‘Bit strange, don’t you think?’
His expression was blank. ‘Well, a sale’s a sale. So much happens on that front.’
‘May I have a copy of this, too?’
He nodded, and the procedure was repeated: photocopier, stamp, envelope, fee.
‘The Deputy Chairman: Do you think he’ll be in his office today?’
‘I believe I saw him earlier in the day. It’s two doors down from this one.’
I thanked him warmly and left the office. Deeper into the bowels of the council building I came to a door with a sign saying Deputy Chairman.
I knocked. Straight afterwards I heard footsteps across the floor. The door opened, and in the doorway stood Jarle Glosvik, staring impatiently at me.
‘Yes? What do you want?’ Then he recognised me, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, yes. You’re the person who … don’t think we’ve been introduced.’
‘No. My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. Have you got a moment?’
‘I have got one or two. Come in.’
He showed me into a very ordinary office where the only thing to brighten it was a large photograph of the building on one wall, taken as far as I could see from a plane flying north-east. The furniture was simple and practical and signalled that, in this regard, the council was as sober as the taxpayers in Gulen could expect.
Glosvik sat down behind the desk and motioned with his hand to two chairs, one on either side of a little table, where visiting administrators could put their piles of documents if they were too heavy to hold.
After I had taken a seat, he said: ‘Veum … I couldn’t really place you when you were on Brennøy, I must confess.’
‘No?’ I had a rejoinder on the tip of my tongue, but decided to be rather more tactical than was my wont. ‘I’m a private investigator and I was there because my assignment was to track down Mons Mæland.’
‘Yes, he’d been missing for some days, I’d been told. It was a dramatic turn of events. It’s still whirring away inside me.’
The ‘me’ he referred to was small and compact. His hair was dark blond, in need of a trim, his face was round with fleshy lips and narrow eyebrows. He was wearing plain, everyday clothes: brown trousers, blue pullover and a white shirt with a faint check woven into the material. ‘But now he’s been found, so that can’t be why you’ve come to see me.’
‘No. I’ve been given a new assignment in connection with a matter that came up on Brennøy.’
‘Came up? What matter would that be? No doubt the environmental organisations are behind this. If you only knew the sort of accusations they hurl at us. We aren’t worth the ground we walk on, according to them!’
‘Really?’
‘And all we work for is the good of the council and the community. This is about the local economy above all else. Income from property, new workplaces, tax breaks, money for the sale of power. If we can get these wind-power projects off the ground – and not just on Brennøy but in other places in the municipality, as well as Solund and further north in the county – all the indications suggest that life will be better for those who live here: the health system, social services, schools, roads … For me, this is a “to be or not to be” question for the whole region. The difference between poverty and wealth, and at the same time huge progress for people all over the globe in the fight for the environment.’
‘But you knew that Mons Mæland had changed his mind?’
‘Changed his mind? What about?’
‘The wind farm. Word is he may have been about to change his mind at the time of the land sale. And I have this from reliable sources: his son, Kristoffer, for one.’
He glared at me furiously. ‘Oh, really? This is news to me, I have to admit.’
‘So, in other words, the environmental organisation was interested in keeping Mons Mæland both alive and at the head of its company.’
‘Yes, but did they know?’
‘Absolutely sure they did.’
‘So then …’
‘Then the perpetrator could equally well be on the opposing side, among the potential developers.’
‘We-ell …’ He raised both palms. ‘I can see that. But one thing I can tell you, Veum: Such actions are way beyond the scope of official politics in the municipality of Gulen.’
‘Official politics, you say!’
‘Now, don’t try and be funny, Veum. There are much stronger powers at work here than we in Gulen can access. But I assume you didn’t come all the way from Bergen to Eivindvik to tell me this.’
‘No, my real business was with the Housing and Property office.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘The sale of land that is being contested.’
He flushed with annoyance. ‘Yes, what a case that was! Solicitors … You can have them for free, as far as I’m concerned!’
‘Solicitors? Free? Which planet do you inhabit?’
‘Yes, I know what you mean. What an idea to come up with, ten years after the event! But they won’t get far with it; I’ll make sure of that.’ Then his face changed, something sly and feline entered it. ‘I hope the solicitor didn’t hire you, did he?’
‘No, not at all. But I’ve been given a copy of the contract … well, not given; I paid for it …’
‘Yes, yes, get to the point!’
‘And it looks relatively genuine. It was witnessed by the then Chief of Police in Lindås and a nurse from the home here.’
‘Relatively genuine? What’s relative about it?’
‘Well, it transpires this nurse … you clearly know her yourself – Gunvor Matre.’
‘Yes. What about her?’
‘The following year she bought a little part of Mons Mæland’s land on Brennøy, this time witnessed by the Chief of Police in Lindås, Bjørn Brekkhus, and you yourself.’
‘Yes? I remember that. You’re not going to question Mons Mæland’s sanity as well, are you?’
‘No, no. Not initially. But the sale itself is a bit odd.’
‘Odd? It was an old house, right by the chapel, and it had no value in itself, at least not with reference to the wind farm. It’s where Per Nordbø lived while he could still look after himself.’
‘And the price?’
‘Erm, that must be in the contract, isn’t it?’
‘Yes … 75,000. Seems quite reasonable, doesn’t it?’
‘You’re not talking about a plot in the heart of Bergen, Veum. This is the reality in Fringe Norway. I would imagine 75,000 kroner was probably a pretty normal fee there, even with an old house on the plot.’
So you found nothing strange about the contract when you witnessed it? Or now?’
‘What should be odd about it?’
‘The only thing I know about Gunvor Matre is that she was one of the witnesses on a property transfer that has turned out to be very significant. A year later she buys a slice of the same property. If someone subsequently questions whether Per Nordbø was of sound mind when he signed the contract, someone might also wonder whether fru or frøken Matre has been persuaded to sign with the promise of later remuneration.’
He took stock of me. ‘Are you aware that this is a particularly serious accusation you’re making, Veum?’
‘I’m not making any accusations at all. I’m just suggesting the kind of thing someone might spread. Especially now that a solicitor has entered the arena.’
Jarle Glosvik sighed heavily, half-turned in his chair and gazed out of the window. ‘Is it any wonder we have trouble recruiting new people for posts as local politicians? When folk who don’t have a clue about the problems we confront here in the so-called provinces are constantly putting spokes in our wheels?’ Then he turned to me again, with a hang-dog expression. ‘Were there any other glad tidings you wanted to bring me today, Veum?’
‘Let’s conclude this business first, shall we. I assume when you witnessed this contract in 1989 it was in good faith. What would fru or frøken …’
‘If we’re going to be precise, it’s frøken.’
‘I’ll make a note of that. What did she want with a property on Brennøy?’
‘She had her roots there and had always wanted a retreat facing the sea. So she had the opportunity to spend some of her savings on this purchase.’
‘You’re from Byrknesøy, I understand.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Almost everyone I’ve met on this case has roots somewhere there, I’ve been told.’
‘Yes, and so? Where did the wealth of this country come from? Had it not been for fishermen and farmers Norway wouldn’t exist. Without Western Norway we would have been a wasteland. Fish in the old days, hydro power for most of the century, oil the last decade and for a while yet – and then wind – and maybe wave power in the future. Tell our friends at Storting that, Veum. Without Western Norway there would be no Norway.’
‘I don’t mix with that kind of person on a daily basis.’
‘No, nor me.’ He got up and came round the desk. ‘Now I’ve got other matters to attend to.’
I got up, too. ‘Besides politics you run a business, I gather.’
‘It’s no secret, Veum. Full-time politicians are city folk. Here we need to have something on the side to live.’
‘Any jobs in connection with the wind farm?’
He flushed again. ‘I’m deaf in that ear, Veum. Say it again and I might have to contact a solicitor myself.’
‘Would you like me to recommend one?’
He snorted.
‘And there was one other thing, Glosvik.’
‘Yes?’ He scowled at me.
‘Let’s stop beating about the bush, shall we. We all saw who you were talking to on Wednesday. Even I had the pleasure of bumping into him the following day at Stein Svenson’s. We both know who we’re talking about.’ As he didn’t answer, I added: ‘Trond Tangenes.’
He gulped. His eyes hardened. ‘Who?’
‘Don’t make yourself appear any more stupid than you are. He as good as admitted it himself, at Svenson’s. He was there carrying out an assignment for you.’
He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it again without uttering so much as a syllable.
‘You’ve talked at great length about local council finances and so on. Probably true, most of it. But what about your finances? Work for entrepreneurs is hard to come by at the moment, isn’t it? You’re dependent on things improving. For you personally it would be an enormous lift if the wind power project got under way. Or am I mistaken?’
‘What do you want, Veum?’
‘This is what I want. Listen to me. Not only did Trond Tangenes physically attack Stein Svenson. He also issued unveiled threats – against me personally and against someone close to me. Am I making myself clear? Do you understand what I’m saying?’
He observed me without speaking or showing any emotion.
‘So let me spell it out for you. If anything serious happens, either to me or my partner, I will hold you responsible, Glosvik. Personally. I’ll hang you out to dry, so high that your reputation won’t only be ruined throughout Gulen, I’ll have your name on the front page of the biggest bloody papers in the country. I will stop at nothing. And remember this, Glosvik. You have a position to uphold, which is much more than I have. In other words: Tell your mongrel to stay on its mat. Now. Have you understood?’
His staring eyes were glazed, the blood vessels in his temples swollen and his jaw muscles visibly groaning. Then he reacted. He went to the door, slammed his hand down on the handle and opened it. He stood there as silent as the mountain ranges in the landscape outside.
I followed. I stopped in front of him. ‘Have you understood, I asked?’
‘Get out, Veum. We have nothing more to discuss.’
For a few seconds we stood glowering at each other. I could see that deep inside him my message had hit home. Whether it would lead to a positive outcome it was still too early to say.
It would be wrong to say we parted as friends. But I hadn’t been pampered by fate in that respect. He stood there until I was well down the corridor. Then he withdrew and slammed the door hard after him. I found my own way out.
There was one man I felt a strong need to contact. Before getting into my car I rang Bjørn Brekkhus. He still wasn’t answering his mobile. When I phoned his landline it was the same woman who had answered the previous evening.
She could hear who it was and said at once: ‘He got your message, but all he said was: “What good is it now?”’
‘So that was why he didn’t ring back?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Is he available now?’
‘No, he’s gone to Brennøy today.’
‘Really?’
‘We found out what had happened to Mons Mæland. He and Bjørn had been friends ever since their younger days. He said he wanted to see the spot where the crime took place.’
‘He hasn’t got roots there as well, has he?’
‘Roots? On Brennøy? Not at all. His family’s from Masfjorden, if you go back a few generations.’
‘Tell me: Did you also know Mons Mæland?’
‘Not very well. But I’d met him on various occasions.’ After a short pause she said: ‘There’s something you should know.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’ve been in a wheelchair for the last fifteen years. Our house has been completely adapted so that I can cope indoors without a problem. But I don’t do much gallivanting, if you know what I mean.’
‘So your husband won’t stay overnight on the island?’
‘Oh, no. I’m expecting him home for a late dinner, at around eight.’
‘Well, please mention that I rang again and that I’d appreciate it if he returned the call.’
‘I’ll do that.’
We finished the conversation, I stuffed my mobile into a pocket and I had already made my decision. Brennøy was up next, no question.
24
I was lucky with the ferry at Sløvåg and drove onto the deck just before the gate closed for departure. Ten minutes later I drove ashore at Skipavik. The weather was still as beautiful. The sky was high and blue, and the air so clear that you had the sense that you could see as far as Iceland if you were high enough up.
Driving down onto the quay in Brennøy, I recognised the black Mercedes of Bjørn Brekkhus, parked carefully outside Naustvik Hotel & Harbour. In approximately the same place as the last time were the unwashed, red Opel Kadett and the white VW. I parked next to Brekkhus. So that we wouldn’t miss one another I went to the reception cabin, opened the door and stepped inside.
There was no one in reception, and no one was sitting in the café area. The tables and chairs were back in place after the re-arrangement for the police interviews two days ago. Behind the glass counter there were some waffles and the coffee in the jug on the warming plate was steaming.
From the floor above came some sounds I was unable to define until I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, and even then I wasn’t a hundred per cent certain. Someone could have been watching TV, of course. It could have been a discreet wrestling match or it could be … something else.
The investigator in me shoved all my usual good manners aside and drove me noiselessly up the stairs, step by step, until I was at the top. The door to the office where I had spoken to the police previously was ajar and there was no longer any doubt. That was where the commotion was coming from, and now it had assumed a definitive character of … something else. There was the slap of skin on skin, flesh on flesh, in regular rhythmical movements, accompanied by semi-stifled groans.
I should have politely withdrawn, of course. Whenever my ledger is closed, this entry is unlikely to end up on the credit side. Softly, I tiptoed to the door, leaned forward carefully, held my breath and peered through the gap between door and jamb.
Kristine Rørdal was lying prone across the desk. Staring ahead in dark ecstasy and tossing her head with every thrust her body received from behind. Her top half was fully c
overed, but someone had pulled down her trousers and was pumping away between those milky white thighs with determined strokes. She didn’t seem to be objecting, and when I heard his voice I realised that every right was on his side.
‘This is for your sinful life! This is for your bastard! You bitch! You whore! You tart!’ It was Lars Rørdal giving us all the variants of loose women he had in his repertoire.
‘Yes!’ groaned Kristine, rolling her eyes. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes …’
Without a further sound I cautiously withdrew. Step by step, down to reception. I opened the door, careful not to make any noise, stepped outside and closed it quietly after me.
I stood breathing out until I had my respiration back to normal. What I had experienced had made an impression on me, in several ways. But the detective in me had focussed on what Lars Rørdal had said. ‘This is for your bastard!’ Was he talking about Ole? And, if so, who was the father?
I was in two minds as to what to do next.
I could wait for ten minutes or so and take a punt on them having finished, perhaps make sure that my arrival created more noise than before, bang the door, ring the bell in reception and ask in a loud voice if anyone was there. Or I could do what I had actually come to do: try to get a conversation with Gunvor Matre and Bjørn Brekkhus, preferably both together.
The latter was probably the better idea. I glanced at the abandoned fish hall where we had found Stein Svenson, confirmed that there were no boats moored today and then made my way up the slope to the chapel.
Once there, I found myself confronted with another decision. For a moment I stood eyeing the small, red house with the white curtains. I recalled the glimpse of a woman’s face the first time I had walked past. Now I knew that in all probability it had been Gunvor Matre.
The house looked sombre and forbidding. There was nothing to suggest she had any visitors. I continued through the copse and over the rocks to the cross. I was still a long way off when I saw the tall, erect figure of Bjørn Brekkhus. He was staring up at the cross, as motionless as if he had turned to stone. He was unaware of my presence until I was right next to him.
25
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 16