We Shall Inherit the Wind (8 page)

There were far fewer people in the dining room than I had anticipated. My dinner was served in solitary majesty next to the panoramic window overlooking the sound. Kristine Rørdal had changed into a flowery dress, small red-and-white blooms on a black background, an outfit that revealed many more of her generous curves than the one she had been wearing earlier in the day.

Without my asking, I was given a small hors d’oeuvre: parboiled potato slices with capelin roe, sour cream and herbs. When she enquired whether I wanted anything to drink with my food I allowed myself to be tempted by half a bottle of red wine.

‘So you serve alcohol?’ I asked when she brought me a glass and poured.

‘After six.’

‘What does your husband say to that?’

‘I run the business.’

‘
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil?
’

She flashed a smile. ‘The figures are there for all to see. Had it not been for the summer season, then …’

Her figure was there for all to see as well as she plied to and fro between the kitchen and the table. The fish dish she brought brimmed over with delicacies: at least three kinds of fish, shrimps, mussels, herbs, vegetables and a sauce that tasted out of this world.

‘And where are all the other guests?’

‘There aren’t so many. Ole and his group are making their own food. They’ve moved into one of the cabins.’

‘And the owner of the black Audi?’

‘He’d eaten in Bergen, he said.’

‘And his name is …?’

She looked at me in surprise. ‘I couldn’t possibly pass on that information.’

‘No?’

‘No. We have certain principles.’

‘Yeah, well, principles are there to be broken.’

‘Not mine,’ she said, slightly flushed, then retreated into the kitchen area.

I concentrated on the fish. After a while she returned and asked whether I liked the meal.

‘It’s the best fish casserole I’ve had for a long time.’

‘Thank you …’

‘So Ole and his crowd are ready for the fray tomorrow?’

‘Yes, I suppose they are.’ She sighed. ‘It ought to be a good cause that everyone could agree on.’

‘The wind farm?’

‘Yes, that’s the type of energy we all want. Instead of all the C02 we’re spewing out into the atmosphere every single day.’

‘Mm, I agree. But in a country with such a long coastline as ours, wouldn’t it be better to invest in wave power?’

‘They’ve tried that.’

‘It was a half-hearted effort in Øygarden, and it wasn’t properly thought through. But I hope they’re still working on new versions. If you want my opinion, I’d prefer to invest in wave rather than wind power. In this I’m actually on your son’s side. And your husband’s, for that matter, although for different reasons.’

‘Well, I take more of a regional politics stand here. It’s important that things happen outside the big towns.’

‘Yes, of course …’

She left me long enough to finish my meal in peace and quiet. Then she re-appeared. ‘Coffee?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Anything with it?’

‘What have you got?’

‘The selection isn’t immense, but the usuals: Cognac, liqueur …’

‘I have to admit you really push the boat out in chapel land.’

‘Seminar participants expect it.’

‘And Mammon wants his cut. Isn’t that so?’

‘From us all, doesn’t he. You must get paid for what you do as well?’

‘Yes, just about.’

She chuckled in a disarming way. ‘OK, what’s it to be?’

‘You don’t have any aquavit, do you?’

‘Only Løiten Linje.’

‘Then I’ll have that, please.’

When she returned with the coffee and aquavit, I asked: ‘And your husband … Doesn’t he have dinner?’

‘Not here. We live over there.’ She nodded towards Byrknesøy. ‘I eat afterwards. Alone.’

‘That sounds sad.’

‘That’s the way it is. When there are guests I have to sleep here.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve got a room upstairs.’ She indicated the mezzanine. ‘Safety regulations.’

‘Even if there’s only one guest?’

She nodded.

‘Such as Mons Mæland, for example?’

This time her face went scarlet. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I sincerely hope you’re not suggesting that … that …’ She searched for words.

‘No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant …’ I beat a hasty retreat. ‘What I said … a single guest.’

Her cheeks still red, she subjected me to a cool stare. ‘Those are the rules.’ Then she turned on her heel and left.

I slowly drank my coffee and ordered another aquavit. After the second glass I thanked her and went back to my room. She wished me a measured ‘good night’ from behind the reception desk. I spent the rest of the evening in front of the television screen and over a novel of the uncomplicated kind. Two unexplained murders and a detective who drank. Home from home.  

I slept dreamlessly until I woke with a start. Something had roused me, but I didn’t know what. A sound, something.

I looked around. It took me a second or two to remember where I was. Then I whipped the duvet aside and swung my feet out. The floor was cold underfoot. I looked at the door. No one. I turned my gaze to the window, which I had left open before I went to bed.

Now I could hear it. Loud voices, which soon afterwards were lowered.

I walked to the window, leaned over and looked out. It was dark outside. I couldn’t see anyone. I read the time under the TV set: 02.30.

I opened the window latch a bit further and leaned out. On the quay I glimpsed two people gesticulating furiously. They were Ole Rørdal and Stein Svenson. Then a third person appeared. Else Mæland. She strode between them, as if to pacify them, successfully it seemed. They continued to discuss, but with less arm-waving, and after a while the two fighting cocks disengaged. Else stayed with Ole while Stein made for the boat, grabbed the railing at the side and swung himself on board. Then he pointed peremptorily to the fishermen’s cabins and afterwards to the cockpit. His body language was unmistakeable:
Go to bed and I’ll stay here
.

I quickly moved away from the window and stood back while Else and Ole walked by underneath in heated conversation. As they passed Ole’s voice penetrated the night: ‘We’re not terrorists for Christ’s sake!’ Then the voices faded. I leaned forward and watched them for as long as I could.

When they had gone I stood for a while gazing at the quay and the moored boat. All of a sudden I noticed a movement in the narrow passage between two of the fishermen’s cabins. I leaned forward a bit further. Now I could see him clearly. He was a big, powerfully built man. It was hard to make out his facial features in the darkness, but there was no doubt he had his eye on the boat, as though expecting something to happen.

We both stood like that for close on ten minutes, me set back from the window, expectant, him in silhouette, like a wax doll, with the white
boat in the background. Then he slowly slid back into the passage. Immediately afterwards I heard the low creak of a door being quietly closed. Only then did I come away from the window.

Nevertheless it was more like twenty minutes before I crawled back into bed. I wasn’t able to sleep anyway, not until it began to lighten in the east, over the mountains in Masfjorden, and then it was much too late. The night shrank to nothing, and I dragged myself up in the morning, as hesitantly as a tardy butterfly, unprepared for September, the month when summer is definitively over and implacable autumn awaits on the horizon.

There were only two of us for breakfast, and we sat on opposite sides of the room, as silent as the wallpaper. I had nodded to the well-built man sitting at a table next to reception when I entered. He had nodded back, but said nothing.

Kristine Rørdal had set out a simple breakfast buffet, but still had to replenish it with a couple of extra fried eggs for me after the other guest had taken all of those in the tray. He was in the process of demolishing an impressive spread: a pile of bread, eggs, bacon and bean stew plus two or three big glasses of milk, a couple of cups of coffee and a sliced grapefruit. But then, judging by his size, he must have weighed around a hundred kilos, which were well distributed over the fit-looking body; he had broad shoulders, supple thighs and two hands no one would want to be on the receiving end of, not even to shake politely.

As for me, I stayed constant to my regular four slices of bread and partook of some herring in tomato sauce, pepper mackerel, ham and marmalade, as well as the two fried eggs Kristine brought to my table and served personally to ensure they didn’t also disappear down the primordial void. She was wearing the same dress as the previous evening, but looked freshly showered and sprightly, as if she’d had a good night’s sleep, all alone in her bed.

‘When are you expecting the main influx?’ I asked.

‘They’ve reserved a conference room from two o’clock, so I suppose they’ll do the on-site survey first.’

‘Ole and the others … they couldn’t even be tempted by breakfast?’

She didn’t answer, just gently shook her head and returned whence she had come.

The other guest sat at his table eating, immense and self-assured.
His gaze was turned inward, almost meditative, and there was a tiny smile playing around his lips, as if what he saw inside his skull was all bright lights and laughter. I allowed the occasional glance to stray in his direction. I was fairly certain he was the man I had observed from my window last night. If I had seen him more clearly it is unlikely I would have been left in any doubt, for his appearance was quite striking. There were two pronounced clefts in his large face: one in the middle of his chin and one between his eyebrows. His hair was cropped short, dark blond, and he was dressed like a Secret Service man, in a dark-grey, made-to-measure suit with a jacket full enough to conceal a weapon in a shoulder holster. His clothing was not very well chosen if he was here to take part in the survey. However, the black, ankle-high military boots with sturdy soles were more suitable for such activities.

He didn’t hang around nursing the last cup of coffee. As soon as he had finished breakfast, he demonstratively pushed away his plate, heaved himself up, gave a brief nod and left the room at a controlled tempo, quick and efficient, without a word of thanks to Kristine. I met her eyes across the desk and we were both thinking the same, it seemed.

‘Nice chap,’ I said.

‘Not one of the chattiest,’ she answered.

‘What was his name again, did you say?’

She sent me an indulgent smile, shook her head and returned to what she was doing.

I sat over my cup of coffee and said no more. A short time afterwards she brought me the latest edition of
Bergens Tidende
and showed me the front page.

Fight over Turbines in Gulen
, one of the headlines read. The opening paragraph explained that demonstrations were expected during the planned inspection of Brennøy in Gulen today, and the newspaper quoted both Deputy Chairman Jarle Glosvik of Gulen District Council and Ole Rørdal of NmV, who made diametrically opposed statements, which came as no surprise to me, or indeed anyone else, I supposed.

I said nothing to Kristine about what I had heard during the night,
but did ask gently whether it was her impression that Stein Svenson and her son were not entirely of one mind, either. She shrugged.

I finished reading the newspaper. Before going back to my room I strolled down to the harbour. Another boat had arrived early that morning, a medium-sized fishing smack with fifteen to twenty young people on board, colourfully dressed with hair of varying lengths and hues, some men with beards, an entourage undoubtedly destined to join NmV and Ole Rørdal in the fight against the wind farm. Ole was already in full flow explaining the situation to them. He pointed northwards and gesticulated in a way that left no one in any doubt. Else Mæland was among the others, easy to spot in her red anorak. I couldn’t see Stein Svenson anywhere.

I spent the next couple of hours in my room. This wasn’t one of my best days as a private investigator. Finally, at twelve, something started to happen. The demonstrators had already gathered on the quay. They had produced posters and banners from nowhere and were ready to meet the assembled world press with their opinions on the matter.
Renewable energy? Not at any price! NO to power lines across the country! Preserve the coastal landscape! Wind power is a loss-maker, both economically and ecologically!
were some of the slogans.

Ole Rørdal held a portable PA system over one shoulder and stood with a microphone in one hand. Else Mæland shifted around restlessly, her eyes alternately jumping from her watch to the bridge over Byrknesøy Sound. Stein Svenson was still nowhere to be seen. At one point I saw Ole call Else over. He asked her about something, but she splayed her hands to signal she didn’t know. He pointed to the bridge, but she shook her head.

If nothing else, we were lucky with the weather: intermittent cloud with the odd patch of sun over the greyish-blue water, and the temperature had risen since the previous day. Just a few sudden gusts of wind spoiled the picture, as if the weather gods hadn’t quite made up their minds about when to usher in the next blast.

The official participants of the survey arrived in a mini-procession, judging by the assembled column from the ferry in Skipavik. At the
front was a big, grey Toyota Rav4, behind it a black Mercedes, a VW minibus, a white Ford Mondeo and bringing up the rear a Volvo 850 estate, white with a red speed stripe and POLITI in large, dark-blue letters on both sides. As if in a rehearsed formation, they all turned into the car park beside the vehicles already parked there, among them my Corolla, the black Audi and the battered Opel Kadett from the day before. It was a collection of cars that would have had a second-hand car salesman rubbing his hands with undisguised glee. Personally, I was more interested in who got out of them.

For a moment or two it was hard to grasp what was happening. I recognised a casually dressed Kristoffer Mæland as he stepped out of the mid-size Toyota SUV. He strode around the vehicle to where an elegant woman in leisure attire had effortlessly swung her legs out onto the ground. They exchanged a few words, and with swift professional ease she took stock of the situation.

The four doors of the black Mercedes opened and out popped four youthful men with clean-shaven faces, and also in new leisurewear, as if this were an après-ski gathering they had been invited to and not an inspection of the exposed westernmost Vestland coast. I guessed that this was the Norcraft delegation with Erik Utne at the head.

There was something more congenial about the big blue Puffa jacket and brown trousers of the man getting out of the minibus with a couple of other people kitted out in practical clothing. I recognised him as the Jarle Glosvik from the newspaper article I had read that morning. I thought I also recognised the tall, sparsely haired man getting out of the white Mondeo. It was Johannes Bringeland, a business lawyer from the middle stratum of Bergen society.

Glosvik looked around and then nodded quickly in my direction before turning to his travelling companions. For a moment I wondered whether he had nodded to me, but when I took a discreet peek to the side I saw the immense guy from the breakfast room had also come outside and was leaning against the wall by the entrance to reception. Right, OK, and I made a mental note. Jarle Glosvik and What’s-His-Face.  

Two uniformed officers stepped out of the police car. They quickly took their bearings and then focussed their attention on the demonstrators by the two boats in the harbour. Like a delayed rear-guard, five minutes after the others, the sole press representatives made an appearance, a female journalist and a male photographer in an unwashed white Mazda, which, according to the logo on the door, belonged to a local Nordhordland newspaper,
Strilen
.

After spotting me, Kristoffer crossed the square. ‘Veum … any news on my father?’

‘I’m afraid not, no. If he doesn’t turn up here, I’ve recommended your … that is, Ranveig … should go to the police.’

With a serious expression, he said: ‘I don’t understand why she hasn’t already done that.’

‘I imagine she was also hoping he would turn up.’

He scanned the crowd. He pressed his lips together when he read the text of the demonstrators’ banner and saw his sister on the quay. But he made no comment.

The woman with whom he arrived came over to us, accompanied by the four young men. Kristoffer Mæland said perfunctorily: ‘This is Veum. He’s making some investigations for us regarding my father’s disappearance. I think I told you about it.’

The woman held out her hand. ‘Stine Sagvåg. District Manager of TWO.’ She was around forty, had a narrow face and short, auburn hair with grey streaks, unless it was vice versa. ‘We’re all concerned about Mæland. Is there any news?’ She looked me in the eye.

‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’

There was a resigned set to her face and she twisted to the side as if disappointed that yet another person had not done their job. Then I was introduced to Erik Utne and his three henchmen, all with the same polished appearance I had noticed when they stepped out of the car. They reminded me of estate agents, the smoothest variety, so anonymous that it was hard to tell them apart, however high up in the pecking order they were.

Jarle Glosvik joined us. He introduced his retinue as representatives
of two of the coalition parties on the local council, before suddenly turning to Bringeland and asking: ‘And who are you?’

Bringeland nodded to me. I already knew him. ‘Johannes Bringeland, of the law firm Bringeland & Kleve. I represent Stein Svenson.’

‘What?’ barked Jarle Glosvik. ‘In what capacity if I might ask?’

‘On behalf of the family.’

‘Which family?’ Kristoffer Mæland asked.

Johannes Bringeland lapped up all the attention for a second or two. Then he gave a formal cough. ‘Stein Svenson’s paternal grandfather was related to Per Nordbø, from whom, in 1988, Mæland Real Estate, in the person of Mons Mæland, bought the land in the north of Brennøy. We will launch a legal investigation into all the circumstances surrounding such sale.’

The Deputy Chairman’s face reddened. ‘Related to! How close was the relationship?’

‘They were cousins.’

‘And why didn’t you take this up earlier?’ Glosvik demanded.

‘It has not been relevant hitherto,’ Bringeland said with the natural arrogance he shared with so many of his professional brethren.

‘Not relevant!’

‘It’s only now that we have become aware of the realities of the matter.’

‘And who is this Stein Svenson if I might be so bold?’

It was a good question, and even Johannes Bringeland lost his composure when he looked around and was unable to see his client anywhere.

Kristoffer Mæland shouted over to what he assumed was the enemy camp: ‘Else! Is Stein Svenson over there?’

General unrest broke out, and everyone looked around nervously until the answer came back: ‘We haven’t seen him today. We don’t know where he is!’

‘Another disappearance?’ Kristoffer muttered, looking at me.

‘He was here yesterday – last night,’ I said, then it struck me that there was another person missing: the Lord’s very own trumpet-blowing
angel from the entrance to the fjord, Lars Rørdal.

I peered over at the hotel. The man from breakfast had gravitated closer to us without anyone noticing him. Behind him Kristine Rørdal had emerged from reception. She was standing with a concerned expression in her eyes, scanning the gathering.

Stine Sagvåg checked her watch impatiently. ‘Well, what are we waiting for? We’re already behind schedule. It’s twelve thirty-five.’

Kristoffer Mæland raised his hand. ‘I’ll show you the way. Follow me.’

From the demonstrators came loud boos, and the photographer from
Strilen
already had his camera out. The two police officers took up a position between us and the demonstrators, and gestured to them to keep their distance.

‘There’s such a thing as freedom of speech in this country!’ shouted one of the youths.

‘You can speak as much as you like, provided you follow our instructions,’ said one of the officers, a tall man with fair hair and red cheeks. ‘You follow us and keep to the rear. Can we agree on that?’

Ole Rørdal went to the front of his battle ranks. ‘Yes, we agree to that. But that’s all we’ll agree to.’

Then the crowd moved off. Kristoffer Mæland led the way towards the chapel, and we others followed. Erik Utne and his colleagues joined Stine Sagvåg. Next came Jarle Glosvik and the two from the local council. I ended up alongside Johannes Bringeland.

‘What brings you here, Veum?’ he asked, brimming with curiosity.

‘I’m on a job.’

‘You, too?’

‘Yes, but … it concerns Mons Mæland. He’s gone missing.’

‘I see! And you, as it were, have to find him?’

‘That’s what I’ve been asked to do, anyway.’

‘But why the hell don’t they contact the police?’ As he didn’t receive a response, he added, with a little chuckle: ‘Bad conscience perhaps?’

I arched an eyebrow.

‘Yes, as I said down there … the purchase of the property was
highly dubious. Per Nordbø wasn’t
compos mentis
when he signed the contract.’

‘Mm … I suppose there were witnesses?’

‘Yes, yes, of course. The Chief of Police in Lindås was one of them.’

‘The Chief of Police in … And his name was …?’

‘Brekkhus, at that time. And there was a nurse in the ward where he was. Gunvor Matre. I’ll have to speak to both of them.’