The Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘And his mother.’

  ‘The mother? Are you thinking of Vibecke Skarnes or …?’

  ‘Yes, Vibecke. The foster mother. What if she took the blame for her husband’s murder, what if it was never an accident and she thought that Jan had done it?’

  ‘So she went to prison for his sake, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. What if someone else was guilty then as well?’

  ‘Then … as well?’

  ‘Yes.’ I sent her a defiant look. ‘I was never convinced that Jan Egil was really behind that double murder in 1984. I’ve always had the feeling that something was overlooked at the time.’

  ‘But the police had pretty substantial forensic evidence against him, didn’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they did, Cecilie. They did that.’

  We had started the approach to Fornebu Airport. The cabin crew were clearing up after the meal, and we were requested to check that our safety belts were properly fastened.

  ‘And you, Cecilie? Has the dream prince walked into your life?’

  She smiled. ‘If not the dream prince then … Yes, in fact I have got a partner. We’ve been living together for the last four years.’

  ‘Perhaps I should move to Oslo, too. If that’s where you find them.’

  She giggled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘So that means I can’t reckon on sleeping on your sofa when I’m there?’

  ‘I’m afraid that might be a little unpopular.’

  ‘OK. I’ll have to sweet-talk Thomas then.’

  ‘Your son?’

  ‘Yes, he’s still at university. I’ll have to take my chance with the corner of his sofa.’

  She smiled. ‘Then everything’s okay?’

  ‘Not everything, perhaps.’

  ‘No, you’re right. Not everything.’

  We hovered over Oslo in a slow glide, the Royal Palace on our right with Karl Johans gate like a filthy grey carpet edged in green rolled out from the palace steps right down to the central railway station, then Frogner Park, the tree tops autumn-dappled, before landing with a cautious little bump in Fornebu, which would soon be signing off as an Oslo airport. We were let out of the plane in single file, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting on the bus bound for Oslo town centre.

  She looked at me with a frown. ‘How are you going to tackle this, Varg?’

  ‘Somehow I’m going to have to find Jan Egil before he finds me.’

  ‘You realise that could be dangerous though?’

  ‘Yes. But what’s the alternative? Sitting on my arse in Bergen and waiting for him to appear, with or without baseball bat?’

  ‘I have to show my face at work, but … where will you make a start?’

  ‘First I’ll drop off my bag at Thomas and Mari’s. Afterwards, I’d like to find out a bit more about the murder. Is Hansie the right person to contact?’

  ‘He can show you round the hospice anyway. Whether you’ll be allowed to go into the flat, I have no idea.’

  ‘Doubt it.’

  ‘Just a mo …’ She opened her handbag, took out a wallet and produced a little business card. ‘This is Hans’s card. It’s got his mobile number and so on.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. And yours?’

  ‘OK, I can write my number on the back.’ She fished out a biro from her bag and jotted it down.

  I took the card, checked the number was legible, nodded and stuffed it in my inside pocket. We got off at the National Theatre, and we stood on the pavement for a moment. She was serious. ‘Take great care, Varg!’

  ‘I’ve been in tight spots before,’ I said. ‘Even in Oslo.’

  She nodded and gave me a quick hug before leaving. Then she headed towards the Town Hall. After phoning first to see if anyone was at home, I took a taxi to Frydenlundgata, where Thomas and Mari had moved since I was last in Oslo.

  I rang the doorbell and Thomas came to the intercom before I had finished ringing. Then the door lock buzzed. I walked up the stairs to the second floor of the large block. He was in the doorway waiting. He had hardly said hello before adding: ‘Would have been good if you could’ve given us some notice before appearing on the doorstep. I’m supposed to be at a lecture now.’

  I smiled an apology. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, but this came up with no warning. And I don’t have a client paying for it either, so …’

  He nodded indulgently. ‘Could you sleep on the sofa again? Course you can. Come on in!’

  They had moved from one room and a kitchen in Bislett to three rooms, kitchen and a bathroom close by St Hanshaugen. Thomas gave me a quick run-through on the amenities, fetched a spare key from the bedroom and said we could convert the sofa into a bed when I was ready. I nodded thanks and he hurried off to university, on his bike in the wonderful autumn weather.

  As soon as I was alone, I called Hans Haavik.

  ‘Varg! So you decided to pop over … did Cecilie contact you?’

  ‘Yes. Once again it’s about Jan Egil.’

  ‘The eternal problem child, Johnny boy.’

  ‘I hear you’re in the same business?’

  ‘Yes, but this is on a private basis now, Varg, and with no other ambition than to help with the little I can. It was tough getting over all the things that happened then, up in Sunnfjord.’

  ‘And it’s not finished yet, it seems.’

  ‘You’re referring to …’

  ‘Yes, the murder. Jan Egil. And it happened at your hospice, I gather?’

  ‘Yes, it’s terrible.’

  ‘Do you mind if I come round?’

  ‘To the hospice? Not at all. No problem.’

  ‘Have you got access to the room where it happened?’

  ‘Not in principle.’

  ‘In principle?’

  ‘Yes, no one has taken the key off me. But we can talk about that when you’re here. Have you got the address?’

  ‘Yes, Cecilie gave me your card.’

  ‘Right. Well, see you there then … at one o’clock. Is that OK?’

  ‘Should be alright.’

  We said goodbye and rang off. I took the spare key with me and left the flat.

  47

  I took what I had worked out to be the shortest route to Tøyen. From Ullervålsveien I went up Akersbakken to Gamle Aker church and from there down Telthusbakken with all its wooden houses. In the allotments by Maridalsveien there were some Oslo-ers of foreign extraction preparing their herb beds for winter. I crossed the River Akerselva on the footbridge by Kuba and made my way through the Grünerløkka area. At the terrace restaurant by Olaf Ryes plass the tables were packed with a motley bunch of people, some with half-full beer glasses in front of them, others with infants on their laps and a coffee cup at an arm’s length. In Hallén’s dress shop on the corner of Thorvald Meyers gate it was as if time had stood still since 1950. They displayed dresses for mature women in an interior so worthy of preservation that the Central Office for Historical Monuments must have been a regular customer there.

  I crossed up to Jens Bjelkes gate and stayed in that street, passing the Gråbein flats, named after their tight-fisted builder, and the Botanical Gardens. After passing Sørli plass and the sad remains after the clearance of what had once been Enerhaugen I was at my journey’s end, Eiriks gate.

  The straight stretch between Jens Bjelkes gate and Åkerbergveien consisted of four-storey apartment buildings painted rust-red and off-yellow, many of them embellished with exquisite details on the façade, arches over the windows and classic columns under the roof overhang. At the end of the street was the Police HQ in Grønland, like a massive barrier facing Bjørvika, with so many windows that it gave me the acute sensation that I was under surveillance. And I was not at all sure that this was a good sensation.

  It was now five minutes past one. Spotting me from a black Mercedes parked on the opposite side of the street, Hans got out. He crossed and gave me a firm handshake and a broad, good-natured smile by way of a welcome. ‘Nice to see you, Varg. You haven’t bloody changed an ou
nce.’

  ‘Mm,’ I said, running my hand through my grizzled hair. ‘Nor you.’

  ‘Oh no? Not a bit bigger maybe?’

  He might have been right. Hans had always been a well-built fellow. Now he had added a few extra kilos and was on the verge of appearing overweight. His hair was thinner, but the smile was as broad as it always had been, and the bitter purse of his lips I thought I could remember from Førde had been erased. Now there was an expression of real concern on his face as soon as the initial polite formalities had been exchanged.

  ‘It’s a helluva story, Varg! The boy must’ve been born under an unlucky star.’

  ‘Have you kept in regular touch with him? While he was inside, I mean.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. But I’ve got a notice on the Salvation wall, and some time in May he suddenly showed up here to ask if I had a room for him. I think he was just as surprised as I was when he saw me in reception.’ He turned towards the house. It was one of the yellow ones, and relatively recently decorated. ‘I have a little office here on the ground floor where I administer the whole thing. Porter, bookkeeper, spiritual adviser – just like in the old days.’

  I looked up at the house front. ‘But you own it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You must have come into some money.’

  All of a sudden he seemed almost ashamed. ‘It was the … inheritance, you know.’

  ‘You inherited it?’

  ‘No, no … My God, Varg! The damned farm in Angedalen … It turned out Kari and Klaus had left it in their will, to me of all people!’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘To me who never had the least interest in becoming a bloody farmer! I’m sure it was done to pull a flanker on her sister and husband. You remember – the people at Almelid. They were dyed-in-the-wool Christians, and Klaus was pretty much the opposite. Klara was the closest heir of course, and anyway the farm had to be run as a going concern, so … it all culminated in them buying me out. I used the money I was paid to buy this block here and a bit later a few others, from the security on this. That’s what you do in big towns.’ He grinned, but soon reverted to being serious. ‘But to be quite frank … the whole business left me with such a bad taste in my mouth that to offset it I decided … I would at least try to help someone. That was why I started this hospice, with the lowest possible rent for people being rehabilitated into society. Alcoholics on the wagon, ex-cons, drug addicts on rehab, you name it, I’ve had it. Anyway, it provides an old social worker with a sort of meaning to his existence.’

  ‘You could’ve done the same in Bergen?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I had so much baggage there. I needed to get away. A long way away!’

  ‘And your definition of a long way is over the mountains to Oslo?’

  ‘This is far enough, anyway. I had all too many bad memories of Bergen.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Then I suppose we’re different, you and me, Varg.’

  I shrugged and twisted my mouth into a smile. ‘I suppose we must be …’

  Before going into the building, he took a good look around. It struck me immediately that it was not just the look of concern that characterised him. It was more like a form of fear, as if he were on Jan Egil’s death list, too.

  We went through the gateway. The front door was to the right. He held the door open for me, and I stepped inside. There was a smell of fresh paint. A broad staircase led up to the higher floors. On the right hand side, KONTOR had been painted on a door into what looked as if it had once been a shop, but was his office. He unlocked and led the way. We came into a small room with a desk in one corner, a sofa and chairs in the other and on the wall opposite shelves full of files, local reference books and a volume of Norwegian Law bound in red leather. On the windowsill there was a large green plant with its dusty leaves stretching towards the sunlight outside. Above the desk hung a calendar advertising a local car dealer and a collage showing a representative selection of Mercedes models from 1926 through to today.

  ‘You can’t live off this, can you?’ I said, flopping onto the sofa.

  ‘Not without a government subsidy, no. It’s the income from the other properties which finances this one.’

  ‘I see. Tell me about Jan Egil. What actually happened?’

  Again a flicker, as though of fear, flitted across his friendly face. ‘Well, what happened? As I mentioned to you on the phone … he turned up here in May, and he’s stayed here ever since.’

  ‘He was supposed to be working at a car repair shop, I heard.’

  ‘Yes, but it went badly. He couldn’t get up early enough in the morning, and the jobs he was given there were not particularly demanding. So he took odd jobs here and there.’

  ‘What sort of odd jobs?’

  ‘Well, removals, bit of loading and unloading for transport firms … I’m not entirely sure. Anyway, he paid his rent as regular as clockwork. There was never any trouble about that.’

  ‘He had contacts with the criminal fraternity, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  I shrugged. ‘Most people who’ve been inside do, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. From that point of view, modern prisons function as first class training establishments,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘But maybe he did. I haven’t noticed anything of that kind myself.’

  ‘Are you here all the time?’

  ‘No, no. I have office hours from ten to twelve every day, and so I can be contacted if there are any problems of a practical nature – water, electricity and so on. But part of the point is that residents should manage on their own as far as possible. And I have a deal with a security firm who look in regularly to protect us against various kinds of public order offence.’

  ‘So you’re free for the rest of the day?’

  ‘If only I was! No, the rest of the day I run my other properties. Pure business, but quite profitable actually.’

  ‘And you’re happy doing that?’

  ‘Yes, but wasn’t it Jan Egil we were going to talk about, not me?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. We got distracted. He’s become a father, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Cecilie did a good job of getting you up to speed, I can hear.’ As I reacted with no more than a nod, he went on: ‘Yes, he has, and with this Silje, whom I’m sure you remember from 1984.’

  ‘Goes without saying.’

  ‘Yes, I don’t know much more than that. They have a little boy whom social services are keeping a bit of an eye on.’

  ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘No. She’s never been here. Neither her nor the boy.’

  ‘And if that wasn’t enough, you had Terje Hammersten living in the house, of all people, as well.’

  ‘Yeah. Jan Egil showing up was a coincidence, but Terje came because he had heard I was running this place.’

  ‘Terje? You were on first name terms?’

  He smiled in a good-natured way. ‘That’s probably something you don’t know, Varg, but … Terje Hammersten had been converted.’

  ‘Converted? What to?’

  ‘He had found Jesus, as he put it.’ ‘

  Christ! Who would have thought that? Whenever I met him, he generally threatened to beat me to pulp.’

  ‘You know … there was a powerful personal reason. He lost his wife. Mette. I’m sure you can remember …’

  ‘Did they get married? Mette Olsen and him? Jan Egil’s mother?’

  ‘Yes, but then she died. She had cancer of the womb and it spread so fast it was impossible to operate. They treated her with cytotoxin, but she was already so weakened that the end was a foregone conclusion. It was while she was ill that he found Jesus. That was how he explained it.’

  ‘And they also lived in Oslo?’

  ‘No, in Kløfta. Jan Egil was banged up in Ullersmo, and I suppose this ran through her life like a leitmotif. Wherever Jan Egil went, she followed. And up there she was given permission to visit. I think she was the only
person he had left. His foster mother had been out of his life for a long time, and the foster parents had been killed – by him, if we’re to believe the court.’

  ‘Vibecke Skarnes lives here too – I seem to remember. At any rate she moved here after leaving prison.’

  ‘That’s possible but … I’ve never heard that there was any contact. But there was a relationship between Jan Egil and his real mother for the first time in their lives. It was worse with Terje. I don’t think Jan Egil could ever accept that Terje and his mother had become a couple, and even worse, when he was finally given parole, that only Terje was left. And that the mother he had got so used to as his very own was also suddenly gone. For good.’

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Last autumn. She was buried up there. In Ullensaker. The end of a long and tragic life. Another homeless soul,’ he said with a heavy sigh, half standing, half sitting on the edge of the desk.

  ‘So how did he react when he came here and found that Hammersten was living here, too?’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I realised I would have to take the bull by the horns, so I told him straight out, in case he would prefer to live somewhere else. But he didn’t, and afterwards I introduced them to each other, made them shake hands and swear to be good neighbours. Of course I could feel there were no warm feelings between them, but I would never have guessed it would go this far!’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Not in any detail. After all, I wasn’t here when it happened. It must have been some time over the weekend. One of the other residents found him.’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Norvald Kristensen’s his name. He realised he hadn’t seen Terje since the Saturday. He knocked and listened at his door, which was unlocked. And when he opened … well, I can assure you, Varg, it was not a pretty sight. Norvald rang me and I drove down immediately, but I knew straightaway that I would have to call the police. There was no hope for Terje Hammersten.’

  ‘How …?’

  ‘He was lying on his back. Someone had battered his face to mush. If I hadn’t recognised his clothing and his torso, it would have been impossible to say who it was. Blood was spattered all over the floor, and next to him lay his Bible, open but face down.’ When he saw my quizzical look, he added: ‘You never saw Terje without the Bible in his hand. Every single time I dropped by to talk to him he was sitting and flicking through it. Absolutely had to read out to me a new bit of the scriptures he had found, some words, like manna, that would give him comfort and forgiveness for all the misdeeds he had committed over a long life of sin.’