Free Where Roses Never Die by Gunnar Staalesen Page B

the funeral in December.’ She nodded to the window. ‘She lives over there, in Nordnes. In a sixties block.’
    ‘What does she do?’
    ‘She’s a sales assistant in one of the shops in Kløverhuset. Ladies’ clothing for teens of all ages.’
    ‘Were they at the funeral? All of them?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Joachim and Janne and her English husband. In fact, he was bad-tempered and stroppy and not unlike a football player after he’s been given a red card. None of them spoke afterwards. Nor did Randi. Not a single one of them.’
    I couldn’t help myself, but I had developed a bit of a soft spot for Sølvi Hegge. I liked the way she expressed herself, her commitment, frankness and the sober way she tackled her grief. And her smile was sardonic and a little despondent; it was the way my old school friend from Nordnes had smiled, when we met so many years later.
    ‘Did you and Nils have children?’
    She sighed, and her eyes glazed over. ‘Helene. She’s ten. Of course, she doesn’t understand anything. It’s impossible to explain … why such things happen, as you know. You can become an atheist for much less.’
    ‘Yes.’
    I would have liked to stay there longer, but there was nothing to suggest she had anything to tell me about Mette, and she hadn’t offered me a cup of coffee, surprisingly enough for a morning visit to a Norwegian office.
    ‘Well, perhaps…’ I got to my feet. ‘If you happen to think of anything that might have some significance for the case, then…’ I passed her my card and she stood up to take it. She was ten centimetres shorter than me and a waft of something reminded me of funerals: king lily and chrysanthemum.
    Her eyes were steely grey as she looked up at me. ‘Why has the case come up now, after so many years?’
    ‘Another mother wondering what actually happened.’
    She nodded slowly. ‘It’s not always that easy to explain.’
    ‘Not for any of us.’
    With those words we parted, for ever, to all appearances. But you can never be sure of anything. Perhaps we would meet again, at a party in some years’ time, and sit smiling philosophically at each other.

11
    The houses in Bryggen are divided into two parts as a result of the decision at the end of the nineteenth century to demolish all the timber houses and replace them with new brick apartment buildings, after a design inspired by the old trading houses in the German Hanseatic town of Lübeck. The jewellery shop was in the first of these brick buildings, with a sign saying Wilhelm Schmidt & Sons . On my way back from the meeting with Sølvi Hegge, driven by a sudden impulse, I opened the shop door and went in.
    The female assistant, a dark-haired, well-groomed woman in her forties, looked up sharply when I entered. She watched me stiffly as I approached the counter, as though fearing that at any minute I would pull out a gun and start yelling orders at her. It was only when I spoke to her that she appeared to relax, but she still wore a tense expression for as long as I was in the shop.
    ‘Hello, my name’s Veum and I … A case I’m investigating has a connection with what took place here in December.’
    ‘A connection? I don’t understand.’
    ‘To do with the man who was shot outside here, that is.’
    ‘Oh, him!’ She put her hand to her mouth in terror, as though she had almost forgotten him.
    ‘He exchanged some words with one of the robbers.’
    ‘Yes, he did.’
    ‘You were…’
    ‘But none of us heard what he said!’ She raised her voice. ‘I’ve explained that to the police countless times.’
    From the room at the rear I heard the sound of an office chair being pushed back. Seconds later, in the doorway appeared a man who Irecognised from the newspapers as Bernhard Schmidt. He was a little plump and in his early sixties with thinning hair and a barely visible pencil moustache. ‘What’s the matter, Kjersti?’
    She turned to him. ‘There’s a man here … He says he’s investigating …