4
It had begun to rain. The sea mist lay low over the countryside, and the island of Lygra had vanished in the grey haze. The heavy, vertical rain hit the ground with immense force. We stood in the porch to stay dry. Beneath us the boat bobbed up and down by the quay like a gluttonous gull weighed down with belly fat.
Brekkhus glanced at me expectantly.
‘Didn’t look like Ranveig placed much importance on what happened to Mæland’s first wife, Lea, did it.’
‘No.’
‘Could you fill me in with a few more details?’
He rocked his head from side to side. ‘There’s not a lot more than I’ve already said, and … well, I can’t see how it can have any bearing on this case.’
‘I’ll be the one to judge that.’
‘I’ve said that sentence many times myself.’
‘So you know how necessary it is. Well …’
His eyes wandered down to the boat, the quay and the small inlet. ‘As I said … They found her dressing gown and shoes down there. None of the boats was missing. Everything pointed to a drowning accident.’
‘But Ranveig mentioned something about bad bouts of depression.’
‘Yes. She’d had what doctors call post-natal depression. Both times.’
‘How serious was it?’
‘After the last round she was admitted to hospital – for a lengthy period.’
‘I see. So suicide wasn’t so unlikely …’
‘No, it wasn’t, which only underlined the gravity of the situation.’
‘But the body wasn’t found.’
‘No, but the currents round here can be pretty dramatic.’
‘Yes, I know. But most bodies float to the surface at some point, don’t they?’
‘Of course. Over the years that followed we had reason to go back to her file on several occasions. In fact, the very next month, but the body we found was that of a much younger woman and there was no birthmark.’
‘Birthmark?’
‘Yes.’ He automatically touched the small of his back. ‘Lea Mæland apparently had a birthmark just here. Star-shaped we were told. I’d never seen it personally.’
‘And of course after a while it would be useless as a distinguishing mark.’
‘That goes without saying. Bodies that have been in the sea for more than a month … pretty drastic things happen to them and they’re often eaten.’
‘And still people call crab a delicacy.’
‘Yes, but then we don’t eat the crab’s stomach, do we.’
‘No, thank bloody Christ for that, as Martin Luther would say.’
He looked at me in surprise, a common reaction to townies’ attempts at humour around these parts.
‘Was Mons Mæland taken in for questioning during this case?’
‘We had to question him as a matter of form, but as Mons and I knew each other, someone else at the station had to take responsibility for the investigative side of the case.’
‘And the conclusion was …?’
‘No grounds for suspicion. He’d been fishing in the Lure fjord the night before and came home late. By then Lea had already gone to bed.’
‘No marital differences at the time?’
‘Not as far as we could gather, no.’
‘How well did you know each other, you and Mons?’
‘We’d met a few times when we were young, but it wasn’t until later … We became friends when we started taking our holidays here. I live over there.’ He pointed across the sound towards Lygra.
I was about to say something else when the door behind us opened and Karin came out. ‘Why are you standing out here?’
‘We’re waiting for Noah,’ I said.
She looked anxiously up at the heavens. ‘Yes, looks like the sluice gates have opened.’
‘And there’s no sign they’re going to be closed any time soon.’
Ranveig appeared behind her. ‘I was wondering if you wanted to see the annexe, Varg.’
I glanced towards the corner of the house. ‘Yes, why not? Any special reason?’
‘That’s where he has his office when we come here.’
‘OK, let’s take a peek,’ I said, stepping into the rain and pulling my jacket over my head as I dashed towards the small annexe we had seen from the sea. The others followed, both Ranveig and Karin having the foresight to carry an umbrella, Brekkhus the mettle to set off bareheaded, with water streaming down his neck. Within seconds the rain had flattened his hair, so much so that it looked painted on.
Ranveig was there first with the bunch of keys, she quickly found the right one and let us in. We ran inside shaking the water off us like stray dogs sheltering from a cloudburst.
She switched on the light and we looked about us. The annexe consisted of one room. A high table had been placed in front of the window. On it there were piles of paper, documents, writing implements and a stack of floppy discs. Along one wall there was a bunk bed, and in the corner an old-fashioned washstand in front of a small mirror. On a slim bureau there was a kettle, some mugs, a jar of instant coffee and a couple of packets of tea: English breakfast in one, green tea with lemon in the other.
‘No computer?’ I asked.
‘He uses a laptop … there.’ She pointed to the empty space between the piles of paper.
‘But he’s evidently taken it with him?’
She nodded. Brekkhus sent me an eloquent look.
‘Is there anything as advanced as an internet connection out here?’
‘No, of course not. But it wouldn’t surprise me if there was one day.’
‘So it was more like a portable typewriter, was it?’
‘Yes, I suppose so. But he could bring a whole heap of papers with him and sit working on them until he took them back home – or to the office – when the weekend was over.’
I went over to the desk and placed a hand on one pile. I looked at Ranveig. ‘May I …?’
‘By all means!’ She extended a hand.
I flicked through the top sheets of both piles. They were mostly job-related documents, which didn’t mean a lot to me. There were several property projects, among them a summer cabin to the north of Øygården and a major industrial venture in Gulen. The latter appeared to be connected with renewable energy: wind or wave power. I noticed one signature seemed to keep popping up. The name was Jarle Glosvik.
The document on top of the pile to the right was a letter adorned with a dynamic, blue logo, a windblown N merging with a P, furnished with the explanatory subtext, Norcraft Power. In the letter, which was addressed to Mæland Real Estate AS, attn. Mons Mæland, the signatory, Erik Utne, confirmed that the planned survey of Brennøy would take place as arranged on the ninth of September at twelve thirty. The company would be represented by a delegation consisting of four people, led by Utne himself.
‘He’s going to Brennøy on Wednesday,’ I said, holding up the sheet.
Ranveig took it and read. Then she nodded. ‘Let’s hope he gets there, eh?’
‘Yes … do you mean we should let the matter rest until then?’
‘No, I don’t mean that. But …’ She searched Brekkhus’s face, as if hoping for support from him.
‘What Ranveig means to say is that Mons probably should be at that meeting. If he isn’t, the whole deal could go down the plug hole.’
‘So if Mons doesn’t turn up …’
She met my eyes again. ‘Talk to Kristoffer,’ she said in a low voice.
‘There’s a lot to suggest that I should,’ I said. ‘Can I take this with me?’
She nodded.
I found nothing else of immediate interest on his provisional desk. I was given permission to open the drawers of the slim bureau as well, but all I found was a small collection of envelopes of various formats, several floppy disks with labels describing the contents, all of a work nature. Going though each of them would take time and, judging by their appearance, be of doubtful significance. In the bottom draw
er I found something which gave me a stab of longing for my own office: half a bottle of aquavit, half full. But it wasn’t my favourite brand. This was Danish and had to be drunk chilled.
We left everything as it was. I cast a final glance around before leaving. On the wall there was a solitary landscape painting of the kind you inherit from parents with a simple taste in art. I had a couple myself, of Sunnfjord, where my father grew up, neither exactly masterpieces.
‘They used this place as living quarters while the cabin was being built, I suppose. Just before the war, I think it was,’ said Brekkhus.
‘His parents?’
‘No, no. Mons and Lea bought this when Kristoffer was small. Early 70s it must have been.’
‘I see.’
Then we left. The rain had let up. The light haze lay like a silk blanket over the countryside. High above us we glimpsed a white orb, the sun, like a beating heart, , still not strong enough to burst through.
While Ranveig locked the cabin I stood slightly apart with Brekkhus. ‘Tell me: What do you personally make of this disappearance?’
‘Personally?’
‘Yes, as a good friend. Do you think something has happened to him?’
Neither Ranveig nor Karin was within earshot. Nonetheless, he lowered his voice. ‘If you ask me, I think he’ll turn up again. My guess is he went underground – if I can put it like that – to avoid the unpleasant confrontation there might well be on Brennøy at this survey on Wednesday. Or …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well … probably to avoid any improper attempts at persuasion.’
‘Are you thinking bribes?’
‘For example. But it’s impossible to know, of course. Only time will tell.’
‘And the mills of time grind slowly. As in Lea’s case.’
‘Well, the case was declared closed after a few years.’
‘She was declared dead?’
‘Yes.’
He had no more to add. Ten minutes later we were on board the boat and heading back. Brekkhus steered us safely into Feste, where a boat was moored at the quay taking on diesel, with the assistance of the helpful grocer, who checked us over one last time as we got into our cars. He was probably wondering what we were up to on the island. After all, not a lot happened in this area of Nordhordland on Monday mornings in September.
Before we went our separate ways, I said to Ranveig: ‘Could you ring Kristoffer and warn him I’ll be calling?’
‘Will do,’ she answered with a brief smile. ‘Good luck, Varg. I hope you find him before …’
‘Before what?’
‘Before the meeting on Wednesday.’
I nodded and smiled encouragingly, but even before I had got into the car the smile was gone and my mind was already churning. Or before it’s too late, I said to myself.
‘God knows how I’m going to find him with so little to go on,’ I said to Karin.
As we negotiated the narrow, winding road to Seim and then took the main road from Mongstad south to Bergen, I barely listened to what she said.
Before we had reached the roundabout at Knarvik my mobile rang. I gave it to Karin to answer. After a few words she looked at me. ‘It’s Ranveig. Kristoffer’s expecting you at half-past three. Is that OK?’
I looked at the clock in the car. It read 14.10. ‘So long as there are no unforeseen hold-ups … Tell her I’ll be there.’
She confirmed the arrangement, chatted for a while and then rang off.
As we drove onto Nordhordland Bridge the sun was beginning to break through the cloud. Stout beams of white sunshine fell diagonally across Byfjord, the contours of a colossal construction, erected to hold in place the safest source of energy known to man, provided that it kept burning.
I dropped Karin in Fløenbakken, after kissing her lightly on the lips and arranging a late dinner, then I drove on to Ytre Laksevåg and my first real engagement of the case so far.
5
The main office of Mæland Real Estate AS was on the outskirts of the new industrial estate at Janaflaten, due south of Sotra Bridge. The estate was still being built, and the signposting left something to be desired. The massive, grey concrete building was divided between various companies, and an in-depth study of the information board in the empty collective vestibule was required to establish where the office was.
The staircase had corner windows from floor to ceiling and a magnificent view of the main road from the south, and the islands and sea beyond. The grey clouds from earlier in the day were being swept away by a strong northerly wind, and in the distance there was a clear line of blue sky, like a silken membrane on the horizon. It promised improved weather in the days to come. But you could never be completely sure. Behind the sky the clouds are always grey, as we say in our part of the country.
After a few abortive jaunts I finally found my way to the sign proclaiming in big letters that I had arrived at Mæland Real Estate AS. I opened the heavy, blue door to the offices, where I was met by a smiling young lady with large glasses, fair hair, a grey-flecked black jacket and white blouse. She was sitting at a minimalistic desk and looked as though she had spent the whole of her life waiting for me to come through the door.
‘I have an appointment with Kristoffer Mæland. The name’s Veum.’
She smiled brightly. ‘I have that down here,’ she said, nodding to the computer, which, along with the keyboard, filled the majority of her desk. ‘Kristoffer’s expecting you.’ From the use of the Christian name I inferred that this was a young, dynamic atmosphere.
‘Sorry,’ I said, putting on an apologetic face and consulting my watch. ‘I had some difficulty finding the way here.’
‘Everyone does,’ she said lightly and with a consoling smile. ‘It’ll all be sorted by spring.’
‘Not before?’
‘Well, everything comes to him who …’
‘… laughs longest.’
She seemed to find this droll and made a clucking sound, then showed me into the brightly lit corridor, to a glass cage with a view, containing a desk of much more generous proportions than her own and a suite of sofas where a young man was flicking through a file. When he saw us he put down the file, got up and nodded.
The secretary opened his door and said: ‘This is Varg Veum.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said, passing her on my way in. She smelt of lily of the valley, which never failed to attract me, even though I knew how poisonous they were. Then she closed the door behind me and I greeted Kristoffer Mæland.
Since I had neither met his mother nor his father it was impossible to say whether he resembled either of them. He was roughly my height and had fair, curly hair cut close to the scalp. His face was broad, his smile measured, and his eyes were blue. His clothes were both practical and elegant: a dark jacket, blue jeans and a white shirt open at the neck.
He pointed to a chair and sat down opposite me, across a massive piece of glass. ‘Ranveig said I had to talk to you.’
‘Did you have to be persuaded?’
He sent me a chill look. ‘My father’s gone off for a few days. No reason to make a big drama out of this.’
‘Has it happened before?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t have a complete overview of what goes on in their marriage.’
‘But there is friction?’
‘No more than in any marriage, I assume.’
When he didn’t follow up, I said: ‘You don’t have a close relationship with Ranveig, do you.’
‘She’s not my mother. Let me put it like that.’
‘But there were disagreements between them?’
He gesticulated. ‘Not as far as I know, as I said. Bit of door-slamming. That’s not unusual in most homes.’
‘But he didn’t say anything to you? About going away, I mean.’
‘No, no, he didn’t.’ After some reflection he added: ‘You have to understand: Dad’s considering pulling out of the company. And leaving everything to me.’
&n
bsp; ‘To you alone?’
‘Yes, and the other staff, of course.’
‘But what about your sister?’
‘Else? She has her shares and can keep them, but she’s still young and has never had any interest in what we do.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a student.’ And then he added, ‘History of Art,’ in a tone that made it sound rather suspect.
‘So what’s the company’s main activity?’
‘Property and project management, basically. We’re not primarily after profit, but we try to add value and be forward-thinking.’
This was something he had learned off by heart. But I wasn’t there to buy anything, and the projects I had in mind were not of the value-adding and forward-thinking variety. Mine were more of the keeping-my-head-above-water kind.
‘That’s why you’re investing so heavily in wind power?’
He regarded me with respect. ‘So you’ve heard about it?’
‘Ranveig told me.’
‘Right. Yes. In co-operation with a company called Norcraft Power we’re planning a wind farm at the edge of Gulen, on an island called Brennøy.’
‘Yes, I’m aware of that. You’re going there to do a survey on Wednesday, I understand.’
‘Did she tell you that, too?’ He looked almost impressed.
‘No, we found a letter addressed to your father confirming the arrangement.’
‘Yes, he’s been involved in – how shall I put it? – the practical side of things: he knows Brennøy well, you see.’
‘I see?’
‘Yes. My father’s mother is from Brennøy, and they used to spend their holidays with the family there. That was how he got to hear about the property. An old boy put it on the market – he died straight afterwards, in the late 80s – and Dad made an offer.’
‘And this survey with Norcraft Power, was he going to attend it on his own?’
‘No, the idea was that we would both … but …’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I was thinking. He might just have gone out there in advance.’
‘Without telling you?’
‘No, that does sound strange.’
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 3