We Shall Inherit the Wind

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘You’re from Norcraft, aren’t you.’

  ‘No, I’m not. You asked me the same question yesterday.’

  ‘TWO then?’

  ‘Two what …?’

  ‘TWO. Trans World Ocean.’ He articulated it in capitals, as though he considered me too dim to understand. ‘An international shipping company with Norwegian roots. Registered in the Bahamas, in case you were wondering.’

  ‘Oh, them,’ I said airily.

  ‘Them, yes!’ He glared at me. Else looked as if she would rather be anywhere else. Ole Rørdal was still observing us from a safe distance.

  ‘I’ve come across them before. Several times. The first time so far back that you were hardly out of kindergarten. At that time they were called Helle Shipping, and Hagbart Helle was the big boss.’

  ‘Then you do know who we’re talking about. Capitalists of the worst kind. They sail ships that should have been scrapped several decades ago to Mongstad and back without a thought of the catastrophes that would ensue if one went aground in the already polluted waters around Austrheim and Fedje. That is, they know well enough; they just don’t care. All they’re concerned about is how much profit they can squeeze from transporting crude oil from Norway to the rest of the bloody industrial countries.’

  ‘The last time I had any dealings with them it was to do with transporting toxic waste and people smuggling, so you won’t find me in their fan club, either. But what has that got to do with this?’

  ‘So you don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They’re the owners of Norcraft. At least they’re the majority shareholders. In other words, we’re not dealing with little boys.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’

  Svenson had calmed down now. ‘So what are you doing here actually?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, that’s none of your business. Else can tell you, if she feels like it. But the wind farm, you might say, is a sidetrack for me.’

  He turned to her, unsure of himself now.

  She said: ‘We can talk about it later. Right now we’ve got more important things to think about.’

  He hesitated for a moment. Then he nodded. ‘OK, of course we have!’

  As if at a signal they turned towards the boat.

  ‘More important?’ I said in a low voice.

  She craned her head round and sent me a dirty look: ‘Yes!’

  ‘OK,’ I mumbled, watching them until they were on board again and moving towards Ole, who was clearly waiting for a report on our brief exchange of opinions on the windblown quayside.

  I strolled back to the fishermen’s cabins. As I rounded the bend Kristine Rørdal came out in a worn leather jacket over the same blue trousers she had been wearing earlier in the day. In my view, she didn’t look at all like a preacher’s wife should. The wind caught her chestnut-brown hair, and she flicked her head to free her eyes.

  She stopped for a moment. ‘Find it?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. And I met your husband there.’

  ‘Lars? Yes, he often goes there – to consult the Lord, as he says,’ she said without a trace of irony in her voice.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Sometimes I accompany him. When things are quiet here. And they often are.’

  ‘And whom do you consult?’

  She sent me a cool look. ‘I’m keeping that to myself.’ Then she walked on. ‘I’m off to see Ole.’

  I nodded towards the black Audi. ‘More guests?’

  ‘Yes. Anyone would think it was peak season.’

  For a moment I wondered whether to pop my head into the reception-cum-café to see if anyone was there, but I dropped the idea. Instead I went up to my room to make some telephone calls, the first to Ranveig Mæland.

  She sounded anxious. ‘Anything new?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. Nor with you, I can hear.’

  ‘Nothing. Not a peep from anyone. Not even from the children.’

  ‘Else’s here, and Kristoffer’s probably coming tomorrow.’

  ‘Else?’

  ‘With Ole Rørdal, amongst others.’

  ‘To demonstrate?’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Goodness me! It’s got that far.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you …’

  ‘I’ll stay here in case Mons shows up. He might have needed space to think. And he was lying low for strategic reasons.’

  ‘Strategic? With respect to …?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking of what’s going to happen tomorrow. The survey. The meeting afterwards. What were you thinking of?’

  ‘Well, he could have told me, couldn’t he?’

  ‘That wouldn’t have been unnatural.’

  ‘So, we’re as far as we were before.’

  ‘No further anyway.’

  ‘Well … Keep going, Varg. If we’re lucky he’ll turn up tomorrow. If he doesn’t I don’t know what I’ll do.’

  ‘If he doesn’t, my advice would be to go to the police. Then they’ll have to organise a search. I can’t do that.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. But thank you for everything you’ve done.’

  ‘Not much to thank me for, if I say so myself …’

  We said our goodbyes and I rang off.

  Karin had just arrived home when I phoned her. Her voice was bright and cheerful. ‘Hi! How’s it going?’

  ‘Nice place. We should think about coming here for a weekend ourselves when all this is over. If the food’s good, that is. I haven’t checked that out yet. Only the waffles.’

  ‘And Mons?’

  ‘Nothing, unfortunately. I’ve just spoken to Ranveig. Nothing new here, nothing new there.’

  ‘What do you reckon then?’

  ‘I don’t have a good feeling. I doubt a man like Mons Mæland could have kept his hands off his phone for several days, however underground he was supposed to be for business reasons.’

  ‘Business … what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that with the opponents he’s got over this issue, if he really has had a change of heart about the wind farm, then he could have decided to lie low so as not to be exposed to inappropriate pressures.’

  ‘And by that you mean …?’

  ‘Everything from financial incentives … to other methods.’

  ‘That sounds serious.’

  ‘This is no bloody Sunday School outing, that’s for sure. Even if he does seem to have God on his side.’

  ‘God?’

  ‘I told her about Lars Rørdal and the huge cross, and she replied: ‘My goodness, Varg. You’re in the African bush. Make sure you don’t get converted while you’re there.’

  ‘Bit more’s required for that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘OK …’

  I finished by promising to keep her posted on any new developments, and we rang off. I went to the window and stood gazing across Brennøy Sound to the land beyond. The closest islands were smooth and hilly as though it was still only a short time since the great ice sheets scoured their way past. Further away, the mountains rose like breakers in the sea, towards Masfjorden and the Stølsheimen mountain plateau, and in the north I had the Gulen transmitter on top of Brosviksåta as the clearest landmark, visible all the way from Bergen if you stood on the right peaks.

  Down on the quay I saw Kristine Rørdal in conversation with her son. Else and Stein Svenson were on the sidelines, slightly apart from them, and the black Audi kept watch on them all, like a panther ready to spring, a hitherto unknown danger.

  12

  There were far fewer people in the dining room than I had anticipated. My dinner was served in solitary majesty next to the panoramic window overlooking the sound. Kristine Rørdal had changed into a flowery dress, small red-and-white blooms on a black background, an outfit that revealed many more of her generous curves than the one she had been wearing earlier in the day.

  Without my asking, I was given a small hors d’oeuvre: parboiled potato slices with capelin roe, sour cream and herbs. When
she enquired whether I wanted anything to drink with my food I allowed myself to be tempted by half a bottle of red wine.

  ‘So you serve alcohol?’ I asked when she brought me a glass and poured.

  ‘After six.’

  ‘What does your husband say to that?’

  ‘I run the business.’

  ‘See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil?’

  She flashed a smile. ‘The figures are there for all to see. Had it not been for the summer season, then …’

  Her figure was there for all to see as well as she plied to and fro between the kitchen and the table. The fish dish she brought brimmed over with delicacies: at least three kinds of fish, shrimps, mussels, herbs, vegetables and a sauce that tasted out of this world.

  ‘And where are all the other guests?’

  ‘There aren’t so many. Ole and his group are making their own food. They’ve moved into one of the cabins.’

  ‘And the owner of the black Audi?’

  ‘He’d eaten in Bergen, he said.’

  ‘And his name is …?’

  She looked at me in surprise. ‘I couldn’t possibly pass on that information.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. We have certain principles.’

  ‘Yeah, well, principles are there to be broken.’

  ‘Not mine,’ she said, slightly flushed, then retreated into the kitchen area.

  I concentrated on the fish. After a while she returned and asked whether I liked the meal.

  ‘It’s the best fish casserole I’ve had for a long time.’

  ‘Thank you …’

  ‘So Ole and his crowd are ready for the fray tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they are.’ She sighed. ‘It ought to be a good cause that everyone could agree on.’

  ‘The wind farm?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the type of energy we all want. Instead of all the C02 we’re spewing out into the atmosphere every single day.’

  ‘Mm, I agree. But in a country with such a long coastline as ours, wouldn’t it be better to invest in wave power?’

  ‘They’ve tried that.’

  ‘It was a half-hearted effort in Øygarden, and it wasn’t properly thought through. But I hope they’re still working on new versions. If you want my opinion, I’d prefer to invest in wave rather than wind power. In this I’m actually on your son’s side. And your husband’s, for that matter, although for different reasons.’

  ‘Well, I take more of a regional politics stand here. It’s important that things happen outside the big towns.’

  ‘Yes, of course …’

  She left me long enough to finish my meal in peace and quiet. Then she re-appeared. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Anything with it?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘The selection isn’t immense, but the usuals: Cognac, liqueur …’

  ‘I have to admit you really push the boat out in chapel land.’

  ‘Seminar participants expect it.’

  ‘And Mammon wants his cut. Isn’t that so?’

  ‘From us all, doesn’t he. You must get paid for what you do as well?’

  ‘Yes, just about.’

  She chuckled in a disarming way. ‘OK, what’s it to be?’

  ‘You don’t have any aquavit, do you?’

  ‘Only Løiten Linje.’

  ‘Then I’ll have that, please.’

  When she returned with the coffee and aquavit, I asked: ‘And your husband … Doesn’t he have dinner?’

  ‘Not here. We live over there.’ She nodded towards Byrknesøy. ‘I eat afterwards. Alone.’

  ‘That sounds sad.’

  ‘That’s the way it is. When there are guests I have to sleep here.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ve got a room upstairs.’ She indicated the mezzanine. ‘Safety regulations.’

  ‘Even if there’s only one guest?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Such as Mons Mæland, for example?’

  This time her face went scarlet. ‘What on earth are you talking about? I sincerely hope you’re not suggesting that … that …’ She searched for words.

  ‘No, no, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant …’ I beat a hasty retreat. ‘What I said … a single guest.’

  Her cheeks still red, she subjected me to a cool stare. ‘Those are the rules.’ Then she turned on her heel and left.

  I slowly drank my coffee and ordered another aquavit. After the second glass I thanked her and went back to my room. She wished me a measured ‘good night’ from behind the reception desk. I spent the rest of the evening in front of the television screen and over a novel of the uncomplicated kind. Two unexplained murders and a detective who drank. Home from home.

  I slept dreamlessly until I woke with a start. Something had roused me, but I didn’t know what. A sound, something.

  I looked around. It took me a second or two to remember where I was. Then I whipped the duvet aside and swung my feet out. The floor was cold underfoot. I looked at the door. No one. I turned my gaze to the window, which I had left open before I went to bed.

  Now I could hear it. Loud voices, which soon afterwards were lowered.

  I walked to the window, leaned over and looked out. It was dark outside. I couldn’t see anyone. I read the time under the TV set: 02.30.

  I opened the window latch a bit further and leaned out. On the quay I glimpsed two people gesticulating furiously. They were Ole Rørdal and Stein Svenson. Then a third person appeared. Else Mæland. She strode between them, as if to pacify them, successfully it seemed. They continued to discuss, but with less arm-waving, and after a while the two fighting cocks disengaged. Else stayed with Ole while Stein made for the boat, grabbed the railing at the side and swung himself on board. Then he pointed peremptorily to the fishermen’s cabins and afterwards to the cockpit. His body language was unmistakeable: Go to bed and I’ll stay here.

  I quickly moved away from the window and stood back while Else and Ole walked by underneath in heated conversation. As they passed Ole’s voice penetrated the night: ‘We’re not terrorists for Christ’s sake!’ Then the voices faded. I leaned forward and watched them for as long as I could.

  When they had gone I stood for a while gazing at the quay and the moored boat. All of a sudden I noticed a movement in the narrow passage between two of the fishermen’s cabins. I leaned forward a bit further. Now I could see him clearly. He was a big, powerfully built man. It was hard to make out his facial features in the darkness, but there was no doubt he had his eye on the boat, as though expecting something to happen.

  We both stood like that for close on ten minutes, me set back from the window, expectant, him in silhouette, like a wax doll, with the white boat in the background. Then he slowly slid back into the passage. Immediately afterwards I heard the low creak of a door being quietly closed. Only then did I come away from the window.

  Nevertheless it was more like twenty minutes before I crawled back into bed. I wasn’t able to sleep anyway, not until it began to lighten in the east, over the mountains in Masfjorden, and then it was much too late. The night shrank to nothing, and I dragged myself up in the morning, as hesitantly as a tardy butterfly, unprepared for September, the month when summer is definitively over and implacable autumn awaits on the horizon.

  13

  There were only two of us for breakfast, and we sat on opposite sides of the room, as silent as the wallpaper. I had nodded to the well-built man sitting at a table next to reception when I entered. He had nodded back, but said nothing.

  Kristine Rørdal had set out a simple breakfast buffet, but still had to replenish it with a couple of extra fried eggs for me after the other guest had taken all of those in the tray. He was in the process of demolishing an impressive spread: a pile of bread, eggs, bacon and bean stew plus two or three big glasses of milk, a couple of cups of coffee and a sliced grapefruit. But then, judging by his size, he must have weighed around a h
undred kilos, which were well distributed over the fit-looking body; he had broad shoulders, supple thighs and two hands no one would want to be on the receiving end of, not even to shake politely.

  As for me, I stayed constant to my regular four slices of bread and partook of some herring in tomato sauce, pepper mackerel, ham and marmalade, as well as the two fried eggs Kristine brought to my table and served personally to ensure they didn’t also disappear down the primordial void. She was wearing the same dress as the previous evening, but looked freshly showered and sprightly, as if she’d had a good night’s sleep, all alone in her bed.

  ‘When are you expecting the main influx?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ve reserved a conference room from two o’clock, so I suppose they’ll do the on-site survey first.’

  ‘Ole and the others … they couldn’t even be tempted by breakfast?’

  She didn’t answer, just gently shook her head and returned whence she had come.

  The other guest sat at his table eating, immense and self-assured. His gaze was turned inward, almost meditative, and there was a tiny smile playing around his lips, as if what he saw inside his skull was all bright lights and laughter. I allowed the occasional glance to stray in his direction. I was fairly certain he was the man I had observed from my window last night. If I had seen him more clearly it is unlikely I would have been left in any doubt, for his appearance was quite striking. There were two pronounced clefts in his large face: one in the middle of his chin and one between his eyebrows. His hair was cropped short, dark blond, and he was dressed like a Secret Service man, in a dark-grey, made-to-measure suit with a jacket full enough to conceal a weapon in a shoulder holster. His clothing was not very well chosen if he was here to take part in the survey. However, the black, ankle-high military boots with sturdy soles were more suitable for such activities.

  He didn’t hang around nursing the last cup of coffee. As soon as he had finished breakfast, he demonstratively pushed away his plate, heaved himself up, gave a brief nod and left the room at a controlled tempo, quick and efficient, without a word of thanks to Kristine. I met her eyes across the desk and we were both thinking the same, it seemed.

  ‘Nice chap,’ I said.