We Shall Inherit the Wind (17 page)

For the second time in a very short time Jakob E Hamre of the Bergen Police arrived on Brennøy in Gulen by helicopter. As he stepped out of the side door and crossed the car park he clapped his eyes on me and said: ‘We have to stop meeting like this, Veum. Before this week I’d never been to Brennøy. Now this is the second time in as many days, and you’re here this time as well. What’s more, you look dreadful. What the hell’s going on?’

Behind him appeared Helleve, Solheim, Annemette Bergesen, Kvamme and Pedersen. Ole Rørdal stood in front of the Subaru four-wheel drive with his arms wrapped around his mother, who had sunk into a kind of phlegmatic apathy after the first shock, when she went storming down the quay screaming as if she had been hit by debris. In a crowd at the top of the quay, still at a safe distance from the centre of events, stood a tiny handful of islanders, those who had been at home at this time of day from the look of things. On the margins, not speaking to anyone, I saw Gunvor Matre.

The police viewed the damaged bridge, shaking their heads. From here, the result of the explosion looked even more dramatic, as if the very umbilical cord from Brennøy to the rest of the world had been cut.

‘Jesus!’ Solheim said. ‘That must have been quite an explosion.’

Helleve scrutinised my face and gravely shook his head. ‘That could have been curtains for you, Varg.’

‘That was how it felt as I sailed through the air.’

Hamre looked at me in amazement. ‘And it was Stein Svenson who set it off?’

I nodded to where the explosive had been placed. ‘He’s down there, under a block of concrete.’  

‘Right. Do you think it was suicide?’

‘No. We got to him too quickly. I’m sure the idea had been to move to a safe distance before triggering the explosion, but then Ole Rørdal and I turned up, and Ole …’

‘Yes?’

‘He tried to wrestle the mobile phone, remote control … whatever it was in his hand … from him. And that was when the plastic explosive went off. So unbelievably bloody loud.’

He regarded me sombrely and sighed. Then he turned to Helleve. ‘Has the Chief of Police stopped all the traffic? No one will cross that bridge again.’

‘And my car’s here,’ I groaned.

Hamre smirked. ‘Robinson Crusoe, I presume! Perhaps you getting stuck here is the best thing that could have happened, Veum.’

‘Hellooooo!’ a voice cried from the other side of Brennøy Sound. Lars Rørdal had driven his battered Opel Kadett down to one of the quays there. Now he was standing on a pontoon with his hands funnelled round his mouth and shouting to us, like Moses by the Red Sea. But it was impossible to hear what.

Kristine and Ole went onto the quay, waved to him and I heard Ole call: ‘We’re fine! Talk later!’

Lars Rørdal called back, but it was still impossible to decipher what he was shouting.

Hamre cleared his throat beside me. ‘We’d better take a peep at the crime scene. Afterwards let’s assemble in the cabin lounge, like last time. Could this have been what they were arguing about on Tuesday night, Veum?’

I nodded. ‘Very likely. It may even cast some light on the attack on Svenson the same morning – or whenever it happened.’

He puckered his lips in thought. ‘Possibly.’ He turned to his officers. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’

We went down to the quay together, crossed the rocks by the sea and to the place where Stein Svenson lay under the heavy concrete block. ‘Bloody hell!’ said Hamre. ‘We’re going to need a crane …’ He turned
to Helleve. ‘Suppose it will have to be a seaborne crane, will it? Can you requisition one ASAP? I reckon they might have one in Mongstad. In which case, it’s not so far away.’

We stood in a semi-circle studying Svenson. I could feel my stomach turning over. It had been enough of a shock to find Mons Mæland strung up on a cross facing the sea, but I had never met Mæland; I had only a vague personal impression of him. With Svenson it was different. It was no more than a day since I had been to his house, the tumbledown smallholding in Bontveit, asked him questions about the conversation between him and Ole Rørdal and discussed the matter of the land deal. Nothing would come of that now, unless Bringeland decided to run the case on behalf of the estate, in view of the agreed commission.

I couldn’t say that I had liked Svenson. I hadn’t found him particularly likeable. But he had been active and alive. Now he would be lying under a slab of concrete until a crane arrived to lift it off him, although that would not make him any less squashed than he already was.

‘Well …’ Hamre motioned to Pedersen and Kvamme. ‘You’d better start recording whatever data you can find. At least there’s no doubt about the course of events or the cause of death in this case, but we’ll have to document it as best we can. I’d be very interested to know what type of explosive was used and where it came from, for example.’

Pedersen nodded. Kvamme’s eyes scoured the ground.

‘The rest of us will go back up. Annemette? Will you fetch the first-aid box from the helicopter? You’ll have the honour of sticking plasters on our friend, the Master Detective.’

Annemette Bergesen grinned. ‘With the greatest of pleasure.’

‘It’s not …,’ I started.

‘It’s an order, Veum,’ barked Hamre, and his colleagues laughed soundlessly behind his back while Helleve went to shake my hand, as if to suggest that now I was in the force, too.

As we went up to the quay we heard the sound of a small boat with an outboard motor docking. The engine was switched off, Lars Rørdal stood up in the boat and threw a rope to Ole, who tied it to a small bollard. Then the preacher grabbed the edge of the quay with
both hands and hauled himself up. He had barely stood upright when Kristine threw herself in his arms, let out a scream and burst into tears. Ole stepped back as though embarrassed by his mother’s emotional outburst. Lars looked at him over Kristine’s shoulder and asked him a question. Ole answered, Lars’ jaw dropped and glanced towards the bridge, horrified.

‘There has to be a connection,’ Hamre said as we climbed onto the quay.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Between these events. Mæland’s murder and this … what shall we call it? … act of terrorism?’

I patted his arm. ‘There’s one thing you should know before we go up to …’ I turned my back on the Rørdal family so that they wouldn’t be able to read my lips.

Hamre stopped. ‘Oh, yes …’

‘I’ve heard rumours that Ole Rørdal is not Lars’ son. One of the paternity candidates is said to be Mons Mæland.’

His eyes narrowed as he glanced over my shoulder at Kristine, Lars and Ole. ‘And how old is Ole Rørdal?’

‘Thirty-five by my reckoning.’

He slowly shook his head. ‘In other words, we’re talking … How much water has passed under the bridge since that happened, eh? I know you’re a bit of a terrier for digging up rotten bones. The deeper they’re buried, the better. But what the hell’s a potential paternity suit thirty-five years ago got to do with a crime today – not to mention …’ He flapped an arm at the bridge. ‘This?’

‘Revenge is mine, saith the Lord, they say in the circles Lars Rørdal moves in. Or something like that.’

‘I know you’re well versed in biblical matters, Veum.’

‘But what if the Lord didn’t avail Himself of the opportunity? In the end someone might have given Him a helping hand?’

‘So you think I should rattle skeletons in the Rørdal family cupboard? You’re inventive, I’ll give you that.’

I pointed up at the chapel. ‘On the wall there is a quote from the
Bible. Something about destroying your own house and inheriting the wind. That might be …’

‘Veum, sorry to have to interrupt you, but actually I don’t have the time for these theological reflections.’ He gently pushed me aside. ‘I have a job to do. But you’re welcome to join us. We haven’t finished with you … yet. Besides you need a few plasters.’

Then he passed by me, went to the Rørdal family, said a few words to them and pointed up to the cabins. I shrugged my apologies to Helleve and Solheim, who had both stopped to hear what I had to say, then followed Hamre. Behind us, Annemette was on her way up from the helicopter with the first-aid box under her arm.

Lars looked pale and shaken. Kristine’s cheeks were tear-stained and her eyes red-rimmed. Ole met my gaze with the same ghastly realisation as when we had both got up and seen Stein Svenson under the heavy slab of concrete. His face was covered with crusts of blood and he was still holding one arm. Otherwise he looked physically unscathed.

Hamre said: ‘Can we go in?’

Kristine nodded.

‘I’m in shock,’ Lars said. ‘Deep shock.’

‘Yes, aren’t we all?’ Hamre said. Then he turned round, annoyed, and searched the skies, to the south-east. Another helicopter hung in the air over Byrknesøy heading their way. ‘Bloody media. Now we’ve got them above us again.’ He pointed to Solheim. ‘Bjarne, keep them at arm’s length, from the crime scene and up here.’ Then he faced Helleve. ‘Where the hell are the local police?’

I noticed Lars Rørdal twitch at every expletive that was uttered, but he kept his counsel, watching the policeman exercise his authority with a mixture of disgust and alarm.

Helleve held his mobile phone up in the air in front of him. ‘I’ve got them on the line. They’re coming over by boat as well. They just have to erect barriers at the entrance to the bridge. And the crane’s on the way.’

‘Good.’

Annemette Bergesen had gone over to Kristine and now
accompanied her into the building. She cast a glance in my direction. ‘Are you coming, Varg?’

‘Yes, I just have to make a quick call.’

Before I joined them I phoned Karin and told her what had happened before she heard on the radio news and elsewhere.

She reacted instantly. ‘Oh my God, Varg! Are you hurt?’

‘Just a few scratches.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yes, yes. I’m just going to get some sticking plasters.’

‘But surely this can’t be connected with the other business, can it?’

‘The police think so, but we’ll have to see. Are you still at work?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there have been no sightings?’

‘No, no.’

‘I was wondering … This morning I found out that Lea Mæland was born a Rørdal. If you could be bothered, would you mind searching for her name and see what you can dig up?’

‘Dig up? What do you mean? She was declared dead about fifteen years ago.’

‘Yes, but you know how my brain works …’

‘Yes, indeed, I’ve definitely learned. When are you coming back?’

‘No idea. My car’ll be stuck here for God knows how long. I’ll have to hitch a lift in Hamre & co’s helicopter.’

‘Goodness, I can feel my body going numb.’

‘You’re not the only one.’

We hung up. The second helicopter was still hovering in the air above us, uncertain whether to land or not as the one that had brought the police was still on the quay. Through one of the side windows I glimpsed a camera, already preserving the damaged bridge for posterity, no doubt. Once again we were going to end up on a nationwide TV channel this afternoon and evening. I had no personal pressing need to be in the spotlight. I quickly followed the others into the cabin.

Kristine Rørdal poured coffee for the police officers. Resuming a fixed routine seemed to be a source of succour.

Annemette Bergesen attended to the cuts on my face with skilled hands. When she had finished she surveyed the results with satisfaction and mumbled: ‘You probably won’t be offered any major film roles this week, Varg.’

‘Nothing new there then.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Then she nodded, took her notebook and made a beeline across the floor for Kristine. It was clear that she had been instructed to interview her first.

Ole Rørdal sat at one of the tables by the window with Atle Helleve. The interview was already in progress. His father stood behind the reception desk, somewhat dispirited, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He exuded an air of lumbering loneliness, an adolescent ungainliness that I couldn’t make tally with the eloquent preacher I had met on Tuesday morning, nor the fiery lover who had been pumping away at his loyal spouse a few hours ago.

Hamre beckoned to me. First though I had to … ‘Veum. Over here.’ He led me to the furthest table from reception. We took our cups of coffee with us.

We sat down at the table. Hamre leaned forward and said in a low voice: ‘Run this by me one more time, Veum. What are you doing here again – and what can you tell me about what’s happened?’

In brief outline, I reported back on my new assignment regarding the land deal in 1988, told him about my trip to Eivindvik and the information I had gleaned there, and how it had led me to Brennøy to have a chin-wag with Gunvor Maltre.  

‘Did anything come of it?’

‘Not a lot. Everything to do with the contracts seems to have been above board, at least if we can believe the witnesses involved. So far only Bringeland the solicitor and Stein Svenson have made any objection, and the latter, well …’

‘He’s dropped the case. I think we can safely say that. Did you meet anyone else?’

‘By the cross I met the second witness from 1988, the ex-Police Chief in Lindås, Bjørn Brekkhus.’

‘Yes, I can remember him. What was he doing there?’

‘He and Mons Mæland were close friends, from their younger days. He wanted to see the crime scene, he said.’

‘And where is he now?’

‘He went home a couple of hours ago. His wife’s in a wheelchair apparently.’

‘Any more?’

‘Well, when I came back here I popped in to …’

‘Again? You’d been here earlier in the day, hadn’t you?’

‘Yes, but briefly. No one was here …’

‘No one?’

‘Not that I noticed. But Kristine Rørdal said her husband had been there … before.’

‘Right …’ Hamre looked moderately interested. ‘Go on …’

‘On my return I noticed Svenson’s car, which I recognised from the previous day.’

‘Yesterday?’

‘Yes, I went to see him in Bontveit. We discussed that yesterday, Hamre. That was where I bumped into Tangenes.’

‘Ah, yes, that’s right. But you haven’t seen him today?’

‘No. I asked Kristine if she’d seen him. She hadn’t. We chatted and then her son, Ole, came in and asked exactly the same question. He said we had to hurry and I had to go with him. We ran down … He obviously knew where to go. We found Svenson preparing the explosive. The rest you know.’  

He sat staring into space for a moment. Then he carried on: ‘But what links all these people? And by that I mean not only what’s happened today but what happened on Wednesday as well.’

‘Well, you can go right back to the very beginning when Mons Mæland and Kristine née whatever spent their summers here. And they met Lars Rørdal and Lea, his sister, who both lived here. As children, and later as teenagers. They even went dancing together, on the quay, because Lars hadn’t found salvation yet, even though the home he came from was pretty strict. At some point Kristine became pregnant, Lars took responsibility and married her. Later Mons and Lea also got married.’

‘But she’s dead?’

‘Yes, she disappeared in 1982. Apparently she went swimming in the sea and was never seen again. You could talk to Bjørn Brekkhus about that. He led the investigation at the time.’

He nodded.

‘But there are some who claim that Lars couldn’t be Ole’s dad. At any rate, he and Kristine had no further children. And, according to what Brekkhus told me today, Mons could easily have been the guilty party.’

‘Yes, but this is thirty-five years ago …’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Let’s concentrate on the potential links between Stein Svenson and Mons Mæland.’

‘You know them already. On the one hand, there’s the land deal, with Svenson representing the possible heirs. On the other, there’s the political struggle, with him standing up against the plans for a wind farm here and, the way I see it, willing to resort to much more fanatical methods than, among others, Ole Rørdal, who in this regard compared it to terrorism.’

‘That’s your interpretation.’

‘Yes, as I said. You’ll have to see what Ole says about this. Mons Mæland’s daughter, Else, is also in NmV, by the way, and according to her she had persuaded her father to change his mind, too, before he disappeared.’  

‘And then there’s …’ He held up one hand and counted on his fingers. ‘Mons Mæland’s son, Kristoffer, and the family company. There’s Norcraft with Erik Utne. There’s TWO with Stine Sagvåg. All supporters of the wind-power project.’

‘You’re forgetting someone. The Deputy Chairman, Jarle Glosvik and his political pals at the council. He was the one who hired Trond Tangenes.’

Hamre looked at me, scepticism gleaming from his eyes. ‘Glosvik and Tangenes? Does that sound likely?’

‘Glosvik runs a local business with iffy finances, I’ve been told. For him personally it would be of the utmost importance that the wind farm here becomes a reality. That’s why he went for the heavy artillery with Tangenes.’

‘Have you got any evidence for this, Veum?’

‘Sort of evidence. Circumstantial, as you usually call it. I feel fairly sure I’m right though.’

‘OK, but it’s hardly likely that either of these characters would have taken Mæland’s life, is it.’

‘Harrumph.’ I rolled my shoulders as a sign that I couldn’t answer.

‘Yes, of course you’re an old anti-capitalist, I know, but in peaceful little Norway …? If Russian capital had been in the picture we could have discussed this, but …’

‘TWO is an international company today,’ I found myself saying, until it struck me that this was my employer I was talking about.

‘Yes, OK, but …’

‘Perhaps you’ll have to go back thirty-five years after all, Hamre?’

He viewed me with displeasure. ‘Hardly. We found Mons’s car in Lindås yesterday morning, parked neatly on a forest road not far from Hundvin.’

‘I see. Any sign of an attack?’

‘Nothing. It was unlocked. Forensics is going through it now with a fine toothcomb.’

‘By the way … Cause of death? Have you got any further?’

He forced a weak smile. ‘You’d like to know, wouldn’t you. But …
Well, alright. The preliminary autopsy result suggests he was strangled. Furthermore, he’d been wrapped in what we believe must have been a plastic bag and kept chilled. Either in cold storage or dropped in the sea.’

‘Drowned then?’

‘No. Strangled.’ He held a hand to his throat. ‘Clear signs of strangulation round the larynx.’

‘Strangled with bare hands?’

‘No sign of a rope or the like at any rate. They used the rope to hang him.’

‘They?’

‘Yes. The perps, that is. It would have been quite a job for one person to hoist the body, although it can be done of course, if there’s something to stand on.’

‘And for the time being you have no suspects?’

Again that weak smile. ‘If we had, we would hardly have told you.’ He got up. ‘But we should be getting on with the job in hand. If you remember anything that might be of significance for the case, I hope you’ll contact us. If it were up to me, I’d like it to be Svenson who killed Mæland and what happened today a form of atonement.’

‘In which case you’d be assuming he committed suicide, but then it’s very improbable that he could have calculated where the slab of concrete would fall.’

‘Mm …’

‘And who knocked Svenson unconscious and left him bound hand and foot in the abandoned fish hall?’

‘Good question, Veum. Very good,’ said Hamre, looking very thoughtful. Then he beckoned Lars Rørdal over.

‘One last thing, Hamre. As you saw, my car’s on this side of the sound. Would it be possible to thumb a lift home with you?’

‘Had it been up to me, you would be staying here. However, then we’d have to come back and collect yet another body, so it’s fine. We’ll be here for quite some time, just so that you know.’

‘I’ll find some way to pass the time. Thank you.’  

He mustered a thin smile. Lars Rørdal had joined us and was waiting impatiently. I nodded to him as I passed. Behind the reception desk Kristine was in conversation with Annemette. Ole Rørdal and Atle Helleve still hadn’t exhausted all they had to talk about. So I went outside, strolled down to the quayside and took out my phone.

After some reflection I rang Stine Sagvåg. She was no less shocked than I had expected. ‘What is going on there, Varg? This is simply catastrophic.’

‘Do you mean from a human or a business perspective?’

‘Both. This Stein Svenson … I don’t know much more about him – only trivial details. But how could he be so desperate …?’

‘Someone went to great lengths to stop him doing this on Wednesday, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes. They were absolutely justified then. In stopping him, I mean. And now you’re telling me the bridge is destroyed as well. This could delay the project for years.’

‘Not impossible.’

‘I feel like swearing.’

‘Don’t restrain yourself on my account. I can tolerate most swear words.’

‘Oh, shut up.’

If that was the worst she could come up with, it would take a little more powder to blow my kneecaps off. ‘As far as the assignment’s concerned, one party has gone now, for good. Furthermore, neither of the two people I’ve spoken to has admitted that anything in any way shady took place. So unless someone submits a demand for Per Nordbø to be exhumed and examined to establish an advanced state of senility I feel sure that we – that is to say, you – have a strong case against Bringeland.’

‘Good. I’m happy with that.’ In a cool, business-like fashion she added: ‘Send us an invoice and we’ll regard the case as terminated.’

‘Thank you. See you another time.’

‘Maybe,’ she said, and rang off, without giving the impression that a reunion would be a top priority on her side of the Langfjellene mountains.

Such was life. I’d had two assignments in the course of a short week, and I couldn’t say either of them had been concluded to the complete satisfaction of either employer. I was on the point of admitting that Hamre was right. I should go round with a flag warning everyone I met: Beware of Veum. Death is nigh …

The crane from Mongstad had arrived. The guys on board the boat manoeuvred their way to the rocks where Svenson lay. I had no interest in seeing what he looked like after they had raised the concrete. Instead I walked in the opposite direction, sat down by the water’s edge and watched the gulls hovering, to all intents and purposes, aimlessly above the sound. But I knew this was an illusion, too. They were always hunting as well. In this respect we were relatives. But, unless I was much mistaken, they would have better results to show for their work than I would at the end of this day.