The Consorts of Death (21 page)

A big, shiny silver milk tanker ensured that I did not break the speed limit before it finally indicated right and turned up into the valley by Årdal. Arriving in Ski, I branched off what was still called the A14. The road on the north side of Kjøsnes fjord was being improved because further along they were building a tunnel through the mountain to Fjærland. But I was not going that far. I turned down to the long, low Kjøsnes bridge, crossed over and bore left to high up on the slope to the south of the fjord.

I rolled down the car window and asked an elderly man
standing
on the roadside where I would find a farm called Leitet. He gave me a long, thoughtful stare while considering in some depth whether this was a question it would be appropriate to answer. He was chewing tobacco and spat a gobbet some distance into the ditch before half-turning and pointing to some old buildings further up: a grey farm building, a little outhouse and a white farmhouse. I thanked him for his help, and he returned my gaze with a sardonic look, without uttering a word.

I continued and came to a steep, narrow gravel path which seemed to lead up to the tiny farm. I turned off. Twice I had to get out of the car to open and close a farm gate before, at last, I was up in the untidy farmyard. I switched off the engine and sat behind the wheel for a while to see if anyone would come out to receive me. No one did.

Inside the open outhouse stood a red, rust-stained tractor. The white one-and-a-half-storey farmhouse with an attic facing the fjord also looked as if it could do with a spot of paint. From the farm building there was not a sound to suggest animals were housed inside. The barn was overgrown, and the grass had been allowed to grow wild. The whole place seemed abandoned, dead, a derelict monument to the trials of yore by the fjord to the east of Lake Jølstravatn.

As I opened the car door and stepped onto the yard, something happened. The front door opened, and a woman came out. She was wearing threadbare dark blue jeans without a hint of a fashionable cut and a reddish-brown sweater that had not seen a washing machine for many a day. And high green wellies on her feet. Her hair was blonde with broad grey streaks, much greyer than the last time I had seen her. Her face was lean and the network of wrinkles denser, but I still had no problem recognising the Mette Olsen of ten years ago.

She, on the other hand, squinted through scrunched-up eyes and snarled in dialect: ‘Who are you? What d’you want here?’

‘Veum,’ I said. ‘From Bergen. I don’t know if you remember me.’

Despite not being more than in her late thirties, she looked as though she were well over fifty, and they had been fifty hard years. She had put on weight, although not so much, but what there was round her waist on the otherwise lean body, looked inert and unhealthy.

‘Veum?’ She closed one eye and looked at me stiffly with the other. ‘Ye-es, I remember you … you were one of those social services arseholes.’

‘I’m not there any more.’

She wobbled a little and put out an arm to steady herself. ‘What are you doing here then, eh?’

‘It’s partly to do with … your son.’

She raised her head and inhaled deelpy through her nostrils. ‘Johnny boy?’ she said in such a low voice that I barely heard. ‘What’s up with him now then?’

‘You haven’t seen the papers?’

‘I don’t get a paper.’

‘Listened to the radio? Seen the TV?’

‘Yes, I saw the news, but …’ The significance of what I had asked suddenly seemed to hit home. Once again she almost lost her balance, but it was because she turned her head quickly and stared at the other side of Lake Jølstravatn, at the mountains she had to pass to reach Angedalen. ‘It wasn’t at that house … What did you say? How is he? Johnny boy?’

I observed her. The consternation seemed genuine, and even if she
had
read the papers, none of the dead persons had been named yet. On the radio and TV they were even more reluctant to identify the murder victims.

‘He’s fine,’ I said, if for no other reason than to tell her that at least he was alive. Otherwise, it was a dubious choice of words. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’

She looked at me with suspicion.

‘It’s not exactly summer temperatures outside.’

‘Well …’ She held out an arm to steady herself again, turned her back on me and stepped over the doorsill. But she left the door ajar behind her as a sign that I could follow.

I walked into a dark hallway where a steep staircase led up to a trapdoor. Two doors led into the rest of the house, one to the kitchen, the other to the sitting room. She had gone into the kitchen, and I followed. She ushered me to the table which was covered with a worn blue and white gingham oilcloth. A very well used coffee pot stood in the middle of the cloth. Beside it, there was a cracked
coffee-stained
cup. On the worktop in front of the window there were breadcrumbs, a tub of easy-spread margarine, an opened plastic pack of sheep sausage and half a jar of jam. The smell inside was stale, cloying, a combination of food and unwashed pots and pans.

She sat down at the table, grabbed the cup, confirmed that it was empty and filled it from the coffee pot, a pitch black,
cold-looking
liquid. She offered me nothing. I was glad.

She sat on her chair, crouched over the cup, holding it with both hands. It was only with the greatest effort that she managed to raise her head and look at me, or so it seemed. Her eyes were listless and tired, as if the shock had already left its mark. ‘Is it that double murder that’s being talked about?’

I nodded. ‘Just tell me first, Mette … how long have you lived here?’

‘What’s it got to do with you?’ she said at first, then after a short pause for thought she answered. ‘Soon be two years.’

‘What made you move here?’

‘I wanted to get away from the town!’ she said irascibly. ‘I should have left many years ago. Perhaps everything would have turned out different then …’

‘So your coming here wasn’t a coincidence?’

‘Coincidence? What do you mean?’

‘Well, did you have family here?’ I looked around at the greasy, unwashed walls. ‘Did this place belong to the family, for example?’

She gave a faint nod. ‘Distant family. They almost thrust it on me when I said I was interested. The soil wasn’t much to shout about. Just scree and rocks. No one wanted to take it. You’re not exactly top of the world if you do agriculture at the moment, anyway, I’m told.’

‘But I suppose that wasn’t the only reason you came to Jølster?’

‘I told you why! I didn’t pay a button for it.’

‘Wasn’t it more that you found out that Jan was living here? In another valley, true enough, but not so far away that you couldn’t keep an eye on him.’

She didn’t answer; just stared ahead with a darkened brow.

‘How did you find out? Who told you where he’d gone?’

‘… erje,’ she mumbled.

‘Terje? Terje Hammersten?’

She nodded in silence.

‘And where had he got it from?’

‘You’ll have to ask ’im yourself!’

‘I’ll consider doing that. If I meet him. But, at any rate, we can establish that you moved here because you … because Jan lived here.’

‘Let’s say that then! If that’s the way you want it.’

I put all the sympathy I could into my intonation. ‘You couldn’t let go of him?’

She squeezed the cup with her thin, dry, reddened fingers, the nails chewed right down. The knuckles went white and the gaze she directed at me was dark and angry. ‘No, I couldn’t! But that’s absolutely impossible for bastards like you to understand, isn’t it? All that bloody social services shite!’

‘I’m no longer in –’

‘No, I heard you the first time! But I don’t care what you’re doin’ now. You were in social services when you took Johnny boy from me!’

‘I just visited you at home, Mette. In 1970. It wasn’t me who took the decision.’

‘No, because then everything would’ve come up roses, wouldn’t it? If you’d been in charge.’ The scorn was unmistakable, concise and honed after many years of confrontations with bureaucracy and public authorities. ‘Don’t make me laugh.’

‘But listen …’

‘No, now you listen. Can you imagine what it feels like, here …?’ She placed her hand on her left breast. ‘Inside here, when local services come and take away the thing you love most, the most precious thing you possess?’

In a flash I saw in front of me the neglected, apathetic child we had visited at home on the Rothaugen estate that summer day in 1970. ‘But you weren’t capable of …’

‘No, so you said! And no, perhaps I wasn’t. Not then. But later, when I’d dried out and recovered from this and that … when I was ready to start afresh again, the whole of my life … where was he then? Well, he was out of your hands, you said. He’d been
transferred
to a new home. Yes, but I should have visiting rights, I said. Visiting rights, repeated that bitch I was speaking to. You signed the adoption papers, she said. Adoption papers! How was I
supposed
to remember any adoption papers?’

‘You must have signed them if they said so.’

‘Yes, but I reckon I must have been doped up at the time! Not in my right mind! I couldn’t have just given him away … he was the only thing I had … the only thing I had left. After that …’

I waited. A terrible grief seemed to have taken over her face, a nameless, indescribable grief, greater than all else.

‘After that I had nothing else to live for. From then on
everything
went downhill for me.’ Tears ran down her wrinkled, all too prematurely aged cheeks; shiny, transparent tears. Her nose ran too, and with an irritated movement she wiped it all away with the back of her hand. ‘Into the depths of hell,’ she concluded, almost slumped over the table.

I had a feeling that I had heard this story before, and not just from her mouth. We sat in silence for some minutes. I looked towards the window. The daylight was pale and milky from behind the unwashed panes, a reflection of another world, somewhere far from where we were, in the shadow of a wretched past with little to look forward to.

‘Things could have gone so much better for me, I’m tellin’ you,’ she broke the silence with a weary obstinacy, a doggedness she would never set aside.

‘So tell …’

‘Oh yes, you’d like that, wouldn’t you! I could tell you some stuff, Veum, if I wanted. But …’ She got up from the table with stiff movements. She supported herself on the table and walked to the door. I heard her out in the corridor and from there into what had been the drawing room of the house, where those living here only sat on Sunday mornings to listen to the church service on the radio, or on other formal occasions.

On her return, she had a small photo album in her hand. The red cover was torn, and when she flicked through I could see that several of the plastic pockets were empty. She flicked slowly from picture to picture. I glimpsed some black-and-white photographs from a distant childhood and a couple of pink colour snaps from an equally distant teenage period. Then she stopped by one photo, which she took out of the pocket and passed to me.

Despite the drastic change in her appearance, I could see that the woman in the picture was her. But it was still a different Mette from the one I had ever met. It was a beautiful young woman smiling happily at the photographer. She was wearing a colourful patterned blouse with a plunging neckline, and her hair had fluffy blonde curls, decorated with lots of small red and white ribbons, as if for a party. With an arm around her shoulders stood a man with long blond hair and a thin youthful beard, dressed in a white shirt, wide at the neck and hanging loosely from his chest, a Jesus freak smiling at her, in love, some time in the 1960s, I reckoned it would have to be.

‘Taken in Copenhagen, summer of ’66,’ she said quietly.

‘Who’s the person you’re with?’

‘… David.’

‘That was … your boyfriend?’

She nodded. ‘Yes.’

I hesitated, but I knew I had to ask. ‘What happened?’

Her gaze swept along the tabletop as though the answer was scratched into the oilcloth somewhere. Once again I saw how she was gripped by a terrible pain, a grief beyond all words. ‘He died,’ she almost whispered.

I waited a while. ‘How?’

She raised her face again. Stared me straight in the eye. ‘We were betrayed. Someone stabbed us in the back.’

I motioned to her to continue.

‘We – I had met him in Copenhagen in the early summer – and we fell head over heels in love. We were young and foolish, and we were already talking about moving in together, going back to Bergen and finding a place to live. And then we were offered a chance for quick money. We … made a deal, packed our bags and took the plane to Flesland. But they were standing there waiting. Someone had snitched on us, of that I’ve been convinced from that day to this. And …’ She snatched desperately at her cup again, as if it were a lifebuoy. ‘We were arrested.’ She swallowed several times before proceeding. ‘It was worse for David. He was carrying all of it, in a belt round here …’ She pointed to round her waist. ‘I didn’t have anything on me. But I was taken in as an accessory, and they charged me too, the bastards. Had it not been for my lawyer, I’d have had to do a stretch.’

‘Langeland?’

‘Jens?’

‘Yes.’

She looked at me, perplexed. ‘No, it was Bakke. An old boy. But you’re right that Jens was there, too. But just as a junior. A superior gofer, I remember, he called himself. Do you know him?’

I nodded, but didn’t add anything.

‘He said … but you mustn’t tell anyone this, right?’

‘It’ll stay between us, Mette.’

‘He said I should deny everything. Bakke, that was. Say I had no idea what David had taken with him. The cops didn’t care when I had met David. I should just say it was someone I had met in Kastrup Airport and had tagged along with. And … they would have to accept that. In court at any rate. No one could prove
anything
different. And David didn’t give me away. You could rely on him …’

‘But he was convicted?’

‘Eight years in clink.’

‘Eight years!’

‘It was a huge amount we had with us. But the worst of all, do you know what that was?’