‘Yes, we… I mean… I got, Holger called from the office, every day, to find out whether anything had happened, you know, the way people do.’
‘Yes, I understand, but – no proper investigation, then?’
‘No, in the circumstances, Holger thought she was bound to turn up.’
‘So you haven’t talked to them?’
‘To the police? – No.’
‘But if your husband didn’t want the police involved, how do you think he would react if I…’
‘But you don’t need to talk to him, do you?’
‘Perhaps not to begin with, but… I can’t guarantee it.’
‘Just so long as you find her… Between Holger and me things are – well, whatever. It’s not important.’
‘I’ll do my best, of course. After all, I do have a fair amount of training, especially in matters of this sort.’
She opened her handbag again. ‘How much will it…’
‘The bill? Er… Look, you haven’t said anything about yourself. Do you have a job?’
‘No, not any more. But I’m a kindergarten teacher by training, so I mean, I should know, shouldn’t!?’
‘About children, you mean?’
‘Mm.’ She nodded.
‘But you never do, do you? Children are like adults, just even less predictable, that’s all.’
She took out a chequebook. ‘How much shall I put?’
‘If it takes a few days, it’ll soon mount up to five or six thousand kroner.’
I noticed her eyes widen ever so slightly. ‘But look… Just put two thousand, as an advance. If we’re lucky, that may cover it.’
She started writing out the cheque, tore it off and pushed it across the table to me, accompanied by a cheque card. I looked at the photo. Her hair had been longer then, and her cheekbones not quite so pronounced. But I made no comment.
I gave the card back to her. ‘You don’t have a photo of her, do you?’
‘Yes, of course, I brought…’ She produced a page torn out of a newspaper and gave it to me with a slightly apologetic look. ‘It was Stian who sent it in.’
I looked at the page. It was one of those congratulations columns which most newspapers have had for the past few years now, where you send in a photo of the person to whom you want to wish many happy returns, often with couplets that would make even the humblest occasional poet seem like a literary genius.
In this case the text was fairly sober: Many Happy Returns on her Sixteenth Birthday to our big sister TORILD, from the little trolls Vibeke and Stian. The photo showed a stern-faced girl looking straight at the camera in a photo booth.
‘This is the most recent one we have,’ said Sidsel Skagestøl apologetically.
‘What colour is her hair?’
‘Fair. But darker than mine.’
‘And what’s she like, otherwise?’
‘She’s rather slim, but…’ She blushed slightly, ‘but quite shapely.’
After she’d gone, I remained sitting there for a while, looking at the little picture in the newspaper. There was no hint of shapely curves here, yet her look was confident enough, as if nobody was going to tell her how the pyramids were built, who Vasco da Gama was or the formula for ferrous sulphate.
I glanced out of the window. It was already getting dark. It struck me that February was a dangerous month to be wandering about alone, especially when you were barely sixteen and nobody was going to tell you what to do.
Just as I was on my way out of the door the telephone rang.
I went back to my desk, lifted the receiver and said: ‘Yes. Hello?’
There was no reply.
‘Hello? Veum speaking.’
Still no answer. But very faintly, almost like background interference, I could just make out… What was it? A sort of digital organ music?
‘Hello?’ I said again irritably.
And the tune… There was something familiar about it…
It was… ‘Abide With Me’… Like at a funeral.
‘Hello?’ I said, a bit more cautiously this time as though the call was coming direct from the chapel. ‘Is anyone there?’
But there was still no reply. Then the connection was cut off.
Three
THE FUREBØ FAMILY lived in a semi-detached house in that part of Birkelundsbakken where you never know what gear to be in when you’re driving there. The woman who opened the front door was thickset, about five foot ten, with dark, short-cropped hair. Her face was round, her eyes brown, and she had worry lines at the corners of her mouth.
‘Yes? We don’t want any, if that’s -’
‘Mrs Furebø?’
She nodded. She was wearing a brown skirt, a light-green blouse and a reddish-brown, loose suede waistcoat. Behind her, I could see into a bright hall with yellow walls.
‘The name’s Veum. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Sidsel Skagestøl to try and find her daughter, Torild, and in connection with that, I’d like to have a word with – Åsa.’
‘You mean she hasn’t turned up yet? Sidsel called me… It was…’
‘Last Thursday, I think.’
‘Yes.’ She looked at me sceptically. ‘Do you have any identification?’
I gave her my driving licence. She fingered it as though it was a counterfeit note. ‘Doesn’t say anything here about a – private investigator.’
‘No. But I can give you some numbers you can ring for references.’
She handed my driving licence back to me. ‘No, I’m sure it’s OK. But Åsa’s not at home just now.’
I glanced at the clock. It was twenty past four. ‘But… she’s not still at school?’
‘No. Trond, my husband, collected her from school. They – had an errand to do together.’
‘When are you expecting them back, then?’
‘Well, er…’
She didn’t reply. A white Mercedes swung into the drive and parked on the far side of the small lawn. The ignition was switched off, and a young girl opened the door and emerged from the passenger side. At the wheel I glimpsed a thin face beneath a silver-grey yet boyish quiff of hair.
The girl was very pretty with dark silky hair and naturally red lips. She was slim, wearing jeans and a very expensive burgundy leather jacket. Over her shoulder she had a light-brown satchel and was wearing white trainers. Yet she didn’t move like a sporty type, more like a jaded office girl. Her blue eyes registered the fact that I was there but with no hint of curiosity.
‘But…’ I heard Randi Furebø mutter just behind me.
The other door slammed. A thin wiry man came towards us. He was wearing grey flannels, a brightly coloured pullover and an open beige windcheater. The youthfulness of the face was emphasised by prematurely greying hair as though he had once experienced the shock of a deep loss. The look he gave me was a good deal more inquisitive than the girl’s.
‘Here they come,’ said Randi Furebø.
The girl walked straight past us and into the hail with nothing but a curt Hi to her mother, who followed her with a rather unfathomable look before glancing at me with a hint of resignation: Teenagers…
The man stopped in front of me.
She said: ‘Trond, this is Veum, he’s a sort of private investigator, and -’
His face turned beetroot. ‘What?! But we’ve just been down there now! Everything’s sorted. All over and done with.’
‘I don’t quite follow,’ I started to say.
‘We’ve taken the leather jacket back, and I’ve bought her a new one myself!’
‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Randi Furebo.
‘The manageress said she was more than happy with that solution. So she said there was no reason to contact the police.’
‘But that’s not why he’s here, Trond!’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘It’s about Torild! She still hasn’t come back…’
‘Oh?’ He relaxed visibly.