Free The Writing on the Wall by Gunnar Staalesen

followed him, and the group of youths surrounding us slowly moved aside. As he picked up the telephone he turned and flashed a smouldering look straight at me.
    ‘Jimmy’s! Yeah. No, not now. No. I’ll explain later. Yeah. OK. See you!’
    He threw the receiver back down and barked: ‘Is that it?’
    ‘A hot dog with ketchup only, thanks!’
    He planted his great big fists hard against the counter as though about to leapfrog right over it.
    ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘think I’ll skip it. I’m not all that sure about …’ I ran my eyes over the counter. ‘A while since you’ve had a visit from the health inspector, is it?’
    ‘If you don’t get your arse out of that door double quick you’ll be the one getting a visit from them. Got it?’
    ‘Got it … This town ain’t big enough for the both of us. That means –’
    ‘I’ve seen the film.’
    ‘Me too. But did you see the credits?’
    ‘Credits …’
    ‘They say who wrote the script. And it sure as hell wasn’t you, Kalle!’
    With that, I turned and walked towards the door. But I threw a quick backward glance to make sure that a missile bearing the words ‘THE END’ was not winging its way towards the back of my head.

Ten
     
     
    ONCE OUTSIDE JIMMY’S I paused for a moment to take stock.
    So far I hadn’t made much progress to speak of. I could call it a day, go down to the office and just fill in the blanks on my form with Tippex. Or I could take up a spot in the nearest doorway and hope Fate would intervene before I rotted away.
    I looked around. A high greyish-white sky lay over the town. It was still only four-thirty and another hour before it got dark. On a corner a block and a half away the golden glow of a small café-cum-patisserie beckoned invitingly. I decided to give Fate half an hour.
    In the café I bought a mug of hot chocolate with cream and a bun with generous sprinklings of cinnamon round the edges before taking a seat at one of the tables by the window facing Jimmy’s.
    Not long after I’d sat down, Ronny came out, turned towards the door and gave two fingers to somebody or other before looking around and making off fast round the nearest corner.
    Otherwise, not much else happened apart from the build-up of traffic leaving town. The rear lights of the cars daubed red stripes along the steamed-up windowpane as they drove past, and along the pavement there were suddenly empty metered parking places.
    When my allotted half hour was up, with Fate the loser, I stacked my plates together and carried them over to the counter with a crooked little smile at the plumpish lady behind it as though we’d shared a secret moment together that Thursday afternoon. The smile I received in return suggested that was exactly what we had done; it was just that I hadn’t realised it.
    Outside the air was cold and raw, and I thrust my hands deep into my overcoat pockets. I had just decided to take a little stroll past Jimmy’s again before calling it a day when the door suddenly opened.
    Two of the girls emerged, their heads close together and slightly huddled against the biting wind, which forced its way like an unwelcome guest through the narrowest part of the street. Neither of them was Astrid Nikolaisen.
    Both of them were wearing tight-fitting jeans and anoraks a size too large. One of them had a broad red headband around her dark hair; the other a dark corduroy hat with a wide brim turned up in front. Right outside Jimmy’s they stopped under the yellowish -white glow from a swaying street lamp. The girl wearing the hat held out a scrap of paper. Open-mouthed, her friend looked into her face as though not quite able to restrain her sense of shock – or perhaps it was anticipation.
    The girl with the hat said something, and the other one nodded. They linked arms, and as the traffic paused for a breather, they crossed the street.
    A quick decision was needed.
    I decided to let Astrid Nikolaisen paddle her own canoe for now,