Free Cold Hearts by Gunnar Staalesen Page A

buzz.’
    ‘Good.’
    Torvaldsen and Helleve disappeared into the ground-floor flat. I stopped in front of the door on the first floor and knocked. Some time passed before I heard faint, shuffling steps inside. Then the door opened, slowly and hesitantly.

11
    THE WOMAN IN THE DOORWAY was about fifty years old and drained of all colour. Bluish-grey smoke rose from an almost burned-out cigarette in the corner of her mouth. Her skin was pale bordering on transparent, her eyes watery blue, her hair grey and dishevelled, and she was wearing a beige jumper over a pair of un-chic brown trousers. There wasn’t a trace of make-up on her and she had a flat-chested, sunken posture that made her seem almost genderless. The look she sent me was vacant, blank, and she stood watching me, as though leaving the entire initiative to me.
    I grabbed it. ‘Else Monsen?’
    She nodded in silence.
    ‘The name’s Veum. Can I come in?’
    ‘What’s this about?’
    ‘Your children.’
    She blinked a couple of times. Then she retreated indoors, but left the door ajar as a sign that I could follow.
    The air in the dark hallway was heavy and stale. The clothes hanging on a stand smelled of mould. She gestured with an arm towards a door leading into the sitting room. I followed her.
    There was something empty and lifeless about this room, too. It was deafeningly quiet. There was a TV in one corner and an old-fashioned portable radio on a worn, brown varnished dresser, but both were switched off. The only sound wecould hear was the distant shouting of children in the playground by Jacob Aallsvei.
    There was a parish bulletin and a couple of magazines on the low coffee table, and visible rings left by bottles, cups and glasses on the wood. Along the wall there was a sofa and by the table two chairs. None matched, and they looked tatty and uncomfortable. In the middle of the table was an ashtray piled with cigarette ends. Before she sat down on the sofa she stubbed out her cigarette, took another from a packet she had in her pocket and lit it with a cheap plastic lighter. She made a vague motion towards the two chairs.
    I chose the one closest to the door and let my gaze drift across the faded, nicotine-brown walls. No family photgraphs. No gypsy ladies. No elks in the sunset.
    Else Monsen watched me expectantly. She appeared to be someone who was used to anything and everything from public services, and all the signs suggested that was where she had pigeonholed me.
    I took out my notepad and a pen to appear more official. ‘As I said, this is about your children. That is, two of them.’ I paused for dramatic effect, but she did not show any signs of wanting to say anything. ‘How long is it since you last saw Margrethe?’
    She frowned, to demonstrate that she was giving the matter some thought. Then she shrugged. ‘Don’t remember. Several years.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘I never see any of them.’
    ‘You don’t?’
    She gently shook her head.
    ‘So that applies to Karl Gunnar as well?’
    ‘Our Kalle? But he’s in prison.’
    ‘Yes, but he gets out on a pass now and then. He’s almost served his sentence.’
    ‘Mm?’ She didn’t sound very interested.
    ‘He hasn’t been here then, I take it.’
    She didn’t respond, except with a vacant look.
    ‘Not even in the last few weeks?’
    ‘I haven’t seen him since … we were in court.’
    ‘And no one else has been here asking after him? The police, for example?’
    ‘The police? He’s in prison, I told you.’
    ‘Yes, he is.’ I paused before continuing. ‘But Siv … you’ve had some contact with her, haven’t you?’
    In her eyes she was miles away. ‘No.’ After some thought, she added: ‘But she went to Frank’s funeral. Frank’s my husband.’
    ‘Yes, but surely they were all there, weren’t they?’
    ‘No. Just her.’
    ‘Siv was the only one at the funeral?’
    ‘Yes. In the chapel.’
    ‘So you didn’t have a get-together to celebrate his