‘It was self-defence,’ I said.
‘… not least considering the history you two have – between you, I mean.’
‘Well, if we’re going to consider their whole life story,’ Helleve started to say.
Muus cut him off. ‘On the other hand… it would be one hell of a lot of paperwork.’ He glanced at the magic red circle on the wall calendar.
I followed his eyes. Then I looked at the date on my digital watch: February 27th. ‘Well, I’ll be damned, Muus! Congratulations! Is this, can this really be, your last day?’
He looked at me equivocally. ‘In principle, yes, Veum, but I’m afraid there’s going to be a certain amount of paperwork to do next week, on overtime, so to speak. So, in other words, I think we can say thanks for seeing The Knife out, but…’ He leaned slightly to one side and fixed me with his eyes. ‘… if ever I hear you’re mixed up in anything like this again, Veum, I’ll come back out of retirement even if I’m already on the other side, right?’
I nodded, uncertain how grateful I should appear. ‘But… What about the murder of Laila Mongstad? Have you found out anything there?’
‘Nothing definite yet.’
‘What about the cause of death?’
Muus let his eyes rest on me for a moment before deciding to reply. ‘A heavy blow to the back of the head that must have knocked her out. After that she was just strangled.’
A shudder ran through me. Struck on the head – and strangled… The neck I had…
Muus went on: ‘We’re investigating Birger Bjelland’s entourage for this too, of course, starting with the file that was in her computer. But for the time being we’re keeping an open mind.’
‘It was like Piccadilly Circus down there late on, according to the receptionist’s register,’ said Helleve.
‘Yes, I met – one of them.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Sidsel Skagestøl.’
‘That figures. She was there – but came away empty-handed. Furebø’s wife and daughter called…’
‘Did they? When?’
‘Just before you arrived. They’d been at the cinema and called in to see whether he was ready to come home with them.’
Half lost in thought, I said: ‘It was something she said when she phoned…’
‘Who?’
‘Laila Mongstad. It wasn’t Halstein Grindheim after all.’
‘Grindheim? The politician?’ Muus cut in. ‘So who was it?’
‘That’s just what she was going to tell me. That’s why she asked me to come down.’
‘So what the hell did she mean?’
‘She was poking around in a case, and Grindheim… she’d identified Grindheim thanks to a photo of his car.’
Muus glanced at Helleve. ‘Didn’t we seize an envelope with photos in it down there?’
‘Yes, I’ve got them under lock and key. I’ll go and get them.’
While he was out, Muus look at me searchingly. ‘Grindheim, Grindheim… Was this the same case, Veum?’
‘Yes, but as she said, it wasn’t him…’
‘No, as she said… but she’s dead, isn’t she?’
‘Tell me, Muus, do you think you’ve really time to retire?’
‘Don’t tempt me, Veum. Don’t tempt me…’
Helleve came back with the pictures. I recognised them at once and quickly leafed through them till I found the right one.
I placed it on the table in front of them and pointed. ‘The car registration number.’
‘Could she have been mistaken, do you think?’ asked Muus.
If it was the number plate that identified Grindheim, then… The number eight there, for example, is so unclear it could have been a three,’ said Helleve.
I looked at them. ‘Can we give it a try? Check it against the register of numbers?’
BelIeve already had his hands on the keyboard and his eyes on the screen. ‘But there’s only Bergen and the county of Hordaland here. It was a Bergen number, though, wasn’t it?’
I nodded.
He typed in a few codes before the number itself and sat waiting, as the computer searched for the answer.
When it came up on the screen he sat there staring at it speechless.
‘Well?’ said Muus impatiently, starting to get up out of his chair. ‘Who was it?’
‘Holger Skagestøl,’ said Atle RelIeve, turning wearily back to face us with the look of someone who has seen it all.
Fifty-one
‘WE’LL DEAL with this part of the case ourselves,’ said Dankert Muus, looking at me sharply.
I nodded gently. ‘You hardly need to tell me that.’
Muus glanced at Helleve. ‘Do we know where he lives?’
Helleve searched through his papers. ‘He’s rented a basement flat from a colleague on the paper… at Bones.’
‘Then let’s go and take a look, the sooner the better.’
‘Do we know what we’re going to say?’
‘We’ll think of something.’
I stood up. ‘Have a nice day, Muus. For the rest of your life.’
‘Without you, Veum,’ he said with a blissful smile. ‘Without you.’
In the car on the way up to Årstadvollen I had so much on my mind that I felt completely at sea. Holger Skagestøl, as a punter, in the same outfit as… But how did that fit in, and what had it got to do with all the rest? Had he, through a misunderstanding, paid for the services of his own daughter? And in that case, had he… Wasn’t it Birger Bjelland and his cronies, after all? Had Helge Hagavik been right: that it was a client?
When I got to Fløenbakken I did not turn right but carried on heading south.
I passed the tower block at Mannsverk without pausing, and at the top of Birkelundsbakken turned right.
I looked at my watch. Quarter to four on a Saturday afternoon.
Was there anyone in the Furebø family sitting waiting for the football pool results, I wondered?
I parked the car behind the white Mercedes in the driveway.
It was Randi Furebø who came to the door, as immaculately turned out as usual. This time she was wearing a simple grey skirt with a waist-length black waistcoat.
She struggled to control the look on her face when she saw who was at the door.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ I said, ‘but I really must have a couple of words with Åsa again.’
‘A couple of words?’ she repeated sceptically.
And in a way she was right. I’d probably need more than a couple of words.
‘Is she at home?’
She nodded and stepped passively aside. ‘She’s in her room.’
‘Is it all right to speak to her there?’
‘Yes, yes it is…’
From upstairs I heard the voice of Trond Furebø. ‘Who is it, Randi?’
‘It’s…’ She had to raise her voice. ‘Veum!’
Furebø was already on his way down the stairs. ‘And what the hell does he want?’
‘I need to have a couple of words with Åsa,’ I said again.
He was wearing a kind of jogging suit of shiny, dark-blue material. The top hung open. Underneath, he was wearing a white T- shirt with the words ‘Bergen Run’ and the names of some major sponsors on it. ‘Not unless we’re present!’ he said sharply.
I shot a sideways glance at his wife. ‘If you think it’s a good idea…’
‘We want to know everything!’ she said quickly, looking as though she was on the verge of tears. ‘It’s pointless to keep anything back now.’
Trond Furebø gave a toss of his head. ‘We’ll go upstairs. Can you fetch her, Randi?’
She nodded, and I followed Furebø up to the spacious sitting room. I was right. The TV was on, and Furebø had already set himself up in a comfortable chair, with the pools coupon, a bottle of beer and a bowl of potato crisps. Now he swung the chair partway round, turned down the volume and looked at me with an irritated expression. ‘Is this really necessary, on a Saturday afternoon, Veum?’