have a fair amount of training, especially in matters of this sort.’
She opened her handbag again. ‘How much will it …’
‘The bill? Er … Look, you haven’t said anything about yourself. Do you have a job?’
‘No, not any more. But I’m a kindergarten teacher by training, so I mean, I should know , shouldn’t!?’
‘About children, you mean?’
‘Mm.’ She nodded.
‘But you never do, do you? Children are like adults, just even less predictable, that’s all.’
She took out a chequebook. ‘How much shall I put?’
‘If it takes a few days, it’ll soon mount up to five or six thousand kroner.’
I noticed her eyes widen ever so slightly. ‘But look … Just put two thousand, as an advance. If we’re lucky, that may cover it.’
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.
Three
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,