Free The Writing on the Wall by Gunnar Staalesen Page A

waited until the two girls had disappeared from view round the corner of a block of houses then followed them, at a safe distance.
    There was no need for caution in fact. They didn’t seem to have the least suspicion that anyone could possibly be following them.
    Five minutes later they suddenly stopped. They put their heads together again, looking as though they were studying the front of the large lit-up building on the opposite side of the street. The girl with the hat suddenly seemed different, more keyed up, and her friend looked around carefully as she spoke.
    As for me, I remained glued to the spot in front of a shop window, pretending to read the front pages of the day’s three tabloids , two from Oslo and one local one, not that there was much to distinguish them, apart from the colours.
    Now the two girls split up. The girl with the hat crossed the street, while her friend stayed put, following her with her eyes for a moment; abruptly, she turned on her heel and shot off in my direction.
    I scrutinised the banner headlines about yesterday’s trivial events even more intensely. A national politician railed against unfair treatment on the Today programme, and a skating star had hit top form one Wednesday in February. Haukeland Hospital was in crisis, and there had been a traffic accident in Lindås. So what else was new?
    The girl sailed past me without so much as a glance. I breathed freely, relieved that she was still at an age where she barely noticed people over twenty. Then I set off quickly in the opposite direction.
    Her friend was just rounding the next corner, so I stepped on it.
    As I turned the corner myself, I caught sight of her back disappearing through the main entrance of a classy hotel.
    I went after her. Through the huge glass panels facing the street I could follow her every movement as she went straight through reception and into an open lift without so much as a glance at the reception staff.
    The lift doors slid shut behind her and I watched the floor numbers as they lit up on the panel beside the lift: fourth, fifth, sixth floor.
    I looked at the clock. It was five-twenty p.m.
    I cast an involuntary glance up over the building as though I half expected her to appear at one of the windows and wave down at me.
    The name of the hotel was displayed in large neon letters above the entrance.
    For the second time that day I caught myself thinking of Judge Brandt. This was the hotel he had met his death in barely a week ago.
    Last Friday, wasn’t it?
    But it was on Thursday that Torild Skagestøl had gone missing, at least from home.
    My head brimming with sudden thoughts, I set off back to the office.
    I opened the letter box in the entrance and flipped quickly through the pile. A brochure, another three mail-shots, two bills and a completely plain white envelope with my name printed outside.
    I binned the junk mail, stuffed the bills into my inside pocket and inspected the back of the envelope as I waited for the lift.
    No sender’s name, but a Bergen postmark.
    On the third floor I emerged from the lift, went along the corridor and let myself into the office.
    The answerphone was blinking. Somebody had actually taken the trouble to leave a message.
    I hung up my coat, sat down at the desk, grabbed a letter-opener and slit open the white envelope.
    It contained a single folded sheet.
    I opened it out.
     
    Someone had made a simple standard death notice on a computer:
    I almost fell off my chair with the shock, automatically glancing at the clock. Today was February 18th. The 24th was next Wednesday.
    Then came the delayed reaction. My whole body started to tremble, and the hand holding the sheet of white paper began to shake involuntarily as though I was an elderly patient in a senile dementia ward. I was overcome with a feeling of intense nausea, and the letters danced in front of my eyes before, by sheer force of will, I managed to focus again.
    I took deep breaths: one, two, three …
    It was