Wolves at the Door Read online

  A single picture hung on the wall: a print of the French painting I thought was entitled L’Angelus. It showed a peasant couple standing in silent prayer over a basket of potatoes, with a low sun in the background. It could equally well have been a January day somewhere in the surrounding areas of Bergen as a field in nineteenth-century France, and I knew why it was there.

  He had set a small, round table, next to the closed door to the adjacent room, with cups, plates, a dish of biscuits, a bowl of sugar cubes and a black Thermos in the middle, all placed with meticulous care.

  He pulled a chair forwards. ‘Take a seat. Do you have anything in your coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. I like it black.’

  He nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer, and poured coffee for both of us. He took three or four sugar cubes and dropped them in his cup one by one. Once that was done, he sat down and fixed his gaze on me. ‘When you rang you said you had something to talk to me about. Does that mean you’ve discovered something unnatural about how my brother-in-law died?’

  ‘Yes and no.’ I took a sip of the coffee. ‘I passed the chapel on my way here. When I pulled in and read the notices on the board outside I saw that a Pastor Storebø was giving a sermon this coming Sunday. I assume that’s you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. It’s an open congregation and we like to use the term pastor for leaders in the parish.’

  ‘You might remember that when we talked last week I asked if the term pastor meant anything to you. You asked if it was the parish priest who officiated at the funeral I meant, but it wasn’t. It didn’t occur to you to tell me you were a pastor yourself … out here?’

  The warm smile faded. ‘No, I must admit I didn’t link it with the questions you were asking.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I can’t see that it had anything to do with the case. It was my brother-in-law you wanted to talk to. Not me.’

  ‘But we’ve talked several times since. On the phone, mind you. Last time you told me about a woman who was supposed to have visited Haugen the day before he went missing. It’s struck me that this is something you just made up.’

  ‘Made up? Why?’

  ‘To lead me up the garden path. And off your trail.’

  ‘And why on earth would I want to do that? Lead you up the garden path, as you put it?’

  ‘I’ll come back to that. Now listen to me. I’ve had some passenger lists sent to me. Last week you went on a quick trip to Tønsberg. From Bergen to Torp and back again the following day. Wednesday and Thursday, to be absolutely precise.’

  He nodded slowly and scratched one of his big, bushy eyebrows.

  ‘How do you explain that?’

  He deliberated for a moment. Then he smiled weakly. ‘Explain? I was invited there. A private matter.’

  ‘Invited? Who by?’

  ‘Well, as a pastor, on an occasion such as this, I have to invoke our oath of confidentiality.’

  ‘Which can be very useful to hide behind.’

  ‘That’s not its intention.’

  ‘No, but the person you were going to visit there was Karl Slåtthaug, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Karl Slåtthaug?’

  ‘Yes. He told a colleague he was meeting a pastor on Wednesday evening.’

  ‘I see. I’m not the only one in the profession, however.’

  ‘The following day he was reported missing and a few days ago he was found in the sea at a place called Ollebukta Bay. In the same state as your brother-in-law.’

  He nodded. ‘I see.’

  We sat looking at each other. I recognised something in his eyes, something I had seen in other interviewees on earlier occasions. It invariably comes to a point in such situations, when the person on the other side of the table starts to calculate: How much does he actually know? How much is guesswork? How long can I stick to my line?

  ‘I’m sure you’ll realise this has given me cause to ponder. The first death, in October, that was your brother-in-law. So, linked via family to a pastor, which I didn’t find out until today. The second death, in December, was the late Mikael Midtbø – he was supposed to have met someone he called the pastor. The third death, this January, was Karl Slåtthaug, who was also meeting a pastor, on the day he disappeared. All these three were in prison eighteen months ago, convicted of the same crime: child abuse, or to be precise, possession of sexual images of children.’

  He listened, rapt with concentration. I could see it now. The gradual realisation that there was no way out was slowly emerging. As he said nothing, I continued: ‘At the beginning there was someone else accused of the same charge. That was me. But the charge was withdrawn and I was released.’

  ‘I know.’

  The two words hung in the air between us, like almost visible electricity. I could feel my heart beating, as it sometimes did when I was near the endgame. ‘I may’ve been on your original list, too?’

  Again the weak smile, as if he was reminded of a fond memory. ‘I didn’t have a list,’ he said then.

  I looked at him. He was a few years older than me, three or four, from what I could recall. He was stronger and had probably done more physical work than me, on his smallholding. But if he chose to turn rough, I had no particular worries about not being able to defend myself against him. All the signs were that he wasn’t the type to use a weapon, not even whatever might come to hand. Apart from the fact that he had a view of life that was miles from my own, I’d had a positive impression of him from the beginning, when I met him in Brunestykket at his sister’s place.

  He extended a hand, lifted his coffee cup, drained it the way that Jesus, according to legend, drained His chalice at the last supper, set it down and leaned back in his chair.

  I said: ‘Shall we talk this through?’

  ‘Talking can be good therapy. You look like someone who could do with it,’ he answered with the same warm smile.

  I could feel that my smile was a lot tauter as I went on: ‘Then let’s start in October. Your brother-in-law, Per Haugen, died in what might appear to be a drowning accident. I wouldn’t say you talked about him with any great respect when we discussed him. You were shocked at what you’d heard in court and not only concerning his activities on the net; but also by the accusation that he’d sexually abused his daughter – made by Laila herself.’

  He listened seriously to what I had to say. Only a few tiny nods of the head revealed that he understood and perhaps agreed with what I said.

  ‘Then you yourself contacted me on Saturday. You told me about this woman who’d supposedly visited Haugen on one of the last days before he died and who, you more than suggested, might’ve been behind what happened in Frøviken.’

  A brief nod.

  ‘I’ve tried to find this woman, but in vain. It could be that she’s someone we’ve never met or for that matter heard about. In fact, though, I’ve come to the conclusion that you made her up. I’ve always had a theory that there was a connection between these deaths. This was reinforced by the murder of Karl Slåtthaug.’

  ‘Murder?’ he queried softly. ‘I thought you said he drowned … too. Is it being categorised as … murder?’

  ‘That’s what the police in Tønsberg are investigating it as.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Back to this woman. The only female I’ve met with sufficient ferocity to do anything like this is someone called Svanhild Olsvik. Does that name mean anything to you?’ When he shook his head, I told him who she was: ‘Mikael Midtbø’s partner.’ He nodded and threw up his hands as if to emphasise that it still didn’t mean anything to him. ‘…One of those who survived this…’ I said, without going into detail about what she had on her own conscience.

  I poured myself a cup of coffee from the Thermos and glanced at him. He held up a palm and shook his head. I took a swig of the lukewarm coffee, then went on. ‘On receiving the passenger lists this morning and thus having a direct link between you and Karl Slåtthaug – at least circumstantially speaking – I
began to put two and two together. Perhaps you’d begun to feel the heat and so, to mislead me, you threw in the lure of a mystery woman. But in so doing you showed me even more clearly that what happened in Frøviken was unlikely to have been an accident.’ I let the words sink in before going a little further. ‘Are you willing to give me the details now?’

  Once again I seemed to see the scales tip in his eyes. Pro – contra. Yes – no. A couple of times he opened his mouth as if to say something, then caught himself.

  I gave him all the time he needed, took another swig of coffee, stretched out my legs, cast another glance at L’Angelus on the wall and thought to myself: why are they actually praying? For the potatoes to have a long and useful life? For the working day to be over and for it to be time to go home to the children? A divine peace rested over the old painting, a type of peace I myself didn’t feel I had experienced that many times in my life.

  I shifted my gaze back down to the thoughtful expression on Hans Storebø’s face. And him? How much peace had he experienced? Prayers and blessings, or doomsday sermons in the chapel? Memories of Televåg as a sombre backdrop to his childhood and, for all I knew, other things, which still weighed on him to this very day? The responsibility for his big sister Tora, who was so terribly deceived by her own husband, his brother-in-law? What was it ultimately that made a person take the most important decision in life, the one between life and death – not only their own but the lives and deaths of other people?

  ‘We hadn’t agreed to meet,’ he said all of a sudden.

  I gave a start. ‘You mean…?’

  ‘Per and I.’ I nodded without saying anything. Now it was important to let him choose his own words, tell the story as he remembered it. ‘But I knew his morning habits. He got up early and went out to do some fishing. So I did the same. Got up early, drove to town, parked nearby and, when I saw him pass by, waited before following him. After all, I knew where he was going.’ He paused.

  ‘Yes, and then? You met him down by the sea?’

  ‘Yes, he was standing on a rock, he’d cast the line and was slowly reeling it in, with small jerks of the rod, in case a fish was about to bite. He was quite surprised when I appeared. That has to be said.’

  ‘Surprised in the sense of … annoyed?’

  ‘Well.’ He shrugged. ‘It was more like … “What are you doing here?” And I said: “I wanted a chat with you, Per.” “A chat? About what?” “Well, what do you think?” “We’ve got nothing to chat about. Nothing!” Then he turned away and cast again.’

  Now he had raised his head, as though he was looking at the door behind me and half expecting someone to come in. Yet he had a faraway look in his eyes and I was fairly sure he was no longer in the here and now; he was back in Frøviken that morning in October.

  ‘I talked to his back. I told him there was forgiveness for everything, but he had to turn to God himself, throw himself onto his knees in front of Him and pray that when his time came he could go in the knowledge that what awaited him after death was nothing but heavenly peace.’

  ‘And how did he react?’

  ‘He suddenly swung round. He stared at me with evil flashing from his eyes. “Get thee from me, Satan!” he said.’ Now Storebø was back in the little sitting room and looking at me with a desperate expression on his face, as if I could arbitrate in this case. He laid one hand on his chest and said in an almost accusatory tone: ‘That’s what he said to me! He called me Satan!’

  I opened my mouth to make a comment, but he carried on: ‘I reacted with righteous fury. I shoved him away as hard as I could – well, it was a reflex action. He lost his balance, slipped on the bare rock and tumbled into the sea. I slid down after him and stood in the water up to my knees. When he tried to get up I pushed him down hard and held him under – under the water – not for long, because a spasm seemed to go through him and then he went still.’ After a short pause he added: ‘That’s what the doctors said too, according to what Tora was told. There were signs suggesting he’d had a turn, which led to him drowning.’

  ‘But that turn had been provoked by external circumstances. By you.’

  Once again his eyes met mine. ‘You could put it like that.’

  I agreed. I could put it like that.

  45

  For a long time we sat like this, each on our own side of the table, as if we, too, were performing some kind of silent prayer. I didn’t feel like any more of the coffee. I was afraid the biscuits would be too dry for me now. And he didn’t seem to want any more, either.

  In the end, it fell to me to break the silence. ‘But it didn’t stop there, Storebø.’

  ‘Yes, it did. I went straight home without meeting anyone.’

  ‘Exactly. You were lucky not to be seen, but you left him in the water without making any attempt to save his life, without calling for help. It was only later that you found out what had happened.’

  ‘Yes, you can put it like that.’

  I was still agreed. I could put it like that, too. ‘And you didn’t feel any regret afterwards? After all, you widowed your sister.’

  He raised his head fully and straightened his back. ‘I think on the Day of Judgement she will thank me for that. I freed her from the yoke. She can look the Lord straight in the face now.’

  ‘Well…’ He spoke in figurative terms I recognised well enough, but with which I wasn’t that familiar, despite a long life and many encounters with people holding a great variety of beliefs and doubts. ‘But as I said, it doesn’t stop there. In December you were in Fyllingsdalen. What took you there?’

  He was physically restless. He pulled at the lobe of his ear. Then he ran his hand through his dark, grey-streaked hair, rubbed his thumbs against his bushy eyebrows and rolled his shoulders, as if to ease some stiffness he had there. His whole body seemed to be bristling with resistance to what was coming.

  ‘It … I had their names. I hadn’t been able to make Per fall to his knees, but…’ He looked at me with his big, blue eyes, with clear red streaks in the whites, as though someone had scratched him with something sharp. ‘I’m one of the Lord’s servants on this earth, Veum. My calling is to save souls. Every disciple of Satan I lead onto the true path is a victory for God, but also for me. Then I have fulfilled my role here on earth. That’s why I rang this Mikael Midtbø, said I was a pastor and I had something important to discuss with him. He refused at first. But then I could hear he was hesitating. Perhaps he needed someone to talk to, as well, bearing in mind his stage of life. Then we agreed I would go to his home, in Fyllingsdalen. It turned out to be a high-rise building.’

  I nodded. ‘And what happened there?’

  ‘He received me, let me in and we began to talk. But … firstly, he’d been drinking. He was far from sober. Secondly, he wasn’t particularly attentive to what I had to say. And thirdly, evil shone from him. I think he must be one of the most disgusting people I’ve ever met. Ten times worse than Per! Gradually I realised he’d invited me there to jeer at me. “You bloody … You damned Jesuit!” he called me. And then he began to accuse me. “How many priests have committed sexual abuse?” he said. “At home … and in the Catholic church, protected by the Pope.” As if I had anything to do with Catholics or the Pope. I’m a Lutheran of the most transparent kind! I said that to him. “Hah, you’re no better, you lot,” he continued. “How often do we read about sexual violation in chapel communities?” He said he had a partner, and what she could tell you about priests and preachers, it was impossible to ignore. “So don’t you come here getting on your high horse.” In the end he opened the balcony door, dragged me out and pointed across the valley. “Do you see all the people living here?” he bawled. “How many pigs are there among them, do you think? How many secrets are out there, among these people who are usually considered decent?” Then he turned to me again and said: “I’m a pig. You’re a pig. The world is full of pigs.” And then…’

  Storebø was lost in thought. He broke off and stared in
to the distance, as if in a trance. I watched him, at first a little anxious that he might be having some kind of fit. But nothing else happened. He just sat there, in the beyond, his eyes neither open nor closed, as though he were trying to see inside himself, but with nothing to fasten his gaze on.

  At length I raised my voice. ‘Hans? Are you there?’

  He gave a start, as though I had woken him from a midday nap. He looked around, recognised his own sitting room, locked his eyes on me and mumbled: ‘Veum? Yes? What was it you wanted?’

  I coughed gently. ‘You were telling me what happened to Mikael Midtbø in Fyllingsdalen in December. That is, you hadn’t reached the end. What happened on the balcony before you left?’

  ‘Was I? Well, I … Did I tell you how he shouted at me?’

  ‘We’d just finished that bit.’

  ‘Again I reacted with righteous fury. He was so repugnant. I think you’d have spewed if you’d seen him.’ As soberly as if he had been saying how he had washed up the coffee cups after a visit, he continued: ‘I bent down, grabbed him around the ankles, lifted him up and threw him off the balcony. Afterwards I felt the joy of the Lord pump through me. I left his flat borne on angels’ wings, got into my car, drove home and prayed to the Lord for forgiveness. And He forgave me! He knew that I was His servant. That it was His tasks I was performing on earth. Amen.’

  Again there was a natural hiatus. There was a strange atmosphere in the cramped room. Inside, I was dizzy with shock at what he said so openly, yet I had – for good or ill – a sort of understanding of what he had done. They had been child molesters, both Per Haugen and Mikael Midtbø, but they had been to court once and would perhaps have landed there again if they had continued their activities. It was the job of the police and the law courts to take care of people like this, not self-appointed mortal servants of the Lord. I could already imagine how the situation would develop in the interview room at Bergen police station when Hamre and Solheim, or whoever, questioned Storebø about what he had done and, not least, about why. Both prosecutors and judges would have their hands full if he ever ended up in court, which I was gradually beginning to doubt.