The Consorts of Death

by Gunnar Staalesen

  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?’

  ‘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 bu
t 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.

  32

  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.