The Writing on the Wall (2 page)

She started writing out the cheque, tore it off and pushed it across the table to me, accompanied by a cheque card. I looked at the photo. Her hair had been longer then, and her cheekbones not quite so pronounced. But I made no comment.

I gave the card back to her. ‘You don’t have a photo of her, do you?’

‘Yes, of course, I brought …’ She produced a page torn out of a newspaper and gave it to me with a slightly apologetic look. ‘It was Stian who sent it in.’

I looked at the page. It was one of those congratulations columns which most newspapers have had for the past few years now, where you send in a photo of the person to whom you want to wish many happy returns, often with couplets that would make even the humblest occasional poet seem like a literary genius.

In this case the text was fairly sober:
Many Happy Returns on her Sixteenth Birthday to our big sister TORILD, from the little trolls Vibeke and Stian.
The photo showed a stern-faced girl looking straight at the camera in a photo booth.

‘This is the most recent one we have,’ said Sidsel Skagestøl apologetically.

‘What colour is her hair?’

‘Fair. But darker than mine.’

‘And what’s she like, otherwise?’

‘She’s rather slim, but …’ She blushed slightly, ‘but quite shapely.’

After she’d gone, I remained sitting there for a while, looking at the little picture in the newspaper. There was no hint of shapely curves here, yet her look was confident enough, as if nobody was going to tell her how the pyramids were built, who Vasco da Gama was or the formula for ferrous sulphate.

I glanced out of the window. It was already getting dark. It struck me that February was a dangerous month to be wandering about alone, especially when you were barely sixteen and nobody was going to tell you what to do.

Just as I was on my way out of the door the telephone rang.

I went back to my desk, lifted the receiver and said: ‘Yes. Hello?’

There was no reply.

‘Hello? Veum speaking.’

Still no answer. But very faintly, almost like background
interference
, I could just make out … What was it? A sort of digital organ music?

‘Hello?’ I said again irritably.

And the tune … There was something familiar about it …

It was … ‘Abide With Me’ … Like at a funeral.

‘Hello?’ I said, a bit more cautiously this time as though the call was coming direct from the chapel. ‘Is anyone there?’

But there was still no reply. Then the connection was cut off.

THE FUREBØ FAMILY
lived in a semi-detached house in that part of Birkelundsbakken where you never know what gear to be in when you’re driving there. The woman who opened the front door was thickset, about five foot ten, with dark, short-cropped hair. Her face was round, her eyes brown, and she had worry lines at the corners of her mouth.

‘Yes? We don’t want any, if that’s –’

‘Mrs Furebø?’

She nodded. She was wearing a brown skirt, a light-green blouse and a reddish-brown, loose suede waistcoat. Behind her, I could see into a bright hall with yellow walls.

‘The name’s Veum. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired by Sidsel Skagestøl to try and find her daughter, Torild, and in
connection
with that, I’d like to have a word with – Åsa.’

‘You mean she hasn’t turned up yet? Sidsel called me … It was …’

‘Last Thursday, I think.’

‘Yes.’ She looked at me sceptically. ‘Do you have any identification?’

I gave her my driving licence. She fingered it as though it was a counterfeit note. ‘Doesn’t say anything here about a – private investigator.’

‘No. But I can give you some numbers you can ring for references.’

She handed my driving licence back to me. ‘No, I’m sure it’s OK. But Åsa’s not at home just now.’

I glanced at the clock. It was twenty past four. ‘But … she’s not still at school?’

‘No. Trond, my husband, collected her from school. They – had an errand to do together.’

‘When are you expecting them back, then?’

‘Well, er …’

She didn’t reply. A white Mercedes swung into the drive and parked on the far side of the small lawn. The ignition was switched off, and a young girl opened the door and emerged from the
passenger
side. At the wheel I glimpsed a thin face beneath a
silver
-grey yet boyish quiff of hair.

The girl was very pretty with dark silky hair and naturally red lips. She was slim, wearing jeans and a very expensive burgundy leather jacket. Over her shoulder she had a light-brown satchel and was wearing white trainers. Yet she didn’t move like a sporty type, more like a jaded office girl. Her blue eyes registered the fact that I was there but with no hint of curiosity.

‘But …’ I heard Randi Furebø mutter just behind me.

The other door slammed. A thin wiry man came towards us. He was wearing grey flannels, a brightly coloured pullover and an open beige windcheater. The youthfulness of the face was
emphasised
by prematurely greying hair as though he had once
experienced
the shock of a deep loss. The look he gave me was a good deal more inquisitive than the girl’s.

‘Here they come,’ said Randi Furebø.

The girl walked straight past us and into the hail with nothing but a curt
Hi
to her mother, who followed her with a rather unfathomable look before glancing at me with a hint of resignation:
Teenagers
…

The man stopped in front of me.

She said: ‘Trond, this is Veum, he’s a sort of private investigator, and –’

His face turned beetroot. ‘What?! But we’ve just been down there now! Everything’s sorted. All over and done with.’

‘I don’t quite follow,’ I started to say.

‘We’ve taken the leather jacket back, and
I’ve
bought her a new one myself!’

‘Yes, I noticed,’ said Randi Furebo.

‘The manageress said she was more than happy with that
solution
. So she said there was no reason to contact the police.’

‘But
that’s
not why he’s here, Trond!’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘It’s about Torild! She still hasn’t come back …’

‘Oh?’ He relaxed visibly.

‘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.’
*

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.’

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.’