The Consorts of Death (25 page)

‘Yes! That’s what I said.’ Again he held out his hand. ‘Harald Dale. Ex-technician for Skarnes Import. I often came here for work reasons – and others.’

The penny dropped. ‘Yes, now I remember … you even had a kind of celebration dinner here …’ I looked around. ‘Here at the hotel, wasn’t it?’

‘Yep!’ he said with a broad grin. ‘That was when I met Solfrid. She checked me out here in the bar. Well, after we’d eaten. And she and I, we certainly had mutual friends …’

‘Solfrid…?’

‘The missus. We got married two years afterwards, and I moved up here. Tveiten, her name was then.’

‘Tveiten!’

‘Yes, sister to someone called Ansgår who was killed when the whole shebang disintegrated.’

‘Right. Little Silje’s aunt in Angedalen when …’

‘Yeah, yeah. Something like that. But they don’t have any contact. Not a lot anyway. So much has happened in that family.’ He was grinning so much his loose lips were almost flapping in the air. ‘Yes, we don’t have much contact any more, either, Solfrid and I, so to speak.’

‘Well, I can almost … You’re divorced?’

‘Se-par-ated,’ he said, with difficulty. ‘Sepa … yeah. After I lost my job, there was too much … joy juice.’

‘I see. But I’d like to go back to … You mentioned Svein Skarnes. Was he involved, too? In the smuggling?’

‘That’s what I’m telling you! I thought it’d surprise you. I heard you talking about his missus. We called her the dolly. I wouldn’t’ve minded a round with her in the sack, at some point. But she held her nose in the air and never looked in my direction. Svein and I, on the other hand, we were good mates, and both did our own thing.’

‘So when he fell down the stairs …’

‘You know … There was so much going off at that time. The bubble burst in 1973. First of all, it was the fishing smack that was boarded by the customs officers somewhere at sea. Laden with booze. A few days later Ansgår was beaten to death, and the police here as good as rounded up the whole gang.’

‘Not all of them, though, obviously. Klaus Libakk never got a blemish on his record.’

Another grin. ‘Nor me. Nor Svein. We were good at covering our tracks.’

‘So Svein Skarnes had an important role in the business?’

‘An important role! How many times do I have to tell you? He was running the whole bloody thing. He was sitting in Bergen with all his foreign contacts. All his travelling, at home and abroad … it was the perfect cover.’

My brain was reeling. The whole affair was taking on a new
perspective
. The threads going back to 1974 were even stronger than they had seemed even a few hours ago.

‘Well, OK, then,’ I said. ‘The racket was broken up in 1973, and in February 1974 Svein Skarnes had his dramatic fall.’

‘The bitch shoved him down the stairs.’

‘At least, that was the official version. Now there’s a lot that has to be re-thought, I’m afraid.’

‘Don’t be afraid, Veum. I’ve been afraid for many years, I have.’

‘Yes, exactly. When did you move here?’

‘Well, I met Solfrid here in the autumn of 1973. Svein and I had a sales meeting here while seeing if it was possible to build up something new in the booze market at the same time. I mean … Svein was in a real fix. He owed money for the last load and those waiting for payment were not exactly very patient creditors.’

‘No, I can imagine. They threatened to send in Terje
Hammersten
, did they?’

‘Hammersten? Do you know him?’

‘Who doesn’t?’

‘But how did you know…?’

‘How did I know …?’

‘That Hammersten was involved?’

‘He was the one who killed Ansgår Tveiten, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, but that … No, I don’t know. People here took care of that. That was what blew the whole thing out of the water, for Christ’s sake! After that it was as good as impossible to start up again. The whole set-up was compromised, and no one dared touch it with a barge pole! We just had to give up.’

‘But you heard from Hammersten as well, I take it?’

He had started sweating. Every now and then he looked over towards the foyer as if fearing that someone he didn’t like could enter at any moment. Then he whispered: ‘Svein got a lot of calls from him.’

‘From Hammersten?’

He nodded. ‘For every day he didn’t pay, the sum went up. Black-market interest rates. I don’t know if you know the system? It’s horrendous once you’re caught up in it.’

‘And if that didn’t help, then Terje Hammersten dropped round, was that how it worked?’

Again he nodded, without saying anything.

‘So, in theory, it could’ve been Hammersten who pushed Skarnes down the stairs on that February day in 1974?’

‘But his missus confessed, didn’t she!’

‘Yes, but what if I tell you that some new information has come to light … Someone overheard a row at the Skarnes household, a row between Skarnes and another man …’

‘Someone? Who was that?’

‘It’s not important.’

‘But …’

‘Then it could’ve been Hammersten. Why didn’t you say
anything
about this to the police?’

He looked at me as if I were mad. ‘And ruin everything for myself? I would have dropped myself right in it. And when his missus had confessed anyway … I didn’t reckon she would lie about anything so serious!’

‘She must’ve had her reasons?’

‘Yes, they must definitely have been bloody good ones.’

‘Perhaps they were. But back to … It was after that that you left everything and came here?’

‘Yes, as I said … after Svein died and the missus was in clink the company was dissolved. It was Solfrid who lured me to Førde and I got myself a job, for a while.’

‘And you never heard anything – not from Hammersten or any of the others?’

He shrugged. ‘Why should I? I didn’t owe any money. I was just the missing link, as I said.’

‘Right. But time passes, and then this happens: Klaus and his wife are murdered. Didn’t that worry you?’

‘No, why would it? Isn’t it exactly as the papers say, that the case is as good as solved?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But what if it was all linked with the
smuggling
business? That that was the motive?’

He gave me a long lingering look. ‘It could’ve been the money, of course.’

‘Which money are you talking about now?’

Yet again his gaze wandered off to the foyer. When he answered, he had lowered his voice so much that I had to lean close to understand what he was saying. ‘There were some rumours going round, in 1973 … Listen, Veum … Everything went tits up. No one got their money. But the money ended up somewhere, didn’t it. Someone was sitting on a pot of gold, somewhere in the chain …’

‘And you think that might’ve been Klaus Libakk? Was there such a large turnover in Angedalen?’

‘Angedalen!’ He blew out his cheeks. ‘Klaus Libakk was
organising
sales in the whole region. From Jølster to Naustdal. Everything went through him. He was the bloody spider in the web here. That was why it was so bombproof. The whole thing was built up a bit like a resistance group, with small cells that knew nothing of each other, apart from the closest contact-person.’

‘But you knew a lot, I can see. You’re not scared that you’re in the firing line yourself?’

‘Me?’ He had gone a little green around the gills. I feared he would soon be looking for a suitable place to throw up.

I said quickly: ‘But what you’re suggesting is that Klaus Libakk might have been sitting on quite a sackful of money on his farm?’

He nodded. ‘A fortune, Veum. A veritable treasure chest …’

Now he knew the moment had come. He pushed back his chair and staggered to his feet. He bent forward, grabbed his glass, raised it to his mouth and drained it in one long swig. Then he turned around, and without saying goodbye tottered off towards the toilets.

On the way out he passed a woman. My eyes lingered on her. She was wearing a tight black dress that emphasised her trim figure. Over her shoulders hung a loose coke-grey suit jacket. Her coiffeured hair was arranged in fluffy blonde curls, and it was only when she met my eyes that I saw who it was. Grethe Mellingen, dressed to kill …

By the time she had reached my table I had been standing for quite some time. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’

‘I’m here now,’ she said with a pert smile.

‘What can I get you?’

‘What are you drinking?’

‘Until now it has been coffee and aquavit. But I can switch to anything.’

‘Actually I fancy a gin and tonic.’

‘I’ll join you then.’ I waved to the barman, who speedily took the order.

‘How,’ we both started, and I finished: ‘… is it going?’

‘With Silje?’

‘Yes, for example.’

‘Pretty well, I think. She’s got very capable parents. Or foster parents, I should say.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Peripherally. But I’ve had Silje on my files ever since I came here.’

‘When was that?’

‘Five years ago. In 1979.’

‘But … you must have roots here?’

She chuckled. ‘Is it so obvious?’

The waiter came with our drinks. We said
skål
and tasted before I answered: ‘No, no. But I’ve heard you break into dialect when you’re talking to … locals.’

‘Yes, my mother came from here. But she found herself a man from Østland, so I’ve spent all my life there. In Elverum of all places.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Elverum, is there?’

‘No, no. I’m sure there are worse places. But tell me what you’ve been doing today. How was it in Jølster?’

I told her about that and the trip to Dale. To round off, I told her about the conversations with Langeland and Haavik.

She listened attentively. When I had finished, she said: ‘So
everything
points to Jan Egil being charged, I guess.’

‘All the evidence still suggests that it was Jan Egil who did it,’ I said. ‘Even though a few interesting details have emerged at the end of the day.’

‘I don’t know if I told you but … Silje was examined by a doctor today.’

‘Oh yes? And the results?’

‘She’s as healthy as a spring lamb. No injuries anywhere. But … she wasn’t a virgin, to put it in formal terms.’

‘She’s had it then, in informal terms.’

‘If that’s how you speak in Bergen, fine by me. But no signs of abuse, at any rate not recently.’

‘Well, well. So now we know that.’

She sipped from her glass, deep in thought.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I was thinking … will you come home with me afterwards?’

I met her eyes. ‘If you invite me I …’

‘There’s something I want to show you,’ she said with a glint in her eye, as if there was something special she had learnt and wanted to show off.

‘Yes, you hinted something along those lines earlier today.’

Nevertheless, she was in no hurry. We finished our drinks, found the way to the night club and spent an hour on the dance floor there, most of the time moving to a gentle rhythm; touching was a natural part of the activity. We exchanged social services experiences and took stock of family circumstances: we each had an ex in the closet, she a daughter of fourteen, me
thirteen-year-old
Thomas in fitting congruity. She told me she had a seat on the local council, and when I asked for which party, she stepped back and said: ‘Guess!’ When I went for SV, the left, she smirked but refrained from commenting. In the end, we danced a few slow smooches, she with her arms around my neck and me with one hand between her shoulder blades and the other exploring the lower end of her spine, like a restless chiropractor at a health seminar improving his technique. Her body was warm and soft against mine, and I felt her lips against my ear, like slightly moist petals as she whispered: ‘Shall we order a taxi?’

‘Mm,’ I said into her hair, and with her arm under mine we left the dance floor.

I went up to the cloakroom to collect my coat, and when I came back down, she was standing by the taxi waiting. Lounging at the rear, her arm still under mine, we sat as a silent driver drove us to Hornnes, where she lived in a newly constructed house on the slope above the road to Naustdal and Florø.

Her young daughter, whose name was Tora, was sitting
watching
TV in the basement when we arrived. She said hello,
somewhat
shyly, and quickly withdrew to her bedroom.

‘What can I offer you?’ Grethe asked.

‘There was something you wanted to show me,’ I said.

‘A glass of red wine?’

‘I wouldn’t say no to that, either.’

She slanted her eyebrows upwards and smiled. Then she was gone. I sat watching TV, lost as to what this was all about. When Grethe returned with two glasses and an opened bottle of wine, she switched off the television and pulled out an LP and started the record player while I filled our glasses. Roger Whittaker resounded around the room with a voice that made me think of ships’ tarred planks and a fresh breeze in off the sea.

The ceiling was low. Bookshelves covered the wall around the TV screen. The pictures on the other walls all had landscape motifs: paintings, photos and graphics. I took a seat on the sofa, and she sat down beside me, in the crook of my arm. We tasted the red wine, and some time afterwards she turned to me, with a determined look in her eye, and whispered: ‘Kiss me.’ I saw no reason not to.

As I began to fumble with the zip on her dress, she laid a hand on mine and said: ‘No … Let’s go up to the bedroom.’ I didn’t object then, either.

Standing in the middle of the floor in the cold room, we slowly undressed each other, taking cautious nibbles at whatever appeared. Then we got into bed where we frolicked in a variety of positions until she was writhing deliriously above me, and we buckled into each other in one last sweet exhalation.

Sweaty and hot, she lay breathing against my chest. I felt
laughter
bubbling up inside me. ‘Was that what you wanted to show me?’

She raised her head and looked at me seriously. ‘No. Wait here …’

She got out of bed and crossed the floor, naked. Her body was soft and supple, with small breasts and a stomach left with stretch marks from pregnancy that would never go away completely. On her return, she was carrying a large leather-bound book,
brownish-black
in colour with golden letters on the cover. She switched on the light over the bed, snuggled up to me, pulled the duvet over us, carefully opened the book and slowly turned the first thin pages.