Death in a Cold Climate (7 page)

‘Nan–hell–she's American, she does odd things. She's typist at the US Information Office part of the time, then she does the odd private typing jobs and a bit of translation. She's not too hot at the translation. Her Norwegian's all right, but they complain about her English spelling and punctuation. She's kind of pathetic. She just about makes out, and that's all.'

‘OK, who else?'

‘There were a couple of university guys. I know one of them's called Nicolaisen, but I don't know about the other. I think they're in languages. Pretty cold pair–look through you, know what I mean? One of them may come in when he reads the papers today.'

‘They may. No sign of it so far.'

‘They're kind of respectable, that's what I mean. Then there's this chap has a business in town, always smiling
and rubbing his hands. Ottesen his name is. Some kind of men's shop–men's clothes. Has a plump English wife–quite friendly.'

‘Yes, I know him.'

‘Oh yeah–he's on the Council or something, isn't he? I suppose you would.'

‘Anyone else?'

‘Well, I think the Mormons dropped in briefly.'

‘The Mormons?'

‘Yeah, well, they didn't stay or sit down, and of course it's not their scene really, not being able to drink, and all, not even coffee. They were looking for someone, and they just stopped at our table and talked for a bit, just to be friendly. They don't give us the religion spiel–I think they're just lonely.'

‘Too much competition in the way-out religions field up here, perhaps,' commented Fagermo.

‘Right. Screwballs all over the place. Well, I think that's all, while I was there.'

‘So the boy was still there when you left. Do you know whether he stayed long?'

‘I guess so. Someone said he was still there pretty late on.'

‘Now–what did you talk about? Did he say who he was?'

‘No, I didn't hear him give a name, or any personal stuff. He just heard us talking English and came and joined us, but he didn't seem to know anyone there.'

‘Hmmm. So he didn't even say where he'd come from, or why he was there?'

Steve creased his forehead. ‘I've been trying to remember that. I know Trondheim was mentioned. And Bodø came up, and he said, “We've put in there.” Or it might have been “We put in there”–like they'd called in on the way up on the coastal steamer.'

‘Could be. But I rather think he came by plane. Would you say the boy had probably been working in Trondheim?'

‘Hell,' said Steve, ‘I just can't remember. I don't think he actually said that.'

‘You think he was actually
working
in Norway, rather than just here on a visit, though?'

‘Yeah, I guess so. We went up to the serving counter together one time, and the way he ordered and had his money ready–yeah, I guess he knew what he was doing.'

‘Well, I suppose the Trondheim Aliens Office is a line of enquiry . . . Well, if you didn't talk about him, what did you talk about while he was there?'

‘That's what I can't remember. I mean, we were talking when he arrived–you know, English Christmases, American Christmases, Norwegian Christmases–and he was mostly listening for a bit. People asked him how long he was in town, whether he liked it, where he was staying, but he was pretty quiet. You know how it is, when the others all know each other and you don't know anyone. Anyway, after a bit we sort of got into groups and then I didn't notice him any more.'

‘And what group was he in?'

‘Well, he was talking to Nan Bryson mostly.'

‘You didn't hear what about?'

‘There is only one subject with her–herself.'

‘I can't wait to meet her. So you don't think he would have done much talking?'

‘Just sat there paralysed like the rest of us, I guess.'

‘Well, I suppose I'd best talk to her next, if I can get a word in edgeways.'

‘I'll give you a tip: she had a date with him a night or two later, only he didn't turn up.'

‘I think I can guess why,' said Fagermo.'

• • •

The speed with which Nan Bryson appeared at the police station after he had rung her at the US Information Office gave Fagermo delusions of grandeur: he felt like a Senate Investigating Committee putting salt on the tail of the CIA. Did she feel guilty about not having come voluntarily, or was she booted down at high speed by her superior, who wanted the Office to remain as co-operative and inconspicuous as possible?

Fagermo felt less good twenty minutes later when, with less than no prompting towards autobiography, Nan Bryson had only come to the point in her life when she experienced feelings of rejection at play group. Fagermo felt that the case would be stale long before she had got through the more vividly remembered trials of her adolescence.

‘That's fascinating,' he said, with his warmest smile. ‘But I wonder if you could give me a bit more about what
he
said to you?'

‘I was just trying to give you the atmosphere,' said Nan Bryson plaintively, the great ghostly brown eyes looking up at him like a spurned spaniel's. ‘I thought it would be helpful–like how we came to be talking together, and the sort of thing we had going. But I guess you think it's just me droning on as usual. Stop me if I do it again.'

‘Well, now–while you were telling him . . . all this, what was he saying?'

‘I guess he was just saying “Yes?” and “Really?” and that sort of thing. You know how the English can say “Really?”–all cold and snooty.'

‘You're quite sure he was English.'

‘Oh yeah. He had that sort of glaze, like they have.'

‘What exactly do you mean?'

‘Well, I don't mean he was really snooty, not like upper-crust snooty. He was friendly enough on the surface. But he was a pretty cold guy. He didn't give any.'

‘I see. Then what happened when you . . . exhausted that topic?'

‘Well, I guess I said “Now tell me about yourself”. I usually do–like I feel guilty. But by then they've had enough.'

‘Was that what happened that night?'

Nan Bryson tried to remember. Clearly she had not thought over the encounter as Steve Cooling had–having in all probability had fresh fields and pastures new to occupy her mind. Finally she said: ‘I think it was. By that stage it was getting fairly late, and things sort of tailed off.'

‘Had he told you his name, by the way?'

‘I think so . . . Hold it . . . What was it? Brown, that's it.'

Fagermo had seized his pencil eagerly, and now made a note in his book. ‘And his Christian name?'

‘Er–let me see. Charles . . . That's right, Charles.'

Fagermo put down his pen, and Nan Bryson fixed her great eyes upon him like a puppy who has tried to lick its master and been spurned. ‘Is anything wrong?'

‘The boy said Brown because if you say Smith people are immediately suspicious, and Brown and Jones are the next most common after that. Once he'd committed himself to Brown, he inevitably became Charlie Brown, but he disguised it a bit. If you'd woken up to it, he'd have pretended it was a joke.'

‘Hey, that's real neat,' said Nan Bryson. ‘But I thought I was telling you something really useful.'

‘You were in a way. You told me that the boy wanted to hide his real name.'

‘He
could
really have been Charlie Brown,' said Nan Bryson, as if unwilling to give up the idea of perfect honesty between them.

‘And I could be Queen of Sweden,' said Fagermo. ‘The boy wanted to keep his identity quiet–which suggests he
was here for something crooked, or at any rate secret. He didn't give any indication?'

‘No, none. He wasn't stupid.'

‘I just thought,' said Fagermo carefully, ‘that it might have had something to do with this US Information place you work at.'

Nan looked horrified. ‘No–I'm
sure
it didn't. I mean I
told
him I worked there, and he didn't register at all. Gosh, you won't be pursuing that line, will you? I mean, I could get into trouble, and it's the only regular job I have. I mean they like to keep such a low profile, like practically
invisible
, you know . . . ?'

‘I'll only pursue it if it seems likely to lead anywhere. I just thought you had contacts with some pretty odd characters, up and down the country, one way and another . . . '

‘Oh, that's just what people
say'
said Nan pleadingly.

Everyone knows it's a spy-ring, Fagermo felt like saying; the least secret one in the world. But he held his peace. There was no point in getting at an underdog on a matter like that. He said: ‘Was the boy still there when you left the Cardinal's Hat?'

‘Yes, he was. I've looked in my diary. I went to the ten o'clock movies with a girl-friend. I remember he said he'd have another small one–so he was still around.'

‘And the others were still there–the academics, the Ottesens, the Mormons?'

‘Not the Mormons. They only dropped by for five minutes–I hardly noticed them, because I was talking. And Steve had gone. But the others were still there, I guess.'

‘And you made a date with him, didn't you?'

Nan Bryson's face fell. ‘Who told you that? Hell–it must have been Steve. Will I bitch into him about that.'

‘We want to know
everything
, Miss Bryson.' What did
they think this was? A spooky children's party game?

‘Yeah,' conceded Nan, unconvinced, ‘but it didn't come to anything, so it's kinda embarrassing.'

‘What sort of date was this that you had? Was he coming to your flat?'

‘Room really. Yes, he was. He was coming for coffee, we said, the evening of the twenty-first, about eight. That's why I feel sorta cheap. And then, when he didn't turn up, that made it worse. It's humiliating.'

‘I doubt whether he could turn up, you know,' said Fagermo. ‘I should think he was under two feet of snow.'

‘Yeah,' said Nan Bryson. ‘That's the best excuse anyone's ever had for standing me up.'

The rest of that day was a whirl of activity for Fagermo. Activity for him was not in itself unusual–though for many of his fellows in the Tromsø force it was–but the kind of activity was right out of the ordinary. Murder and manslaughter were certainly not unknown in the town, but they usually took very different forms from this: teenagers now and then went too far in their weekend jollifications and did each other in in a playful manner; murderous lunatics were given temporary passes to the outside world from the local mental hospital and had a glorious time carving their families up, after which they were taken back, and the psychiatrists rubbed their hands together and said, ‘We seem to have been a little premature,' smiling sad, gentle smiles. But murders mysterious, murders involving unknown assailants–more, unknown victims–these were very much outside the general run. Even Fagermo was not entirely sure how to proceed.

One of the things he did was to get an artist's impression of the dead boy's face, and get it sent hot foot to the local newspapers. The next thing he did was to send a detailed description to Interpol. Then he got on the phone to the Trondheim police station and dictated to them a series of detailed questions about aliens–aliens with police records, and above all aliens who had gone missing. An hour later they rang him back with a negative report.

‘There's nobody missing that would fit the bill. Nobody that we
know
is missing, that is. All we have on our files are a middle-aged Italian musician and a pregnant German
waitress. Both of them presumably have just gone home. Or possibly gone off together.'

‘I see.'

‘The point is, if his work permit wasn't up for renewal between Christmas and now, we wouldn't necessarily know he was missing. And even if he is on our books, he could easily have wound things up here, settled up with his landlord for his flat or whatever, and simply moved elsewhere.'

‘He's supposed to notify change of address.'

‘Yes, but the bastards seldom do–you know that.'

‘The point is, this boy didn't just move: he got killed. I'd have expected some landlord or girl-friend to have been on to you with questions.'

‘Well, nobody's come in here. Perhaps he wasn't intending to come back here after Tromsø anyway. What do you want us to do now? I suppose we could go through our records, start picking out likely names and checking up on them.'

‘Yes–that's what I'd like.'

‘It'll take time, as you know. And of course they'll all scream “victimization”!'

‘You could confine yourself to men from the English-speaking countries, and I think you can cut out the States and Canada. They are usually recognizable when they try to speak Norwegian, and two of the people who spoke to him are quite positive that he wasn't American. Check on anyone between, say, eighteen and late twenties. Those are the outside limits. I'd have said early twenties myself.'

‘That narrows it a bit. But we've got hundreds of the buggers here, remember.'

‘I know. But make it top priority, will you?'

‘Sure, sure,' said the voice at the other end, in an intonation Norwegians take on when wishing to convey that they wouldn't be hurried by the last trump itself.

This casualness on the part of the Trondheim police, this refusal to be unduly put out by other people's problems, was all the more aggravating the more Fagermo thought about the case, since he did not see how he could make a real start on essentials or make any significant progress before he had got for his corpse a name, a history, a personality. Here the boy was, murdered in a town in which he had just arrived–murdered, no doubt, by someone he met here, either by arrangement or by accident. But surely the
reason
for the killing must lie behind, lie elsewhere, in the boy's past. This was no casual knock on the head from a drunken teenager. The concealment of the body surely proved that. The investigation therefore had to be two-pronged: establishing precisely what the boy did during his two days in Tromsø; establishing his past and his personality, with a view to finding connecting links with Tromsø. Until he could get some lead on the second strand of the investigation–and surely the vital information must lie in Trondheim, or Britain, or at any rate elsewhere–then he would merely be marking time.