The Consorts of Death (11 page)

‘What are the people he’s living with like?’ I had asked Hans that September day. ‘Decent folk. I know them personally. Klaus and Kari Libakk. Klaus is a cousin of mine. They run a farm in Angedalen, north-east of Førde,’ ‘Does he have local support?’ ‘Of course. Social services in Sunnfjord has put one of their own on the case …’ He flicked through a few papers. ‘Grethe Millingen. That name mean anything to you?’ ‘No,’ I said and Cecilie just shook her head sadly.

In the car back to town we had little to say to each other. We both sat enclosed in our own worlds, and when we parted neither of us saw any reason to celebrate anything.

It was a miserable year in general. The period of separation came to an end and the divorce from Beate was executed without mercy. We negotiated a visiting agreement for Thomas and it wasn’t long before it came to my ears that she had got herself a new friend, some teacher, Wiik, whom Thomas called Lasse. In my welfare work I regularly became frustrated and there were a number of episodes that indicated that perhaps I was not the right man to tackle all the challenges I confronted. The whole thing came to an end the year after when, under strong pressure from above, I was requested to look around for something else to do.

I had a distressing feeling that life was passing me by before my very eyes, outside my windows, and that feeling was not exactly diminished when in August of that year I turned Muus’s
nightmare
into reality and started my own little firm as a private
investigator
in Strandkaien, a street fronting the harbour and a block away from Marianne Storetvedt.

Nine years later, I received a phone call from Førde.

A private investigator’s office can be a depressing place. It’s not a lot better when the rains beat against the windowpanes, the floods start and there is only a limited number of tickets left for the ark. The call from Førde did nothing to improve my mood. Quite the opposite, it took the ground away from beneath me.

Her voice was both hoarse and pleasant, in an extremely sensual way. ‘Veum? Varg Veum?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Grethe Mellingen here. From social services in Sogn and
Fjordane
. I’m based in Førde.’

I had an unpleasant sensation in my abdominal region. ‘Right! How can I help you?’

‘It’s about a client of ours. One Jan Egil Skarnes, seventeen years old.’

‘Yes, I know who you’re talking about. But …’

‘It’s just terrible. I don’t know if you heard the two o’clock news, did you?’

‘No, I haven’t …’

‘There’s been a double murder here. In Angedalen. Both of Jan Egil’s foster parents.’

‘What was that?’ The glaring ceiling lamp seemed to have grown, filling the whole of my head with intense light, an
interrogator’s
lamp from my unconscious.

‘Yes and … I’m afraid there is every reason to believe that Jan Egil did it, because he’s holed up in a neighbouring valley and refuses to speak to anyone except – you.’

‘Me? But I haven’t had anything to do with him since …’

‘And he’s not alone. He has someone with him. A girl from the neighbouring farm.’

‘As a hostage or what?’

‘We don’t know. They’re about the same age, anyway. But the police have contact with him via a loud-hailer and he’s told them he won’t talk to anyone except … you.’

‘I’m amazed he can remember me!’

‘I was summoned there myself to negotiate with him, but … I’ll only talk to Varg! he shouted. Varg? Who’s Varg? we asked. Varg, he repeated, and I contacted Hans Haavik to see if he knew who he was talking about, and he referred me to you.’

I swallowed. ‘So then …’

‘The question is just … how quickly can you get to Førde, Varg?’

I looked at my watch. ‘There are several hours till the afternoon boat leaves, and I have no idea about plane routes. But … if I jump in my car now, if I’m lucky with the ferries and ignore speed limits, I should be there in five to five and a half hours.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘I’ll have to, won’t I! How will I find you?’

‘I’ll meet you … Do you know where Sunnfjord Hotel is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go there and I’ll meet you in reception.’

‘OK, let’s say that. But it’ll take me getting on for half an hour to leave. I have the car parked …’

‘Yes, yes. Just come as quickly as you can. We’re relying on you …’

People had had their fingers burnt doing that before, but I didn’t say that to her. I switched off the lights, locked the office and hared off up to Skansen to fetch the car. Barely half an hour later, I was on my way.

It had turned dark by the time I reached Førde a little before nine that evening, and it had not been an easy drive. If it had been dark in Masfjorden before, the dense rain had not made it lighter. I stopped in Brekke to wait for the ferry, but once over the fjord I broke all the speed limits that existed in the hope that every
available
variety of local police official was in Førde and Angedalen on this dark October day which was to go down in the local history annals under the headline:
Double Murder in Angedalen.

There is much that could be said about Førde and most of it has already been said. In many ways it is the centre of the Vestland region, south-west Norway, in reality it is a huge crossroads with a few buildings thrown in for good measure. I passed the bridge over the Jølstra River and bore left towards Sunnfjord Hotel. The rain was hammering down on the car roof and I pulled the hood of my all-weather jacket tightly over my head as I sprinted,
bent-over
, the few metres to the main entrance.

Grethe Mellingen realised who I was, got up off a chair and came towards me. ‘Varg?’

I nodded and we shook hands.

‘I’m Grethe. Come with me!’

She looked to be two or three years older than me and had sleek, golden yellow hair which hung in damp clumps on either side of her symmetrical face. I immediately noticed her eyes, light blue, as if made of glass. She was dressed in full rain gear, dark green from the sou’ wester to the high wellies. ‘We have no time to lose,’ she added as we charged from the hotel entrance to the car and tore open the doors on both sides.

‘That way,’ she said pointing west, towards the main hospital. ‘Just follow Angedalsvegen and we’ll see the lights when we’re there. We can only go on foot in Trodalen.’

‘Trodalen?’

‘Yes, you may have heard of it?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Trodalen Mads – does that mean anything to you?’

‘An old criminal case, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I can tell you all about it – later.’

‘But the old case has no connection with this one, I suppose?’

‘No, no. Of course not.’

‘Why don’t you tell me – how Johnny boy is?’

‘Jan? You call him Johnny boy, do you?’

‘We used to call him that – ten years ago.’

The road climbed abruptly to Angedalen now, to the long valley that lay like a hollow in the countryside between the
municipalities
of Naustdal and Jølster. I had never been there before.

‘Well, what should I say? He hasn’t been so easy, but … we thought things were going better now. At any rate, this came as a shock to us all. Like a bolt from the blue.’

‘What did he do?’

‘Now we don’t know yet if it was him who did it …’

‘Don’t we?’

‘Well, it’s like this. His foster parents are called Kari and Klaus Libakk. One of their neighbours called the police. He thought something must have been amiss because he hadn’t seen either Kari or Klaus since Sunday, and the only person who went to the cowshed was Jan Egil. He made up some pretext about wanting to see the Libakks and asked after Klaus, but Jan Egil behaved so strangely, said they were away and didn’t know when they would be back. So this neighbour, Karl on the Hill, as we call him,
contacted
the local sergeant, who sent up one of his officers. And that was when everything came out.’

‘Mm?’

‘Jan Egil must have seen him coming because after the officer knocked on the door he suddenly saw Jan Egil and Silje racing up the mountainside behind the farm buildings, towards Trodalen.’

‘And Silje, that’s …’

‘Silje Tveiten, she’s from a neighbouring farm. But the worst of it all is …’

‘Yes?’

‘When the officer tried to follow them, Jan Egil fired a shot at him. A rifle shot.’

‘Oh, bloody …’

‘Then he gave up. And when he went back into the farmhouse it was a gruesome sight that met him. At first the place seemed empty, but when he went to the first floor, into the bedroom … Klaus had been shot in the chest while he was still in bed. Kari must have tried to escape, because she was lying on the floor right in front of the window, shot in the back. There was blood everywhere!’

‘But … had no one heard the shooting?’

‘It’s mid deer-hunting season, Varg. There’s shooting at all hours.’

‘And now they reckon it was Jan who shot them?’

‘There was no sign of a break-in, so for the moment they haven’t got anything else to go on, I’m afraid.’

‘When did the murders take place?’

‘I don’t know, but all the indications are that the bodies have been lying there for a couple of days.’

‘My God!’

‘Yes, there’s not a lot else you can say! And now he’s holed himself up in the scree on the eastern side of Lake Trodalsvatn, not far from Strand.’

‘Strand?’

‘Yes, or Trodalsstrand. Where the murder took place in 1839.’

We passed a farmyard, and I slowed down. Round the next bend we were met by a mass of lights: brake lights, courtesy lights, headlights and torches. The exhaust fumes drifted like patches of mist over several of the cars parked in a line winding its way up a narrow gravel path to the north of the main road. At the very top a patrol car was parked across the path, blocking any movement in that direction. There was an ambulance with the side door open, the driver in conversation with a policeman. Beside the patrol car was another constable with his arms crossed, staring sternly ahead.

‘Pull in there,’ Grethe said, pointing to a narrow gap between a large Mercedes and a four-wheel drive Mitsubishi Pajero. I rammed the Mini halfway up the slope. From the boot I took my waterproof trousers I had had the foresight to bring with me. I always kept rubber boots there, in case I went fishing.

We trudged up to the patrol vehicles and the ambulance. They had gathered around the two vehicles, the whole caboodle:
photographers
under wide rain capes with their cameras held against their chests; radio commentators with portable recorders held in shoulder straps and microphones sticking out, as if to measure the moisture in the air; and veteran reporters with soaking wet, lit cigarettes between their lips, sou’westers and rain hats pulled down over their foreheads.

Grethe ploughed a way through the media throng for us before she was stopped abruptly by the brusque police officer. ‘No one passes here!’

She gasped for breath. ‘But we’re on our way up to – negotiate. This is Veum, the social services man from Bergen that Jan Egil demanded to speak to.’

The uniformed officer gave me a sceptical look, then turned to the car. There were two others sitting there. He motioned to one of them to roll down the side window.

‘It’s that welfare bloke. They should be let through, shouldn’t they?’ he said in vernacular.

‘Yeah, but Standal said that everyone should be escorted.’ The officer got out of the car. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Reidar Ruset.’ His face was thin and pale, his handshake wet and cold. ‘In addition, they have to wear bulletproof vests.’ He stretched into the car and pulled out two stiff, greyish-black vests.

With a little difficulty, we put the vests over our all-weather jackets. If nothing else, they provided a little extra warmth.

Reidar Ruset pointed up at the dark, tree-clad mountainside. ‘On that mountain.’

We began walking. Directly in front of us lay an old hay barn. As we passed it, Grethe said: ‘This is where he lived as an old man.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Trodalen Mads.’

No more was said. In the heavy rain and with only Reidar Ruset’s head lamp as illumination we had more than enough to think about just looking where to put our feet. We followed the path upwards alongside a stone wall. Then we entered the forest, a mixture of deciduous and dark spruce trees. Neither of us said a word. Thoughts were ricocheting around my head, completely out of control.

Memories of 1974 … the call-out to the accident in
Wergelandsåsen
, which would later turn into a crime scene, Jan and all the work with him, the search for Vibecke Skarnes, the confession, the trial and the six months with Jan afterwards, before he was sent up here. All this merged with the impressions I had formed during the hectic hour since I had met Grethe Mellingen: a
possible
double murder with Jan as the principal suspect, a boy fleeing with a girl of the same age, a boy who ten years earlier had pushed me down the stairs in a violent fit of anger …

We waded up through withered ferns, bare blueberry bushes and a path that regularly became a rushing stream through the dense undergrowth. Now and then we passed a clearing with bare rock face. If we had cast our eyes across we would have glimpsed the lights from the farms at the furthest end of Angedalen valley, already a long way down. After a good half an hour we were at the top of the incline. We continued through the forest until we could make out black water. On both sides of the lake rose steep mountainsides. Even in the daylight Trodalen had to be a fairly gloomy place. Now, in the dark and the rain, it was just one black abyss in the night, a slumbering volcano which could erupt at any time.

Reidar Ruset pointed along the eastern bank of the lake. A powerful searchlight lit up the scree where the rough terrain and the crooked old tree trunks formed troll-like shapes on the
mountainside
. Around the searchlight we saw the flickering light of less powerful lamps. ‘Over there.’