Cold Hearts Read Free Page B

you?’
    She looked past me, towards Bryggen. ‘Round and about.’ She took out a mobile phone. ‘You can have my number.’
    I tapped it into mine.
    ‘And here’s mine.’ I gave her a business card.
    She read it and stuffed it in her bag. After a short pause she asked, somewhat hesitantly: ‘How’s Thomas?’
    ‘He lives in Oslo. Goes to university there. They’re planning to get married this summer. He and his girlfriend.’
    Her mouth contorted, half smile, half grimace. ‘Did you know we dated for a while?’
    ‘No, I …’ I rolled my chair back half a metre and gave a laconic smile. ‘I could have been your father-in-law, in other words?’
    ‘If a lot of things had been different, yes.’
    ‘Why did it end?’
    ‘Well …’ She shrugged. ‘I suppose these things happen.’
    For a moment we sat in silence. We finished our coffee. Then she sighed and got up. ‘So we’ve got a deal?’
    ‘We have.’
    I accompanied her to the door. Hege Jensen from Nye Sandviksvei. A migratory bird that had flown off course, much too early in her life, and way, way off course.
    I met her gaze one more time. Then she walked towards the lift while I returned to my office, skimmed the few notes I had made, put my computer into hibernation, grabbed the notes and went out into the gloomy January daylight without any great hopes of success.

3
    STRANDGATEN IS ONE OF Bergen’s oldest streets. From one century to the next, it has wound its way from Torgallmenningen to Nordnes, followed buildings across the peninsula and been shaped by fires and other catastrophes.
    The apartment block where Margrethe Monsen lived was in one of the quarters that had lain in ruins after the great explosions of 20 April 1944. I had grown up a few stone throws from there, and if my memory served me well, these blocks were built towards the latter end of the 1950s. At least there was an unmistakable 1950s feel to the entrance: black slate tiles on the floor, locked covers to the refuse shaft on each floor and blue doors with a narrow vertical window in matt wire glass. The front door was locked, but the flat key worked on this door as well.
    I found the
M.Monsen
sign on the third floor. I could have taken the lift, but preferred the stairs. I rang the bell several times and stood waiting for a response. Nothing.
    I heard someone come into the downstairs entrance and the lift machinery buzz into action straight afterwards. The lift stopped on the third floor, the door opened and a young woman with long, blonde hair pushed a little turbo-pram carrying an eighteen-month-old child in through the door.
    She glanced at me, curious.
    ‘I’ve just rung my sister-in-law’s bell.’ I nodded to the door. ‘But she doesn’t seem to be in.’
    ‘No, it’s a while since I’ve seen her.’ She opened her bag and took out her key to the door on the opposite side.
    ‘Mm, do you have any contact with her?’
    ‘No, no, no,’ she said without drawing breath. ‘Besides we’ve only been here for a few months. And as you can see, we’ve got a tiny tot here to concentrate on.’
    Tiny Tot responded at once with a few impatient grunts and movements, suggesting that he wanted to be out of the pram as soon as possible and to get started on the daily razing of the flat.
    ‘I see.’ I took out the key. ‘I’ll let myself in then to make sure everything is as it should be.’
    She looked at me with a combination of suspicion and anxiety.
    ‘My wife always keeps a spare key in case of emergency.’
    ‘Yes, I suppose that would be wise.’ She opened her door, pushed the pram in, nodded quickly and closed the door behind her. At once I heard the shrill howls of pleasure from indoors. The tiny tot was free: Run!
    I inserted the key in the lock, twisted and stepped inside. For a moment I stood sniffing the air, but I couldn’t smell anything suspicious and closed the door quietly after me.
    I was in a very small hall, furnished with an old dresser. Above it