Wolves at the Door

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘There are two children, I gather.’

  He motioned with his head for us to start walking. We did, and then he answered: ‘Yes. Knut and Laila. They moved out of the family home years ago.’

  ‘I didn’t see their names in the obituary.’

  ‘No, and there are reasons for that, of course.’

  ‘The daughter testified against her father in court and described how he abused her when she was young.’

  ‘Yes, that was tragic to hear.’

  ‘Were you in court?’

  ‘Yes, but only with the utmost reluctance. I felt I had to support my sister. This was, as you can imagine, a desperate situation for her. Behind the stiff mask, the man was a swine, basically. They said Laila’s testimony was past the statute of limitations, so it had no significance for the outcome of the case.’

  ‘Yes, I heard.’

  We had reached the point where the border between Bergen and Åsane had been until the two municipalities merged in 1972. From here we looked up Fagerdalen valley. Some way up the long straight you could still glimpse the old path above the hills to the town. Directly in front of us was the lake known as Hellevete, after the modest mountain behind it, a name local people soon changed to Helvete – ‘Hell’.

  We paused there.

  ‘My sister and I had a rather special upbringing, Veum.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘The first year of our lives was spent in Telavåg. In 1942, when the Germans razed villages and arrested all the men aged between sixteen and sixty, Mum, Tora and I were first sent to Storetveit and then to Framnes in the Hardanger region. Dad died in Sachsenhausen in 1944, and Mum was never the same again. Tora was also marked by this.’ He raised his voice. ‘I would’ve wished her a better husband than Per Haugen.’

  I allowed the gravity of what Hans told me to sink in before I continued, gently. ‘But … if there was sexual abuse going on in the family home how could Tora not have noticed?’

  He scanned the flat, grey surface of the lake. On the northern side of the water there was a private dwelling-cum-storehouse. Further in, towards the valley, were the buildings of a big timber company. Then he turned back to me. ‘Tora’s a simple soul. I think it was very easy for her not to see what was going on under her nose. She believed in the goodness of people, even after Telavåg.’

  ‘And the children…?’

  ‘As I said before, they moved out as soon as they could.’

  ‘Are you in contact with them?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. It’s Tora I’m in contact with, and there’s no communication between her and the children any more. It’s an utterly tragic situation. I’d like to meet them, but … it is as it is.’

  ‘Do you know what they do for a living?’

  ‘I think Knut’s followed in his father’s footsteps. He works for a computer company, from what I understand. Wife and children. Laila, she … I’m not sure. She was some sort of model when she was younger.’

  ‘A model?’

  ‘Yes, the kind you see advertising women’s clothes and suchlike. Local stuff. She may’ve done catwalk modelling as well. Then she got married, but what her surname is I have no idea.’

  ‘That won’t be difficult to find out.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t.’

  Slowly we made our way towards the headland. Soon we came to a side road sloping down towards Frøviken.

  ‘What do you do, Storebø?’

  ‘Nothing to shout about. I have a little farm. Some sheep. I’m alone, so that’s good enough for me.’

  ‘In Telavåg?’

  ‘No, we never went back. Further south, towards Klokkarvik.’

  ‘And your brother-in-law? You said Knut was following in his footsteps?’

  ‘Well, in a way, yes. He ran a small electronics company, in town. Not much to shout about either, but it made ends meet.’

  ‘And Tora?’

  ‘She was a housewife when the children were small. Later she worked on a till at a supermarket in Sandviken.’

  We were almost down by the sea now. Frøviken had been a popular bathing resort before the war and Bergen Swimming Club had had a hut on the Midtnes promontory in the south of the bay. Now some concrete steps and a single concrete pillar were all that was left of it. The slopes around were overgrown and there was little to remind anyone that once upon a time this had been a small marina.

  We were almost down by the water’s edge. From here we could see across to Herdle fjord, which lay grey and apparently lifeless between the island communities of Askøy and Holsnøy. There wasn’t a lot of traffic on the fjord on a Tuesday morning at the beginning of January, only a little cargo boat chugging alongside the land north of Florvåg, heading for Bergen.

  ‘This is where he was found, I’m told, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know any more than what I heard afterwards. But apparently another fisherman found him. I say, fisherman; they were both hobby fishermen, anglers, I suppose. Per had never shown much enthusiasm before, but after he was released from prison it was about the only thing he was interested in. Tora said he got up early in the morning, took his fishing rod and a couple of empty plastic bags for the catch, and after a few hours, never later than eight, he came home, usually with cod and podleys in his bags.’

  ‘This second man, was he a neighbour?’

  Hans shrugged. ‘Someone from the district anyway. When he got here Per was lying on the shingle on the beach, head down in the water, so the man knew at once there’d been an accident. He pulled him out and rang A&E. An ambulance arrived quickly, but they said straightaway there was nothing they could do. He was dead.’

  ‘You don’t know the name of this man?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a sadness about Hans Storebø as he stood there gazing at the bay where his brother-in-law had lost his life a few months before. But it appeared it wasn’t the thought of Per Haugen that was making him sad. It was more the thought of a wasted life, a life lived at the expense of others, scarring those who were exposed to him and survived.

  Then he turned to face me again. ‘You didn’t say … What’s your angle in all of this? Has someone commissioned you?’

  ‘I can’t answer that.’

  ‘But … does someone suspect there’s been an, erm, a criminal act here? That his death wasn’t natural?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer that, either. But, as I told you before, there’s been another death this autumn, another man who was found guilty … of the same crime. Some people think there may be a connection between these deaths. That’s about it.’

  He studied me. ‘And one of these people is you?’

  ‘Among other things.’

  ‘Well…’ He flung out his arms. ‘Don’t let me stand in your way. If you find someone did it with intent … you should give him a medal, if you ask me.’ He spat symbolically into the sea. ‘Nobody’s missed him. There was hardly anyone at the funeral. Tora, me, a few neighbours.’

  ‘And the parish priest.’

  ‘Yes, naturally enough.’ He eyed me with surprise. ‘Of course the priest was there.’

  ‘Perhaps I can have a little chat with him, too.’

  ‘Doubt you’ll get much out of it, but … go ahead.’ He raised his arm and looked at his wristwatch. ‘Now, I’m afraid I’ll have to get back to Tora. I have to see if there’s any shopping I can do for her. She has her lunch delivered to the door by her home help, but she may want something from the shops, too.’

  ‘Many thanks for taking the time to talk to me. It was a useful chat.’

  ‘Keep me posted if you find anything out.’

  ‘Will do.’

  We walked together into Helleveien. I got into my car parked by the block of flats in Brunestykket. He disappeared into the building. I sat for a while looking at the door, half expecting him to reappear, like a jack-in-a-box.

  But he didn’t. I started the car and pointed my nose towards town. I hadn’t thought s
o far ahead. They might not have a pastor in Biskopshavn church, but they did have a parish priest. And they kept office hours, didn’t they?

  10

  Biskopshavn Church was built in 1966, doubtless to meet the need for ecclesiastic activity among the fast-growing population of Ytre Sandviken in the 1950s and 1960s. It was shaped like a boatshed and perched attractively on the top of a crag above the actual Biskopshavn, the bishop’s harbour, which was mentioned as early as in the 1200s, in Snorre’s kings’ sagas.

  The parish registry was in the east of the church, attached to the large vestry. The priest, Bjarte Nyland, turned out to be an easy-going fellow of my age with a white Father Christmas beard, thick hair and a friendly smile. He showed me into his office. We sat down on a small sofa by a nest of tables with just enough room for the two cups of coffee he had brought with him from the secretarial office.

  ‘How can I help you, Veum?’ he asked in a sonorous tone, which must have sounded good from the pulpit.

  ‘I’m investigating a death. A person by the name of Per Haugen, for whom you performed the funeral in October.’

  His face became serious. ‘Yes, I won’t forget that one in a hurry. At funerals you do occasionally talk to an almost empty room, but then they’re solitary individuals, life’s lost sheep, people who have often lived in the most abject loneliness, unseen, unnoticed by anyone.’ He looked at me, as if to make sure I understood what he was talking about. To confirm I had, I nodded. ‘What is unusual in this case was that he did have a family. A wife, children, grandchildren…’ He stretched for the coffee cup. ‘No contact with any of them. Well, apart from his wife, that is.’

  He raised the coffee cup to his mouth and took a sip.

  ‘I don’t know if anyone explained the background to you?’

  He set the cup down again and nodded. ‘Yes, one of the employees here told me. Neither of them was a regular churchgoer, so they were new to me.’ He paused. ‘I tried discreetly to ask his wife if there was anything she wanted to talk to me about – as we do on such occasions: ask if there’s anything people want the priest to emphasise in his speech. Personal memories, something about the deceased’s character and personality. But there was nothing. She was very upset by the death, it seemed, and the result was an extremely brief mention of Haugen before we went on with the standard texts and rounded off the ceremony. She didn’t even want to choose the psalms, so the organist and I selected some of the more usual ones.’

  ‘There weren’t many people in church, I understand.’

  ‘No. Fru Haugen had her brother with her, fortunately. He seemed like a reliable sort. Otherwise there was no one from the family. Just a few others. A couple of neighbours perhaps. An ex-colleague.’ He smiled wryly. ‘We don’t exactly do a roll-call, so this is just my interpretation of who they might’ve been.’

  It was my turn to taste the coffee.

  ‘You’re a private investigator, you said. Does this mean that there’s something suspicious about the death?’

  ‘Let me put it like this: there have been two deaths among three men convicted of possessing sexual images of children. These are cases that arouse strong emotions in people. Child abuse – you can hardly imagine anything worse.’

  ‘No.’ He looked at me sadly. ‘It’s so far from what we can imagine. Have you got any children?’

  ‘A grown-up son and a small grandchild. But they live in Oslo.’

  ‘As a priest you have an insight into so many lives. Even if we have no Catholic customs such as confession in the Norwegian church, it does happen that some people come to the priest with their confessions. If you have no one else to confide in, a priest may be the very last resort. During my career I’ve met people with a need to confess something or other. Some of them have admitted the kind of thing we’re talking about now. Their urges were simply too strong for them and they preyed on children who were close to them. Their own, the neighbours’, the children they met in connection with sport, a variety of situations. But precisely because of the closeness to the victims it’s harder to bear when it – in some cases – comes out. Imagine a small village or a suburb of a town, a sports team. You’re exposed forever. You’ll never be the same again, neither in your own, nor in others’ eyes. For many there’s only one way out.’ He heaved a sigh and said no more.

  ‘You’re referring to … suicide?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And that might also be what happened to Haugen?’

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘Of course you have a point. But the circumstances and this second death … I don’t know … In fact it’s described as suicide by the police. In Haugen’s case the incident was shelved as an accident. My problem is, however, that I think these two deaths are conspicuously close in time, and there may be a common motive behind both of them.’

  ‘Thou hast seen all their vengeance.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lamentations: chapter three, verse sixty.’

  ‘Exactly. As I said earlier. Strong emotions.’

  ‘But I don’t think I can help you in this particular case, Veum.’

  ‘Never mind. Thank you for your time.’

  On my way out of Biskopshavn Church and down to where I had parked the Corolla I drew a black line through my hypothesis that Bjarte Nyland could be the unknown pastor in this, for the time being, somewhat nebulous mystery. I would have to pursue my investigations elsewhere. Top of the list was Per Haugen’s children.

  11

  Over the last decade, tracing people had become much easier than it once was. It was no longer necessary to have a good friend at the national registration office. You could go a long way with a co-operative computer and a talent for finding your way through the many labyrinthine highways and byways of the internet.

  I drove back to Bergen, left my car in the multi-storey car park in Markeveien, walked down to the office and started my search.

  In those cases where I had people’s full names it was even easier. I knew the son’s name: Knut Haugen. The sister’s name was Laila. According to their uncle she had married, but he didn’t know if she’d taken her husband’s name.

  I searched the Yellow Pages for Knut Haugen. I found only one person in Bergen with that name. The address was Nystuveien, on the mountain above Bellevue. I tried searching ‘Knut Haugen’ and ‘IT’. This gave me several hits. Knut Haugen appeared as the general manager of the IT company BI-IT. It had a chic logo and the text said the first two letters stood for Bergen International. On one webpage showing impressive yearly results his face was wreathed in a broad smile. On another he looked at least as pleased after signing a new contract with a big concern in the health service, and on a third he was giving a thumbs-up to the appointment of a creative, young games developer. There, he was mentioned as an investor and the company name was different. I confidently assumed this was my man. I noted down the street number in Nystuveien and the office address of the company, in Bryggen.

  Then I searched several sources for a Laila Haugen in the local area, without any luck. I tried her mother’s name, in case she had taken it, but with no luck there, either. So I would have to hope her brother could help, and aimed for a meeting with him initially.

  As I was finishing my searches the telephone rang. I picked up and said: ‘Hello, Veum here.’

  No one answered.

  ‘Hello? Anyone there?’

  All I could hear was a car horn in the background, as if the caller was in the traffic somewhere. Then the line went dead.

  I looked at the phone display. There was a short message: ‘Unknown number’.

  I shrugged and put the phone back in my pocket with a slightly queasy sensation in my stomach. But I ignored it and continued what I was doing.

  There was still a good deal of the day left before my appointment with Haldis Midtbø in Frekhaug. I had a suspicion Knut Haugen was unlikely to be willing to talk about his father. In my experience, in cases such as his, making prior arran
gements met with little success. A direct approach would be more effective, and Bryggen was close enough for me to see it from my office.

  At the end of the nineteenth century the town council decided that all of Bryggen – or Tyskebryggen, ‘German Wharf’, as it was called at that time – should be demolished and replaced with tall brick buildings in the architectural style of Lübeck. When large parts of Bergen centre burned down in January 1916 they had got as far as Nikolaikirkeallmenningen. Then they had to employ all their construction capacity to rebuild the razed areas in the centre. This prevented the rest of Bryggen from being demolished before 1920. The timber houses stayed put.

  BI-IT resided in one of the brick buildings between Nikolaikirkeallmenningen and the Hanseatic Museum. I found the company name on the list of the tenants facing the street. They were on the second floor and to maintain my fitness I took the stairs up.

  A solid wooden door with a neatly carved rhombus pattern on the front panel led into the company premises, but the door was locked, and I had to ring a bell to contact them.

  A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker above the doorbells. ‘Yes?’

  I said, ‘Veum here,’ which was true. And it turned out to be enough. The lock buzzed, I pressed the handle, opened the door and went in.

  I entered an elegant reception area that was more reminiscent of a shipping company than an IT business. The furniture for visitors was, if not Louis Seize, then definitely King Oscar II of Sweden, not that I would claim to know anything at all about that sort of thing. At any rate it looked very exclusive.

  The person I assumed owned the voice was a woman in her late twenties with close-cropped fair hair and frameless glasses with thin steel arms. She was dressed in what some Norwegians after the turn of the millennium called casual: faded denim jeans decorated with what looked like small diamonds, hopefully made of glass, and a loose, waisted blouse in light-coloured cotton with a very discreet neckline that revealed none of what was inside. She had no visible workplace in the office, but stood waiting for me in the middle of the floor. ‘The name was …?’ she said, looking at me with big blue eyes from behind the lenses.