efforts to create an independent Norwegian scientific entity. He also possessed the financial resources necessary to keep such an enterprise going.

“By all means, help yourself to another drink. One of the servants will show you out when you ring the bell. Good-bye, Bayer,” said Søren Engel.

The merchant rose and headed toward the door. Bayer couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the older gentleman without a smile on his face. Engel paused, his hand on the door handle.

“My dear Nils Bayer,” he said somberly, “you know that I think a great deal of you, even though you’re evidently a man who does not think much of himself. You seem to have planned your own ruin. You paid more than two thousand
riksdaler
to become police chief. That wasn’t a good investment. Perhaps the prefect and I ought to have a talk about this skilling per barrel that you are so eager to obtain. The prefect is always amenable to listening to my advice.”

“You would do that for me?” said Bayer in a measured tone.

“It’s the sort of thing one does for a friend.”

“And what would be expected in return from this friend?”

“Bayer, your suspiciousness offends me deeply. Of course, it’s a useful quality in anyone in charge of police matters. But before I leave, I would ask you to consider which matters should concern a police chief and which ones do not come under his purview. When was the last time you inspected the goldsmith’s scales or the baker’s flour? What about the prostitutes? Of course a gentleman might feel the need for some entertainment now and then, but it should cost him a bit more effort than it does in our city these days. Spending your time running around after a murderer who must have long since disappeared—don’t you think that’s wasting the time you owe to our king?”

Bayer sat in silence for a moment. Then he said, “Petty sins have never interested me.”

“But they ought to. Don’t you, as the police chief, realize that petty sins lead to even greater sins? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that gambling or whoring were to blame for this poor Swede’s death.”

At this point Engel opened the door, bowed to a painting on the wall behind the police chief, and left.

Alone in the room, Bayer took the flask out of his pocket and filled it with Engel’s liquor. Then he rang for the servant.

*   *   *

It looked like it was going to be a hot and sunny summer day, an excellent one to go out to the country, perhaps in the direction of Ringve Manor.

His horse, Bucephalus, was an old nag that he’d paid too much for, much too long ago. The horse had come with him from Copenhagen.

He led Bucephalus, who sadly enough was his oldest friend, out of the stable that he shared with a shoemaker and rode off toward the ferry landing in Brattøra. He was lucky enough to find the boat on the right side of the river.

Once he reached the other shore, he rode to the Bakke Inn and stopped there to have a glass of beer. While there, he argued with the owner, who said that the police chief must have better things to do than go searching for a killer. Take, for example, the trash that filled the city streets. When was the last time the chief had posted a placard threatening fines for such conditions? Bayer didn’t leave Bakke until close to midday, which meant he had to travel in the strongest sunlight of the day. When he eventually arrived at Ringve, he was sweating profusely and in a foul mood.

He rode over to the stable and left his horse with one of the lads before he headed for the main building, a long, narrow house built in the sturdy Trøndelag style.

A freestanding portal with carved, painted pillars made the entrance a sight to behold. On the little roof above the portal sat a worker who was attaching a beautiful weather vane made from cast iron.

“Are the master and mistress at home?” asked Bayer.

The young man climbed down the ladder at once and went inside the house without a word. A moment later Captain Preben Wessel appeared in the doorway. Although his stomach was no match for Bayer’s, he was still a gentleman of ample girth. His wig was slightly askew, and his shirtfront a bit rumpled.

“Police Chief Bayer,” he said with a smile. “To what do I owe this rare honor?”

Bayer cleared his throat.

“Oh, Dr. Fredrici advised me to spend a day in the country. It’s this cough I have,” he said as he took his pipe out of his pocket.

“The city air can be ghastly. I never use our house in town during the summer,” said Wessel.

“Well, I just happened to be riding past, and so I wondered if you might offer a traveler a dram and bite to eat.” He started filling his pipe.

“But of course, Police Chief. You must know that we have our own licensed tavern out here.”

The captain pointed toward the inn called Nybryggen, a pleasant place where Bayer vaguely remembered getting drunk on some previous outing.

“So come with me, by all means. You are most welcome, as my private guest.” There was genuine hospitality in Wessel’s smile.

Bayer was invited upstairs to a large room with windows facing each other on either side. A place was set for him at the table while Bayer looked out at the courtyard. From here, he could peer down at the straw hat the laborer was wearing as he resumed his work on the weather vane above the entrance. Then Bayer crossed the room and looked out at the garden in back. A woman holding a spade was bent over an empty black flower bed. The gown she wore was much too nice for that sort of work.

“My wife loves to dig in the ground,” said Captain Wessel as he came over to join Bayer. “I think it’s because of her provincial background. She just can’t stay away from a bed of newly turned earth. It’s funny that a seaman such as myself should fall for a peasant type like her.” He spoke with genuine love for the woman he’d married.

Bayer nodded and then sat down at the table, which now held dishes of soup, cheese curd, bread, and bacon. A big mug of beer and some good aquavit had also been set on the table.

“I see that you enjoy music,” said Bayer, pointing to several types of stringed instruments hanging on one wall.

“It’s my wife who is the musician,” said the captain, looking a bit uncomfortable. “I can only manage to produce screeches from those things.”

“Do you ever invite musicians out here, Captain?”

Wessel looked at him for a moment without speaking. Bayer helped himself to the soup and some beer.

“What I’m asking is this: On festive occasions, is it only the captain’s wife who plays, or do you ever hire fiddlers?”

“Once in a while, yes, but I’m uncertain what you mean by this line of questioning.”

“Oh, this is just a friendly conversation between two friends. I happened to stop by Bakke on my way here, and they told me about the big celebration you had out here in March. At Bakke, they seemed to think there might have been a Swedish fiddler present. Could that be right?”

“We had a fiddler, yes. But whether he was Swedish, I can’t remember. He played for us only one evening here in the house, but otherwise I think he played several evenings in the tavern.”

“And he hasn’t been back since then?”

“No. Why do you ask? I must say that you disappoint me, Police Chief Bayer. You say this is a peaceful visit, but in truth you’ve come here to dig into my private affairs. I demand to know what this is all about.”

“Fine,” said Bayer, taking a healthy swig of beer. “This Swedish fiddler was found dead yesterday morning on the outskirts of town. I presume you haven’t heard of the case yet.”

“No. News travels slowly out here in the country, as you well know. But why do you need to talk to me about this man?” Wessel’s expression was still strained.

“You have every right to ask. The fact is that we know very little about him except that he was out here in March. Since then, he apparently spent most of his time playing dice in some of the pubs in town, and he made very few acquaintances. He’s something of a mystery to us.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Wessel, now looking significantly more relaxed. “But the man who played for us was here and gone in a matter of a few days.”

Neither man said anything more for a while as they ate their bread.

Then Bayer said, “Did he play well?”

Again Wessel’s expression turned stony.

“You will have to ask my wife about that. I have no ear for music.”

*   *   *

Having finished his meal, Bayer thanked his host and then had his horse saddled up. Wessel had come out to the courtyard to see him off.

Bayer began the slow process of mounting his horse. For a man of his size, it was an effort that he couldn’t handle more than a few times a day, and after a day of traveling, his strength was almost gone.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of my servants to ferry you across the water to town? I think there might be enough room for both you and your horse in my new boat, which is docked in Ringve Bay.”

The captain watched the police chief with barely concealed glee. But Bucephalus knew his master well, and he was also a patient mount. Finally Bayer managed to haul himself into the saddle. He declined the offer, wondering whether the captain was more doubtful about space in the boat for him or for his horse. Then he asked one last question: “Have you met any other Swedes out here lately?”

The police chief silently counted as Wessel blinked four times before answering.

“No. Why would I? We’re not at war, you know.”

“I know. Tordenskiold’s time is long past,” said Bayer, referring to the captain’s ancestor and previous occupant of Ringve Manor.

Then he recalled that Tordenskiold was said to have run away from home when he was very young. He also remembered hearing that the captain had lost a son at a young age. Their ship had gone down during a voyage to Copenhagen, and the boy did not survive.

And so it was with a feeling of compassion that he rode away from Ringve Manor. We all have our ghosts to bear, he thought.

*   *   *

It was evening by the time he returned to the city. He was worn-out, and after putting his horse in the stable, all he really wanted to do was fall into bed. But he decided to make a quick stop at his office. There he found Torp sitting in the dim light, waiting for him.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” asked Bayer with alarm.

“I’ve been waiting for you all day,” replied Torp. “It’s about the body, that Swedish singer we took over to the hospital chapel yesterday. The priest came over right after you left this morning to give us the news. The body has been stolen from the chapel.”

17

A
glass struck
the kitchen cupboard and shattered. Most of the glass shards fell into the sink, while the rest slid across the counter, and a few landed on the floor. The next glass struck almost the same spot. This time, more of the shards ended up on the oak parquet floor.

Elise Edvardsen hadn’t been able to accept that the music she’d heard from the yard was something she’d imagined. All attempts to sleep had failed, and finally she couldn’t stay in bed any longer. Now she was standing in the kitchen, howling and kicking at the pieces of glass. She grabbed another glass from the counter and flung it without taking aim at anything specific. It struck the door to the living room, raining glass shards all over the threshold. She had an urge to take off her slippers and jump on the pieces, to feel them slicing into the soles of her feet. She imagined her warm blood seeping out, and there was something strangely comforting about that thought. Then she sank to the floor, sobbing.

I need to call the police and tell them about what I heard, she thought.

But she stayed where she was until Ivar came in from the yard. He hadn’t been able to sleep either, so he’d gone to shovel the driveway. It had snowed again in the night. He’d said that this would save him from having to shovel in the morning. As if that was important for some reason.

“Elise, what happened?”

Not that fucking phony voice again, she thought, and then wailed, “What the hell do you care?”

He didn’t reply, just began sweeping up the pieces of glass on the floor as she sobbed quietly. Finally he said, “You’re not being fair. You know I’m worried. That I care just as much as you do. I’m trying to stay positive. I still think they’re going to find her.” He opened the cupboard under the sink and emptied the dustpan into the garbage. “Do you know what this is?” he asked. “Smashing glasses is the kind of thing we do when we’ve given up. And we haven’t given up yet. She ran away. They’ll find her.”