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tenants, in other words?’
    ‘In short, if our paths cross again you’ll be up shit creek. Is that clear?’
    ‘As clear as
The Moonbeam
, but not quite as wonderful.’
    ‘Rolf, slice him!’
    Again Rolf demonstrated his agility with the knife. The pressure on my larynx went for a second or two as the knife was swung round and I felt a smarting pain down my neck, where with one fast, efficient slash he had cut a line down from my ear to my collarbone. Not deep. Not serious. But sharp enough for me to have to use my handkerchief to stem the flow.
    Kjell slung my wallet over, at such a speed I had trouble catching it. He grinned. ‘Got the message, Veum? Next time it’ll be deeper. Right to the hilt. Show him out!’
    Rolf did as his lord and master instructed. On the way out I mumbled:
‘Cattle die, kith die …’
    ‘… you die too in the end,’
he mumbled back, then opened the door and shoved me roughly onto the landing.
    Before I had turned he had slammed the door behind me.

5
    I HUNG AROUND FOR A WHILE until the blood on my neck had dried. Behind the door on the opposite side I heard irascible screams coming from the tiny tot, but not irascible enough for me to ring the bell and demonstrate my childcare background. Behind M. Monsen’s door I heard muffled sounds that suggested they had already started putting the flat in order for the next tenant. Or were they searching for something? But I didn’t ring to offer them a helping hand.
    I sauntered down the stairs and back into the most sterile part of Strandgaten. In the quarter between Nykirken Church and Tollbodallmenningen there was little to feast your eyes on apart from the sale at the vinmonopol on the opposite side, and I supposed that would not be for long, sad to say. A plaque on the wall beyond announced that Edvard Grieg’s childhood home was here. Sontums Hotel had been situated in Tollbodallmenningen, where Ibsen had been accommodated when he moved to Bergen in 1851, but there was not much cultural life in the area any more, apart from the odd buck-ride with a forlorn Anitra. Nowadays it was ticking parking meters that characterised the streetscape. I was glad I was on foot and didn’t have to keep an eye on my watch.
    I took out my mobile, rang Karin Bjørge’s work number and asked if she fancied a meal out today. She riposted: ‘And what are you after this time then?’
    ‘Well, I was wondering if you would mind checking a name for me.’
    ‘What a surprise. And it would be …?’
    ‘Margrethe Monsen, born around 1970, I would guess. Grew up in Minde possibly.’
    ‘You’re as precise as always, I see. What do you need?’
    ‘Most of all, factual details. Addresses and whatever you can dig up about closest family.’
    ‘How many generations back?’ She made no attempt to conceal the sarcasm.
    ‘Parents are enough.’
    ‘And where were you planning to invite me, did you say?’
    ‘Pascal’s?’
    ‘Let’s go for that then. After work.’
    ‘Half past four?’
    We agreed and rang off. I looked at my watch. That gave me a few hours. But until I had something concrete to search for there was little I could do.
    I decided to check out Kjell and Rolf a bit more. I glanced at the front door I had just left. I assumed they were not going to spend the rest of the day there. But this part of the street did not offer much in the way of shelter or camouflage, unless you were a car or a traffic warden. I could have crossed the street and queued outside the vinmonopol of course, and shifted places in the queue until Kjell and Rolf emerged, but the problem was that early on a Monday morning in January there were no queues, so I would have stood out like a sore thumb.
    They solved the problem by making a personal appearance. Catching sight of me, they came to an abrupt halt. Kjell said a few words to Rolf before making a beeline in my direction.
    He stopped in front of me. ‘Didn’t I tell you to hop it?’
    I pointed to the pavement at our