‘He’s got property on the island, but it’s mostly wasteland, if you ask me.’
‘And where can I meet him?’
‘You’ll have to go to the council offices in Eivindvik. If he’s not working. He runs a construction company on the side.’
‘And he’s in favour of the wind farm, I suppose?’
‘One of the most energetic in the campaign.’
‘Not your husband though?’
‘No,’ she said drily. ‘Not Lars.’
‘How many guests can you accommodate here actually?’
‘You’ll see when you get there. There are beds for eight in each cabin, shared between four bedrooms. We can also put in extra beds. So we have forty beds and room for twenty more. But it’s the marina that does us proud in the summer.’
‘So when Mons was here – a week or two ago – he stayed here?’
‘He always stays here.’
‘I see.’
‘There are no alternatives.’
‘No, I can see that. But tell me: In recent times, did he seem different? As if something was bothering him?’
‘Now you say it; it did strike me that he was a bit more tight-lipped than usual. I never thought there might be something bothering him though.’ Then she stared straight at me again. ‘But I’ve let my tongue carry me away here. Who are you actually, and why all these questions?’
‘I’m a private investigator.’
‘Private …?’ She gaped at me in disbelief. ‘A sort of detective?’
I grinned. ‘Yes.’
‘And you’re searching for Mons?’
‘You could put it as simply as that, yes.’
She opened her palms. ‘Well, I’m afraid there’s not much to see here.’
‘So it seems, but … What did he usually do when he was here?’
‘I’ve already told you. Surveys, conferences, on-site inspections.’
‘He didn’t visit anyone?’
She smirked and tossed her head in the way she did. ‘He had to make do with Lars and me. Social life on Brennøy is somewhat limited out of season.’ She pulled her chair away from the table. ‘Now I have to get back to what I should be doing.’
‘Which is?’
‘Accounts, paperwork. You have no idea how much red tape there is – even for such a small business as this.’
‘Oh, I’m afraid I do. One final question. Have you met his wife?’
‘Only Lea. I knew her, of course, before she went missing. Well, I assume you know she drowned in the sea many years ago.’
‘I know about it, yes. She was never found.’
‘No, but that’s not so unusual. Those of us who live by the sea know that. The sea gives and the sea takes, but not always with a righteous hand.’ She made this sound like a quote from the Bible – or maybe the Havamål, an old Norse poem. ‘I’ve never met his second wife. She never came with him.’
‘So in other words …’
‘I’ve got to work now, Veum. If there’s anything else of a practical nature, you can find me here.’ She pointed to the mezzanine. ‘In my office.’
‘Thank you very much. I’m going to walk over to where they’ve planned the wind farm. Is it hard to find?’
She shook her head. ‘Put your finger in the air and walk north. Through the copse north of the chapel. Take the path by the small red house on your left. Soon you’ll be out on open ground and bare rock. You’ll see the cross in the distance.’
‘The cross?’
‘Yes, the cross,’ she said, shrugging and leaving me with the dregs of my coffee and the as yet uneaten waffle with blueberry jam. She didn’t ask if I wanted any more. I finished the meal, got up, took my bag and left.
Outside, it had stopped raining. But the wind was picking up.
10
The neighbouring cabin with the bedrooms was furnished differently from the first. Instead of a reception area the whole of the ground floor was a communal room that could be quickly turned into a meeting room. A broad staircase led up to the mezzanine, where there were two west-facing rooms and two facing east. I unlocked the door to mine and entered a light, rectangular room with a slanting ceiling, a bed broad enough for two people and a small, practical en-suite with a toilet, sink and shower. The window faced the sound.
I put down my bag, took out my toiletries and put them in the bathroom. Then I changed into light walking boots with a good tread and grabbed an anorak and a camera as I left.
It was still just as quiet outside. There were several boats moored to the pontoons in the marina. They were of various sizes, from small dinghies with outboard motors and polished rowing boats from Os, to swanky island powerboats, the kind that could be seen moored at Bryggen, in Bergen, in high season.
I looked down at the abandoned building by the sea. I had forgotten to ask Kristine Rørdal about it, but it still looked like a fish hall whose owners had shifted their business to Poland, Portugal or somewhere with cheap labour. On Brennøy they hadn’t left so much as a fading company name. The walls were white, but the paint was peeling off, and the grey concrete was visible underneath, stained green. The windows were black. The brown door appeared to be locked and bolted.
I set off towards the chapel. It was in better condition. The walls had been painted relatively recently, white as well. Inside the tall windows, lights were lit, and I stopped by the information board at the entrance, protected by glass against the wind and rain. There were invitations to regular meetings every Wednesday and Sunday evening, and morning meetings at the Missionary House, one of which was taking place at this very minute, if I felt a need to knit mittens in support of the missionaries in Africa.
A poster caught my attention. The title was: WEDNESDAY MEETING. Beneath it was a quotation from the Bible: ‘He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart. (Proverbs 11:29) And after it: Hear LARS RØRDAL speak on Wednesday evening at 7.00. A warm welcome to you in the name of God.’
I didn’t bother with the Missionary House, left the chapel and found the path leading through the wood north of the village. The last building before the copse was a little red house with white curtains. As I glanced in its direction I noticed a movement behind one of the window panes. I caught a brief glimpse of a pale woman’s face before the curtain was drawn, as if Evil in person were passing.
I crossed through a classic tree plantation of tall, dark-green spruces, most of them far taller than Christmas-tree height. The lowest branches were dry and brown, and there was a soft covering of needles on the ground.
Then I emerged into open country. A quartz moonscape – furrowed, weather-bitten above the water – rose to the north of Brennøy. The path disappeared. Now it was a question of following the natural grooves in the terrain. Occasionally I came across narrow patches of grass in crevices, where the path reappeared in part. The wind off the sea grabbed hold of me, ruffled my hair and swept it across my face, wantonly caressing me, panting like a paramour, immense, invisible to all.
After five minutes I saw the cross. It towered aloft on one of the outermost crags. At first sight it resembled a mock-up of a wind turbine. But as I came gradually nearer there was no doubt. Like a local Golgotha it rose up, silhouetted against the sea, on the north of the island, a mene, mene, tekel, upharsin to wind-turbine supporters or whatever the meaning was supposed to be. When I was close it stood like a gigantic gravestone, cemented to a concrete base and so solidly constructed that it was intended to withstand even the fiercest blasts of wind. But there was nothing to explain why it was there and what it was supposed to symbolise. In its silent way it still gave me an indefinable sense of unease, a warning that something was about to happen.
I scanned the surroundings. This was Norway’s westernmost limit. To the north I glimpsed the mountain formations in Ytre Sula and Lihesten further down the Sognefjord. This was windblown terrain where the sea broke against the rocks with regularity and only very seld
om came to rest. You could hardly go any further.
Suddenly I felt very small. This landscape had been here since the dawn of time, covered with ice for long periods, only trodden underfoot by man for a fraction of a historical second. The sea had been there for even longer, solidified into ice for thousands of years, rolling to its own rhythm for just as long, with a pulse that was too slow for us to perceive and a global circulation we barely caught a shadowy glimpse of during our short sojourn on earth.
For understandable reasons there were no houses or quays here on the exposed rocks. A few wild sheep might have survived on the heather and other vegetation. For any other creatures survival prospects were poor. So, from that point of view, there was nothing to stand in the way of building a wind farm here.
When I turned back again I saw that I was about to have company. A tall man dressed in dark clothes, snow-white hair fluttering in the wind, was on his way towards me. In the rough-hewn countryside the man heading in my direction with long, determined strides was so stylised and unreal he could have been a figure from a Norse family saga.
From the very first glance there was something prophet-like and Old Testament about him. So it didn’t come as much of a surprise when he came to a halt in front of me, ran a hand through his hair, fixed me with a stern look and said in a deep, sonorous voice: ‘I’m Lars Rørdal. And who, if I might ask, are you?’
‘Varg Veum.’
A twitch traversed his face, somewhere between a smile and a grimace. ‘Did I hear you aright? A wolf in a sanctuary?’
I smiled back. ‘And you? A voice crying in the wilderness?’
He looked at me gravely. ‘You could say that.’ His gaze moved to the cross that towered up behind us.
‘You’re Ole’s father, I assume.’
He nodded. ‘I cannot deny it.’
‘I met your wife too when I rented a room at Naustvik.’
‘Ole’s a grand boy. No one can say otherwise.’ He gave me the opportunity, but I didn’t take it, and he continued: ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking around.’
He peered at me sceptically. ‘Right. Do you represent a company?’
‘A company? No. Just myself. But I have a job.’
‘And that is …?’
‘You know Mons Mæland, don’t you?’
He opened and closed his mouth twice before answering. ‘Yes. Do you represent him?’
‘I can’t say that, either. I work for his wife.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Have you seen him recently?’
‘Mons? He was here … a week ago, two weeks maybe. I don’t remember exactly. I just saw him briefly. Asked him how he was.’
‘And what did he answer?’
‘He’d been better, he said. I asked him if he wanted to talk about it. You might already know, but I’m a … preacher. I’m used to people confiding in me. But he didn’t. No, he said. Not now.’
‘Did you touch on …?’ I looked around me. ‘… what’s going to happen here?’
His face hardened. ‘What’s going to happen? Or what some people want to happen?’
‘The wind farm.’
‘Yes, I knew what you were hinting at. Yes, we did talk about it. He’d had a change of heart, he said, and it wasn’t popular, I gathered. Not even among closest family.’
‘No, so I understand. There was definitely a difference of opinion.’
‘Yes. The daughter’s on our side, but the lad … that’s what I call him … Kristoffer. He’s stubborn. And he’s got financial muscle behind him.’
‘By which you mean?’
‘Norcraft Power.’ He pronounced the English words the Norwegian way, with deep contempt. ‘But they’ve forgotten one thing. This land is the work of Our Lord. He’s given it to us, but not so that we let it rot as we’re doing at the moment. It’s an abomination in God’s eyes, and He will strike back with a vengeance. Pestilence, destruction, storms, flames and other catastrophes will smite us all if we don’t change course and learn to live according to God’s word.’
He glowered at me as if expecting me to protest. I held my tongue as I had learned to do when confronted by people with vaguely fundamentalist views. It was usually a waste of energy trying to discuss with them. When I said nothing, he nodded and moved his gaze again to the cross.
‘Did you erect this?’ I ventured.
‘I did, with some brethren. As a warning to the faithless.’
‘But you weren’t planning to crucify anyone here?’
He strode over to me. ‘Do not mock! The earth itself is being crucified, and Domesday is near, believe me. Only the Lord’s mercy can save us!’
‘My understanding is that Mons Mæland was a frequent visitor here.’
‘Of course. He had no other reason to come out here. He owns the land, but you probably know that. Him and his company.’
‘Yes … Did you get his permission to erect this?’
‘Did they ask God for permission to build wind turbines here?’
‘I doubt an application on high constituted part of the legal proceedings.’
He scowled at me. ‘Do not mock, I said! You should show the Lord our God respect, man. I’ve told you once!’
‘My apologies, but now Mons Mæland and the others own this property.’
‘And how do you think they got their hands on it?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘They cheated an old man out of it. He was barely conscious at the hospital in Eivindvik. Per Nordbø, his name was, and he died straight afterwards, in 1988. An old bachelor with no heirs.’
‘But the purchase must have been approved by the council, at least?’
‘And what is the council in the greater scheme of things?’ he almost spat. ‘Has it been sent by God?’
I reflected for a few seconds before answering. ‘No, strictly speaking, it hasn’t.’ After a little pause I added: ‘But, in other words, you’re putting God above the council and following his commands rather than theirs.’
‘You can certainly say that.’
I found it hard to stop myself. ‘Legal proceedings are a bit quicker up there perhaps.’
He shot me a furious glare. To show what he thought he put his hand in one jacket pocket and pulled out a small, well-thumbed Bible bound in black leather with a gold cross on the front. He held it out, in front of my face, as if urging me back whence I had come. ‘Everything’s written here, Veum, from the very first day on earth. I need no other laws.’
‘OK. I’d like to get back to Mons Mæland if you don’t mind. Did you meet him when he came here?’
‘Now and then. Far from every time. We didn’t have much to talk about.’
‘But when you were young … I heard you went dancing together. You and him and … your wife.’
His face developed a tic. ‘That was then. Did Kristine tell you this?’
‘I asked her about Mons.’
He sent me a stony look. ‘Alright. I saw the light the year I turned twenty. Before that I took part in worthless activities, but I’m on the straight and narrow now.’
‘Do you and your wife run the business together?’
‘It’s a family business, yes, but Kristine runs it. I don’t deal with things like that.’
‘No, I can imagine. Are you intending to be present at what’s going to happen here tomorrow, the survey of the area?’
‘Of that you can be sure, yes. They won’t be leaving here without hearing the Lord’s word!’
It was good the Lord had his representative here then, I thought. But I didn’t say anything. Instead I asked him if I could take a few pictures of him in front of the cross. Strangely enough, he had no objections. He posed with an expression as if he were the Master Builder at a topping-out ceremony, ready to celebrate with all his employees. But there was only him and me.
Afterwards I took a few pictures of the countryside. The light was falling from a new angle now, an
d the contours were changing character as they always did on the margins of the mainland, with the constant roar of the sea in eternal motion, unchanging it seemed. But if there was something life had taught me it was precisely the opposite: nothing of what the Lord God, or whoever it might be, had created was unchanging.
We walked back together. At the chapel we parted company. He went in, perhaps to say a little prayer for the Missionary House. I went down to the quay and the fishermen’s cabins. As I passed by I noticed a black Audi A4 with a Bergen number had parked beside my car, a grey Toyota Corolla.
A big cabin cruiser was mooring at the quay. In the cockpit I glimpsed the face of Ole Rørdal. On the deck, with the mooring rope in his hands, stood Stein Svenson. As I approached I even recognised one of the passengers. The young woman standing next to Ole Rørdal was Else Mæland.
11
As soon as the boat was secure she jumped ashore in a hesitant, slightly awkward manner. She stretched her legs and looked sulkily in my direction.
I ambled over to her. ‘So you came after all?’
She tossed her head back. ‘As you can see.’
‘I wasn’t aware you knew … them.’ I motioned towards Svenson and Rørdal.
‘Weren’t you?’
Stein Svenson scowled suspiciously at us. Ole Rørdal was fiddling with something in the cockpit, but he too was following events on the quay.
‘You came to see me about my father.’
‘I did.’
‘Is there anything new?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Unless Ranveig’s heard something. Have you spoken to her?’
‘Not since our conversation, no.’ She looked around as though searching for an avenue of escape.
Svenson was wearing the same militaristic uniform as the day before. Now he came over to us. ‘What’s this about?’ he asked with an aggressive stare at me.
‘Mons Mæland,’ I said.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Haven’t we met you before?’
‘En passant, outside the office in Lille Øvregate. You were on your way out; I was on my way in. Yesterday afternoon.’
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 7
