Where Roses Never Die by Gunnar Staalesen

surname. Which one we chose made little difference.’
    ‘I’ve heard rumours that Joachim’s on drugs.’
    Her eyes went vacant. ‘I see. Yes … he is, at various times. There’s no hiding it. But … I don’t want to talk about it. It has nothing to do with this case anyway.’
    Two women came into the shop and made a beeline for one of the clothes stands. Randi Hagenberg looked at me with relief in her face as she pointed to the women. ‘I’ll just have to tend to these customers.’
    I nodded. ‘I can wait.’
    ‘Oh…’ She struggled to conceal her displeasure.
    I stood flicking aimlessly through a rail of women’s clothes as she went over to the two customers. But who could I surprise with a present from Kløverhuset?
    Behind my skull a latent headache was beginning to build. I had what felt like knotted muscles in my temples, taut and thick. The saliva in my mouth was sticky and slimy, my throat as dry as a bone. The thought of a glass of aquavit created such a craving in my stomach that I almost left the place at once and headed home before the demon turned temperance preacher.
    But I stood my ground. The two women found it hard to come to a decision, but in the end they agreed on a black silk blouse, which wasnicely gift-wrapped and paid for with a card. When they left they brazenly stared in my direction, and from the balcony I heard one of them say something and the other laugh, a low, gravelly chuckle of the indecorous kind.
    Randi Hagenberg reluctantly came towards me.
    ‘I have only one more question.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Your husband apparently suggested … Your ex-husband or partner, I mean. Since you did split up…’
    ‘Yes?’ she said impatiently.
    ‘That the reason you split up was something that happened and it was never the same again between you.’
    She flushed to the roots of her hair and when she did answer it was more like a gulp: ‘And who the hell told you that? And what the heck has it got to do with Mette?’
    ‘It…’
    ‘Answer me that, Mr Private Detective.’
    ‘Not…’
    ‘No, you can’t, you see, and now this conversation is over. Is that clear?’ She scowled at me. ‘Clear off! Otherwise I’ll call the security guard.’
    ‘I didn’t mean to…’
    She immediately turned her back on me, stomped to the counter, lifted the telephone receiver and stood there with it in her hand. ‘I mean it! I’m calling…’
    I raised both hands in defence. ‘That won’t be necessary. Call if you like – I’m on my bike. Thank you for your … help. We probably won’t see each other again.’
    ‘I hope not! If you set foot in here again, I’ll call security. Have you got that?’
    ‘Message received loud and clear. That’s fine. I’ve already gone.’
    Actions spoke louder than words and I left Randi Hagenberg where she was, telephone in hand and an angry expression on her face, wondering to myself what button I had pressed this time, and what had made her react with such ferocity.
    It was becoming more and more of a problem that Nils Bringeland was dead. But it was still possible to track down Joachim, whichever address he was staying at.

13
    Even after Karin’s death I had still maintained my links, which went back many years, with the National Register. Several of her colleagues, whom I had met through her on various occasions, had promised me that if the worst came to the worst and there was something I needed help with – in total confidentiality, naturally – all I had to do was give them a buzz. And the worst did actually come to the worst, before anyone could have anticipated it. How long their charity would last was impossible to say, but so far I’d had no reason to complain. Not about that, at any rate.
    The last registered address for Joachim Bringeland was a hostel in Jonas Reins gate, which I doubted the highly respected parish priest and Independence Party man the street was named after would have viewed with much more than the very scantest