The Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘No, no. When I left Bergen, she must have found someone else. At any rate, I haven’t heard anything from her since then.’

  ‘So we have a deal on that point, too.’ I raised my glass for a skål, to seal our agreement.

  ‘But it was 1974 you were going to tell me about,’ he said, putting his glass down hard.

  ‘Yes. Jan Egil, when I was talking to him today, told me something I had never heard before. It’s about the day that Svein Skarnes died, if I can put it like that.

  He leaned forward and watched me with those intense blue eyes of his, as if I were the prosecution witness in a case he was leading.

  ‘Jan Egil told me that on the day of Skarnes’s death in February, 1974, he was sitting in the lounge playing with his Märklin train when there was a ring at the door. The father opened and immediately a row ensued.’

  ‘A row. With whom?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. He was sitting and playing. He didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘But there was a ring. So it wasn’t …’

  ‘No, probably not. In fact, Jan Egil said the same. His mum had a key after all. She wouldn’t have needed to ring.’

  ‘No, but she said herself at the time, I believe, that she rang first and then unlocked the door, as no one would open up.’

  ‘Yes, but that was later – after the fatal fall had occurred. And Jan Egil said, so far as we can trust him of course, ten years later, that it was a man’s voice he heard, apart from his father’s.’

  ‘A man!’ He paled visibly as the consequences of this dawned on him. ‘But then …’

  ‘As I said earlier today, Langeland, Vibecke Skarnes should probably have been acquitted.’

  ‘But why the hell did she confess? She did confess, Veum, and I never managed to persuade her to retract this confession.’

  I nodded and leaned back in the chair. The man at the adjacent table waved to the bartender and ordered another whisky and soda. In ringing Bergensian tones, I noticed. ‘Just put it on the tab!’ he added.

  ‘There was a confession in the Hilleren case, too.’

  ‘Yes, but no body, Veum! We had one here. Besides …’ He hesitated.

  ‘We must both have wondered why she confessed, didn’t we?’

  ‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘To protect the boy. She was convinced he had done it.’

  ‘In fact he pushed me down the stairs straight afterwards, so the notion was not inconceivable.’

  ‘No, and he had bitten Skarnes until he bled a few months before. I’m sure that was the main reason why she decided not to maintain parental responsibility when she was released.’

  ‘She was frightened of him?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll have to contact her. It may become relevant to consider a retrial, in my view. But … I don’t see any significance it may have for the current investigation.’

  ‘No, but that’s something I could examine as well, as I work my way into this case.’

  He nodded. The bartender brought the glass of whisky to the neighbouring table and we took the opportunity to replenish our glasses. Langeland kept to expensive cognac. I switched to a Bloody Mary.

  Several reporters were circling our table, but Langeland sent them all packing. He refused to comment on anything at all. The Bergensian at the neighbouring table seemed more alert now, as if the new drink had resuscitated him. A couple of times I saw him looking in our direction as though keen to say something. But I didn’t encourage him. On the whole I had had bad experiences with this kind of relationship in late night hotel bars.

  A large shadow fell over our table, and we peered at the top of this towering figure.

  ‘Hi, Hans!’ said Langeland. ‘Sit yourself down before anyone else does.’

  ‘I’m not disturbing?’

  ‘No, no.’

  Hans Haavik turned to the bar, gestured that he wanted a glass of beer and then sat down heavily in the free chair at the table. He glanced at me and shook his head. ‘One helluva story!’

  I nodded back and looked at Langeland. ‘Hans was Libakk’s cousin and had kept tabs on Jan Egil the whole time. He was up here visiting them as late as last weekend.’

  ‘So I hear. We had a chat while you were in with Jan Egil.’

  ‘What’s your line of attack going to be then?’ Hans asked.

  ‘The way it looks now, there are two possible lines. The first is to take Silje at her word and exploit her confession as far as we are able. But she may have a job sticking to it herself, from what the police say. The second is to opt for unknown killers, burglars, robbers who go too far and, when they realise, flee without the spoils, terrified of being caught in the act. Not so unusual in rural areas, I regret to say. The problem is that there are no signs of a break-in, of course. It will be very interesting to hear the results of the forensic examinations, both at the crime scene and of the weapon, as well as the pathologist’s report on the bodies. In a nutshell … everything is in the air for the time being.’

  Hans seemed thoughtful. ‘This Silje …’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘I’ve said hello, yes. Several times. But why would she confess if she hadn’t done it?’

  ‘Hmm.’ Langeland sent him an inquisitorial look. ‘Why did Vibecke confess in 1974?’

  ‘Because she’d done it, I suppose!’

  ‘But now new information has emerged which suggests that was perhaps not the case. That she simply took the blame because she was sure Jan Egil had done it.’

  ‘Well …’ Hans glanced at me. ‘I think we all thought that was a possibility, even at the time. But she stuck to her confession with such determination.’

  ‘You remember yourself how headstrong she could be!’

  ‘Yes indeed …’

  ‘You both knew her from university?’ I broke in.

  They nodded.

  ‘What did she study?’

  ‘She drifted a bit. Took psychology foundation, but she fell at the next hurdle and couldn’t get in. It can be terribly difficult without top grades. So she started law, but didn’t finish. That was where she was when I got to know her. And in the end she moved into your subject, didn’t she, Hans?’

  ‘Related. She took sociology foundation.’

  I looked at Langeland. ‘Someone intimated that you and she had been a couple for a while …’

  He glowered at Hans. ‘Have you been opening your big mouth again?’

  ‘Me?’ Hans feigned an innocent expression, which was partly torpedoed by the pink tinge to his cheeks. ‘He must have got this from a different source,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Veum?’

  ‘I protect my sources, Langeland,’ I said with a little grin. ‘But it wasn’t a million miles from the truth, was it.’

  ‘It was a short affair a long time ago when I was a student. It didn’t have any significance, neither for … at any rate not for the case I took on in 1974.’

  ‘No, because you were the family solicitor, weren’t you? I think you told me something like that.’

  ‘It was Svein who needed legal assistance generally. But I knew Vibecke best. She got to know Svein through Hans.’

  I turned quickly to Hans. ‘But you and Vibecke never had a thing going, did you?’

  His mouth fell. ‘Vibecke Størset? Well, that was her name at the time. No, Veum, we never did. She never looked in my direction as far as I can remember. Besides Svein and I were … pals then.’

  For a brief instant the table went silent, and I sensed a sudden tension between the two old university chums, only for it to dissolve and us to grab our glasses, all in one movement, it seemed.

  Jens Langeland put on a disarming smile. ‘But there were enough others, weren’t there, Hansie, eh? When you were sowing your wild oats at the end of the course? Swinging London and wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, city of sin … I think we got to hear the odd story or two, we stalwarts left in the old country, didn’t we.’

  Hans forced a rigid smile. ‘I retur
ned home safe and sound, didn’t I.’

  ‘Yes, yes. Let’s hope so, Hans. I’ve never heard anything to the contrary …’ he smirked over his glass.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Something completely different. Your second cousin, Hans. Klaus Libakk. From a very reliable source I’ve heard that he was supposed to have been smuggling alcohol in the early sixties. Do you know anything about that?’

  It was an evening of surprises for Hans Haavik. He shook his head. ‘Klaus? I find that hard to believe. Who said that?’

  ‘Well, it was mentioned as hearsay.’

  ‘I didn’t have much to do with Klaus and Kari at that time. It was only when Jan Egil moved in that I began to visit them regularly. After all, we were only cousins, and in my childhood I as good as never came to the Sunnfjord district. My maternal grandfather grew up here, and he moved to Bergen right after the First World War.’

  ‘But when you visited them, were there drinks around?’

  He shrugged and grinned. ‘Well, we had a drink on Saturday nights. They weren’t teetotallers, neither Klaus nor Kari.’

  ‘And that was drinks from the Vinmonopol?’

  ‘Varg, I didn’t study the labels that closely. There has to be a limit. You know how these things are. Up here it’s often a bit of both. The result of many years of a restrictive alcohol policy, as we all know. Large production of home brew and a hotbed of smuggling. Think of the significance the prohibition period had for the development of organised crime in the States.’

  ‘Well, apropos of …’ I looked at my watch. ‘Time to drink up maybe? We’ve sorted out tomorrow, Langeland, haven’t we. I’ll report to you when I get back. And you, Hans, what’s on your agenda?’

  ‘No idea. I’ll try to contact a few more relatives. Hear what’s going on. I suppose it’ll be a long time before the bodies are released for burial, but … we should organise some kind of memorial service. And then I’ll help Jan Egil, of course, if need be. We’ll see. I’m staying here over the weekend, anyway.’

  I glanced over to the nearby table. The Bergensian had come to the same conclusion as we had. Time to hit the hay. Stiff-legged, he staggered out of the bar. But he didn’t head for the part of the hotel where the rooms were. Instead he went into the foyer, opened the front door with difficulty and then disappeared into the Sunnfjord night, wherever that might take him.

  Both Hans and Langeland were staying at the hotel. We parted company between the lift and the stairs. The first thing I saw when I entered the room was the message I had received from Grethe earlier: Going home to rest. Ring you later.

  I dialled the reception number and asked if anyone had called for me. A grumpy night porter said no one had.

  I looked at my watch. It was too late to ring her now, at any rate. I didn’t have her number, either. Perhaps she was still asleep. The sleep of the innocent, I hoped.

  I let it go, undressed and crawled into bed, alone, the same as almost always. Some things change very little, no matter where in the world you are. All roads lead to Sunnfjord Hotel, I had decided, but to my room all the mountain passes were closed. There was not much else to do but wait for spring.

  31

  The stretch of road alongside Lake Jølstravatn must be one of the most beautiful in Norway. The vast lake lies there, extending into the far distance, blue and looking as though it could last for all eternity. The mountain formation is beautiful and majestic, and against the arch of the sky you can glimpse Jostedal glacier, dazzlingly white in the daylight. An atmosphere of timelessness and calm rests over the countryside, the north-bound traffic on the main road the only disturbance.

  It was no longer raining. There were patches of blue in the ceiling of cloud where the sun broke through with compact bundles of rays, like a harbinger of better times. The trees were rusty brown, specked with green and red. In a little boat in the middle of the lake sat a man with a fishing rod in his hands, patience personified. If he waited long enough he would undoubtedly get a bite. If I was lucky, his good fortune would rub off on me.

  Grethe had rung before breakfast. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ring back, Varg, but I slept round the clock,’ she had said before asking:

  ‘What are your plans for today?’

  ‘I’m driving out to Jølster. Would you like to join me?’

  ‘’Fraid not, I have to be with Silje today, too. And Jan Egil, if need be. Will we see each other later?’

  ‘I’ll be in touch when I’m back.’

  ‘Fine. I’ve got something I’d like to show you.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She had given a low chuckle: ‘Yes …’

  Before leaving, I dropped by the police offices to hear if anyone had any need of my services. No one had. The KRIPOS officers were going to speak to Jan Egil, they were still waiting for the first results of both the pathologist’s and the forensic examinations, and as far as the local police division in Naustdal and Førde were concerned, I could travel to Jølster and further afield without any concerns.

  A big, shiny silver milk tanker ensured that I did not break the speed limit before it finally indicated right and turned up into the valley by Årdal. Arriving in Ski, I branched off what was still called the A14. The road on the north side of Kjøsnes fjord was being improved because further along they were building a tunnel through the mountain to Fjærland. But I was not going that far. I turned down to the long, low Kjøsnes bridge, crossed over and bore left to high up on the slope to the south of the fjord.

  I rolled down the car window and asked an elderly man standing on the roadside where I would find a farm called Leitet. He gave me a long, thoughtful stare while considering in some depth whether this was a question it would be appropriate to answer. He was chewing tobacco and spat a gobbet some distance into the ditch before half-turning and pointing to some old buildings further up: a grey farm building, a little outhouse and a white farmhouse. I thanked him for his help, and he returned my gaze with a sardonic look, without uttering a word.

  I continued and came to a steep, narrow gravel path which seemed to lead up to the tiny farm. I turned off. Twice I had to get out of the car to open and close a farm gate before, at last, I was up in the untidy farmyard. I switched off the engine and sat behind the wheel for a while to see if anyone would come out to receive me. No one did.

  Inside the open outhouse stood a red, rust-stained tractor. The white one-and-a-half-storey farmhouse with an attic facing the fjord also looked as if it could do with a spot of paint. From the farm building there was not a sound to suggest animals were housed inside. The barn was overgrown, and the grass had been allowed to grow wild. The whole place seemed abandoned, dead, a derelict monument to the trials of yore by the fjord to the east of Lake Jølstravatn.

  As I opened the car door and stepped onto the yard, something happened. The front door opened, and a woman came out. She was wearing threadbare dark blue jeans without a hint of a fashionable cut and a reddish-brown sweater that had not seen a washing machine for many a day. And high green wellies on her feet. Her hair was blonde with broad grey streaks, much greyer than the last time I had seen her. Her face was lean and the network of wrinkles denser, but I still had no problem recognising the Mette Olsen of ten years ago.

  She, on the other hand, squinted through scrunched-up eyes and snarled in dialect: ‘Who are you? What d’you want here?’

  ‘Veum,’ I said. ‘From Bergen. I don’t know if you remember me.’

  Despite not being more than in her late thirties, she looked as though she were well over fifty, and they had been fifty hard years. She had put on weight, although not so much, but what there was round her waist on the otherwise lean body, looked inert and unhealthy.

  ‘Veum?’ She closed one eye and looked at me stiffly with the other. ‘Ye-es, I remember you … you were one of those social services arseholes.’

  ‘I’m not there any more.’

  She wobbled a little and put out an arm to steady herself. ‘What are you doing here then, eh?’

>   ‘It’s partly to do with … your son.’

  She raised her head and inhaled deelpy through her nostrils. ‘Johnny boy?’ she said in such a low voice that I barely heard. ‘What’s up with him now then?’

  ‘You haven’t seen the papers?’

  ‘I don’t get a paper.’

  ‘Listened to the radio? Seen the TV?’

  ‘Yes, I saw the news, but …’ The significance of what I had asked suddenly seemed to hit home. Once again she almost lost her balance, but it was because she turned her head quickly and stared at the other side of Lake Jølstravatn, at the mountains she had to pass to reach Angedalen. ‘It wasn’t at that house … What did you say? How is he? Johnny boy?’

  I observed her. The consternation seemed genuine, and even if she had read the papers, none of the dead persons had been named yet. On the radio and TV they were even more reluctant to identify the murder victims.

  ‘He’s fine,’ I said, if for no other reason than to tell her that at least he was alive. Otherwise, it was a dubious choice of words. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

  She looked at me with suspicion.

  ‘It’s not exactly summer temperatures outside.’

  ‘Well …’ She held out an arm to steady herself again, turned her back on me and stepped over the doorsill. But she left the door ajar behind her as a sign that I could follow.

  I walked into a dark hallway where a steep staircase led up to a trapdoor. Two doors led into the rest of the house, one to the kitchen, the other to the sitting room. She had gone into the kitchen, and I followed. She ushered me to the table which was covered with a worn blue and white gingham oilcloth. A very well used coffee pot stood in the middle of the cloth. Beside it, there was a cracked coffee-stained cup. On the worktop in front of the window there were breadcrumbs, a tub of easy-spread margarine, an opened plastic pack of sheep sausage and half a jar of jam. The smell inside was stale, cloying, a combination of food and unwashed pots and pans.

  She sat down at the table, grabbed the cup, confirmed that it was empty and filled it from the coffee pot, a pitch black, cold-looking liquid. She offered me nothing. I was glad.