The Consorts of Death (19 page)

‘A confession not one of us believes, please note!’ Øygunn Bråtet said sharply.

‘Absolutely!’ Standal concurred. ‘We have questioned the young lady, you see … Silje Tveiten. And we were not very impressed, Langeland. To put it mildly. When we asked how she dealt with the gun, her descriptions became somewhat vague. She had no idea how she had released the safety catch, nor loaded the gun. If you ask me, the girl has never had a rifle in her hands.’

‘And you’re sure the old Mauser is the murder weapon?’ asked Langeland.

‘The pathologist’s and the forensic examinations will make that clear very quickly. But I would be very surprised if it wasn’t.’

‘The only thing you know for certain thus far is that this was the weapon Jan Egil took with him when he ran off.’

‘Yes, exactly. Ran off! And why did he do that, if I may ask, if he was so innocent, as you wish to claim?’

‘He’s had a traumatic childhood,’ I interceded. ‘As I explained to you earlier today.’

‘Yes, yes, yes. We’ve noted that, Veum, but …’

‘Besides, Grethe Mellingen told me something I didn’t know. About Silje and the murder of her father in 1973.’

Langeland nodded in confirmation. ‘Yes, my colleague has just informed me about that. A very important piece of information, I have to say.’

The sergeant glared at him. ‘In what way, if I might ask? She was no more than five years old when that happened.’

‘Nonetheless …’ Langeland assumed a didactic tone, as if he were already well into his courtroom procedure. ‘We are dealing here with a double murder. We have a brutal murder in 1973. We have a suspicious death in 1974. Both children are implicated.’

‘And Terje Hammersten,’ I added.

Standal looked as if he would explode. ‘Terje Hammersten! Who the bloody hell is that?’

‘I understand the police up here were interested in him in 1973. Isn’t that correct?’

‘I wasn’t here in 1973, but I will, of course, dig up the files.’

‘So you haven’t done that yet then?’ Langeland commented caustically.

‘We have other business to take care of!’ the sergeant barked.

‘And in 1974 he was still living with Jan Egil’s biological mother, Mette Olsen.’

Standal stared at me. ‘In 1974!’

‘Yes, his foster father was killed.’

‘But that case was solved, Veum,’ said Langeland sharply. ‘There are no loose ends.’

I met his gaze. ‘Are you sure? Now in fact I have some new information about what happened at that time. From Jan himself! Maybe Vibecke Skarnes should not have been found guilty at the time.’

Langeland blanched. ‘I beg your pardon. What did he …?’

I sent him a knowing look. ‘Let’s come back to that later.’

‘Yes, we certainly aren’t interested in cases solved years ago,’ Standal said.

Langeland eyed me pensively before nodding in silence and wagging his index finger:
We have a deal
.

I shifted my attention to Øygunn Bråtet. ‘Where’s she now, Silje … and her foster parents?’

‘They’ve gone home.’

‘Home!’ I turned to Standal again. ‘You’ve let her go free today, too?’

He looked at me with unease. ‘So young she is … After
consultation
with her solicitor and
fru
Mellingen, and because we have no confidence in her statement, we have let her go home. But there is a policewoman with her, and we expect Silje to come in
whenever
we need her.’

‘Strikingly different treatment!’ Langeland commented. ‘Or were you thinking of letting Jan Egil out, too?’

‘He doesn’t have any home to return to now,’ Standal said coldly. ‘Besides he’s still our main suspect, and if you don’t mind,
herr advokat
, I would suggest we see him now and continue the interview.’

Langeland sighed. ‘Yes, let’s do that. We can talk later, Veum. You’re staying at the Sunnfjord, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, just get in touch when you’re back.’

Langeland nodded. Standal clocked me with an expression of hope that he would never see me again. They went back to Jan Egil.

Øygunn Bråtet and I stood back, a little perplexed, like two castaways on a reef after the storm has passed. Then she shrugged and went over to a hat stand to get her outdoor clothing, a natty little cape the same length as her skirt.

‘I’ll have to get back to my office,’ she said. ‘We’re going to be busy in the coming period. But we’ll see each other again, I imagine.’

‘Hard to avoid. And should you ever need a private investigator then …’

‘I know who to turn to. Yes, thank you,’ she said, with a brief nod and a smile that lasted a tiny bit longer before departing.

Before I left, I was addressed by the officer behind the counter. ‘Veum? We’ve got a message for you here.’

‘Really? Thank you.’

I took the small handwritten note. It was from Grethe.
Going home to rest
, she wrote.
Ring you later
.

When I got down to the street, Øygunn Bråtet was gone. I went back to the hotel to have dinner. Alone.

When I arrived at the hotel, a message was waiting for me there, too. But it was from Helge Haugen of
Firda Tidend. Ring me asap
! it said, and I did. I unlocked my room, sat down by the telephone table and rang him at the newspaper.

‘Veum … thanks for phoning. I’ve got something I’d like to discuss with you. An interesting point that no one has brought out yet.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘You know … this Klaus Libakk, one of the murder victims inside the house, I’ve been doing a bit of enquiring about him. There’s some evidence to suggest that the police have had him under suspicion.’

‘Really? What for?’

‘Well, now you can guess!’

‘Not an indecency affair, I assume, since he was approved as a foster parent by social services.’

‘No. Indecency …?’ He was quick on the uptake. ‘Has there been any talk of anything like that?’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

‘We agreed to exchange our information, didn’t we?’

‘Agreements only go so far, Haugen, I’m bound by an oath of client confidentiality.’

‘Client confidentiality! A private investigator?’

‘If not to others, then to myself, if you understand what I mean.’

‘OK, OK. I won’t insist. Not yet. But then listen to this … you may have heard of the great smuggling business that was all the local news in the 1970s?’

I felt my whole body tense up. ‘Yes. It even culminated in a murder, I remember.’

‘Bullseye, Veum.’

‘Did Klaus Libakk have anything to do with that?’

He let the question hang in the air for a moment. Then he said: ‘He was never charged with anything. But the information I’ve unearthed says he was responsible for distributing illegal alcohol, to everyone in Angedalen!’

‘Wow! Where did you get that from, and why was he never taken to court?’

‘The thing is, Veum, I’m afraid to say, that the case was never properly followed up. There are lots of loose threads left dangling, if I can put it like that.’

‘And why not?’

‘You know how it is in small communities. Rumour has it that various persons high in the top echelons of local administration were involved – yes, even high-ranking police officials, at least they were on the customer list, and this led in the end to the matter being hushed up. Those behind the actual smuggling were snapped up, but the middlemen by and large went free. In addition, many considered this a political matter, as good as. I mean, Sogn and Fjordane is the only county in Norway not to have its own
Vinmonopol
– we still have to go to Bergen or Ålesund to buy alcohol.’

‘But … the matter was hushed up, you say. For Christ’s sake, there was a murder! Ansgår Tveiten.’

‘You’re well informed, Veum. I’ll give you that. But Ansgår Tveiten himself belonged to the criminal fraternity hereabouts. No one missed him.’

‘He left behind a little daughter …’

‘What? Right … perhaps he did. But no one else. It proved to be difficult to get anyone from this milieu to talk and … anyway the case was dropped. No one was even charged with the murder.’

‘Right. Back to Klaus Libakk. You’re saying he was responsible for distributing alcohol to everyone in Angedalen, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, to those who were interested in buying the product, that is,’ he said, marginally modifying the statement.

‘Like those at Almelid Farm perhaps?’

‘Almelid? I haven’t checked the case in such detail yet. Why do you ask?’

‘OK, I’ll give you a tasty titbit in return, Haugen.’

‘Yes? I’m all ears!’

‘This girl who went up to Trodalen with Jan Egil last night …’

‘Yes, she was from Almelid, that’s right.’

‘Yes, but she was a foster child, too. Her name is Silje Tveiten. Daughter of Ansgår Tveiten.’

‘What! By Christ, that is tasty!’ After mulling this over for a second, he added: ‘That could almost give the girl a motive, Veum. At least if Klaus Libakk had been involved in the murder of her father. Have you thought about that?’

No, I hadn’t. Not until now. And I didn’t tell Helge Haugen, either. All I said was: ‘But how on earth would she have found that out, if the police had dropped the case?’

‘Well, that’s a point. But it’s worth thinking about, isn’t it.’

‘You’ll have to do what you think best. But don’t make any
references
to me in this.’

‘We always protect our sources, Veum. You can be sure of that. Even if you should decide to break what you call your oath of client confidentiality …’

‘Anything else?’

‘No, just what I told you, and I’ve been richly rewarded. We’ll talk again as soon as there is anything. See you!’

‘See you.’

I rang off and sat staring at the telephone.

Ansgår Tveiten and Klaus Libakk. Terje Hammersten and …

I sensed a pattern beneath all of this, a vague outline of things unsaid and unseen which were slowly rising to the surface.

But what? And where? I asked myself, then made a decision: the next day the search would start in earnest.

All roads lead to Rome, they say. But they were wrong. In my part of the world, all roads lead to the bar at Sunnfjord Hotel.
Especially
during these days when Førde is at the centre of news in what must be the biggest sensation since Ålesund burnt down, judging by the media frenzy. The place was swarming with
reporters
, inside and outside the hotel, and most of them ended up in the bar, as they are wont to do.

After dinner in the hotel dining room – roast venison with sprouts and cranberry sauce – I took a pile of newspapers and slunk off to a free table in the spacious bar. I started carefully with a pot of coffee and a glass of Line aquavit. It wasn’t long before I had company.

Jens Langeland came into the foyer, looked around ignoring all the press people who started waving their arms to attract his
attention
, caught sight of me, made a gesture and came in my direction. ‘Alright if I sit here, Veum?’

‘Course. We have a lot to talk about.’

He nodded. I noticed that he looked tired, and I wondered how early he had set off from Oslo today. He signalled to the bartender and ordered a coffee and a cognac. He glanced at my glass, which was as good as empty. ‘Can I offer you another, Veum?’

‘Certainly can. Thank you.’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Løiten Line. They didn’t have my regular tipple.’

He raised his eyebrows, but made no further comment about the choice. For himself, he chose a cognac from the top shelf, from where he was used to gathering his trophies.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘You had something new to tell me about the events of 1974, you said.’

‘Yes. You didn’t ask Jan Egil about it?’

‘No, not with the sergeant present.’ He ran his hand across his face. ‘It was the same as always. Flogging a point to death. The police asked the same questions again and again, in the hope that the witness would contradict himself. On top of that, we had the KRIPOS officers with us.’

‘I see. Did they have anything to bring to the case?’

‘It’s too early to say. They’re still at the information-gathering stage. Detectives are going from farm to farm to ask if people have anything to say, if they have seen or heard anything, and alongside that they’re making general assessments of Jan Egil, the Libakk couple and Silje Tveiten. But what we’re all waiting for now, of course, is the results of the forensics examination.’

‘And when are they expected?’

‘We haven’t been given a clear date yet.’

‘But I have something to tell you, Langeland.’

‘Yes, you said that.’

‘Yes, but about this case, too.’

I paused as the bartender came over to serve us. When
everything
was in place and we had said
skål
for the first time, I went on: ‘The murder victim Klaus Libakk was involved in the big
contraband
racket in 1973 when Silje’s father was murdered and Terje Hammersten was being fingered as the culprit.’

‘Whoa there, Veum. One thing at a time. Klaus Libakk was involved in the smuggling affair?’

‘Yes.’

I suddenly became aware of a guy in his late thirties sitting alone at the adjacent table. He was dark-haired with a bloated face and drunken eyes. He was clinging to a glass and staring ahead, with such rigid attention that I drew the conclusion he was either pissed and/or intensely following our conversation.

I lowered my voice still further and leaned across to Langeland. In succinct terms, I repeated what Haugen had told me an hour and a half earlier.

Langeland listened until I had finished without commenting. Then he got down to brass tacks. ‘This would actually suggest that Silje Tveiten can be said to have a motive.’

‘That presupposes at least three things, Langeland. First of all, that the rumours are true, about Libakk’s involvement, I mean. Secondly, that he had something to do with the murder of Ansgår Tveiten, and thirdly that Silje had somehow discovered this
connection
, and this was a case that the police had been forced to give up on. Pretty unlikely, if you ask me. The last presupposition, anyway. We’ll have to investigate the first two, of course.’