The Consorts of Death (22 page)

‘No.’

‘Imagine the guilt I felt afterwards. After all, I’d lied!’

‘Ably assisted by your lawyers, it has to be said.’

‘Yes, but nevertheless … it wasn’t true, was it. I betrayed him just as much as someone had betrayed us. And when he hung himself it was like someone had thrust a knife into my chest and twisted it.’

‘He hung himself in prison?’

‘He suffered from claustrophobia. He couldn’t stand it. He’d already told me in Copenhagen: if we get arrested, Mette, take my life. I’ll never be able to cope with being locked up. And he couldn’t. He held out until the sentence was passed, but then it was over. As soon as he got an opportunity he used a sheet as a rope and tied it round his neck. They found him in the morning. By then he was dead.’

She stretched out her hand as if to say she wanted the photo back. I passed it to her. ‘From then it was curtains for old Mette. From then on it could only go one way. Down, to hell.’

She was trembling with sobs now. Her lean body was shaking with convulsions, and she wept uncontrollably. I let her cry herself out. When things had calmed down, I asked carefully: ‘And you have no idea who it was who informed on you?’

She shook her head gently. ‘It must have been some prick in Copenhagen. Who was jealous that David had cleared off with the Princess.’ Before I could say anything, she added: ‘Yes, that’s what they called me, that summer down there. Princess Mette they called me. Or simply the Princess …’

‘But someone must’ve lost a hell of a lot of money on that number …’

‘They did, the bastards.’

‘You never heard any more?’

‘Why should I? I didn’t have anything to do with it, did I.’ Her voice was saturated with bitterness as she said: ‘I’d only just met him, too. That was what they said in court. At Kastrup on our way home.’

‘But someone knew you were a couple in Denmark …’

‘Of course! But I never had any trouble because of that. I just hope …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well … they arrested the man who snitched on us.’

‘You’re sure it was a
he
?’ As she was about to answer, I went on: ‘It could’ve been someone who was jealous of you as well? A woman.’

She looked at me blankly, seemingly incapable of following my gist. Again there was a silence between us, as though both of us had more than enough to do with the musing our conversation had triggered. In the end I said: ‘But by then you had Jan …’

‘Yes.’

‘So you could still have gone on the straight and narrow, Mette.’

‘When I had Johnny boy, I was already a dopehead! That was all I had to console myself with. Hash was just the beginning of it. Then it was acid and pills alternately. He was born affected, they told me afterwards.’

‘But you were still allowed to keep him.’

‘I did everything they said! I did rehab, got dried out, found myself a place to live, out there on the Rothaugen estate. They would get me a job, they said. Help me get some training. But it didn’t happen like that. Instead I met Terje. And then I got some help in a different way, if you understand what I mean. It was straight back to dreamland again.’

‘Terje Hammersten.’

‘Yes.’

‘That name has a habit of popping up in the strangest of places.’

She gaped at me. ‘Really?’

‘Tell me, Mette. Terje Hammersten told you that Jan had moved up here. You followed him. Have you ever tried to contact him?’

‘Johnny boy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I … I’ll tell you what I did. Yes, I found out where he lived, in that valley.’

‘Angedalen.’

‘Right. So I caught the bus in one day, walked along the road, tried to have a look in at the farms. But I didn’t know which farm it was. Then the school bus came along and some kids got off. A boy and a girl. Kids I call them. Though they were young adults …’ She visualised them, without speaking. ‘I walked past them. And they looked at me, a bit snouty like. Who’s that old biddy then? I met his gaze. I looked straight into his eyes. But I couldn’t say anything to him. I couldn’t have a chat with him! He doesn’t know who I am … he hadn’t seen me since he was three years old! And I was so close I could’ve touched him!’

‘But you … how did you know it was him?’

‘I recognised him. From his dad.’

‘So he looks similar then?’

‘Yes …’ With a snuffle, she breathed in through her nostrils. ‘Later … I made the trip several times. I didn’t always see him. But a few times I did. And after a while I found out where he lived. I saw the people he was with. The old boy and his missus. Bloody farmers!’

‘They’re dead now. Both of them.’

‘Yes, what do I care! I didn’t do it.’

‘Well, the police think … Jan did.’

She looked at me, her eyes black. ‘Yes, I suppose they would. But life has taught me one thing, Veum. The police are not
necessarily
always right. No way!’

‘Possible, possible. Are you still in touch with Terje Hammersten?’

‘I hadn’t been until …’ She bit her lip and said sulkily: ‘No.’

I waited for her to continue. ‘You were going to say something else. You said: I hadn’t been until …’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! Can’t you stop pestering me!’

‘Until …’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘A couple of days ago! When?’

She looked at me helplessly, as though unsure. ‘Monday – I think.’

‘Monday just gone?’

‘Yes. I hadn’t seen him for … six months. He’d been here before, but I didn’t want any more to do with him, so I told him to pack his bags and go to hell.’

‘Sounds very sensible.’

‘Sounds very sensible,’ she mimicked with contorted lips. ‘But out of the blue he reappeared … late one night.’

‘Monday evening?’

‘Yes, I told you! Monday! Forced his way in, although I … Said he had to spend the night here, otherwise he would hammer me black and blue. Yes, he’d done that before, so I knew he wasn’t exaggerating. Then … well … he had to stay here. But don’t you get it into your bloody head that I let him fuck me, if that’s what you’re thinking!’

‘No, but … did he say where he’d come from, that Monday night?’

She shook her head. ‘Just that he’d come from town. The heat there had got too much for him. He was always in trouble, in one way or another. There was always trouble with Terje.’

‘He didn’t seem, er, particularly het up? Worked up?’

‘Het up? Worked up? You know … Terje’s never anything else but up there, high. I can tell you that for nothing. There’s no
difference
between Christmas Eve and any other day as far as he’s concerned.’

‘So when did he go back?’

‘Go back? He’s still ’ere, sunshine.’

My spine ran cold. ‘Is he here – still?’ Automatically I looked towards the window. ‘Where?’

‘No, no, today he wanted to go and visit his sister. Trude. She lives in Dale, somewhere along the fjords.’

‘Trude, yes. She lost her husband, she did. Ten or eleven years ago.’

She shrugged and met my eyes. ‘Really! I didn’t know …’

I stood up to go. She suddenly grabbed my wrist. ‘You … Veum …’

‘Yes.’

‘If you meet Johnny boy, can you tell him one thing, from me?’

‘And that is?’

‘Tell him I’ve always loved him. Tell him his mother thinks of him every single day, as she has done ever since he was born, and which she will do until she dies. Can you tell him that?’

‘I don’t know if I’m going to meet him face to face any more.’

‘But if you do!’

‘If … I’ll think about it.’

‘Don’t think! Just do it!’

‘If events allow me.’

She let go of my wrist. Then she pushed me away. ‘Go! Just go! I knew it. I can’t trust you, either. You’re a bunch of arseholes, the whole lot of you! Scram! Sling your hook! Go to hell!’

I took her advice. But I didn’t go to hell. I went to Dale instead.

Passing Førde, I wondered for a moment whether I should drop by the local police offices to hear if anyone was missing me. However, I had a strong suspicion what the answer would be, so I drove on regardless and was caught in the tailback behind a struggling
long-load
vehicle, round all the bends from Halbrendslia to the Slåtte hills. After Skilbrei I turned off for Bygstad. In the north-west rose Kvamshesten and Litlehesten, towering mountain formations that left their indelible mark on the surrounding countryside.

I drove past Bygstad and turned inland towards Osen to come round south of Dals fjord. The stretch of road between Bygstad and Osen passed beneath greyish-black overhanging cliff faces that looked as if they might collapse onto the road at any moment. There was something dark and forbidding about this section that reminded me that it had been somewhere round here, down by the water’s edge, that Ansgår Tveiten had been found dead,
battered
to death with a blunt weapon in early 1973.

The inner part of Dals fjord was reminiscent of the Jølster
district
, even though the mountains were closer to the sea here, with the high fell-like formations that had given the area the name Fjaler from time immemorial. The sun swept low over the
mountain
ridges and hit the other side of the fjord tributary where the autumn colours frolicked wantonly on the foliage. The road was narrow and relatively well maintained. When I met oncoming traffic I had to pull into a passing place or drive onto the verge to get by.

Not without a touch of eager, child-like anticipation, I drove westwards. Even further to the west, where the fjord opened into the sea, my father had been born and grew up on a tiny farm called Veum, some way outside Hellevik, before he moved into town and looked for work in the mid 1920s. But this time I was not to drive so far.

By Laukeland waterfall the countryside tapered in again. To the north were the towering mountains Kringla and Heileberget. Between two of the Nishamar tunnels I passed a small
incineration
plant, and after the last tunnel Dale suddenly appeared in the sunshine. The location was perfect. The mountains towards Eikenes and Dokka on the northern side of the fjord stood like blue silhouettes.

I parked my car by the coach station and got out. The old
community
centre looked still and peaceful. A couple of drivers were standing in front of the buses smoking roll-ups. Some
schoolchildren
were on their way home with blue and red rucksacks on their backs. Behind a large window on the corner by the crossroads I glimpsed the faces of a few elderly people peering inquisitively in my direction. Who can that fellow be? they were probably
wondering
. He’s not from around here …

I enquired my way to the post office, which was in the council building down towards the quay, and took a punt that that was where I would get the help I needed. A gentle dark-haired man gave me a sly look through the bars of the post office window when I asked whether he could tell me where Trude Tveiten lived. ‘Perhaps I can,’ he said and began thereafter to give a detailed description. The upshot was relatively straightforward. I should go back to the main road and follow it to some flats in the building beside the second petrol station I came to.

I thanked him, went to my car and followed his instructions.

The flats were on the first floor with a west entrance. I took the stairs and found a door with her name on it. For a moment I stood listening. I heard voices from inside; a man and a woman. Then I rang the bell, and everything went quiet.

Nothing happened.

I rang once more and held the doorbell this time.

‘Alright, alright, alright!’ came an irritable voice from inside the flat. It was the man. ‘We can hear you!’

The door was torn open, and Terje Hammersten stood
glowering
at me. ‘Who are you? What the hell do you want?’ in broad vernacular.

I repeated my familiar refrain: ‘The name’s Veum. I don’t know if you remember me?’

He squinted at me with suspicion. He was ten years older too, and you could see it. His hair was thinner and his neck fatter. But the most visible change was the pencil-line, almost mafia-style moustache he had acquired, although it did little to improve his appearance. He was wearing a white shirt and brown trousers, both garments a bit too tight, and beneath his shirt he had a red T-shirt, visible at the neck. His shirt sleeves were rolled up and dark-blue tattoos adorned his forearms: an anchor on one, a naked Venus on a misshapen shell on the other.

Gradually I emerged from his creaking archive of images. I saw recognition in his eyes. ‘Yeah, I remember you. Just. You’re in social services, aren’t you.’

‘Not any more. But I’ve met you twice before, at Mette Olsen’s place.’

‘Terje!’ came a shout from inside the flat. ‘Who is it?’

‘But in fact it was your sister, Trude, I came to talk to.’

‘Trude? What d’you want with her?’

‘To talk to her, as I said.’

He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Someone called Veum, used to be in social services. He wants to talk to you, he says.’

‘Let him in then! Why are you jabbering outside?’

Hammersten stepped reluctantly to the side and let me in. Through a small hallway I came into the flat itself, which appeared to consist of two rooms and a kitchen. Cigarette smoke hung heavily over the furniture, which was simple and standard, straight from an IKEA catalogue. The windows overlooked the main road. I saw Heile Mountain like a grey wall on the other side of the fjord.

Trude Tveiten was a thin, bony woman, not dissimilar to Mette Olsen, just darker-haired and with a more striking facial structure: high cheekbones and a lean jaw. Her nose was long and narrow, her eyes wide open, blue-black. Her hair was cropped, almost
boy-like
. It was difficult to see anything of Silje in her. She was wearing faded jeans and a dark-blue cotton blouse. Over her shoulders she had thrown a light-grey machine-knitted jacket.

She had got up off the reddish-brown leather sofa and stood waiting for me to enter. I went over to her, held out my hand and introduced myself. She gave me a limp handshake and looked at me with an expression of surprise. ‘What’s this about? Has it
anything
to do with social services?’ she said without a trace of dialect.