‘Fine,’ I said, looking at the dark garden around the house.
‘I’m going to the hospital,’ Langeland said.
I followed him to his car, which stood next to mine, an appropriate demonstration of the difference between our respective monthly salaries. The Mini blushed to its rust stains and pointedly looked away when I came to a stop beside it.
Before getting into his polished chariot, Langeland turned to me once more. ‘Why won’t you say where Jan is?’
‘I certainly will, Langeland. It’s no big deal. He’s staying at the Haukedalen Children’s Centre.’
‘With Hans Haavik?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
‘We’re old friends. From university.’
‘Well, in that case you’ll know where he is. But before you go, Langeland …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there a possibility that Vibecke and Svein Skarnes are not Jan’s biological parents?’
He sent me a hostile glare. ‘Where have you got that from?’
‘Did you catch my line of work? I think I’ve met Jan before, when he was two or three years old. And in a very different home.’
He averted his eyes, looked across the car roof at the two policemen. ‘Well … I can’t see any reason to deny that. But Vibecke and Svein had adopted him. They have full parental rights.’ After some reflection he added: ‘Well, Vibecke, anyway.’
‘Does Jan know, do you think?’
‘That he’s adopted? I doubt it. You’ll have to ask Vibecke about that. Why do you ask?’
‘Well, I … it was just a thought.’
‘OK … I’m off then.’
After a final nod he got into his car, closed the door, started up and reversed out of the side street, so quietly that you could hardly hear the sound of the tyres on the tarmac. I stood watching him before I got into my own car, ill at ease.
Mummy did it, he had said. Which mummy? I wondered.
7
I had an uncomfortable night. Waking up next morning, I could remember fragments of a dream in which the boy sitting on the other side of my kitchen table eating chunks of bread with Norwegian goat cheese was Thomas, and he was suddenly six years old and had Jan’s eyes: expressionless and thus accusing.
I rang Haukedalen and got Haavik on the line. ‘How was it?’
‘He’s up anyway. He and Cecilie are having breakfast.’
‘And the mother … You haven’t heard from her?’
‘Not a peep. Would you like to talk to Cecilie?’
‘I could have a quick word.’
I waited while he went to get her. ‘Hi,’ she said, taking the receiver.
‘Slept well?’
‘No. I had one eye open the whole time. I was worried that if I fell asleep he would try and run away.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No. He slept like a log. Really. He had the odd nightmare, was sobbing and thrashing around, but he didn’t wake up. Not even when I sat on the edge of the bed stroking his hair.’
‘And now? Have you got him to say anything?’
‘No. He’s just as distant. If he doesn’t improve, I’m afraid a Child Psychiatry Centre will be the next stop.’
‘Let’s try Marianne one more time. I’ll see if I can get her to come out here. And then I’ll try to find out what’s happened to his mother. Or mothers.’
‘You haven’t checked that out yet? Whether it’s the same boy or not?’
‘No, but it’s top of my list of things to do. Of course, it would have been useful to know whether he himself knows that he’s adopted. But I doubt it. And if he won’t speak anyway, then …’
‘Then it must have been the foster mother he meant?’
‘On the face of it, yes.’
‘Have you told the police what he said, Varg?’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘But … why not?’
‘I don’t know. Client confidentiality maybe.’
‘But … well, I understand. A potential murder case, though.’
‘The most likely scenario is still an accident, isn’t it.’
‘Yes, but nevertheless.’
‘I’d like to carry out a few investigations of my own first.’
‘You’re just so incredibly nosey, Varg! This is way out of line … the best is to go to the police – and tell them everything. That’s what we’ve got them for.’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘If you don’t, I will.’
‘Give me a few hours first.’
‘OK! You’re just absolutely hopeless.’
I thanked her for her confidence in me and we concluded the conversation. I promised to call back later. In the meantime she would try to find out something about Jan.
From Telthussmauet I took the quickest route down, straight across Vetrlidsallmeningen and past the Fløien funicular. The weather had turned. Outside it was bitingly cold with specks of frost in the air. The low cloud cover hung like a taut drum skin over Bergen valley, a snare drum ready to be used.
I dropped in on Elsa Dragesund. She had been promoted to assistant director since we had last met, but her office door was always open and she waved me in when she saw me in the doorway.
I went straight to the point. ‘Can you remember the summer of 1970 when you and I were sent to the Rothaugen estate to take care of a neglected child? The mother was a drug addict and a man turned up while we were there.’
She nodded, deep in thought. ‘Yes … vaguely. There have been quite a few of those cases unfortunately.’
‘The boy was placed with foster parents who later adopted him.’
‘Right …’
‘He was known as Johnny boy. But he’d been christened Jan Elvis.’
She grinned. ‘Yes, I do remember that bit.’
‘You wouldn’t have the adoption papers, would you? I’m afraid I may have bumped into him again, in perhaps an even trickier situation.’ I explained the background to her and I observed that not even twenty years in social services had taken from her the ability to be visibly moved.
‘My goodness … Mummy did it! Did he really say that?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Talk to Cathrine. She’ll find you the papers. But … what is it exactly you’re after?’
‘Most of all, confirmation that it is the same boy. After that … well.’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s a police matter.’
‘It certainly sounds like it. I don’t think we should get ourselves caught up in the criminal investigation anyway.’
‘No, no,’ I said, thanked her for her help and went to see Cathrine Leivestad, three offices along.
Cathrine was fair-haired and attractive and as fresh to the job as I had been in 1970. ‘No’ didn’t exist in her vocabulary, at least not in a professional context. As for her private life, I hadn’t gone there yet.
She produced some papers from a drawer in the filing cabinet, cast a quick glance over it and passed them across the table for me to peruse for myself.
It didn’t come as much of a surprise. Nonetheless, my heart seemed to sink even deeper in my chest, like a leaden weight in polluted waters.
The papers were factual and bureaucratic in style. The only thing that caused me to react was the new middle name.
Skarnes, Jan Egil, born 20.07.1967 was a child of (mother) Olsen, Mette, born 29.03.1946 and (father) unknown. In June 1971 he was adopted by Skarnes, Svein, born 03.05.1938 and Vibecke, born 15.01.1942. From the papers it emerged that he had been placed with foster parents, Vibecke and Svein Skarnes, since October 1970. There were two medical certificates attached. The first, dated August 1970, attested that Jan Elvis was under-nourished and suffered from severe emotional trauma. The other, dated December 1970, stated that his general condition was a great deal better, but the boy had several symptoms of what in clinical terminology were called reactive attachment disorders. He was anxious, restless, impulsive and a constant attention-seeke
r.
You hardly had to be King Solomon to appreciate that the two mothers were key figures here. The question was whether they could be traced, a question which I transported a bit further down the corridor where Cecilie and I shared an office, for space rather than practical reasons.
I made two telephone calls. The first was to the police, where I got Inspector Muus on the line and he didn’t seem all that well disposed towards me. ‘Yes?’
‘Veum here. Anything new?’
He permitted himself a pause. ‘What do you want?’
‘I was wondering whether … Have you found her?’ For lack of an immediate reaction, I added: ‘Vibecke Skarnes.’
‘Oh, you mean Vibecke Skarnes, do you?’ he said sarcastically. ‘No, Veum. We haven’t found her yet. You haven’t, either, I take it?’
‘Well, I’m not out looking …’
He interrupted me. ‘No, I certainly hope you are not! For your own sake. Was there anything else you required?’
‘No, not at this moment.’
‘Right, well, I think we can continue with today’s duties then, Veum.’ And with that he hung up.
I took a grip on myself before dialling the next number on the list, Karin Bjørge, my friend at the National Registration office. A couple of years ago I had brought her sister, Siren, home from Copenhagen and got her back on an even keel. At the time Karin had said that if there was anything she could help me with – anything at all, she had said with an expression in her eyes that had caused my brain to go into a tailspin for a moment or two – I was to ring her. Later I had, several times in fact, and she was always just as helpful, fast and efficient. If I ever started up on my own, it would do no harm to have a loyal friend at the NR office.
It didn’t take long to trace her. Mette Olsen had an address in Dag Hammerskjölds vei in Fyllingsdalen, a tunnel away from Bergen town centre. ‘I think this is the house number of one of the high rise blocks out there,’ she added.
I added quickly: ‘What about someone called Terje Hammersten … Can you find his address as well?’
She flicked through, then located it: ‘The last address given here is Bergen Prison. It may be out of date, though. The last official address before that is Professor Hansteens gate, but in fact it says here he’d moved.’
‘Right, I’ll check that. Thanks very much.’
When I rang the social security office, Beate answered. ‘What is it now? I’m sitting here with work up to way over my ears, Varg. Can’t we talk outside office hours?’
‘This is a business call.’
‘Oh yes?’ She sounded more than sceptical.
‘We’re looking for someone who by all accounts is in your system.’
‘Really? And that is …?’
‘Hammersten, Terje. Would you mind checking him out?’
She emitted a loud sigh, but I could hear her getting up from her chair and straight afterwards there was the familiar sound of a stuffed filing cabinet drawer being opened and then the efficient leafing through of a great many case files, like the flapping of heavy wings.
Then she was back. ‘He has to report regularly to the police and his finances, except for unemployment benefit, are under administration.’
‘Well, that’s something. Have you got an address for him?’
‘Just a c/o.’
‘And that is …’
‘Mette Olsen, Dag Hammerskjölds vei, if that’s …’
‘Yes, thanks, but – I’ll catch you another day, okay?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Take care.’
‘You, too,’ I said, but she wasn’t listening. She had already put down the phone.
I went to the window and looked out. Snowflakes were slowly fluttering down and settling on the black tarmac outside, like dandruff on the lapels of a dark dinner jacket. I didn’t linger long and was soon on my way.
8
The party at Mette Olsen’s was in full swing. I could hear it from the stairwell. Her flat was on the second floor and her next-door neighbour – a well-filled out lady wearing a brown coat and grey hat as if on her way out – came to the door when she heard me ring. She scrutinised me suspiciously and said with irritation in her voice: ‘Are you going in there as well?’
‘Well, I …’
‘If so, just tell them, if they don’t quieten down soon, I’m going to call the police! They’ve been at it since five.’
‘Five o’clock this morning?’
‘Yes, they woke me up when they arrived. They weren’t exactly quiet, I can tell you.’
The door in front of us opened and the noise level rose appreciably. The man standing in the doorway was in his forties, a rough character, unshaven and dressed in clothes with an unmistakable Salvation Army cut: solid and timeless. His eyes swept the stairway. ‘What’s yer business?’
‘Mette Olsen,’ I said politely.
He sent me a baffled look.
‘The person who lives here. Is she in?’
‘Oh, Mette. What’s yer business, I asked.’
‘Are you her guardian or what?’
‘What’s it got to do with you! You from the social?’
‘Something like that. May I come in?’
He didn’t answer, just stepped back into the flat. The inauspicious music that was belting out was Swedish dance band. It sounded like a Danish ferry in there. ‘Meeette!’ came the cry, like a delayed echo from 1970.
‘What’s the problem?’ answered a high-pitched, reedy voice from inside the room.
‘Someone wants to talk to you!’
‘Send him in then, for Christ’s sake!’
The next-door neighbour, who had moved so close to me now that it felt like I was under guard, gave a loud snort. More in hope than anything else, she said: ‘Are you really from the social services office? I suppose you’re going to evict her, aren’t you? You know things can’t go on like this, don’t you.’
‘I belong to a different department,’ I said as the man in the doorway slowly turned his head back in my direction.
‘You heard what she said. Come in!’ He beckoned me in, and I had never felt so welcome.
The neighbour seemed to be about to enter too, but she stopped on the threshold. The thug didn’t need any second bidding; he slammed the door in front of her so hard that she literally had to jump back a step to avoid being struck.
Inside what was supposed to be the sitting room there was the raucous babble of varying shades of inarticulate human voices in a bad-tempered struggle to drown the music. The smell of alcohol and smoke from roll-ups mixed with a not insubstantial dash of dope wafted towards me as I stood by the door squinting through the sea of fog for Mette Olsen.
There were eight people in there, nine including the doorman from Rent-an-ape. Three women and six men. The oldest of the men must have been close on sixty, the youngest eighteen or nineteen. I had my money on him as the dope-smoker and the others as the musical directors. Their faces were unshaven, undefined and unfocused, both with regard to their vision and their pattern of movement. Everything seemed eerily sluggish, as if their whole nervous systems were so shot through with alcohol that they moved in slow motion, powered by a controller who was even drunker than they were.
The women were not much more presentable. All three were in that slightly diffuse age-range between twenty-five and forty. The one with most years of service, in drunkenness terms, had fiery red hair with an extended grey patch from the roots upwards. Another’s hair was so black she could have been a gypsy, but the colour had come from a bottle and her dialect from the coastal region around Bergen. The third was Mette Olsen.
She was half-sitting, half-slumped over the table. Her gaze came from deep inside her narrow, thin face and she had become ten years older in the three years that had passed since I last saw her. She had light streaks in her hair, although they made little difference, and the make-up she had applied ten or fifteen hours earlier had now turned to black smudges around her eyes and a red
stripe from one corner of her mouth like a frozen sneer. Her blouse had come undone at the front and in the opening I could see a dirty, grey bra stained light brown from coffee or beer.
One hand was holding a kitchen tumbler full of what looked like neat alcohol, for it was hardly water. Slowly her eyes focused on me. ‘Waddywan?’ she asked in slurred dialect.
I asked myself the same question, but it was neither the appropriate place nor the time. ‘I don’t know if you can remember me.’
She studied me without a spark of recognition. ‘Where from?’
‘I was at your house a few years ago. From social services.’
Instantly the room seemed to change character. Even the music took a break and stopped and the needle rasped its way to the end. Several of the competing monologues died away. The Danish ferry veered round in a huge U-turn and everyone’s attention came with it. ‘Social services! He’s from social services,’ I heard pass from head to head. One of the men stood up and began to roll up his sleeves. Another pulled him back down. ‘Hang on. We’ll deal with him afterwards …’
Mette Olsen looked at me, her eyes swimming. Her lips trembled. ‘From social services? There are no kids here!’ A shiver went through her body. ‘You yourself saw to that …’
Steely, hostile looks struck me from all sides.
‘Well … this is about – your son.’
‘Johnny boy?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s up with him?’ For a moment a sudden fear flared up inside her. ‘He hasn’t …?’
‘No, no. Is there somewhere we could talk, alone?’
She blinked, trying to get me in focus. ‘I dunno.’ She slowly turned her head. ‘In there maybe.’ She was looking at a half-open door.
One of the men called out: ‘Yep, take him to the bedroom, Mette, then there may be more children for social services to take care of!’
Rowdy laughter filled the room.
Mette Olsen stood up and tottered on unsteady legs round the table. ‘Don’t listen to them. Come with me, you.’
She grabbed the underside of my arm, more for support than anything else, and led me with a solemn countenance into the bedroom, where the unmade bed and all the clothes scattered to the winds made its first indelible impression. I left the door behind us ajar so as not to feed any unwanted reactions. Behind us the volume of voices resumed and someone put on another record, although they may just have returned the stylus to the first track.
Consorts of Death Page 4
