At Tofting I branched off towards Lygra, the old island community that became part of the mainland in 1973, but where Olav, the so-called saintly king, and other kings held their assembly in olden times. Now they had a newly opened heathland centre all of their own and a view of the oil flame in Mongstad twenty-four hours a day, like so many other places in the region.
The closest village shop was in Feste, so to find where Bjørn Brekkhus lived, I had to ask for help from a passing stranger on the byroad to the white timber church. He was a kindly old boy in wellies and a dark-green sou’wester pulled well down over his forehead. He pointed and explained, and not long after I was turning in by a single-storey detached house that could have been in Bergen, had it not been for the size of the plot. There were no other cars parked in the drive, but there was a light in the west-facing windows, through which the afternoon sun, if it was out, must have poured into the sitting room. Today the rain was pounding against the windows and the whole house reminded me of a diving bell hauled onto dry land to wait for better times.
I parked the car, opened the door, ducked my head and ran the few metres to the front door, where I found shelter inside a slim porch. I rang the bell and immediately afterwards a woman’s voice answered from the intercom nearby. ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s Veum. Varg Veum. I’d like to have a chat with Bjørn Brekkhus.’
‘He isn’t at home right now.’
‘Is that fru Brekkhus?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Perhaps we could talk instead?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Mons Mæland,’ I said loudly. ‘Amongst other things,’ I added, more to myself than fru Brekkhus.
After a short pause, she said: ‘Come in.’
The lock buzzed, and the door slowly opened inwards. I waited until it was fully open, then I stepped inside.
The spacious hall was empty, but through an open door I heard a low hum. I looked in that direction and a small woman appeared sitting in a motorised wheelchair. Dressed in everyday clothes, with completely white hair that looked light and downy and her head sticking up, she resembled a baby bird. Her bent nose completed the image.
She stopped in front of me and held out a hand. ‘Lise Brekkhus.’
‘Hello.’
She looked at the rain dripping off my leather jacket with an amused expression. ‘Wet out, is it?’
Good job you don’t have to go out, I thought. ‘It certainly is.’
I saw her looking at the plaster on my forehead, but she didn’t make any comment.
‘You can hang it up there.’ She pointed to a wardrobe. The hall was decorated simply, with a copy of an old chart on one wall, a water-colour painting of small, blue-and-purple skerry flowers on the other.
She watched me as I hung up my jacket. Then she adroitly spun her wheelchair round and motioned to me. ‘In here.’
I followed her through the threshold-less doorway to the large sitting room. It was fitted out in timeless simplicity with stylistically matching furniture, bookshelves from IKEA, TV, radio and stereo. The pictures on the wall were of the same kind as those I had seen before, each with a maritime flavour: water-colours of sea birds and skerry flowers, paintings of ferries and fishing smacks. On the coffee table there lay a pile of newspapers and some books with a library binding. One of them laid apart from the rest, with a bookmark poking out from the middle.
She performed another pirouette with the wheelchair. ‘Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?’
‘Yes, please. So long as you’re going to have something yourself, then …’
‘I like having company,’ she said. ‘But I think I’ll go for tea at this time of day.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
Pleased, she nodded, swung towards the doorway again and disappeared in the direction of what I assumed was the kitchen before I had a chance to ask if I could help. I sat alone in the sitting room with the slightly uncomfortable feeling that a confirmee might have had visiting the local priest for the first time and finding only the priest’s wife at home. What on earth were we going to talk about?
It was conspicuously quiet outside. No agricultural machinery at work. A small freighter sailed past down in Lurosen fjord, but so far away that all you could hear was a low chug. Some herring gulls were flapping their wings and wailing in the strong wind as the white-crested waves snapped at them from below.
There were some binoculars on the window sill. I looked across the sound towards the island of Radøy. Over Lurøy I glimpsed the steeple on the rebuilt prairie church by the Immigration Centre in Sletta, but the angle was wrong for Mons and Ranveig’s cabin. Even with the binoculars it would be impossible to see.
Lise Brekkhus trundled back in. She had attached a tray to one arm of the chair. On the tray there was a teapot, two large cups, a bowl of sugar and a little dish of dry biscuits. On a separate plate there were some slices of lemon. Effortlessly, she placed everything on the coffee table. All I did was move the cup closer after she had poured the tea, take a slice of lemon and some sugar and stir it with the teaspoon.
When everything was ready and we were sitting there with a cup of tea in our hands like two members of the parish council in the process of setting up their own faction, she addressed me with an air of curiosity. ‘What was it actually you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘In fact, I wanted to speak to your husband.’
‘Yes, but you said you could talk to me instead.’
‘Yes, I did, you’re right.’ I carefully tasted the tea. It was dark, strong and good. ‘I don’t know how much your husband has told you.’
‘As little as possible, as usual,’ she said lightly, though with a touch of acid.
‘Did he mention my name?’
‘The name was Veum? Varg Veum? Was it?’ She grinned. ‘Funny name.’ As I didn’t respond, other than with a nod, she continued: ‘No, he didn’t.’
‘Then I’d better introduce myself. I’m a private investigator.’
‘Detective?’
‘Yes, I prefer investigator though. It sounds less dramatic.’
She nodded and motioned for me to continue.
‘I was invited over there by a friend …’ I nodded towards Radøy. ‘Last Monday, by Ranveig Mæland. It was my job to try to trace her husband, Mons, who had disappeared. Your husband was present.’
She sent me a chilly look. ‘Yes, I know. Ranveig slept in our guest room on the Sunday night. Bjørn and Mons were old friends. We knew Lea too. Before I became …’ She made a gesture towards her thin legs. ‘Like this.’
‘What …?’
She sighed. ‘It’s a form of muscular atrophy. It’s been gradual, it started over thirty years ago, but I’ve always known it would end like this. In a wheelchair.’
‘How long have you …?’
‘The last fifteen years. Now you didn’t come here to talk about me, did you.’
‘No, sorry. But … well, enough of this. I was asked to locate Mæland, and I did, for that matter. I’m sure you’ve heard about it.’
‘Yes, it was dreadful. I couldn’t sleep the following night. He was crucified, in a way.’
‘Yes, it was a shocking experience for all of us there.’
‘Did you actually find him?’
‘I can’t say I did, no. In fact, that was his brother-in-law, I found out subsequently. Lars Rørdal, if the name means anything to you.’
‘Yes, it does. Lea’s brother, isn’t he?’
‘Yes. Do you remember when Lea went missing?’
She seemed almost indignant. ‘Do I remember? We were there … Well, I wouldn’t say we were bosom pals – Bjørn and Mons were – but at any rate we met a couple of times a year. The boys were huge fishing fans, you know, so there were often extravagant fish suppers on the menu to use up some of the catch. We’ve eaten fish six days a week ever since, and everything is freshly caught, if I might say so. By Bjørn, of course,’ she added. I waite
d, and she picked up the thread again. ‘Lea … Yes, it was terrible. But … that was sixteen – seventeen years ago, wasn’t it?’
‘Sixteen.’
Her eyes glazed over. ‘I was already beginning to get so weak then that I wouldn’t go out any more, but I hadn’t got this then.’ She tapped the wheelchair. ‘I hadn’t seen her for more than a year, I think, so … It had an awful impact on us, of course, and Bjørn was deeply involved. In the investigation, I mean.’
‘She was never found, though …’
‘No, she wasn’t. But everyone thought she had drowned. After a few years she was declared dead. There are rules and regulations for that kind of thing …’
‘Yes, there are indeed. Did your husband ever talk about the case?’
She looked pensive. ‘He did, yes. My goodness, it’s so long ago, and we were friends, as I said. But Lea … She wasn’t easy. But I can’t say … At that time my mind was on myself and my own fate.’
‘Yes, I can imagine.’
‘I’d finally been diagnosed, even though the symptoms had been obvious for many years already.’
‘And then Mæland re-married …’
‘Yes.’ Her lips became thinner. ‘Ranveig. Bit too fast for some people’s taste. It didn’t matter to Bjørn. He was there just as often as before.’
‘There?’
‘Yes, across the sound, in their cabin. Even if Mons worked in property and was really an entrepreneur he wasn’t much of a handyman, according to Bjørn. So he often went out to their cabin and helped them with practical things, even when they weren’t there or it was just Lea …’
I waited. I had a hunch there was more coming.
‘Private investigator, did you say? You uncover a lot of dirt then?’
‘Now and then, yes. But I don’t do matrimonials, for example. I’m a social worker by profession and I used to work in the social services.’
She leaned back and scrutinised me carefully. ‘Why don’t you do matrimonial cases?’
I shrugged. ‘Maybe because I want a peaceful life. Most cases of that kind have two sides. Very often three.’
‘Don’t all cases? Sleaze, property deals and so on?’
‘Yes, but then there are more people involved. More people are cheated then, too. Not just one or two.’
‘Hm.’ She didn’t seem convinced. ‘Well, I can tell you, Veum, that I have no trouble seeing things from the other side.’
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘No?’ She sneered. ‘The investigator is not one of the sharpest knives in the drawer after all …’
‘It’s quite a while since I’ve been whetted.’
‘Well … let me put it like this … When you’re in my shoes you have to be honest, both to yourself and to others, if you’re going to survive.’
She paused. Again I waited. Then she continued: ‘There are no feelings left in this old body of mine. I don’t have a lot to offer a man. I have …’ She looked away. ‘Books. TV. The radio. Newspapers … Bjørn religiously goes to the library and borrows stuff for me. Comes back with huge piles. Not everything’s to my liking, but I read virtually everything anyway. I’m sure I could do you a talk, if you were interested. About literature, I mean. As far as the physical side goes … Well, I have nothing to offer, as I said.’
I intimated that I understood. I wasn’t entirely without talent.
‘He might have gone after other women … I would completely understand that …’
‘Is it your impression that he has?’
‘He’s never said anything, but in a way it has been understood and … We know the ways of the world. Learn to read the signs. You become even more sensitive when you’re like me, almost immobile.’
‘I think you’re coping very well,’ I said, indicating the teapot and the cups.
‘Round the home, yes. Brewing a cup of tea or coffee. You can do that too, can’t you?’ The acid tone was back.
‘So let me ask you straight out. Are you suggesting that your husband … that he went behind his old friend’s back?’
Again she leaned backward and fixed me with a sharp look over the bridge of her nose. ‘Yes. For example.’ Then she leaned forward and eye-balled me. ‘But I know nothing.’
Yet again she changed position. This time she straightened up and looked through the window, where the rain was beating down as relentlessly as before. Her gaze went in the same direction that mine had a little earlier – to a cabin that was not visible. Then she whispered: ‘Sometimes I saw his boat until it vanished, into the inlet there. When he came home and I asked where he’d been, he would say, fishing in the fjord. And he always had fish with him. He always had fish.’
‘But …’
‘He’d always been attracted by Lea. It wasn’t hard to see. I think. With her background. She came from a proper Low Church background in Gulen – yes, you know yourself. Lars Rørdal is one thing. His parents were even worse. Real puritans. Running away and marrying Mons … I think that made her in Bjørn’s eyes an angel, descended from heaven. And I’ll admit it. She was as beautiful as any of God’s angels. Long, blonde hair barely cut since she was confirmed; clean-cut, attractive face, but, as I said, not easy. It was as though … I don’t know … as if she had expended all her energy detaching herself from the religious milieu on the island. I think, no, I know, there was a passion in Lea that made her both strong and … dangerous.’
‘Dangerous? Do you mean with reference to the children?’
‘Children?’
‘Yes, I was told she was admitted to hospital after her last birth because it was feared she might do something to the new-born child.’
‘Yes … Post-natal depression. But that wasn’t what I meant. No, she was a danger to whoever she met. Dangerous in the sense that she didn’t know her own strength, the power she could exert on men.’
‘You mean she had power over your husband, too?’
‘I know he was smitten, bewitched, definitely attracted to her, like every other man. And when she disappeared, you should have seen the hours he put in. He worked round the clock. There wasn’t a cubic metre of sea in Lurefjorden, Radsund, right up to Alverstraumen, that wasn’t searched. He came home late at night and left again early the next morning. Often, when a body was found in the sea – even many months afterwards – it was as if, it’s sad to say it, some hope was kindled in his eyes. Not that he thought she was still alive. But that he would finally have it confirmed. That she was gone for good. That he could go back to his life. You understand … a bit like a relative.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I understand what you mean.’
‘And then when Ranveig turned up …’
‘Yes? She doesn’t have the same radiance.’
‘No? Well, you’re the man.’
‘She’s good-looking and nice enough, but she’s not the way you describe Lea. She certainly hasn’t got that kind of charisma.’
For a moment or two she seemed content. Then she said: ‘Nonetheless, he’s there as often as he was before. Where do you think he is now, for example?’
‘Oh, yes. Is that where he is?’
‘I don’t know, to be frank. He goes to sea as much as he can. Sometimes he doesn’t come home until late at night. Now I can’t even be bothered to look for him any longer …’ She nodded towards the binoculars on the window sill. ‘I would guess that he’s visiting the widow, though.’
‘But the widow isn’t alone,’ I mumbled.
‘No?’
‘My friend’s there with her, too.’
34
The shop in Feste was a lot busier on a Saturday morning than it had been on the Monday. Despite the poor weather it was clear that cabin-owners had found a way across the sound. I glimpsed the tall shopkeeper at the back of the room. Behind the cash desk sat a dark-haired woman. At a table to the left was a handful of old-timers drinking coffee. An elderly woman was busy cutting off the tops of yesterday’s unsold newspapers to send back f
or a refund; she smiled sweetly as I entered.
I ambled over to the shopkeeper, who obviously recognised me. ‘Hello again. Anything I can help you with?’
‘I was just wondering … You don’t know if anyone could take me across the sound, do you? I want to see the Mælands.’
‘Oh, they were just here this morning, shopping. Fru Mæland and another woman.’ He scanned the room. ‘You could ask Hageberg over there. He’s got to go that way anyhow, and I saw he came by boat.’ He nodded towards a stocky man with grey hair and stubble. He was second in the queue, wearing full oilskins.
I thanked him, walked past the cash desk and stood waiting until Hageberg had paid for the items in his basket, mostly foodstuffs. He was a bit taken aback when I told him my name and repeated my question. But he nodded good-naturedly, shook hands and introduced himself as Hans Hageberg. ‘Of course I can take you across the sound. No problem.’ He eyed my outfit sceptically. ‘But you’re not exactly attired for the occasion.’
‘No, I’m aware of that.’
‘I’ve got an old rain cape in the boat. You can borrow it. Come on.’
I followed him to the pontoon, and he led me down to a small, plastic boat with a curved windscreen and a wheel at the front, and no other mod cons except for a blue tarpaulin that could be pulled back to cover the driver’s seat and the closest seats behind.
Hageberg stepped on board and put his shopping in a large cooler bag on the floor before turning round, stretching out his hand and helping me on board. The light boat rocked beneath us, but balance was restored as soon as we sat down, him in the driver’s seat, me beside him.
‘Mæland, did you say? Yes, I know exactly where he lives. But … I read in the papers yesterday what happened. Afterwards we heard who the victim was. Do we know any more about what lay behind it?’
‘Not as far as I’m aware,’ I answered, which was the truth, at least if by ‘we’ he meant the police.
‘It was one hell of a story, if you’ll pardon my language.’
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 22