‘Not one of the chattiest,’ she answered.
‘What was his name again, did you say?’
She sent me an indulgent smile, shook her head and returned to what she was doing.
I sat over my cup of coffee and said no more. A short time afterwards she brought me the latest edition of Bergens Tidende and showed me the front page.
Fight over Turbines in Gulen, one of the headlines read. The opening paragraph explained that demonstrations were expected during the planned inspection of Brennøy in Gulen today, and the newspaper quoted both Deputy Chairman Jarle Glosvik of Gulen District Council and Ole Rørdal of NmV, who made diametrically opposed statements, which came as no surprise to me, or indeed anyone else, I supposed.
I said nothing to Kristine about what I had heard during the night, but did ask gently whether it was her impression that Stein Svenson and her son were not entirely of one mind, either. She shrugged.
I finished reading the newspaper. Before going back to my room I strolled down to the harbour. Another boat had arrived early that morning, a medium-sized fishing smack with fifteen to twenty young people on board, colourfully dressed with hair of varying lengths and hues, some men with beards, an entourage undoubtedly destined to join NmV and Ole Rørdal in the fight against the wind farm. Ole was already in full flow explaining the situation to them. He pointed northwards and gesticulated in a way that left no one in any doubt. Else Mæland was among the others, easy to spot in her red anorak. I couldn’t see Stein Svenson anywhere.
I spent the next couple of hours in my room. This wasn’t one of my best days as a private investigator. Finally, at twelve, something started to happen. The demonstrators had already gathered on the quay. They had produced posters and banners from nowhere and were ready to meet the assembled world press with their opinions on the matter. Renewable energy? Not at any price! NO to power lines across the country! Preserve the coastal landscape! Wind power is a loss-maker, both economically and ecologically! were some of the slogans.
Ole Rørdal held a portable PA system over one shoulder and stood with a microphone in one hand. Else Mæland shifted around restlessly, her eyes alternately jumping from her watch to the bridge over Byrknesøy Sound. Stein Svenson was still nowhere to be seen. At one point I saw Ole call Else over. He asked her about something, but she splayed her hands to signal she didn’t know. He pointed to the bridge, but she shook her head.
If nothing else, we were lucky with the weather: intermittent cloud with the odd patch of sun over the greyish-blue water, and the temperature had risen since the previous day. Just a few sudden gusts of wind spoiled the picture, as if the weather gods hadn’t quite made up their minds about when to usher in the next blast.
The official participants of the survey arrived in a mini-procession, judging by the assembled column from the ferry in Skipavik. At the front was a big, grey Toyota Rav4, behind it a black Mercedes, a VW minibus, a white Ford Mondeo and bringing up the rear a Volvo 850 estate, white with a red speed stripe and POLITI in large, dark-blue letters on both sides. As if in a rehearsed formation, they all turned into the car park beside the vehicles already parked there, among them my Corolla, the black Audi and the battered Opel Kadett from the day before. It was a collection of cars that would have had a second-hand car salesman rubbing his hands with undisguised glee. Personally, I was more interested in who got out of them.
For a moment or two it was hard to grasp what was happening. I recognised a casually dressed Kristoffer Mæland as he stepped out of the mid-size Toyota SUV. He strode around the vehicle to where an elegant woman in leisure attire had effortlessly swung her legs out onto the ground. They exchanged a few words, and with swift professional ease she took stock of the situation.
The four doors of the black Mercedes opened and out popped four youthful men with clean-shaven faces, and also in new leisurewear, as if this were an après-ski gathering they had been invited to and not an inspection of the exposed westernmost Vestland coast. I guessed that this was the Norcraft delegation with Erik Utne at the head.
There was something more congenial about the big blue Puffa jacket and brown trousers of the man getting out of the minibus with a couple of other people kitted out in practical clothing. I recognised him as the Jarle Glosvik from the newspaper article I had read that morning. I thought I also recognised the tall, sparsely haired man getting out of the white Mondeo. It was Johannes Bringeland, a business lawyer from the middle stratum of Bergen society.
Glosvik looked around and then nodded quickly in my direction before turning to his travelling companions. For a moment I wondered whether he had nodded to me, but when I took a discreet peek to the side I saw the immense guy from the breakfast room had also come outside and was leaning against the wall by the entrance to reception. Right, OK, and I made a mental note. Jarle Glosvik and What’s-His-Face.
Two uniformed officers stepped out of the police car. They quickly took their bearings and then focussed their attention on the demonstrators by the two boats in the harbour. Like a delayed rear-guard, five minutes after the others, the sole press representatives made an appearance, a female journalist and a male photographer in an unwashed white Mazda, which, according to the logo on the door, belonged to a local Nordhordland newspaper, Strilen.
After spotting me, Kristoffer crossed the square. ‘Veum … any news on my father?’
‘I’m afraid not, no. If he doesn’t turn up here, I’ve recommended your … that is, Ranveig … should go to the police.’
With a serious expression, he said: ‘I don’t understand why she hasn’t already done that.’
‘I imagine she was also hoping he would turn up.’
He scanned the crowd. He pressed his lips together when he read the text of the demonstrators’ banner and saw his sister on the quay. But he made no comment.
The woman with whom he arrived came over to us, accompanied by the four young men. Kristoffer Mæland said perfunctorily: ‘This is Veum. He’s making some investigations for us regarding my father’s disappearance. I think I told you about it.’
The woman held out her hand. ‘Stine Sagvåg. District Manager of TWO.’ She was around forty, had a narrow face and short, auburn hair with grey streaks, unless it was vice versa. ‘We’re all concerned about Mæland. Is there any news?’ She looked me in the eye.
‘Not yet, I’m afraid.’
There was a resigned set to her face and she twisted to the side as if disappointed that yet another person had not done their job. Then I was introduced to Erik Utne and his three henchmen, all with the same polished appearance I had noticed when they stepped out of the car. They reminded me of estate agents, the smoothest variety, so anonymous that it was hard to tell them apart, however high up in the pecking order they were.
Jarle Glosvik joined us. He introduced his retinue as representatives of two of the coalition parties on the local council, before suddenly turning to Bringeland and asking: ‘And who are you?’
Bringeland nodded to me. I already knew him. ‘Johannes Bringeland, of the law firm Bringeland & Kleve. I represent Stein Svenson.’
‘What?’ barked Jarle Glosvik. ‘In what capacity if I might ask?’
‘On behalf of the family.’
‘Which family?’ Kristoffer Mæland asked.
Johannes Bringeland lapped up all the attention for a second or two. Then he gave a formal cough. ‘Stein Svenson’s paternal grandfather was related to Per Nordbø, from whom, in 1988, Mæland Real Estate, in the person of Mons Mæland, bought the land in the north of Brennøy. We will launch a legal investigation into all the circumstances surrounding such sale.’
The Deputy Chairman’s face reddened. ‘Related to! How close was the relationship?’
‘They were cousins.’
‘And why didn’t you take this up earlier?’ Glosvik demanded.
‘It has not been relevant hitherto,’ Bringeland said with the natural arrogance he shared with so many of his professional brethren.
‘Not
relevant!’
‘It’s only now that we have become aware of the realities of the matter.’
‘And who is this Stein Svenson if I might be so bold?’
It was a good question, and even Johannes Bringeland lost his composure when he looked around and was unable to see his client anywhere.
Kristoffer Mæland shouted over to what he assumed was the enemy camp: ‘Else! Is Stein Svenson over there?’
General unrest broke out, and everyone looked around nervously until the answer came back: ‘We haven’t seen him today. We don’t know where he is!’
‘Another disappearance?’ Kristoffer muttered, looking at me.
‘He was here yesterday – last night,’ I said, then it struck me that there was another person missing: the Lord’s very own trumpet-blowing angel from the entrance to the fjord, Lars Rørdal.
I peered over at the hotel. The man from breakfast had gravitated closer to us without anyone noticing him. Behind him Kristine Rørdal had emerged from reception. She was standing with a concerned expression in her eyes, scanning the gathering.
Stine Sagvåg checked her watch impatiently. ‘Well, what are we waiting for? We’re already behind schedule. It’s twelve thirty-five.’
Kristoffer Mæland raised his hand. ‘I’ll show you the way. Follow me.’
From the demonstrators came loud boos, and the photographer from Strilen already had his camera out. The two police officers took up a position between us and the demonstrators, and gestured to them to keep their distance.
‘There’s such a thing as freedom of speech in this country!’ shouted one of the youths.
‘You can speak as much as you like, provided you follow our instructions,’ said one of the officers, a tall man with fair hair and red cheeks. ‘You follow us and keep to the rear. Can we agree on that?’
Ole Rørdal went to the front of his battle ranks. ‘Yes, we agree to that. But that’s all we’ll agree to.’
Then the crowd moved off. Kristoffer Mæland led the way towards the chapel, and we others followed. Erik Utne and his colleagues joined Stine Sagvåg. Next came Jarle Glosvik and the two from the local council. I ended up alongside Johannes Bringeland.
‘What brings you here, Veum?’ he asked, brimming with curiosity.
‘I’m on a job.’
‘You, too?’
‘Yes, but … it concerns Mons Mæland. He’s gone missing.’
‘I see! And you, as it were, have to find him?’
‘That’s what I’ve been asked to do, anyway.’
‘But why the hell don’t they contact the police?’ As he didn’t receive a response, he added, with a little chuckle: ‘Bad conscience perhaps?’
I arched an eyebrow.
‘Yes, as I said down there … the purchase of the property was highly dubious. Per Nordbø wasn’t compos mentis when he signed the contract.’
‘Mm … I suppose there were witnesses?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. The Chief of Police in Lindås was one of them.’
‘The Chief of Police in … And his name was …?’
‘Brekkhus, at that time. And there was a nurse in the ward where he was. Gunvor Matre. I’ll have to speak to both of them.’
‘I’ve met Brekkhus.’
‘Yes? Trustworthy type, is he?’
‘Well, I would like to think so.’
We passed the chapel, and I cast a glance at the small, red house on the opposite side of the path. Today none of the curtains stirred and no one was peering out. Then we were on our way into the woods.
I strained forward to see. This was a singular collection of people, the sort you would generally expect to meet in far more urban surroundings than here by a fjord. I turned round and looked back. The man from breakfast was at the rear of our group. He didn’t meet my gaze; he was staring intently ahead as if to ensure nothing unexpected would happen. Who on earth was he, and what was he doing here?
Right behind him came the two police officers, and behind them a wagging tail of demonstrators with banners and posters flapping in the wind. The little photographer from Strilen, with the blue cap and worn, brown leather jacket was running back and forth down both flanks, snapping away furiously. I noticed that the man behind us averted his face whenever the camera came close.
The female journalist had, for the time being, attached herself to the local politicians and, judging by her face, I surmised she was asking a lot of questions to which she was not getting satisfactory answers. Jarle Glosvik turned his back on her several times and looked behind him as though searching for someone to take over, but it was doubtful Gulen had a budget for a press officer, and he was adept at avoiding the eyes of the man from breakfast, a bit too adept in my view.
We had now reached open countryside again and our advance came to a sudden halt. In front of us we could hear loud, inarticulate shouts and a dark-clad figure with white hair was running at full tilt towards us over the smooth rocks, screaming something or other we couldn’t decipher. It was Lars Rørdal.
I stepped out of the procession and had made my way to the front of the column by the time Rørdal stopped in front of Kristoffer Mæland, Stine Sagvåg and Erik Utne. His face was distorted into a terrified grimace, and his eyes wandered from one to the other until they stopped at Kristoffer Mæland.
‘Blasphemy! It’s the devil’s work,’ he groaned. ‘They’ve hung him on the cross! He’s been crucified, like God’s only begotten son … Crucified!’
Then he rolled his eyes and collapsed on the ground in front of us. Erik Utne and one of his companions jumped forward to help him up as Kristoffer Mæland turned to the rest of us and asked in a tone of disbelief: ‘What did he say? Crucified?’
Before anyone had time to reflect I was on my way over the rocks to the towering cross. Behind me I heard someone shout, but I took no notice. A couple of times I almost fell, but managed to steady myself and when I raised my eyes I saw that he was right. There was a man hanging from the cross with his arms stretched out like a reincarnation of Jesus of Nazareth.
I jogged the last part at a slower pace, as though to postpone the inevitable. Behind me I could hear heavy footfalls. I glanced over my shoulder. One of the two police officers and Kristoffer Mæland were following me.
We arrived at the cross at about the same time, but had to walk round to see who it was. He had been tied to the horizontal bar, fully clothed. His head hung forward, his face deathly pale, a blue tongue protruding from his mouth, like an overfed scavenger caught in the act. The vacant eyes told us unequivocally that he was dead.
But it was not Stein Svenson, as I had at first anticipated.
‘Oh, God!’ Kristoffer Mæland said with feeling, before turning away and stooping to retch.
‘Do you know him?’ the officer asked softly.
I met his eyes and nodded. ‘Not personally, but I know who it is.’
I recognised him from the photo in the brochure I had been given. It was Mons Mæland.
14
There was mayhem for a while. The two police officers struggled to prevent the rest of the crowd from surging forward, and had to resort to shouting to enforce order.
‘We’ll have to cordon off the area,’ yelled the smaller, darker-haired and less flushed of the two.
I stood beside Kristoffer Mæland, as if to offer a form of tentative consolation, but without contributing much of any value.
The taller of the two officers came over to me. ‘That includes you.’
I nodded reluctantly and edged slowly across the closest rocks to the little plateau where the band of business people and demonstrators had become a gathering of shocked individuals and were now mingling freely. Lars Rørdal had got to his feet again. He stood in the background, pale and grubby, with his son, who didn’t look that lively either. The only person who seemed unmoved was the man from breakfast. He towered over the others, his stony face staring intently at the cross, as though making sure he didn’t miss any of what was going
on.
Jarle Glosvik was at the front with Erik Utne. ‘What’s happened? Who is it?’ he asked when I joined them.
‘Impossible to say,’ I answered.
I searched for Else Mæland and spotted her with some of the young demonstrators. Pallid, she met my eyes. I took a few steps towards her and beckoned. An expression of foreboding crossed her face. She walked unsteadily towards me. When she was in front of me she looked me in the eye without speaking.
I spoke in a low voice. ‘I’m sorry, Else, but … it’s your father.’
Her face turned ashen. Then the tears flowed, and an inarticulate gasp escaped her mouth. She moved closer to me, and automatically I wrapped her in my arms and held her tight.
Now Ole Rørdal was ploughing a channel through the crowd. On reaching me, he made as if he wanted to take responsibility for her, but I held her close to me. She was trembling against my chest, and from deep in her body came a painful sob, a harbinger of the storm that was to erupt.
Ole placed a hand on her shoulder and eyed me stiffly. His black beard quivered. ‘My father told me it’s… Mæland.’
I nodded. ‘And where the hell’s Stein Svenson?’
He pinched his lips together, then answered: ‘You don’t mean to say that … that Stein …?’
‘I overheard your quarrel last night, Ole. You and him. “We’re not terrorists for Christ’s sake,” you said.’ He opened his mouth in protest, but I carried on: ‘Was that what you were arguing about? Were these the means that Stein Svenson wanted to use?’
He seemed to be in shock. ‘Are you crazy, Veum? What nonsense are you talking? That would be … That’s murder, for Pete’s sake! We don’t get involved with that. We’re a professional organisation employing the means a democratic society allows us to. And surely you don’t think …?’ His gaze passed from me to Else with a tenderness that had not been present before. She had quietened down in my arms, as though listening to what we were saying.
I whispered: ‘So where is he then? Stein Svenson?’
He gesticulated wildly. ‘How should I know? We fell out. That was all. He’s probably gone home under his own steam.’ He patted his inside pocket. ‘I can try and call him.’ Then he stopped himself. ‘Afterwards.’
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 9
