We Shall Inherit the Wind

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘And the chapel across the way.’

  ‘I’m not one of them.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’ve seen too much illness and death over the years to believe completely in the infallible creator they worship over there.’

  ‘But you know Lars Rørdal and his family?’

  Her eyes glinted. ‘Oh, yes, that’s not a big family.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, it’s just him and Kristine, since Ole went to Bergen.’ After a little pause she added: ‘And no one knows for sure who his father was.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, and please don’t repeat this, but that Kristine was a lively young thing, I remember. A town girl and used to a bit of everything. Then she suddenly fell pregnant, and they got married, quick as a shot, Lars and her. Well, they’d been together for a while, it wasn’t that. But there have been no children since, and you can interpret that in lots of ways, I’ve learned. But she proved she could have children.’ She sighed dramatically, and I saw a glint of schadenfreude in her eyes as she added: ‘They didn’t get the son and daughter-in-law they wanted, those self-righteous Rørdal parents, but that’s what it’s like now in these much-trumpeted modern times.’

  ‘So no theories about who could be the father?’

  ‘No, you’ll need to tap other sources for that information. The people they were with at the time.’

  ‘Mons Mæland … could he be a candidate?’

  She sent me a funny look. ‘Mons Mæland? Well, the Mælands came here on holiday. But surely you don’t mean … Could Lars be …?’ Her eyes automatically found the cross. ‘No, you can’t mean that. They were related, in a way.’

  ‘I don’t mean anything at all. It’s subject to the police investigation.’

  ‘Yes, that’s … But I don’t suppose that was … What did you actually want from me?’

  ‘I wanted to talk about the land deal, and you’ve answered my questions there. The rest was what we might call “chit-chat”.’ I lifted my cup in the air as if to emphasise what we were doing.

  ‘Yes, please don’t repeat it, as I said.’

  ‘The other person who signed when you bought this property, Jarle Glosvik. How well do you know him?’

  Again the repressed schadenfreude shone in her eyes. ‘Oh, you know. We come from the same village. But he’s had his problems, Jarle has, I understand.’

  ‘In politics, do you mean?’

  ‘No, I was thinking more about … It’s not so long ago that I heard he was close to going bankrupt. He’s working hard to keep his head above water, they say.’

  ‘So it would be very important if the work here gets off the ground?’

  ‘It would certainly be important for the land he has on Byrknesøy, but you can’t ignore the fact that it would bring work for his firm over here, too.’

  She sat staring into the air, with a thoughtful expression on her face. ‘Are you saying that …?’ She didn’t the complete the sentence, and I didn’t follow it up, either. But I felt fairly sure that we were both thinking along the same lines.

  I drained my cup. ‘Well, thank you for the coffee and chat.’ I took out one of my business cards. ‘If something occurs to you, you can find me here.’

  ‘Occurs to me? What about?’

  ‘Well …’ I hunched my shoulders to say I didn’t know, either.

  She accompanied me to the door, and we said polite goodbyes. I set a course for Naustvik, confident that the lovers’ tryst on the first floor would be over by now.

  27

  When I was back down in the car park, both Bjørn Brekkhus’ black Mercedes and the battered Opel Kadett were gone. However, a new car had arrived, a Saab 900 I thought I recognised. The last time I had seen it was in Stein Svenson’s yard. Now it was parked down by the old fish hall where we had found him two days ago.

  I walked down there, pushed the door open and shouted: ‘Hello! Anyone here?’

  As no one answered, I went in. The big room was as empty as on the previous occasion, but the footprints on the floor showed what had gone on after Svenson had been found. I crossed the room and opened the door to the room where he had been. It was empty as well.

  I left the building, closed the door behind me and crossed the car park. At reception I knocked politely and waited for a couple of seconds before opening the door and entering.

  Kristine Rørdal was standing behind the desk with shiny eyes, rosy cheeks and dishevelled hair, or perhaps that was how I perceived her, as I knew what she had been doing a couple of hours before.

  She looked up in surprise. ‘Veum?’

  ‘Hi. Is Stein Svenson here?’

  ‘Svenson. No. Why?’

  ‘His car’s outside.’

  A puzzled expression formed on her face. ‘No. He hasn’t been here.’

  ‘You haven’t had any visitors?’

  ‘Visitors? No.’ But she tossed her hair back and blushed as though frightened I could see right through her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, nothing except that when I parked a couple of hours ago there were two cars here. Is the red Opel Kadett …?’

  ‘Oh, yes. That was Lars. He … popped by.’

  ‘Popped by?’ I held her eyes and smiled. Now her blushing was so obvious she was annoyed. ‘Yes! There was something he had to do. What business is that of yours actually?’

  ‘And a black Mercedes. Did he pop by too?’

  ‘That must have been Bjørn Brekkhus. Yes, he popped by and had a cup of coffee before … He was going to see the crime scene, he said. The cross.’

  ‘You and he are old friends, aren’t you?’

  ‘From way back, yes. He’s become … older.’ She stroked her hair as though what she had said reminded her that several years had passed for her, too.

  ‘Have you got a cup of coffee for me perhaps?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Find yourself a table.’

  She got up, left the desk and went to the coffee machine behind the glass counter. She was wearing practical clothes today as well, a lumberjack shirt and loose, blue workman’s trousers, but her female charms were no less winsome now that I – in a way – had seen her in action, with her rump in the air and trousers round her ankles.

  I watched her as she crossed the floor with a cup of steaming coffee. ‘Black, if I remember rightly, wasn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘You didn’t tell me when we were talking last time that you and Mons Mæland were related.’

  ‘Related? We weren’t … ah, you mean, related by marriage, yes.’

  ‘Yes, I didn’t mean blood-related.’

  ‘No.’ She looked down. ‘Lars and Lea were brother and sister, that’s correct. But Lea broke away and left home. I mean the … milieu she came from. The chapel. Belief in God. They didn’t get on that well. And then she disappeared.’

  ‘Yes. Sixteen years ago.’ I waited for her to go on. ‘But you’re the aunt – through marriage – of their children. Else and Kristoffer. Don’t you have any contact with them, either?’

  ‘No, not much. But we’ll have to go to the funeral now. Do you know when it’ll be?’

  ‘I haven’t heard. I’m sure it’ll be delayed a bit by police investigations.’

  ‘You mean …?’ She sat down at my table as though it had suddenly become difficult for her to remain upright.

  ‘Yes, there’ll definitely have to be a post-mortem examination. Often with this type of death the deceased will be buried in such a way that he/she can be exhumed later, should there be any fresh developments.’

  ‘But … so no one knows how he actually died?’

  ‘One person does. At least one, perhaps I ought to say. You must have seen the newspaper articles?’

  ‘Only the local ones. But I can see the environment movement is in the spotlight …’

  ‘Have you spoken to Ole since it happened?’

  ‘No. He went back to Bergen after his police interview. But he couldn’t possibly have done that
sort of thing.’

  ‘Couldn’t he?’

  ‘I know my own son!’

  ‘Yes. You two have only got him, have you?’

  ‘Yes. And?’

  ‘Nothing …’

  ‘Why did you come here actually?’

  ‘To talk to Gunvor Matre. About a land sale in 1988. Do you know her?’

  A flash of displeasure crossed her face. ‘The owl, yes.’

  ‘The owl?’

  ‘That’s what we call her. She sits by the kitchen window watching everything that goes on from early morning to late at night. For all I know, she might sit there at night as well. Once a week she catches the bus to Byrknes to do her shopping. If you happen to meet her on the road she smiles sweetly and looks at you with those prying eyes of hers. She’s a good old-fashioned gossipmonger. I would never believe a word of anything she has to say.’

  ‘Have you known her for a long time as well?’

  ‘I vaguely remember her from the summer holidays when I was small, even though she was a lot older than us. But she kept her beady eye on us then, too. Old maid, mum called her, I remember. They often go like that.’

  ‘Is there anyone she’s friends with?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. She doesn’t even go to the chapel, so …’

  ‘But Mons Mæland sold her the house and the plot up there.’

  ‘Yes. God knows why!’

  ‘A favour between friends. That’s what it seems like …’

  ‘Friends, Gunvor and him? That sounds very unlikely.’

  ‘Business connection then?’

  ‘Also unlikely!’

  ‘Well, they signed a couple of documents together, so they have met each other, I would assume.’

  That was as far as I got. The front door crashed open. In the doorway stood Ole Rørdal, scanning the room. Then he rushed in. He focussed his eyes on us, for a second or two an expression of surprise spread across his face, as though he had caught us red-handed, then he shouted: ‘Mum! Have you seen Stein?’

  Kristine got up. ‘No, I … That’s what Veum asked me.’

  His gaze landed on me. ‘His car’s outside.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come on!’ He beckoned to me.

  I pushed my coffee cup away and quickly joined him. Behind me I heard Kristine shout: ‘Ole, what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. But it could be a matter of life and death!’

  In the car park he pointed to the quay. ‘Down here! And follow the beach to the bridge. We’ve got to stop him!’

  Ole set off at a run. I panted after him. When I was alongside I gasped: ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m frightened he’s going to blow up the bridge!’

  ‘What!’

  ‘I can’t speak!’ He was fighting for breath. ‘We’ve got to hurry!’

  From the quay we jumped down onto the rocks that followed the line of the sea under the bridge. I was forced to keep my eyes on the ground so as not to slip or stumble. Ole was clearly faster and more sure-footed than me, shorter and used to running on this terrain from childhood.

  The bridge across Brennøy Sound grew in size as we got closer. Suddenly Ole stopped. His lungs rasped as he struggled for breath. Then he raised his voice, which cracked in the middle after the hard run. ‘Ste –iiiin! Don’t!’

  Directly beneath the bridge stood Stein, partly bent over. In front of him was a black plastic bag, which he was stuffing under the foundations of the bridge. An aerial protruded from the bag, and in his hand he was holding what from a distance looked like a mobile phone. When Ole shouted he looked up and turned his face in our direction.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ Ole shouted, swaying from side to side as though unable to move forward.

  I stood beside him, panting. ‘What’s that he’s got?’

  ‘Plastic explosives,’ Ole groaned. ‘And an electrical detonator. One touch of a key and …’

  Stein Svenson had stood up straight now. From under the arch of the bridge he stared at us, phone in hand.

  Ole set off again. ‘Wait for me, Stein! Listen to me.’

  I made a grab for him. ‘Ole …’

  He didn’t answer, just ploughed on. After some hesitation I followed, some four or five metres behind.

  ‘Stein! We’ve discussed this so many times. No good will come of this!’

  Stein Svenson stared at his former brother-in-arms. ‘That’s what you say. But you’ve been bought lock, stock and barrel!’

  ‘Lock, stock … What nonsense are you talking, Stein!’

  ‘Norcraft! Don’t you lie to me!’

  Ole didn’t slow his pace. ‘I’ve never taken a bloody øre from those guys!’

  ‘Oh, no?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Stay there!’ Stein Svenson shouted. Ole was only a few strides away from him now. ‘Don’t you come a step closer!’

  I came to a halt. Ole came to a halt. I could see from how he held himself he was weighing up the pros and cons. He didn’t hesitate any longer. I opened my mouth to stop him, but it was too late. With an immense spring he launched himself forward, tripped over a rock and staggered towards Svenson as he reached for his mobile phone. They collided, fell headlong, I watched their bodies entwine, and then – all of a sudden – doomsday.

  I never found out what happened: whether it was an accident in the heat of the moment, whether he really pressed a key or whether it was Ole trying to wrest the phone from his grasp.

  A ring sounded from within the black plastic bag and then – without any form of warning – it detonated with a roar. The explosion was so powerful that we were hurled backwards by the blast. For a fraction of a second I saw both men in the air, before losing sight of them. Around us there was a hailstorm of stones and concrete, gravel, soil, moss and heather. Instinctively I doubled up and put my arms over my head to protect myself from the deluge. I landed with a bang on one of the rocks down by the sea, rolled around and lay still. In my ears the echo from the explosion sang like shrill cymbals and I felt adrenalin pumping through my veins, driven by tumultuous turbines. All the breath had been knocked out of me, and now it was returning, in long, searingly painful wheezes.

  Then there was silence. All I heard was the distant screams of terrified seagulls. At first I lay still, amazed that I had survived. Then I moved my arms and gently lifted my head. Not far away, Ole Rørdal was doing the same. Bleeding from various cuts to his face, he groaned and held one arm; otherwise he seemed unscathed.

  I struggled to my knees and then to a standing position as I looked around me. My forehead stung and so did my left cheek, somewhere. I touched it and got blood on my fingertips. Stein Svenson had been less lucky. He was lying in a strangely distorted posture, underneath a huge piece of concrete, with fractured steel girders protruding from the side, like the severed wings of a bird that had crashed to the ground. Only his legs and the lowest part of his body were visible. The rest lay under the concrete block.

  I raised my eyes. The explosion had blown apart one concrete pillar on our side of Brennøy Sound, and the weight of the deck had broken off part of the bridge, making it tilt dangerously to one side. Above us there was a large, open crack in the carriageway. There was no doubt that Svenson had achieved his aim, even though he would never be able to enjoy the sight of his handiwork. It would be a long time before anyone would drive over Brennøy Bridge again.

  28

  For the second time in a very short time Jakob E Hamre of the Bergen Police arrived on Brennøy in Gulen by helicopter. As he stepped out of the side door and crossed the car park he clapped his eyes on me and said: ‘We have to stop meeting like this, Veum. Before this week I’d never been to Brennøy. Now this is the second time in as many days, and you’re here this time as well. What’s more, you look dreadful. What the hell’s going on?’

  Behind him appeared Helleve, Solheim, Annemette Bergesen, Kvamme and Pedersen. Ole Rørdal stood in front of the Subaru four-wheel drive with his arms wrapped aro
und his mother, who had sunk into a kind of phlegmatic apathy after the first shock, when she went storming down the quay screaming as if she had been hit by debris. In a crowd at the top of the quay, still at a safe distance from the centre of events, stood a tiny handful of islanders, those who had been at home at this time of day from the look of things. On the margins, not speaking to anyone, I saw Gunvor Matre.

  The police viewed the damaged bridge, shaking their heads. From here, the result of the explosion looked even more dramatic, as if the very umbilical cord from Brennøy to the rest of the world had been cut.

  ‘Jesus!’ Solheim said. ‘That must have been quite an explosion.’

  Helleve scrutinised my face and gravely shook his head. ‘That could have been curtains for you, Varg.’

  ‘That was how it felt as I sailed through the air.’

  Hamre looked at me in amazement. ‘And it was Stein Svenson who set it off?’

  I nodded to where the explosive had been placed. ‘He’s down there, under a block of concrete.’

  ‘Right. Do you think it was suicide?’

  ‘No. We got to him too quickly. I’m sure the idea had been to move to a safe distance before triggering the explosion, but then Ole Rørdal and I turned up, and Ole …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He tried to wrestle the mobile phone, remote control … whatever it was in his hand … from him. And that was when the plastic explosive went off. So unbelievably bloody loud.’

  He regarded me sombrely and sighed. Then he turned to Helleve. ‘Has the Chief of Police stopped all the traffic? No one will cross that bridge again.’

  ‘And my car’s here,’ I groaned.

  Hamre smirked. ‘Robinson Crusoe, I presume! Perhaps you getting stuck here is the best thing that could have happened, Veum.’

  ‘Hellooooo!’ a voice cried from the other side of Brennøy Sound. Lars Rørdal had driven his battered Opel Kadett down to one of the quays there. Now he was standing on a pontoon with his hands funnelled round his mouth and shouting to us, like Moses by the Red Sea. But it was impossible to hear what.