He did not reply.
‘If that was so, I’d be grateful if you contacted me.’
He gave a curt dismissive nod.
‘That business with the leather jacket…’
‘I said it was no concern of yours, Veum!’
‘But it -’
‘So long!’
We stood for a moment eye to eye. But he clamped his lips tight shut, and I saw that it would take physical violence to prise any more out of him about the matter.
As soon as I had stepped through the door it was slammed so hard behind me that I felt the rush of air on the back of my neck.
Before driving back home I made a detour along Sædalsveien and up to Furudalen.
The address took some finding. It was a large, dark, wooden detached house, which towered up on the edge of a rather steep uncultivated site, with a terrace on the side that did not get much sun on a late winter’s afternoon but clearly had a very favourable situation from May to September.
The entrance was at the back, and Sidsel Skagestøl must have seen me from a window as she opened the door before I had time to ring the bell. ‘Yes? Have you found out something already?’
‘No, unfortunately, but I have talked to Åsa and just have a couple more questions.’
‘Oh?’ She half-dosed the door behind her. ‘Vibeke and Stian are home. Do you mind if we deal with it out here?’
‘No, no… It’s just whether you can give me the names of any other close friends of Torild’s besides Åsa?’
‘Any others? No, I don’t know… There are some, of course, but none I thought was – closer.’
‘You can’t think of any names?’
‘I can give you a list, of course, but I’d have to sit down and think about it. Can it wait till tomorrow?’
I nodded. ‘The other question was… It’s perhaps a bit awkward. But… you haven’t noticed whether Torild has come home wearing particularly expensive clothes recently, have you?’
‘Particularly expensive clothes! You surely don’t mean that -?’
‘I’m just asking.’
She looked at me slightly puzzled. ‘But at least I think I can give you a fairly clear answer to that one. No, I haven’t noticed it at all. And I would have noticed it! All her clothes are bought by me, or by both of us actually, together, unless it’s just a pair of jeans or something like that which she can get herself. But apart from that… no, nothing.’
‘Fine.’
‘But why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I just had the impression there’d been – an episode… Between Åsa and her parents.’
‘Åsa! I’d never have thought so.’
‘No. Well, that was all there was, actually. Unless you’ve thought of something else?’
‘No, unfortunately not.’
‘I’d thought of calling in at the school tomorrow, in fact. Could I pop by to collect the list while I’m up there?’
‘I could make sure I’m in. About what time?’
‘Sometime between ten and twelve?’
‘Fine.’ She stood there with one hand on the door catch. With the other she grasped my shoulder. ‘I hope you find her!’
‘So do I.’
She opened the door, and then she gave me a faint smile before disappearing back into the house.
I found my own way back to the car and drove home.
Thomas rang at about half past eight asking whether he and Mari could call by on their way down to the station.
That gave us barely an hour; hardly time for a cup of tea and a glass of beer together. We didn’t mention the funeral or Stavanger at all. I didn’t know how much Beate had told them of her plans.
Afterwards I walked down with them and stood on the platform chatting until the train was just about to leave. When the light-brown sleeping car began to move and slid slowly past me they bent down to the window and waved.
As I left the station, I passed a group of teenage girls walking through the waiting room each clutching a bottle of Coke, a cigarette dangling from their mouths. The way at least two of them were walking suggested they’d mixed the Coke with something much stronger.
Children come and go. Before you know where you are they’ve grown up and flown the nest. Some over a period of time: others in the blink of an eye. Some take the train to the capitaclass="underline" others just take the bus into town. But the general direction is the same. They go away, and the parents are left behind wondering what actually happened. Or they contact someone like me to find out why.
Four
THE NEXT DAY there was a sharp frost in the air, greeting you first thing with a cold damp embrace.
The car had scarcely had time to get properly warmed up before I parked at Nattland School and stepped out. The squat school building stood at the end of the narrow valley linking Sædalen to Sandalsbotn, and February had etched its black and white runes into the steep slope opposite. The roads up here had names like Mars Way and Mercury Way as though they were expecting visitors from another planet in the solar system and had done all they could to make them feel at home.
It was break-time, and in the playground it was easy to tell the primary from the secondary school pupils. The former were absorbed in games; the latter prowled about circling one another, the girls arm-in-arm, the boys with their hands thrust as deep as possible into their pockets.
I found my way to the teachers’ common room and enquired after Helene Sandal.
A brunette in her thirties, her face slightly marked by acne, wearing oval glasses, a red sweater and jeans, came out to the door.
I introduced myself and told her what it was about.
She nodded solemnly. ‘Come on in.’ She glanced in through an open door leading into a small office. ‘We can go in here.’
The office contained a desk, two chairs and a phone. Beside the desk stood a bundle of about thirty exercise books for marking.
‘It’s Torild’s mother who’s hired me,’ I explained.
‘I see.’
‘My background’s in child care, so I’ve been involved in cases of this kind before.’
She glanced at the clock. ‘How can I help?’
‘First, I’d like your opinion of Torild, as a pupil and as – a person.’
She pursed her lips indicating that she was thinking about it. ‘Well, she’s changed.’
‘How long have you been her form teacher?’
‘Since Class 7. Nearly three years.’
‘And…’
‘It’s an important time in a young person’s life, of course. You know this as well as I do. But…’ She looked at me, hesitating. ‘I don’t know if Mrs Skagestøl told you about the situation at home?’
‘Yes, she did. I know about it. Was Torild affected by it?’
‘It’s rather hard to say. I did have the feeling she was on the slippery slope before this happened.’
‘What do you mean by on the slippery slope exactly?’
‘Well, er… when she came into Class 7 she was just an ordinary twelve-year-old girl, in the upper half of the class academically, no doubt about that, cheerful and happy – as I said, absolutely normal. In Class 8… It’s quite a tricky transition. That’s the year when kids with a tendency to get fed up of school do so with a vengeance. Primary school is behind them for good. The teachers demand more of them. But at the same time, there aren’t really any important exams, and the end of Class 9, when they’re fourteen or fifteen, seems so far away. I don’t mean to say that Torild herself was fed up of school. She did her homework conscientiously, the written work at least. I had the impression they kept a good eye on her at home. But her oral work sometimes left a bit to be desired. What was more worrying was the impression that she – how shall I put it? – switched off? She was inattentive in class, and she… Often I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was miles away.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘She would just sit there, looking out of the window.’