‘Not all of them, though, obviously. Klaus Libakk never got a blemish on his record.’
Another grin. ‘Nor me. Nor Svein. We were good at covering our tracks.’
‘So Svein Skarnes had an important role in the business?’
‘An important role! How many times do I have to tell you? He was running the whole bloody thing. He was sitting in Bergen with all his foreign contacts. All his travelling, at home and abroad … it was the perfect cover.’
My brain was reeling. The whole affair was taking on a new perspective. The threads going back to 1974 were even stronger than they had seemed even a few hours ago.
‘Well, OK, then,’ I said. ‘The racket was broken up in 1973, and in February 1974 Svein Skarnes had his dramatic fall.’
‘The bitch shoved him down the stairs.’
‘At least, that was the official version. Now there’s a lot that has to be re-thought, I’m afraid.’
‘Don’t be afraid, Veum. I’ve been afraid for many years, I have.’
‘Yes, exactly. When did you move here?’
‘Well, I met Solfrid here in the autumn of 1973. Svein and I had a sales meeting here while seeing if it was possible to build up something new in the booze market at the same time. I mean … Svein was in a real fix. He owed money for the last load and those waiting for payment were not exactly very patient creditors.’
‘No, I can imagine. They threatened to send in Terje Hammersten, did they?’
‘Hammersten? Do you know him?’
‘Who doesn’t?’
‘But how did you know…?’
‘How did I know …?’
‘That Hammersten was involved?’
‘He was the one who killed Ansgår Tveiten, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but that … No, I don’t know. People here took care of that. That was what blew the whole thing out of the water, for Christ’s sake! After that it was as good as impossible to start up again. The whole set-up was compromised, and no one dared touch it with a barge pole! We just had to give up.’
‘But you heard from Hammersten as well, I take it?’
He had started sweating. Every now and then he looked over towards the foyer as if fearing that someone he didn’t like could enter at any moment. Then he whispered: ‘Svein got a lot of calls from him.’
‘From Hammersten?’
He nodded. ‘For every day he didn’t pay, the sum went up. Black-market interest rates. I don’t know if you know the system? It’s horrendous once you’re caught up in it.’
‘And if that didn’t help, then Terje Hammersten dropped round, was that how it worked?’
Again he nodded, without saying anything.
‘So, in theory, it could’ve been Hammersten who pushed Skarnes down the stairs on that February day in 1974?’
‘But his missus confessed, didn’t she!’
‘Yes, but what if I tell you that some new information has come to light … Someone overheard a row at the Skarnes household, a row between Skarnes and another man …’
‘Someone? Who was that?’
‘It’s not important.’
‘But …’
‘Then it could’ve been Hammersten. Why didn’t you say anything about this to the police?’
He looked at me as if I were mad. ‘And ruin everything for myself? I would have dropped myself right in it. And when his missus had confessed anyway … I didn’t reckon she would lie about anything so serious!’
‘She must’ve had her reasons?’
‘Yes, they must definitely have been bloody good ones.’
‘Perhaps they were. But back to … It was after that that you left everything and came here?’
‘Yes, as I said … after Svein died and the missus was in clink the company was dissolved. It was Solfrid who lured me to Førde and I got myself a job, for a while.’
‘And you never heard anything – not from Hammersten or any of the others?’
He shrugged. ‘Why should I? I didn’t owe any money. I was just the missing link, as I said.’
‘Right. But time passes, and then this happens: Klaus and his wife are murdered. Didn’t that worry you?’
‘No, why would it? Isn’t it exactly as the papers say, that the case is as good as solved?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. But what if it was all linked with the smuggling business? That that was the motive?’
He gave me a long lingering look. ‘It could’ve been the money, of course.’
‘Which money are you talking about now?’
Yet again his gaze wandered off to the foyer. When he answered, he had lowered his voice so much that I had to lean close to understand what he was saying. ‘There were some rumours going round, in 1973 … Listen, Veum … Everything went tits up. No one got their money. But the money ended up somewhere, didn’t it. Someone was sitting on a pot of gold, somewhere in the chain …’
‘And you think that might’ve been Klaus Libakk? Was there such a large turnover in Angedalen?’
‘Angedalen!’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Klaus Libakk was organising sales in the whole region. From Jølster to Naustdal. Everything went through him. He was the bloody spider in the web here. That was why it was so bombproof. The whole thing was built up a bit like a resistance group, with small cells that knew nothing of each other, apart from the closest contact-person.’
‘But you knew a lot, I can see. You’re not scared that you’re in the firing line yourself?’
‘Me?’ He had gone a little green around the gills. I feared he would soon be looking for a suitable place to throw up.
I said quickly: ‘But what you’re suggesting is that Klaus Libakk might have been sitting on quite a sackful of money on his farm?’
He nodded. ‘A fortune, Veum. A veritable treasure chest …’
Now he knew the moment had come. He pushed back his chair and staggered to his feet. He bent forward, grabbed his glass, raised it to his mouth and drained it in one long swig. Then he turned around, and without saying goodbye tottered off towards the toilets.
On the way out he passed a woman. My eyes lingered on her. She was wearing a tight black dress that emphasised her trim figure. Over her shoulders hung a loose coke-grey suit jacket. Her coiffeured hair was arranged in fluffy blonde curls, and it was only when she met my eyes that I saw who it was. Grethe Mellingen, dressed to kill …
By the time she had reached my table I had been standing for quite some time. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘I’m here now,’ she said with a pert smile.
35
‘What can I get you?’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Until now it has been coffee and aquavit. But I can switch to anything.’
‘Actually I fancy a gin and tonic.’
‘I’ll join you then.’ I waved to the barman, who speedily took the order.
‘How,’ we both started, and I finished: ‘… is it going?’
‘With Silje?’
‘Yes, for example.’
‘Pretty well, I think. She’s got very capable parents. Or foster parents, I should say.’
‘Do you know them?’
‘Peripherally. But I’ve had Silje on my files ever since I came here.’
‘When was that?’
‘Five years ago. In 1979.’
‘But … you must have roots here?’
She chuckled. ‘Is it so obvious?’
The waiter came with our drinks. We said skål and tasted before I answered: ‘No, no. But I’ve heard you break into dialect when you’re talking to … locals.’
‘Yes, my mother came from here. But she found herself a man from Østland, so I’ve spent all my life there. In Elverum of all places.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with Elverum, is there?’
‘No, no. I’m sure there are worse places. But tell me what you’ve been doing today. How was it in Jølster?’
I told her about that and the trip to Dale. To ro
und off, I told her about the conversations with Langeland and Haavik.
She listened attentively. When I had finished, she said: ‘So everything points to Jan Egil being charged, I guess.’
‘All the evidence still suggests that it was Jan Egil who did it,’ I said. ‘Even though a few interesting details have emerged at the end of the day.’
‘I don’t know if I told you but … Silje was examined by a doctor today.’
‘Oh yes? And the results?’
‘She’s as healthy as a spring lamb. No injuries anywhere. But … she wasn’t a virgin, to put it in formal terms.’
‘She’s had it then, in informal terms.’
‘If that’s how you speak in Bergen, fine by me. But no signs of abuse, at any rate not recently.’
‘Well, well. So now we know that.’
She sipped from her glass, deep in thought.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking … will you come home with me afterwards?’
I met her eyes. ‘If you invite me I …’
‘There’s something I want to show you,’ she said with a glint in her eye, as if there was something special she had learnt and wanted to show off.
‘Yes, you hinted something along those lines earlier today.’
Nevertheless, she was in no hurry. We finished our drinks, found the way to the night club and spent an hour on the dance floor there, most of the time moving to a gentle rhythm; touching was a natural part of the activity. We exchanged social services experiences and took stock of family circumstances: we each had an ex in the closet, she a daughter of fourteen, me thirteen-year-old Thomas in fitting congruity. She told me she had a seat on the local council, and when I asked for which party, she stepped back and said: ‘Guess!’ When I went for SV, the left, she smirked but refrained from commenting. In the end, we danced a few slow smooches, she with her arms around my neck and me with one hand between her shoulder blades and the other exploring the lower end of her spine, like a restless chiropractor at a health seminar improving his technique. Her body was warm and soft against mine, and I felt her lips against my ear, like slightly moist petals as she whispered: ‘Shall we order a taxi?’
‘Mm,’ I said into her hair, and with her arm under mine we left the dance floor.
I went up to the cloakroom to collect my coat, and when I came back down, she was standing by the taxi waiting. Lounging at the rear, her arm still under mine, we sat as a silent driver drove us to Hornnes, where she lived in a newly constructed house on the slope above the road to Naustdal and Florø.
Her young daughter, whose name was Tora, was sitting watching TV in the basement when we arrived. She said hello, somewhat shyly, and quickly withdrew to her bedroom.
‘What can I offer you?’ Grethe asked.
‘There was something you wanted to show me,’ I said.
‘A glass of red wine?’
‘I wouldn’t say no to that, either.’
She slanted her eyebrows upwards and smiled. Then she was gone. I sat watching TV, lost as to what this was all about. When Grethe returned with two glasses and an opened bottle of wine, she switched off the television and pulled out an LP and started the record player while I filled our glasses. Roger Whittaker resounded around the room with a voice that made me think of ships’ tarred planks and a fresh breeze in off the sea.
The ceiling was low. Bookshelves covered the wall around the TV screen. The pictures on the other walls all had landscape motifs: paintings, photos and graphics. I took a seat on the sofa, and she sat down beside me, in the crook of my arm. We tasted the red wine, and some time afterwards she turned to me, with a determined look in her eye, and whispered: ‘Kiss me.’ I saw no reason not to.
As I began to fumble with the zip on her dress, she laid a hand on mine and said: ‘No … Let’s go up to the bedroom.’ I didn’t object then, either.
Standing in the middle of the floor in the cold room, we slowly undressed each other, taking cautious nibbles at whatever appeared. Then we got into bed where we frolicked in a variety of positions until she was writhing deliriously above me, and we buckled into each other in one last sweet exhalation.
Sweaty and hot, she lay breathing against my chest. I felt laughter bubbling up inside me. ‘Was that what you wanted to show me?’
She raised her head and looked at me seriously. ‘No. Wait here …’
She got out of bed and crossed the floor, naked. Her body was soft and supple, with small breasts and a stomach left with stretch marks from pregnancy that would never go away completely. On her return, she was carrying a large leather-bound book, brownish-black in colour with golden letters on the cover. She switched on the light over the bed, snuggled up to me, pulled the duvet over us, carefully opened the book and slowly turned the first thin pages.
‘What is it? A family bible?’
She nodded with enthusiasm. ‘A very special one. I got it from my mother when I moved back here. She had been given it by her mother. But what makes it so special is that this bible has followed the women in our family through very different circumstances. My mother and her mother were married, but before them there was an unfortunate succession of one daughter after the other born out of wedlock and given the book.’
‘From illegitimate daughter to illegitimate daughter?’
‘For several generations, like a kind of original sin. But perhaps that’s not so strange when it comes down to it. A woman born out of wedlock was held in low public esteem. Anyone could lay their hands on her and thereby bring more illegitimate children into the world. The unfortunate thing for our family was that the first-born were always girls and thus inherited the rewards of sin.’
I stroked her hair. ‘But you’ve broken the line now …’
She turned her head, looked at me from the corner of her eyes. ‘Oh, we still have a sense of sin …’
Lying on her stomach, she pointed. ‘Look, here you have the whole of the line written down. The first, Martha, writes that she was born in 1799, and that she received the book when she was confirmed in 1816. She married a Hans Olavsson in 1819 and had a daughter, Maria, in 1823.’
‘No sons?’
‘Yes, but Maria hasn’t entered their names. You can see here … the writing changes. That’s Maria entering her name and her daughter’s, Kristine. Born in February 1840, out of wedlock. But she enters the father … look here, as M. A.’
‘Uhuh?’
‘That doesn’t mean anything to you?’
‘Not straight off, no.’
‘It might be Mads Andersen.’
‘Mads Andersen. You don’t mean …?’
‘Yes! Trodalen Mads. And look at the birth date. Count back nine months and you come to May 1839. The Trodalen murder, according to lore, took place on June 19th of that year.’
‘But … if your ancestral mother had a child with Trodalen Mads …’
‘She’s in fact my great-great-great grandmother.’
‘If she had a child with him …’
‘… then I’m a direct descendant of his, yes. Although we’ve never thought of announcing that in Firda Tidend, if I can put it like that.’
‘But M. A. could stand for something quite different too?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. But this is where oral tradition comes in. The secret inheritance, to use a more formal expression. You see my mother told me, when she gave me the bible, that her mother had told her that her mother in turn had passed down this inherited account of our spooky past, and that she swore with her hand on the family bible that this was how it was, may God himself strike me to the ground if I’m lying … she said.’
‘And that account says …?’
She rolled onto her side, put her free arm around my neck, held me tight and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Promise me first, Varg, that what I’m telling you now you will never tell another soul!’
I returned her gaze. ‘I certainly can’t swear on the book and beg God to strike me to the gro
und if I should lie, but …’ I put my hand on my heart. ‘I promise by all that I hold sacred, I won’t do that. What you tell me here and now will never go beyond these four walls.’
She scrutinised me long and hard, as if searching for lies and ignoble ideals in my eyes.
‘But you must’ve told … Tora?’
‘Not yet. Won’t be for a long time yet. If I tell you now, tonight, there are only three living people who know about it. My mother, me and you.’
‘And to what do I owe the honour? I wasn’t that good, was I?’
‘No, not that good …’ she teased with a smile, only to turn serious again straightaway. ‘I’m telling you this because in some way or other it may help us to understand what happened here this week.’
‘I see! Now I’m even more curious.’
‘That was the idea.’
‘Tell me then!’
‘I’m going to …’
36
She took me with her to Trodalen during the fateful summer of 1839. ‘The story about Trodalen Mads, the alternative version,’ as she called it, with a tiny smile. She told it in such a vivid way that I could see it unrolling before me, like a film: a flashback of almost one hundred and fifty years.
Mads Andersen was twenty-one years old that year. He was medium-height with a strong build, dark hair and melancholic predisposition, not unnatural for a young man who had grown up on an isolated farm in Trodalen with no one else except his parents, his sister and an adult serving maid. When he went to the priest, he got to know the eldest son of a family from Angedalen whose name was Jens Hansen, and Jens had a sister, Maria, who was four years younger. She was a quiet girl, a willing worker, industrious, who from early childhood had worked with her mother in the fields in the summer. She was at home in the mountains and could, even on Sundays, walk there on her own without any fear of what she might meet. After getting to know Mads, she used to walk all the way to Trodalen; not often, perhaps every other month, and they didn’t always bump into each other. How could they? There was no one to whom they could entrust messages, and she didn’t dare send a letter the few times the post went all the way up to Trodalsstrand.
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