We Shall Inherit the Wind (15 page)

He snorted.

‘And there was one other thing, Glosvik.’

‘Yes?’ He scowled at me.    

‘Let’s stop beating about the bush, shall we. We all saw who you were talking to on Wednesday. Even I had the pleasure of bumping into him the following day at Stein Svenson’s. We both know who we’re talking about.’ As he didn’t answer, I added: ‘Trond Tangenes.’

He gulped. His eyes hardened. ‘Who?’

‘Don’t make yourself appear any more stupid than you are. He as good as admitted it himself, at Svenson’s. He was there carrying out an assignment for you.’

He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but closed it again without uttering so much as a syllable.

‘You’ve talked at great length about local council finances and so on. Probably true, most of it. But what about your finances? Work for
entrepreneurs is hard to come by at the moment, isn’t it? You’re dependent on things improving. For you personally it would be an enormous lift if the wind power project got under way. Or am I mistaken?’

‘What do you want, Veum?’

‘This is what I want. Listen to me. Not only did Trond Tangenes physically attack Stein Svenson. He also issued unveiled threats – against me personally and against someone close to me. Am I making myself clear? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He observed me without speaking or showing any emotion.

‘So let me spell it out for you. If anything serious happens, either to me or my partner, I will hold you responsible, Glosvik. Personally. I’ll hang you out to dry, so high that your reputation won’t only be ruined throughout Gulen, I’ll have your name on the front page of the biggest bloody papers in the country. I will stop at nothing. And remember this, Glosvik. You have a position to uphold, which is much more than I have. In other words: Tell your mongrel to stay on its mat. Now. Have you understood?’

His staring eyes were glazed, the blood vessels in his temples swollen and his jaw muscles visibly groaning. Then he reacted. He went to the door, slammed his hand down on the handle and opened it. He stood there as silent as the mountain ranges in the landscape outside.

I followed. I stopped in front of him. ‘Have you understood, I asked?’

‘Get out, Veum. We have nothing more to discuss.’

For a few seconds we stood glowering at each other. I could see that deep inside him my message had hit home. Whether it would lead to a positive outcome it was still too early to say.

It would be wrong to say we parted as friends. But I hadn’t been pampered by fate in that respect. He stood there until I was well down the corridor. Then he withdrew and slammed the door hard after him. I found my own way out.

There was one man I felt a strong need to contact. Before getting into my car I rang Bjørn Brekkhus. He still wasn’t answering his mobile. When I phoned his landline it was the same woman who had answered the previous evening.  

She could hear who it was and said at once: ‘He got your message, but all he said was: “What good is it now?”’

‘So that was why he didn’t ring back?’

‘I assume so.’

‘Is he available now?’

‘No, he’s gone to Brennøy today.’

‘Really?’

‘We found out what had happened to Mons Mæland. He and Bjørn had been friends ever since their younger days. He said he wanted to see the spot where the crime took place.’

‘He hasn’t got roots there as well, has he?’

‘Roots? On Brennøy? Not at all. His family’s from Masfjorden, if you go back a few generations.’

‘Tell me: Did you also know Mons Mæland?’

‘Not very well. But I’d met him on various occasions.’ After a short pause she said: ‘There’s something you should know.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I’ve been in a wheelchair for the last fifteen years. Our house has been completely adapted so that I can cope indoors without a problem. But I don’t do much gallivanting, if you know what I mean.’

‘So your husband won’t stay overnight on the island?’

‘Oh, no. I’m expecting him home for a late dinner, at around eight.’

‘Well, please mention that I rang again and that I’d appreciate it if he returned the call.’

‘I’ll do that.’

We finished the conversation, I stuffed my mobile into a pocket and I had already made my decision. Brennøy was up next, no question.

I was lucky with the ferry at Sløvåg and drove onto the deck just before the gate closed for departure. Ten minutes later I drove ashore at Skipavik. The weather was still as beautiful. The sky was high and blue, and the air so clear that you had the sense that you could see as far as Iceland if you were high enough up.

Driving down onto the quay in Brennøy, I recognised the black Mercedes of Bjørn Brekkhus, parked carefully outside Naustvik Hotel & Harbour. In approximately the same place as the last time were the unwashed, red Opel Kadett and the white VW. I parked next to Brekkhus. So that we wouldn’t miss one another I went to the reception cabin, opened the door and stepped inside.

There was no one in reception, and no one was sitting in the café area. The tables and chairs were back in place after the re-arrangement for the police interviews two days ago. Behind the glass counter there were some waffles and the coffee in the jug on the warming plate was steaming.

From the floor above came some sounds I was unable to define until I was standing at the bottom of the stairs, and even then I wasn’t a hundred per cent certain. Someone could have been watching TV, of course. It could have been a discreet wrestling match or it could be … something else.

The investigator in me shoved all my usual good manners aside and drove me noiselessly up the stairs, step by step, until I was at the top. The door to the office where I had spoken to the police previously was ajar and there was no longer any doubt. That was where the commotion was coming from, and now it had assumed a definitive character of … something else. There was the slap of skin on skin, flesh on flesh,
in regular rhythmical movements, accompanied by semi-stifled groans.

I should have politely withdrawn, of course. Whenever my ledger is closed, this entry is unlikely to end up on the credit side. Softly, I tiptoed to the door, leaned forward carefully, held my breath and peered through the gap between door and jamb.

Kristine Rørdal was lying prone across the desk. Staring ahead in dark ecstasy and tossing her head with every thrust her body received from behind. Her top half was fully covered, but someone had pulled down her trousers and was pumping away between those milky white thighs with determined strokes. She didn’t seem to be objecting, and when I heard his voice I realised that every right was on his side.

‘This is for your sinful life! This is for your bastard! You bitch! You whore! You tart!’ It was Lars Rørdal giving us all the variants of loose women he had in his repertoire.

‘Yes!’ groaned Kristine, rolling her eyes. ‘Yes! Yes! Yes …’

Without a further sound I cautiously withdrew. Step by step, down to reception. I opened the door, careful not to make any noise, stepped outside and closed it quietly after me.

I stood breathing out until I had my respiration back to normal. What I had experienced had made an impression on me, in several ways. But the detective in me had focussed on what Lars Rørdal had said. ‘
This is for your bastard!
’ Was he talking about Ole? And, if so, who was the father?

I was in two minds as to what to do next.

I could wait for ten minutes or so and take a punt on them having finished, perhaps make sure that my arrival created more noise than before, bang the door, ring the bell in reception and ask in a loud voice if anyone was there. Or I could do what I had actually come to do: try to get a conversation with Gunvor Matre and Bjørn Brekkhus, preferably both together.

The latter was probably the better idea. I glanced at the abandoned fish hall where we had found Stein Svenson, confirmed that there were no boats moored today and then made my way up the slope to the chapel.

Once there, I found myself confronted with another decision. For a moment I stood eyeing the small, red house with the white curtains. I recalled the glimpse of a woman’s face the first time I had walked past. Now I knew that in all probability it had been Gunvor Matre.

The house looked sombre and forbidding. There was nothing to suggest she had any visitors. I continued through the copse and over the rocks to the cross. I was still a long way off when I saw the tall, erect figure of Bjørn Brekkhus. He was staring up at the cross, as motionless as if he had turned to stone. He was unaware of my presence until I was right next to him.

He was standing close to the cross. To get there he had stepped over the cordon the police had left, secured around some sizeable boulders they had found.

‘Veum? What are you doing here?’

I stayed the other side of the cordon. ‘I tried to ring you. Again.’

He looked at me suspiciously. ‘And you were in such a hurry that you followed me here?’

‘No. I had business here anyway. What about you? Why are you here?’

He ran a large hand through his slicked-back, steel-grey hair. ‘We saw the news item on Wednesday evening. And read the papers the next day. How unbelievable that it should be Mons! When Ranveig rang to tell us, it came as a shock … I couldn’t believe it could be true. Him going missing was bad enough. I would have understood it if he’d drowned, as Lea did. But this grotesque act …’ He turned back to the cross. ‘It’s incomprehensible, stringing him up on a cross, like some common thief.’

‘Or a saviour.’

‘What?’

‘We probably connect Jesus the Saviour with the cross rather than the two thieves.’

‘You know what I meant.’

‘Yes, of course …’ I had this incurable weakness: I could never take a word at its face value. I always had to split it down the middle.

‘Who could have done it?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘But you were here when they found him?’  

‘How do you know?’

‘Ranveig said.’

‘Yes, I was as good as in the front row. But it was Lars Rørdal who found him.’

‘Lars?’

‘Yes, do you know him?’

‘Oh, yes. Can’t deny that.’ His eyes glazed over. ‘There was a time …’ He looked around him. ‘In my younger days, I often pootled around these islands in a boat, Veum. When you get as old as I am and you know your sojourn on earth is finite you often hark back to the time when you were young and full of hope and had the best years in front of you. And now that’s one hell of a long time ago.’

‘Mons and you were childhood friends, I’m told.’

‘Actually, it was more like teenage friends. I was four or five years older than him. But we were both boat enthusiasts, and when you chugged around like we did … You know, there were dances on the moles and quays, and not just official ones. Someone had a battery-operated gramophone. That was all that was needed. Or someone had brought along an accordion or just a guitar. On rare occasions a band came over from Bergen, but then that was at a youth centre and a closed arrangement. I can remember that the Stringers came here once and a band called the Harpers …’

‘The Harpers, yes. I knew those boys.’

‘And young people came from all over, north and south. Now and then there was the odd dust-up, and as I was over twenty I was often used as the law-enforcement man. You wouldn’t believe it today, but Lars, he was a bit of a bruiser in those days. And more often than not he got involved in fights over Kristine.’

‘Kristine?’

‘Oh, yes, she was quite a looker, I can tell you. There were loads of boys drooling over her, but Lars guarded her like the crown jewels.’

‘They were together even then?’

‘Yes, at least they got together then.’

‘Mons also had a soft spot for her, didn’t he?’  

‘Yes, but they became friends again … afterwards.

‘After what?’

He hesitated. ‘I don’t know …’

‘Come on. Spit it out. Don’t you mealy-mouth me.’

‘Well … OK. Once, one late summer’s evening on the quay in Soleibotn, I think it was, there was a dance at the harbour. Kristine suddenly disappeared, and Lars was absolutely desperate. He thought something had happened to her. She was in the bushes having a pee, we said. But no. He sent a group of us to look for her, in all directions, and, well, it was me who found them.’

‘Kristine and Mons?’

‘Yes, they had scrambled up a slope, crawled behind some bushes and … well, I think you understand.’

‘They were screwing?’

He raised both hands. ‘She had her knickers round her ankles, that much I can say. And they didn’t protest when I told them to go back down. They looked pretty sheepish, I can tell you. I packed Mons off ahead so that Lars wouldn’t get suspicious and afterwards I accompanied Kristine safely back to the dance. Straight afterwards she and Lars went off in his boat. Early that autumn Lars converted, and they never went dancing again, neither he nor Kristine. By the following year they were married and had Ole.’

‘And what’s the time scale here?’

‘Erm … early 60s. 1962–3.’

‘And later …’

‘Later? What do you mean?’

‘Did you meet Lars and Kristine again?’

‘Only sporadically. I rarely came out here. And if I did, it was by boat. But Mons and I kept in touch.’

‘And Lars and Mons: do you know if they stayed in touch?’

‘As long as Lea was alive they did.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, that wasn’t so surprising. After all, they were related.’

‘Related? You mean …?’

‘Lea was his sister.’

‘Lea’s maiden name was Rørdal?’

‘Yes.’

‘But … Did she also go to these harbour dances?’

‘No, never. They came from a deeply religious family, both of them. Lars broke out, as I said, before finding his way home, as he put it.’

‘But how did she meet Mons then?’

‘It came about because he spent his summer holidays here. As you can imagine, this match wasn’t very popular in her house. Our Inner Mission is not that far from the Taliban, Veum. They refused point-blank, but she stuck to her guns, and for some years after the wedding I don’t think she had any contact with her family at all. But as time passed, things eased, especially when the children were born. Nevertheless, we shouldn’t ignore the fact that the psychological afflictions she suffered in later life had their origin in this breach with her family and the feelings that must have produced in her.’

‘Now I understand even better why he was so shaken after finding Mons. Lars Rørdal, I mean, on Wednesday.’

A picture was beginning to emerge here, which as yet I couldn’t fully interpret. Lars, Kristine and Mons. Mons and Lea. Kristine, Mons and Lea. And Lars again.

‘Did you ever talk about those times, you and Mons?’ I asked.

‘About when we used to go to dances? Only superficially. The way you talk about old times and mutual acquaintances.’

‘But today you came out here …?’

‘Yes. As I said, I wanted to see the scene of the crime.’

I pointed to the cordon. ‘You’re supposed to stay this side.’

He looked down, as though it was the first time he had noticed. ‘They’ve done all the investigating they needed to do.’ He looked up again. ‘Do you know whether they have any suspicions?’

‘The police?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re closer to them than me. I imagine you would know. You have contacts, don’t you?’  

‘Yes, I do, but I haven’t asked anyone. Anyway, it’s limited what they’re prepared to say to outsiders, even if you’re an ex-colleague. ‘And you, Veum? Did you find anything while you were searching for him?’

‘Hmm … In brief, yes and no. There were conflicts in the family, that’s obvious. Ranveig was a red rag to a bull as far as both children were concerned. There was the feud about this wind farm. The environmental lobby was against it – or at least parts of it. The power companies were for, naturally enough. Mons Mæland had changed sides, as Ranveig told us when we were at their cabin. And then there’s the old land deal which has come under the spotlight.’

‘The land …?’

‘That’s actually why I’ve come here today. To talk to Gunvor Matre. But it suits me very well that you’re here, too.’

He frowned. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘Have you heard about this? During the survey on Wednesday it came out that someone called Stein Svenson, who is a kind of provisional second-in-command at NmV – Naturvernere mot Vindkraft, in case you didn’t know – has let it be known via his solicitor, Johannes Bringeland, that they’re going to query the legal status of the 1988 land sale.’

‘I see …’

‘As you perhaps remember, you and Gunvor Matre were witnesses at the signing of the contract.’

‘Yes, that could well be right. She was a nurse from the home where the vendor had been admitted.’

‘His name was Per Nordbø.’

‘Yes, something like that.’

‘But you witnessed another sale in which Gunvor Matre was involved.’

‘Did I?’

‘The year after. When she bought the plot by the chapel off Mons Mæland. You and Jarle Glosvik signed.’

‘Yes, now it’s coming back to me. But I just had the contract shoved into my hand by Mons. I had to sign that the man was in his right mind.’

‘And was he?’

‘Absolutely! But what on earth has that got to do with all this?’

‘I was given this assignment by another client. So let’s take you first: You maintain that Per Nordbø was in his right mind when he signed over the land in 1988?’

‘I certainly do. Otherwise I wouldn’t have signed.’ He pointedly stretched out his left arm to check his watch. ‘But now I’ve got to get back. I have a ferry to catch.’

‘Yes, I spoke to your wife. She was going to keep your dinner hot, she said.’

‘Right …’ He stepped across the red-and-white tape, turned round and cast a final glance at the cross, at the small skerries and the vast sea beyond, then sighed heavily, shook his head and went on his way. The light from the afternoon sun fell over us, pale and colourless, as I joined him.

‘I spoke to Ranveig last night,’ I said.

‘Uhuh.’

‘She made a confession.’

He glanced at me. ‘About what?’

‘She confessed that she and Mons had already started a relationship before Lea went missing.’

He slowed his pace. ‘She and Mons: did Lea know about them?’

‘According to Ranveig, Mons had told Lea the night before she disappeared.’

He came to an abrupt halt. ‘For heaven’s sake, man! This changes everything. There was never any talk about it at the time.’

‘You never investigated this aspect?’

‘No, we had to believe … Mons assured us there had never been any disagreements between Lea and him, that they had a normal … She always went for a morning swim and there must have been an accident. But now …’ He threw his arms in the air. ‘Naturally enough, we’d considered suicide. Had we known this, we would have considered other options, and I personally … I would have had to stand down from the investigation because of my long-standing friendship with Mons. I’m sure you understand.’  

‘The case isn’t time-barred.’

‘No, but what good would it do? Lea died sixteen years ago. Mons is dead now. Ranveig …’

‘Yes, she claims she doesn’t know anything. She says Mons and she always feared that it was suicide, precipitated by what they had done. And from what I know now, Lea had broken with her family to marry Mons. And she had experienced serious post-natal depression. How bitter must it have been for her to discover that her marriage had broken down too? Completely. How difficult it would have been for her to go back home – after all that. Perhaps putting an end to it all was a simpler solution?’

He looked at me glumly. ‘So why rake everything up again after all these years?’ Slowly he started to walk on. You’ve upset me, Veum. I had the wool pulled over my eyes, by the person I regarded as my very best friend.’

I said nothing. We were silent until we were on the road between the chapel and the red house belonging to Gunvor Matre.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ I asked him.

‘Why should I? I don’t know her. I’ve only met her once, the time we signed the contract. Besides … the ferry.’

‘There are several ferries.’

‘That right, Veum? Sometimes I actually feel the very last ferry has gone. And that we’re stranded here forever.’

‘Here?’

‘Here,’ he said, downcast, and in one long, lingering glance he took in everything from the vaulted sky and the sea to the small cluster of houses and the bridge superstructure over to Byrknesøy, the top of which we could glimpse above the chapel roof.

Then he nodded and went down to the car park. I stood watching for a moment, then left the road for the path to the red house. This time a curtain definitely twitched, and I hadn’t reached the house before the door opened and she was standing in the doorway waiting for me.

‘Gunvor Matre?’

She nodded briefly. ‘And you are …?’

‘Varg Veum.’

‘And what is it you want?’

‘A little chat … about what’s happened.’

‘You mean …?’ She glanced towards the trees hiding the cross and the mountain plateau.

‘Amongst other things.’

For a few more seconds she eyed me with suspicion. Then she stepped aside, looking quickly down at the other houses to see if there was anyone watching what was going on. ‘You’d better come in. But take off your shoes. I’ve just cleaned.’

I did as she instructed, like the well brought-up man that I am.