‘Are you hungry?’
He gave a slight nod of the head.
‘Shall we go in the car again?’
He nodded again, with a bit more energy this time.
‘I’ve been talking to someone called Hans. He’ll have a meal ready for when we arrive,’ I said, including the two women in the conversation.
Cecilie said: ‘Well, I could do with something to eat, too.’
Marianne Storetvedt said she would like to talk to Jan ‘when he was in the mood’, as she expressed it. We thanked her and took our leave, then went down to the car which I had parked in the quay area across the road from the building.
Not long afterwards we had joined the traffic queue to Asane as though unable to keep away, despite all our efforts. An anthropologist might have called it the eternal longing to migrate that all humanity has in its blood.
We were like a small family unit as we wended our way, and not that untypical: no one said a word. For myself, I had more than enough to ponder. Not least — and in vain this time round — Jan’s mother’s real name. If it was him, that is.
5
Haukedalen Children’s Centre lay discreetly set back from Hesthaugvegen on the ridge leading to Myrdalskogen and Geitanuken, one of the mountains screening the central parts of Asane from the sea. The area, originally considered countryside, had been included in the town at the local council merger of 1972. At this time it was the setting for huge building projects, from rows of detached houses to tall blocks, schools and shopping centres. Road extensions had not managed to keep pace with developments, and the proposal for an urban railway that had been put to the council had been rejected by the majority as economically irresponsible. They had decided to build motorways instead. Until these plans were realised we all sat in jams, if we were intending to go in that direction. It wasn’t until we reached the top of Asavegen, by the turn-off to Tertnes, that the traffic began to flow without any further delays, and by the time we were in Haukedalen, Hans Haavik had had plenty of time to prepare the meal.
Hans Haavik was a big man, around one-metre-ninety tall, as broad as a barn door, in his mid-thirties, with a good-natured temperament that inspired trust in all those who, for a variety of reasons, sought shelter beneath his wing. Cecilie’s need for food was met. He had set the table for us all in the refectory, a bright room with large, vivaciously decorated wood panels against the grey concrete walls behind. On the way in we had passed two thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boys standing and kicking a ball to each other in the car park by the entrance. From the lounge we could hear the characteristic sounds of an ice hockey game with the puck whizzing between the one-dimensional mini-players like a bullet.
The meal consisted of a thick stew, served with fresh slices of wholegrain bread and delicious butter. We were given cold water from a jug, and Hans promised us hot chocolate, coffee and homemade cakes for dessert.
Jan did not eat much. He sat picking at his food, regarding the bits of meat with suspicion, but tried the slices of sausage. We left him in peace, but so long as he was sitting there, we couldn’t talk about him.
So we talked shop instead. We were all social workers, Hans had been in harness for ten years, Cecilie and I came into service later, she a couple of years before me. When we had finished eating, Hans glanced across at us and said: ‘It might be a good idea if one of you stays here until he has fallen asleep.’
Cecilie nodded and looked at me. ‘I can stay. After all, you’ve got…’
She caught herself in time, and I returned a stiff smile. I knew what she had been going to say, but, well, I didn’t have anyone waiting for me any more.
‘Fine,’ said Hans.
I observed Jan. Six, six and a half. Thomas was two and a half. It was strange how dependent you became on such small creatures. As soon as the daily routines were broken, there was a void in your existence, a hole which if you were lucky could be filled with something else, but not necessarily, and not always.
I sighed, and Cecilie sent me a dejected smile as if to apologise further for her tiny slip of the tongue.
‘Well, then I’ll be off.’
A telephone rang and Hans went to answer the call. Cecilie came over to me. ‘Sorry, Varg. I didn’t mean to open up old…’
‘Not at all. Relax, it’s not your…’
Hans returned. ‘Police on the line. They’re wondering whether one of you could talk to them.’
I looked at Cecilie, who nodded towards me. ‘OK, I’ll take it.’
I went into the hall, to the coin-operated telephone on the wall. ‘Veum speaking.’
‘Inspector Muus here.’
‘Yes?’
‘The situation has changed.’
‘Uhuh.’
‘This woman, Vibecke Skarnes. We went to the hospital to see whether she could receive visitors, but she couldn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Er… she wasn’t there any more. She had gone.’
‘Gone?’
‘Hopped it without leaving much more than her imprint on the mattress.’
‘But I suppose you’ve started to search for her?’
‘What do you think we are? Idiots?’
‘Not all of you.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘No.’
‘But we think it might be handy if someone kept an extra vigilant eye on the boy. Until she reappears.’
‘I see. I’ll talk to Haavik. If he can’t, I’ll stay here myself. Keep us posted.’
‘Fine.’
We hung up, and I rejoined the others. I looked at Jan and smiled. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to head for bed?’
He watched from somewhere far away, a land where adults were refused admission. Sometimes I wondered whether that wasn’t a better place to be. But the way back was closed — for most of us, anyway.
Over some brisk activity, carrying out the soup bowls and plates in two trips, I managed to update Hans and Cecilie on the latest developments. We agreed that Cecilie would stay as planned, but now she would sleep in the same room as Jan, while Hans would inform those on the night shift about the situation.
‘But she can’t know where he is, can she?’ Cecilie queried.
‘Not as far as I understand things. I wonder whether I should pop up to Wergelandsasen again in case she turns up there.’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘But isn’t that the police’s job?’
‘Yes, it is.’
She rolled her eyes in response.
We went with Hans while he showed Jan where he was to spend the night. It was a room on the first floor with two beds, a table and two chairs in the middle, a double wardrobe and a view onto a mountain face. The only picture on the wall had been taken from a book I vaguely seemed to remember from my own childhood. It showed some children lost in a forest of gigantic toadstools that grew high above their heads. I was not so sure how reassuring that would be.
However, Jan appeared to be at ease there. He still gave an impression of apathy, and I said to Cecilie that if he hadn’t snapped out of it by the day after, we would have to summon further medical support. She nodded indulgently, as if to say that she didn’t need to be told.
