The Consorts of Death (20 page)

Langeland bent forward with an intense expression in his eyes. ‘Could you see your way to doing that, Veum? For me?’

‘Investigating these questions, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘No problem. I’ve worked for lawyers before, Langeland.’

‘I pay well. Money is no object.’

I passed my hand over the table. ‘We have a deal then. When shall I begin?’

He quickly shook my hand. ‘The sooner, the better.’

‘Regard me as hired from this minute. In that case I can tell you something else. You remember Mette Olsen, Jan Egil’s real mother?’

‘I certainly do. I represented her years ago. Where is this leading?’

‘Did you know that she’s moved to Jølster?’

‘To Jølster!’

‘Barely an hour’s drive from here. By Kjøsnes fjord. I’m
planning
to look her up tomorrow. Are you interested in what might come out of the visit?’

‘Mette Olsen, so close to her own son … but have you checked? … This has to be a coincidence. Perhaps she has family up here.’

‘Most people in Bergen do. But I don’t believe much in
coincidences
, Langeland. Not when there’s a murder in their immediate vicinity anyway.’

‘No, of course not. No stone left unturned. You have my full support to visit her, but … tread warily. She’s had a tragic life.’

‘You aren’t her solicitor any more, I suppose?’

‘No, no. When I left Bergen, she must have found someone else. At any rate, I haven’t heard anything from her since then.’

‘So we have a deal on that point, too.’ I raised my glass for a
skål
, to seal our agreement.

‘But it was 1974 you were going to tell me about,’ he said, putting his glass down hard.

‘Yes. Jan Egil, when I was talking to him today, told me
something
I had never heard before. It’s about the day that Svein Skarnes died, if I can put it like that.

He leaned forward and watched me with those intense blue eyes of his, as if I were the prosecution witness in a case he was leading.

‘Jan Egil told me that on the day of Skarnes’s death in February, 1974, he was sitting in the lounge playing with his Märklin train when there was a ring at the door. The father opened and
immediately
a row ensued.’

‘A row. With whom?’

‘He doesn’t know. He was sitting and playing. He didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘But there was a ring. So it wasn’t …’

‘No, probably not. In fact, Jan Egil said the same. His mum had a key after all. She wouldn’t have needed to ring.’

‘No, but she said herself at the time, I believe, that she rang first and then unlocked the door, as no one would open up.’

‘Yes, but that was later – after the fatal fall had occurred. And Jan Egil said, so far as we can trust him of course, ten years later, that it was a man’s voice he heard, apart from his father’s.’

‘A man!’ He paled visibly as the consequences of this dawned on him. ‘But then …’

‘As I said earlier today, Langeland, Vibecke Skarnes should probably have been acquitted.’

‘But why the hell did she confess? She did confess, Veum, and I never managed to persuade her to retract this confession.’

I nodded and leaned back in the chair. The man at the
adjacent
table waved to the bartender and ordered another whisky and soda. In ringing Bergensian tones, I noticed. ‘Just put it on the tab!’ he added.

‘There was a confession in the Hilleren case, too.’

‘Yes, but no body, Veum! We had one here. Besides …’ He hesitated.

‘We must both have wondered why she confessed, didn’t we?’

‘Indeed.’ He nodded. ‘To protect the boy. She was convinced he had done it.’

‘In fact he pushed me down the stairs straight afterwards, so the notion was not inconceivable.’

‘No, and he had bitten Skarnes until he bled a few months before. I’m sure that was the main reason why she decided not to maintain parental responsibility when she was released.’

‘She was frightened of him?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ll have to contact her. It may become relevant to consider a retrial, in my view. But … I don’t see any significance it may have for the current investigation.’

‘No, but that’s something I could examine as well, as I work my way into this case.’

He nodded. The bartender brought the glass of whisky to the neighbouring table and we took the opportunity to replenish our glasses. Langeland kept to expensive cognac. I switched to a Bloody Mary.

Several reporters were circling our table, but Langeland sent them all packing. He refused to comment on anything at all. The Bergensian at the neighbouring table seemed more alert now, as if the new drink had resuscitated him. A couple of times I saw him looking in our direction as though keen to say something. But I didn’t encourage him. On the whole I had had bad experiences with this kind of relationship in late night hotel bars.

A large shadow fell over our table, and we peered at the top of this towering figure.

‘Hi, Hans!’ said Langeland. ‘Sit yourself down before anyone else does.’

‘I’m not disturbing?’

‘No, no.’

Hans Haavik turned to the bar, gestured that he wanted a glass of beer and then sat down heavily in the free chair at the table. He glanced at me and shook his head. ‘One helluva story!’

I nodded back and looked at Langeland. ‘Hans was Libakk’s cousin and had kept tabs on Jan Egil the whole time. He was up here visiting them as late as last weekend.’

‘So I hear. We had a chat while you were in with Jan Egil.’

‘What’s your line of attack going to be then?’ Hans asked.

‘The way it looks now, there are two possible lines. The first is to take Silje at her word and exploit her confession as far as we are able. But she may have a job sticking to it herself, from what the police say. The second is to opt for unknown killers, burglars, robbers who go too far and, when they realise, flee without the spoils, terrified of being caught in the act. Not so unusual in rural areas, I regret to say. The problem is that there are no signs of a break-in, of course. It will be very interesting to hear the results of the forensic examinations, both at the crime scene and of the weapon, as well as the pathologist’s report on the bodies. In a
nutshell
… everything is in the air for the time being.’

Hans seemed thoughtful. ‘This Silje …’

‘Have you met her?’

‘I’ve said hello, yes. Several times. But why would she confess if she hadn’t done it?’

‘Hmm.’ Langeland sent him an inquisitorial look. ‘Why did Vibecke confess in 1974?’

‘Because she’d done it, I suppose!’

‘But now new information has emerged which suggests that was perhaps not the case. That she simply took the blame because she was sure Jan Egil had done it.’

‘Well …’ Hans glanced at me. ‘I think we all thought that was a possibility, even at the time. But she stuck to her confession with such determination.’

‘You remember yourself how headstrong she could be!’

‘Yes indeed …’

‘You both knew her from university?’ I broke in.

They nodded.

‘What did she study?’

‘She drifted a bit. Took psychology foundation, but she fell at the next hurdle and couldn’t get in. It can be terribly difficult without top grades. So she started law, but didn’t finish. That was where she was when I got to know her. And in the end she moved into your subject, didn’t she, Hans?’

‘Related. She took sociology foundation.’

I looked at Langeland. ‘Someone intimated that you and she had been a couple for a while …’

He glowered at Hans. ‘Have you been opening your big mouth again?’

‘Me?’ Hans feigned an innocent expression, which was partly torpedoed by the pink tinge to his cheeks. ‘He must have got this from a different source,’ he grumbled.

‘Veum?’

‘I protect my sources, Langeland,’ I said with a little grin. ‘But it wasn’t a million miles from the truth, was it.’

‘It was a short affair a long time ago when I was a student. It didn’t have any significance, neither for … at any rate not for the case I took on in 1974.’

‘No, because you were the family solicitor, weren’t you? I think you told me something like that.’

‘It was Svein who needed legal assistance generally. But I knew Vibecke best. She got to know Svein through Hans.’

I turned quickly to Hans. ‘But you and Vibecke never had a thing going, did you?’

His mouth fell. ‘Vibecke Størset? Well, that was her name at the time. No, Veum, we never did. She never looked in my direction as far as I can remember. Besides Svein and I were … pals then.’

For a brief instant the table went silent, and I sensed a sudden tension between the two old university chums, only for it to
dissolve
and us to grab our glasses, all in one movement, it seemed.

Jens Langeland put on a disarming smile. ‘But there were enough others, weren’t there, Hansie, eh? When you were sowing your wild oats at the end of the course? Swinging London and wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen, city of sin … I think we got to hear the odd story or two, we stalwarts left in the old country, didn’t we.’

Hans forced a rigid smile. ‘I returned home safe and sound, didn’t I.’

‘Yes, yes. Let’s hope so, Hans. I’ve never heard anything to the contrary …’ he smirked over his glass.

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Something completely different. Your second cousin, Hans. Klaus Libakk. From a very reliable source I’ve heard that he was supposed to have been smuggling alcohol in the early sixties. Do you know anything about that?’

It was an evening of surprises for Hans Haavik. He shook his head. ‘Klaus? I find that hard to believe. Who said that?’

‘Well, it was mentioned as hearsay.’

‘I didn’t have much to do with Klaus and Kari at that time. It was only when Jan Egil moved in that I began to visit them
regularly
. After all, we were only cousins, and in my childhood I as good as never came to the Sunnfjord district. My maternal
grandfather
grew up here, and he moved to Bergen right after the First World War.’

‘But when you visited them, were there drinks around?’

He shrugged and grinned. ‘Well, we had a drink on Saturday nights. They weren’t teetotallers, neither Klaus nor Kari.’

‘And that was drinks from the Vinmonopol?’

‘Varg, I didn’t study the labels that closely. There has to be a limit. You know how these things are. Up here it’s often a bit of both. The result of many years of a restrictive alcohol policy, as we all know. Large production of home brew and a hotbed of
smuggling
. Think of the significance the prohibition period had for the development of organised crime in the States.’

‘Well, apropos of …’ I looked at my watch. ‘Time to drink up maybe? We’ve sorted out tomorrow, Langeland, haven’t we. I’ll report to you when I get back. And you, Hans, what’s on your agenda?’

‘No idea. I’ll try to contact a few more relatives. Hear what’s going on. I suppose it’ll be a long time before the bodies are released for burial, but … we should organise some kind of
memorial
service. And then I’ll help Jan Egil, of course, if need be. We’ll see. I’m staying here over the weekend, anyway.’

I glanced over to the nearby table. The Bergensian had come to the same conclusion as we had. Time to hit the hay. Stiff-legged, he staggered out of the bar. But he didn’t head for the part of the hotel where the rooms were. Instead he went into the foyer, opened the front door with difficulty and then disappeared into the Sunnfjord night, wherever that might take him.

Both Hans and Langeland were staying at the hotel. We parted company between the lift and the stairs. The first thing I saw when I entered the room was the message I had received from Grethe earlier:
Going home to rest. Ring you later
.

I dialled the reception number and asked if anyone had called for me. A grumpy night porter said no one had.

I looked at my watch. It was too late to ring her now, at any rate. I didn’t have her number, either. Perhaps she was still asleep. The sleep of the innocent, I hoped.

I let it go, undressed and crawled into bed, alone, the same as almost always. Some things change very little, no matter where in the world you are. All roads lead to Sunnfjord Hotel, I had decided, but to my room all the mountain passes were closed. There was not much else to do but wait for spring.

The stretch of road alongside Lake Jølstravatn must be one of the most beautiful in Norway. The vast lake lies there, extending into the far distance, blue and looking as though it could last for all eternity. The mountain formation is beautiful and majestic, and against the arch of the sky you can glimpse Jostedal glacier,
dazzlingly
white in the daylight. An atmosphere of timelessness and calm rests over the countryside, the north-bound traffic on the main road the only disturbance.

It was no longer raining. There were patches of blue in the ceiling of cloud where the sun broke through with compact bundles of rays, like a harbinger of better times. The trees were rusty brown, specked with green and red. In a little boat in the middle of the lake sat a man with a fishing rod in his hands, patience
personified
. If he waited long enough he would undoubtedly get a bite. If I was lucky, his good fortune would rub off on me.

Grethe had rung before breakfast. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ring back, Varg, but I slept round the clock,’ she had said before asking:

‘What are your plans for today?’

‘I’m driving out to Jølster. Would you like to join me?’

‘’Fraid not, I have to be with Silje today, too. And Jan Egil, if need be. Will we see each other later?’

‘I’ll be in touch when I’m back.’

‘Fine. I’ve got something I’d like to show you.’

‘Oh yes?’ She had given a low chuckle: ‘Yes …’

Before leaving, I dropped by the police offices to hear if anyone had any need of my services. No one had. The KRIPOS officers were going to speak to Jan Egil, they were still waiting for the first results of both the pathologist’s and the forensic examinations, and as far as the local police division in Naustdal and Førde were concerned, I could travel to Jølster and further afield without any concerns.