Death in a Cold Climate (6 page)

‘How would I know? I don't mix with students. Don't
hold with them. Filth.'

Fagermo sighed. He looked down to the little clipping of the missing persons advertisement, which he had had sent up from records and which was now lying on his desk. ‘OK then, let's just make sure of the details. He came on the nineteenth, is that right? And he paid you for three nights, meaning he intended to leave on the twenty-second, just before Christmas. But in fact he only slept in his room two nights.'

‘That's right. Well–only one and a half, really. I heard him come in on the second night. I give them keys to the outside door, save me getting up. He didn't come in till three or half past.'

‘How do you know? Were you still up?'

‘Well, as it happened, I was. Some of the boys were making a night of it.'

‘And you were making a packet out of them I suppose? OK, OK, ignore that. I don't care a damn what goes on at Christmas at the Alfheim Pensjonat–you can stage the Second Coming for all I care. But this night–the night of the twentieth it must have been–you were sober enough to remember the time he came in, were you?'

‘ 'Course I was. Doesn't do to get drunk with that type. I heard the front door open–we were in the kitchen to be more private, like–I opened the door just a crack, just to see who it was, and there he was, creeping in.'

‘I presume you'd gone all quiet in case it was the police, eh, so he was afraid of waking anybody. Did you invite him in?'

‘Not on your life.'

‘Well, that's all very clear, very helpful. Now, what about the next day?'

‘He got up late, as you'd expect. He was still in bed when I went up to make it, and I hadn't been early up. He must have gone out about half past eleven.'

‘And that was the last you saw of him?'

‘That's right.'

‘Nothing to make you suspect he'd gone for good?'

‘Nothing. Didn't take anything with him. Left his knapsack behind and just went off.'

‘Only he probably
didn't
,' said Fagermo. ‘I think we can take it that he was killed that day–the twenty-first.'

‘Poor young bugger. Just before Christmas too.'

‘Yes, well, let's hope he wasn't a practising Christian, shall we? Now, as far as you were concerned, that was it, was it? You talked to him on the phone, and when he arrived, and other than that you never exchanged a word?'

‘That's right.'

‘And on those two occasions the talk was only about practicalities–the room, the price, and so on?'

‘That's right.'

‘So he didn't eat with you?'

‘No, no: he just had the single room. By the night.'

‘And when he left, he left behind just what you brought in in the knapsack–nothing more?'

‘What are you suggesting? There was just what there was in it when I brought it in.'

‘Did the boy smoke?'

‘Oh yes, he smoked.'

‘Ah–you remember that. How?'

‘He left one behind in a packet.'

‘So he
did
leave something else behind?'

‘Well, you couldn't count that, could you? I mean, not just a measly fag. And of course, I smoked it, so I couldn't bring it in, could I? You're not going to charge me for stealing one butt now, are you?'

‘Do you remember the brand?'

‘It was untipped, I remember that. Because I prefer the filters myself these days. One of those foreign brands.'

‘Pall Mall?'

‘No–one of those tight-packed kind. Don't see so many of them here these days, but there were lots who used to smoke them after the war.'

‘Senior Service? Player's?'

‘That's it. Player's. It was a good smoke.'

‘I'm glad you enjoyed it. So the balance of probability is, he was British. Or perhaps from one of the colonies or whatever they call themselves these days?'

‘Search me. Your job to find out things like that.'

‘Quite right. And I'm most grateful to you for being so co-operative and forthcoming, Herr Botilsrud.'

Botilsrud looked at Fagermo closely, and saw only the bland, fair blankness which served him so well as a shield of his thoughts.

‘Oh well,' said Botilsrud, cracking a smile across his own grimy face: ‘Don't mention it. Any time. Here–tell your boys to lay off me for a bit, then, will you?'

And he shambled out.

The morning began for Bjørn Korvald with five minutes of luxurious drowsing in his small, hard bed in the boxlike bedroom of his tiny flat. Reluctantly he heaved himself on to the cold vinyl and pattered into the kitchen to put on the coffee-pot. Then he blundered into the living-room and switched on the radio. The Norwegian Broadcasting Company was providing its usual morning blend of weather forecasts, news headlines, accordion music and religious indoctrination. Bjørn sliced bread, and fetched cheese and sardines from the fridge. Then he threw on a few clothes and slid down to the front gate to fetch
Nordlys
from the letter-box. He spread it on the table and began to read: the state of the fishing industry; oil exploration north of the sixty-second parallel; letters from crazy teetotalists; letters from dogmatic radicals; foreign news two days old. He browsed contentedly through the usual mixture, ate his sandwiches and then poured himself a second cup of coffee.

There were few items in the paper that could strictly be called news, and these were mostly of the cyclical, almost ritual kind which punctuated the passing year in Tromsø: someone had thrown himself off the bridge; there had been drunken disturbances on Saturday night–windows had been broken in the centre of town and charges had been brought; the local theatre company was threatening to wind itself up. But there was one item, huddled down on the lower corner of the third page, that was something out of the ordinary. It had clearly been written in a hurry
as the paper went to press: a body had been found buried in the snow out in Hungeren . . . murder was suspected . . . a man in his early twenties . . . fair-haired, 1.80 metres high. There were several misprints in the report, but the gist was clear.

As Bjørn walked down the street to his office in Grønnegate, sliding expertly over the icy patches as if his shoes were skis, his mind was active. Of course it was none of his business. And the body could be anybody's–though it was fairly clear from the report that the police did not know the identity. He'd heard of Steve Cooling's conjectures when that boy had been reported missing some weeks ago. He knew Steve hadn't gone to the police then. So far as he knew nobody else had either. Would anyone go along now?

Of course the police would probably make the connection between the two–but would they be able to find out who had spoken to him while he was in Tromsø? Not unless one of those who met him in the Cardinal's Hat went along to them. And since they seemed so disinclined, it might be worth while doing it for them.

When he arrived at his office he settled the morning paper down on his desk, open at page three, and pondered for a few minutes. Then he took up the phone and rang the police station. Jøstein Fagermo was one of his friends from schooldays–someone he met now and again around town, when they said ‘long time no see' and how they ought to get together some time, but never got around to it, not from lack of liking but from laziness. On an inspiration Bjørn asked the switchboard operator for him.

‘Hello, Bjørn, what can I do for you?'

‘You're busy I can hear.'

‘One hell of a case just landed in my lap.'

‘Is it the body they found out in Hungeren?'

‘Yes, it is. Know anything about it?'

‘Well, no, only indirectly, but that's what I've rung about. Tell me, is it the same boy you advertised for some weeks ago? Fair-haired foreigner in his twenties, who disappeared round about Christmas?'

‘Yes, it is. Or almost definitely it is. What do you know about him?'

‘Not much. I never met him. But I did hear one or two things after the advertisement came out.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘Well, there's this American student called Cooling. He read the ad, and of course he couldn't be definite but it reminded him of a boy who'd come into the Cardinal's Hat just before Christmas and spent the evening there. I don't know if you know, but there's a table there where the foreigners collect and talk English–and a lot of Norwegians join them. I do myself sometimes. That's how I came to talk to this American boy. He'd been asking around the people who had spoken to this boy the night he came in, the ones who'd been sitting at the foreigners' table–asking whether they thought it could be the same boy, and whether he ought to go to the police.'

‘And?'

‘They all said no.'

‘God damn people!' exploded Fagermo. ‘What makes them treat us like lepers? Do we have some kind of collective bad breath, Bjørn? They run to us soon enough when the least little thing happens, wanting help and protection, but as soon as we ask for a little co-operation –'

‘Keep your hair on, Jøstein, this isn't a press-conference. These were mostly foreigners, remember. Things haven't been so pleasant for them since the Immigration Ban. Several have been thrown out of the country.'

‘Only if they were working without a permit . . . Well, let it pass for the moment. Did this American student
know the boy's name?'

‘No, I'm pretty sure he didn't.'

‘Damn. Yanks are usually so good about names. They seem to have some sort of mental card-index for them. Did you hear who else was in the Cardinal's Hat that night?'

‘Well, I know he went over and asked a couple of university people at the Pepper Pot–that was where he was eating when he read the ad. I don't know who they were, but he said they had both been at the foreigners' table when the boy came in. Then he mentioned a rather pathetic American girl–I think she works at the US Information Office. Quite likely she got the boy's name. I think there were some others, but you could ask him. Oh yes–he mentioned Ottesen the outfitter–you know, the chap on the Council.'

‘What would he be there for?'

‘He has an English wife. Anyway, a lot of Norwegians do join the table. I do myself.'

‘Why?'

‘Practise my English. And it's one of the few places you can go where people don't get into long arguments about the Norwegian language.'

‘Point taken. You must invite me along.'

‘Any time. But you must have better ways of making contact with these people. Sounds to me as if they may need a spot of intimidation.'

‘You know we don't go in for that sort of thing, Bjørn. You've been listening to those people in the Sociology Department.'

‘Anyway, I thought I'd let you know. It may save you a bit of time.'

‘It will. I'm tied up with the medics most of the morning, and the scientific boys, and then I'm going to get on to Interpol and Scotland Yard. But when I'm through I'll have to follow up those names . . . Though, actually,
I'm quite glad I can't do it right away.'

‘Why?'

‘Last time it was just a missing person. This time it's murder, and people will notice it and talk about it. It will be interesting to see how many of the people who met him contact
me
first . . . Bjørn?'

‘Yes?'

‘Could you go along to the Cardinal's Hat tonight?'

• • •

In the event, the only one of all those whom the dead man had met at the Cardinal's Hat to come to the police station of his own accord was Steve Cooling. Shambling into the outer office, his bean-stalk body clad in dirty jeans and tee-shirt, an anorak, and a long woollen scarf, he looked sheepish and uncertain. Hyland and Ekland, officiating in the outer office, when they heard what he had come about took him down for a quick visit to the morgue (where Steve only nodded his head and swallowed ominously), and then passed him through to Fagermo. Steve sat down on the edge of a wooden chair on the other side of Fagermo's desk, looking intensely uncomfortable.

‘I guess I should've come earlier,' he drawled.

‘I
know
you should,' said Fagermo, without overdoing the heavy hand. ‘You knew the ad was about the boy you'd met, you went around saying someone ought to go to the police, and in the end you never came.'

‘Hell,' said Steve; ‘how d'you know that?'

‘Why didn't you come?'

‘You know how it is . . . Everyone said they didn't want to get mixed up in it . . . In the end, I got scared, and sort of wondered whether I did.'

‘You're not working here illegally?'

‘Hell no. I'm not working at all. I'm writing a thesis. Would it have made any difference if I
had
come?'

‘Probably not,' admitted Fagermo. ‘I suppose we'd just
have asked a few people who were there that night about him, then let it go. There was no body at that stage. We'd just have assumed he'd taken off somewhere, or gone home.'

‘Yeah, well, that's what everybody said.'

‘Everybody?'

‘Well–people I talked to. The foreigners, and the Norwegians who come to the Foreigners' Club.'

‘Is that a close little group?'

‘Not specially. ‘Course some of them stick together thick as flies on a bull's tail. But mostly we just meet when we meet.'

‘Can you tell me who was there–at the Cardinal's Hat, I mean–on the night the boy came in?'

‘I can, I reckon. Because I've been thinking it over, and talking with the others like I said. Right, here's the list, and this is just for the time I was there: the one he was talking to most was Nan Bryson –'

‘Who's she? What does she do?'