The Writing on the Wall Read Free Page A

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