Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘Yes, that’s what I thought. You don’t know where the owners are?’

  She made a tiny moue with her full lips to tell me how sad it was to be asked about precisely that. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘That is to say … one died exactly five years ago. The other last week.’ Without my asking, she added: ‘The first was my husband, Oliver. He built up the business together with our neighbour, Knut Kaspersen, whom we accompanied to his resting place just before the weekend.’

  ‘I see. Have you taken it over then?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? The business was closed down many years ago. Oliver and Knut went into fish farming, and that was a lot better, but when Oliver died, I sold my equity interest to Knut and since then have lived off—’

  She was interrupted by a voice from inside. ‘Who are you talking to, Nora?’

  ‘To…’ She looked at me with a vacant expression.

  ‘Veum,’ I repeated, with a little smile.

  The man who appeared beside her had a lean, vulpine face with a broad forehead, a narrow chin, a high hairline and brownish hair dotted with grey. He was wearing dark-blue jeans, a red-and-white-checked shirt and a worn, brown leather waistcoat.

  His eyes narrowed when he saw me. ‘What was the name, did you say?’

  ‘Veum,’ I said for the third time, and now I had to make an admission. I had chosen the stupid approach.

  ‘Veum? Not as in Varg Veum, I trust.’

  I met his gaze. ‘Yes.’

  He half turned to his partner. ‘What did you tell him?’

  She appeared even more confused. ‘Told him? He asked me about … Oliver.’

  ‘About Oliver!’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I intervened. ‘I asked her about Nedstrand Fishing Equipment.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. It was me who…’ she gulped and nodded ‘…mentioned Oliver.’

  ‘Just get back inside, Nora. I’ll take care of this.’

  She glanced quickly at me and back to him. Then she nodded and, with a gentle ripple under her dress, disappeared from view.

  The man I assumed to be Sturle Heimark stepped outside and scrutinised me with such intensity that I automatically retreated a pace, and he partly closed the door behind him.

  ‘I know who you are, Veum. What do you want?’

  ‘You know what I want, don’t you?’

  He stared at me hard without answering.

  ‘Or have you got so many?’ As he still didn’t answer I added: ‘Creditors, I mean.’

  His eyes narrowed to such an extent that I could hardly see the blue irises. ‘If someone wants something from me they’ll have to write me a letter. I don’t talk to the likes of you.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No.’ He came even closer, and I retreated another pace. In the sitting-room window I could make out the figure of Nora Nedstrand, who was looking down on us, following what was happening.

  ‘You say you … I can’t remember ever meeting you.’

  ‘And I’m grateful for that. But don’t let that fool you. If I see you here one more time I’ll ring my ex-colleagues and have them deal with you.’

  ‘Because I came here asking questions?’

  He continued his step-by-step advance, but this time I held my ground, so close to him now that I could smell the snus under his lip. In the window Nora put her hand to her mouth as if to stifle a cry.

  ‘Because you’re risking a beating, Veum. I know all the tricks and I won’t hesitate to use them. You’ve got nothing on me and if you come here threatening me once more … well, I can’t vouch for the outcome.’

  ‘No, very few can. OK … I’ll report back to my employer and say it was impossible to talk to you. Perhaps they’ll send a more threatening messenger next time. Pay your debts in the meantime, Heimark, and everything’ll sort itself out, you’ll see.’

  With these doubtful and aphoristic words, which would never end up in a book of quotations, I made a quiet retreat down their drive, waved goodbye and see you again to his girlfriend on the first floor and felt his eyes on my back all the way past the post box to my car. I stood looking at him until he made a lunge with his shoulders, turned, went in and slammed the door behind him, as if to emphasise what he felt like doing to me…

  Don’t bother coming back, Veum. Thank you kindly, and the same to you, Heimark.

  But I didn’t drive away. Not at once.

  9

  I got into the car and jotted down the information Nora Nedstrand had given me. As I wrote I heard the sound of a car door slamming. When I looked up I saw the two young men who had been carrying boxes into the old building coming towards me with, for the circumstances, pretty determined expressions on their faces.

  I buzzed down the window on my side. Once they reached me they stayed about a metre away.

  They were dressed in a practical way: jeans and short leather jackets. The older one had short, dark hair, prominent eyebrows, a set jaw and a smooth appearance. But for his clothes, he could have been an estate agent. The other one was taller, heavier and broader, with close-cropped hair as well, but blond, and he had two- or three-day stubble, not necessarily for cosmetic reasons.

  The smooth one spoke. He was clearly from Bergen. ‘And what might you be doing, if I may ask?’

  I made eye contact. ‘And who might be asking?’

  They exchanged glances. The same man answered: ‘We asked first.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to your neighbours.’ I tossed my head backwards to the house. ‘Now I’m making some notes about our conversation. What business is that of yours? This is a public thoroughfare, as far as I’m aware.’

  He deliberated. ‘We had the impression you were a little too interested in what we were doing.’

  ‘You’ve definitely made me curious now. Have you got guilty consciences?’

  ‘No, but we … You never know who might … We’ve learned to be on our guard.’

  ‘Sounds like a useful rule of thumb. Shall we say that’s the end of our conversation?’

  His friend shifted from one foot to the other, and I saw him lean slightly forwards, ready for action should it be required.

  The more eloquent one tightened his lips in something resembling a smile. Then he shrugged. ‘Sorry. Don’t take it personally.’ He nodded to the second man and they moved off the road and gesticulated that I could go. I noticed them make a note of my registration number – at least a mental note. I wasn’t convinced they would remember it thirty seconds later; that kind had their own problems.

  I spent a bit of time pretending I had more to write down. Then I stuffed my notepad in my inside pocket, with the biro, and searched for a new station on the radio before slowly setting off and waving casually as I passed them. In the rear-view mirror I could see them watching me until I was out of sight. I guessed they would be listening to make sure I didn’t stop straight after the bend.

  Fusa Church was situated on the Opsalnes headland, and I turned off the main road to go there. In front of the old cemetery, right down by the sea, there was an information board. I got out of the car and studied the notices. The Church Office was in Eikelandsosen and the resident chaplain’s name was Per Lillegate. If I wanted to talk to him I could go via Samnanger on my way back to Bergen.

  Eikelandsosen is set in an idyllic location at the end of Eikeland Fjord, surrounded by lush pastures and a view inland of Hålandsdalen, with the skiing centre and fishing lakes. It was February-quiet as I parked by the two-storey yellow building bearing the name ‘Fjord’n Senter’, which, as well as containing various shops, housed several council department offices. A board informed me that the Health and Social Security Dept, Fusa Police Station and the Church Office could be found on the first floor of the mall.

  I was there during the stipulated working hours, and Per Lillegate looked as if he was happy to have a break from staring dismally at his computer screen. His appearance suggested he was the type to hur
dle any gate, big or small: He seemed youthful, athletic, ready for a triathlon. The hair around his ears was close-shaven, and the top of his head was shiny and polished, perhaps to reduce any wind resistance.

  I said my name, but not my profession, and enquired if he had officiated at the funeral of Knut Kaspersen before the weekend.

  ‘Yes. How can I help you?’

  ‘Well, I was just wondering if you could give me any further details.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘Well…’ I crossed my fingers – it seemed somehow appropriate. ‘I’m a private investigator, and a case has happened to lead me here. My investigation, in fact, concerns his neighbours, but there were business links a few years earlier, and I understand the neighbours came back from Spain for the funeral.’

  He inclined his head. ‘Yes, that’s correct. There weren’t many people present, I’m afraid. A few old acquaintances from the village, but Kaspersen had been a bit of a loner, and there was no-one from his family to say a few words, so it was actually fru Nedstrand I spoke to for some guidance for my commemoration speech. I assume that’s what you’re referring to.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘His death was a tragic accident, by the way.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘You didn’t hear? It was in the newspapers. He drowned when he fell off his boat while fishing; with the temperature of the fjord now, the fall was fatal. But it took them a day to find him, with the aid of frogmen. He wasn’t far from his fish farm.’

  ‘I see. Who’ll take it over now?’

  ‘Well, you tell me. I think the closest relative is a nephew, Svein Olav, who runs some kind of business up in the old, disused building.’

  It was beginning to dawn on me what he was talking about. ‘Some kind of business?’

  ‘Yes, something to do with computers.’ He cast a desperate glance at his screen. ‘Not my métier, as they say in nynorsk.’

  ‘Nor mine,’ I said in complete sympathy.

  ‘But there was nothing suspicious about the accident, I’ve been told.’

  ‘No? What about … Did she give you any guidance for your speech?’

  ‘Fru Nedstrand? Nothing much. I had the impression her late husband and Kaspersen had more to do with each other.’ He gazed into the middle distance. ‘That was a personal tragedy as well.’

  ‘You mean … Oliver Nedstrand?’

  ‘Yes, he took his own life.’ His eyes met mine. ‘Experiences like that leave deep scars, Veum. Finding your husband hanging from a tree behind the house.’

  ‘But that was … five years ago, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but you never quite get over something of this nature. I can vouch for that, as a priest. It’s not the first suicide I’ve experienced and it probably won’t be the last.’

  ‘Now at least they’ll be laid in consecrated ground,’ I commented.

  He sighed. ‘Yes, thank God. We’re not so fundamentalist any more.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it sounds pretty dramatic – two deaths in such close succession.’

  ‘Well. There are not a lot of neighbours to choose from around here, and one is a personal tragedy, the other an unusual accident, so…’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t quite know what you wanted to hear, but have I been of any help?’

  ‘At least you’ve given me something to chew on,’ I said.

  Before I left Eikelandsosen I treated myself to a cup of coffee and two halves of a roll topped with brown cheese at the café in the mall. The only other customers were a handful of elderly gents sitting at a corner table and chatting, as far as I could hear, about this, that and ice jigging on Lake Skogseid.

  Yes, he had definitely given me something to chew on, good old Per Lillegate. It struck me that Sturle Heimark was not the only person I should investigate; if for no other reason than to have something else to occupy my mind than thoughts about Karin and how much I missed her.

  I drove along the still-narrow, bendy road between Eikelandsosen and Tysse until the roads became more driver-friendly; the last stretch through Åsane was like a motorway. Back home in Skansen, I parked the car in Øvre Blekevei, walked down to Telthussmuget, poured myself a glass of aquavit and found enough bacon, eggs and chives for an edible omelette, which I prepared as I worked my way down the glass. After eating at the kitchen table I refilled my glass, went into the sitting room and booted up the computer.

  10

  In a couple of online newspapers I found some articles about the death in Fusa Fjord the previous week, although I didn’t glean any more than Per Lillegate had told me. A sixty-five-year-old man, who hadn’t been seen since Friday evening, had been reported missing on Monday and was found drowned by the Venjanes headland on Tuesday morning. There was nothing to suggest there was anything suspicious about the death.

  Sitting at my computer, I searched for the names I had jotted down on my notepad. Svein Olav Kaspersen, the nephew, appeared in an article in a local paper under the headline ‘Local Entrepreneurs Invest in Fusa’. There was a photo accompanying the article, taken in front of the old Nedstrand Fishing Equipment building. I recognised Svein as the silent one of the two friends I had bumped into. Beside him stood the second one, named as Hjalmar Hope. Kaspersen wore a serious expression for the photographer, Hope the same taut smile he had shown earlier in the day. They said they were offering quick, efficient computer expertise with a special emphasis on business clients, but they were also equipped to take care of any private clients who might need their services.

  Then I searched for ‘Knut Kaspersen’ and ‘fish farming’, but found nothing except the address: 5641 Fusa.

  A search for Sturle Heimark produced some results from a fitness run he had taken part in; otherwise nothing. There were no hits for Nora Nedstrand, apart from on the tax list published annually in Norway, showing everyone’s earnings. Hers were nothing special. No fortune, a modest income.

  I tried a search for Hjalmar Hope, and there were several hits, most connected with computer news, none of them very interesting; but he had been associated with various firms – possibly the same one that had changed its name, or else different ones; it was hard to tell from what I found online. A couple of names of colleagues ran through some of the articles, and I took note of them as well, just in case, although I had no idea what use they would be for the job I was doing. I did confirm, however, that my innate curiosity was re-awakened, which I took as a sign of health and therefore did not resist.

  After this I tried to concentrate on Sturle Heimark. One thing was certain. He didn’t like visits, at least not from a private investigator of his acquaintance.

  The simplest option was to ring someone who knew him from his time in the police. The most accessible officer on these occasions was Atle Helleve. He didn’t exactly sound elated when I gave him a bell at half past eight in the evening, but both he and Hamre had treated me with kid gloves after the events of eighteen months ago, so he listened to what I had to say and seemed to take my question seriously enough.

  ‘You know I can’t say much about former colleagues, Varg.’

  ‘Of course. I don’t expect any more than a general impression. Was he reliable? Someone who stretched the bounds of legality in his area? Corrupt?’ I could hear as I said this that the last question was off limits, blamed the aquavit and hastened to add: ‘I know you can’t answer the third question.’

  ‘Correct.’ He didn’t sound particularly pleased to have to say anything at all. ‘Can’t say much about the second, either. I hardly knew him. He was mostly a traffic cop, and for a while was in uniform, whereas my bread and butter has been … well, you know.’

  ‘But did you like him?’

  ‘I didn’t have any feelings about him. I didn’t know him well enough for that. The only thing I can add is actually positive. Compared with many others of the same age group he was a computer whiz, so good that he held several courses for police colleagues.’

  ‘I see.’

 
; ‘And what is it that makes you so interested in him of all people, may I ask?’

  ‘There was a death in Fusa Fjord at the beginning of last week.’

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘A neighbour of this former colleague of yours. He drowned.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well.’ This was my problem. I shouldn’t ring someone like Helleve without being absolutely clear in my mind. ‘I was wondering if you’d heard anything about it.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘No, I can’t say I have, Varg. If it happened in Fusa the local police station would’ve investigated it, given due cause. I haven’t heard anything at all about it. Can we knock this one on the head and say goodnight?’

  ‘Yes, we can,’ I mumbled. ‘Goodnight,’ I said, but he had already put the phone down.

  I walked back into the sitting room and filled a kitchen tumbler full for the third time that evening. The bottle never rested until it was empty and then out came another, if I had one. Which I did, for the next day or two, but the future prospects were far from rosy, in many senses. I needed a more regular income than just the advance from Nils Åkre, and if I managed that I would have to keep my head above aquavit for a few more days before I dived down behind the colourful label again. Outside, the February rain beat against the window panes, and the night couldn’t get much darker.

  11

  When I returned to Fusa two days later, the fjord lay still and pale – a reflection of the cloud cover above us, so high that there wouldn’t be any rain for the next few hours, at least.

  This time I drove past the old Fishing Equipment building and Nora Nedstrand’s house, but slowly enough to confirm there was no sign of life anywhere. A couple of hundred metres further on there was what looked like a logging track into the forest. I turned in and parked the car by an old oak tree, well to the side so that a tractor would be able to get past.

  I locked the car and followed the edge of the road back. Before reaching the end I slipped between the trees to try and get the best possible view of the house without being seen myself. The garage door was open this time as well, but the car was gone.