said, and asked if they should put me through. ‘No, thank you,’ I replied, but I noted the number and tapped it into my mobile.
Then I rang Enquiries again, and it didn’t take them long to find the number of Naustvik Hotel & Harbour on Brennøy, either. I dialled the number and a woman answered. When I asked whether she had a room free for Tuesday, she burst into laughter. ‘One? You can have the whole lot if you like.’ Then she backtracked. ‘No, I was joking. Several of the other rooms are taken.’
‘I only need one.’
She jotted down my name and asked if I was interested in having dinner. ‘It’s perfectly OK to cook in the cabins, but many guests like to order a meal.’
‘Thank you. I think I’ll join the latter.’
‘We look forward to seeing you tomorrow then, herr Veum.’
‘Just a quick question. Do you know someone called Mons Mæland?’
There was a tiny, barely perceptible pause. ‘Yes?’ Now she didn’t sound quite so friendly. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Tell me, what is this about?’
‘The thing is, he’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared? Mons?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s terrible. He’s supposed to … There’s supposed to be some sort of survey here on Wednesday. They’ve booked a conference room with me, for afterwards.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t understand, but at any rate he’s not here, as I said.’
‘Well, we can talk more when I’m there. Tomorrow.’
‘Yes …’ She hesitated, and I had the feeling she was about to discover that the hotel was booked up after all. I concluded the conversation and rang off before she had a chance.
I stuffed my mobile into my side pocket, pulled away from the kerb and headed for Ǻrstad. At Haukeland Hospital I turned onto the Kronstad road and found a place to park down a side street, then continued to Ibsens gate on foot.
Else Mæland’s flat was in a block with an entrance directly onto the street, which was probably one of the busiest in Bergen. The cars were so close it would have been useful to wear a gas mask, and the queue moved so slowly that Mr and Mrs Snail on a Sunday outing would have been able to keep up. The result was filthy grey deposits around the green front door, and the handle of the door felt sticky as I pressed it down and pushed. In the dark hallway I found her name along with four others all on one post box, two men and two women apart from her.
I took the stairs. On the first floor I found the same names on a scrap of cardboard beside the door handle. I buzzed and waited. Then the door opened and a long-haired young man in a T-shirt, jogging pants and trainers examined my face inquisitively. ‘Yes?’
‘Else Mæland … is she in?’
He turned and shouted into the flat. ‘Else! Visitor!’
He stood in the doorway staring at me without much interest as we waited. Then I heard the patter of bare feet behind him. ‘Who is it?’
He shrugged and made room for her.
I summoned a friendly smile and said: ‘Varg Veum. I’m trying to find your father. Have you got a moment?’
Her face changed. Then she nodded with a grave air. ‘Yes, Ranveig said. Come in.’
The young man stepped aside and let me pass. I followed her into a long corridor reeking of a potent herb I couldn’t quite place. From one of the rooms I heard loud music with a heavy bass and when she ushered me into hers the music came through the wall so loudly we might just as well have been sitting in the same room.
‘I live here,’ Else said, with a wary smile. She looked younger than I had expected. Her hair was smooth and fair, none of her brother’s curls, and she had it gathered in a ponytail. She was dressed simply: blue jeans and a red T-shirt. Her face was even, quite narrow, and her eyes were the same light blue as her brother’s, vaguely reminiscent of gun-smoke.
The room was spartan: a sofa bed
Then I rang Enquiries again, and it didn’t take them long to find the number of Naustvik Hotel & Harbour on Brennøy, either. I dialled the number and a woman answered. When I asked whether she had a room free for Tuesday, she burst into laughter. ‘One? You can have the whole lot if you like.’ Then she backtracked. ‘No, I was joking. Several of the other rooms are taken.’
‘I only need one.’
She jotted down my name and asked if I was interested in having dinner. ‘It’s perfectly OK to cook in the cabins, but many guests like to order a meal.’
‘Thank you. I think I’ll join the latter.’
‘We look forward to seeing you tomorrow then, herr Veum.’
‘Just a quick question. Do you know someone called Mons Mæland?’
There was a tiny, barely perceptible pause. ‘Yes?’ Now she didn’t sound quite so friendly. ‘What would you like to know?’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘Tell me, what is this about?’
‘The thing is, he’s disappeared.’
‘Disappeared? Mons?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s terrible. He’s supposed to … There’s supposed to be some sort of survey here on Wednesday. They’ve booked a conference room with me, for afterwards.’
‘Exactly.’
‘I don’t understand, but at any rate he’s not here, as I said.’
‘Well, we can talk more when I’m there. Tomorrow.’
‘Yes …’ She hesitated, and I had the feeling she was about to discover that the hotel was booked up after all. I concluded the conversation and rang off before she had a chance.
I stuffed my mobile into my side pocket, pulled away from the kerb and headed for Ǻrstad. At Haukeland Hospital I turned onto the Kronstad road and found a place to park down a side street, then continued to Ibsens gate on foot.
Else Mæland’s flat was in a block with an entrance directly onto the street, which was probably one of the busiest in Bergen. The cars were so close it would have been useful to wear a gas mask, and the queue moved so slowly that Mr and Mrs Snail on a Sunday outing would have been able to keep up. The result was filthy grey deposits around the green front door, and the handle of the door felt sticky as I pressed it down and pushed. In the dark hallway I found her name along with four others all on one post box, two men and two women apart from her.
I took the stairs. On the first floor I found the same names on a scrap of cardboard beside the door handle. I buzzed and waited. Then the door opened and a long-haired young man in a T-shirt, jogging pants and trainers examined my face inquisitively. ‘Yes?’
‘Else Mæland … is she in?’
He turned and shouted into the flat. ‘Else! Visitor!’
He stood in the doorway staring at me without much interest as we waited. Then I heard the patter of bare feet behind him. ‘Who is it?’
He shrugged and made room for her.
I summoned a friendly smile and said: ‘Varg Veum. I’m trying to find your father. Have you got a moment?’
Her face changed. Then she nodded with a grave air. ‘Yes, Ranveig said. Come in.’
The young man stepped aside and let me pass. I followed her into a long corridor reeking of a potent herb I couldn’t quite place. From one of the rooms I heard loud music with a heavy bass and when she ushered me into hers the music came through the wall so loudly we might just as well have been sitting in the same room.
‘I live here,’ Else said, with a wary smile. She looked younger than I had expected. Her hair was smooth and fair, none of her brother’s curls, and she had it gathered in a ponytail. She was dressed simply: blue jeans and a red T-shirt. Her face was even, quite narrow, and her eyes were the same light blue as her brother’s, vaguely reminiscent of gun-smoke.
The room was spartan: a sofa bed
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