Chapter III: Of what that used to be
“It’s six o’clock already”, Mold said. “We’d better get back to Oslo soon. Before that, however, let’s have quick drive into town here and see if there’s a bank there…”
Gjertsen drove the Volvo carefully. A quick tour of the town of Drøbak determined that there was in fact a bank there.
“Right. Back to Oslo. I’m starving. How’s the wife, Arvid?”
“Pregnant”
“Yes. I know that. I was just wondering how she was. If her pregnancy in some way was related to your sullen and sulky behaviour. Denying your troops military access these days, is she?”, Mold said with a sly smile.
“It’s nothing like that. It’s just… well, it’s huge to become a father”
“I know. I know. I have a daughter who’s seventeen now. It’ll work out fine, Arvid. Trust me. Just don’t buy the young one a record player. I’ve got that Cliff Richard up my throat these days”
They drove in silence for a while. It was dark, and it had begun to snow slightly.
“What did you make out of the living room?”, Mold asked, while absent-mindedly lighting another cigarette. Gjertsen coughed demonstratively, but his superior was very adept at overlooking such things.
“Hardly any furniture. No personal items, except for the photographs. No pencils or paper, which would indicate that he wasn’t one of those frequent letter-writers. Anything interesting upstairs?”
“Well, the key. Apart from that, a service uniform, standard thirties issue with lieutenant’s insignia and a service rifle. No handgun. It doesn’t say a lot. I mean, we were all soldiers in the thirties after the ‘Re-armament’…”
“The what?”
“’The Re-armament’. You know, when Labour found out that pacifism would be a very bad idea, considering that Germany was re-arming and that the Soviet Union was moving out of isolation. And, of course, it was a good way of battling unemployment. People were put into the industry, the obligatory service became two years for all males. They even allowed the communists to serve. Thirty years of neglect was to be made up for…”
“How do you know all this?”
“Didn’t I ever tell you about my father? He was an officer. He still is, I suppose. He’s at one of those retirement homes now. He was a colonel in the Chief of Staff’s entourage in the thirties. He always wanted me to be in the army as well. I, however, chose to become a policeman. We didn’t speak for three years. The fact that I also openly voted Labour helped…”
Gjertsen chuckled.
“I see. So nothing exciting with the uniform?”
“Hardly”
They were approaching Oslo, passing by the huge oil supply harbour. Thousands of lights lit up the grey January night.
Gjertsen drove Inspector Mold back to Majorstua, where they both lived. It was a semi-fashionable part of the city, west of the physical and mental division between working class and middle class, the Akerselva river.
Mold spent the evening undisturbed, with his daughter at the movies and his wife playing bridge with her friends. He helped himself to a large whisky and started making notes on a piece of paper. This Mathiesen. He was still just a shadow. Not a real person. His life seemed to have been… non-existent. Evasive. His train of thought grinded to a halt as the telephone rang.
“Mold”
“It’s Marcussen here. I’ve been trying to get hold of you all goddamn afternoon. Where the heck have you two been?”
”Drøbak. Checking out mr. Mathiesen’s, the deceased, house”
“What? I’ve got the file on him here. Says he lived down in Bjørvika in some shoddy apartment, Mold. You’ve gotten this mixed up!”
“The hospital file said he lived in Drøbak…”
“Well, the address here says Scwheigaards gate, so haul yourself down there right now”
Mold put on his overcoat and hat, and resisted the temptation of taking his car. Instead, he started walking, hoping to catch a taxi a few blocks down. He did.
The building was among those who were to be torn down in the not-too-distant future. The tenants had already been offered new apartments in the high houses being erected in the outskirts of Oslo. The staircase reeked of urine and garbage, and Mold covered his nose while ascending the stairs to the third floor. The door quickly gave in. The apartment was sparsely furnished. A bed, a table and a chest of drawers. Nothing else. The light bulbs were all broken, so Mold used his lighter. No papers. No photographs. Nothing. He checked the mattress in the bed. Nothing. The chest of drawers were empty.
Outside, he cursed Marcussen for sending him on a wild goose chase at nine in the evening. He started walking. He’d catch a tram back home.
