Cold Hearts Read Online Free PDF Page B

feet. ‘This is publicproperty, Kjell Boy. The flat up there belongs to you, doesn’t it?’ I pointed again, to avoid any misunderstandings.
    ‘And don’t call me Kjell Boy!’
    ‘But Kjell Boy … We haven’t been properly introduced. Tell me your surname and I’ll address you according to conventional etiquette.’
    A large, black Mercedes pulled up. With a grinning Rolf at the wheel.
    Kjell looked deep into my eyes once more. ‘Veum … I am warning you for the last time. Don’t tread on my toes. You will regret it!’
    He turned around, strode over to the car, tore open the rear door and plumped down heavily on the commodious seat. Rolf saluted with a neutral hand to his forehead, and the car shot forward.
    I made a hasty note of the number, first of all in my head, then on my notepad. Before they had passed Nykirken Church I had rung the Vehicle Licensing Agency.
    The car was owned by a firm called Malthus Invest. What they invested in was not clear from the name, but it was obviously everything from property to what they would no doubt prefer to call the entertainment industry.
    I walked through the pedestrian zone back to my office. I looked out of the corner of my eye at the black screen, which had now allowed the dancing windows to rest, wondering vaguely whether the Internet could have assisted me here. However, I found it safest to get out the telephone directory and leaf through. That, it transpired, was enough.
    Malthus Invest had an office in Markeveien. Thus they could have saved the Mercedes the trip to Nordnes. They also had a central switchboard number, but I considered it inappropriateto bother Kjell Boy any further at this juncture, so I was content to store his number on my mobile for possible later use.
    There was one person in Bergen with the surname Malthus. Oddly enough, his first name was Kjell. His home address was in Fyllingsdalen. Street called Storhammeren, although that didn’t mean much to me.
    The telephone directory was a tool I had used a lot during my years as a private detective. I sat flicking through it.
    I couldn’t find anyone called Margrethe Monsen. Nor, for that matter, Hege Jensen. Either they didn’t have a landline or they had a private number. I glanced at the screen again, but still I didn’t feel competent enough to use the Internet for detective work. A meal at Pascal’s was much more my style.
    That may have been why I arrived half an hour before the agreed time. It gave me a chance to have a glass of beer and skim through one of the day’s newspapers. I read that the number of Norwegians with access to the Internet had passed a million. Around two hundred thousand people were online every day. In other words, I was not alone out there. In some miraculous way my office had become connected to the rest of the world, and a familiar refrain had been buzzing in my head for some time:
You’ll never walk alone …
    Karin did not have far to walk either and she entered from Valkendorfs gate on the dot. She was wearing a coat and boots, with nothing on her head. She had shaken her umbrella before entering, and bridled at the terrible weather. ‘My God, Varg! Have you seen the floods!’
    I nodded. The water was streaming down the gutters, and the last remnants of snow from the morning were now gone.
    I gave her a hug, helped her off with her coat and pulled out a chair for her. I was so conspicuously gallant that she peeredup at me and said: ‘And just what is it you’re working so hard for?’
    ‘What have you got to offer?’ I grinned, taking my place opposite her while an observant waiter dashed up with a menu.
    ‘I thought
you
were treating
me
?’
    ‘Here, yes, I am.’
    Our eyes met, the way two old friends pass on the street and stop for a chat because it has been such a long time.
    We soon decided what we wanted and agreed to share a half-bottle of red with the meal, as we were in a French mood. While we waited for the food to arrive she pulled out a