Kenneth Persen and the well-dressed weasel had now stepped onto the dance floor, but it was hardly to enjoy a waltz together.
Quickly I said: ‘Which room?’
‘Four-twelve, but…’
‘You go on ahead, and…’
Just as the two champion dancers came right up beside us I let go of her and propelled her towards the exit.
‘But…’
‘Living it up, are we, Veum?’ said Kenneth Persen, who had exchanged his black leather jacket for a slightly more bar-friendly suede one.
I nodded at her to go towards the door, but she didn’t take my hint. She remained standing there.
‘Where’s Astrid?’ I growled in order to seize the offensive.
Was it just my imagination, or did his eyes momentarily shift sideways and upwards?
‘You know the police are looking for her, don’t you?’
‘All I know is we’ve been told to see you out, Veum.’
‘Don’t tell me… right out, eh?’
I looked over at Miss Molly. Suddenly she didn’t seem as youthful, and the look she gave me was neither warm nor all that friendly. With a contemptuous little toss of the head she turned back to the bar, apparently on the lookout for new investors to offer her shares to. Starting at a thousand kroner.
Kenneth Persen and his well-dressed companion came and stood on either side of me. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to resist, Veum.’
‘Nor you either,’ I said and walked up to the bar. ‘I’ll just finish my drink.’
As I walked past the bar counter, the bartender boomed: ‘See you… Wilhelmsen.’
Miss Molly had managed to haul in a new arrival, ten years older than me and the happy owner of a flashy wallet bulging with credit cards, which he was already showing her with the same pride as if it had been pictures of his grandchildren.
In reception I swung round so fast that the two chaps behind me collided. ‘What the f-!’ exclaimed Kenneth Persen.
‘What room’s she in?’
He wasn’t all that quick on the uptake, and again it took a while before he said anything. ‘Who d’you mean?’
‘You know damned well.’ I turned to face reception, where a pale, fair-haired youth sat who looked as though he could have been a theology student. ‘Astrid Nikolaisen.’
‘Niko…’
He started to look her up in the guest register, but Kenneth Persen stopped him abruptly. ‘Knock it off! She’s not in any guest book!’
‘Here incognito, is she?’ I said.
The well-dressed fleet of foot one opened his mouth for the first time. ‘Kenneth, our orders were to eject him, not converse with him.’
‘What a posh speaker! And where were you educated? Bergen Business School?’ I turned back to Kenneth Persen. ‘I could call the police, of course. Ask them to come and give the place a once-over.’
‘They’ve no bloody right!’
‘They want to speak to her, I said! Was it you who gave her the smack, as well, eh? Get the lass hooked on smack then you can have a freebie whenever you like and look after your old age!’
The weasel’s right hand was on its way out of his jacket pocket. It distracted me enough to enable Kenneth Persen to land a punch on my shoulder, sending me tumbling towards the exit.
I grabbed hold of the wall but did not have enough time to turn round properly before receiving another blow, also on the shoulder.
Kenneth Persen towered over me, while the weasel still had his hand in his pocket. ‘Got the message, Veum? Making myself plain, am I?’
I needed no further convincing to leave the premises. ‘Plainer than ABC,’ I mumbled. ‘I don’t need telling twice.’
I slammed the door behind me and turned demonstratively right, down towards the city centre. At the first corner, I stopped and look back.
Kenneth Persen stood in the doorway to make sure I really left.
But he shouldn’t be too sure about that. I was of the old school, the 1956 Bogart modeclass="underline" The harder they fall, the more terrible the vengeance they wreak.
Thirty-five
IT WAS LIKE A GOOD, old-fashioned tailing job.
I’d made a quick tour of the area, popped into a snack bar and bought two hot dogs with plenty of onions to soak up the aquavit I’d allowed myself in the bar, taken my woollen cap out of my pocket, turned up my coat collar and taken up a position in a doorway about a hundred yards from the main entrance to the hotel, with an oblique view of both it and the exit from the courtyard at the rear.
The weather was changing. The wind was gusting from the south-west, and there were snowflakes in the air. The view in front of me became grainy and blurred, like a photo taken on the move.
On a chilly Tuesday evening in late winter there wasn’t much custom. A handful of guests, all of them men on their own, arrived with suitcases. A few of them made for the bar and the dance floor. In one or two windows on the upper floors the light suddenly went on and off. Perhaps it was Miss Molly taking the man with all the credit cards up to her room. She surely had a slot he could put his credit card into to debit his account.
After about half an hour a taxi stopped outside the hotel entrance. The door opened, and the well-dressed weasel ran doubled up against the wind into the car. The passenger gave the destination and, indicator flashing, the taxi turned right at the first intersection.
Half an hour later someone appeared in the doorway leading to the courtyard at the back of the hotel. Then the figure bent over, leaned against the wall and disappeared back inside.
I looked both ways, kept an eye on the front and walked across the street at an angle, straight through the entrance leading to the rear courtyard.
Astrid Nikolaisen was leaning over, vomiting behind three dustbins. Her hair was a mess, her clothes looked as though they’d been thrown on in a hurry, and her face was ashen. The strangled sounds coming from her were like those of an animal being throttled, and she was making some twitching, almost spastic, hand movements as she leaned her arm and shoulder against the wall to support herself.
Gingerly, I put my arm round her. ‘Astrid, I -’
She jumped as though I’d slapped her. She had a dark unseeing look in her eyes. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she hissed hysterically. ‘Don’t you dare!’
From inside the building I heard the sound of a window being opened, two voices engaged in a heated exchange then the sound of the same window being slammed shut.
I took her by the arm. ‘Come on, Astrid! I’ll help you! Don’t you remember me? It’s Veum…’
She tried to get up. Wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, spat out phlegm and looked at me with fresh eyes. ‘Yeah,’ she mumbled.
A door banged further along the courtyard. ‘Astrid? Are you there?’ Kenneth Persen called out.
She grimaced and bent over again. ‘Come on,’ I whispered, ‘let’s get out of here!’
I gave her a tug, and she followed me reluctantly out into the street and down towards the busier area of the city.
When we were about ten to fifteen yards from the hotel, I heard his voice again: ‘Ve-um! You bastard!’
I pushed her ahead of me. ‘Round the corner and up the next side street. The grey Toyota at the second parking meter. Wait for me there.’
Then I turned and stood ready to defend myself, fists raised.
Kenneth Persen stopped in his tracks. He looked around as though sizing up the chances of having a go at me without being seen. But there were already people on the other side of the street who had stopped to watch us. From the next block a group of youths shouted: ‘More blood! More blood!’ then broke into raucous laughter.
In low tones, he said: ‘You’re going to be sorry, Veum! She’s mine, get it?’
‘Better than you deserve!’
‘It’s not the end of the story yet!’
‘Oh no?’
He looked at me, eyes smouldering. Then he made a brutal gesture with his right hand as though finishing me off, turned on his heel and strode off back to the hotel.