Wolves in the Dark

by Gunnar Staalesen

  The Securitas guard watched me long after I had left the building, but no-one was waiting for me outside, and the car was where I had left it, without even a ticket under a windscreen wiper. No-one had anything to tell me, next to nothing to sell.

  I sat in the car more confused than at any point so far. I had never experienced a case with so many loose threads. There were too many leads to follow and they went in every conceivable direction, so far with only one common denominator that I could see: Hjalmar Hope.

  He had been involved in what happened in Fusa. He was connected with Sturle Heimark. He had worked for Bruno Karsten and on his own shady activities. He had been a colleague of Åsne Clausen’s. At her workplace one of the faces from the repugnant child-porn photos had appeared on her colleague Ruth Olsen’s desk. In the same building Ole Skarnes had an office, a man Maria Magdalena – to use her other name – had called ‘the devil incarnate’, and who, in addition, had been the accountant for Åsne’s husband, Nicolai, and the brother-in-law of her father, Kåre Kronstad. The connections were chaotic and without any discernible pattern, and of all these people, who the hell – if anyone – would have been interested in planting all the filth on my hard drives in November, almost one year before?

  The most dangerous lead of them all was the one that led to Bruno Karsten. The way there passed through Bjørn Hårkløv, also known as Bønni. That was where I should go now. But there was another name that had cropped up so frequently perhaps it was time to pay him a visit as well. A call to the shipping company produced the information that Kåre Kronstad was working from home today. With the help of directory enquiries I found out where that was. It turned out to be in the direction I was going anyway. There was no reason to hesitate. I drove there straight from Sandsli.

  48

  Kåre Kronstad lived in one of the big detached houses set back from the road between Paradis and Hop, where life would have been better before the new motorway was built alongside Lake Nordås and an invisible wall of dust and exhaust fumes rose between them and the water.

  I parked the car by the hedge surrounding the property and walked over to the large wrought-iron gate. Working from home was obviously a relative concept, but Kåre Kronstad had probably reached an age now when he could allow himself a day off occasionally while others ruled the empire for him. At any rate he was easily recognisable as he raked the leaves on the extensive lawn leading up to the elegant house built in brick and designed by a 1920s architect who knew his stuff. When I opened the gate and stepped inside he straightened up and, under an apple tree with the rake in his hand, waited for me to approach.

  Kåre Kronstad was someone most people in Bergen knew, if nothing else through articles in the newspapers. He came from one of the town’s best families and had inherited a considerable fortune from his parents when they died in a car accident in the late 1950s. He established the shipping line around 1960 and, although in the early years he stood in the shadow of Bergen’s biggest line, he had piloted his ships safely through both calm and stormy weather, performed sensible manoeuvres and emerged a winner in most of his ventures. He was a small, stocky bundle of energy, dark-haired in boyhood photos, now with quite a thick silvery mane, combed back from his high, sun-tanned forehead. His eyes were blue and sharp from where he was watching me, dressed in grey working clothes with a lightweight white shirt flapping outside his trousers.

  Once there, I said who I was, what I did and proffered a hand.

  He viewed it sceptically as though not sure what to do with it. But then he decided and gave me a fleeting but firm handshake. ‘Kåre Kronstad,’ he said, and I nodded.

  When he continued it transpired he was old-school: ‘And what may I do for you, sir?’ It was many years since anyone had addressed me so formally, but then I don’t usually move in those circles. For all I knew, it still came naturally to Kåre Kronstad.

  ‘This is about … your daughter’s death, nearly two years ago.’

  He gave me a fierce look, but his face remained impassive. ‘In what connection, might I ask?’

  ‘Some doubt has arisen surrounding the cause of death.’

  He straightened up further, which added even more gravitas to his words. It wasn’t difficult to see that Kåre Kronstad was a man who was used to being listened to and he didn’t often meet opposition. From the end of a boardroom table he had total control down both flanks, and it would take great courage to reject anything he proposed. ‘Cause of death?’ he repeated in a tone suggesting he didn’t understand what I was saying.

  ‘Yes, whether it really was suicide or whether … she was the victim of a crime.’

  For a few seconds he scrutinised my face in a way I had hardly ever experienced. What he could see there I had no idea, but he nodded towards the house and said: ‘Come with me and we’ll discuss this there.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  With determined step he guided me to the well-maintained building, parts of which were covered with ivy, not that it was necessary to hide any of the magnificent edifice. The large, varnished front door made of a dark, reddish-brown wood was unlocked. He opened it and led me through a sombre hallway with brown panelled walls and dark floor-tiles to a living room with huge paintings on the walls, well-nourished green plants, Persian carpets on the floor and panoramic windows facing Lake Nordås. Outside, the cloud cover was opening to reveal a picture of grey and blue, and some scattered rays of sun angling down onto the choppy waters. From there he headed through a side door to a room where the smell of several generations of cigar-smokers permeated the walls of what he termed with impeccable accuracy ‘the smoking room’.

  He showed me to a small coffee table with well-worn though also well-maintained leather furniture, went to a corner cabinet and half turned in my direction. ‘Can I offer you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m driving.’

  ‘A glass of soda water maybe?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  He mixed soda water with whisky for himself, put the glasses on a small tray and came back to me, put it down on the coffee table, placed some black mats under the glasses, but refrained from tasting his drink until a suitable time had passed. I took a quick swig, so quick that the carbon dioxide went up my nose and made me sneeze.

  ‘Your good health,’ Kåre Kronstad said. Then he leaned back in his chair, raised his hands, steepled his fingers and looked directly at me again. ‘Now I’d like to hear what’s on your mind, herr Veum.’

  ‘Yes … The thing is … Well, about two years ago I was commissioned to do a job by your son-in-law, Nicolai Clausen.’ As he didn’t make any comment I continued: ‘He wanted me to follow your daughter because he suspected she was having … erm … an affair.’ Still no perceptible response. ‘But your daughter happened to spot me, and I was forced to relinquish the job. After a few days she visited me in my office and placed solid evidence before me proving the contrary. By which I mean … proof that her husband had been out with other women, predominantly in London, and at least in one case in a blatantly intimate manner.’

  ‘This I already know,’ he said, ice-cold. ‘Continue.’

  I could feel my back getting wet. Kåre Kronstad had natural authority, which made him an exacting conversational partner if you weren’t clear-headed and concise enough. ‘You may imagine my horror when, a month later, I read news of her death in the newspaper.’

  ‘You were not alone.’

  ‘No.’ After a short pause I carried on: ‘Now, in connection with another case I’m … well … investigating, I’ve had to contact your son-in-law and grandchild, Severin. My understanding is that it was Severin who found her when he came home from school and that he, not being able to get in touch with his father, rang you for help.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘But when you arrived your daughter had already been lifted down.’

  ‘Yes. Severin had, naturally enough, done what he could to save her. He had laid her on the floor, but he soon real
ised – as I did too when I saw her – that all hope was gone. Åsne was dead. There was nothing more we could do.’ With a deep sigh he showed for the first time during the conversation a vestige of emotion.

  ‘And it was you who took care of what happened later?’

  ‘Yes, I made the necessary arrangements. I rang our GP, Dr Hermansen, and he came at once. But he, too, was unable to do much more than confirm it was too late.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘What happened then?’ he repeated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean … did everyone take it for granted that it was suicide? Did no-one contact the police?’

  Once again he scrutinised my face. Again it was as though he were weighing up where I stood and what I was actually after. Then, once again, he took a decision. ‘Listen to me, Veum.’

  I nodded to indicate I was all ears.

  ‘My wife, Ingrid, took her own life when Åsne was very small.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t know.’

  ‘A tragedy, of course. And … If you only knew how difficult it was, erm, in our circles. Not only was I alone with a small girl, who hadn’t started school yet, but I had to live with … people talking, their looks … well, I’m sure you can imagine. The press was reserved and discreet in those times, although I doubt they would be now, and I couldn’t bear the thought of yet another scandal in the family. Accordingly I did whatever I could for the whole affair to be handled with maximum discretion. Dr Hermansen wrote the death certificate and signed it. I rang a connection I had in the police – high up, I may say – and we quickly agreed that this was a personal tragedy and not the basis of a police investigation.’

  ‘And that’s where it finished?’

  ‘That’s where it finished.’

  ‘And what do you personally believe? Did you have a suspicion there may be more to it?’

  Again I noted a hint of temperament in him. He exclaimed: ‘You mean she might … might not have done it herself?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared into the distance. ‘As her mother had chosen that route so many years ago I assumed Åsne had inherited her propensity and she was placed in a situation where the pressures she was exposed to led to her doing what she did.’

  ‘How close were you to your daughter, herr Kronstad?’

  ‘We were respectful. As I was left alone with her so early in life we had to have help with many practical matters, so she grew up with nannies and others who gave us some assistance while I … well, I had my own business to see to. But I never remarried. There was never another Ingrid. I have stayed true and concentrated one hundred percent on business.’

  ‘Too much perhaps?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well … my impression, the little confrontation with Åsne, told me … She definitely wasn’t the suicidal type in my eyes.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. So let me ask you another question. How is your relationship with your son-in-law, herr Kronstad?’

  His face visibly hardened. ‘At the moment as good as non-existent. My blaming him for what Åsne … for what happened to Åsne … wasn’t ungrounded.’

  ‘Did she tell you what she’d discovered?’

  ‘No, no. Not a word. She was probably too proud. But after her death I called Nicolai over for a conversation. Incidentally, he was severely affected by the situation. Crushed and incapable of maintaining his position in the company, it’s worth mentioning. I pressed him, and after some insistence on my part he was forced to admit what he had done. Then there was no alternative. Within a short time I had bought him out, taken control and contacted my solicitor, so now the primary heir is Severin and no-one else.’

  ‘Right.’ I hesitated. ‘When I spoke to your son-in-law yesterday, he claimed that … he said that Åsne had admitted she had someone else. But he didn’t know who it was.’

  He eyed me. ‘I see. And?’

  ‘Let me put the question this way: Is it conceivable that Nicolai Clausen might have taken Åsne’s life?’

  ‘With what he had on his conscience? I very much doubt he was capable of it.’

  ‘Then there’s the man whose identity we don’t know. The man she was having an affair with.’

  ‘Says Nicolai!’ he interjected.

  ‘Yes, says Nicolai, but nevertheless. There are other indications that suggest that may have been how it was. But as long as we’re unable to identify this person we can’t count on anything being one hundred percent certain. What if this man had a wife? Could jealousy be a possible motive in the case?’

  ‘Motive … for murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stared at me. Then he leaned forwards a fraction in the big leather chair. ‘Let me be clear, herr Veum. If in the course of your enquiries you come across anything at all that may inform us of the truth of what happened to Åsne on that unfortunate day in November 2000 and you ensure the guilty party appears in court, I’ll pay whatever you demand as a fee. You have my word on that!’

  ‘Thank you very much. But I can’t guarantee anything. For the moment, this is only a hypothesis, and barely that.’

  ‘I understand. But, as I said, you have my word.’

  I had Kåre Kronstad’s word. In Bergen you can’t sit prettier than that. But if I was to have any hope of earning some money the prerequisite was that I had a result.

  And it was still a long way off.

  At length I came to the second matter that had been on my mind since my trip to Sandsli. ‘Earlier today I dropped by your ex-brother-in-law, herr Kronstad.’

  His expression hardened. ‘My ex-brother-in-law? Are you referring to Ole Skarnes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What the hell have you got to do with him?’

  ‘My understanding is that it’s over between your sister and him.’

  ‘You can bet your bottom dollar it is. The swine got what he deserved. Sigrid, my sister, suffers from severe arthritis and naturally she’s limited in what she can do in life. We have to accept that a man has his needs, but to lay yourself open in the way that Ole did, there is no excuse for that. Not in our circles. I can assure you of that. My sister will never be the same again and she did the only thing she could when she showed him the door. I have supported her to the hilt and so have all our friends. The man is persona non grata among everyone with a voice in this town.’

  ‘A fate worse than death, in other words?’

  He pursed his lips without saying any more on the matter. We drained our glasses, and after a few final remarks he accompanied me back to the steps outside. Before I had passed through the wrought-iron gate he had resumed his raking, as resolute in his physical labours as in the whole of his manner. You don’t get in Kåre Kronstad’s way whether you are an autumn leaf on the grass, a brother-in-law on the razzle or a passing private investigator.

  49

  The next name on my list was Bjørn Hårkløv. The address I had for him was in Fyllingsdalen. It was a low block of flats in Dag Hammarskjølds vei. I drove into the car park between the houses and found a bay marked ‘Guests’. I got out and walked over to the block where he lived. By the doorbell to one of the flats there was no name. Judging by the layout it had to be on the second floor, on the right. I took a few steps back and peered up. There was a light on in what could have been the kitchen or bedroom; it was hard to tell as a pale blind was drawn to avert prying eyes.

  I got back in the car, unsure what to do. Inexorably, time was pressing, like an impatient customer in the annual sales queue as the door opens. Whenever I passed a police car I instinctively ducked as far down behind the wheel as I could and afterwards pulled my cap even further over my forehead. With every minute that passed I was getting closer and closer to the time when I could avoid them no longer and would be hauled in to face the higher authorities. Before then I needed better cards in my hand than the incomplete pile of Tarot cards I felt I had now, in which the devil was playing his game as he
felt fit, and death was the surest winner.

  Letting time take care of itself, I took out my phone and rang Sigurd Svendsbø.

  He seemed breathless when he answered, and in the background I could hear the sound of traffic. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Siggen? Veum here.’

  ‘Oh, hi. I’m sorry but I haven’t found out any more about the two people you mentioned.’

  ‘Actually, I’ve met Ole Skarnes.’

  ‘Can you repeat that? I’m in the street and can’t hear.’

  I raised my voice. ‘I’ve met Ole Skarnes.’ I explained the link quickly. ‘But I’m still interested in anything you can find about him.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And Bjørn Hårkløv … I’m just outside the house where I’m told he lives, but whether he’s there at this time of day I…’

  I stopped in mid-speech, because at that moment someone I instantly recognised by his own robust person as Bønni came out of the front door. I sank lower in the seat and said quickly to Svendsbø: ‘He’s coming out. I’ll ring you later. Bye.’

  ‘OK, bye.’

  I pressed ‘off’ and stuffed the phone in my inside pocket as I watched Bjørn Hårkløv, dressed in a black leather jacket and dark trousers, make a beeline for the row of parked cars in the bays reserved for residents. He took out his car key, and the lights of a grey, two-door Audi blinked orange. If you didn’t have many friends, it was the perfect car. He scanned round, but didn’t stop at me, then got in and started up. On the main road, he turned left, into Bergen. After a suitable lapse of time I followed.

  It was Thursday afternoon and the traffic from Bergen to Fyllingsdalen was getting heavier. In our lane through the tunnel the flow was lighter, but halfway up Puddefjord Bridge it slowed, so much so that I had time to reflect. What if the traffic stopped as it often did at this time? What if an officer in a patrol car saw me, or Hårkløv recognised me in his rear-view mirror? Did I have any escape options other than on foot or head first into the fjord? There was nothing else I could do but stay on his tail and hope for the best.