The man he referred to as Fred had the same type of moustache as his boss, although his hair was shaven right down to the scalp, and his nose looked as though someone had head-butted it a few times. When I met his eyes this time, it was with a sense of mutual understanding that we both knew where we stood, but that I would never be able to produce any evidence as to who it was who’d paid me a visit in my office the time they’d filled me half full of drink when my system was already awash with Antabuse, and all I could recall afterwards was the tone of Birger Bjelland’s accent and the name of his companion: Fred.
I looked demonstratively at the clock. ‘Yes, I have an appointment too… at five o’clock.’
Birger Bjelland gave me a look of sour anticipation. ‘No need to spin it out, then, eh?’
‘No.’ I tried to lean back in the chair as though I’d only dropped in for a casual chat. ‘I’ve been told,’ I began, ‘that you’re the owner of an amusement arcade in the centre of town called Jimmy’s…’
He threw up his hands. ‘That’s no secret, Veum.’
‘Do you know what goes on there, I wonder?’
He leaned slightly forward. ‘No-o. What did you have in mind?’
‘Well, both myself – and others – have noticed that young girls are recruited for certain assignments… you can guess the sort I’m talking about… at certain hotels in the vicinity. And that they’re recruited at Jimmy’s.’
‘And how is this supposed to happen?’
‘Apparently by phoning the manager – Kalle Persen,’ I added to show how well informed I was.
Birger Bjelland clenched his fingers and looked disinterestedly at his nails. ‘No comment, Veum. How my staff run the establishments I have a stake in doesn’t concern me in principle, provided they don’t make a loss.’
‘You’ve also bought the former Week End Hotel, haven’t you?’
‘No reason to deny it. In any case, it was in the papers.’
‘The same type of thing goes on there too, centred on the bar and with the hotel rooms even more readily to hand, I imagine.’
He frowned as though something had just occurred to him.
‘So you’re not bothered what sort of reputation your hotels have either, are you?’
‘Reputations can take many different forms, Veum.’
‘Precisely. Was Judge Brandt one of the clients, I wonder?’
‘I do business with so many people,’ he said neutrally, ‘but that particular name is one I can’t say I…’
‘No? You must surely have read the articles in the papers about that girl who was found dead, up on Fanafjell… Torild Skagestøl. Does the name mean anything to you?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘Well, no. Perhaps not the name itself, but as an item of revenue in your accounts?’
‘You’ll have to talk to -’
‘Your accountant perhaps?’ I glanced quickly at Fred.
‘Yes, he’s a man of many parts.’
‘I’m sure he is. Helge Hagavik was a regular at Jimmy’s. Do you remember him?’
With the patience of a saint Birger Bjelland replied: ‘I so rarely visit the places I own, Veum, and when I do, it’s always to talk to the staff, rarely to any of the customers. What are your sources for all these assertions?’
‘Press contacts – and representatives of a Women’s Lib group called Ottar, although why I’m not exactly sure.’
He puckered his mouth as though there was a nasty smell under his nose. ‘Women’s Libbers?’
‘Something like that.’
‘They’re the worst of the lot, Veum. They paint the devil on a chapel wall if the spirit moves them.’
‘For absolutely no reason?’
‘For absolutely no reason, Veum!’
I hesitated a moment. Then I said: ‘Tell me, something I’ve always wondered about, what’s the main activity of this company of yours, Bjelland?’
He scarcely raised his eyelids. ‘Finance, investments of one kind and another, and loans of all types and sizes… You’re not after a small loan yourself, are you? Interest rates are low just now…’
‘One kneecap instead of two?’
‘That wasn’t funny, Veum. We run a completely legal business, within the precise limits laid down by the law. Our accounts are impeccable, can’t be faulted and our relations with the tax authorities couldn’t be more cordial.’ As though it was the New Jerusalem he was welcoming me to, he threw up his arms and said in an unctuous, sermonising voice: ‘I’m the whitest lamb on God’s earth, Veum. There isn’t a stain on my reputation. My businesses are run on the highest moral principles.’
‘Amen. Hallelujah,’ I said.
‘Don’t be blasphemous,’ said Birger Bjelland with a rather dopey smile.
I half stood up. ‘So how come your name constantly pops up in connection with all kinds of unsavoury business? How come nine out of ten investments you put your money in are connected with prostitution and illegal sales of alcohol, gambling and other fine arts? How do you explain that?’
‘Can you show me the way to Sodom and Gomorrah, Veum?’
I glanced round. ‘I thought that’s where we were.’
‘The ways of the Lord are inscrutable.’
‘And which Sunday school did you go to? Agnostics Anonymous?’
He raised his hand indolently. ‘Veum, let me give you a word of friendly advice.’
‘Please do,’ I muttered.
‘Don’t push your luck, old boy. Don’t think that you’re somehow untouchable. There’s nothing sadder than watching good wine turn bad, as it were.’
‘Thus spake the wife of Canaan, too.’
He sighed audibly, looked over at Fred and said: ‘Mrs Helgesen’s almost certainly gone home by now. Can you see Veum out, right out?’
I stood up and walked towards the door.
‘And don’t forget what I said,’ he directed at my back.
Fred already had his hand on the doorknob when I turned back towards Birger Bjelland. ‘Don’t forget to watch your back too. Be careful, little foot, where you step. Didn’t they teach you that hymn at Sunday School as well?’
He made no effort to answer; merely smiled that indolent smile of his, which made me think of a shark waiting to attack.
Fred accompanied me out. Right out. And didn’t even say ‘Au revoir.’
Thirty-three
I CALLED KARIN well before five o’clock and assured her that everything was all right. There was nobody behind me in the telephone booth pointing a sawn-off shotgun at my head, and no one had invited me to go for a drive I couldn’t refuse.
‘Are you coming up here?’
‘There’s still something I have to do. But if the offer can remain open till about midnight, then…’
‘But no later than that,’ she said, in a resigned tone.
‘Absolutely no later,’ I said.
The Pastel Hotel stuck out from the other buildings in the block like a front tooth painted pink.
The Week End Hotel had been one of those anonymous bed and breakfast hotels with a bar, dancing in the evening and a rear courtyard I had the most unpleasant memories of. The new owners had stripped off all the previous ornamental façade, not that anything had been lost by doing so. On the other hand, they had painted it in a nondescript pale pink colour that fitted the new name like a glove.
It was nearly half-past seven when, fresh from the shower and wearing a casually knotted Tuesday tie, I walked through reception into the bar, where there were not many other people besides a couple of middle-aged men and a not quite so middle-aged lady.
I ambled up to the bar counter, hoisted myself onto one of the stools and ordered a Clausthaler and aquavit. ‘Riding the lame horse today, are we?’ said the bartender with a crooked smile.
I took a quick look at him. The moustache was apparently the club emblem, even if it looked a bit pricklier than Birger Bjelland’s.