any ideas as to what he might have done? Did he have a girlfriend on the outside? Good friends? Something like that.’
‘Not as far as I know, I’m afraid to say. He was a lone wolf. No contacts outside prison of which I am aware.’
‘But where did he live when he had a pass?’
‘With his sister. The elder one.’
‘Siv?’
‘Yes. At least that was the address he gave.’
‘Well … thank you very much. If he contacts you, could you let me know?’
‘Will do.’
He rang off, and I sat looking into middle distance. Two of the three had gone missing, and both on the same day. That was not a coincidence. All I needed now was for Siv not to appear as arranged in the Oasen mall. There was only one way to find out. I locked the office door and walked up to Skansen for my car.
8
FROM THE EARLY 1970s the first real shopping mall in the Bergen area was Oasen. Sletten shopping centre was older, but it still had the traditional market square formation you also found in Landåstorget and other places in Bergen’s ever-increasing circle of satellite towns. Oasen was completely covered by a superstructure. It protected the public from rain and goods from the sun in a perfect symbiosis, and it was no surprise that the mall with its location in the centre of Fyllingsdalen became a magnet for the ever-growing population there.
Since that time there had been enormous competition from other shopping centres in new districts, and it had itself increased in size, the last time three or four years ago. Nonetheless, it had maintained its status in the locality, and the café in the middle of the mall by the large square was the scene of regular battles for unoccupied tables. The surest victors were very mature women who used their bulging handbags as sledgehammers during the marauding invasion, and God help anyone who sat down on a coveted seat if they could not marshal their defences. They were on the ropes before they knew what was going on, and they needed more than a count of ten to stagger to their feet.
Siv Monsen was sitting, as I had assumed, with a lot of other people reading today’s
Bergensavisen
, but the way she was holding the paper, very high up and visible, as in a commercial,drew me in her direction, and she met my quizzical expression with confirmation in her eyes.
‘Siv Monsen?’
She nodded.
‘Varg Veum.’
We shook hands, and I went to the counter and ordered the same as she had: a cup of coffee and a cinnamon twist. I balanced the feast on a tray back to the small table and a free chair she had succeeded in defending, and sat down.
Siv Monsen was an ordinary, attractive young woman, in her late twenties according to my mental notes. She had removed her red coat and was wearing everyday clothes: dark blue trousers and a plain turquoise blouse with long sleeves. Her hair was blonde and short, except for a seductive curl that fell over her forehead and she kept flicking to the side. Her make-up was discreet, and her face bore clear, compact features surrounding a fleshy nose. The tiny smile she sent me was brief and professional, as though we were located on separate sides of a barrier.
‘What do you do in there?’ I asked by way of an introduction.
‘At work?’ As I nodded, she answered: ‘I’m a consultant.’
‘Which means?’
‘I generally sit answering the phone and advising customers.’
‘I’ve had lots of assignments for your company. Nils Åkre is my contact.’
She sent me a chilly look, as if to say that if I wanted to inform her about my acquaintances I had come to the wrong person. ‘I see.’
‘But … today I’m interested in Margrethe.’
She cast a quick look around, raised her coffee cup to her mouth, took a sip and set it down again. ‘So I gathered.’
‘It looks as if she’s disappeared.’
‘Yes … how long has it been?’
‘Well … how long is it since you last saw her?’
She twirled her cup. ‘A week. New Year some time.’
‘Are you often
‘Not as far as I know, I’m afraid to say. He was a lone wolf. No contacts outside prison of which I am aware.’
‘But where did he live when he had a pass?’
‘With his sister. The elder one.’
‘Siv?’
‘Yes. At least that was the address he gave.’
‘Well … thank you very much. If he contacts you, could you let me know?’
‘Will do.’
He rang off, and I sat looking into middle distance. Two of the three had gone missing, and both on the same day. That was not a coincidence. All I needed now was for Siv not to appear as arranged in the Oasen mall. There was only one way to find out. I locked the office door and walked up to Skansen for my car.
8
FROM THE EARLY 1970s the first real shopping mall in the Bergen area was Oasen. Sletten shopping centre was older, but it still had the traditional market square formation you also found in Landåstorget and other places in Bergen’s ever-increasing circle of satellite towns. Oasen was completely covered by a superstructure. It protected the public from rain and goods from the sun in a perfect symbiosis, and it was no surprise that the mall with its location in the centre of Fyllingsdalen became a magnet for the ever-growing population there.
Since that time there had been enormous competition from other shopping centres in new districts, and it had itself increased in size, the last time three or four years ago. Nonetheless, it had maintained its status in the locality, and the café in the middle of the mall by the large square was the scene of regular battles for unoccupied tables. The surest victors were very mature women who used their bulging handbags as sledgehammers during the marauding invasion, and God help anyone who sat down on a coveted seat if they could not marshal their defences. They were on the ropes before they knew what was going on, and they needed more than a count of ten to stagger to their feet.
Siv Monsen was sitting, as I had assumed, with a lot of other people reading today’s
Bergensavisen
, but the way she was holding the paper, very high up and visible, as in a commercial,drew me in her direction, and she met my quizzical expression with confirmation in her eyes.
‘Siv Monsen?’
She nodded.
‘Varg Veum.’
We shook hands, and I went to the counter and ordered the same as she had: a cup of coffee and a cinnamon twist. I balanced the feast on a tray back to the small table and a free chair she had succeeded in defending, and sat down.
Siv Monsen was an ordinary, attractive young woman, in her late twenties according to my mental notes. She had removed her red coat and was wearing everyday clothes: dark blue trousers and a plain turquoise blouse with long sleeves. Her hair was blonde and short, except for a seductive curl that fell over her forehead and she kept flicking to the side. Her make-up was discreet, and her face bore clear, compact features surrounding a fleshy nose. The tiny smile she sent me was brief and professional, as though we were located on separate sides of a barrier.
‘What do you do in there?’ I asked by way of an introduction.
‘At work?’ As I nodded, she answered: ‘I’m a consultant.’
‘Which means?’
‘I generally sit answering the phone and advising customers.’
‘I’ve had lots of assignments for your company. Nils Åkre is my contact.’
She sent me a chilly look, as if to say that if I wanted to inform her about my acquaintances I had come to the wrong person. ‘I see.’
‘But … today I’m interested in Margrethe.’
She cast a quick look around, raised her coffee cup to her mouth, took a sip and set it down again. ‘So I gathered.’
‘It looks as if she’s disappeared.’
‘Yes … how long has it been?’
‘Well … how long is it since you last saw her?’
She twirled her cup. ‘A week. New Year some time.’
‘Are you often
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