PRAISE FOR GUNNAR STAALESEN
‘Gunnar Staalesen is one of my very favourite Scandinavian authors. Operating out of Bergen in Norway, his private eye, Varg Veum, is a complex but engaging anti-hero. Varg means “wolf” in Norwegian, and this is a series with very sharp teeth’ Ian Rankin
‘The Norwegian Chandler’ Jo Nesbø
‘One of the finest Nordic novelists in the tradition of Henning Mankell’ Barry Forshaw, Independent
‘Staalesen’s mastery of pacing enables him to develop his characters in a leisurely way without sacrificing tension and suspense’ Publishers Weekly
‘Gunnar Staalesen was writing suspenseful and socially conscious Nordic Noir long before any of today’s Swedish crime writers had managed to put together a single book page … one of Norway’s most skillful storytellers’ Johan Theorin
‘The Varg Veum series stands alongside Connelly, Camilleri and others, who are among the very best modern exponents of the poetic yet tough detective story with strong, classic plots; a social conscience; and perfect pitch in terms of a sense of place’ EuroCrime
‘Norway’s bestselling crime writer’ Guardian
‘An upmarket Philip Marlowe’ Maxim Jakubowski, The Bookseller
‘In the best tradition of sleuthery’ The Times
‘Hugely popular’ Irish Independent
‘Among the most popular Norwegian crime writers’ Observer
We Shall Inherit the Wind
GUNNAR STAALESEN
Translated from the Norwegian by Don Bartlett
Contents
Title Page
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2
3
4
5
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8
9
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About the Author
About the Translator
Copyright
WE SHALL INHERIT THE WIND
If you go in search of Brennøy, in Gulen, on the map, I’m afraid you will be disappointed. This place and all the characters in the book are products of the author’s imagination and do not exist in reality. But you won’t need to look far for plans for wind turbines, not in Gulen or anywhere else …
1
They say a dying man sees life passing before his eyes. I don’t know. I haven’t died that many times yet. But I do know it happens if you have the misfortune to sit beside someone on their death bed.
I sat at her side in Haukeland Hospital, looking at her battered face, the needles in her arm, the probe in her nose, the tube in her mouth and the oscillating lines on the screen above her bed, which showed her heart function, blood pressure and the oxygen content of her veins, and I felt as if I were watching a stuttering amateur film of the years we had known each other, played on a somewhat antiquated projector I had never quite been able to focus. But then I was no technical whiz. I never had been.
I met Karin Bjørge for the first time in early 1971, when I was still working in social services. She was shown into my office by Elsa Drage. Drage is Norwegian for dragon, but she was the nicest one I had ever known. At that time Karin and I were both considerably younger – neither of us a day over thirty. Siren, her sister, was fourteen and it was because of her that Karin had come. She and her father had been searching for Siren for days. They had contacted the police, who had put her on the missing persons list, but as no unidentifiable body had been registered and there was nothing, initially, to suggest anything criminal had happened, they had not been able to make any promises. ‘But Dad’s got a bad heart,’ Karin said to me, ‘and my mother keeps fretting and fretting … that’s why I’ve come to you, to find out if you can do something.’
By ‘you’ she meant the social services’ Missing Children Department; and in fact we were able to help her. I found Siren three times in the course of the next two years. The first time I had to go to Copenhagen, the second to Oslo. The third she settled for our very own Haugesund. On the last occasion she was so debilitated by dope and sexual abuse that she couldn’t even be bothered to escape. A psychologist we used at the time, Marianne Storetvedt, did a great job on her; we got her into a young people’s psychiatric clinic, and when Siren was discharged six months later, she appeared to be fine again.
Out of gratitude for my efforts, Karin invited me for coffee and cake, and as I left we gave each other a hug. Seemingly by happenstance, we turned to face each other, and for a few seconds we kissed, as lightly and tentatively as teenagers doing it for the first time. However, I was still married to Beate, and I had no idea what Karin had up her sleeve. At any rate, nothing came of this until twelve or thirteen years later, when I had taken my leave of social services, set up my own private investigator’s office in Strandkaien, by the harbour, and when, once again, Siren had gone missing.
In the interim, I had been in regular contact with Karin, who was working at the National Registration Office. In a moment of exuberance she had promised me that, if I ever needed any help, all I had to do was ring, which I did. Often. Sometimes, perhaps, to excess. She had been married for a short while, but when I met her again in 1986, the marriage was over, after less than a year. She never told me what had happened, even though we stumbled into a relationship in the summer of 1987, without putting up much resistance, a relationship that had lasted until now – and was still ongoing, for as long as the doctors could keep her alive.
I leaned forward, studied the vibration under her closed eyelids, listened to her faint breathing, felt her pulse at the side of her neck. Her skin was soft and warm, as though she were merely resting. I ran a finger down her face, from her scalp to her pronounced chin and out to her cheek. Inside me, the pain and turmoil were bursting to be released.
Every year we had celebrated each other’s birthday in cosy intimacy, hers on the nineteenth of March, mine on the fifteenth of October. We had each kept our own flat, but the nocturnal visits had increased over the years. We had hiked through Rondane and Jotunheimen, staying in cabins; we had driven all over the south-western coastal region of Norway; and we had spent occasional long weekends in cities such as Dublin, Paris, Berlin and Rome. In Rondane, we had conquered the rocky mountain pass known as Dørålsglupen, both from the north and the south, and, a couple of days later, eaten trout sautéed with sour cream at the Bjørnhollia tourist cabin. In Jotunheimen we had slept in bunks at the self-service Olavsbu cabin before following the Mjølke valley down to Eidsbugarden and eating a proper gourmet meal in Fondsbu. In Dublin she had taken me somewhere that looked like the place where all books went when they died – the old library at Trinity College. In Rome, we had cuddled up on a bench on Mount Janiculum and watched the sun set over the city, before slipping through the side-streets down to Trastevere and enjoying a crepuscular repast at one of the restaurants there. But above all else we had been each other’s lodestar in our hometown, Bergen, the city between the seven mountains. For each other we had been somewhere to go for a hug when life became too depressing, when the National Registration Office was on the move again and the view from Strandkaien 2 was sadder than last year’s snow.
After I was shot in Oslo four years ago we became closer. She
had jumped on the first plane and sat at my bedside for several days, as I was now sitting at hers. Later I had often thought it had not been so much the doctors’ efforts but her mental strength that had pulled me through. Had it not been for her, I might already be history. Things had come to such a pass a few weeks ago – at the back-end of summer – that I had said to her: ‘What if … if one sunny day I were to ask you to marry me, what would you answer?’ She had looked at me with an amused glint in her eye and said: ‘Tell me, Varg. Would you be proposing now?’ And I had answered: ‘Maybe …’ She had kissed me gently and whispered: ‘Were you to do it, I would probably take you at your word …’
Now she was lying here on her death bed. And it was all my fault.
2
Barely a week before, we had driven down to a quay in Nordhordland. We had parked in the space allocated, behind the large shop, but when we got out there was no one waiting for us.
Karin looked at me in surprise. ‘She said she would be here. It’s twelve o’clock, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘The clock strikes twelve and there’s no one to be seen. Send for Sherlock.’
She took out her mobile phone. ‘I’ll see if I can call her.’
While she was doing that I mooched around. The quay at Feste ran alongside Radsund, the main waterway north of Bergen for boats that were not too large. The Hurtigruten coastal cruises were further out. There was a black-and-white navigation buoy in the middle of the sound. On the other side there was a tall, dense spruce forest, something that might have been a bay or another sound, and beyond that we could glimpse some red-and-brown cabins.
Karin had got through. ‘Yes, we’re on the quay … Fine. We’ll wait here then.’ She glanced at me and rolled her eyes, then switched off the phone.
‘Everything OK?’
‘She’d forgotten the time. You wouldn’t believe it was her husband who had gone missing.’
‘Perhaps it’s not the first time.’
‘Well, I think it is. That’s why she’s asked for help.’
‘You know …’
‘Yes, I know you don’t do matrimonial work, but this is different. Take my word for it.’
‘There’s so much more of you that I would rather have.’
She sort of smiled; well, it wasn’t a great remark, but what else can you come up with on a chilly Monday morning in September with summer definitively on the wane and autumn beckoning on the horizon!
While we waited we nipped into the shop and bought a couple of newspapers. High in the gloom behind the cash till sat the shopkeeper, a friendly smile on his lips. He must have been wondering who we were and what our business was. This was one of those places where everyone knew everyone and a new face stuck out like a flower arrangement in a garage workshop.
The shop was quiet at this time of the day, and we were given a plastic mug of coffee each while we waited. I flicked through the newspapers. There were no world events hitting the front pages in the second week of September, 1998. Most of the coverage was given over to the Norwegian football team’s defeat to Latvia at Ullevål Stadium, the first at home for seven years and thirty-one matches and a sorry start to the upcoming European campaign. The Prime Minister was still off sick, and Akira Kurosawa had died in Japan. The eighth samurai had found his permanent place in the film history firmament.
After a while we went out onto the quay. Karin checked her watch again and peered north. ‘It’s not that far away.’
‘You’ve been here before, have you?’
‘Yeah, yeah, several times. Ranveig and I were at school together. For a few years we worked at the National Registration Office together, before she moved on.’
‘And – how long have they been married?’
‘Thirteen or fourteen years, I suppose it must be now. Mons has been married before. His first wife died – round here, in fact.’
‘Oh yes?’
She was about to expand on this when she was interrupted by the sound of a large, black Mercedes turning into the car park by the shop. The right-hand door opened, and a woman with short, dark hair stepped out and waved to us. Behind the wheel I made out the oval face of a man with slicked-back, steel-grey hair.
‘Oh,’ Karin said. ‘You came by car?’
The woman with the short hair hurried over towards her. ‘Yes, I …’ And the rest of what she said was lost because she gave Karin a big hug and her face was next to Karin’s cheek as she finished the sentence.
The man who had driven her was getting out of the car now, too. He was around sixty, tall with broad shoulders, wearing a brown leather jacket, blue jeans and robust, dark-brown shoes.
The two women released each other and half-turned to their companions.
‘You have to meet …’ Karin began.
‘This is …’ said the woman I assumed was Ranveig. They both paused, looked at each other and smiled.
By then I had joined them. ‘Varg,’ I said, holding out my hand.
She introduced herself in a solemn voice. ‘Ranveig Mæland. Thank you for coming.’
She was wearing a leather jacket too, but hers was short and narrow at the waist, and the tight jeans revealed athletic thighs and slim hips. Her face was pretty and heart-shaped, with quite a small mouth and large, dark-blue eyes. She had a single white pearl clipped to each earlobe. Beneath the lobes I noticed a vein throbbing hard, as though she were afraid of something.
‘Bjørn Brekkhus,’ her companion said, greeting first Karin, then me.
‘Varg Veum,’ I said, and added: ‘Bjørn the bear and Varg the wolf. The beasts of prey are well represented then.’
He shot me a look of mild surprise, then went on: ‘I’m a friend of the family.’
‘I couldn’t stand it out there … on my own, after Mons … Bjørn and Lise live here, on the mainland. Besides, Bjørn was Chief of Police in Lindås,’ Ranveig hastened to add.
‘Yes, but I’ve retired from the force now,’ he said. ‘Since June to be precise.’
She half-turned. ‘Shall we make our way across?’
Brekkhus nodded. ‘That was the idea, wasn’t it? I’ll just park properly.’
He got back in behind the wheel and moved the car a hundred metres or so to the marked parking spaces at the northernmost end of the quay area. I followed Ranveig and Karin in the same direction. Most of the boats were inside the harbour, safely moored and already semi-equipped for winter, as far as I could see.
The two women had come to a halt in front of an immense, white, glass-fibre ocean-going boat. A broad blue speed-stripe ran along the side of the boat to its registration number and name: Golden Sun.
Ranveig looked at me. ‘I gather that Karin has mentioned … the old case as well.’
I watched her, waiting. ‘You’re referring to …?’
She looked over her shoulder at me and the water. ‘Mons’ first wife, Lea. She disappeared out there as well.’
After her gaze returned, I said: ‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes.’
Brekkhus coughed at my side. ‘I was responsible for the police search, and I can assure you … we turned over every last stone.’
‘But …’
‘She was never found.’
‘Vanished without a trace?’
‘As if borne aloft by the wind.’
‘This we will have to hear more about.’
‘Yes, but …’ He motioned towards the boat. ‘Shall we cross the sound?’
‘Yes, OK.’
He turned to Ranveig. ‘Have you got the keys?’
‘Yes, here they are.’
She passed the keys to Brekkhus. He led the way alongside the boat, grabbed a painter and nimbly swung himself on board. Karin and I found seats at the very back. Brekkhus started the engine and glanced at Ranveig. She released the mooring ropes, he turned the boat in an arc northwards, and we were off.
No one said a word. Ranveig took a seat at the front, beside Brekkhus, as if he needed a pilot. I glanced at
Karin. The return-look she gave me was inscrutable. When I held her eyes she pursed her lips into a little kiss and smiled cautiously. The wind caught her hair and raised it from her scalp. With one hand she gathered it behind her neck and focussed her gaze on the sound, where we were heading.
3
The cabin was situated on a rocky promontory facing the fjord. It was surrounded by spruces, almost certainly planted in the 1950s by Bergen schoolchildren on a re-foresting boat trip. Now the trees stood like dark monuments to a time when not only the mountains had to be clad but every tiny scrap of island skirted by the fjord. Accordingly, spruces lined long stretches of the Vestland coast. No one had thinned the striplings, and no one had cut down the trees, except the cabin-owners who had desperately tried to clear themselves a place in the sun. It looked as if they had given up here ages ago.
The path to the cabin wound upwards from the cement quay. To the north-east lay the islands of Lygra and Lurekalven. On the larger of these, in the middle, we could make out the slate-tiled roof of the new Heathland Centre. On the other, I knew there had been a medieval farm, which had been abandoned during the Black Death and remained uninhabited. Above us hung the sky, grey and heavy with rain, and the cortege making its way up from the sea was none too cheerful, either. We walked in formation: Ranveig Mæland and Bjørn Brekkhus in front, Karin and I right behind.
The cabin was a deep red colour, almost purple, with black window frames and facia boards. It was a classic 1940s cabin, erected either just before or just after the war. A west-facing annexe had been added later, and behind, bordering the forest, there was a structure that must have been an extension of some kind, painted the same colour as the main cabin, but with only one window and a plain wooden step up to the front door.
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