Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  I walked back to the road, turned in by the post box, headed for the door and rang the bell. No-one answered. I walked backwards and looked up at the house front. Not a sign of life.

  From where I was standing I could see the roof of the old timber building belonging to Nedstrand Fishing Equipment between the trees. There was a narrow, almost overgrown shortcut between the two properties, perhaps used by Oliver Nedstrand when he was alive and working there.

  I walked in his footsteps. There was no car parked outside here either, no lights shone through the high windows, and the front door was closed and locked. Clear signs warned passers-by that the building had security alarms and closed-circuit TV. I looked up and nodded to myself. High under the ridge of the roof there was a camera, pointing at where I was standing, on the front doorstep. I waved pleasantly at it, like a film star on their way up the red carpet for an award, but my time was over, no flash lamps went off and no-one applauded.

  I walked around the building and saw there was CCTV at the back too. Of more interest was the path leading out. Between the trees I could make out a small house overlooking the fjord. I walked towards it.

  It was relatively well kept, older – probably dating back to before the war – and painted in the same white as the timber building by the road. There were curtains in the windows, and at the back I saw a little red shack with a padlock. A green post box hung on the door and I read the name on it: K. Kaspersen. But the deceased wasn’t at home.

  I strolled past the house. The path led down to the sea, where I saw the pens of the fish farm. The surface of the water seethed. There was still an abundance of life in the farm, whoever was taking care of the feeding.

  Up by the road a car door slammed. I turned to see who it was. An old boy in worn, blue overalls and a grey, woolly hat was shuffling down towards Kaspersen’s house. He quickly realised he had a visitor, stopped in front of me and waited for me to say something.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Veum. I was wondering who took care of the feeding now that Kaspersen’s dead.’

  ‘Mm, that’s me,’ he answered. ‘Time being.’ He saluted with two fingers to his hat. His face was broad and good-natured, his skin marked by a lot of outdoor life. At the corners of his mouth ran a thin line of chewing-tobacco juice. ‘Rasmus Lillegate.’

  ‘Relative of the priest?’

  He nodded. ‘Yup, vaguely.’

  ‘And you knew Kaspersen well, did you?’

  ‘Nah. We went to school together and lived in the same village for more than sixty years. But know him? I doubt anyone could say they knew Knut.’

  ‘No, I understood from Per, when I spoke to him a couple of days ago, that he was a bit of a loner.’

  ‘We-ell. He wasn’t your village idiot, if that’s what you think. He was always well dressed and he shaved every single morning. If you met him in the shop he was spotless, not a hair out of place. But he kept himself to himself, or hung out with Oliver, while he was alive. After he passed on, life was probably a bit empty for him. It wasn’t the same for that Nora, and when she got herself a new friend afterwards … Tragic what happened to him, though.’

  ‘And now you feed the fish?’

  ‘Yup, for as long as it lasts. But it seems like Svein Olav, his nephew, is going to take over.’

  ‘Kaspersen drowned, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Rasmus Lillegate gazed across the fjord, his face as expressionless as before. ‘It was hard to understand. Would never have thought it could happen to such an experienced ol’ bird.’

  ‘Really?’

  I waited for him to say some more, but all that came, after a long pause for thought, was: ‘That’s how it can go though. I dunno.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Well, nice to chew the fat. Best be gettin’ down to the fish.’ Again he saluted before trudging off down to the sea and spitting a long, brown arc of tobacco juice into the heather.

  I stood watching him as he walked. He hadn’t said much, but I was left with the clear impression that he wasn’t at all convinced that Knut Kaspersen’s death was an accident, either.

  Then I turned around and walked back to the main road. As I passed the timber building, the big blue van drove in. Svein Olav Kaspersen, alone today, had hardly switched off the ignition before he jumped out and ran towards me.

  ‘What the b-b-bloody hell are you doing here?’ he stammered, gasping for air, like a freshwater trout coming up for insects. He had shaved since the last time we met, but with a shaky hand, judging by all the cuts.

  ‘What do you know about your uncle’s death?’ I asked, following the old adage that attack is the best form of defence.

  ‘Eh?’ he said, open-mouthed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Such a seasoned boatman falling overboard and drowning – without any help?’

  ‘Don’t you dare start on me!’ He came closer, brandishing his fists, but he wasn’t violent, not yet. ‘You’d be better off asking what that guy over there was doing in Norway when Uncle drowned! He was supposed to be in Spain!’ He was pointing towards the neighbour’s house.

  ‘Sturle Heimark? Was he here that day … and then he went back?’

  ‘You’d better ask him, I said!’

  ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘I saw him; yes, I did.’

  ‘And why didn’t you report it? To the local police, for example?’

  ‘I don’t talk to cops!’

  ‘But you’re the one who stands to inherit, aren’t you? From your uncle.’

  He didn’t answer, just glared at me.

  Behind his back I saw Nora Nedstrand’s Mitsubishi pass and turn into the house. From the passenger seat she looked nervously in my direction.

  ‘I’ll do what you said, Svein Olav. I’ll ask him face to face.’

  ‘Doubt you’ll get an answer,’ he muttered by way of a conclusion, lowered his fists, turned around and walked towards the front door, searching his pockets for the keys.

  ‘Worth a try though,’ I mumbled, and set off.

  12

  Nora Nedstrand and Sturle Heimark were lifting heavy shopping bags from the car as I turned into the gravel drive up to her house. When he spotted me, Heimark put down the bags he was holding so suddenly there was an angry clink.

  ‘Careful,’ I said. ‘Something might break.’

  He rushed towards me while she stayed by the car, watching. ‘Yes, you, for example,’ he barked. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear two days ago?’

  I applied the same approach as I had with Svein Olav Kaspersen. ‘And what were you doing here the day Knut Kaspersen died?’

  That stopped him in his tracks. His eyes narrowed, as on the previous occasion. ‘Here? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Don’t try and talk your way out of it. You were seen.’

  ‘Seen? Who by?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘In which case they’re lying!’

  ‘I would assume the opposite would be documented. Return flight from Spain over a day or so? It must be registered. And what was the point of the visit? Flowers needed watering, did they?’

  Behind him I could see Nora Nedstrand had taken in what I said. Now she moved closer, with a tense expression on her face. She was wearing an Easter-yellow waterproof that went well with her red hair.

  ‘What’s he talking about, Sturle?’

  He half turned to her. ‘Some bloody rubbish. He claims I was here the day Kaspersen died.’

  She paled visibly. ‘But that’s … that’s the weekend you were in Madrid, at the football match.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He looked back at me. ‘Real Madrid beat Malaga 1–0.’

  ‘And who scored?’

  ‘Erm … not one of the stars. It was … Zarate.’

  ‘You could’ve learned that off by heart, Heimark. As a policeman, you know all about alibis. Have you got the ticket too, perhaps?’

  ‘Probably. In a pocket, in Spain.’

  ‘Shame you didn’
t think to bring it with you in case someone asked.’

  ‘And who would that someone be?’

  I shrugged. ‘The police maybe.’

  ‘Sturle!’ Her voice was sharper now. ‘He’s only bluffing.’

  Again he half turned to her, but without making eye contact. ‘Of course he’s bluffing! What would I travel back here for, just for one day?’

  I took a step to the side and looked at her instead. ‘Can you answer that? Was there any motive for him to wish Knut Kaspersen dead?’

  Her mouth opened, closed and opened again. ‘Knut and I, we…’

  ‘Yes?’

  This time he turned round completely. In a threatening voice he said, ‘Nora!’

  Her eyes flitted between me and him. In the end, they fixed themselves on me. ‘Knut and I knew each other from way back…’

  Heimark half turned to me again, hunched his shoulders and thrust out his arms. ‘Neighbours, right? What the hell do you hope to achieve with this, Veum?’

  I glanced at him then faced her again. ‘How way back?’

  ‘We grew up here. He was a few years older than me, but … And he always kept himself to himself.’ Her tongue seemed to be loosening now. ‘There was something very special about Knut. He always looked good, well turned out, and he read … poems. Olav H. Hauge and suchlike.’

  Heimark snorted.

  I quickly read between the lines. ‘You were fascinated by him, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes…’

  ‘But it was Oliver you married?’

  ‘Yes, he was kind of more direct, he took what he wanted, if I can put it like that. When I fell pregnant it was clear … it would be him and me.’

  ‘I can’t understand how you can blather on about all this, Nora, in front of this … halfwit!’

  I ignored him. ‘But you retained your warm feelings for Knut?’

  ‘Yes, I … did.’ Her eyes were shiny, and she tossed her head, swinging her red hair.

  I couldn’t help but be reminded of what Per Lillegate had told me: that Oliver Nedstrand had taken his own life. Did a motive for suicide lie here? I wasn’t sure how far I could go, especially with Heimark present. ‘In a sense, if these feelings were still the same, there’s a conceivable motive here.’

  ‘A motive for … what?’

  ‘What happened to your husband five years ago?’ I waited for a reaction and read her face: a mixture of nervousness, fear and a guilty conscience. ‘And what happened just recently, to Knut Kaspersen.’

  She looked at me in astonishment. ‘Knut? Oh, no, no, no!’

  ‘No?’

  ‘They had diminished over the years.’

  ‘Your feelings?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they hadn’t disappeared?’

  ‘No.’ She sent Heimark a despairing glance. ‘Not completely.’

  He drew himself up to his full height, but I noticed he was a lot less overbearing than he had been at the beginning of this conversation. ‘Well, I don’t see that this has anything to do with you, Veum. We’re not doing much more than making the most outrageous allegations, that’s all. I’d strongly advise you not to take them any further. If you do, you might have reason to regret your actions.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘I’m warning you. Don’t do anything unless you’re a hundred-percent certain what the consequences will be. If you understand what I mean.’

  ‘Not completely, but I’ll make a mental note of it, for the time being.’

  ‘So this is goodbye.’ He impatiently waved me on to the gate. ‘Otherwise we’ll be contacting the police and making a complaint about you, for breach of the peace.’

  I smirked. ‘I can see you feel confident you have everything under control, Heimark. People have made that mistake before. We’ll talk again, you can be sure, in a day or three.’

  ‘Not by choice.’

  ‘Nor for me. Perhaps by lack of choice.’

  We stood like that for a few more seconds. Nora Nedstrand wiped her eyes, then walked back to the car and the plastic bags waiting for her. Sturle Heimark sent me a final warning glare and followed suit. I stood like an abandoned scarecrow until they had carried all their shopping into the house and I was left alone with difficult questions of my own: where Sturle Heimark had been ten days ago, and who had scored for Real Madrid on the Friday Knut Kaspersen drowned in Fusa Fjord.

  13

  Arriving at Fjord’n Senter for the second time in a couple of days, I almost felt at home there. I noticed the same group of old boys sitting at the corner table in the café and got a friendly nod from the woman behind the counter, who had freshly made sveler, Norwegian pancakes, on a dish in front of her. Tempting – both her and the pancakes.

  I took the stairs up to the first floor and found my way to the police office, next door to Per Lillegate. The priest and the police weren’t far apart here if you had a complaint.

  Behind a counter and a glass partition sat a young woman tapping away on a keyboard. She looked up as I entered, got to her feet and opened a hatch in the partition. I introduced myself and asked if the Chief was in.

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s at a meeting in Bergen today. But you can talk to one of the officers.’

  She opened the door beside the counter and let me through. In one of the offices with a view of the car park sat a uniformed officer with curly fair hair, youthful pimples on his forehead and the appearance of someone who had just left police college. When I entered the room he put aside the folded newspaper he had in front of him, but not quickly enough; I just caught sight of the crossword he was working on. That seemed to be in line with the crime rate in Fusa on a Thursday in February. It was probably busier at the weekend, when there was a dance at the local community centre and people travelled in from all the surrounding villages.

  We made our introductions. His name was Petter Larsen, and when he spoke it transpired that he was an Østlander, from the east.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can help you with?’

  I wasn’t convinced he could, but presented the case as well as I was able. I told him about the ostensibly accidental drowning in Fusa Fjord, and he nodded in recognition. When I enquired whether they had investigated the case he replied that they hadn’t, beyond the routine procedures. He had himself spoken to the Fire Service’s team of divers who had found the deceased, and there had been no suggestion of anything suspicious about the death.

  ‘So you left it at that?’

  ‘Well, the case wasn’t deemed a priority,’ he mumbled, stealing a glance at the unfinished crossword.

  ‘And you didn’t talk to any of the neighbours?’

  ‘Not beyond routine procedures,’ he repeated like a kind of mantra.

  ‘Who reported him missing?’

  He looked at me blankly. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a minute while I find out.’ He swivelled the chair and roused his computer from its slumbers.

  He scrolled down the screen, tapped a few keys and seemed a great deal more confident when he spoke. ‘Here we are. It was one of the neighbours, it appears. Rasmus Lillegate. He hadn’t had any contact with the deceased – hadn’t seen him for several days – so went to his house and became worried when he saw his boat wasn’t moored. Then he got in touch with us.’

  ‘And you organised a search?’

  ‘Yes, together with Search and Rescue and eventually the Fire Service in Bergen.’

  ‘When he was found were there no signs of … no external signs of violence? Had he been held underwater or anything like that?’

  He had started to become curious now. ‘No, nothing. But the water was cold. You don’t survive for long in such temperatures if you can’t get ashore or back into the boat.’

  ‘And if someone shoved him overboard…?’

  He had turned round from the computer now. ‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’

  ‘In my opinion, you should do at least two things…�
�

  ‘Yes?’

  I nodded to the notepad he had on the side of the desk. ‘Perhaps you could take notes?’

  He nodded, moved the pad and grabbed the biro he had been using to solve the crossword.

  ‘There are at least two people you should talk to. One is Kaspersen’s nephew, Svein Olav Kaspersen. He has a business near his uncle’s and is, from what I’ve been told, the sole heir.’

  He nodded and scribbled.

  ‘The other is a neighbour, Sturle Heimark. I suspect there may have been some entanglement between him and Kaspersen, without wishing to go into too much detail. But let’s say it’s about a woman: Heimark’s partner, Nora Nedstrand.’

  He was taking enthusiastic notes now.

  ‘If I were you I’d examine Kaspersen’s boat for fingerprints, among other things. It’s not so unlikely that you’ll find the nephew’s. But if you find Heimark’s I would be suspicious. Then I think I’d bring him in for a little chat.’

  He finished off his notes. Then looked up at me. ‘Fine. I’ll discuss this with the senior officer when he’s back.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Well.’ His eyes roamed around. ‘Then it’s up to him, of course, to make a decision.’

  I took out my business card. ‘He can find me here, if he wishes to take the case further.’

  He held it in his hand, read it and looked up again. ‘Private investigator?’

  I smiled wryly. ‘Wouldn’t recommend it if you were thinking along those lines. You’re better off where you are, becoming a crossword expert.’

  He blushed like a teenage girl on her first date. Then he answered curtly: ‘As I said, I’ll bring this to the attention of the senior officer.’ Without further ado he turned to his computer and pretended to be busy with something or other.

  I leaned over his desk, peered down at the crossword and said: ‘Doctrine? Could be thesis.’

  As he didn’t answer I wished him a pleasant day and the same to the young woman at reception. Downstairs in the café I allowed myself to be tempted and ordered a cup of coffee, accompanied by two of the fresh pancakes with raspberry jam and a sweet smile from the woman behind the counter. Both were so warming that I walked to the car park in a much better mood and drove back home to Bergen in an elated frame of mind. Sometimes that was all it took.