outcasts returned to the Garden of Eden on Nygård Hill, where the snake had taken its placeon the royal throne and Adam and Eve had long been forgiven their indiscipline. Since then things had only got worse.
With my past in social welfare and present in crime investigation it was rare I went there without meeting someone I knew. The same happened this time too. A couple of them nodded and said hello. Many demonstratively looked in another direction.
On the hill I caught sight of Little Lasse in one of the huddles. He was easy to spot, one metre eighty-five tall, long hair like a louse-ridden lion’s mane down to his shoulders. His enduring survival made him a winner in these circles, though hardly in any others. On catching sight of me he looked away. He never liked me visiting him here, and when I beckoned to him he left his group only with the utmost reluctance and cut across to meet me. He was followed by a handful of suspicious stares. The owners were probably wondering what he had to do with me.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Veum?’
‘Coincidence meeting you here, Lasse. I’m looking for someone called Joachim Bringeland. Down at the hostel he went under the name of Jokken. Do you know him?’
He licked his lips. ‘Terribly dry for the time of year, isn’t it.’
I got the hint, took out my wallet and peeled off a blue banknote for him. ‘Will that do?’
He shook his head as if clearly rejecting an advance, but with a swift dart of his hand a conjuror would have envied, he pocketed the note before I even had time to register it was gone.
‘Do you saw women in half as well, Lasse?’
‘Only if they ask.’ He stretched out his hand in the shape of a soap dish. ‘From the bottom up.’
‘I was looking for Jokken Bringeland…’
He craned around and squinted at one of the rhododendron bushes. ‘I think that’s him sitting on the bench. He and Mottled Marte have split a dose.’
‘Mottled?’
‘White hair with black blotches. Fits, doesn’t it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And Veum … Don’t come here again. You’re bad for my reputation.’
‘Most of them know who I am. I’m on their side, for Christ’s sake.’
He grimaced. ‘Up here you’re a cop all the bloody same.’ With a brusque movement he turned and went back to the huddle where he was before. He was returning to his own, but they didn’t receive him warmly. He’s been infected by a Mr Clean&Sober, he has. But then they knew nothing of my alcohol consumption over the last three years. From that perspective, we were in the same boat, the whole lot of us.
I strolled in the direction he had pointed, rounded the rhododendron and surprised the somewhat moth-eaten couple on the bench: she had just inserted the syringe and only the whites of her eyes were visible; he was nervously fiddling with the same syringe, her blood had tinged the tip red. When I appeared he fumbled with the syringe and hid it beneath his threadbare, greyish-brown parka. His eyes sought mine, from an angle and wavering, like a whipped cur, ready for another beating.
‘Joachim Bringeland?’
He nodded mutely. ‘Yes?’
The description Tiny had given me was accurate. Joachim consisted of nothing but skin and bone, protruding eyes, spikey unwashed hair and a sparse blond beard around a mouth of bad teeth. He couldn’t have weighed much more than the latter end of forty kilos. The woman beside him was not much better, leaning against him, her legs spread in filthy jeans, her mouth agape, her eyes looking inwards and her face as expressive as a plaster mask. They looked like two castaways on a raft somewhere in the ocean, far from land and beyond all hope.
‘My name’s Veum. Your mother told me where to find you.’
His flickering eyes tried to focus. ‘My mother? How?’
‘I’m working on an old case and trying to talk to everyone who might know something about it.’ When he didn’t react I added: ‘The Mette Case.’
This time I had a
With my past in social welfare and present in crime investigation it was rare I went there without meeting someone I knew. The same happened this time too. A couple of them nodded and said hello. Many demonstratively looked in another direction.
On the hill I caught sight of Little Lasse in one of the huddles. He was easy to spot, one metre eighty-five tall, long hair like a louse-ridden lion’s mane down to his shoulders. His enduring survival made him a winner in these circles, though hardly in any others. On catching sight of me he looked away. He never liked me visiting him here, and when I beckoned to him he left his group only with the utmost reluctance and cut across to meet me. He was followed by a handful of suspicious stares. The owners were probably wondering what he had to do with me.
‘What the hell are you doing here, Veum?’
‘Coincidence meeting you here, Lasse. I’m looking for someone called Joachim Bringeland. Down at the hostel he went under the name of Jokken. Do you know him?’
He licked his lips. ‘Terribly dry for the time of year, isn’t it.’
I got the hint, took out my wallet and peeled off a blue banknote for him. ‘Will that do?’
He shook his head as if clearly rejecting an advance, but with a swift dart of his hand a conjuror would have envied, he pocketed the note before I even had time to register it was gone.
‘Do you saw women in half as well, Lasse?’
‘Only if they ask.’ He stretched out his hand in the shape of a soap dish. ‘From the bottom up.’
‘I was looking for Jokken Bringeland…’
He craned around and squinted at one of the rhododendron bushes. ‘I think that’s him sitting on the bench. He and Mottled Marte have split a dose.’
‘Mottled?’
‘White hair with black blotches. Fits, doesn’t it.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And Veum … Don’t come here again. You’re bad for my reputation.’
‘Most of them know who I am. I’m on their side, for Christ’s sake.’
He grimaced. ‘Up here you’re a cop all the bloody same.’ With a brusque movement he turned and went back to the huddle where he was before. He was returning to his own, but they didn’t receive him warmly. He’s been infected by a Mr Clean&Sober, he has. But then they knew nothing of my alcohol consumption over the last three years. From that perspective, we were in the same boat, the whole lot of us.
I strolled in the direction he had pointed, rounded the rhododendron and surprised the somewhat moth-eaten couple on the bench: she had just inserted the syringe and only the whites of her eyes were visible; he was nervously fiddling with the same syringe, her blood had tinged the tip red. When I appeared he fumbled with the syringe and hid it beneath his threadbare, greyish-brown parka. His eyes sought mine, from an angle and wavering, like a whipped cur, ready for another beating.
‘Joachim Bringeland?’
He nodded mutely. ‘Yes?’
The description Tiny had given me was accurate. Joachim consisted of nothing but skin and bone, protruding eyes, spikey unwashed hair and a sparse blond beard around a mouth of bad teeth. He couldn’t have weighed much more than the latter end of forty kilos. The woman beside him was not much better, leaning against him, her legs spread in filthy jeans, her mouth agape, her eyes looking inwards and her face as expressive as a plaster mask. They looked like two castaways on a raft somewhere in the ocean, far from land and beyond all hope.
‘My name’s Veum. Your mother told me where to find you.’
His flickering eyes tried to focus. ‘My mother? How?’
‘I’m working on an old case and trying to talk to everyone who might know something about it.’ When he didn’t react I added: ‘The Mette Case.’
This time I had a
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