41

6

A long, narrow staircase led down to the basement, where a solitary light bulb illuminated a cramped corridor. There was a bucket with a scrubbing brush and a floor cloth in a corner beside a sink with only a cold tap. There was a smell of detergent and dust.

‘Typical dressing-room facilities for Norwegian musicians,’ Jakob mumbled, pointing to the sink. ‘That’s the shower.’

We had three doors to choose from. Above the far one was an EMERGENCY EXIT sign. The one closest was ajar, and light fell in a thin line across the floor in front of us. We went nearer and peered in.

Four make-up tables and some chairs filled the best part of the room. The rest was occupied by open instrument cases, guitar bags, two flat briefcases and a crate of lager. On a clothes stand hung some winter coats and sheepskin jackets. On the rack above were two woolly hats, a fur cap and a brown, wide-brimmed gentlemen’s hat. On the floor there was a selection of boots: high-heeled, long-shafted and cowboy. On the make-up table there was an assortment of reading matter, from the latest edition of a high-brow Danish newspaper to a Norwegian girlie mag, a local rag and a cheap western paperback.

The third door was closed. Jakob raised a hand and indicated that I should approach quietly. He mouthed a word I didn’t understand. Not that it was necessary.

Through the closed door we recognised the voice of Bella 42Bruflåt. ‘Lemme go! No, I said. I don’t want to!’ After a few seconds of panting and heavy breathing she shouted: ‘I’ll knee you.’

‘Oufff!’ we heard through the door, and what sounded like a sack of flour hitting the floor from a great height.

‘Dirty old bugger.’

We exchanged looks. Jakob had a strange, concentrated smirk on his face.

‘Shall we go in or…?’

As though the band above knew what was going on, they struck up a new song, with an appropriate chorus: ‘I can’t get no … satisfaction.’

Jakob went over to the closed door and banged hard. After a few seconds he pressed down the handle and pushed. It was locked.

Not a sound could be heard from inside.

Jakob banged again, and shouted: ‘Hello, is anyone there?’

No one answered, but after a short pause we heard shuffling steps across the floor. A key was turned and the door opened a fraction. Through the narrow chink Johnny Solheim was staring furiously at us. His fat neck was a blotchy red and a gleaming lock of hair had fallen onto his forehead. The glare he sent us belonged to a man who had been woken all too abruptly from his midday nap. There was still a wince of pain on his puffed-up lips.

At first he looked at me, then at Jakob. Then his face eased into a languid smile. ‘Jakob? Long time, no…’

Jakob stared at him stiffly. ‘We were in the audience and thought we’d say hi. You remember Varg, don’t you? Veum?’