Blame The Dead

Nygaard half opened a drawer, changed his mind, and left the bottle in plain view. Then picked up an electric kettle and shook it. 'Would you want some coffee, ja?'

'If you're making it anyway.' I perched myself on the arm of a middle-aged armchair that was wearing an old but recently cleaned cover.

He got the kettle switched on, found a jar of instant coffee and a couple of mugs and a bag of sugar, and even that effort made him wheeze a bit. 'Are you a sailor man, Mr – er-?'

'Card. No.'

'So why do you visit an old man like me, hey?'

'I'm doing some work for somebody in Lloyd's of London.' Well, there was a reasonable percentage of truth in that. 'I understand you were in the Skadi when she…'

He turned his back and the big shoulders trembled. 'No. I do not talk about that.'

'Sorry.' I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. 'But you're going to have to talk about it to the court if the case ever comes to trial. Why not to me?'

'Always lawyers, questions, why this and that, all the time. No. Why cannot an old man die by himself, with his own people?' He still had his back to me.

'You're not dying, come off it.' He didn't answer. 'All right, don't talk about the collision, then. Did you ever meet a man called Steen?'

He turned around and seemed calmer.'Ja, I meet him, once, twice.'

'Recently?'

'A month, I think. Ja.'

'What did he ask you about?'

He flapped his arms like stiff wings. 'Always the same, Skadi, Skadi, Skadi.' Then the kettle hissed and he turned away to make the coffee.

I asked, 'Did you read this morning's papers?'

'I don't read newspapers. Only the shipping magazine.'

'Steen got himself killed yesterday. Murdered.'

He shook his head. 'I did not like him.'

'Why not?' Though I could see why a neat, fastidious man like Steen – to judge from his clothes and office – wouldn't get on too well with Nygaard.

He turned round with a couple of steaming mugs. 'Just always questions. Skadi, Skadi, Skadi.'

His hand trembled as he held out the mug, and just the touch of warmth from it reminded me how cold the room was; I still had my sheepskin coat on. There was a serious-looking electric fan heater in the corner, but Nygaard obviously preferred to use his spare cash for other things.

For a while we just sipped, and probably he was wondering why I was there as much as I was myself. Then I managed to slop some coffee down my coat collar, and reached for my handkerchief.

He jerked like a shot puppet. 'No, no! You must not smoke! No light, no!' One crumpled, shivering hand was stretched out towards me.

Very carefully, I took out the handkerchief and mopped myself. He slumped and half turned away. I said, 'You don't like naked flame? Well, that sounds reasonable, after what you went through.'

His hand reached for the whisky, then pulled back and patted the thin white strands on his scalp. And then tried to reach the bottle again. He gave me a quick sideways glance that was both sly and hopeful and I wanted to tell him to go ahead and have one. But you can't, not even when you know you can't stop it, you can't be the one to start it.

Then he picked the bottle up as if he'd never seen it before and studied the label carefully. 'I do not know this type before. It is good,; a?'

I shrugged. 'Don't know it myself.' Though at more than three quid for a half bottle it had ruddy well better be good.

He waved the bottle at me. 'You like some in the coffee?'

'Well…' What do you say? The small eyes looked at me yearningly.

He said quickly, 'I don't drink in the afternoon. But just once, to, try it, ja?'

He had the cap unscrewed. Silently, I held out my mug and he shook, rather than poured, a tot in. Then turned his back to me so that, maybe by accident, I couldn't see how much he gave himself.

'Skol.'He lifted the mug and took a gulp, and smiled easily. 'Is good, ja?'

'Yes, sure.' A car stopped somewhere outside – a rare enough noise in that street for him to hear it and pause. But he didn't go to look. I sipped on; he gulped.

Then I asked, 'You ever heard of something called H and Thornton?'

He had. He gave another jerk, then buried his face in the mug, and came up with a carefully thoughtful expression. 'You say what?'

'H and Thornton. I think they're a firm of solicitors, or maybe ship surveyors or something.'

Now he was looking genuinely puzzled. He shook his head. 'No, I do not know them. No.'

Hell. I'd had him and I'd lost him, but I didn't know how or where.

Then feet came galloping down the corridor – young feet. There was the briefest of knocks on the door, it slammed open, and she came straight in – and not to wish me a Merry Christmas.

She was young, tall, blonde, and she might have quite a figure under the dark blue anorak and black ski pants. Right now, she just stood and stared fiercely at me, flushed and panting slightly and with the funny little white student cap on her head knocked sideways.

'What are you doing here?1 'Having a quiet cup of coffee with Herr Nygaard.'

She glared suspiciously around, then spotted the whisky. 'Did you bring this?'

I nodded.

'It is not good for him!' For a moment I thought she was going to heave it through the window – and so did he. I've never seen anybody look so simply horrified.

But she controlled herself. 'Who are you?'

I told her, but it didn't mean anything.

'Why do you want to see him? '

'Hold on a minute. Who are you? – his daughter?'

'No, I am only a student. But I help look after him.' That accounted for the fresh-painted furniture, then, and the flowers and general tidiness.

"Very charitable of you,' I said approvingly. 'Nice to know there are still some students who don't spend all their time smashing up the campus and sleeping three in a bed. But I'm not doing him any harm.'

Ruud's face appeared over her shoulder and he gave me a triumphant leer. A quick man with a telephone, Herr Ruud.

The girl said, 'You will go, now.'

I looked at Nygaard. 'It's your room, chum.'

But he wasn't looking back. So I nodded and said, 'Thanks for the coffee, anyhow.'

'I thank you for the whisky,' he mumbled back.

'Any time.' The girl stepped aside and let me through the door, then followed. Ruud stayed in and shut the door.

She followed me clear down the stairs and out into the street – and then we just stood there in the drizzle and looked at each other.

She said firmly, 'You are going home, now.'

'Nope. I'm just standing here admiring the view.'

That made her blink thoughtfully. Then she had a bright idea. 'I know some students, very rough ones. They will make you go.'

'Dare say you do know them – every university's got some and they like being known – but they don't know you. Not some pansy do-gooding Christian piece like you. So forget the goon squad; they wouldn't do anything for you.'

She flushed. 'Then I get the police.'

'Try for Inspector Vik.' I was standing by a ramshackle old Volkswagen – so old it had the twin rear windows, and so beat up that it looked as if it had been dumped. I patted a wing and then had to stop it going on shaking. 'Yours?'

'I own one half of it.'

'Give me a lift back into town and I'll buy the beer at the other end."

'I do not drink.' But the rest of the idea suited her; at least it got me clear of Gulbrandsens Gate. As she climbed in, she said, 'I am Kari Skagen.' So now I knew her name, it was all right for us to be alone in a car.

Twenty-six

As we chugged down the patched-up street, I asked, 'How long have you known Nygaard?'

'Since before Christmas.'

'From about when he came to the Home? How did you get to know him?'