Free Where Roses Never Die by Gunnar Staalesen

a memorial to the glories of yore, a row of façades painted in classical colours: red, yellow and white.
    The company Nils Bringeland had run was up two floors, off the enclosed veranda and with an office facing the street. There was still an unmistakeable smell of dried fish in the woodwork, an odour not even the hundreds of years of Bergen rain that had fallen since the last dried fish had been transported from the area had managed to expunge. Thesign beside the door told me this was where Bringeland Papir & Kontor resided. I knocked, waited a few seconds, then opened the door and stepped inside.
    The room confirmed the description: It was an office, and there was a lot of paper. Along all the walls there were shelves of goods testifying to the fact that this was indeed a paper business: boxes of envelopes in various sizes, packets of photocopy paper in various colours and of various qualities, and a wide selection of other office equipment. Not enough to sell directly, most probably they were examples of the range they had to offer potential bulk buyers.
    Behind a desk dominated by a computer sat a woman. The screen was placed in such a way that she could see on to the street. The two windows were covered by two half-drawn blinds, which completely shut out the sunlight when it was too intrusive, seldom the case in Bergen. Now, in reaction to my entrance, she swivelled her chair round to the door.
    She was fifty or thereabouts, had short, greying hair, a slightly sad expression and was elegantly dressed in a black skirt and white blouse; a delicate blue-and-red cardigan from Oleana hung from the back of her chair in case it got cold.
    Her voice was clear and well modulated. ‘How can I help you?’
    ‘My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. Private investigator. I was wondering if you were a colleague of Nils Bringeland?’
    She half-rose from her chair. ‘What do you mean – private investigator?’
    ‘Erm, I’m here about an old case.’
    ‘Not the murder, then?’
    ‘No. That is … no.’
    ‘Well…’ She pointed to a vacant chair. ‘I doubt I can help you with anything, but … I’ll try of course. What old case is this?’
    ‘The Mette Case. Does that mean anything to you?’
    ‘No, not immediately.’
    ‘A small girl who disappeared from her house in Nordås about twenty-five years ago.’
    ‘I see. I’m not sure … I was young then and probably had other things in my head.’
    ‘Nils Bringeland was one of her neighbours.’
    ‘Oh … from when he lived there.’
    ‘Did you know him back then?’
    ‘Yes, I … but not that far back. I’ve been employed here for almost twenty years. But you don’t mean to say that Nils had anything to do with that case, do you?’
    ‘No, no. Not at all. I’m just feeling my way. He and his then wife got divorced. I don’t know when.’
    ‘Well, I can…’ She coughed. ‘There’s something I should make clear to you right now, so that there won’t be any misunderstandings.’
    ‘Oh, yes?’
    She pursed her lips, as though this was not going to be pleasant, then continued: ‘My name is Sølvi Hegge. It was me … I was … I lived with Nils for fifteen years afterwards.’
    ‘Ah, I see! Sorry for bothering you with this then.’
    She pursed her lips again. ‘It’s … fine. I’m over the initial shock now.’
    ‘How—?’
    She interrupted me. ‘It was a shock. I’d been expecting him back in the office from meeting a customer in the town centre so that we could drive home together. We lived between Morvik and Mjølkeråen in Åsane, so if we travelled together we could get home faster and start cooking.’
    I nodded.
    ‘He didn’t come … After a while I became restless. I tried to phone him on his mobile, but couldn’t get through, and then … It must have been about five, suddenly there was a policeman at the door asking – a bit like you just now – if this was where Nils Bringeland worked. I said yes, you can see it is, and pointed to the sign