We Shall Inherit the Wind (9 page)

‘I’ve met Brekkhus.’

‘Yes? Trustworthy type, is he?’

‘Well, I would like to think so.’

We passed the chapel, and I cast a glance at the small, red house on the opposite side of the path. Today none of the curtains stirred and no one was peering out. Then we were on our way into the woods.

I strained forward to see. This was a singular collection of people, the sort you would generally expect to meet in far more urban surroundings than here by a fjord. I turned round and looked back. The man from breakfast was at the rear of our group. He didn’t meet my gaze; he was staring intently ahead as if to ensure nothing unexpected would happen. Who on earth was he, and what was he doing here?

Right behind him came the two police officers, and behind them a wagging tail of demonstrators with banners and posters flapping in the wind. The little photographer from
Strilen
, with the blue cap and worn, brown leather jacket was running back and forth down both flanks, snapping away furiously. I noticed that the man behind us averted his face whenever the camera came close.

The female journalist had, for the time being, attached herself to the local politicians and, judging by her face, I surmised she was asking a lot of questions to which she was not getting satisfactory answers. Jarle Glosvik turned his back on her several times and looked behind him as though searching for someone to take over, but it was doubtful Gulen had a budget for a press officer, and he was adept at avoiding the eyes of the man from breakfast, a bit too adept in my view.

We had now reached open countryside again and our advance came to a sudden halt. In front of us we could hear loud, inarticulate shouts
and a dark-clad figure with white hair was running at full tilt towards us over the smooth rocks, screaming something or other we couldn’t decipher. It was Lars Rørdal.

I stepped out of the procession and had made my way to the front of the column by the time Rørdal stopped in front of Kristoffer Mæland, Stine Sagvåg and Erik Utne. His face was distorted into a terrified grimace, and his eyes wandered from one to the other until they stopped at Kristoffer Mæland.

‘Blasphemy! It’s the devil’s work,’ he groaned. ‘They’ve hung him on the cross! He’s been crucified, like God’s only begotten son … Crucified!’

Then he rolled his eyes and collapsed on the ground in front of us. Erik Utne and one of his companions jumped forward to help him up as Kristoffer Mæland turned to the rest of us and asked in a tone of disbelief: ‘What did he say? Crucified?’

Before anyone had time to reflect I was on my way over the rocks to the towering cross. Behind me I heard someone shout, but I took no notice. A couple of times I almost fell, but managed to steady myself and when I raised my eyes I saw that he was right. There was a man hanging from the cross with his arms stretched out like a reincarnation of Jesus of Nazareth.

I jogged the last part at a slower pace, as though to postpone the inevitable. Behind me I could hear heavy footfalls. I glanced over my shoulder. One of the two police officers and Kristoffer Mæland were following me.

We arrived at the cross at about the same time, but had to walk round to see who it was. He had been tied to the horizontal bar, fully clothed. His head hung forward, his face deathly pale, a blue tongue protruding from his mouth, like an overfed scavenger caught in the act. The vacant eyes told us unequivocally that he was dead.

But it was not Stein Svenson, as I had at first anticipated.

‘Oh, God!’ Kristoffer Mæland said with feeling, before turning away and stooping to retch.

‘Do you know him?’ the officer asked softly.

I met his eyes and nodded. ‘Not personally, but I know who it is.’

I recognised him from the photo in the brochure I had been given. It was Mons Mæland.

There was mayhem for a while. The two police officers struggled to prevent the rest of the crowd from surging forward, and had to resort to shouting to enforce order.

‘We’ll have to cordon off the area,’ yelled the smaller, darker-haired and less flushed of the two.

I stood beside Kristoffer Mæland, as if to offer a form of tentative consolation, but without contributing much of any value.

The taller of the two officers came over to me. ‘That includes you.’

I nodded reluctantly and edged slowly across the closest rocks to the little plateau where the band of business people and demonstrators had become a gathering of shocked individuals and were now mingling freely. Lars Rørdal had got to his feet again. He stood in the background, pale and grubby, with his son, who didn’t look that lively either. The only person who seemed unmoved was the man from breakfast. He towered over the others, his stony face staring intently at the cross, as though making sure he didn’t miss any of what was going on.

Jarle Glosvik was at the front with Erik Utne. ‘What’s happened? Who is it?’ he asked when I joined them.

‘Impossible to say,’ I answered.

I searched for Else Mæland and spotted her with some of the young demonstrators. Pallid, she met my eyes. I took a few steps towards her and beckoned. An expression of foreboding crossed her face. She walked unsteadily towards me. When she was in front of me she looked me in the eye without speaking.

I spoke in a low voice. ‘I’m sorry, Else, but … it’s your father.’

Her face turned ashen. Then the tears flowed, and an inarticulate
gasp escaped her mouth. She moved closer to me, and automatically I wrapped her in my arms and held her tight.

Now Ole Rørdal was ploughing a channel through the crowd. On reaching me, he made as if he wanted to take responsibility for her, but I held her close to me. She was trembling against my chest, and from deep in her body came a painful sob, a harbinger of the storm that was to erupt.

Ole placed a hand on her shoulder and eyed me stiffly. His black beard quivered. ‘My father told me it’s… Mæland.’

I nodded. ‘And where the hell’s Stein Svenson?’

He pinched his lips together, then answered: ‘You don’t mean to say that … that Stein …?’

‘I overheard your quarrel last night, Ole. You and him. “We’re not terrorists for Christ’s sake,” you said.’ He opened his mouth in protest, but I carried on: ‘Was that what you were arguing about? Were these the means that Stein Svenson wanted to use?’

He seemed to be in shock. ‘Are you crazy, Veum? What nonsense are you talking? That would be … That’s murder, for Pete’s sake! We don’t get involved with that. We’re a professional organisation employing the means a democratic society allows us to. And surely you don’t think …?’ His gaze passed from me to Else with a tenderness that had not been present before. She had quietened down in my arms, as though listening to what we were saying.

I whispered: ‘So where is he then? Stein Svenson?’

He gesticulated wildly. ‘How should I know? We fell out. That was all. He’s probably gone home under his own steam.’ He patted his inside pocket. ‘I can try and call him.’ Then he stopped himself. ‘Afterwards.’

The taller of the two police officers spoke up. ‘Listen up everyone. My name is Karl Sætenes. My colleague here, Constable Haus, will keep watch here. The rest of us are going back to Naustvik. We’ve already been in touch with the Chief of Police, and he’s summoned reinforcements from Bergen Police Station. No one may leave the island before the detectives arrive.’

Erik Utne instantly protested. ‘What! But we’ve got return tickets to Oslo. The plane goes at …’

The policeman interrupted him. ‘No one’s leaving this island, I said!’ and added in a less domineering tone: ‘They’re coming as fast as they can.’

Else broke away from me and burst out: ‘I want to see him!’

The policeman studied her unsympathetically. ‘I’m afraid that’s not …’

‘It’s her father!’ I said.

He looked at me. ‘But this is a crime scene. I can’t let …’

‘Look, I’m an investigator myself. Private, I’ll admit, but … if I accompany her there, she can see him and hopefully avoid nightmares and trauma later on. It would be impossible to disturb the crime scene any more than it already has been. Your colleague’s there anyway. And he’s keeping an eye on it.’

‘Well …’ Then he gave in. ‘Well, alright. But just you two,’ he said and sent Ole Rørdal a dirty look.

With my hand on her back I steered her gently to the cross. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, Else,’ I warned her.

‘I want to see him. I have to!’

Her brother had straightened up and was standing there with Constable Haus. He looked pale and shaken and kept wiping the corners of his mouth with a folded handkerchief. When he saw his sister coming, his eyes moistened. ‘Else,’ he sighed. ‘You shouldn’t …’

‘Yes, I should!’ she riposted, stepped forward, turned up her face and stared at her deceased father. Suddenly I felt a cold breath from the sea, as if it, too, was sighing at the grievous sight.

It struck me that there was something theatrical and artificial about the whole situation, like a stylised tableau in a church during Easter festivities. But there was only one Mary at the foot of the cross, and her name was Else.

Thank goodness he hadn’t been nailed to the cross, and I was fairly sure that he had died before he was hung up. He was tied to the transverse beam with a long rope that was fastened round each wrist and then pulled down behind the cross and round his ankles to make his pose as Christ-like as possible.  

I looked at Else. She was staring up at him with an expression of shock and disbelief on her face. Her lips moved mutely, in intense, quiet prayer and tears ran unchecked from both eyes. Her fists opened and closed several times before she turned abruptly, to the side, and whispered under her breath: ‘Now I’ve seen him. But it’s only a shell. That’s not how he was. He’s gone. For ever.’

‘Else … come on!’ Kristoffer came over, put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

They remained like that for some minutes. I glanced at Haus. We didn’t have much to say to each other, either. In the end, Haus coughed. ‘I think the others are on their way back now. Perhaps you should follow them.’

I nodded. ‘Yes …’ I looked at the two of them. ‘Are you ready to go? Kristoffer? Else?’

They turned to face me, both of them, as if they had forgotten who I was and what I was doing there. Then they visibly pulled themselves together. They took a final glance at their father, both with a strange, childlike shyness in their eyes, as though embarrassed about an adult. Then they took a few faltering steps away from the eerie place with the towering cross, as though they found it hard to walk. I let them go ahead, and followed afterwards.

When we reached Naustvik the others had gathered in the café in the first cabin. The atmosphere was tense and angry. Many of the business people were already in touch with the outside world via their mobiles. Erik Utne had opened a laptop.

Constable Sætenes was doing his best to keep a lid on the situation. ‘Listen up! It’s important that no one passes on any information about what has happened here until the detectives from Bergen arrive. It’s especially important that the media are not informed!’

‘We’re already here,’ mumbled the
Strilen
journalist. ‘My name’s Anita Brekke, and this is Pål Anderson.’ She pointed to the photographer.

‘Yes, but you may be called in as witnesses,’ Sætenes said. ‘You’ll have to wait until the detectives come before you report back.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Anita Brekke, looking less than convinced.

‘I’ll hold you responsible!’ Sætenes warned with a stern glare.

‘Fine by me,’ she responded through clenched teeth.

Kristine Rørdal held the fort at reception with an expression of horror and incredulity. Her husband sat on a chair behind her slumped over with his face in his hands. In his lap he held the same well-thumbed Bible he had shown me the day before, as though vainly searching for a word of consolation.

Else and Kristoffer mooched restlessly around reception.

I went over to them. ‘I suppose we’d better let Ranveig know. Would either of you like to …?’

Else stared blankly ahead of her, without reacting.

Kristoffer squirmed. ‘Do you think you could … In a way it was your job. To find him.’

I sighed. ‘Yes, but not like that. Perhaps I should ring someone I
know who is a good friend of hers? I think it’s important she should be given the news in an appropriate way.’

Kristoffer seemed grateful. ‘That would be great, Veum. Please do that!’ Then he turned away as though there was nothing more to say on the matter.

I looked at Else. ‘Agreed?’

She nodded. ‘Sure.’

I moved to one side and found a corner of space for myself. Then I rang Karin.

‘Varg! Any news?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid there is. I … He turned up. But he’s dead.’ I gave her a brief summary of what had happened.

‘Crucified! Can that be right?’

‘Yes, or tied to a cross anyway. But the message is obvious. No doubt about that.’

‘Has Ranveig been informed?’

‘No, that’s why I was ringing you.’

I explained to her how Else and Kristoffer had reacted, and that they would be very grateful if someone else could give the news of Mons’ death to Ranveig.

She took the request with composure. ‘Of course. I’ll go up to hers straightaway. I would guess she’s at home.’

Thanks. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on out here.’

‘But … It’s murder, I assume, isn’t it?’

‘Definitely. It would be a spectacular way to commit suicide, but this is undoubtedly the very opposite. We’re all being detained here until the police come.’

We hung up, I put my mobile phone in my pocket and looked around. Two groups had formed here as well: the young demonstrators in one corner of the room and those who had been going to participate in the survey in the other. At one table I saw Jarle Glosvik and the big man from breakfast in hushed conversation. Glosvik looked strained. The other man’s eyes constantly swept around the room like a searchlight beam.  

Beside me, Kristoffer said: ‘What a mess. God knows what’s going to happen now.’

Stine Sagvåg came over to us, accompanied by a policeman. ‘Can you confirm this, Kristoffer? It appears one of the leaders of the demo has disappeared. I’m trying to persuade Constable Sætenes here to get a search under way immediately.’

Sætenes’ eyes flitted around and he looked very uncomfortable. ‘I’m loathe to do anything until the team of detectives is here.’

Stine Sagvåg gave him a taste of her temperament. ‘Yes, but there are ferry terminals he has to pass through. He must be arrested at once!’

‘No one knows as yet whether he has anything to do with this.’

‘In which case, it’s important to have that confirmed or not.’

‘He had a big row with Ole Rørdal last night,’ I said. ‘Perhaps we should subject
him
to closer scrutiny?’

Sætenes began to look a little desperate, but he turned round, found Ole Rørdal and called to him: ‘Rørdal, could you come over here, please?’

Rørdal did as bidden, with a sullen expression. ‘What’s this about?’

‘Did you do what we spoke about?’ I asked.

He scowled at me. ‘Do what?’

‘Try and ring Stein Svenson?’

He nodded, put his hand in his pocket and demonstratively held the phone in front of him, as though it had its own story to tell. ‘I tried. But he didn’t answer.’

‘Really?’ I said impatiently. ‘Was it the usual voicemail or was it switched off?’

After a pause he said: ‘No, it was just the voicemail.’

I looked at Sætenes. ‘Have you got the technology to trace a mobile phone?’

‘Yes, we certainly have. But we have to wait …’

‘Yes, yes, I know that. Until the detectives have arrived. Have you checked on board the boat?’ I looked from Sætenes to Rørdal and back again.

Sætenes looked at Rørdal. ‘Have you?’  

‘Have we? We’ve got other things on our bloody minds. If you ask me, Stein’s already moping at home in Bergen. We disagreed about something yesterday, and he decided to go home.’

‘And you’re sure of that?’ I said.

‘He’s certainly not here! Can
you
see him anywhere?’

‘Shall we go down to the boat and check it over?’

‘Fine by me!’ he said, but he showed with all possible clarity that it would be a waste of time.

I looked at Sætenes.

‘I’ll come with you,’ he said.

Before we left he cast a worried glance around as though expecting all hell to break loose if he wasn’t there to keep the peace between the various factions. Ole Rørdal shook his head in desperation to underline the fact that he disclaimed all responsibility for whatever might happen.

We walked down to the quay. Rørdal put a foot on the boat to bring it closer to the shore so that we could step on board. Then he followed us, produced a key, opened the door to the cabin under the cockpit, stepped aside and bowed as a sign for us to enter.

We did as instructed. There weren’t many places to hide. Two berths at the front of the bow, or three, depending on how well you knew each other, and a slim possibility of lying on the sofa bench down one side. The other was a kitchen worktop. We opened the cupboards at the bottom and top, but you would have had to be of a very compact build to get in there.

We soon emerged to face Ole Rørdal, who couldn’t restrain himself. ‘Anything? Did you find him?’

I pointed to the fishing boat. ‘What about that?’

‘What about it?’ Rørdal snapped. ‘It didn’t get here until early this morning …’

‘So?’

He didn’t answer.

‘By which time Svenson had disappeared. Is that what you mean?’

We looked at him.

‘When did you first miss him?’  

‘I don’t miss him in the slightest, I can tell you that for nothing. He was gone when we woke up today. That’s how it was. Long before the fishing boat docked.’

I looked around. My gaze fell on the abandoned fish hall or whatever it had been. Then I jumped back onto the quay and walked towards it.

‘Veum?’ Sætenes said. ‘Where are you going?’

I continued walking. Something had told me it was not as it had been the day before. There was something about the door, the angle of the handle …

Before I tried to see if it was open I took out a handkerchief, placed it over the handle and pressed. The door was stuck in the frame, which had swollen after many years of inactivity, but there was no resistance. It wasn’t locked.

I pushed it and slowly entered. Inside, there was one large room, empty except for some fixed workbenches under the windows along the opposite wall.

I looked down. There were clear tracks in the dust on the floor. Someone had been here recently. The tracks of something that had been dragged across the floor to a door at the very back of the room were unmistakeable.

Behind me, Sætenes had come in through the door. ‘Found anything?’

‘Come here.’

I opened the door at the back. It led into what had once been a changing room or something similar. There were metal lockers with keys dangling along the wall to the left and there was a low bench along the other.

On the floor in front of us, gagged and bound hand and foot with a noose around his neck, making it impossible for him to move, lay Stein Svenson.

I bent down and loosened the gag around his mouth. His eyes rolled around. A violent fit of coughing burst from his chest, and convulsions racked through his body. For a moment it appeared he was going to die in front of our very eyes.

I grabbed him and lifted his head off the floor.  

‘Stein!’

An ominous rattle came from his larynx.

‘Svenson! Can you hear me?’

Sætenes had unfolded a penknife. ‘Let me …’ He quickly sawed through the thick ropes binding Svenson, and together we helped him to his feet.

Svenson opened his eyes and blurrily surveyed his surroundings. He gulped down air deep into his lungs. Half-conscious, he attempted a step forward.

‘Careful you don’t fall …’

‘What the …!’ I turned round. In the doorway behind us stood Ole Rørdal with a sombre expression on his face. When I met his gaze he threw out his arms. ‘What on earth has happened?’

‘Svenson’s been gagged. Literally. But fortunately not for ever.’

Rørdal’s face reddened. ‘Do you need any more evidence now to show what the opposition get up to? The next time lives could be lost!’

I was about to say something, but was interrupted by a noise outside. We knew exactly what it was. The thwack-thwack of a helicopter approaching.

‘Veum!’ Sætenes said behind me. ‘Give me a hand here.’

Together we supported Svenson across the floor and out of the building. Ole Rørdal walked in a curious state of apathy beside us. As we came to the quay we saw a helicopter hovering in the air above us. After making sure the landing area was safe the pilot waved his hand to tell us to keep well clear.

The helicopter’s landing was as gentle as a caress, as precise as a pinprick. The rotor blades slowed and finally came to a rest, the engine was switched off, a side door was slid open and out jumped six officers from Bergen Police Station with Divisional Commander Jakob E. Hamre at the forefront.

The first person Hamre clapped his eyes on was me. He threw his arms in the air. ‘Veum! You here as well? Will we never get any peace?’

‘Not for the time being anyway,’ I mumbled, so low that only those close by could hear.