He considered my request. Slowly he answered: ‘Something … about … The Harpers. There’s a whisper at the back of my mind … I’m not absolutely sure, but I heard once there’d been some hanky-panky between Jakob Aasen and Johnny Solheim’s wife.’

‘Which one? The wife he has now?’

‘No, no, no. Much further back. Solheim was already married in … well…’ He nodded towards the newspaper cutting I was holding. ‘By 1962 anyway. I seem to fancy I heard something about him and Aasen chasing the same girl and Johnny had come off the winner.’

‘Anita?’

‘Was her name Anita? Could well have been?’

‘Anita? Yes, that was possible – for a while. But I remembered her only as a phrase: Johnny’s girl. And no one laid a finger on Johnny’s girl without getting it burned. No one touched Anita – without…’

‘Nothing else, Sletten?’

‘No. What is it you’re after? Orgies, black masses, drink or drug abuse? I’m sure they did the lot over the years – but no more than anyone else and definitely not to such an extent that it would’ve made its way here.’ He pointed to the pile of newspaper articles. ‘So if you’ve got nothing more to ask, I think I might – inspired by this discussion – get cracking on Johnny Solheim’s obituary. OK, Veum? You happy, man?’

I got up. ‘I think so, yes. Thank you very much. It’s been a useful chat. Good luck with … if you can wish people luck with what you’re doing.’185

‘The obit?’

I nodded.

‘You can express your condolences.’

On my way out I popped in to see Laila Mongstad again. But she had gone. On her desk were a few books, a pile of newspapers, two notepads and various writing utensils, all neatly ordered in tidy piles, and on the wall there was a scruffy little mascot with big glass eyes and a downturned mouth. It was a kind of furry creature, a blue fantasy figure with flat legs appearing from under the head and no body. Hanging there, it looked terribly lonely attached to the thin partition with a green drawing pin, watching over an empty office and a desk that wasn’t in use at present.

‘See you, Stinky,’ I mumbled and moved on.

186

25

Tuesday hadn’t yet reached midday when I rang the bell at Jakob’s and was let in by a dishevelled paterfamilias with a child’s clothing in one hand and yesterday’s paper in the other.

‘Oh, it’s you, Varg. Come in. I was just about to load the washing machine, but then there was an article I had to read…’ With a sweep of his head, indicating the clothes and newspaper, he stepped aside and let me pass. ‘Grab a chair and I’ll be with you in a mo,’ he said, heading towards the kitchen and scullery.

Not long afterwards I heard the washing machine letting in water, then with great resolve the drum began to rumble, as if it were the very heart of the house, the pump that kept everything moving.