ONCE OUTSIDE JIMMY’S I paused for a moment to take stock.
So far I hadn’t made much progress to speak of. I could call it a day, go down to the office and just fill in the blanks on my form with Tippex. Or I could take up a spot in the nearest doorway and hope Fate would intervene before I rotted away.
I looked around. A high greyish-white sky lay over the town. It was still only four-thirty and another hour before it got dark. On a corner a block and a half away the golden glow of a small café-cum-patisserie beckoned invitingly. I decided to give Fate half an hour.
In the café I bought a mug of hot chocolate with cream and a bun with generous sprinklings of cinnamon round the edges before taking a seat at one of the tables by the window facing Jimmy’s.
Not long after I’d sat down, Ronny came out, turned towards the door and gave two fingers to somebody or other before looking around and making off fast round the nearest corner.
Otherwise, not much else happened apart from the build-up of traffic leaving town. The rear lights of the cars daubed red stripes along the steamed-up windowpane as they drove past, and along the pavement there were suddenly empty metered parking places.
When my allotted half hour was up, with Fate the loser, I stacked my plates together and carried them over to the counter with a crooked little smile at the plumpish lady behind it as though we’d shared a secret moment together that Thursday afternoon. The smile I received in return suggested that was exactly what we had done; it was just that I hadn’t realised it.
Outside the air was cold and raw, and I thrust my hands deep into my overcoat pockets. I had just decided to take a little stroll past Jimmy’s again before calling it a day when the door suddenly opened.
Two of the girls emerged, their heads close together and slightly huddled against the biting wind, which forced its way like an unwelcome guest through the narrowest part of the street. Neither of them was Astrid Nikolaisen.
Both of them were wearing tight-fitting jeans and anoraks a size too large. One of them had a broad red headband around her dark hair; the other a dark corduroy hat with a wide brim turned up in front. Right outside Jimmy’s they stopped under the yellowish-white glow from a swaying street lamp. The girl wearing the hat held out a scrap of paper. Open-mouthed, her friend looked into her face as though not quite able to restrain her sense of shock – or perhaps it was anticipation.
The girl with the hat said something, and the other one nodded. They linked arms, and as the traffic paused for a breather, they crossed the street.
A quick decision was needed.
I decided to let Astrid Nikolaisen paddle her own canoe for now, waited until the two girls had disappeared from view round the corner of a block of houses then followed them, at a safe distance.
There was no need for caution in fact. They didn’t seem to have the least suspicion that anyone could possibly be following them.
Five minutes later they suddenly stopped. They put their heads together again, looking as though they were studying the front of the large lit-up building on the opposite side of the street. The girl with the hat suddenly seemed different, more keyed up, and her friend looked around carefully as she spoke.
As for me, I remained glued to the spot in front of a shop window, pretending to read the front pages of the day’s three tabloids, two from Oslo and one local one, not that there was much to distinguish them, apart from the colours.
Now the two girls split up. The girl with the hat crossed the street, while her friend stayed put, following her with her eyes for a moment; abruptly, she turned on her heel and shot off in my direction.
I scrutinised the banner headlines about yesterday’s trivial events even more intensely. A national politician railed against unfair treatment on the Today programme, and a skating star had hit top form one Wednesday in February. Haukeland Hospital was in crisis, and there had been a traffic accident in Lindås. So what else was new?
The girl sailed past me without so much as a glance. I breathed freely, relieved that she was still at an age where she barely noticed people over twenty. Then I set off quickly in the opposite direction.
Her friend was just rounding the next corner, so I stepped on it.
As I turned the corner myself, I caught sight of her back disappearing through the main entrance of a classy hotel.
I went after her. Through the huge glass panels facing the street I could follow her every movement as she went straight through reception and into an open lift without so much as a glance at the reception staff.
The lift doors slid shut behind her and I watched the floor numbers as they lit up on the panel beside the lift: fourth, fifth, sixth floor.
I looked at the clock. It was five-twenty p.m.
I cast an involuntary glance up over the building as though I half expected her to appear at one of the windows and wave down at me.
The name of the hotel was displayed in large neon letters above the entrance.
For the second time that day I caught myself thinking of Judge Brandt. This was the hotel he had met his death in barely a week ago.
Last Friday, wasn’t it?
But it was on Thursday that Torild Skagestøl had gone missing, at least from home.
My head brimming with sudden thoughts, I set off back to the office.
I opened the letter box in the entrance and flipped quickly through the pile. A brochure, another three mail-shots, two bills and a completely plain white envelope with my name printed outside.
I binned the junk mail, stuffed the bills into my inside pocket and inspected the back of the envelope as I waited for the lift.
No sender’s name, but a Bergen postmark.
On the third floor I emerged from the lift, went along the corridor and let myself into the office.
The answerphone was blinking. Somebody had actually taken the trouble to leave a message.
I hung up my coat, sat down at the desk, grabbed a letter-opener and slit open the white envelope.
It contained a single folded sheet.
I opened it out.
Someone had made a simple standard death notice on a computer:
I almost fell off my chair with the shock, automatically glancing at the clock. Today was February 18th. The 24th was next Wednesday.
Then came the delayed reaction. My whole body started to tremble, and the hand holding the sheet of white paper began to shake involuntarily as though I was an elderly patient in a senile dementia ward. I was overcome with a feeling of intense nausea, and the letters danced in front of my eyes before, by sheer force of will, I managed to focus again.
I took deep breaths: one, two, three…
It was obviously a joke. A macabre one but a joke nonetheless. Or also…
A warning?
But in that case, from who?
And why?
Hardly able to summon the energy, I rewound the tape on the answerphone to hear what glad tidings might be lying in wait there.
There was only one message: the same digital-sounding organ music as the previous time. ‘Abide With Me’… And now I suspected I knew whose funeral they had in mind.
Eleven
BEFORE LEAVING THE OFFICE I called Karin Bjørge, my long-standing girlfriend at the Population Register Department, and asked her whether she had any plans for the evening.
She had. ‘I promised Eva… She had two tickets for a concert at the Grieg Concert Hall, and I… I think she needs some company.’
‘I see.’
She caught the undertone in my voice and quickly added: ‘But I can certainly change it, if you…’
‘No, no, course not. Heavens above!’
She hesitated. ‘We can meet up tomorrow, can’t we?’
‘Course we can! Is it the usual wind orchestra recital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, hope you enjoy it!’
‘Thanks.’
So I went back home by myself after all.