Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Almost an hour passed before the office door opened again. Marianne Storetvedt carefully led Jan through the double doors into the waiting room. She shot us a look and gave a quick shake of her head. Then in a friendly tone, while patting him on the shoulder, she said: ‘Johnny boy doesn’t feel like talking to us today. That’s his right. I think what he needs most now is something to eat and perhaps a nice cup of hot chocolate.’

  I nodded. ‘If I could just use your phone …’

  She pointed to her office. ‘By all means.’

  I went in, alone. The desk was nice and tidy, and there were no notes about what she might have got out of Jan. I leafed through my address book and dialled the Haukedalen Children’s Centre, an institution which was mainly for children at risk.

  The manager himself answered the phone, a colleague of ours called Hans Haavik. I explained the predicament to him and said we were on our way. He promised to have a hot meal ready for us when we arrived.

  I took the opportunity to search through Marianne’s telephone directory.

  Skarnes, Svein was in the book, no mention of a profession. His wife was not listed. Above the surname I found something called Skarnes Import with General Manager Skarnes, Svein mentioned, giving the same private address and telephone number. The text did not detail what he imported.

  I went out to join the others. Marianne Storetvedt and Cecilie were standing by one window speaking in hushed voices. Jan stood behind them with the same distant expression. When I came in, his eyes sought mine, and for a moment I had the impression he wanted to say something. I smiled encouragement and nodded, but not a sound emerged after all.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  He gave a slight nod of the head.

  ‘Shall we go in the car again?’

  He nodded again, with a bit more energy this time.

  ‘I’ve been talking to someone called Hans. He’ll have a meal ready for when we arrive,’ I said, including the two women in the conversation.

  Cecilie said: ‘Well, I could do with something to eat, too.’

  Marianne Storetvedt said she would like to talk to Jan ‘when he was in the mood’, as she expressed it. We thanked her and took our leave, then went down to the car which I had parked in the quay area across the road from the building.

  Not long afterwards we had joined the traffic queue to Åsane as though unable to keep away, despite all our efforts. An anthropologist might have called it the eternal longing to migrate that all humanity has in its blood.

  We were like a small family unit as we wended our way, and not that untypical: no one said a word. For myself, I had more than enough to ponder. Not least – and in vain this time round – Jan’s mother’s real name. If it was him, that is.

  5

  Haukedalen Children’s Centre lay discreetly set back from Hesthaugvegen on the ridge leading to Myrdalskogen and Geitanuken, one of the mountains screening the central parts of Åsane from the sea. The area, originally considered countryside, had been included in the town at the local council merger of 1972. At this time it was the setting for huge building projects, from rows of detached houses to tall blocks, schools and shopping centres. Road extensions had not managed to keep pace with developments, and the proposal for an urban railway that had been put to the council had been rejected by the majority as economically irresponsible. They had decided to build motorways instead. Until these plans were realised we all sat in jams, if we were intending to go in that direction. It wasn’t until we reached the top of Åsavegen, by the turn-off to Tertnes, that the traffic began to flow without any further delays, and by the time we were in Haukedalen, Hans Haavik had had plenty of time to prepare the meal.

  Hans Haavik was a big man, around one-metre-ninety tall, as broad as a barn door, in his mid-thirties, with a good-natured temperament that inspired trust in all those who, for a variety of reasons, sought shelter beneath his wing. Cecilie’s need for food was met. He had set the table for us all in the refectory, a bright room with large, vivaciously decorated wood panels against the grey concrete walls behind. On the way in we had passed two thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boys standing and kicking a ball to each other in the car park by the entrance. From the lounge we could hear the characteristic sounds of an ice hockey game with the puck whizzing between the one-dimensional mini-players like a bullet.

  The meal consisted of a thick stew, served with fresh slices of wholegrain bread and delicious butter. We were given cold water from a jug, and Hans promised us hot chocolate, coffee and homemade cakes for dessert.

  Jan did not eat much. He sat picking at his food, regarding the bits of meat with suspicion, but tried the slices of sausage. We left him in peace, but so long as he was sitting there, we couldn’t talk about him.

  So we talked shop instead. We were all social workers, Hans had been in harness for ten years, Cecilie and I came into service later, she a couple of years before me. When we had finished eating, Hans glanced across at us and said: ‘It might be a good idea if one of you stays here until he has fallen asleep.’

  Cecilie nodded and looked at me. ‘I can stay. After all, you’ve got …’

  She caught herself in time, and I returned a stiff smile. I knew what she had been going to say, but, well, I didn’t have anyone waiting for me any more.

  ‘Fine,’ said Hans.

  I observed Jan. Six, six and a half. Thomas was two and a half. It was strange how dependent you became on such small creatures. As soon as the daily routines were broken, there was a void in your existence, a hole which if you were lucky could be filled with something else, but not necessarily, and not always.

  I sighed, and Cecilie sent me a dejected smile as if to apologise further for her tiny slip of the tongue.

  ‘Well, then I’ll be off.’

  A telephone rang and Hans went to answer the call. Cecilie came over to me. ‘Sorry, Varg. I didn’t mean to open up old …’

  ‘Not at all. Relax, it’s not your …’

  Hans returned. ‘Police on the line. They’re wondering whether one of you could talk to them.’

  I looked at Cecilie, who nodded towards me. ‘OK, I’ll take it.’

  I went into the hall, to the coin-operated telephone on the wall. ‘Veum speaking.’

  ‘Inspector Muus here.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The situation has changed.’

  ‘Uhuh.’

  ‘This woman, Vibecke Skarnes. We went to the hospital to see whether she could receive visitors, but she couldn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Er … she wasn’t there any more. She had gone.’

  ‘Gone?’

  ‘Hopped it without leaving much more than her imprint on the mattress.’

  ‘But I suppose you’ve started to search for her?’

  ‘What do you think we are? Idiots?’

  ‘Not all of you.’

  ‘I beg your pardon.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But we think it might be handy if someone kept an extra vigilant eye on the boy. Until she reappears.’

  ‘I see. I’ll talk to Haavik. If he can’t, I’ll stay here myself. Keep us posted.’

  ‘Fine.’

  We hung up, and I rejoined the others. I looked at Jan and smiled. ‘Don’t you think it’s time to head for bed?’

  He watched from somewhere far away, a land where adults were refused admission. Sometimes I wondered whether that wasn’t a better place to be. But the way back was closed – for most of us, anyway.

  Over some brisk activity, carrying out the soup bowls and plates in two trips, I managed to update Hans and Cecilie on the latest developments. We agreed that Cecilie would stay as planned, but now she would sleep in the same room as Jan, while Hans would inform those on the night shift about the situation.

  ‘But she can’t know where he is, can she?’ Cecilie queried.

  ‘Not as far as I understand things. I wonder whether I should pop up to Wergelandsåsen again in case she
turns up there.’

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘But isn’t that the police’s job?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  She rolled her eyes in response.

  We went with Hans while he showed Jan where he was to spend the night. It was a room on the first floor with two beds, a table and two chairs in the middle, a double wardrobe and a view onto a mountain face. The only picture on the wall had been taken from a book I vaguely seemed to remember from my own childhood. It showed some children lost in a forest of gigantic toadstools that grew high above their heads. I was not so sure how reassuring that would be.

  However, Jan appeared to be at ease there. He still gave an impression of apathy, and I said to Cecilie that if he hadn’t snapped out of it by the day after, we would have to summon further medical support. She nodded indulgently, as if to say that she didn’t need to be told.

  Cecilie stayed upstairs to help Jan with preparations for the night. I followed Hans back down to the refectory. From the adjacent room the sounds of the ice hockey game had died away. Now the TV had taken over, although I was unable to identify the programme.

  Before leaving, I went upstairs to say goodnight to Jan. He had been given a pair of pyjamas from one of the wardrobes. Cecilie had found a book on the shelf over her bed and was reading aloud from it. The boy lay in bed with his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling and giving no obvious sign that he was listening.

  ‘Goodnight, Johnny boy,’ I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  To Cecilie I opened my palms, gave her a pat of encouragement on the shoulder and was off.

  Hans accompanied me out. He laughed when he saw my vehicle. ‘Is there really any room in that sardine can, Varg?’

  ‘More than you would imagine,’ I answered. ‘But it would have been a size too small for you.’

  He stood watching as I got in. I peered up at him. He wore an air of concern.

  ‘Anything bothering you?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s just an occupational disease, Varg. You’ll get it, too, after a few years in this line of work.’

  ‘And it has what effect?’

  ‘A slow accumulation of disillusionment regarding what some adults do to the children they brought into the world.’

  ‘Well …’

  We nodded to each other, then I put the car into gear and set off. I glanced at him in the rear-view mirror as I turned out of the car park. Standing where he was, he looked strangely forlorn: a big, good-natured teddy bear forgotten by a child who had long grown up, slightly at odds with the times.

  Beate had kept the flat in Møhlenpris. I had found myself two rooms and a kitchen in Telthussmauet, in Fjellsiden. But I didn’t go there. I did what I had told Cecilie I would do, and drove back to Wergelandsåsen.

  6

  February was dark and this year there wasn’t much snow. It wasn’t cold, either. It had been an unseasonably warm winter, and in January the föhn winds had swept through the town for such long periods that man and beast had smelt spring in the air long before it was due. No one would have been surprised if the first migratory birds had arrived a month or two early.

  Wergelandsåsen was an almost noise-free zone this evening. All you could hear was the distant hum of cars down in Storetveitvegen, a cat meowing furiously in a garden and an aeroplane passing overhead towards Flesland airport.

  Behind the hedges, the houses were lit and peaceful. I pulled in, got out of the car and carefully put the car door to, without closing it. I stood taking stock of the area.

  The street was narrow and surrounded by withered brown hedges, most of them neat and tidy. A few cars were parked down one side. I bent forward to see if anyone was sitting in them, but there was no one.

  I closed the car door quietly and moved forward. There wasn’t a hedge around the brown house but large dark green rhododendron bushes, the biggest of them at least twenty years old. I paused by the gate. The police had cordoned off the house with red and white plastic tape, a measure which did not prevent anyone from entering if they wished. I looked towards the house. It had a dark, closed air. An outside lamp was on. That was all.

  A car door further down the street was slammed. I stared after it. Two men were coming towards me. Neither of them wearing a uniform, but they didn’t need to. I recognised them by their gait, and when they were close up I recognised Ellingsen and Bøe. Ellingsen because he had married an ex-girlfriend of mine; Boe I had seen at the police station.

  ‘Something we can help you with?’ asked Boe, the older of the two, weasel-faced, lean and wiry.

  ‘I know him,’ said Ellingsen, a bit chubbier, dark-haired with visible bristles.

  ‘Hello, Elling,’ I said. ‘Everything alright at home?’

  ‘Yes, thanks.’

  ‘You know him, did you say?’ Boe asked.

  ‘Just by repute.’

  ‘His wife,’ I began.

  ‘They were in the same class at school,’ he added with alacrity.

  I gave a thin smile as though I knew something he would have preferred not to know.

  ‘And what the hell are you doing here at this time of night?’ Boe pressed.

  I studied him. ‘The fact is I was here earlier in the day on business. Social services, if you’re curious. I just felt like – seeing how things were up here, during the evening.’

  Ellingsen expelled air through his nose and Boe sent me a suspicious glare. ‘Seeing how things were?’

  I opened my mouth to answer as a car turned into the narrow street. When the driver became aware of our presence he switched off full beam. For a second, time stood still. Then the two policemen began to walk towards the new arrival, a BMW of the sporty variety as far as I could see, as muscular as it was lowbrow and in an unbelievably indecorous colour, the closest relative to which was orange. Before they had closed in, the driver had opened the door and got out. He was slim, wore a short jacket and was only visible as a silhouette in the distance.

  I followed Ellingsen and Boe.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ asked the man with natural authority in his voice.

  ‘We should ask you the same,’ Boe said, showing his police ID.

  ‘My name is Langeland and I’m the family’s solicitor.’

  ‘Which family?’

  ‘Skarnes. Who did you think?’

  Ellingsen looked sheepish. ‘Well, we had to ask, didn’t we.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  The two policemen introduced themselves. Langeland looked at me. ‘And this is?’

  Ellingsen and Boe turned round in astonishment, as if they had never seen me before.

  ‘Veum,’ I said. ‘Social services.’

  ‘Are you responsible for looking after Jan?’

  ‘He’s in safe hands.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. Where?’

  ‘I don’t know if I can divulge that information.’

  ‘As I said to the policemen here … I’m the family’s solicitor. You can tell me everything.’

  ‘I’ve learnt that you should say as little as possible to solicitors.’

  Boe gave a crooked grin. ‘Perhaps you should take Veum with you for a ride in your car, Langeland. Make him an offer he cannot refuse.’

  ‘You’ve seen the film, too, have you?’ I said.

  ‘What is in fact the problem?’ Langeland said.

  ‘What’s what problem?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Perhaps I should ask you that question. Are you expecting to find your client in?’

  He sent me a chill look. ‘My client?’

  ‘Vibecke Skarnes. You’re the family’s solicitor, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, I am … Isn’t she in hospital?’

  ‘In which case wouldn’t it make more sense if you were visiting her there – rather than here?’

  Both policemen focused their attention on Langeland as if they shared my view of the matter.

  He glowered at us. �
��I came here to see what the situation was. I hadn’t received a report back on what had happened before this evening.’ With a sidelong glance at the policeman, he added, ‘I was working on a case in Kinsarvik, but I understand there is nothing else to be done here.’

  ‘Never say never,’ I said.

  ‘And that is supposed to mean?’

  I turned to Boe again. ‘I don’t know how much I’m allowed to disclose. To be on the safe side, I’ll leave an assessment of that to our friends here.’

  Boe took stock of Langeland. Then he said succinctly: ‘It turns out fru Skarnes has disappeared.’

  ‘What! Disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From the hospital.’

  No one said a word. Boe just nodded in silence.

  For a moment, Langeland stood mesmerised. ‘Well, I never!’ He turned to me again. ‘Do you know anything about this?’

  ‘No more than has already been said.’

  An apparently dumbfounded solicitor was such a rare sight that I was distracted for a moment. Then he had himself under control again.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to go up there myself and find out what could have happened.’ He looked from me back to the policemen. ‘And you?’

  Boe gazed at him from under weary eyelids. ‘We’ve been assigned to surveillance duties outside the house. In case she turns up. Veum’s going home to bed.’

  I winked at Ellingsen. ‘Yes, if Elling’s here then …’

  His face instantly went scarlet. ‘Veum! I’ve warned you!’

  ‘You have indeed. But has that scared me off? Not yet.’

  ‘One day I’m going to hit you so hard you’ll …’

  ‘We’ll be in the papers?’ I looked at the other two. ‘Now I have witnesses anyway. Will you take the case, Langeland?’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ Boe said, with impatience. ‘Since neither of you has any official reason to be here, I suggest you leave – now!’