Think about something else: that would be best.
Twice yesterday I’d caught myself thinking about Judge Brandt. And that was the murder case that Muus had expressly forbidden me from investigating. But he’d not said a word about H. C. Brandt, had he?
No death notice had appeared in the paper yet, but the rumour factory suggested that, owing to the particular circumstances, the funeral would be a very quiet affair.
A visit to the widow to express my condolences would hardly be considered tactful or good manners. Yet no one could deny me a visit to the hotel where he’d met his death.
Seventeen
BERGEN WAS GOING THROUGH a new building boom, not unlike the one in the seventies. Then it had been banks that had mushroomed on the corner of every block. Now it was hotels. Some people might be tempted to say that tourism had taken over where finance had left off. But if you looked closer at who owned the hotels, it was clear that, in reality, it was only a matter of changing horses. The people behind it all, and the money with which they speculated were still the same.
The hotel where Judge Brandt had spent his final hours had always been looked upon as one of the best in town, even though a string of different owners over the past few decades had taken a bit of the shine off the reputation it had enjoyed during its heyday. I walked through reception, heading for the restaurant on the first floor, but carried on up the stairs, passed the cloakroom attached to the sitting rooms on the second floor and from there continued on up.
Considering it was a Friday, there was a good deal of activity in the corridors. It was clear that the last business guests of the week had hung on to their rooms as long as possible, and that a lot of guests were expected for the weekend, perhaps attending some congress or other.
The chambermaids hurried past, trolleys piled high with bed linen, clean and dirty, stacks of towels and freshly opened cartons of cleaning materials. At strategic points along the corridors stood red plastic crates that quickly filled up with empty bottles from the vacated rooms.
I stopped one of the chambermaids, a sturdy red-haired piece with freckles and a smile that soon became a frown when, assuming my most official voice, I asked: ‘It was you who found Judge Brandt dead, wasn’t it?’
‘Me? No way!’ she said, her alarm emphasising her Sognefjord accent. ‘It was Annebeth, but she’s not in today!’
‘Oh?’
‘She’s been off sick ever since…’
‘But -’
‘Have a word with Gro Anita. They’re flatmates!’
‘And where can I find her?’
‘On the fifth floor. She’s a big dark lass…’
I thanked her and went off in search of her workmate, two floors above.
I ran into her emerging from one of the rooms, her arms full of bed linen. She was not only large and dark but also very pretty with a flattened out southern accent, making it hard to place.
Her brown eyes looked at me apologetically as soon as I appeared in the doorway. ‘Is this your room, sir? We’re running a bit behind, see, but reception told me you two wouldn’t be checking in before three.’
‘I’m not a guest, actually.’
She pulled a face, pouting slightly with her full lips. ‘So where are you from? Department of Employment?’ She squeezed past me into the corridor and turned right.
I followed her. ‘No, I’d like to have a word with Annebeth.’
‘She’s off sick!’ she said, disappearing through an open door.
From the door I saw her chuck the dirty linen into a large basket and with quick movements of her hands start to take down a clean set from the shelves along the walls. ‘Yes, so she’s in hospital, is she?’
‘No, she’s at home.’
‘But in that case, she surely ought to be able -’
‘Mind your back!’ she ordered. ‘Look, I’m really pushed!’
I stepped aside and trotted after her back to the room she’d just come from. Without so much as a glance at me, she began to make the bed.
‘It’s quite important.’
She paused for a moment, straightened up and grimaced as she placed her hands in the small of her back. ‘Who for? You haven’t even told me your name yet!’
I smiled apologetically. ‘No, I’m sorry, but you – I haven’t had time. My name’s Veum. I represent Judge Brandt’s insurance company, and it’s just a few details about the death that we -’
‘Whether he took his own life, eh?’
‘Well…’
‘Then his old woman wouldn’t get a penny, right?’
‘Yes, of course, but that rule only applies – for the first two years after the papers have been signed… but…’
She looked at me defiantly. ‘Yes, well I can’t help you!’
‘Not even with Annebeth’s address?’
‘Oh, all right then…’ She looked me up and down in the practised way of someone accustomed to fending off heavy advances from travelling salesmen who were still half-asleep. ‘We share a small flat in Steinkjellergaten.’ She gave me the number and the floor.
I smiled. ‘We’re practically neighbours, then.’
‘Hope that doesn’t mean we’re going to be stuck with you hanging round the door every evening from now on!’
‘Are there a lot who do that?’
‘Enough to be going on with!’ Sighing, she leaned over the bed again but not as a prelude to any dalliance; it looked more as though she was on the rack to judge by her expression.
I shot out of the door before she had time to ask me the name of Brandt’s insurance company and whether I had any identification.
Steinkjellergaten is at the end of the old road into Bergen from the north. New sets had been put down, but the buildings along Steinkjellergaten still retained a historic look, and the gradient was unchanged.
The address I’d been given was in the narrowest part of the street. The two girls shared a flat on the second floor according to a handwritten cardboard sign that said: Gro Anita Vebjørnsen and Annebeth Larsson. The last three words had been added later with a different biro.
The varnished door was newer than the house. To the left of it was a narrow window. The light from the hall inside was just visible through the ribbed frosted glass.
I pressed the white button on the black doorbell.
After a while I heard hesitant padding footsteps within as though the occupant were an old lady. Then silence. No one made any attempt to open the door. It was as if she was just standing there waiting, hoping that whoever had rung the bell would go away.
But I’d rung too many doorbells in my life to give up that easily.
This time I got an answer. ‘Who is it?’ asked a muffled voice behind the thick door.
‘My name’s Veum. I’m from – the insurance company.’
After a moment’s thought there was a rattle in the lock and the door opened a crack to reveal a narrow female face peering anxiously at me. ‘What do you want?’
‘It’s about Judge Brandt. We need to clear up a few details.’
She had wispy blonde shoulder-length hair, unbrushed, and she peered at me over her large gold-rimmed glasses that had slipped a little too far down her nose. She was pale with slightly feverish rosy cheeks and wasn’t wearing much more than a blue-and-white quilted dressing gown. ‘Have you any identification?’