We Shall Inherit the Wind

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘And you’re referring to …?’

  ‘To the circumstances surrounding my mother’s death. Even if she was difficult to deal with, she definitely didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘They killed her!’

  ‘Kristoffer,’ Else chided softly, but he ignored her.

  ‘They either indirectly drove her to her death – or they did it on purpose.’

  ‘Ranveig said that your father could never have done such a thing.’

  Kristoffer scowled. ‘And her? Or someone else?’

  ‘Another person?’

  ‘Let me tell you something, Veum. Something we’ve discovered. I’ve discovered. It started in 1984, two years after she’d disappeared.’ He glanced down for a second, as though reflecting. ‘A few weeks ago I managed to access my father’s account, through a connection in the credit branch . That is, he accessed it. And he gave me some startling information.’

  ‘Which was …?’

  ‘Four times a year, from 1984 onwards, Dad transferred a fixed sum to a bank account in Sweden. Over the years it has totalled an amount close to a million Norwegian kroner.’

  ‘Goodness me!’

  ‘You can say that again. I asked my contact to check who the account belonged to. I was given a name. A certain Stig Magnusson, who resides in Malmö.’

  ‘Did you confront your father with this information?’

  He blushed. ‘How could I do that? How could I reveal that I had wriggled my way into his account? That would have brought my contact into disrepute as well. But I told Ranveig yesterday.’

  ‘She didn’t say anything about it.’

  ‘No? Don’t you find that strange?’

  ‘Yes. Or … Maybe not. What did she say?’

  ‘She denied everything. Had no idea what the money was, she said. Had never heard about it.’

  ‘And?’

  He splayed his hands. ‘Well? What do you expect? Her to lay all her cards on the table, sixteen years after the event?’

  ‘All her cards? What do you think these payments are for?’

  ‘You know, job-related stuff. Dad was in contact with a variety of people. I don’t know if you knew, but this Trond Tangenes who appeared on Wednesday had done some work for us, too.’

  My neck tautened. ‘I see! Did you have him go to Brennøy this time as well?’

  ‘No, no. What damn good would that do? My understanding was Glosvik was behind that.’

  ‘Yes, that was my understanding as well. So, what did you use him for?’

  ‘Well, debt collection. Outstanding claims. That kind of thing.’

  ‘Uhuh. And what’s your point?’

  ‘This Stig Magnusson. What if he was the same sort? What if Dad got him in to do work he wasn’t man enough to do himself?’

  ‘Are you thinking about your mother?’

  ‘I don’t know. But close on a million kroner, Veum. That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Yes, I wouldn’t have said no to such a payout. If I had earned it, that is.’

  ‘Exactly. You have to earn a sum like that.’

  ‘Have you tried to contact Magnusson?’

  ‘No, but I rang the police. That is, I rang Bjørn Brekkhus, who led the investigation at the time. He was like an uncle to us when we were small. Wasn’t he, Else?’

  Else smiled sadly and nodded confirmation.

  ‘I rang him to ask if they had known about Magnusson back then. “No”, he said. But … By 1984, in reality, the investigation had been shut down for some time. Had they known this then … But now there’s nothing he can do.’

  ‘What did he recommend?’

  ‘Actually he recommended I forget the whole business. If not, I should contact Magnusson directly.’

  ‘And did you?’

  He sighed. ‘No. There were too many other things to take care of, and then Dad’s disappearance …’

  ‘Did anything happen in 1984 that could shed some light on this?’

  ‘No. The account just showed a mass of bank transfers. Properties bought and sold. The payments could have been a perfectly normal business transaction. But not that long afterwards and not regularly, four times a year.’

  ‘What about a loan, on the black market?’

  He sent me a doubtful look. ‘Yes … Maybe. But in that case it’s odd Dad didn’t share the information with the rest of us.’

  ‘He wanted to spare you the agony perhaps. Or he was embarrassed that he’d had to resort to such measures. Who knows?’

  ‘And then he came into money that year, of course.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Mum’s life insurance policy paid up. I think that was in 1984.’

  ‘I see. When did you talk to Brekkhus about this?’

  ‘A week ago. The end of last week.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got an inheritance dispute ahead of you, so I’m sure all the dubious entries in life’s ledger will come up, both moral and pecuniary.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to that,’ he said with a caustic little smile. Then he indicated Else, and said: ‘But now I’ve got something to discuss with my sister, a private matter. Is there anything else on your mind?’

  There was. But I chose to keep it to myself.

  I drained my tea. Else accompanied me to the door without even the most fleeting of glances. Ranveig had been right about her. When her brother was around she didn’t say a lot. Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that she had gone to others to register a protest – against what her brother stood for.

  Before getting in the car I looked for Ole’s mobile number and rang him. He answered quickly, in an irritated tone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Varg Veum here. Are you still at the office? I’d like a word, if it’s possible.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Stein Svenson.’

  ‘Is there any more to say about that case?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Alright then. Fine. You know where to find me.’

  As I got back behind the wheel I said to myself: When will you learn to drop a case, Varg? Will you ever learn? As I started the car I answered my own question: No. Never.

  32

  Ole Rørdal opened the door, greeted me mutely, poked his head out and looked down the staircase I had come up.

  ‘I’m alone,’ I said. ‘If that was what you were wondering.’

  He answered with a dark glare. ‘A journo might have used the opportunity to sneak in, right? The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since I got back. I doubt there’s a paper in the land that hasn’t rung me, plus the TV and radio. I must be the most popular man in Norway today …’

  ‘Good exposure for your views.’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come in.’ He stepped aside and let me in.

  I looked around. Everything was as it had been before. The room was as untidy, but the piles of paper on the shelves were, if possible, even higher. On a small, portable TV the evening’s programme faded as another newsflash was expected. One of the three computers was also on, and a coffee machine with a jug of a murky liquid chugged away on the worktop.

  His mobile phone rang on the long, untreated wooden table. He grabbed it, looked to see who it was, cursed and pressed the OFF key. ‘There we go. Can’t get me now. Secret number. So you know who it is …’

  I nodded. The country’s biggest newspaper did that, apparently to protect its writers from angry calls.

  ‘This is – God forgive me for my sins – the worst day of my life, Veum!’

  ‘You feel it was your fault?’

  ‘It was my fault he died, yes. And yours …’

  ‘I went with you because you asked me to, Ole.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I didn’t mean it like that. But if he’d had the time he needed he would have retreated to a safe distance. But when we caught him off-guard he realised it wouldn’t be possible and he and I crashed into each other and that triggered the
explosion.’

  He slumped down at the table. The shadow of hair on his shaven skull was darker than when I was here last, his beard was pointing in all directions and his suede shirt hung outside his trousers. ‘This has sent me into a deep depression, Veum. What I feared most has happened. Despite discussing it at length beforehand. Now our cause will be discredited for years. Just wait till you see the headlines tomorrow. Planned Environmental Terrorism! Environmental Terrorism’s Suicide Bomber! I’m expecting the worst. But, whatever cause we fight for, it shouldn’t cost you your life!’

  I went to the coffee machine, found a clean cup and asked if he wanted any.

  ‘No, thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘Think I’ve had enough.’

  I poured myself a cup, examined the contents with suspicion and sampled it warily. The coffee was bitter and lay on my tongue like ash. With my back to the worktop and cup in hand, I said: ‘So that was what you were arguing about on the quay on Tuesday night?’

  He nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Svenson wanted to blow up the bridge. You go in for more peaceful methods.’

  ‘You could put it like that, yes.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve had a Christian upbringing, Veum. Consideration for others is important for me. We have to think about the community out there. Folk have to live their lives whether we have wind turbines or not.’

  ‘You wouldn’t use violence then?’

  ‘Violence?’ He peered up at me. ‘Only if necessary. In self-defence, for example.’

  ‘Or to protect your own interests.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Svenson asked me several times if I came from Norcraft. He suspected that you’d been bought.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Did he say that to you? He was off his chump. I’m not for sale to anyone, I can promise you that.’

  ‘So, you’ve heard that before?’

  ‘That was what he used as an argument when we were discussing the bridge.’

  ‘But you stopped him in time, didn’t you.’

  He glowered at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m still talking about what happened on Wednesday morning. My theory is that it was you who attacked him, tied him up and thus prevented him from doing anything drastic. For that day anyway. Am I right?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Mm, I can even imagine he saw who attacked him. But he refused to say, so as not to compromise the whole organisation. That’s the other variant. But the guilty party in both versions is … you.’

  ‘I can see you have a fertile imagination,’ he sneered. ‘But I don’t think much of your notion as to how conflicts in ethical organisations are resolved. And just how are you going to prove this?’

  ‘Prove?’ I queried. ‘I don’t need any proof. I’ve got an eye-witness.’

  ‘An eye-witness! Who?’

  ‘Your cousin, Else Mæland.’

  ‘You’re bluffing!’

  ‘She spent the night with Svenson.’

  ‘Yes, but she was back in the cabin well before …’ He angrily broke off. Then he blushed scarlet, and I could see the sinews along his jawbone swelling with anger. ‘Before I got up, I meant to say.’

  ‘So that was what you meant to say,’ I retorted. I didn’t elaborate. Experience told me that this was one of those tipping points when things could go either way. Either he would see through the bluff or he would crack and admit everything. But he was a hard nut, harder than most.

  I ratcheted the pressure up a notch. ‘You didn’t know that they were an item … Else and Stein?’

  ‘Of course! They’re … He was young and free. Both of them. What business was it of mine?’

  ‘And you know she went back to the boat that night?’

  He threw his arms in the air. ‘I saw them, didn’t I!’

  ‘What did you see?’

  ‘Her going back.’

  ‘And …?’

  ‘And nothing! When I …’ He cast around in the room as if searching for something.

  ‘Just admit it, Ole. It’ll all come out anyway.’

  He took a very deep breath before releasing it. ‘Alright then! What does it matter now? I went on board the boat in the morning, woke up Stein and said I had something to show him. Something we could use in the campaign. He was still dopey and went over to the empty building by the quay with me. Once inside I told him: “I’m sorry, Stein, but you’ve forced me to do this.” And before he could react I hit him over the head, tied him up and left him there, in the old fish hall.’

  ‘And how long were you planning to leave him there?’

  ‘Until the survey was over, of course. No longer. But there was all the business with Mons Mæland and then you found him.’

  ‘You weren’t frightened he would give you away?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I was sure he wouldn’t. He knew as well as I did that it would be the end of our whole organisation. We talked about it the day after, that we would agree to disagree. We made peace, in a way. But then …’

  ‘Yes, how come this peace didn’t last?’

  ‘If only I knew the answer to that, Veum! I tried to talk to him earlier in the day. Drove up to Bontveit, where he lives. But I couldn’t see any sign of him or his car. I guessed he had gone to Brennøy to carry out his plan anyway. And when I saw his car on the quay I realised I was right.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that after what you did on Wednesday he no longer trusted you.’ I noticed the big poster on the wall behind him. ‘Don Quijote and Sancho Panza had split up for good.’

  ‘I know! That makes me feel all the guiltier, don’t you understand?’

  ‘Of course … of course I understand. This wasn’t how tilting at windmills was supposed to end, but if my memory serves me right he also suffered defeats, the sorry figure of the knight errant.’

  Ole gawked at me. ‘Who?’

  I nodded towards the poster. ‘Don Quixote.’

  ‘Right …’ He still didn’t seem to know who I meant.

  ‘Tell me, Ole, this land deal. The case Stein was pursuing against Mons Mæland. Were you involved in that?’

  ‘No, no. But I thought he had a good case. I supported him to the hilt, hoping it would lead to a postponement of the decision.’

  ‘Will you carry it on, on his behalf?’

  ‘Doubt it. I really haven’t thought that far ahead.’

  ‘It’ll be a case with new protagonists. Have you any idea who could be behind the murder of Mons Mæland?’

  ‘One thing I can tell you for sure: it has nothing to do with us. Not even Stein was that crazy.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for it. Anyway, he had an alibi, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  I left him sitting at the table, sunk in his sombre thoughts. I had a clear sense that it would be a while before we heard any more about NmV and Ole Rørdal, and that from now on the fight against wind power would be left to other players.

  I drove home, made myself a simple meal, switched on the television and caught up with the various channels’ presentations of the events on the island. Hamre, Erik Utne and Jarle Glosvik made statements, while Ole brusquely refused to be interviewed. Of course, the latest news was linked with the unsolved murder case, and the report more than implied that Stein Svenson, who as yet was anonymous, could have been connected with that case too, a contention that Hamre parried with the argument that it was far too early in the proceedings to draw any firm conclusions.

  It had been a long and eventful day, and I sat slumped in front of the TV as a variety of light entertainment programmes tried, and failed, all of them, to make Friday evening a lively experience. In the end, I switched off the television, poured myself a small glass of aquavit and took a CD from one of the piles. Duke Ellington’s Blanton-Webster band, as it is known, from 1940–42, played Jump for Joy. The notes oozed through my tympanic membranes like cream, although I felt no need to do any jumping myself. We came closer to reality, however, when a few
tracks later someone asked the question: ‘What good would it do?’

  Before going to bed I rang Karin on her mobile. All I got back was her voicemail telling me that the subscriber had either switched off their phone or was in an area where there was insufficient coverage. I knew the latter was not true. I could accept the first possibility. She often switched off her phone at weekends when she was free and didn’t want to be disturbed. Whether I liked it or not was another matter, but there could have been other reasons for my sleeping so badly that night.

  The next day stole upon me like a thief with a long face and was as welcome as an alcohol-licensing inspector after midnight. I tried to phone again, but she didn’t answer this time, either. Again I told myself there wasn’t any reason to be concerned.

  Before shaving I gingerly removed the plasters and cleaned the cuts from the day before. I applied a new plaster on one of them and looked a great deal more presentable.

  After breakfast I got into my car and started the engine. The weather had turned. The clouds hung so low there was a risk of them settling around your neck, the rain lashed against the windscreen and, as I crossed Nordhordland Bridge, a strong gust of wind caught the car, making me force the wheel in the opposite direction to keep a straight course. This was no day for heading off on pleasure trips, but then strictly speaking this wasn’t one.

  33

  I left the arterial road at Seim and followed the minor one to Lygra and Feste. The route went through rolling countryside, sometimes through dense forest, sometimes past cultivated fields. At regular intervals Seim Fjord appeared down to the right and you didn’t need much imagination to picture Harald Fairhair sailing in one of his long ships to the King’s Sæheim estate at the end of the fjord more than a thousand years ago. At this moment on a Saturday morning there was no traffic on the fjord, other than a cabin-owner tuning up his outboard motor and a marine research vessel lying still in the middle. Deep in these waters resided a mysterious jellyfish by the name of periphylla periphylla, a reddish-coloured sea creature that had made the old fjord its hunting ground; it had no natural enemies and therefore proliferated. At night, just under the surface of the water, you could see the red flashes it transmitted. During the day it sought the depths and the darkness, as though suffering from a bad conscience.