We Shall Inherit the Wind

by Gunnar Staalesen

  She pointed to the stairs. ‘We’ve got an office up there.’

  Hamre nodded. ‘Veum, Sætenes, Solheim, Annemette: come with me. You two, as well.’ He indicated Pedersen and Kvamme. ‘Atle: take charge of the situation here. Try to get some sense of who’s who and allocate them to officers accordingly.’ Finally, he focussed on Svenson. ‘Can anyone take care of this gentleman?’

  Two of the young girls from the demonstrators’ group put up their hands. ‘We can see what we can do.’

  ‘Right. Excellent. But he mustn’t talk to anyone before he talks to us,’ he said, sending them a stern glance. ‘Not about what has happened at any rate,’ he added in a gentler voice after he saw their frightened reaction.

  I noticed Ole Rørdal make for Else to explain what had gone on. For most of the others, Stein Svenson was an unknown quantity. Stine Sagvåg stood with a pensive furrow between her eyebrows. Erik Utne and his companions looked impatient and restless. Jarle Glosvik was chatting with his allies from the Council, and Trond Tangenes was keeping an eye on proceedings with never-resting eyes, conspicuously alert compared with his large body.

  Johannes Bringeland came over to us. ‘I’m Svenson’s solicitor.’

  ‘Does he need one already?’ Hamre commented acidly. He made for the stairs to the mezzanine. ‘Veum … the briefing. It’s more populated here than in Bangladesh on a festival day. I can hardly see the sun for locals.’

  Bringeland remained downstairs with a miffed expression on his face. Then he turned and said something to Kristine, so low it was impossible to hear.

  As soon as we were installed in the office I started talking. Hamre listened attentively. Now and then he asked a question, and he made some notes in a little book he was holding in his hand. At the end he said: ‘A crucifixion. Well, I’m damned. It’s the first time in a long and dubious career. But I suppose it had to happen at some time. After all, the other side burns churches. But I note there’ve been huge disagreements about the planned wind farm here. The deceased Mons Mæland was on the developers’ side, but he may have been about to change his mind.’

  ‘He did change his mind,’ I interrupted.

  ‘We’d like to have that confirmed by those directly involved, Veum. But this gives us two groups of suspects. On the one hand, we have those who are against the developers and might be considered likely to manifest their opposition in such a drastic way as this. Or perhaps they thought by taking Mæland’s life they would defer the decision – and in fact they have definitely achieved that. And on the other, those who were behind the wind farm and were making plans, but who were less than pleased that Mæland had had a change of heart and could therefore put a spoke in their wheel. But it’s rare for Norwegian businesses to go to such extremes.’

  ‘TWO sails under a foreign flag now and can no longer be regarded as Norwegian, strictly speaking,’ I said.

  ‘TWO?’

  ‘Trans World Ocean, represented by Stine Sagvåg down there.’ I pointed to the main room.

  Hamre made a note of this before going on. ‘What about these demonstrators? You say you heard some of them discussing actions one referred to as terror …’

  ‘Well, he said: “We’re not terrorists!” And the person these objections were addressed to was Stein Svenson, whom we found gagged and bound, very professionally I might add, just a short time ago. What I forgot to say by the way was this: I’m not the only one who heard this exchange of views. Trond Tangenes did, too.’

  ‘You mean that the person who attacked Svenson and put him out of circulation for a while could have been Tangenes?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, yes.’

  ‘But the terrorist action was carried out.’

  ‘If that was what they had been talking about, yes. I doubt it though. Mæland’s own daughter is one of the demonstrators. She would never have given her consent to something like that, not even as a proposal, that’s obvious. And she was present at the row. There were just the three of them: Svenson, Ole Rørdal and her.’

  ‘Plus you two eavesdroppers,’ Hamre said, before turning his attention to his colleagues. ‘Kvamme and Pedersen: you get off to the crime scene. There’s an ambulance on the way to take the deceased to the Pathology Unit. We’ll make a start on the interviews downstairs. It could be a long, drawn-out affair. We should probably requisition one of the cabins so that we can have separate conversations; stop any earwigging. If anyone’s of interest we’ll take them to Bergen. Questions?’

  None of them appeared to have any. Sætenes was visibly relieved that the responsibility was out of his hands.

  ‘And me?’ I said.

  Hamre surveyed me from under heavy eyelids. ‘You? You can go home. My understanding was your task was to find Mons Mæland. Now he’s appeared without any help from you, so we’ll take over from here.’

  ‘Have you contacted his wife?’

  Hamre looked at Annemette Bergsen, who said: ‘No, not yet.’

  ‘I have a girlfriend who knows her well. She said she could do it.’

  ‘Have you got a girlfriend, Veum?’ Hamre asked.

  I ignored him. ‘They’re old friends. It’s OK if I visit her as well, I take it?’

  ‘Yes, you should write a report though. About the successful outcome, I mean.’

  The other policemen had stood up and were itching to get started. Hamre slowly rose to his feet. If we need anything else from you, Veum, we’ll be in touch. Don’t ring us, we’ll … so to speak’

  We went back downstairs. Pedersen and Kvamme were given directions to the crime scene by Sætenes. Helleve appeared with a list of all those present, divided up into several groups over many sheets of paper torn from his pad. Hamre allocated tasks, and they began to take people aside. I noticed that Hamre went over to Trond Tangenes. That was a conversation I would have loved to hear. So far, I hadn’t heard him utter a word.

  I joined Svenson, who was sitting on a chair surrounded by a group of young demonstrators and Bringeland, his solicitor. ‘How’s it going?’

  Bringeland nodded. ‘He’s recovering. This just shows how important this case is, Veum.’

  ‘Yes, have either of you got a theory about who could be behind this?’

  ‘We interpret it as a warning. If you take this case any further, etc. …’

  ‘And who could have carried out the attack?’

  Bringeland glanced across the room at Trond Tangenes. ‘We can all see whom the opposition have on their team.’

  ‘You know Tangenes, too, do you?’

  ‘He was involved in a case I took on some years ago. I don’t know if you’ve noticed the person he’s been in conversation with?’

  ‘Jarle Glosvik.’

  Bringeland nodded pointedly. ‘Exactly. And that man not only has political interests in the development, but commercial ones too.’

  ‘A company?’

  ‘For example.’

  I turned to Svenson. ‘And you still don’t remember anything?’

  Gingerly, he shook his head.

  ‘You have no idea who hit you?’

  ‘No …’

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘Don’t remember diddly. The last thing I did was clamber on board the boat.’

  ‘He’s very shaken up,’ Bringeland said. ‘But a doctor’s supposed to be on the way.’

  I watched Svenson. His eyes flickered, but that wasn’t so strange. He was probably dizzy as well. ‘I may contact you again.’

  Bringeland wasn’t pleased. ‘For what reason, might I ask?’

  ‘Well, I just have this congenital tendency, Bringeland. I’m so damned inquisitive, and when things like this happen in my immediate vicinity I have to find out why.’

  ‘Leave that to his solicitor, Veum.’

  ‘Is that cheaper? For him, I mean.’

  He smiled patronisingly. ‘So … what happens now?’

  ‘All of you will be questioned by the police, every single one of you. As for me, I’m hea
ding home.’

  ‘Oh? Aren’t you going to be questioned?’

  ‘I’ve already told the Boy Scouts everything I know. And they’ve got my telephone number.’

  I said goodbye and left. After going to fetch the little baggage I had, I returned to reception, flashed my bank card and said to Kristine: ‘I’ve been told to check out.’

  She nodded lethargically and wrote out the bill. After I had paid she whispered: ‘This is the worst thing I’ve ever experienced. And Mons, of all people. I sincerely hope you find out who did it …’

  I cast a final glance at all the people there. In one corner of the room sat her husband talking to Atle Helleve. In another, Bjarne Solheim was talking to her son, and Annemette Bergesen was on her way upstairs to the mezzanine floor with Erik Utne. Jarle Glosvik was pacing to and fro by the window with the view of Byrknesøy. The others sat in impatient clusters, waiting for their turn. I couldn’t see Hamre or Tangenes anywhere.

  I thanked her for the stay. She put on a sad smile in return.

  As I was leaving, Stine Sagvåg caught up with me. ‘Veum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’d like to have a word with you.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘No, not here. Where can I get hold of you?’

  I put my hand in my inside pocket, tugged out my wallet and gave her one of my business cards. ‘You’ll find me here, at one of these numbers. The surest option is my mobile.’

  She took a quick peek at the card. ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’

  ‘Look forward to it,’ I said, wondering what this word would be about.

  I walked out to my car and drove over all the bridges back to Skipavik, where the ferry was arriving and I was able to drive straight on. From the deck I stood taking in the beautiful view: the industrial plant at Sløvåg to the north and the oil refinery at Mongstad to the south of the fjord. It struck me that one wind power plant would hardly change the landscape. The plant in Sløvåg would never win first prize in any beauty contest, and Mongstad lay like a dark, industrial excrescence on the original coastline. From the tall chimney the flame inside burnt like a sign of impending doom for anyone who approached. If it went out there really would be trouble afoot.

  Above all this, the greyish-yellow September sky shrank in the afternoon light. It looked as though it had eaten something it couldn’t stomach. Soon it would be sick over all of us.

  17

  Darkness had begun to fall when I arrived back in Bergen. I parked on Skansen and rang Karin on her mobile.

  ‘Hiya, Varg.’ She didn’t say any more. In the background I could hear classical piano music.

  ‘How did it go? Did you talk to Ranveig?’

  ‘I’m here now.’

  ‘How’s she taking it?’

  I heard Ranveig Mæland’s voice in the background. Karin said: ‘Just a moment …’ I heard them talking. Then Karin was back again. ‘I’ve promised to sleep here tonight. But she’s asking if you could pop up. She’d like to hear everything from the horse’s mouth, as she put it.’

  ‘Yes, I was going to suggest that …’

  ‘We’re making something simple to eat, and we’ve made enough for you in case you should turn up.’

  ‘Great. I’ll drop my bag off and be with you in about half an hour.’

  We hung up. I nipped down to Telthussmauet, emptied the post box, dropped my bag off and flicked quickly through what the postman had delivered: window envelopes, advertising and a postcard from my son and daughter-in-law, which had taken one and a half weeks to arrive from Milan. Thomas was lecturing on Norwegian literature at the university department for Nordic languages, while Mari was attending a course on Italian Renaissance painting. It would be hard to be any further from my reality. Half an hour after my arrival I was on my way to Storhaugen.

  The part of town east of Ǻrstadveien lay like an enclave between Lake Svartediket, Mount Ulriken and Mount Fløyen. From Storhaugen you could see into Isdalen Valley over the solid concrete dam constructed in 1954, which concealed the town’s main reservoir for drinking water. In Lappen and Stemmeveien most of the houses were either detached or terraced, many of them built by Hansa Brewery to accommodate their employees. The big housing estate from the early 1920s was a very special construction. The original social dividing lines were still visible. Down below the dam lived the workers and officials; up at Storhaugen, the upper class, most in detached houses with views on all sides. In today’s society the border was more fluid, but there was still a hint of insouciant arrogance about the grand houses that covered the heights, with the little lake the locals still called the ‘Duck Pond’, an idyllic centre both in winter, when ice formed and you could skate on it, and in summer, when the tadpoles romped beneath the surface, hidden from the urban noise and commotion.

  I parked my car in Lappen and walked up the last stretch. Mons Mæland’s house faced the west with a view of Bergen from the sitting-room windows and almost certainly of Isdalen Valley from the attic, but I had never been up there. I rang the bell, and it was Karin who answered. She held the door open, and when I was inside, she gave me a quick hug.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I whispered.

  ‘She’s pretty upset, naturally. In shock, of course.’

  ‘Have you contacted a doctor?’

  ‘She doesn’t want one.’

  Obviously quite at home, she opened the wardrobe and fished out a clothes hanger. I hung up my jacket and followed her into the well-kept hall with white panelling, a large, old-fashioned mirror in a gilt frame and a selection of historical prints of old Bergen in plain, dark-brown frames.

  We entered the sitting room, it too in a stylistically consistent white, where there was a big, speckled-grey sofa suite set around a black coffee table in the middle, a shelving system with books, a little radio and a stereo along one wall and a large escritoire against the wall facing. Through a spacious opening, the sliding doors partly drawn, I glimpsed a dining room with polished furniture. The paintings on the walls were few in number, but select, a very big landscape painting and a more impressionistic picture dated the early 1960s and signed by an artist whose signature would never adorn any of the pictures on my walls, let alone a cheque in my office.

  The music on the stereo was of the same genre as when I phoned Karin less than an hour before: Chopin, Brahms, Schubert … I was no expert, but it sounded wonderful.

  Ranveig Mæland got up from the sofa when I went in. It was as though her heart-shaped face had cracked. She looked wan and drawn, her narrow mouth was pursed like a raisin, and her dark-blue eyes were large and shiny. Her short-cropped hair emphasised the shape of her skull, and she resembled an image of death as she walked towards me, limply shook my hand and said in a faint voice: ‘Thank you for coming’.

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ I said.

  There were three cups of coffee and a silver pot on the table.

  ‘Karin’s made some coffee. We’ll have something to eat later. But first I must hear how they found him.’

  I glanced at Karin. ‘I don’t know what you’ve told Ranveig.’

  She swallowed. ‘Only that Mons was found dead under dramatic circumstances on Brennøy.’

  I nodded. ‘Shall we sit down?’

  We sat around the low table, Karin poured coffee for me and refilled the other two cups. Ranveig looked at me with her strikingly large eyes, and I had a sense of what Mons Mæland had fallen for when he was alive. They were eyes to drown in.

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t of much help.’

  Her voice was low, almost apathetic. ‘But it was you who found him?’

  ‘I was present when he was found, yes, but several people were, and the man who brought the crime to light was Lars Rørdal.’

  ‘Lars?’

  ‘Ole Rørdal’s father, who was at the forefront of those campaigning against the wind farm on Brennøy.’

  ‘Yes, I know about them.’

  ‘Well, the most dramatic aspect
… I don’t know how to formulate this, but … We were all on our way to the planned survey. Kristoffer and Else were there, too. Representatives of the companies involved. Local politicians. Demonstrators. At least twenty to thirty people in all. But then Lars Rørdal ran towards us and told us what he had seen … Mons was hanging from a cross, if you understand what I mean. Like a kind of … crucifixion.’

  She stared at me in stunned disbelief. ‘Crucified?’

  ‘Yes, but not with nails or anything like that. Only tied,’ I hastened to add. As though that made any difference actually. ‘I would imagine he’d died before the perpetrator performed this … stunt, or whatever it was.’

  ‘But who would …? What could the motive be for such an act?’

  ‘Well, the most likely explanation is that it must have something to do with this wind farm business. An extreme demonstration – an act of terrorism some would call it – against what was planned. But that seems rather un-Norwegian. We stopped using nithing poles to curse our enemies many centuries ago. Since then, by and large, we’ve kept to more Parliamentarian approaches here.’

  ‘Nithing poles …?’

  ‘Yes, this had that kind of appearance. A pole erected to curse all those who were planning the big wind farm. It was hardly a coincidence that this happened on the same day as the inspection.’

  ‘But …’ Profoundly puzzled, she searched my face. ‘He disappeared on a Saturday. And today’s Wednesday. What was he doing in the meantime?’

  ‘Good question. But you didn’t give me a lot of clues to go on. I spoke to Kristoffer and Else, and also Ole Rørdal. Then I went to Brennøy, hoping he would turn up there.’

  ‘And he did.’

  ‘Yes, although …’ I raised my hands as if to say: not in the state we had hoped. Then I added: ‘Now this is a police matter, of course, and I’m fairly sure they will get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ She appeared doubtful.

  ‘At any rate, they have quite different resources at their disposal from those I have. So there’s not a lot more to say, other than that the assignment is concluded.’