Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘I’m going to tell you something you don’t know, Varg …’ He sat forward with his hands cupped around the glass. Suddenly he made a theatrical gesture with his hand, then gripped the glass again. ‘The Story of my Life, as told by the one and only Hans Haavik Pedersen,’ he said in English.

  ‘Pedersen?’

  ‘Yes, didn’t you know? My mother was called Haavik. I took her name when I was sixteen. I had nothing to thank my father for. Nothing at all!’

  ‘You don’t need to …’

  ‘Yes, I do! Now listen to this. My father, Karl Oskar Pedersen, was a notorious alcoholic. I can only just remember him. He died when I was four years old. What I remember best is the repressed sobs, the strangulated screams of my mother, when he came home from drinking and started beating her up. I was so young that I don’t remember if he ever laid a hand on me. But she was made to suffer, night after night, day after day. That was why I grew up with a mother who was a living corpse, a human wreck who took increasingly large doses of medicine, was admitted to hospital every so often and was hardly in a state to take care of a child. We were also very poor. Terribly poor. As poor as it was possible to be in Norway in the first years after the war, before they had got the welfare state properly going.’

  ‘What did your father die of?’

  ‘Booze. He was forty-nine years old, much older than my mother. I suppose that was part of the problem. He was so jealous, she told me in confidence, on one of the few times I had ever got her to talk about those times. She died herself in 1954, only thirty-eight years old, worn down after all the psychological downers. I was fifteen, and I swore I would never be the same when I was older. I would never be poor, never be so drunk …’ He glanced down at the glass he was holding in his hand. ‘Never be so cruel to those with whom I had chosen to live my life.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever … but you have a family?’

  ‘Family!’ He smiled sadly. ‘No, I’ve managed to avoid that. When it didn’t come to anything with Vibecke either, then … yeah, well.’ He waved his hand to dismiss it. ‘Jens was the one she chose – and later others. She never looked in my direction, Varg. Believe me. I was part of the furniture.’

  ‘Well, well … but you can hear for yourself. You come from a difficult background, but you came out on top. You even chose to devote your life to helping … children in similar situations. That shows there’s hope for everyone. Also for Jan Egil.’

  ‘For Johnny boy?’ He stared ahead, perturbed.

  ‘Who helped you when your mother died?’

  ‘There were so many episodes, even before then. But I had my family around me, on my mother’s side, that is. After she died I was allowed to live with an uncle and aunt of mine until I finished school, started university and could move into digs. Afterwards I managed by myself, with a study loan, doing part-time work in the evenings and living off other sources of income.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying … You came out on top.’

  ‘Hmm, on top, I don’t know. It feels pretty skewed right now, I’m telling you.’ He grabbed the bottle and poured himself another full glass. He offered me some, but this time I succeeded in saying ‘No, thanks’. Perhaps he should have rammed the cork in, too. His eyes were beginning to glaze over. ‘I’ll tell you something, Varg. When I get back to Bergen … I’m going to hand in my notice.’ He was swinging his arm around helplessly. ‘Hand in my resignation.’

  ‘What? You don’t mean that. That’s just something you’re saying because you’re drunk.’

  ‘Drunk? I’m not bloody drunk!’

  ‘Of course not, that’s why you’re falling off the bed.’

  ‘I mean it! This case … this failure of all the things we’re doing … it has persuaded me. I’m stopping. I’m getting out. I’ll find myself something else to do …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t know, but I’ll find myself something …’ He leaned closer as though to tell me a secret confidence. ‘You know, Varg … all these government regulations, all these laws and rules … it would be bloody great not to take any notice of them for a few years. Tell it as it is. Call a spade a spade and …’ He laughed at his own comment, but it was a low, mirthless laugh.

  ‘You’re tired and upset now, Hans. You won’t think like this when you get home, I’m sure of that. You can’t exist without what you’ve worked for over so many years. You have to be positive. Think of all those you’ve helped, all of those who send you a Christmas card every year …’

  ‘Ha! You’ve put your finger on it. Shall I show you how many of the people I’ve helped, as you call it, who send me Christmas cards? Eh?’ He held up his right hand and formed a zero with his thumb and index finger. ‘That’s how many, Varg. That’s how many.’

  ‘I don’t get many more if that’s any consolation.’

  ‘Thank you. Bloody great consolation.’

  He sat rocking his head. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he resembled a huge teddy bear, an overgrown cuddly toy, one a child who was now well into adulthood had left behind at his institution, abandoned by someone who no longer needed that sort of thing. He was immensely drunk, and I noticed his eyes were beginning to blink.

  I slowly got to my feet. ‘I think I’ll move on,’ I said, with a furry tongue.

  His eyes floated in my direction. ‘OK. Thank you for keeping me company, Varg. I think I’ll try and have a snooze.’

  ‘Do that, Hansie. See you tomorrow – or at the next crossroads.’

  He waved one arm. ‘G’bye!’ he slurred.

  ‘Goodbye,’ I replied, still able to express myself in full syllables.

  He stood up, not to show me the way out, but to stagger into the toilet. Before I had closed the door behind me, I could hear him vomiting. That didn’t improve my mood.

  When I came down to reception, there was a message waiting for me: Ring me when you get in. Grethe.

  41

  I did more than ring. After exchanging a few words with her, I arranged to drop by, ordered a taxi and went outside into the cold night air. I leaned backwards and stared up at the sky. High above me in the black heavenly vault some pale stars had taken up position for a few fleeting moments, as rare guests to Sunnfjord as the sun I had glimpsed the previous day.

  In Hornnes I was forced to concede that my body was not in perfect equilibrium as I pushed on up the steep slope to her house. She had seen me from the window and was standing in the doorway waiting, but I had hardly said anything before, with a glare, she asked me: ‘Tell me, have you been drinking?’

  I rolled my head and tried to find something funny to say. But inside it was empty. Empty and dark. Hans Haavik had turned off the light when he left.

  I don’t think I won any gold medals that night. I remember quoting Emil Zátopek’s wise words: ‘If you want to win medals, run a hundred metres. If you want to learn about life, run the marathon.’

  She replied: ‘If you want to run the marathon you’ll have to be in better shape than this, Varg.’ She had already given up.

  The following day arrived with a throbbing head, farewells and departure. She was friendly enough, yet I sensed a sudden distance; or else she was stricken with the same collective feeling of guilt, the same depression that had driven both Hans and me into the dingiest mental back streets the day before.

  She drove me to the hotel. After parking outside, she turned to me and said: ‘Are you going home?’

  ‘Yes. There’s nothing more for me to do here. Not for me. And no one’s paying for my stay now.’

  For a second or two I entertained the thought: You could invite me to stay with you perhaps … but either she didn’t have the same thought herself, or she didn’t like it, for all she did was lean forward and kiss me on the cheek and say: ‘Maybe we’ll see each other another time then, Varg …’

  I stole into her line of vision, still with my tail between my legs. ‘I hope so, Grethe …’

  But it didn’t turn out like th
at.

  In reception I asked after Jens Langeland, but he had gone back to Oslo, I was informed. I tried to ring him at his office, but an answering machine replied. It asked me to ring back during office hours from Monday to Friday. I called directory enquiries and was given his home number. No one answered there, either.

  I packed the little luggage I had, settled my account at reception, got into my car and left. On one of the highest bends on Halbrendslia I stopped the car for a moment and sat looking across. From there I could see right up to the furthest end of Angedalen valley. I saw Førde lying in the morning mist between the high mountains. I saw the residential quarter in Hornnes, the huge dockyard beyond the tiny airstrip, the new industrial buildings and businesses. I saw the old white church, sighed and thought to myself: Everything is changing. Nothing stays the same as before. What’s the purpose of it all, of all the things we do? Then I pinched myself and said: ‘No, none of that, now you sound like bloody Hansie Haavik. Pull yourself together, man! There are still things to do …’

  I rammed the car into gear and drove to Bergen without stopping anywhere apart from those places nature intended, by the ferries in Lavik and Knarvik.

  Two images fought for a place in my head during the drive: Grethe Mellingen who so brazenly gave herself to me a day and a half ago, and Jan Egil who glared at me like a wounded animal as he was led out of the courtroom.

  42

  After the narrow, restricted space of Førde, Bergen seemed like open countryside. The fjord wound gently through the town towards Askøy and the light rain drizzled on the surrounding mountains forming a veil of glistening silver. I drove straight home, took a long, hot shower, went down to the harbour and bought myself a decent lunch, walked back, lay down for a nap and slept like a log until the next day, which was Sunday.

  In the afternoon I strolled down to my office and checked the answering machine. There were the usual sighs and snorts before someone slammed down the receiver, annoyed that I was not sitting and gawking at the telephone, waiting only for them to ring. There was a woman who, in broken Norwegian, had sent a long and partly comprehensible message about a partner who had run off, and she very much wanted me to bring him back to the fold. And there was Marianne Storetvedt who wanted to talk to me. I called her private number, but she was busy with a family meal. We agreed I would go to her office after work the next day.

  Then I tried Jens Langeland again. This time he was at home.

  ‘Veum … I tried to contact you at the hotel, but they couldn’t find you.’

  ‘No, I was … probably sitting in Hans Haavik’s room drinking.’

  He chuckled quietly. ‘Really? Did you take it so badly?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No, no. I hadn’t expected anything but an extended period of remand. The big battle will be in court. First of all, I’d very much like you to find out everything you can about this Terje Hammersten and his movements.’

  ‘That’s just it, I’m afraid I have bad news on that front.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  I told him what Hans Haavik had told me about his confrontation with Hammersten in Bergen on Monday morning.

  ‘At his place? In Bergen?’

  ‘Yes.

  ‘That’s a sod.’

  ‘That was my reaction, too.’

  I could hear him thinking aloud. ‘Nonethless, Veum. I still want you to carry on with your enquiries. Concentrate on Hammersten. That’s by far the best card we have.’

  ‘You’ll still cover my costs?’

  ‘Naturally, Veum. We’ll pass this onto the police anyway, so take the time you need.’

  After ringing off, I sat looking out of the window. We had all heard about solicitors’ bulging wallets, but this was more like pockets stuffed with wads of notes. My creditors could look into the future with confidence, if this carried on.

  The day after, it rained. It was mean, probing rain and made me turn up my jacket collar that bit extra; another reminder that winter was around the corner. The light was lower, the days shorter, and it was a long, long time to next summer. That didn’t matter all that much. I had more than enough to be getting on with.

  The first thing I did was to call Vegard Vadheim, the detective at Bergen police station I got on best with. I told him I had some information for him about several earlier cases to do with the ongoing investigation into the Angedalen double killings. I asked him to dig up the files of two of them from their archives: the case against Mette Olsen and a man called David from the autumn of 1966 and the case against Vibecke Skarnes in 1974.

  ‘And what do I get in return?’

  ‘I’ve got some info, as I said. I think it will interest you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Especially if you dig up all you have on Terje Hammersten at the same time.’

  ‘Hammersten? It’s never been easy to pin anything on him.’

  ‘I’ve noticed. If you have any files on the big seventies alcohol smuggling ring in Sogn and Fjordane, I may have something for you there, too.’

  ‘Doubt we have much on that lying around.’

  ‘Then I have something to tell you about it.’

  We agreed I would drop round the police station after lunch.

  Before that I met Cecilie Strand over a cup of coffee and a roll at the café in Sundt. From the corner table looking over Torgallmenning, the main square, it was possible to imagine we were the mother and father of the whole town, with a full perspective of everything that went on down there. We had no idea how wrong we were; or perhaps we did.

  Cecilie sat listening attentively to everything I had to tell her from Førde, restricting myself to things directly relevant to my investigations. I only mentioned Trodalen Mads in a subordinate clause, although it didn’t seem to make much of an impression, and I referred to Grethe Mellingen as ‘our social services colleague there’. There were tears in her eyes when I told her about the time I met Jan face to face, and once again I was reminded of the close, intimate, almost family situation she, I and Jan had found ourselves in during the spring and summer of 1974, with Hans Haavik as a kindly uncle.

  ‘But … do they really think he did it?’

  ‘The Public Prosecutor definitely thinks so. And the evidence against him is compelling, I have to admit.’

  ‘But why would he do it? Such a brutal thing?’

  I shrugged. ‘This girl, Silje, claimed she had been subjected to sexual abuse by her foster father. That may have been enough.’

  She sent me a doubtful look.

  ‘By the way … something new about Svein Skarnes came to light while I was there too.’

  ‘Svein Skarnes?’

  ’Yes, just listen.’

  I told her about the link between Skarnes and the smuggling, the murder of Ansgår Tveiten and Hammersten’s role in both affairs, as well as his appearance in Sunnfjord the day after the double murder.

  ‘The day after?’

  ‘Yes, and his alibi in Bergen is no less than Hans Haavik.’

  I told her everything I knew, and in the end she looked as bewildered as I was becoming. In a way, it seemed as if everything and nothing fitted. Threads led in all directions, but none of them met, and the pattern was still a mystery, even for a trained observer like myself. But I was convinced there was a pattern.

  ‘Anything else new?’ I asked, drawing the session to a close.

  She shrugged and drained her coffee cup. ‘No, I suppose by and large everything is the same here. But when you hear things like this you wonder about what we do. Whether we’re having a beneficial effect at all.’

  ‘That’s exactly what Hans said the other day in Førde. So I’ll say to you what I said to him: Yes, we are. You are. You might slip up a few times, but you’re successful many more times. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Mm … but then you dropped out.’

  ‘I didn’t drop out, Cecilie. I was gently given the boot. And I’ve continued in the same area, in my own way.’


  ‘As a private investigator.’ She smirked.

  ‘Yes.’

  We took the broad marble stairs down to street level again. On two of the floors we were met by our own reflection in the same chequered mirrors that had been there since my childhood, in the days when taking the escalator up to the top of Sundt was the closest a little Bergensian got to an amusement park. We both looked somewhat disillusioned, like a disgruntled couple who had just agreed that there was no way of avoiding separation and divorce after all.

  I gave her a quick hug on the pavement and went for a walk around a small lake called Lungegårdsvann and over to the library to kill time before meeting Vegard Vadheim. At the local branch I found the newspapers from 1974 on microfiche and refreshed my memory of the Vibecke Skarnes case, though I didn’t end up much the wiser.

  Just before one o’clock I announced my presence at the police station and was met by Vadheim at the desk. When we arrived at his office, he knocked on the adjacent door, popped his head round and a female colleague of his, Cecilie Lyngmo, joined us.

  ‘Cecilie was the officer responsible for questioning Vibecke Skarnes at that time, so I thought it would be a good idea if she came along,’ he explained, and I nodded.

  I said hello to Cecilie Lyngmo, whom I had met before but I had not been introduced. She was in her early fifties, a strapping woman, but she didn’t give the impression of being overweight. Her hair was greyish-brown, no sign of it having been dyed. She beamed when we shook hands, a firm grip.

  ‘A few years ago now, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Fru Skarnes must have been out for some time.’

  I nodded. ‘She lives in Ski, just outside Oslo, I’ve been told.’

  ‘She’s no danger to her surroundings, if you ask me.’

  ‘So, in your view, she could have gone free at the time?’

  ‘No, no. Even an unpremeditated murder is murder. But she found herself in an unhappy situation, as so many women do.’ We all sat down, and she continued: ‘Inside the sheltered walls of home they’re subjected to systematic violence, direct or indirect, for years. And the one time they defend themselves, it ends in – murder.’