The Consorts of Death (36 page)

‘The last time we met was almost eleven years ago.’

‘I haven’t forgotten, believe you me!’

‘No, I’m sure you haven’t.’

I looked at her. She would have to be twenty-seven now, a grown-up woman. I recognised the girlish features I had only come face to face with a few times before, and perhaps I could see more of her mother in her now: that slightly aggressive, jumpy nature that can afflict people whose lives have been placed under council care. The ponytail was gone. Her hair had been cut short and given a sort of shape. It emphasised the narrowness of her face. Her mouth bore a disgruntled set, and her eyes flashed, blue and bitter. She did not seem very happy with her existence.

‘Would you tell me about Jan Egil and yourself?’

‘Why should I?’

I leaned forward. ‘I’m here to help you, Silje.’

‘That’s what you said last time! But you lied, like all the others.’

‘I didn’t lie to anyone. I did what I could. But I’m afraid it wasn’t enough. The evidence was too strong, and there was nothing I could do about that.’

‘Jan Egil says you let him down. He should’ve shot you down while we were in Trodalen, he said. Then there would’ve been one less bastard in the world. It was your fault he was arrested.’

I felt an unpleasant tingle between my shoulderblades. ‘
Goodness
me, he can’t blame me for that. Think of all the police there were. He would’ve been arrested whatever happened. He was the one who asked them to get me from Bergen.’

‘Yeah, precisely!’ Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘Because he trusted you from that time in Bergen when you’d been like … like a father to him.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘And then you – more than anyone else – let him down.’

‘But, my God …’

‘Yes, you’d better start praying if you believe him. I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when Jan Egil finds you!’ Through the tears her mouth twisted into a taut grimace, a parody of a smile.

‘I’ve spoken to someone called Cecilie,’ I said. ‘She told me he had a kind of … that he told you who he was going to wreak his revenge on?’

She studied me with her lips pursed and a glint of triumph in her eyes, as if relishing the hold she had over me. ‘Maybe,’ she whispered, so low that it was hard to catch.

‘What was that?’

‘Maybe, I said! You hard of hearing or what? He was gonna nail both you and that Terje Hammersten who was sleeping with his mother! And he didn’t have much time for the guy running the hospice, either.’

‘Hans Haavik.’

‘Yes, the one who buggered off with all the money that time, who inherited Libakk Farm.’

‘Right, do you mean … he was on his list, too?’

‘List?’

‘Yes, of the people he would take his revenge on.’

‘There was no list. They were just loose ends he had to tie up!’

‘He’s already dealt with Hammersten, I understand.’

‘So what. He’d killed others before, as far as I’m informed.’

‘You know about that?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘My father in 1973. Jan Egil told me that.’

‘Listen, Silje. Tell me … what actually happened between you and Jan Egil? Why has he set out on this … this mission now of all times?’

Her face was blank. ‘I don’t know anything about a mission. All I know is that when I was twenty I moved east to be close to where Jan Egil was. I knew he was in prison. When he started to get days out on probation, he came home to me, and we … we’ve always got on well, Jan Egil and me. We’re the same. Two of a kind. Nothing to hide.’ An expression of tenderness and wistfulness fell over her sad face. ‘Then … about two years ago I became pregnant. Sølve was born, and Jan Egil had yet another reason to behave properly, to get out and lead a normal existence, maybe for the first time in his wretched life. But it was not to be …’

‘Did you plan to live together?’

She shook her head. She said quietly: ‘No. He didn’t, anyway.’

‘Why not?’

‘Ask him!’

‘But he was here, and he visited you, didn’t he?’

‘A few times. Not as often as I would’ve wished. I don’t know but … he seemed to be afraid. Afraid of being together with him, afraid of being in the same room as him.’

‘As … Sølve?’

She nodded furiously. ‘Yes! As his own son!’

‘He might’ve been afraid of … he didn’t have the world’s
greatest
experience of fathers.’

‘And he was so restless! Fidgety. As though there was something he had to do – as if there was someone or something somewhere else. At any rate whatever it was, it wasn’t with me. In the end I was so tired of it that I was just glad if he went! I had been waiting for him here for so long, and when he finally got out he couldn’t settle to anything. He had to move on, somewhere else …’

‘So that was why he went to the hospice in Eiriks gate?’

‘Yes, he went there and met this Hammersten. You might not know this, but his mother had died. She died a year ago.’

‘Yes, I heard that. Did you have any contact with her?’

‘Not at all!’

‘But she lived up there, in the district, too. You must’ve bumped into her when you were visiting him?’

‘I saw her once. But when I asked him who it was, he just answered: Someone from the Red Cross. What was I s’posed to say to that? There was always someone from various organisations visiting the prisoners. It was only when she was dead that he told me who she was.’

‘I see. Let’s hang on to that thread for a moment. Hammersten. He met Hammersten again, you said. What did that lead to?’

‘You already know. He did him in – they say. They’ve been here too, the plods, of course.’ She gazed into the distance as if to
recreate
an image for her inner eye. ‘He came here late on Sunday night.’

‘Really, last Sunday?’

She nodded. ‘
I just wanted to talk to him
, he said, completely out of his mind.
Who
? I asked.
Hammersten!
But
he was dead and couldn’t tell me anything
. I asked what had happened. And then he looked at me in despair:
It wasn’t me, not this time either
!
But no one’ll believe me
! –
Yes, they will, Jan Egil
! I said
. No one! It’ll be just like last time
, he answered. And that was when he suddenly changed tone:
But I’ll kill them, every one of them
! And then he reeled off the names of all the people he would get.’

‘And that was when he mentioned me?’

‘Yes, you and …’

‘Were there several on the list?’

‘Yeah, yeah … but right now I can only remember you.’

‘Jens Langeland, what about him?’

‘The solicitor?’

‘Yes, was he on the list?’

‘No, no, no. Course not! He’s still his solicitor and has always helped him.’

‘But he said that … it wasn’t him this time, either?’

She nodded silently. I looked at her. The tiny boy had gone to sleep against her breast. For some reason a refrain from a Beatles song went through my head:
Lady Madonna, children at your feet – wonder how you manage to make ends meet
…

Our eyes met. I said: ‘Tell me … where did he go after dropping in here?’

‘On Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

Her eyes wandered off. ‘Dunno. He didn’t say anythin’ to me.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes!’

‘Silje … If he gets in touch, then …’ I took out one of my business cards, wrote my mobile phone number on the back and pushed it over the table to her. ‘Ask him to ring me on this number. I’ve got my mobile with me at all times. Say I have to talk to him. Tell him I can help him.’

She studied the card with no interest. ‘Might do. Best to leave it like that, I think.’

‘Just ask him to get in touch. Say it’s important.’

‘Tell me … are you so keen to die? Are you in such a hurry?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. Enough people have died in this case already. It has to stop at some point.’

‘In this case?’

‘In this case, yes.’ I could feel the fury rising in me. ‘Haven’t you understood? Haven’t any of you understood? Everything is connected, right from the very first moment. You, of all people, should think about that …’ I shifted my focus down from her face. ‘You with a little baby to take care of.’

Again our eyes met, hers defiant and moist, mine smouldering with anger.

‘Right!’ I stood up. ‘I can’t do much more for you just now, Silje.’

She didn’t move from the sofa. ‘You’ve done more than enough! Out with you! I never want to see you again! Never!’

‘Wonder where I’ve heard that before?’ I mumbled under my breath as I buttoned up my jacket and made for the door. There, I turned and sent her a last glance.
Who finds the money when you pay the rent? Did you think that money was heaven sent?

She was deliberately ignoring me. I shrugged and left.

Out on the street, the sun’s rays angled over Iladalen. My eyes fell on the church with its famous spire.

All of a sudden, the doors on both sides of a parked dark grey Volvo swung open. Two men got out and rushed over to me. I knew who they were long before they displayed their badges. They were classic undercover police in leather jackets and jeans, with two-day old stubble on their chins and hair down their necks.

‘What was the name?’ one asked.

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘Show us some ID,’ the other demanded.

I sighed out loud, rummaged for my driver’s licence and passed it over.

One studied it closely. The other had his eye held firmly on me.

‘Veum? Varg Veum?’

‘You can read, I see.’

‘Would you mind accompanying us to the police station?’

‘Would it make any difference if I refused?’

‘No.’

‘So, what are we waiting for? Let’s get it over with. The sooner, the better.’

Inspector Anne-Kristine Bergsjø was sitting behind a large desk with fingertips pressed against each other and a sour glare behind the frameless glasses. Her hair was a little shorter than I
remembered
it, but her clothes were just as conservative: a plain white blouse, nice blue culottes and a tailored grey jacket. A classic blonde of the competent variety.

She was wearing a trademark smile with tight lips curled at the corners, almost like a cartoon character. ‘Varg Veum, private eye,’ she said with biting acerbity. ‘I had hoped I would never see you again.’

‘That’s a hope I never shared, I’m afraid.’

She raised her eyebrows sceptically. ‘You didn’t?’

‘We had such a cosy time when we last met, didn’t we?’

‘No, we didn’t. Unless I’m much mistaken you brought death and destruction last time, too. I hope you’re not on the same mission now.’

I splayed my hands. ‘To tell the truth, I hadn’t been considering a courtesy visit to the police station, either. It was these colleagues of yours who absolutely insisted.’

She sighed. ‘You were observed leaving a flat we’re holding under surveillance. Could you first tell me what you were doing there?’

‘If you could give me a good reason.’

She looked at her telephone. ‘Of course we could send you down to the basement and let you mull over the question there for a few hours.’ She looked up again. ‘But it would be so much more enjoyable if we could resolve this in a friendly atmosphere, don’t you think?’

‘Over a drink maybe?’

She forced a wry smile. ‘Coffee?’

‘From the machine you have in the building? No, thank you.’

Her expectant gaze lingered.

‘Well, I can’t see any reason not to … I was visiting a woman called Silje Tveiten. She has a child with a former client of mine.’

She leaned forward. Her eyes were alert and direct, her
eyelashes
unmoving. ‘Jan Egil Skarnes was a client of yours? When was that?’

‘While I was still in social services. Twenty-one years ago.’

‘Uhuh. I see.’

I gave her a rundown of my life with Jan Egil, from when he was three years old until my last sighting of him in court, a good ten years ago, and why I was in Oslo this time.’

‘He was going to kill you?’ She looked at me, her eyes
disbelieving
. ‘She didn’t tell us that.’

‘I suppose she didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.’

‘Maybe not.’ She looked at me seriously. ‘I’m going to have to give you a warning, Veum.’

‘A warning?’

‘Or, to be more precise, I have to warn you.’

‘I understand the difference.’

‘You’re mixing with the fringes of a nasty group of individuals. They’re dangerous.’

‘Dangerous people? What are you talking about? Jan Egil?’

‘I’m afraid to say that we’ve observed him several times in what I would call bad company since he was let out on parole. I can tell you in confidence that he’s been very close to being banged up again.’

‘Right! On what grounds, if I might ask?’

She eyed me coldly. ‘Tell me … Do you know that organised crime is on the up in this country, Veum? Especially in the capital.’

‘I’ve had an inkling.’

‘Whether you’re on the inside or outside does not matter much. You’re part of the set-up anyway. Reports we’ve received from
Ullersmo
suggest that during his incarceration Jan Egil Skarnes
nurtured
close links with a very unsavoury bunch based here in Oslo. He’d been on our radar several times before he was released.’

‘Before he was released? What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Mm … It’s not at all unusual for inmates out on leave to be used to carry out jobs. They have a kind of alibi, at least at first. We don’t always check who’s on leave or not when there’s a robbery, someone is beaten up or something even more serious.’

‘Murder?’

‘That, too. Inside the fraternity, that is. Internal showdowns, quarrels between various factions. Big money’s involved. Drugs. Contraband alcohol. Prostitution. And behind all of this – the backers. Yes, some of them are even under lock and key and
steering
the whole thing from prison. Ullersmo Executive, as we call it. I could give you a number of names. Others conceal themselves behind respectable façades. Business people, restaurant owners, entrepreneurs. And you won’t find what they earn from this on any tax register, if that’s what you thought.’