The Writing on the Wall by Gunnar Staalesen Read Free Book Online

door looked younger than I’d expected. Despite the heavy make-up, she didn’t look much older than her early thirties. She was wearing tight-fitting slacks and a striped, brightly coloured woollen sweater that seemed long enough to serve as a sort of miniskirt. Her hair was so dark and neat that it almost looked like a wig. ‘Yes?’ she said and clamped her dark red lips together in a kind of turkey-mouth.
    ‘Veum. I’m from … It is Mrs Nikolaisen, isn’t it?’
    ‘You can drop the Mrs . But my name is Nikolaisen, yes.’
    ‘Is Astrid Nikolaisen at home?’
    She sized me up. I added: ‘Perhaps she’s your sister?’
    In spite of the layer of make-up, I noticed she was blushing. ‘Yes, no, she’s my daughter. Just a second, I’ll see if she’s home.’
    She closed the door and I stood outside waiting. From here I could see straight down into the depot of the Bergen Tram Company. The rather random collection of workshops and tower blocks didn’t exactly make Mannsverk a showcase for fifties town planners if they could put up with something like this.
    The door behind me opened again.
    It was the same woman. ‘What’s it about?’
    ‘Actually, it’s about a friend of hers, Torild Skagestøl, who’s been missing from home for nearly a week.’
    ‘And what’s Astrid got to do with that?’
    ‘Nothing, probably. I just wanted to ask her a few things about – Torild. Who she was with and things like that.’
    She still looked a bit suspicious. ‘Are you from the police?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Child Welfare? Social Security?’
    ‘No, nothing like that. I’m here on behalf of the family.’
    ‘She’s just got up … But OK then. Come on in.’
    As I followed her in, I stole a glance at the clock. It was eleven-forty. Did that make Astrid Nikolaisen a member of social group B or C?
    The hall was papered with red lilies on a violet background. Through an open door an advert blared loudly from a local radio station.
    She knocked on a door. ‘It’s Gerd. Can we come in?’
    I could just make out a muffled ‘yes’ through the door. The woman opened it and stood aside to let me in. As I passed her I caught the scent of perfume: heavy, like lily of the valley kept far too long in an airless room.
    The girl inside was just zipping up the front of her tight jeans, not without some difficulty, the whiteness of her plump midriff emphasised by the black bra, which was all she’d had time to put on. The look she gave me was brazen and provocative, and her slightly heavy face was a puffier version of her mother’s, except that it was even more heavily made up, if with slightly blurred features since it was all too obviously the mask she’d been wearing yesterday.
    ‘Astrid! Put something on!’ said her mother over my shoulder.
    I turned to face her. ‘I can wait out here …’
    ‘No need. Put your sweater on!’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, bossy britches!’ said her daughter. ‘I’m sure he’s seen a bra before!’
    I waited for a few seconds before turning around again. Now she’d pulled on a maroon sweater and was just straightening her dark, slightly red-tinted hair. ‘What’s he want?’
    ‘To talk about Torild Skagestøl,’ I said.
    ‘Go on in.’ The mother pushed me gently into the room. ‘Tell him all you know, Astrid. I’m tidying up in the sitting room if you need me.’
    Then she left us.
    I glanced round. It was quite a small room, furnished with an unmade bed and a cross between a chest of drawers and make-up table in white. There were two beanbags on the floor. By the bed stood an old-fashioned Windsor chair and on the floor beneath the window lay an untidy pile of comics and pop and fashion mags and a handful of pulp fiction. Various items of clothing were strewn about the room as though she’d been looking for something , but I knew from experience that this state of untidiness was very often just how teenagers marked their territory.
    She turned her streaky face towards me with a slightly