Wolves in the Dark E-Book

Gunnar Staalesen

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Varg Veum
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 481

Beschreibung

On the path to self-destruction after the death of his girlfriend, things take a turn for the worse, when child pornography is found on Varg Veum's computer and he must battle to prove his innocence … the chilling new instalment in the award-winning Varg Veum series, by one of the fathers of Nordic Noir.'Mature and captivating' Rosemary Goring, Herald Scotland'Moving, uncompromising' Publishers Weekly_________________Reeling from the death of his great love, Karin, Varg Veum's life has descended into a self-destructive spiral of alcohol, lust, grief and blackouts.When traces of child pornography are found on his computer, he's accused of being part of a paedophile ring and thrown into a prison cell. There, he struggles to sift through his past to work out who is responsible for planting the material … and who is seeking the ultimate revenge.When a chance to escape presents itself, Varg finds himself on the run in his hometown of Bergen. With the clock ticking and the police on his tail, Varg takes on his hardest – and most personal – case yet.Dark, emotive and compulsive, Wolves in the Dark is the absorbing, shocking next instalment in the addictive Varg Veum series, by one of the fathers of Nordic Noir._________________Praise for Gunnar Staalesen'There is a world-weary existential sadness that hangs over his central detective. The prose is stripped back and simple … deep emotion bubbling under the surface – the real turmoil of the characters' lives just under the surface for the reader to intuit, rather than have it spelled out for them' Doug Johnstone, The Big Issue'Gunnar Staalesen is one of my very favourite Scandinavian authors. Operating out of Bergen in Norway, his private eye, Varg Veum, is a complex but engaging anti-hero. Varg means "wolf " in Norwegian, and this is a series with very sharp teeth' Ian Rankin'Staalesen continually reminds us he is one of the finest of Nordic novelists' Financial Times'Chilling and perilous results — all told in a pleasingly dry style' Sunday Times'Staalesen does a masterful job of exposing the worst of Norwegian society in this highly disturbing entry' Publishers Weekly'The Varg Veum series is more concerned with character and motivation than spectacle, and it's in the quieter scenes that the real drama lies' Herald Scotland'Every inch the equal of his Nordic confreres Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbo' Independent'Not many books hook you in the first chapter – this one did, and never let go!' Mari Hannah'With an expositional style that is all but invisible, Staalesen masterfully compels us from the first pages … If you're a fan of Varg Veum, this is not to be missed, and if you're new to the series, this is one of the best ones. You're encouraged to jump right in, even if the Norwegian names can be a bit confusing to follow' Crime Fiction Lover'With short, smart, darkly punchy chapters Wolves at the Door is a provocative and gripping read' LoveReading'Haunting, dark and totally noir, a great read' New Books Magazine'An upmarket Philip Marlowe' Maxim Jakubowski, The Bookseller'Razor-edged Scandinavian crime fiction at its finest' Quentin Bates

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR GUNNAR STAALESEN

‘Gunnar Staalesen is one of my very favourite Scandinavian authors. Operating out of Bergen in Norway, his private eye, Varg Veum, is a complex but engaging anti-hero. Varg means “wolf ” in Norwegian, and this is a series with very sharp teeth’ Ian Rankin

‘The Norwegian Chandler’ Jo Nesbø

‘Razor-edged Scandinavian crime fiction at its finest’ Quentin Bates

‘Not many books hook you in the first chapter – this one did, and never let go!’ Mari Hannah

‘With its exploration of family dynamics and the complex web of human behaviour, Staalesen’s novel echoes the great California author Ross MacDonald’s Lew Archer mysteries. There are some incredible set-pieces including a botched act of terrorism that has frightening consequences, but the Varg Veum series is more concerned with character and motivation than spectacle, and it’s in the quieter scenes that the real drama lies’ Russel McLean, Herald Scotland

‘There is a world-weary existential sadness that hangs over his central detective. The prose is stripped back and simple … deep emotion bubbling under the surface – the real turmoil of the characters’ lives just under the surface for the reader to intuit, rather than have it spelled out for them’ Doug Johnstone, The Big Issue

‘Norwegian master Staalesen is an author who eschews police procedural narratives for noirish private eye pieces … Staalesen dislikes Scandinavian parochial in his writing, and continues to work – bravely, some would say – in a traditional US-style genre, drawing on such writers as the late Ross MacDonald. Nevertheless, he is a contemporary writer; there is some abrasive Scandicrime social commentary here’ Barry Forshaw, Financial Times

‘If this is your first time reading a book in this series, some of which are yet to be translated, you’ll find yourself instantly warming to the strong yet sensitive Veum and the vivid self-reflections that punctuate his perambulations. His ongoing bouts with the tyrannies of alcoholism, which threaten to thwart his investigative efforts, are poignant, and the primal scene that forms the core of the mystery is equal parts shocking and ingenious. Almost forty years into the Varg Veum odyssey, Staalesen is at the height of his storytelling powers’ Crime Fiction Lover

‘Staalesen has created a sharp and intelligent but also vulnerable PI with whom the reader builds a strong rapport. The end of We Shall Inherit the Wind was a devastating blow to both parties and Where Roses Never Die is a shared recovery. Staalesen is an expert of his craft and once again he has delivered an absorbing mystery expertly solved by his endearing PI, Varg Veum’ Live Many Lives

‘Staalesen’s greatest strength is the quality of his writing. The incidental asides and observations are wonderful and elevate the book from a straightforward murder investigation into something more substantial’ Sarah Ward, Crime Pieces

‘Staalesen’s mastery of pacing enables him to develop his characters in a leisurely way without sacrificing tension and suspense’ Publishers Weekly

‘Gunnar Staalesen was writing suspenseful and socially conscious Nordic Noir long before any of today’s Swedish crime writers had managed to put together a single page … one of Norway’s most skillful storytellers’ Johan Theorin

‘An upmarket Philip Marlowe’ Maxim Jakubowski, The Bookseller

‘Staalesen proves why he is one of the best storytellers alive with a deft touch and no wasted words; he is like a sniper who carefully chooses his target before he takes aim’ Atticus Finch

‘There is a strong social message within the narrative which is at times chilling, always gripping and with a few perfectly placed twists and turns that make it more addictive the further you get into it’ Liz Loves Books

‘The prose is richly detailed, the plot enthused with social and environmental commentary while never diminishing in interest or pace, the dialogue natural and convincing and the supporting characters all bristle with life. A multi-layered, engrossing and skilfully written novel; there’s not an excess word’ Tony Hill, Mumbling about …

‘The plot is compelling, with new intrigues unfolding as each page is turned … a distinctive and welcome addition to the crime fiction genre’ Never Imitate

‘A well-paced, thrilling plot, with the usual topical social concerns we have come to expect from Staalesen’s confident pen…’ Finding Time To Write

‘We Shall Inherit the Wind brings together great characterisation, a fast-paced plot and an exceptional social conscience … The beauty of Staalesen’s writing and thinking is in the richness of interpretations on offer: poignant love story, murder investigation, essay on human nature and conscience, or tale of passion and revenge’ Ewa Sherman, EuroCrime

‘Quite simply, Where Roses Never Die is an exquisite work of crime fiction and Staalesen’s eye for characters is as finely honed as his readers have come to expect. Beautifully paced and making some wider statements on the repercussions of behaviour on impressionable youths and morality, this is the literary equivalent of manna from heaven!’ Rachel Hall

‘It’s cunningly plotted and kept me guessing right until the end, when I not only gasped but also shed a tear as all was revealed. A perfect choice for fans of Nordic Noir as well as intense, chilling crime fiction’ Off-the-Shelf Books

‘Where Roses Never Die is somewhat lighter in tone than previous instalments in Staalesen’s series. It even hints that Varg Veum’s lengthy romantic dry spell might be coming to an end. The author also does a superior job of building suspense in regards to both the kidnapping and robbery cases, stitching clues into his plot that leave one wondering about the crimes’ connections. His portrayals of the players involved in these puzzles benefit from multiple, gradually unfolding dimensions’ Kirkus

‘It isn’t just (or even primarily) a case of finding out “whodunit”. It’s not simply a “Where’s Wally” exercise in recognising the clues and putting them together with a “Hey, presto – he’s the murderer” outcome. The Scandinavian approach also focuses on the aftershocks. The sundering judders, shudders, waves and even ripples that spread out into the lives of people affected by the trauma of the central event. It’s at this that Staalesen really excels’ The Library Door

‘There is a claustrophobic feeling to the story, a sense of unease surrounding this seemingly tranquil suburb. Whilst everything may have appeared normal on the surface, there were secrets just waiting to emerge. This is a well-paced, suspenseful book that keeps you guessing until the very end’ Owl on the Bookshelf

‘Averse as I am to gushing, with some authors it’s difficult to remain completely objective when you have genuinely loved every single book that they have ever produced. Such is my problem – but a nice problem – with the venerable Mr Staalesen, and with Where Roses Never Die, which merely compounds my adoration of this series to date’ Raven Crime Reads

‘A brilliant crime thriller, which I absolutely loved. It reminded me slightly of an Agatha Christie novel, not because of the main character but because of the brilliance of how the whole plot is written and how it had me totally clueless as to how everything fits together and who is behind the disappearance of the young girl. Can’t recommend highly enough … this is one author whose books I will certainly be checking out and reading more’ By the Letter Book Reviews

‘This is really Scandinavian crime writing at its very best. There is something dark and haunting about this novel that will test every sinew of your emotions as the truth emerges’ Last Word Book Review

‘Where Roses Never Die is an exceptionally plotted, well written and hauntingly evocative lesson in Norwegian crime writing. I experienced a wide range of emotions while reading it, and in the interest of full disclosure, this Ice Queen shed some tears reading it! I cannot recommend this book highly enough’ Bibliophile Book Club

‘This is the sort of crime novel to go for if you like brooding, rough round the edges heroes. The mystery itself takes us down a few misdirected paths, till eventually we see the shocking and sad hidden truth. Staalesen is critiquing the selfish human condition and how it brings about its own downfall. This is a fabulous and very accessible Nordic thriller, with a dark satisfying side’ Northern Crime

‘There are unexpected twists throughout the story, which are cleverly placed to make sure you keep turning the pages. It’s a very enjoyable read about a group of people who aren’t necessarily what they seem. Would I recommend this book? Definitely!’ Damp Pebbles

‘Where Roses Never Die is a wonderfully written novel that shows that what goes on behind closed doors is rarely what you would imagine. As long-buried secrets are unearthed, Staalesen takes his time to prolong the suspense about what has happened to this little girl, resulting in an enticing, gripping read’ Segnalibro

‘Once again, fluently translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett, Staalesen’s first-person prose is so meticulous, it could have been sculpted out of ice. There’s not a superfluous word as Veum edges closer to the frozen core of a truth buried away for decades, revealing as he does so dark and shocking tensions that have split apart the couples living near little Mette’s family. Superbly paced, taut and atmospheric, this is a beautifully crafted crime thriller that’s always full of humanity’ Claire Thinking

Wolves in the Dark

GUNNAR STAALESEN

Translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett

Contents

Title PageMap123456789101112131415161718192021222324252627282930313233343536373839404142434445464748495051525354555657585960About the AuthorAbout the TranslatorCopyright

1

They came early – to catch me in bed. At seven I was woken by a loud, continuous ring on the bell downstairs. I staggered to the window, opened it and looked out.

The police car was parked nose to the wall. In front of my door stood Inspector Bjarne Solheim, accompanied by his colleague Arne Melvær.

‘Veum?’ Solheim said. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Do I have the option to say no?’

He turned an unsmiling face up at me and shook his head slowly.

I closed the window, threw on a dressing gown, thrust my feet into a pair of slippers and trudged down the narrow staircase. I had barely opened the door before they were inside. Both eyed me warily.

Solheim put his hand into an inside pocket and pulled out a folded document. His look was solemn as he said: ‘We have a warrant for your arrest, Veum. And a search warrant. Have you got a computer in the house?’

I stared at him in shock. ‘Yes? A laptop. But—’

‘It’s confiscated. We’ll go up with you, so that you can put some clothes on. Afterwards you’ll have to accompany us to Police HQ.’

I still wasn’t sure if I was awake or if all this was some bad dream. ‘Tell me … Are you serious? And what have I been arrested for?’

‘We can deal with that at the station. Hamre’s already waiting.’

A few minutes later we were heading towards Allehelgens gate. Melvær was sitting with my computer on his lap, his facial expression suggesting he had been entrusted with the Crown Jewels. A few hours ago I had been as happy with my life as I was able to allow myself to be. Now I was sitting in the back of a police car, feeling like a naughty boy being summoned to the headmaster for no obvious reason.

Outside the car, the town was waking up to a dull, grey September day. I could see it was going to be far different from the one I had imagined. I already envied those people getting out of the yellow buses to walk to an office or some other everyday job somewhere in town, anywhere but the police station.

2

Jakob E. Hamre, the section head, was about my age. In other words, he was fast closing in on retirement. Not even that thought made him a cheerier spectacle as he sat behind his desk, observing me with a face gloomier than that of a passport official at the pearly gates. His hair was greyer than when I had last seen him, nearly white in some parts. It was thinner than I remembered as well, unless he had just washed it.

His eyes narrowed visibly as I sat down on the chair opposite him. ‘I would never have believed I’d experience this, Veum.’

‘We’ve sat like this on innumerable occasions, Hamre.’

‘Not like this.’ He looked down and flicked through some papers he had in front of him.

I craned my neck to see what they could be. From a distance they looked like computer print-outs, but internet technology had never been my strongest suit. I was happy so long as my computer worked, I could get online, and send and receive emails.

‘I have a print-out here,’ he said, rather redundantly. ‘It’s a summary of the traffic on your office computer over the last six months. If we wish we can go even further back. The laptop we confiscated during your arrest will now be examined by our experts to compare, and perhaps document, similar content.’

I felt my jaw drop. ‘Tell me … is that legal?’

He nodded. ‘Court order.’

‘And what do you mean by “similar content”?’

He sent me a stern gaze. ‘I reckon you can work that out for yourself.’

‘No, in fact I can’t. All I use the computer for is emails, banking, booking the odd ticket and various searches connected with work.’

His eyes flashed. ‘And you’ve been working on cases that involve dubious content recently, have you?’

‘Dubious content?’ I wasn’t so stupid that I didn’t suspect where this was leading. Though I didn’t understand the how and why. ‘Could you perhaps be a little more explicit?’

He heaved a heavy sigh, pushed some of the papers aside, leaned forward slightly and stared at me darkly. ‘Child pornography, Veum.’ He grimaced. ‘Of the most repugnant kind.’

I could feel my body stiffening, the way muscles brace themselves in the face of an assumed danger. I still felt as if I were trapped in a bad dream, as though I had been transferred into a parallel existence where nothing was how it should be; or I was looking into a fairground mirror, struggling to recognise myself.

I gesticulated with my right hand, a denial of everything. ‘I know nothing about this. This cannot possibly be right. And if it is…’

‘Yes?’ He fixed his eyes on me.

‘Then someone has got into my computer and left it there intentionally.’

‘Quod erat demonstrandum, Veum. That’s Latin, in case you didn’t know, and it means “that which was to be proved”.’

‘Well, I’ll help you in every way possible. You can rely on me!’ When he said nothing, I carried on: ‘Surely you can’t believe that I … that this is something I … that I would … I’m speechless.’

‘And perhaps that shows the thin ice you’re walking on.’

‘Now, just listen here! I understand nothing about computers, except the essentials, as I told you. But surely you have experts who can examine this and … find out what happened?’

‘If someone hacked into your computer, as it’s called, it ought to be possible to find that out, yes. The problem, Veum, is that you are not on your own. Our raid today wasn’t some chance visit. This afternoon you’ll hear about it on the radio news. It’ll be on TV this evening and it’ll be splashed over all the newspapers for days.’

‘What will be splashed over the newspapers?’

‘Hordaland Police District, in co-operation with several other police districts in Norway, other European countries and, furthermore, the USA, in the early hours of this morning uncovered an international child pornography ring that distributes images over the internet. Arrests are being made in a number of countries. As well as you there are three other men in our district awaiting interrogation – either here, or in one case at a provincial police station. Your IP address appeared on this network with incoming and outgoing traffic.’

‘Incoming and outgoing?’

‘It means you’ve both received and sent … images that have been shared around the network.’

‘But, but…’ My face was taut, and all the muscles in my body, from the back of my head to the soles of my feet, were tensed. ‘This is absolutely incomprehensible! My God, Hamre. You’ve known me … for how many years?’

He shrugged. ‘Too many, if you ask me.’

‘You can’t think … you can’t believe that I would be involved in this with my background – from Child Welfare officer to private investigator?’

‘I don’t want to believe it, Veum, but…’ Again he showed me the paperwork on his desk. ‘The evidence is weighty. And the case has to be examined. In the meantime you’ll be remanded in custody. No visitors and no mail of any kind.’

At once I felt a deep fear shiver through my body and I wanted to open one of his desk drawers to see if he had a tiny bottle of aquavit waiting for me.

‘I assume you’re not going to make a confession?’

‘Confession! For Christ’s sake, I have nothing to confess. This is madness. Any discerning person can see that.’

‘This discerning person can’t,’ he drawled, then announced: ‘Your case will come up today.’

I heard my own voice quiver with nerves as I said: ‘I suppose I’m entitled to a lawyer?’

He nodded. ‘You are. Anyone in particular?’

‘Give me Vidar Waagenes. He knows me well.’

‘We’ll ring him. For now you’ll be put in a basement cell. You can spend your time having a good think. About whether it wouldn’t pay to lay all your cards on the table.’

‘There are no cards to show you, Hamre. Not in this hand. Can I make a call to tell my family where I am?’

‘Only in my presence. Afterwards you’ll have to leave the phone with us.’

‘You’ll examine that too, I take it.’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s an old model. No camera.’

‘Well … are you going to make the call?’

I dialled Sølvi’s number. Her phone rang five times, then the voice-mail cut in: ‘You have reached Sølvi Hegge. I can’t take the phone now, but I can call you back as soon as I’m free, or you can leave a message after the tone.’

When the tone came I just stared blankly at the phone. I had no idea what to say. So I pressed ‘off’ and looked at Hamre. ‘She didn’t answer.’

‘Perhaps just as well, Veum.’

3

Bjarne Solheim’s scruffy hair, which often stood on end, had always reminded me of Stan Laurel – the thin one from Laurel & Hardy, in my opinion the funniest comic duo ever. But there was nothing comical about him as he stood beside me in the lift, accompanying me to the custody suite in the basement. We didn’t exchange a single word, and he stared gloomily at the lift door until we had reached the bottom.

I had my belt and shoelaces taken off me but was allowed to keep my notepad and biro, the latter after much rumination on the officer’s part.

‘Has anyone committed suicide with a biro?’ I asked.

The officer glared at me. ‘Spare me the wit. You can use it to stab with, can’t you?’

Yes, in my eye, I answered in my head, making sure I didn’t say it aloud.

Then the door closed behind me, it was locked and I was alone in a hotel room I hadn’t booked, but someone had reserved for me anyway.

Bergen’s custody suite is in the basement of Police HQ, which was built in 1965. It didn’t appear that any great modernisation had taken place since then. There was no drunk tank, but the sparse furnishings meant the difference was not immense: a bench, a table fixed to the wall, a hole in one corner and a metal sink beside it. No windows, just a hatch in the door to the corridor. Through it I heard the garbled protests of one of the drunk-tank fraternity, but was unable to make any sense of what he was saying.

The shocked numbness I had felt in my body after Hamre had outlined the serious charge against me was now being replaced by something even more unpleasant: panic. It made my heart pound in my chest and sweat form between my shoulder blades and on my forehead. I gasped for breath as though my respiratory system were on the blink. My body twitched uncontrollably a few times, and I leaned against the wall so as not to fall over; at least that was how it felt.

I slumped down on the bench, leaned back against the wall, rested my head and concentrated on taking deep, controlled breaths, down to my belly: slow inhalation, controlled release; slow inhalation, controlled release.

Gradually the panic attack began to lose its grip, but still I could feel it in my body, like a hollow in the pit of my stomach and a lump in my chest, a kind of collar around my lungs.

I looked around. Bare, greyish-white walls. Not one picture. A few swear words carved into the plaster and some unrefined drawings of disproportionately large, erect sexual organs, head-on, as it were. This wasn’t a place people stayed for long. You were taken out relatively fast and released or sent for a longer stay in the luxury accommodation at Åsane – or even further away if it was overbooked.

I had nothing to read. All I had was my pad with a few boring notes on cases I had either cracked or couldn’t crack – all two to three months old. I flicked through to a blank page, clicked the biro and sat staring at the white sheet. I had nothing to write. In the end, I jotted down the date, 10th September 2002, and then a big question mark. No matter how hard I concentrated on what Hamre had said, I couldn’t understand where all the evidence had come from and why I hadn’t discovered it for myself.

On the other hand, there was quite a lot I had only vague memories of in the soon-to-be four years that had passed since Karin had been so suddenly and brutally ripped out of my life. I had a fairly good perspective of the last six months because of the case I had worked on and which had brought Sølvi and me together. The three years or so before that were wreathed in the sombre mists of confusion and intoxication, shame and dishonour, en route from the gutter to the sewer, in the company of men and women I would have preferred not to be seen with, even on the darkest night. I had taken on jobs I wouldn’t normally have touched with a barge pole, but I had never been as low as the place where Hamre had put me during the first meeting in his office. There were limits, tattooed inside my heart, and I never crossed them.

Only last night I had been with Sølvi and her young daughter in Saudalskleivane. After Helene had fallen asleep, we had stood above her bed as if we were her parents, and no evil had befallen her or her mother in the past six months. She looked like an angel as she slept, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow like a bridal veil. Helene was ten and a half years old. She was a beautiful little girl with gentle features, round cheeks and a mouth that loved to smile when she was awake. Her eyelids twitched, and I couldn’t help but remember how Beate and I had stood over Thomas’s bed and looked down on him in exactly the same way, a very long time ago, of course.

After a while we had tiptoed back into the living room, where Sølvi had another glass of red wine and I had a last bottle of Farris mineral water, the idea being that I would drive home.

Once she had finished her wine, we went into the bedroom. Her mouth, so welcoming and soft and open, tasted of red wine. In the dim light we made love with a passion that told us nothing goes out of date so long as the contents are still fresh.

Afterwards we lay chatting.

She tugged at my ear and said: ‘I wonder what it was that made me fall for you.’

‘I’m probably not the right person to answer that question,’ I mumbled.

She chuckled. ‘Actually I’m wondering if it wasn’t a kind of maternal feeling.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said, pulling her to me and kissing her in a way no son would, as if to persuade her there must have been something else.

‘I mean it, Varg. You seemed so lost.’

I hadn’t convinced her, in other words. But I could live with that. The alternative was a great deal more boring.

It was approaching two in the morning when I got into my car and drove home. We still hadn’t reached the stage of having breakfast together; not while Helene was at home. It wasn’t a year yet since she had lost her father, and I still had a way to go before I could be promoted to step-daddy, in her eyes. But on a good day I could imagine that I was on my way. And yesterday had been just that: a good day without the slightest hint of what was to come.

There was a rattle in the lock, and I turned to face the heavy door, which was pulled open to let in Vidar Waagenes. He didn’t look a bundle of laughs, either.

‘Veum,’ he declared, holding out a hand.

I struggled to my feet and shook hands. ‘Nice to see you again,’ I mumbled, although I had no memory of when I last saw him.

He nodded towards the bench. ‘We can have a few words here before going back to see Hamre.’ He motioned to the prison officer waiting in the doorway. ‘You can leave us alone now, Johnsen.’

Johnsen nodded and pulled the door to, without locking it this time.

I looked at Vidar Waagenes. He had become a forty-something, but there was still a boyish gaucheness about him that made you feel he would be easy prey in a court of law. It was a misjudgement many had had cause to regret; and experience had taught me he was the opposite. He was a trial lawyer of the highest calibre and would have been a star in Oslo, if he hadn’t preferred to remain in a large house in Fjellveien, within walking distance of the Bergen Law Courts, Wesselstuen – a celebrity restaurant – and other places he had to go for professional reasons or to satisfy other proclivities. If anyone could get me out of the fix I was in, it was him.

His dark hair was speckled with grey, but he still had a forelock and he still swept it to the side with the same flick. He was elegantly dressed in a grey suit, white shirt and a bluish-grey tie that was hardly likely to cause annoyance to anyone. The glance he cast at my outfit – blue jeans and black T-shirt thrown on in haste after the early-morning call several hours earlier – suggested the opposite. He would probably have recommended different clothes if we were going to court.

He sat down next to me on the bench and half turned in what seemed like a very uncomfortable position. ‘Let’s hear your side of the story then, Veum.’

‘My side? I haven’t got one.’

He sent me a measured look. ‘That’s what most people say, at first.’

I gesticulated impatiently. ‘But it’s true, Vidar. I have no idea what this is about!’

He sighed. ‘Well, what I’ve been given to understand by Hamre is that they have located extremely incriminating material on your computer. Have you any comment?’

‘It came like a bolt from the blue. I’ve never opened that kind of webpage or gone onto a website of that description.’

He shrugged. ‘It could have been in connection with a case.’

‘Yes, but that’s never happened. Thank God, I’ve never had cases like that.’

His face crinkled in disappointment. ‘We could have used that as an argument in court.’

‘I’d opened child porn webpages in connection with a case?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you recommending that I lie, Vidar?’

He pouted, the way lawyers do when they are generally trying to avoid the truth. ‘Not as such, but … let’s say it was your side of the story.’

‘Even if it isn’t true?’

His eyes gleamed, and he smiled at me. ‘Thank you, Veum. That was how I hoped you would react. If we stick to the truth, in principle nothing can go wrong.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘We’ve never had travesties of justice in this country?’

‘Well, we have, in fact.’

‘But you’re sure we’ll avoid one this time?’

‘Let’s not assume the worst. Right now we have two important tasks ahead of us. We have to talk to Hamre and find out how willing he would be to drop charges. From what he said on the phone I doubt we’ll achieve that. So either this afternoon or tomorrow morning there will be a review of your case, which could be important. Are you ready for action?’

I spread my arms. ‘Ready for everything except staying here, anyway.’

‘Then I’ll tell Johnsen he needs to get someone down to accompany us.’

‘They won’t let us go upstairs on our own?’

‘Not on a day like today, I’m afraid.’

4

Two officers came to collect us. They looked like brothers: one big and strong; the other slightly smaller. Both had shaven heads, newly pressed uniforms, and they gave the impression that descending into Hades to fetch a depressed Orpheus from the dead-end street where he had ended up was a pleasant duty.

‘One each,’ I mumbled to Waagenes.

He rolled his eyes and led the way out of the cell. They escorted us to Hamre’s office before leaving us in the company of those present.

Hamre wasn’t alone any more. With him sat Beatrice Bauge, a surprisingly young woman to have the title ‘police solicitor’, so young I could have been her father. She had blonde hair pulled back into a bun, a square jaw and the coolest eyes I had seen since I was last in the bank. This lady wasn’t going to give much away either, sadly.

We shook hands, but neither of us smiled. There was a sombre atmosphere in the small office, as though none of us actually wanted to be there. At an undertaker’s there was a definite tone of friendliness. Here there was nothing. Hamre was grey-faced, Beatrice Bauge had angry red blotches on her cheeks, Vidar Waagenes looked as if he was placing all his bets on the wrong horse, and I wouldn’t have been able to perform a somersault if they had paid me a million kroner.

Beatrice Bauge sat there in full uniform, as straight-backed as if she were leading the day’s press conference, which in fact she announced. ‘You all know what this case is about. The press conference has been called for 1800 hours, and I think I can guarantee it will be headline news throughout the media tonight.’

She deliberately interposed a tiny pause and watched her words sink in. They did, like underwater mines programmed to detonate any second. Again I felt fear grip me, and the room had started to tip.

‘Not mentioning any names, I assume,’ I managed to stutter.

She stiffened her lips into a caricature of a smile. ‘No, we won’t go that far, but you never know what the media can find out. They often operate effectively outside our systems.’

‘Inside too, I’ve been told.’

Waagenes gave an admonitory cough. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say, Veum. They need to have solid proof before they put their heads above the parapet.’

This time she did indeed give a little smile.

‘I doubt if there’s any proof more solid than this.’ She shifted her gaze back to me. ‘As soon as we start the hearings you’ll be confronted with various links to an international child pornography ring, with primary emphasis on your…’ Now it was her turn to cough. ‘…What shall I call them – colleagues? – in the local area.’

‘I don’t have any “colleagues”!’

‘No? Acquaintances then, perhaps?’

‘No, not the kind you’re referring to.’

‘Early this morning we confiscated the computer you have in your office and the laptop you have at home.’

‘In the office! How did you get in?’

‘We had some assistance.’

‘I hope you remembered to lock up afterwards!’

She sent me a condescending glare. ‘This material will now be thoroughly examined by our professional experts. But they’ve already established that you’re an active participant in exchanging images, film clips and comments in this … what shall I call it? … market?’

This was making my head whirl. ‘I’ve never … Film clips? Comments? I’ve never written a comment in any thread, not even one about Brann FC, however tempting that might be.’

She sighed theatrically and turned back to Waagenes. ‘Of course you’ll be given all the material we’ve had to sit through.’ She pulled a face. ‘For the refreshment and purification of your soul.’

‘Amen,’ I muttered.

‘I doubt you’ll be able to object that all the evidence we’ve gathered isn’t enough to formulate a charge. I’m also convinced the court will agree when we ask, initially, for your client to be held in custody for four weeks, with no visitors or access to mail.’

‘No visitors or mail?’ Waagenes echoed. ‘Isn’t that a little on the severe side?’

She slowly shook her head. Hamre stirred uneasily in his seat; he’d been conspicuously quiet throughout the proceedings so far. ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Any communication within the alleged network must be stopped. We’re not ruling out the possibility of further arrests in the course of the next twenty-four hours, but we feel confident that the four people we have in custody now are the main operators in this locality.’

‘The main operators?’ I burst out, still unable to believe my own ears.

She nodded, without adding anything else this time.

Waagenes looked in my direction with some concern. ‘Naturally we’ll oppose custody. My client maintains he is one hundred percent innocent of the charges being made. He has absolutely no idea how these images have got onto his computers, and we will assert that they have been planted from the outside – by someone who has hacked into them.’

‘We will dispute this. We can wait with the technical data until we’re in court, but we are confident that Veum put the images there himself.’

I just shook my head in disbelief. ‘What else can I say? Where’s the old legal ruling that a defendant should be given the benefit of the doubt?’

‘Doubt? What doubt?’ Beatrice Bauge answered drily.

‘When is the hearing scheduled for?’ Waagenes asked.

‘1500 hours.’

‘Then I’d like to have a full session with my client beforehand. Is there a spare room we can use up here?’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘Spare room? Do you think we’re running a hotel? You’ll have to make do with the custody suite.’

Again Hamre shifted uneasily. ‘We need the time we have left, Beatrice.’

‘Right.’ She stood up as a sign the meeting was over.

Accompanied by Charon and his little brother, Waagenes and I took the lift back down to Hades. I wondered if I should look for a coin or two to place on my eyes, then I remembered all my small change had been taken from me earlier in the day. You weren’t allowed to take so much as a fifty-øre coin down into Hades in this part of the world, one early-autumn day at the very beginning of the twenty-first century.

5

With a perturbed expression on his face, Waagenes sat down on the bench and motioned for me to join him while the officer outside locked the door behind us. Through the hatch they could keep an eye on their clientele without having to open up. It was, after all, a place where, if you were dead drunk on arrival, it was easy to suffer a sudden cessation of life.

Waagenes leaned towards me and said in a low voice, ‘The first thing we must have one hundred percent clear is the following: Can you, hand on heart, assure me you know nothing about this case?’

‘I’ll put my hand wherever you want, Vidar, but I can assure you, this came like a bolt from the blue, straight through the roof, in fact, for me too. Someone has gained access to my computers, either directly or externally, if that’s possible. I have to admit I know nothing about these things at all. About how you do it. But someone has put this filth on my computers, in which case it must’ve been intentional. How did the police find it? Did someone tip them off?’

Waagenes nodded. ‘I’ll try to find out. And you have no idea who this might have been?’

I shrugged. ‘Lots of people have borne me some resentment over the years. Not just resentment but deep grudges. But would any of them have the technological expertise to do this? It’s just as likely to be a fifteen-year-old as someone of my age. More likely in fact.’

He looked at me sharply. ‘Oh? Have you someone in mind?’

‘No. That was just an example.’

‘Let me try to draw up a list of possibilities here. How has business been for you in recent years?’

I ran a hand through my hair and squirmed. The bench was hard and uncomfortable to sit on, but that wasn’t what was making me squirm. I said: ‘Earlier this year I solved a cold case, almost twenty-five years old.’

He nodded. ‘Yes? Carry on.’

‘But it was also the first proper case I’d investigated for … some years.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘I…’ Talking about it was still torture. ‘I lost my partner in connection with a case nearly four years ago. The time since then has been … complicated.’

He nodded sympathetically and waited for me to continue.

‘It all … became too much for me. Too many … too much drinking.’

‘Mhm. But you carried on professionally?’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t very sober.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘In other words, what you remember from those days is hazy?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Well … that doesn’t make the situation any easier. Let me ask you the following question: Could your fitful memory of these years mean that you might – unbeknown to yourself – have been on some of these websites that the charming frøken Bauge informed us about upstairs?’

I looked at him with a feeling somewhat redolent of a bad conscience. ‘I’d have remembered, Vidar! I wasn’t that far gone.’

‘Sure?’

‘…Yes.’

I closed my eyes. I visualised some situations, some people, some women I’d encountered during the dark days of my past. Very few of these women were under fifty. If they were, they charged a fee. And I was never sat behind a computer screen; unless I was trying to coax the last drop from my internet bank before the next bill was due. Otherwise the screen remained dark and all the lights were out – at home and in my office.

‘Hmm.’ Vidar Waagenes looked pensive. ‘We have the hearing in a few hours. I’ll go and buy you some clothes. You can’t appear … like that.’ His eyes wandered eloquently over my outfit. ‘In the meantime I think you should consider your situation and see if you can remember anything at all that might help us in court. I’ll see if I can lay my hands on a few more facts – any documentation the folks upstairs might be willing to release. Then I’ll come back for you. If you had this week’s winning lottery ticket it would be crawling with press outside, but this hearing will be behind closed doors, I can promise you that.’

Resigned, I nodded and watched him being let out of the cell. After he had gone I took out my notepad and my lethal biro. Before starting to write, I slumped back against the wall, closed my eyes and probed the past.

6

The first three years after Karin died had been like a peregrination through a Salvador Dalί landscape, seen through the bottom of an aquavit bottle.

The detail was strange, often terrible, and again and again I saw her lying there on the windblown island coast with her head twisted, for no reason, surrounded by long-disconnected clock faces, humanoid figures with grotesque facial expressions, no bodies but enormous legs, like gigantic spiders. Inside a room, there was pounding music, a decibel level beyond anything imaginable, men smashing bottles against glass with such power, like cymbals in a symphony orchestra, and semi-naked women leaning back, pulling up their skirts, spreading their legs and revealing a sunset so murky that the most polluted intersection in Europe – Danmarksplass in Bergen on a cold February day – seemed like paradise by comparison. And outside the wolves howled. When I put my face to the window pane I saw fantasy animals of the most incredible kind: insect legs; a sheep’s skin and elephant trunks; dogs with fangs like sabre-toothed tigers; cats with claws like sword points, dripping with blood; and monkeys performing the rudest movements, dancing on an altar in front of a screen filled to the margins with pornographic images, images so savage I could wake in the middle of the night bathed in sweat and convinced I would never be able to close my eyes again, for fear of experiencing more of the same.

I had staggered in and out of this landscape, with either a bottle or a glass in hand. I remembered trying to cling to my office, where I sat staring at the phone, as if waiting for Karin to ring – or at least a client. I had watched the pile of bills grow ever higher until I could have played Happy Families with them and won every round; nothing was easier than finding four of the same. But recently reminders had been replaced by debt-recovery letters, and it seemed as if I would never win. Creditors queued outside my office door, and on the rare occasion a client did appear they often left frustrated because I had been too drunk to understand what the job involved.

It had been the darkest period of my life, and I had experienced total blackouts, which now meant that I shuddered at the thought: Could I have done what Hamre insisted I did do during one of these? Wasn’t I basically guilty?

I opened my eyes and stared at the pale, dirty wall on the opposite side of the room. Once again I could feel my respiratory system malfunctioning, as though my lungs wouldn’t take the air I inhaled; instead it wrapped itself around my chest like tape, so strong that I didn’t have the strength to tear it in half.

I forced myself to sit properly. I opened my notepad, gripped the biro tightly, stared down at the blank paper and tried to conjure up some images, some names, some moments, from the bleak years.

Slowly the mist lifted and gradually shapes emerged – a few. I jotted down words.

7

When I heard from Nils Åkre, my old friend in the insurance business, one crisp February day in the very first year of the new millennium, it came as a surprise. After an embarrassing and unpleasant case a few years earlier, all communication between us had ceased, with fatal consequences for my finances, business and private. After we finished talking, I sat staring through the office window. The low sun emphasised the saw-tooth roofline of Bryggen’s Hanseatic houses on the other side of Vågen bay against the buildings behind, and the silhouette of Mount Fløyfjell was as sharp as a Japanese paper cut-out – greyish-black against the light-blue sky.

As I was already several centilitres down the day’s first bottle of aquavit I was obliged to walk to Olav Kyrres gate in order to catch a bus to Nils’s office in Fyllingsdalen. Around three-quarters of an hour later I was standing in the reception area at the insurance company, having a visitor’s badge stuck to my lapel and the way to his office explained by a woman who was so new there she had never seen me before. I mumbled something about knowing where his office was, and she smiled back in a nice, cultivated way, like a loyal representative of the customer-friendly institution they were known to be – at least until you needed them.

Nils Åkre found it difficult to meet my gaze, but whether that was because he still had a guilty conscience about what had happened the previous time we saw each other or because my eyes were swimming, I couldn’t be sure. We exchanged glances like two shy teenagers on their very first date, and then, with a broad flourish, he waved me to the customer chair while he sat down behind the desk.

I wondered whether he had been comfort-eating since our last meeting, because he had definitely swollen up, to the hundred-kilo mark, it looked like, and it wasn’t increased muscle mass. He was squeezed into a suit that looked as if the seams might burst at any moment, but had lashed an immense knot in his tie, perhaps to moor himself to life. The tie was the same light-blue as the sky, but there wasn’t much sunshine in his eyes, which flitted around, not settling for an instant.

He ignored the opportunity for a chat and got straight down to business. ‘As I said on the phone, Varg, I’ve got a job for you.’ I didn’t make a comment, and he carried on talking: ‘The reason we’ve come to you regarding this matter is because we have no-one else to turn to.’

It was one of the most dubious compliments I’d had for many years, yet I still refrained from commenting.

He peered out of the window as though the answer to life’s mysteries lay somewhere there. ‘You might’ve been wondering why you haven’t heard from us for some years…’

Well, actually I hadn’t been, considering his Parthian shot the last time we met.

‘But in fact we’ve become as good as self-reliant in what I’d call … your field.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Crime investigation,’ he added, as though I didn’t understand what he was talking about. ‘More and more police officers find employment with us, even before they reach retirement age, and afterwards, of course.’

I nodded. I was aware the market was not on my side any more. Nor did I have early retirement to fall back on. There was no such package for private investigators, I knew that.

‘But now one of these is causing us problems.’

‘A police officer?’

‘A trivial matter, actually, but … we can’t sack old colleagues here, we have to turn to others.’

‘And of the heavies you know, I was first in line?’

‘Heavies?’

‘Yes, I assume this is about some outstanding debts? I know all about them, not to put too fine a point on it.’

‘Well … yes, it is about something like that. So many bills are due and so little money has been recovered that the bailiff has given up. But we’re responsible for car insurance here.’

‘All you have to do is confiscate his assets, don’t you? Car, house, cabin?’

‘That’s the problem. He has nothing left – of that kind of asset, anyway. Not even the car in question. Which he didn’t pay for in the final years he had it.’

‘Nice for some,’ I said, envious.

‘He’s claiming his pension, and that’s it. But we suspect he has something up his sleeve.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘If I can put it like that. He’s got a girlfriend he lives with, in Fusa. This woman has a house and a car, and even more. She has a property in Spain and they spend most of the winter there. In short, there’s nothing wrong with their finances.’

‘He married wisely?’

‘They’re not married. A girlfriend, I said. No common property, so nothing we can confiscate from her house.’

‘How did she get all the money?’

‘Fish farm, which was sold when her husband died.’

‘Lucrative business, so I’ve heard.’

‘Not bad.’

‘And what do you want me to do about this?’

He leaned towards the edge of the desk, as far as his stomach would permit. ‘I want you to pay them a visit and try to get a picture of the possessions they have. See if there’s anything that could be said to be his alone. By which I mean anything from expensive fishing equipment to a wristwatch or other valuable items.’

‘But you said … It’s winter now. They’d be in Spain, wouldn’t they?’

‘They’re back home for … I think it was a funeral. If you’re lucky you can catch them before they return.’

‘Not close family, I hope.’

‘No, it was a neighbour, as far as I’ve been led to believe.’

My shoulder twitched, which I interpreted as a sign of stress. This was not a case I was looking forward to. ‘Let me repeat your words, Nils. This is a trivial matter.’

He clenched his lips and eyed me thoughtfully before continuing. ‘We live off trivial matters, Varg. The big cases we take to court.’ As I said nothing, he added: ‘Don’t tell me you don’t need the money!’

I didn’t tell him I didn’t need the money. We agreed that I would take the job. I noted down the name and the address of the people I was to investigate. The police officer, who had served in Bergen, was called Sturle Heimark and, according to Åkre, he was divorced and had no children. His girlfriend in Fusa was called Nora Nedstrand. Heimark was in his early sixties, his girlfriend around fifty. We signed the requisite papers, and I arranged for Åkre to transfer an advance to my bank account, which at the moment was emptier than a football stand on Christmas Day. I stuffed the papers in my inside pocket, thanked Nils, went downstairs, outside and over to the closest bus stop to wait for the next bus back into town.

I tried not to think about it, but the answer was remorseless. If I was going to Fusa the following day I would have to get off the booze as quickly as I jumped on the bus when it appeared.

8

A Toyota Corolla is a patient friend. Even if the owner has barely been in a state to drive more than a couple of times over the last six months, she waits patiently by the kerb in Øvre Blekevei. As soon as I get in and twist the key she starts without a murmur – not so much as a sigh of relief at finally getting some exercise.

The day after my visit to Nils Åkre the clouds had drawn in from the west, the way salmon return to the river of their youth after being away for months. But the thermometer showed around five degrees, so any precipitation would be rain and not snow, which was a plus because I hadn’t had any winter tyres put on since my last outing.

The shortest route to Fusa was via Os and the ferry between Hatvik and Venjaneset – a trip that took around twelve minutes; just enough to stretch your legs, go to the toilet or have a quick cup of coffee if you were at the front of the queue. I stayed in my car, examining the notes I had made after meeting Nils Åkre. I noticed I was out of practice and unsure how to tackle the matter. But the advance brought with it obligations, even if in the course of the morning it had disappeared into the payment market of the sky, and I would never see it again. By the time I drove ashore in Venjaneset and passed the large industrial plant by the quay I wasn’t much the wiser. And it had started raining.

At the first crossing I drove left to Strandvik, turned into the car park by the local supermarket and took out the road atlas. After studying it I set off again, along Fusa Fjord. On the opposite side I looked across to Osøyro and the stretch of coast between Solstrand and Hatvik, where Mount Møsnuken towered above all the other mountains. According to my notes, Nora Nedstrand had a 1980s detached house. The landmark I had to keep an eye open for was the closest neighbour – a largish building that had previously belonged to a fishing equipment company, now disused and taken over by a local firm importing computer products.

I was there in no time. For some reason I had what was unpleasantly reminiscent of heart palpitations, and my mouth was so dry I cursed myself for not buying a bottle of water at least. I drove as far along the kerb as I could and sat pondering my next move.

The large building had been white twenty years ago. Now the paint was peeling and revealed the greyish-brown woodwork beneath, scarred by the ravages of time, like a stuffed animal. The half-erased name of the original business was still legible at the front: NEDSTRAND FISHING EQUIPMENT A/S. There was a big, blue van parked by the entrance, and a couple of young men were carrying piles of cardboard boxes from the vehicle. They stopped and looked suspiciously in my direction. In town you could pull into the pavement and sit in your car without anyone batting an eyelid. In the country, you stood out like a snail on a racecourse, and not many would risk a bet on you.

I got out of my car, locked it, pretended I hadn’t seen them and headed for the green post box that signalled the entrance to the neighbouring building – a grey timber house with a white plinth and a well-established white-cedar hedge to discourage prying passersby. From the corner of my eye I saw the young men by the blue van exchange a few words before continuing to unload.

I checked the name on the post box. The only word there was ‘Nedstrand’, but that definitely indicated I was in the right place. I looked towards the house. There were lights on in several of the windows. So I shrugged and ambled up the gravel drive lined by rhododendrons and other bushes, speculating which approach I should adopt: the smart one or the stupid one.

To the right of the house there was a garage with the door open, and I saw the front of a popular 4x4 there, a dark-grey Mitsubishi Outlander. The registration number tallied with the number I had been given by Nils Åkre.

The woman who opened the door when I rang the bell was one of the fairly large kind, with generous curves from the neck down, attractively arranged and camouflaged behind a flowery dress with a dark-blue base, slightly flared at the knee in a way that seemed a tiny bit old-fashioned. Unless it was this year’s fashion; I had long given up following trends. She had thick, red hair, combed back and held in place on both sides with dark-green slides before cascading in curls halfway down to her shoulders. ‘Yes?’ she said, looking at me enquiringly.

‘My name’s Veum.’ I shot a glance over her shoulder, but all I could see was a dimly lit hall and half a wardrobe mirror. ‘I was wondering … Are you Nora Nedstrand?’

‘Yes?’

I indicated the neighbouring building. ‘Do you have anything to do with Nedstrand Fishing Equipment?’

She looked at me blankly. ‘It was closed down many years ago.’

‘Yes, that’s what I thought. You don’t know where the owners are?’

She made a tiny moue with her full lips to tell me how sad it was to be asked about precisely that. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘And…?’

‘That is to say … one died exactly five years ago. The other last week.’ Without my asking, she added: ‘The first was my husband, Oliver. He built up the business together with our neighbour, Knut Kaspersen, whom we accompanied to his resting place just before the weekend.’

‘I see. Have you taken it over then?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? The business was closed down many years ago. Oliver and Knut went into fish farming, and that was a lot better, but when Oliver died, I sold my equity interest to Knut and since then have lived off—’

She was interrupted by a voice from inside. ‘Who are you talking to, Nora?’