‘In Denmark, yes. But only in passing.’
She looked up. ‘It’s a very attractive sight, I can tell you. The big blades rotating slowly in a rhythmical, almost dancing, fashion. Tall, white against the horizon. And the sure knowledge that this produces energy without leaving behind it the slightest form of pollution.’
‘But there are those who maintain that wind turbines are not that environmentally friendly after all. They make a lot of noise, among other things. And they have the potential to cause harm to bird species.’
‘Yes, and we should take that seriously. Everyone should have their say. But not in the way that … well, you know. I don’t know if you caught the item on the TV news?’
‘No, I was … busy.’
‘This morning it was front-page news in all the papers. The authorities are going to demand an immediate explanation.’
I chuckled. ‘Hamre’s going to be doing overtime …’
‘You’re old friends?’
‘I know most of them in the force, unfortunately.’
She looked at me from the corner of her eye. ‘I haven’t met that many private detectives before.’
‘No? We’re pretty normal people, so long as you don’t cross swords with us.’
‘Are you handy with your sword, Varg?’
I nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Touché, Stine.’
She leaned even closer. ‘Can I invite you to a nightcap one floor up?’
‘Are you staying here?’
‘Mm.’
It was tempting, of course. On the other hand … ‘Shame you’ve hired me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of my hopelessly old-fashioned principles. I never get too familiar with my employer. Besides, I’m as good as married.’
She leaned back in the chair with a slightly odd expression on her face. ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Another time perhaps.’
She smiled sourly. We were alone in the bar now. The others had gone. The owner was standing behind the bar polishing a glass with such energy he must have thought it would turn to gold if he rubbed hard enough.
‘Anyway, I was only inviting you for a nightcap.’
I nodded, with a wry little smile.
Again she opened her handbag. From an inside pocket she pulled out another little gold case, the size of a business card, and indeed that was what she took out, placed on the table and pushed in my direction. ‘Here you have all my phone numbers.’
‘If I should change my mind?’
‘When you hand in your report.’
I clocked the card. ‘You’re based in Oslo, I see.’
‘Our division HQ is there, yes.’
‘As close as possible to power.’
‘No, no. Then we would have been in Brussels. Or New York.’
I sighed. ‘But not in Eivindvik.’
‘No, not there.’
She still looked a little put out. Attractive girls do what they want, she had told me, but they don’t always get what they want, however attractive they are. She beckoned to the bartender and paid with one of her cards. We walked back to reception, where she shook my hand and wished me luck with the assignment.
She sent me a final, lingering look. Then she went upstairs to her room on the fifth. I walked all the way downstairs; I didn’t even pop into the office to check my post. I postponed everything to the following day and strolled home, fairly satisfied with the day’s results. But she had got me wondering, it couldn’t be denied. Clever girl that she was.
Once at home, I poured myself another Simers Taffel to console myself. Gradually a new image was forming on my retina. The image of Mons Mæland on a cross facing the sea with the wind as the only witness. I thought of the quotation from the Bible that had hung on the wall outside the chapel: He that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind: and the fool shall be servant to the wise of heart. Mons Mæland had inherited the wind, there was no doubt about that. Who was foolish and who was wise was still a moot point. I felt quite well qualified for both myself, and I was pretty sure which category Stine Sagvåg had put me in, lying in her bed in Strandveien, alone with her dreams – of profit or whatever it was people like her dreamed about when it was night and they were alone and had no one to be clever with.
19
On Thursday morning I rang Karin to hear how she had got on. She was on the bus and answered that the night had passed without any difficulties and suggested we talk later.
While eating my breakfast, I wondered how I should go about my new assignment. Going to the council building in Eivindvik and hoping the fish would bite at the Housing and Properties office seemed a touch optimistic. Furthermore, Eivindvik was almost as long a drive as Brennøy. Perhaps it would be best to start with Bringeland, who, by all accounts, had a copy of the contract in his office in the centre of Bergen. When I rang his number I got no further than his secretary, who after some to-ing and fro-ing was able to confirm that Bringeland could spare me five minutes at a quarter to ten. I accepted the appointment, finished breakfast and set off. The five minutes promised could soon become ten once I had a foot in his office.
On my way I bought my regular dose of newspapers and popped by my office to flick through them. The case had filled the front pages of the tabloids and had comprehensive coverage in others. Crucified for the Environment was one tabloid headline. Killed by Eco-Warriors? said another. But from reading the papers I could see that neither the name of the deceased nor any further details had been released yet. Most was speculation about how far NmV was involved. One of the articles in the biggest local newspaper was entitled: We are not terrorists, says Ole Rørdal. Strilen was the only paper to have photos of the crime scene, but it had little more than I had observed myself. One of the nationals had invested in a helicopter trip to Brennøy and was able to print a very impressive aerial photo in which the tall cross could be seen in all its glory. But the body had already been taken down, to the editor’s undoubted disappointment.
I put all the papers in a heap on my desk, quickly went through the window envelopes I had brought up with me from the post box, confirmed that there were no important e-mails and then took the quickest route to Valkensdorfs gate.
There are no fixed rules and apparently no limits to how a solicitor’s office should look. I had been to some that looked like anything from a broom cupboard to the audience chamber at the Royal Palace in Oslo. Experience had taught me to be sceptical about such offices. The broom cupboard revealed the total lack of any clientele, quite probably for professional reasons. The audience chamber indicated that fees were sky high, the same level as the importance with which the solicitors regarded themselves. You were safest – here as in most other areas of life – in the sober, middle layer, without visible extravagance as regards furniture, more partners than strictly speaking necessary and a battery of secretaries and ante-room ladies who made the barrier to the holy of holies practically impenetrable.
Bringeland & Kleve were located on the third floor somewhere in Valkendorfs gate, in common with most of the solicitors’ offices in Bergen, at a suitable walk from the Courthouse. The secretary was a friendly but prim woman in her fifties of the ilk that usually rule most of the offices I have seen. I saw nothing of Kleve, and when I was ushered in to Bringeland he was putting a thick wad of paper in a briefcase and already appeared to be on his way out.
‘I have only five minutes, Veum.’
‘I’ll get straight to the point then. Have you got a copy of the contract between Per Nordbø and Mons Mæland?’
He scrutinised me, suspicion glinting in his eyes. ‘What do you want with it?’
‘I’ve been asked to look into that case as well – and it would save me a trip to Eivindvik if you had a copy to spare.’
‘Asked by whom, if I may be so bold.’
‘I’m not sure if I …’
‘Then you can forget it!’
I reflected quickly. She had
n’t mentioned any necessity for secrecy. ‘Alright then: TWO.’
‘The opposition, in other words.’
‘I can assure you, Bringeland, I have no axe to grind. All I want are facts.’
He scowled at me, then shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, I suppose it can’t hurt. The case is open and shut anyway, from my point of view.’ He went to a filing cabinet, pulled out a drawer, chose a file, opened it and extracted a sheet. ‘You can see it, but I’m not going to give you a copy.’
‘Why not?’
‘You can do as I did and contact the council in Eivindvik.’
He passed me the contract. I cast a quick glance at it, established that it had been signed by the shaky hand of the old man, Per Norbø, and that the signature had been confirmed by two witnesses: Bjørn Brekkhus and Gunvor Matre.
‘Have you been in touch with them? With Brekkhus and Matre, I mean.’
‘That’s the contract you wanted to see, isn’t it? I have nothing else to show you.’ He had his coat on. He held out his hand.
Reluctantly I passed him back the contract and watched as he returned it to the filing cabinet. He pushed in the drawer and headed for the door. ‘I’m afraid I have to go now. I’m due in court. Come on.’
I followed him out. On the way down the stairs, I asked: ‘And Stein Svenson, how’s he doing?’
‘He’s picking up. He had a nasty bump to the head and the doctor diagnosed mild concussion. He was told to stay at home until further notice.’
‘And where is home?’
He sent me a scornful look. ‘Aren’t you a kind of investigator?’
‘What did the police say, then?’
‘They said nothing to me. He was questioned, but, as he said when they found him, he couldn’t remember anything. Not unusual with concussion, the doctor affirmed.’
We were on the street and striding towards the Courthouse.
‘I can find my own way, Veum.’
‘I’m going in that direction anyway. So he didn’t say anything to you, either?’
‘Svenson? About the attack? Let me put it like this, Veum. We’re quite sure it wasn’t Mons Mæland. Otherwise the possibilities are legion.’
‘You pointed a finger at Trond Tangenes while we were there.’
‘Well …’
‘And Jarle Glosvik.’
‘I have nothing else to say, Veum.’ He stopped in front of the stone sculptures of the four cardinal virtues, watching over the entrance to the Courthouse. ‘You can say hello to your employers from me and they can forget it. There will be no wind farm on Brennøy for the next ten years. I’ll make sure of that.’ Then he turned on his heel, dashed up the last steps and disappeared into the great hall.
I was left with the four stone figures: Force, his arm around a pillar, ready for action; Moderation, clutching a jug of wine in his hand – consolation for when the case was finally lost and there was no reason to continue any longer; Justice, with scales and sword – the scales to weigh the solicitors’ efforts in gold and the sword to strike at the head of anyone who dared protest at the decision; and furthest to the east, Wisdom, with the serpent and the book, obviously poisoned by knowledge.
I was not at all sure which of them I trusted most. With a shrug of my shoulders I steered towards the street called Fortunen and down again to my office. If nothing else I should at least find out where Stein Svenson lived. I was sure he wouldn’t mind a little visit from a concerned fellow-Norwegian.
20
Stein Svenson had an address in Bontveit, in what had once been Fana municipality. After a quick parallel check between the land registry and the local map I walked back up to Skansen, fetched my car and drove off. I had no intention of giving him any warning.
I followed the E39 to Lake Kaland and turned off at the Bontveit intersection. Thereafter the road rose steeply to Frotveit and on to the long valley between Livarden and Hausdalshorgi. Stein Svenson’s tumbledown little smallholding, purchased, according to my information, four years before, was isolated, at the end of a forest road on the slope up to Mount Livgarden. The air was clear and pure, and up here in the mountains there was a touch of autumn in the air.
I turned into the yard in front of the two bedraggled buildings: a shed with what red paint there was hanging off it like dandruff and a small farmhouse that had been painted yellow not so long ago. I parked and sat in the car. In front of the houses there were two other cars. One was a three-year-old Saab 900, which was not the first car I would have chosen if I had a leading job in an environmental organisation. The second I had seen before. It was an Audi A4 with the same registration number as the one that had been parked at Naustvik on Brennøy.
I got out of my car, closed the door quietly behind me and walked carefully towards the house. From inside I heard irregular muffled sounds, like a fight in a cotton warehouse, and two angry voices: one loud and falsetto; the other dark and menacing.
I looked around for something I could use as a weapon. All I could find was a bit of plank lying on the ground by the steps to the front door. I doubted it would have much effect.
I tried the door. It was unlocked. I pushed it and the noises grew louder. Leaving the door open behind me, to keep my lines of retreat clear, I walked quickly through the porch, noticed an open door to the left, walked over and stood on the threshold.
‘Hey, hey, hey!’ I said, slowly increasing the volume, and not just to attract their attention. ‘Let’s cool it, shall we?’ But I could feel my neck muscles tautening and my stomach churning.
Trond Tangenes had Stein Svenson pressed up against the wall and was holding him off the ground with his forearm. He hung there, his feet thrashing around wildly, ten to fifteen centimetres above the floor. Tangenes’ other fist was primed to strike, and judging by the marks on Svenson’s face he had already scored several direct hits.
Tangenes turned to face me. ‘Keep your distance. This has nothing to do with you.’
I could hear he recognised me. ‘Yes, it has. I have something to discuss with Svenson, and right now you’re in my way.’
He bored his eyes into me. ‘You’ll have to move me then.’
Svenson was still thrashing around. ‘Hey, lemme go, will you!’
Tangenes pressed him harder against the wall, and Svenson’s face went red. ‘He-ey …,’ he whimpered.
‘Shut your mouth!’
‘Listen, Tangenes …’
He didn’t like me knowing what his name was, that much was clear. I continued quickly: ‘Everyone knows who you are. The police, Svenson’s solicitor, me. Right now your fist is telling me that it was you who attacked Svenson on Brennøy. I would recommend you put him down carefully and come with me outside for a chat. And don’t try anything. A lot of people know where I am at this minute.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Old rule of the mountains. Let people know where you are.’
I could see his brain working inside his thick skull. Then he made a decision. He loosened his grip on Svenson, let him slowly slide to the floor, grabbed his shoulders and shoved him hard onto the bed in one corner of the room, where he sat staring up at us and gasping for breath with the air of an aggrieved child.
Tangenes nodded towards the door. ‘Out!’
I backed out slowly, keeping an eye on him and straining all my muscles as I went. In the yard I strode away from the house and turned round. He came after me and stopped four to five metres away.
He grinned. ‘Are you frightened of me, Veum?’
‘Has no one told you your breath stinks?’
He stopped grinning. His eyes narrowed. ‘Get to the point. What was it you wanted to talk about?’
‘I know that Jarle Glosvik is paying you.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t make me laugh. We all saw you talking on Brennøy.’
‘Now you listen here, Veum. We know all about you.’
‘We?’
‘We know who you are, where you live, where your office i
s and …’ He glanced at my car. ‘What car you drive. Just like you, I keep my mouth shut about who employs me. Was there anything else you wanted?’
‘It’s very clear that Svenson is the target of your assignment, and that can only be for one reason: the lawsuit he is pursuing against the council with regard to the dubious property deal in 1988. My guess is you were hired to frighten him into dropping it.’
‘You look a bit jumpy yourself, Veum.’
‘You’re wrong there. I know people like you are big mouths, but I’ve been round the block a few times and I’m not impressed. Let me return the warning, Tangenes. Go back to where you came from. You’ve been far too visible on this terrain. I would imagine Hamre gave you the same message when you spoke.’
Tangenes’ jaw tautened. ‘Cops are cops wherever they are in the world. So long as we stay off their hunting grounds they couldn’t care less.’
‘Don’t be too sure about that. Hamre’s not one of them. I know that from my own experience.’
Tangenes suddenly lunged towards me. I reacted immediately and ran.
He grinned. ‘You’re scared stiff. Boo, Veum! The bogeyman’s coming to get you. Any other messages you wanted to give me?’
I kept a wary eye on him. ‘No. Go home and say you haven’t been here.’
He stood his ground, ruminating. Then he shrugged. ‘Fine. I will. Where’d you like to meet next time? At your girlfriend’s place? In Fløenbakken …’
A chill finger ran down my spine. I could hear they had done their research. ‘Keep well away, Tangenes! Do you hear me!’
He smirked. ‘I’m not promising anything. Let’s leave it like that, eh, Veum? We’ll keep in touch, OK?’ Then he turned, shot the house a final glance, rolled his shoulders back and strolled towards the parked cars.
I looked up at the house, too. Behind one of the unwashed windows I glimpsed the pale face of Stein Svenson watching us.
I stood without stirring until Tangenes had got into his black Audi, started up and accelerated onto the gravel road leaving a cloud of dust behind him. Then I ambled back to the house and went in to see Svenson.
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 13
