‘This girl, then, who you got to say far too much, was she sure it was Torild Skagestøl who was with Brandt that day?’
‘As good as…’
‘I think we’re going to have to have a word with her in connection with this too. The last time it seems to have been a bit too cursory.’
‘This place called Jimmy’s,’ I said, ‘reminds you a bit of those places in the fifties or sixties that were exposed as procuring joints. Know who’s behind it?’
‘No.’
‘Birger Bjelland.’
‘That hypocritical Stavanger creep! If only we could get something on him…’
‘It’s not that easy, evidently.’
‘He walks a very fine line between his legal activities and what we’re all quite sure is the illegal stuff he’s got his fingers in.’
‘He’s crossed my path often enough in the past few years.’
‘But without your being able to link him with anything illegal, right? I mean in the sense of something that would stand up in court.’
‘No, alas. But what about… Al Capone was caught on a tax matter in the end, wasn’t he?’
‘Waste of time. He has a first-rate accountant and sends in immaculate tax returns and annual accounts on time every single year.’
‘But one of these days he’s going to make a slip, Helleve, and then…’
‘Then we’ll stand at the door here and wish him a pleasant stay at His Majesty’s Pleasure, you can bet on that, Veum!’
‘Is it OK if I see what I can dig up on what you call the prostitution angle, working on my own?’
‘Provided you keep strictly to that, and I don’t mean as a client, Veum. But if you start to get close to the murder, even by half an inch, then that’s it. Then you’re under an absolute obligation to report it right away – either to me or the nearest police authority.!s that clear?’
‘Message received. Over and out.’
‘And not a word in the paper, Veum!’
‘Cross my heart and hope to die, Scout’s Honour,’ I said and left.
Twenty-two
JIMMY’S OPENED at twelve o’clock, and it was just after ten past as I approached the door.
When I looked in through the window I saw the silhouette of a man clearly outlined against the bright light in the room at the back. Behind the counter sat ‘Kalle’ in the same unwashed chef’s smock as before, but with a fresh newspaper and hopefully freshly brewed coffee in his cup. As I opened the door and went in, I heard the sound of another door being closed. When I looked up the man who had been standing in the doorway of the room at the back had gone.
Kalle shot a sullen sideways glance at me.
I took a quick look around. At the far end, hunched over a machine, was a lad with a lock of long fair hair falling over his eyes. He scowled in my direction, obviously bothered by his conscience, missing school as he was, and for all he knew I could be from Child Welfare.
Kalle slammed down his cup and stood up behind the counter. ‘What do you want?’
‘Actually, I was looking for my – nephew.’
‘Nephew. Kiss my arse!’
‘Ronny.’
‘Daren’t show his face here any more. I told him that was it. You’d best look for him somewhere else.’
I moved towards him. ‘Er… Kalle… I didn’t catch your surname.’
‘Persen,’ he said, a bit surprised. ‘What’s it got to do with you anyway?’
‘I was hoping to have a word with Bjelland actually.’
‘Bje -’ He glanced involuntarily towards the back door. ‘What for? It’s me who’s business manager here.’
‘Diploma from Bergen Business School, I suppose? Does Bjelland know about the scam you’re running from here, or is it something you started off your own bat?’
He looked even more sullen. ‘What scam?’
The lad in the corner glanced at us for a second, before dropping in a coin and starting a new game. The hollow tinny sound of the introductory music echoed through the room.
‘I think you know what I’m driving at. Young girls and – boys… I hung around for a while outside this place on Thursday, and it wasn’t all that hard to find out where at least one of them ended up. Same place as Torild Skagestøl last Friday, right?’
Kalle Persen leaned forward over the counter so abruptly that I stepped back. He waved a podgy index finger in my face and snarled: ‘Look, mate, if you don’t want to spend the rest of your life with broken kneecaps, I suggest you watch your mouth – and no mistake. Got my drift?’
‘Can I have that in writing so I can take it down to the police station in Domkirkegaten and show them?’
‘You can have it for real some night when you’re least expecting it.’
‘Better be before Wednesday.’
‘Before Wednesday? How d’you mean?’
‘Forget it. In other words, you’re suggesting I should speak to Bjelland in person, are you? Where can I find him?’
‘He’s in the phone book.’
‘So, he’s not the one hiding in the back room, is he?’
A sort of smile broke out beneath the mouse fur on his upper lip. ‘You can go and take a look if you want…’
‘It’s not that important.’ I walked towards the door. ‘Have a nice day.’
‘Kiss my -’
‘I didn’t do it last time, and I’m not going to this time either.’
I left the door ajar when I went out, so he’d have the pleasure of coming out from behind the counter and walking across the floor to shut it again after me.
It wasn’t time for a visit to Birger Bjelland yet and perhaps never would be.
Instead I went back to the office and, not without a trace of anxiety, went through the mail. But today’s contained no death notices.
I tried to get hold of Evy Berge. There was no answer at her home number. And when I called her department at Haukeland Hospital, she was in theatre. – Could they ask her to call me? – But I preferred not to leave my name. You could never tell. It might end up in their database, and next time I was taken to hospital, they might discover I’d donated all my internal organs to the Institute of Pathology.
I ought to talk to one of the girls.
Astrid was the hardest nut to crack, but Åsa was probably harder to get hold of, at least, if I wanted to avoid having her parents there.
I leafed back through my notes with the feeling that there was another lead I’d meant to chase up before…
The Guide leader… Sigrun Søvik. I’d made a note of it.
When I called the office of the Girl Guides Association at Vetrlidsalmenningen I was given her work phone number: a development company with offices in Søndre. And if I still wanted to go to Karin’s in Landås, it wasn’t much of a detour.
The district of Mindemyren is the coldest place in Bergen. In winter, the frost smoke never quite loosens its grip there. If you leave your car parked for long, you can have trouble starting it.
The development company had offices on the first and second floors over a warehouse, behind large grey steel Venetian blinds. I found Sigrun Søvik in a red check flannel shirt and grey pullover, totally absorbed in a computer screen, where she was slowly rotating a construction, with technical data listed here and there, deftly touching certain keys. The walls around her were covered in technical drawings. On a couple of them I thought I recognised the same diagram as on the screen.
She looked up at me vaguely as I stood in the doorway of her tiny office. ‘Yes? What, er…?’
She was a stocky woman with medium fair hair, shorter at the back than in front, staring eyes and a strikingly broad bridge of the nose, as if it had once been broken. Her mouth – she was not wearing lipstick – seemed slightly too small for her large face, and when she pursed her lips rather primly, it looked out of place, like a transplant after some terrible accident.