‘Look Veum,’ she said, ‘this was something quite different; certainly just a misunder -’
‘No need to go into the details,’ Furebø interrupted, ‘if that’s not what it was about.’
He turned back to me. ‘Sidsel’s already talked to Åsa before. I doubt if there’s anything else we can tell you.’
‘But your daughter and Torild were best friends, weren’t they?’
‘Best friends… They’ve gone to the same school since the first form, and her parents and us have met socially for many years, her father and I are colleagues, but maybe you ought to ask -’ His words tailed off.
‘That’s just what I was thinking.’
He glanced at his wife again.
‘We must help him, Trond! Poor Sidsel, she must be going out of her mind. And when I didn’t even…’
‘Yes, yes…’ He turned to look at me. ‘But not unless we’re there too.’
‘Oh, I see.’
I clearly didn’t seem over-keen, as he quickly added: ‘It’s up to you. Either you talk to her with us present or not at all!’
‘OK, thanks for the offer.’ I glanced in the direction of the door. ‘Well, perhaps we can…’
‘Yes.’
Randi Furebø held the door open, and he walked in ahead of me.
‘Can you fetch her? We can talk to him down here.’ He ushered me into a door on the right. I entered a little TV room with a worn leather suite, family pictures on the walls, a bookshelf with a rather random collection of books and a small fireplace with a log basket and a pile of newspapers beside it. It felt cool and airless, with a slight hint of whitewash.
After hanging up his jacket out in the hall Furebø followed me in.
I turned to face him. ‘So does that mean you’re a journalist as well?’
‘No, I work in graphics. In other words, I’m involved in how the newspaper looks.’
‘I see. You’re the one who makes conflicts into wars and collisions into catastrophes, at least where the presentation’s concerned?’
His look suggested he’d heard this one a thousand times before. ‘Wrong,’ he said sharply. What he reminded me of most was a football trainer meeting the press in the dressing room just after his team has lost the cup. ‘Those choices are made a few rungs higher up the ladder.’
‘By people like Holger Skagestøl perhaps?’
‘For example.’
Someone cleared their throat at the door, and Randi Furebø pushed her daughter in front of her into the room. ‘Here we are – this is the man who’d like to talk to you, Åsa.’ She shook off her mother’s arm without speaking.
I smiled and put out my hand. ‘Hello, Åsa! The name’s Varg. Varg Veum.’ [1]
Trond Furebø stifled a snort.
She shook my hand correctly but almost without any strength in her grip. ‘Hello.’
She stood there in front of me, looking nonplussed. She had taken off her leather jacket, and the white blouse did its best to camouflage the shape of her young breasts.
I took a step sideways and glanced down at the sofa, but no one suggested we should sit down.
Furebø looked at the clock, and his wife said: ‘Yes, supper’s ready.’
‘It won’t take long. You know what it’s about, don’t you, Åsa?’
She nodded.
‘Your friend Torild. She’s been absent from home since last Thursday. Have you any idea where she might be?’
She shook her head. ‘No’.
‘No idea at all?’
She shook her head again but this time without a word.
‘Is she friendly with some boy or has she a boyfriend she doesn’t want her parents to know about?’
She looked down. ‘No.’
‘Are you sure?’
She raised her eyes again. ‘Nobody she’s told me about anyway!’
‘Quite sure about that, are you?’
‘Look here, Veum,’ Furebø broke in, ‘if we’re going to repeat every single question at least twice, this is going to take an awful long time!’
‘Perhaps you two could just go up and start, if you’re in such a hurry. Start supper, I mean.’
His face darkened. ‘Like I said outside, Veum! You had two choices!’
‘It’s in the oven,’ said his wife reassuringly.
He shot her a look of irritation but said nothing.
‘That’s OK, Åsa. I believe what you say. Just tell me, though… Have you and Torild spent much time together recently?’
She glanced sideways. ‘No more than usual.’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘Oh, a few evenings a week.’
‘And what do you two do then?’
‘Oh… Sit at home talking. Go into town to see a film. Stuff like that.’
‘Stuff like that. What else?’
‘Oh… Go for a hamburger maybe. If we have any money.’ A veiled glance at her father. ‘Just walk around and check things out, look in clothes shops, record shops, places like that.’
‘Down town, in other words?’
‘Sure. There’s nothing going on up here!’
‘Just the two of you?’
‘No, there are almost always some other girls too.’
‘Who, for instance?’
‘Oh, various people we know, girls from our class or some we know from before, from Guides and stuff.’
‘Are you a Guide?’
‘Not any more.’
‘Nor am I, a Scout I mean.’
She looked at me without interest. ‘So it’s just girls, then?’
‘No. We do sometimes meet up with a few of the boys.’
‘The ones in your class?’
‘No, well… they’re so daft!’
‘Older boys, then?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you girls know them, do you?’
‘You do get to know people, don’t you?’
‘Well enough to know their names?’
She shrugged. ‘Some of them, I suppose?
‘And where they live?’ She thought about this one.
‘Maybe.’ Her mother fidgeted uncomfortably. Her father looked on with pursed lips. But neither of them said anything. ‘Was it any of these – older boys that Torild was going out with?’
She looked ahead vacantly. ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘But she could have been?’
She shrugged again. ‘Mm, well… maybe.’
‘What milieu were they from, these boys?’
‘Milieu?’
‘Yes, I mean, were they from school or -?’
‘Some of them go to The Cat School,’ she blurted out.
‘And the others?’
‘There are a couple of them who go to the Tech. And others who don’t go to school.’
‘Unemployed?’
‘Dunno. Haven’t asked them. Are we done now?’
‘I think so,’ her father said. ‘It doesn’t look as though we’re going to get much further.’
I glanced at Åsa. ‘You can’t think of anything at all that might help us to find Torild, can you?’
She shook her head silently.
‘She’s never mentioned taking off anywhere? To Oslo? Or Copenhagen?’
‘No way! Where would she get the money for that from?’
‘Oh, I don’t know… She could hitchhike… It doesn’t cost all that much…’
‘Åsa’s strictly forbidden to hitchhike!’ said her mother sharply.
‘Anyway, she’s never mentioned anything like that!’ Åsa broke in.
‘In that case…’ I scribbled my name and phone number onto my notepad, tore it off and gave it to her. ‘If you think of anything, please get in touch. That is, unless you talk to her mother directly.’
She took the piece of paper and put it into her pocket without looking at it.
As she was walking towards the door, I said: ‘Bye!’
‘Bye,’ she mumbled and went out, leaving the door wide open.
Randi Furebø gestured vaguely, pulling a face that showed she was not sure what to do next, looked up at the ceiling and said: ‘Mm, supper calls I think.’
We nodded a curt goodbye.
Trond Furebø accompanied me to the door. Before stepping outside, I turned to face him. ‘It might be an idea if you and your wife had a word about these things with Åsa. Could be she’d be more open with you two.’