The Consorts of Death Page 18

  The inner part of Dals fjord was reminiscent of the Jølster district, even though the mountains were closer to the sea here, with the high fell-like formations that had given the area the name Fjaler from time immemorial. The sun swept low over the mountain ridges and hit the other side of the fjord tributary where the autumn colours frolicked wantonly on the foliage. The road was narrow and relatively well maintained. When I met oncoming traffic I had to pull into a passing place or drive onto the verge to get by.

  Not without a touch of eager, child-like anticipation, I drove westwards. Even further to the west, where the fjord opened into the sea, my father had been born and grew up on a tiny farm called Veum, some way outside Hellevik, before he moved into town and looked for work in the mid 1920s. But this time I was not to drive so far.

  By Laukeland waterfall the countryside tapered in again. To the north were the towering mountains Kringla and Heileberget. Between two of the Nishamar tunnels I passed a small incineration plant, and after the last tunnel Dale suddenly appeared in the sunshine. The location was perfect. The mountains towards Eikenes and Dokka on the northern side of the fjord stood like blue silhouettes.

  I parked my car by the coach station and got out. The old community centre looked still and peaceful. A couple of drivers were standing in front of the buses smoking roll-ups. Some schoolchildren were on their way home with blue and red rucksacks on their backs. Behind a large window on the corner by the crossroads I glimpsed the faces of a few elderly people peering inquisitively in my direction. Who can that fellow be? they were probably wondering. He’s not from around here …

  I enquired my way to the post office, which was in the council building down towards the quay, and took a punt that that was where I would get the help I needed. A gentle dark-haired man gave me a sly look through the bars of the post office window when I asked whether he could tell me where Trude Tveiten lived. ‘Perhaps I can,’ he said and began thereafter to give a detailed description. The upshot was relatively straightforward. I should go back to the main road and follow it to some flats in the building beside the second petrol station I came to.

  I thanked him, went to my car and followed his instructions.

  The flats were on the first floor with a west entrance. I took the stairs and found a door with her name on it. For a moment I stood listening. I heard voices from inside; a man and a woman. Then I rang the bell, and everything went quiet.

  Nothing happened.

  I rang once more and held the doorbell this time.

  ‘Alright, alright, alright!’ came an irritable voice from inside the flat. It was the man. ‘We can hear you!’

  The door was torn open, and Terje Hammersten stood glowering at me. ‘Who are you? What the hell do you want?’ in broad vernacular.

  I repeated my familiar refrain: ‘The name’s Veum. I don’t know if you remember me?’

  He squinted at me with suspicion. He was ten years older too, and you could see it. His hair was thinner and his neck fatter. But the most visible change was the pencil-line, almost mafia-style moustache he had acquired, although it did little to improve his appearance. He was wearing a white shirt and brown trousers, both garments a bit too tight, and beneath his shirt he had a red T-shirt, visible at the neck. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and dark-blue tattoos adorned his forearms: an anchor on one, a naked Venus on a misshapen shell on the other.

  Gradually I emerged from his creaking archive of images. I saw recognition in his eyes. ‘Yeah, I remember you. Just. You’re in social services, aren’t you.’

  ‘Not any more. But I’ve met you twice before, at Mette Olsen’s place.’

  ‘Terje!’ came a shout from inside the flat. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘But in fact it was your sister, Trude, I came to talk to.’

  ‘Trude? What d’you want with her?’

  ‘To talk to her, as I said.’

  He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Someone called Veum, used to be in social services. He wants to talk to you, he says.’

  ‘Let him in then! Why are you jabbering outside?’

  Hammersten stepped reluctantly to the side and let me in. Through a small hallway I came into the flat itself, which appeared to consist of two rooms and a kitchen. Cigarette smoke hung heavily over the furniture, which was simple and standard, straight from an IKEA catalogue. The windows overlooked the main road. I saw Heile Mountain like a grey wall on the other side of the fjord.

  Trude Tveiten was a thin, bony woman, not dissimilar to Mette Olsen, just darker-haired and with a more striking facial structure: high cheekbones and a lean jaw. Her nose was long and narrow, her eyes wide open, blue-black. Her hair was cropped, almost boy-like. It was difficult to see anything of Silje in her. She was wearing faded jeans and a dark-blue cotton blouse. Over her shoulders she had thrown a light-grey machine-knitted jacket.

  She had got up off the reddish-brown leather sofa and stood waiting for me to enter. I went over to her, held out my hand and introduced myself. She gave me a limp handshake and looked at me with an expression of surprise. ‘What’s this about? Has it anything to do with social services?’ she said without a trace of dialect.

  ‘No, no. I have nothing to … I work freelance now, as a private investigator.’

  ‘What?!’ Terje Hammersten reacted instantly. ‘A private snoop? What the hell are you after?’

  I turned to face him again. ‘I’ve just come from Mette Olsen. Even though she didn’t appear to know, I assume that you are informed.’

  ‘Informed about what?’

  ‘About the double murder in Angedalen.’

  ‘Dunno anything about it. Dunno what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Terje!’ his sister reproved. ‘Don’t …’ She turned to me again and nodded. ‘We know. I was rung up by someone from the local police. Because of Silje.’

  ‘I could imagine.’

  ‘I had a few words with Silje, too.’

  ‘But what I’d like to know is what you’ve got to do with any of this!’ Hammersten burst out.

  I kept my attention focused on his sister. ‘I think Silje’s fine. She’s in good hands.’

  She sent me a sorrowful look. ‘Well … I hope so,’ she said softly. ‘But … can’t we sit down? Let me hear what you came to say. Terje, please get a coffee cup from the kitchen, would you …?’

  Hammersten gave a snort of contempt, but did as she said. A mug appeared on the table, and Trude Tveiten poured from a thermos jug standing on the low teak coffee table.

  I sat down in one of the chairs, she was on the sofa, Terje Hammersten on the other chair with his glare fixed on me and both hands tensed on the chair arms, ready to spring into action, should the need arise.

  ‘The incident on Tuesday … Did Silje say anything which might shed any light on the matter?’

  She lit a cigarette before answering. ‘No. I just had a few words with her. All she said was that she was … fine. Things were fine, now.’

  ‘So she didn’t say anything about the lead-up to all of this?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing about – sexual abuse?’

  ‘What! Abuse? In that case he’ll have to deal with me! I can promise you that!’ Hammersten clenched his fist and banged the table so hard Trude automatically recoiled.

  I looked at Hammersten thinking my own thoughts. To Trude I said: ‘How much contact did you have with her actually?’

  She took a long drag, and her eyes converged on the glow. ‘Not a lot. I’m allowed to visit her now and then, but … her foster parents are not very warm, and I never feel welcome there. The whole of Angedalen is like a living hell for me.’

  ‘But when you visit her, do you talk together? Does she confide in you?’

  She glared at me, with resentment. ‘What do you think? She was five years old when her father … died. Since then she’s lived in other places. First, a few years in Naustdal, then in Angedalen.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What hap
pened? What do you mean?’

  ‘Your husband died, you said.’

  ‘Yes, and I had a nervous breakdown. Total. And I hadn’t been good beforehand.’ The hand with the cigarette shook. ‘No hard stuff but … pills. And alcohol.’ Her lip twisted. ‘A bad mixture, especially with a tiny tot in the house.’

  ‘He was killed, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Why do you ask if you already know?’ she exploded.

  I concentrated on her, but from the corner of my eye I could see Hammersten, and there was more than a hint of tension when I said: ‘The case was never solved, was it.’

  Now her hands were trembling so much that she dropped her cigarette. It fell on the table and she made a determined grab for it, creating a shower of sparks over the scarred coffee table. It wasn’t the first time this had happened.

  ‘Pack it in, will you, you prick! You can see how you’re tormenting her, can’t you.’ Hammersten had half-stood up from the chair.

  I met his eyes with strained composure. ‘Perhaps you know something about this case, do you?’

  He pushed back his chair and drew himself up to his full height. I did the same, and he shrank instantly. He was shorter than me, and it was more his pent-up fury than his size that intimidated. We stood glaring at each other.

  ‘Terje! Don’t …’ Trude said from the sofa. ‘It’ll just end in trouble. I might get evicted again. I can’t take any more of this!’ With which she burst into tears.

  His eyes wandered, from me to her and back again. I could see how he was oscillating between the desire to have a go at me and to comfort his sister. With a low, intense voice, he said: ‘I had nothing to do with it. Anyone who says anything else is a liar. And the man who lies about Terje Hammersten is in the shit. Mark my words, Veum. He is in deep, deep shit!’

  I held my eyes trained on his. I fixed him there, but I tensed my abdominal muscles at the same time, ready for whatever came my way.

  ‘Everyone must’ve seen that it was just lies!’ came a sob from the sofa. ‘Ansgår and Terje were best pals! That was how we met. They had been to sea together, they knew each other from the time they were young kids. Terje could never have done anything like that. I told the cop at the time, and I told everyone who came snooping for many years afterwards.’

  ‘But is it true that Ansgår was involved in smuggling alcohol?’

  I was still staring at Hammersten, and he answered. ‘And so what if he was? Does it matter? With the policy we have on booze in this country – and especially in this bloody county – they’re asking for it! It’s fuckin’ welfare work what they’re doing, smuggling booze into Sogn and Fjordane.’

  I produced a weak smile. ‘I can imagine views are divided on that.’

  ‘Not among normal people! Is it any wonder there was big money in it?’

  ‘Klaus Libakk,’ I said abruptly.

  A remarkable change occurred in his face. The expression altered at a stroke from active aggression to squinting vigilance. ‘What about him?’

  ‘You know who he is?’

  His eyes darted away for a moment. Then they were back. ‘He’s the one who was killed, right? Him and the biddy.’

  ‘You’re well informed, I see.’

  His temper instantly flared up again. ‘And what d’you mean by that?’

  ‘Their names still haven’t been made public.’

  Behind his forehead, his brain was working at full steam.

  ‘But … but …that’s what the cop said, to Trude. Or … she was led to believe …’

  ‘We knew where Jan was living,’ the sister said calmly from the sofa.

  ‘Yes, you did know that,’ I said, still eyeing Hammersten. ‘You told Mette, didn’t you. Where did you get the information from?’

  ‘That’s got fuck all to do with you!’ he barked back.

  ‘But to go back to Klaus Libakk. He was also part of the smuggling racket, people say.’

  ‘OK! That’s what you say.’

  Trude had stopped crying. I noticed she had raised her face and was staring at me.

  ‘Could he have had anything to do with the murder in 1973, do you think?’

  He stared at me, his expression blank, bordering on fossilised. But his eyes were as rigid and smouldering as they had been the whole time. At length he said: ‘If so, I’d …’

  ‘Yes? Have done the same to him as you would’ve done to the person who abused Silje? And what about if they were one and the same? You’re accumulating a nice pile of motives here. Impressive.’

  I should have seen it coming. But for a moment I had been a bit too complacent. My attention wandered, and I only just managed to ward off the surprise blow.

  His fist swung towards my face, but in a pure reflex action I yanked up my shoulder and the punch glanced off my cheek and left ear instead. The next was more accurate. It hit me right in the chest and sent me tumbling backwards, knocking over a standard lamp; I hit the wall and slowly sank until I was sitting on the floor, dazed and shaken. I felt a dull pain in my chest and a hot, smarting sensation in my ear.

  Above me stood Terje Hammersten, ready to lay in to me if I tried to get to my feet. Trude had stood up, too, now. She rushed forward and put her arms around his upper body to restrain him. ‘Don’t, Terje! I told you not to. I’ll be evicted …’

  I looked up at them. Everything was blurred. For one strange, long, drawn out moment they seemed to be one person, a two-headed, androgynous creature from a world where I didn’t belong. Then I succeeded in re-focusing. ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I won’t report you. There won’t be any trouble, so long as nothing else happens.’

  Terje Hammersten lowered his fists, shook himself free from his sister’s grip and walked across to the window, where he stood with his back to us, gazing down at the road leading to Dale town centre.

  Still dizzy, I slowly stood up. I felt nauseous and could see dots dancing in front of my eyes. All credit to him. He had a powerful fist on him. I nodded to Trude with a mixture of gratitude and the need to say she shouldn’t worry. I wouldn’t tell anyone.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked.

  I rolled my shoulders and rubbed my chest. ‘Could be worse.’ Without looking at Hammersten, I added: ‘I think I’ll be off.’

  ‘What did you actually want?’

  I studied her. ‘To be quite honest, I’m not at all sure any more. But I’ve made a mental note of some things.’

  Terje Hammersten turned round smartly, strode across the floor and came up close to me again. But this time I was prepared. I raised my fists in defence and eyed him stiffly.

  ‘Be careful, Veum!’ he snarled. ‘Be bloody careful!’

  ‘Unless I want to wind up like Ansgår Tveiten, you mean.’

  Between us, Trude gave an involuntary sob. ‘Not again!’

  The blood vessels in his temple swelled and the knuckles of his fists went white. But he kept himself in check. He didn’t lash out this time.

  Without letting him out of my sight, I walked to the door, opened it and left the flat. In the corridor outside I hurried towards the staircase, then stopped to check if he was following. But there was no one, and, still feeling physically uncomfortable, I went down the steps and into the bright daylight. A high white sky hung over Dale, like a huge plastic cupola. A handful of gulls sailed on the wind to the steep walls of Heile Mountain, while complaining in grating cries about bad backs, poor catches or whatever it is gulls complain about.

  It was beginning to get dark as I drove into Osen where the Gaular waterway plunged like a faded bridal veil towards the fjord. High up above the mountains the moon had appeared, the earth’s pale consort, distant and alone in its eternal orbit around the chaos and turmoil below. It struck me that the moon wasn’t alone after all. There were many of us adrift and circling around the same chaos, the same turmoil, without being able to intervene or do anything about it. We were all consorts of death.

  33

  It was six o’clock when
I arrived at the hotel. There were no messages for me in reception. I went to my room, found Grethe’s telephone number and dialled. No one answered. I rang down to reception and asked if Jens Langeland or Hans Haavik were in. Langeland was out. Haavik was in his room. Did I want to speak to him? I considered for a moment and ended up saying no.

  My body felt strangely restless. Maybe it was a side effect of the blow I received in Dale, or else it was something I had heard in the course of the day, a bit of information I still hadn’t managed to sift out from all the rest. Something that had invaluable significance for the development of the case, unless, as things were progressing, I should begin to say: cases.

  The latter reflection caused me to ring the police offices and ask for Standal. He was in, but what surprised me most was that he was willing to talk to me.

  ‘Yes?’ his voice came on to the telephone.

  ‘Veum here.’

  ‘Yes, so I heard. What do you want?’

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Nothing you have any right to know, anyway.’

  ‘Well, right … Listen to me for a moment, Standal. I may have something to tell you that you don’t know.’

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Have you taken out the old 1973 murder file yet? Ansgår Tveiten. The illicit alcohol business. We touched on it yesterday.’

  For a moment the line went quiet.

  ‘We’ve got the file, yes. But so far we haven’t had time to look into the material in any depth. It’s quite a pile, Veum.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But it was shelved.’

  ‘Not shelved. It’s incorrect to say that. In active abeyance, we call it. We’re still gathering information for the case.’

  ‘OK. Then that’s perhaps what you’re doing now.’

  ‘And by that you mean …?’