The Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  Standal seemed to have run out of words. He just stared down at the young girl, depressed, with that disgruntled expression of his.

  ‘Now listen here,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to stand here for the rest of the night, are we? For God’s sake let’s get back down to civilisation, get a roof over our heads, put on some dry clothes and then we can sort out this business down there.’

  Standal visibly pulled himself together. ‘Of course. You’re absolutely right there, Veum.’ Not without some difficulty, he took command again. ‘OK, men!’ He pointed to two of them. ‘You go first. Then you …’ he pointed to the man handcuffed to Jan Egil, ‘… and him. You follow, Reidar. Then you …’ He pointed to some other officers. ‘Next you three …’ That was Grethe, Silje and I. ‘We’ll form the rearguard,’ he concluded, indicating himself and the young officer with the loud-hailer, Flekke. ‘And … Olsen! When we reach Angedalen … make sure the cars come up to us and keep the bloody media pack a hundred metres away, at least!’ As an afterthought he added: ‘And when you get contact on the walkie-talkie, inform them that the ambulance can go back. We won’t need it, I’m happy to say.’

  He turned to me and held out his hand for the rifle. ‘Veum … I’ll take that.’ I passed him the heavy Mauser, and he beckoned to one of the officers, who conjured up a large black bin bag, in which the rifle was placed.

  After some final instructions we set off down the path again. No one said anything. We had enough to do to find our footing and make sure we didn’t crash into the person in front. I saw Silje’s and Grethe’s heads bobbing up and down ahead. Behind me I could hear Standal puffing and panting down my neck. There was a strange atmosphere in the group. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts. There was a marked sense of relief that the whole thing was over, but at the same time we knew that we had been given something new to mull over. It was me who did it, Silje had said and like an inner echo I heard Jan’s own voice from ten years ago say: Mummy did it …

  Were there any similarities? Were there any connections at all between these dramatic incidents?

  I had promised him that not a stone would be left unturned until I was satisfied I had a result. But right now we were not talking about a stone or two but a whole landslide of complex events.

  The first thing to do when I got down to Førde was to have the last ten years of Jan’s life mapped out, from the time we parted in Bergen, to attempt to find out what might have led to the atrocity committed.

  We were approaching the end of the gradient now. The path flattened out, and we were in open country again. By the old hay barn we came to a stop, while the two foremost officers went down to make sure that Standal’s orders were being followed. From a distance we could see the throng of press people being pushed down the hill, and their protests reached all the way up to us, like the distant baying of a pack of hounds.

  ‘I’ve got my car down there,’ I said.

  ‘You can pick it up tomorrow, Veum. Now you’re coming with us,’ Standal said.

  When the area was clear, we continued on down. Jan Egil was put in the first car; Silje, Grethe and I in the back seat of the second, with the sergeant in the front and a police officer behind the wheel. It was only then that I looked at my watch. It was five minutes to one.

  The press people had waited a long time, in vain. There wouldn’t be many kind words for the Førde sergeant in the following day’s newspapers, I guessed. There was a storm of flashes as we passed them, but it must have been difficult to see who was sitting in the cars, and both Jan Egil and Silje had jackets over their heads and were bent forwards in their seats.

  As we swung onto the road, I cast a glance back. They were following in our wake in a line. A safari without a trophy and a funeral procession without a corpse, I said to myself, before closing my eyes and leaning back in the seat. But I didn’t doze off. I didn’t sleep for a second the whole night, and early next morning I staggered out of bed, as fresh as an ageing teacher on the last school day before the summer holidays.

  22

  I shuffled bog-eyed into the bathroom, had a thin pee and then went into the shower, where I stood with my head against the cold wall. A minute or two passed before I could be bothered to turn on the water. Once I had done this, I stood letting the water run and run as if there were little else to do on this depressing morning in a dark, miserable world.

  Eventually, I unwrapped a small packet of soap, washed and rinsed, turned off the water and ventured back in front of the mirror. I was a man in my next best years, had just turned forty-two, but was hardly recognisable. My hair was standing up, like after a permanent shock, my skin was grey and wan, and even my stubble was pale and colourless, as if all the colour in me had leached out during the long hours up in wet Trodalen. This was not a cheery morning.

  Taking shaving things from my toilet bag, I tried to improve my appearance. I covered my face with foam until it was nearly invisible against the white wall behind me and then went to work with a vengeance, resulting in a large number of cuts on my chin and neck. When I looked leprous enough to frighten the wits out of anyone, I concluded the abuse, rinsed off the blood and the last bits of foam, pressed a cold, wet hand cloth against my face and walked stiff-legged out of the bathroom.

  I went to the window and stared outside. There wasn’t much solace to find there.

  Førde was, first of all, no metropolis seething with life and activity. On the other side of the river occasional juggernauts passed, some going to Jølster, others to Bergen. Today, the cloud cover between the mountains lay so low that cars on their way up the Halbrendslia Mountain simply disappeared in the dense greyness. For a little while you could make out their rear lights, then they were gone. They reminded me of UFOs after a lightning visit to Førde, concluding that this place was hardly worth a stay and now they were on their way back to whence they had come.

  I dressed and went down to the dining room where the staff were busy clearing up after breakfast, but not so insistent that I was not allowed to help myself to what was left before they finished their tidying up. I could take as much coffee as I wanted until it ran out. I did my best, but there was still some left. While sitting over my fourth or fifth cup I quickly went back over the very last part of the night’s events.

  The atmosphere in the car had not exactly hit the heights. Silje was crying silently between us, and Grethe had put a comforting arm around her and pulled her close. ‘A solicitor from Oslo has rung to say he will be coming early tomorrow,’ the officer behind the wheel informed Standal. ‘And what’s the name of this genius?’ the sergeant wanted to know. ‘Langeland,’ came the answer, and I pricked up my ears. ‘Langeland! But he’s a top-class solicitor! What the hell does he want here?’ asked the sargeant. ‘A follow-up to his previous success maybe,’ I mumbled. Standal turned to me: ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Nothing, except that if it’s Jens Langeland we’re taking about, he was the one who took the case the last time Jan Egil was involved in something like this.’ ‘In Oslo?’ ‘No, that time he was in Bergen.’ ‘And is he good?’ I smiled wryly: ‘Better than you will like, I’m afraid.’ ‘Well … we’ll see. I’m just wondering who the hell tipped him off.’ ‘Well, it wasn’t me, anyway.’ Standal sent me a surly look: ‘You report to the police HQ early tomorrow, too, Veum. We obviously need a bit of an update on this Jan Egil …’

  By the time we arrived back in Førde it was half past one. The car pulled up in front of the hotel to let me out first. Grethe went to the police station to support Silje and Jan Egil, as far as there was anything she could do. She had hugged me quickly before I got out of the car. She looked pretty careworn, too. But on the other hand … she had an official function to perform. As for me, I had just been brought in on the sidelines. ‘See you tomorrow, Varg.’ ‘See you …’

  And now I was sitting here, hardly able to move.

  I walked over and took the fifth, or sixth, cup from the coffee machine. On the way back, I saw a podgy you
ng man, red-haired with round glasses, striding energetically across the floor in my direction.

  ‘Is your name Veum?’ he asked.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  He held out a hand. ‘Helge Haugen. Journalist for Firda Tidend. I would appreciate a few words with you.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’

  ‘No? They all say that, but … would you mind if I joined you?’

  I was too tired to offer any resistance. ‘Not at all. Take the weight off your feet, young man. You look as if you need to.’

  He pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable with a contented smile. ‘You’re a private investigator, I’ve been told.’

  ‘Correct …’

  ‘But who hired you?’

  ‘No, no, no, it’s not like that.’ I held his gaze. He was in his late twenties and bursting with energy on the other side of the table, he had the enthusiastic glint in his eye of a star reporter on the way up. ‘Not at all. I used to work for social services in Bergen and the boy involved was one of my clients. I was summoned here because he had asked to talk to me.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Well, I can’t actually answer that question. That was the message I was given.’

  ‘So … what’s his background?’

  ‘You’ve heard of something called client confidentiality, haven’t you?’

  He smirked. ‘I’ve heard of it, yes. But I don’t suppose it counts for much when an Oslo newspaper opens its wallet.’

  ‘And how much is there in Firda Tidend’s wallet?’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  I shook my head slowly. ‘Mm … In fact I mean it. I’m not going to say any more than I’ve already said.’

  He nodded matter-of-factly, as if taking note, and went on. ‘What do you know about the Trodalen killing, Veum?’

  ‘That’s a good question. Not much more than I was told last night on my way here. A killing – in 1839, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, shall I tell you about it?’

  ‘That would be, if not useful, then at least interesting.’

  Helge Haugen leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers on his stomach, instantly reminding me more of an old grandfather than a young ace reporter. As he began to tell the story, it was obvious that he enjoyed the sound of his own voice and I guessed that the majority of what he said would appear in print in Firda Tidend one day very soon.

  ‘It was a hot, sunny June day in 1839. The snow still lay on the ground in huge drifts up in Trodalen, the narrow mountain valley that acts as a mountain pass between Øvre Naustdal and Angedalen. A man from Naustdal was passing the tiny smallholding in Trodalsstrand with a cow he was going to sell to a dealer from Aurland in Sogn, Ole Olsen Otternæs. They had arranged to meet at Indrebø Farm in Angedalen to settle the deal there, but when the man from Naustdal arrived, there was no sign of Ole Olsen. The Indrebø farmfolk were surprised because it was wellknown that a few days earlier the dealer had been in Angedalen. And it was said that he had undertaken the long walk to Trodalen in the hope of selling a few goods there. On June 19th he had left some clothing at the neighbouring farm, and a message that he would be back. He was never seen again.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The Indrebø farmfolk began to worry that something might have happened to Ole Olsen. He might have had an accident on the way up or down. They set off from Trodalen to search for him. At last they arrived at the only farm in the valley, Trodalsstrand. Neither the farmer nor his wife was there, only an elderly servant. But she had a story to tell … This was June 24th, and the servant said that, indeed, five days earlier Olsen had been at the farm, although he hadn’t sold anything. So he had gone back towards Angedalen, accompanied by the farmer’s son, Mads Andersen. Mads had returned later in the day, but the next morning she had been surprised to see that he had taken the boat and was on the lake, despite the fact that the master had given explicit instructions that the boat was not to go out before he returned.’

  ‘Where was the father?’

  ‘He was on his way to Bergen, and the mother had accompanied him down to Naustdal. She didn’t return until late in the day on June 24th.’

  ‘And where was she now?’

  ‘Out in the field with Mads. They were drying hay.’

  He waited to see if I had any more questions. I didn’t, and he continued the story. ‘Well, the men went there and began to question Mads. No, Ole Olsen had left the farm alone, he said. That’s not true, the men said. You went with him, they said. Well, part of the way maybe, he said. So where did you take your leave of him? they asked. But Mads’s answer was quite vague. Over on the mountainside, he said, with a flourish of his arm. But now the men pressed him harder, and the matter was not made any easier by the mother standing and listening. Opinions are divided as to what role the mother played in this business. Some say she was the one who went to the local policeman and reported her own son, and that she had suspected what had happened the moment she returned from Naustdal. Others claim she gave clear hints during the conversation with the men from Indrebø on June 24th, while others maintain that she never cast any suspicion on her son. Anyway, later that day Mads was paying for a skin he had bought from one of the Angedalen men. On the note he paid with there were some red stains. There’s blood on the note! the man from Indrebø exclaimed. Yes, Mads answered, and not long afterwards he confessed his misdeed.’

  ‘So easy?’

  ‘It was said he was a bit simple-minded, this Trodalen Mads, as he came to be called in local gossip. Others insisted that he was a hardened criminal, that he had stolen before and that people had heard him say that he would kill again, if he survived this murder.’

  ‘And he did?’

  ‘In a sense. He was over eighty before he died, but he spent many years in prison in Kristiania, the old name for Oslo. Originally he was sentenced to death, to having his back broken on the wheel, but the sentence was commuted to imprisonment, and he did his term in Akershus for forty-two whole years. The reason he had to serve such a long term was that he threatened he would kill his parents when he got out again. But even after they were both dead, he was kept inside. He wasn’t released and allowed to return home until 1881. Not to Trodalen of course. He lived in Angedalen where he earned his bread by making spoons from the horns he collected from valley farms. The young ones were scared of him, but older people considered him harmless after so many years of prison drudgery.’

  ‘He did confess, though?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I’ve read the court records of the time myself. He confessed to the men from Indrebø that evening, later to the sergeant and finally in open court. He had accompanied Ole Olsen part of the way with the intention of robbing him. At a suitable spot he had hit him over the head with a rock, and he had continued hitting the dealer until he lay dead in the scree.’

  ‘In the scree?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps towards the end of the lake. Afterwards he had taken his money and a few other objects of value, then had dragged him off the path and hidden him behind some rocks. The next morning he had gone back, carried him to the lake, put him in the boat and dropped him into the deep.’

  ‘I heard yesterday the body was never found?’

  ‘That’s right. And there were no bloodstains found where the murder was supposed to have taken place …’

  ‘In other words …’

  ‘Well.’ Helge Haugen studied me with a sardonic glint in his eye. ‘A matter for a private investigator perhaps? Now it is said that the bottom of Lake Trodalsvatn can be tricky. A lot of big rocks from old landslides are supposed to cover the bottom, and perhaps it wouldn’t take much for a body to be snagged down there. But it is a bit strange nonetheless. Most usually float to the surface when the body is filled with enough gas … There may have been some hungry pike down in the deep of course …’

  ‘But the man was sentenced anyway, I understand.’

  ‘It’s a historical fact. No one can change that.
And I assume Jan Egil Libakk will become one too when the case has been investigated.’

  ‘Libakk? Did he use that surname?’

  ‘As far as I am aware. However, I haven’t had that confirmed. It’s just that they were his foster parents, I believe.’

  I nodded, distracted. ‘Do you know anything about these people?’

  ‘Klaus and Kari? Nothing special, yet. I’m working on the case, if I might put it like that. That’s why, among other reasons, I came to see you.’

  ‘Right … I’d hardly heard their names before yesterday.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I sent him a disarming smile. ‘If you’re expecting something in return for the story about Trodalen Mads, I’m afraid you’re wasting your time.’

  He bent forward in a sudden movement. ‘We could make a deal, Veum.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘We can keep each other posted. If I dig up anything of interest regarding … circumstances in Angedalen, I’ll share it with you. And vice versa. You won’t regret it. I have lots of feelers out, in all sorts of areas.’

  I nodded slowly. ‘OK. It’s a deal, on a non-committal basis. If I come across anything of interest, I’ll pass it on … and vice versa. Where can I get hold of you?’

  He handed me a business card. ‘Here you’ve got my telephone numbers, home and office. But Førde is not a big place. I would guess we will bump into each other several times before the day is done. Where have you decided to start?’

  ‘Start? The present situation is that the sergeant has summoned me to his office to talk through what happened yesterday.’

  ‘Not a bad start, Veum.’ He stood up. ‘So we’ve got a deal?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  He seemed satisfied with that. He left the dining room with a cheery goodbye. I took the last cold mouthful of coffee, then stood up and followed.

  23

  At the police HQ in the Red Cross building, the atmosphere was sombre with a thin veil of control. The police rooms were on the second floor, with a view of the wetland area at the back of the hotel. The area by the reception desk was swarming with reporters. An impatient photographer stood with his camera slung over his shoulder, ready to snap away if anything were to happen.