Consorts of Death Read online

  ‘Has Vibecke Skarnes contacted you?’

  Something happened to his eyes, a brief flash of panic immediately replaced by frostiness. ‘It’s beyond my comprehension what this has to do with you, Veum.’

  ‘It has nothing to do with me, except that the police would very much like to speak to her.’

  ‘In that event, the police would have every opportunity – when the time comes.’

  ‘When the time comes. So she has contacted you?’

  ‘Veum! I’m afraid I will have to show you the door. I’m closing.’

  He grabbed my shoulder with great determination and shoved me towards the exit.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ I objected on my way out.

  ‘No, Veum, no.’ He shook his head resolutely, pushed me into the corridor and, before locking up behind me, said: ‘Mind your own business, Veum.’

  I heard what he said, but for some reason I was not in an amenable frame of mind that day. I walked down towards Christian Michelsens gate, then decided to play detective for another hour. I stood in a house entrance and waited.

  I didn’t have to wait very long. Jens Langeland appeared after less than half an hour, and he was not alone. There was a woman with him, and I realised that the secretary had not been lying when she said he was busy with a client. She was wearing a light brown sheepskin coat, and her hair was concealed beneath a large woollen hat. Nevertheless, I had no problem recognising Vibecke Skarnes from the photograph on the bureau in her hallway.

  12

  From the gateway in Tårnplass I watched Jens Langeland and Vibecke Skarnes cross the square to the part of Fortunen Design offices that led up to Markeveien. They passed between Scylla and Charybdis: on the one side, the Law Courts and, on the other, the state-owned off-licence, the Vinmonopol. The former ate you alive; the latter sent you headlong into ruin, all according to personal predisposition and adversity.

  They made an odd couple, he with his tall wading bird figure, she small and slender, but with a determined gait nonetheless. The notion that she was on the run from the police couldn’t have been further from your thoughts.

  I followed them far enough to see them getting into a car parked by the pavement in Markeveien. I recognised the car without any difficulty. It was Langeland’s orange BMW. He held the door open for her and she got in. He walked round to the other side and surveyed the scene.

  He seemed to hesitate before getting into the car. For a second I was frightened he had seen me. I flipped up my lapels and turned in the opposite direction, as though unsure where I was going. Glancing back, I saw the car was gone.

  I walked down to the nearest call box, in Strandkaien, and flicked through the telephone directory. Jens Langeland had a comfortable address in Fjellsiden. Ole Irgens had been Bergen’s first headmaster, he had been a central figure in Bergen’s Timber and Tree Planting Company and one of the founders of Fjellveien. In gratitude, the winding road from Fjellveien right up to Starefossen had been named after him, and somewhere along this road Langeland had acquired accommodation of as yet indeterminate format.

  I took the Fløien funicular up to Skansemyren and walked from there. Reaching Ole Irgens vei, I studied the street numbers and headed uphill. The orange-coloured car was unmistakable. It was parked outside the gate of a brown box-shaped property with a white basement floor that matched the address in the telephone book.

  The house turned out to contain six apartments. According to the signs by the doorbells, Langeland lived on the first floor to the right. I peered up. The curtains were partly drawn and the lighting inside was muted. But, from a room at the side, harsh, naked light fell onto the winter-dark garden. I guessed they were in the kitchen; hopefully in front of the worktop and not on top of it.

  I went through the gate, up some steps and followed the path round to the main entrance which was at the back of the house. The front door was open. I went in and up to the first floor. In front of Langeland’s flat I hesitated for an instant. I stood listening, but no sounds carried through. So I rang the bell.

  For the second time in a couple of hours, I was standing face-to-face with Jens Langeland. He didn’t seem at all happy to see me at his door again. His face reflected extreme distaste, although there were clear signs of nervousness. ‘Veum …’

  ‘I’d like to speak to fru Skarnes.’

  He gulped. ‘And what brought you here?’

  ‘Save me the hassle, Langeland! I saw you in Tårnplass. I know she’s in there.’ I angled my head towards the inside of the flat.

  ‘That’s correct,’ he said with the same tight-lipped expression that I recognised from before. ‘I do have a client in here. But I feel no obligation to reveal the identity of the person.’

  ‘Of course not. But I suppose you would feel an obligation to do so to the police, bearing in mind the status of the client.’

  ‘The status?’

  ‘Yes, she’s a witness in a case involving a suspicious death, isn’t she?’

  ‘Suspicious! What are you talking about, Veum? It was an accident. He fell down the damn stairs.’

  I smirked. ‘You admit this is the case in question then?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘And that you have Vibecke Skarnes in there?’

  He eyed me in silence.

  ‘But you … If you don’t let me in, I will have no choice but to ring the police. Now, this very minute. Could I use your phone or should I try a neighbour?’

  He heaved a heavy sigh. Then he thrust out his arms and stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in. I don’t understand what you’re after, but … We’re in the kitchen.’

  The hallway was long and narrow. It must have been just redecorated. The whole apartment gave the impression that he had moved in recently. A glance into the living room revealed a sparsely furnished area in which pictures had not yet appeared on the walls and books were piled up on the floor.

  The kitchen was bright and modern. A pan was simmering on a red stove. Vibecke Skarnes stood in front of the worktop with a sharp knife in her hand, and leeks, carrots and celeriac on the chopping board. She was wearing a blue and white striped blouse she must have brought with her from the hospital and a short black skirt that set off her slim legs well.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, motioning towards the frying pan. ‘Food for thought …’

  She looked nervously from me to Langeland and said nothing.

  ‘This is the fellow from social services. Veum. I think I mentioned his name, didn’t I?’

  She nodded and stared at me with enlarged eyes.

  I sent her an encouraging smile and introduced myself properly. Then I said: ‘I can assure you that Jan is in the best hands.’

  ‘The best?’ She didn’t seem to grasp what I meant.

  ‘Yes. But it would be very helpful to us if you could tell us exactly what happened …’

  She still seemed perplexed. ‘Happened?’

  ‘Yes, from your point of view. I mean …’

  Jens Langeland walked past me and stood beside her. ‘There is no reason why my client should tell you anything at all, Veum.’

  ‘Yes, there is. I want to!’ she blurted. ‘I – must …’

  Langeland sighed with an expression designed to tell her that if she did, he would wash his hands of her. She put down the knife and perched on a kitchen chair. I remained on my feet. I saw my reflection in the kitchen window behind her.

  Langeland turned away. He demonstratively collected all the prepared vegetables in a bowl, took the lid off the pan and carefully emptied them in. The aroma of Toro pea soup reminded me of how hungry I was.

  ‘It was … Jan had been absolutely impossible for a few days. He refused to go out. And I had some errands that had to be done, I needed to go to the doctor’s, amongst other things, and then Svein …’ Her voice cracked and tears formed in her eyes.

  Langeland interrupted. ‘Don’t put yourself through this, Vibecke! He has no right to interview you like this. I’m your so
licitor. Let me …’

  ‘You know the alternative yourself, Langeland. It’s not certain they would be so understanding.’ I turned back to Vibecke Skarnes. ‘I do appreciate that it’s difficult to talk about this.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s … terrible! That that tiny … that he should be such a cuckoo in the nest …’

  Langeland again signalled that she should desist. I said nothing. After a pause, she continued: ‘Svein was supposed to stay at home with him until I returned. I didn’t take longer than I had to! But when I … I knew of course that they were at home, so I just rang the bell when I arrived. But when no one opened up, I had to unlock the door and then …’

  She raised her head and stared into the distance, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘The first thing I saw was Jan. He was standing in the hall, right in front of …’ She took a deep breath. ‘The cellar stairs. I didn’t know, I didn’t understand … He was so strange. Just stood there staring at me as though he didn’t recognise me. So … apathetic, I would say. And I asked him: Johnny boy, what is it? Where’s Daddy? But he didn’t answer, and I walked past him and saw the cellar door open. I must have known then. That something terrible had happened. I went down the top steps and there … then I saw him. He lay on the bottom step, twisted … his neck.’ She made an involuntary movement with her own neck. As she continued, her voice was forced, as if she were pushing herself towards the inevitable conclusion. ‘He … I knew immediately from the way he was lying … he was dead. I ran down, bent over him, tried to lift him, held him tight, but I knew. He was dead, dead, dead …’

  She burst into tears again and I let her cry. Langeland sent me accusatory glares, leant over and put his arms around her. She turned, half-stood up from her chair and rested against him, sobbing. He patted her back, trying to console her. ‘There, there, Vibecke … There, there …’

  For lack of anything else to do, I went to the pan on the ring and lifted the lid, as if to make sure it wouldn’t boil over. It all looked fine.

  When I turned back to Langeland and Vibecke, she had let go of him. She was sitting slumped over the table with a handkerchief pressed against her face, staring at the table top.

  Langeland said: ‘I think you should go now, Veum.’

  I nodded. ‘Perhaps we’ll talk again another time, fru Skarnes,’ I said to her.

  She gave an imperceptible nod.

  Langeland followed me to the door. I whispered: ‘And … the police?’

  ‘I’ll contact them myself, Veum. You don’t need to worry. I just wanted her to calm herself first. You could see for yourself how upset she is.’

  ‘Not unjustifiably, I’m afraid to say.’

  His eyes probed me.

  ‘As we drove with Jan yesterday … as we got into the car … the only thing he has said so far …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He said: “Mummy did it.”’

  He glanced over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t joined us and lowered his voice further. ‘What?’

  ‘And he knew nothing about any second mummy, did he?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Not unless Vibecke …’

  ‘Shall we go back and ask her?’

  ‘No! Not now … I’d rather … If she says anything, I’ll ring you. I promise.’

  ‘Hand on your solicitor-heart?’

  ‘Hand on my – yes.’

  I wavered for a moment. ‘But there was one thing that made me wonder. I don’t know if you also noticed.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘She didn’t ask how Jan was. Not a word.’

  He nodded in silence as he let the thought sink in. Then he shrugged, went to the front door, opened it and let me out. In the garden, I took a deep breath and wondered what to do next. First of all, however, I needed something to eat.

  From a telephone box in Skansenmyren I called Cecilie. But she was not at home. Then I rang Haukedalen. I got Hans Haavik on the line. That was where she was. They were still struggling to get a word out of Jan.

  ‘Come on over, Varg,’ Hans said and uttered the timely words: ‘We can even offer you some leftovers.’

  I didn’t protest. I walked straight to Skansen, got into my car and was on my way.

  13

  The row of windows in Haukedalen Children’s Centre glowed with warmth as I got out of my car, locked up and walked to the entrance. It had started to snow again, slightly heavier snowflakes now, and a treacherous promise of a late winter and renewed life on the ski runs around the town. A few degrees higher, though, and it would tip over into rain.

  Hans Haavik met me in the vestibule. He seemed concerned. ‘Not a lot to tell you, Varg. I’m afraid we may have to recommend hospitalisation.’

  I nodded. ‘Is Cecilie still here?’

  He pointed towards the refectory. ‘They’re sitting in there.’

  Some youths passed us in the company of a male care-worker. They scowled at me with suspicion before disappearing into the lounge. I followed Hans into the refectory.

  The light inside was garish and sharp. Cecilie and Jan were sitting at the same table as the night before. On the table in front of them there were bowls and pans with the evening meal: boiled potatoes, a mixture of greens, half a head of cauliflower, rissoles and gravy. And a jug of water to wash it all down.

  Cecilie was eating. Jan was sitting passively on his chair, his hands on his lap, not a movement.

  I went over to them. ‘Hiya, Johnny. How’s it going?’

  His eyes glinted, his head quivered warily and, without turning, he looked in my direction. His eyelids trembled, as though in some discreet way he was semaphoring a distress call to the outside world: Help! I’m being kept prisoner! I want to get out …

  I glanced at his untouched plate. ‘You have to eat, you know! It’s snowing and when you’ve eaten we can go outside and – have a snowball fight or something like that.’

  He moved his lips soundlessly, like a fish on land. I swallowed hard. At once I felt sympathy for this tiny mite who had had such an aberrant start to his life.

  I sat at the place set for me. ‘Well, I’m definitely as hungry as a wolf!’ I began to load my plate. Cecilie and Hans watched, like two public officials checking the composition of my diet. ‘I’m going to wolf this down. My first name, Varg, means wolf, you know. So perhaps I ought to say I’m going to varg it down, eh?’

  I had his attention now. He looked at me from a closer distance than before.

  ‘And you … You’re going to jan it down, you are. I’m sure of that. As hungry as a varg and as hungry as a jan – that’s about the same. Don’t you think?’

  He nodded.

  Cecilie flashed a sudden smile and Hans sent me a nod of acknowledgement.

  ‘So I think I’ll swap your food around. Watch … back in the pan with this and a hot rissole in its place. There we are. Hot sauce. And then we shovel a potato onto there. Nothing better for small famished vargs and jans than a bit of gravy and potatoes, eh? And what a big boy you are. You definitely don’t have any problems using a knife and a fork, do you. When you’re even bigger you’ll be driving a car, and if you drive a car you’ve got be able to lick the easy things, like eating with your knife and fork …’

  With careful movements, he grabbed first the knife, then the fork. Slowly he pushed a bit of potato through the gravy onto the fork and, like a gourmet chef ready to sample, lifted the fork to his mouth, opened up and took the first tiny mouthful.

  In silence, he continued to eat. He cut up the rissole into small pieces, and when the first one had been eaten, I put another on his plate. ‘Jan-hungry boys always eat two rissoles,’ I said. ‘Minimum.’

  I was almost fainting with hunger myself, so I used the opportunity, while he was eating, to stuff down two or three rissoles. Hans, happy now, took a seat at the neighbouring table and poured himself a cup of coffee from a flask.

  Cecilie eyed me across the table with a warm smile. ‘Now we’re almost like a little family
, Varg.’

  ‘Yes, aren’t we.’

  She was right. If anyone had peeped through the window they would have seen a peaceful little mini-family, Mum, Dad and small boy – and there was Uncle Hans dropping by – sitting round the meal table at the back-end of the day. None of us said anything, but I was afraid that was how it was at most family meal tables. Conversation had not been that lively when it was Beate, Thomas and I, either. The food was delicious, we ate, and there was more than enough for one sitting.

  In the end, he was obviously full. He sat back heavily in his chair and a glow of satisfaction flitted across his face.

  ‘Pudding?’ Hans asked.

  ‘What is there?’

  ‘Prune compote with milk and sugar.’

  ‘Sounds fantastic, if you ask me. What do you say, Johnny?’

  He nodded with a smile on his thin, pressed lips.

  ‘You heard what Johnny said,’ I said. ‘We would like prune compote!’

  It arrived on the table, and everyone ate. Even Hans on the neighbouring table sneaked an extra dish. Unbidden, he topped up Cecilie’s coffee and mine. The family idyll was so perfect that the catastrophe, from all statistical calculations, had to be imminent.

  We three adults sat making small talk while Jan finished the whole dish of prune compote as well. Afterwards I asked: ‘And what would you like to do now, Johnny?’

  This time he turned his head. He looked me straight in the eye, offended that I had forgotten. ‘You said … a snow ball fight.’

  ‘So I did! Is that what you fancy?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can Hans and Cecilie join in, too?’

  He shifted his gaze from one to the other and at length he nodded. They smiled gently, happy not to be excluded from the game.

  We went outside. It had stopped snowing, but luckily there were enough snowflakes left for us to be able to make a few snowballs, even though they were pretty flimsy and they disintegrated when we tried to throw them.

  Nevertheless, we stuck with it for as long as Jan wanted, and he took part in the fight with a passion. When he got his first hit, a snowball that turned to powder on my nose, he laughed out loud, and when we aimed at him but missed, on purpose, he grinned with pleasure.