‘Have you got his telephone number down there?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
With that we concluded our conversation. Not long afterwards I was driving towards Åsane, on my way round Samnanger municipality to Fusa. Avoiding the ferry. The fewer electronic trails, the better; that was my motto. I could only guess at what awaited me in Fusa.
29
I drove through Åsane as demurely as a parish priest on his way to the first funeral of the day. The speed limit was as if written on stone tablets in front of me, and I adhered to it rigorously. What I feared most was a random police check. I doubted the police had set up any roadblocks to stop me leaving town, but you always have to be on the lookout for the traffic police. They were on you with their speed guns when you least expected them.
Even outside built-up areas it was important not to exceed the speed limit, to the great irritation of the motorists behind me. This led to frequent overtaking on the E16 between Arna and Trengereid, until I turned off for Samnanger, where there wasn’t so much traffic. After passing Tysse I breathed more easily. The police station in Fusa had more than enough to do solving crosswords.
There were few visible changes on the stretch from Eikelandsosen and beyond in the time that had passed since I was last there. The Nedstrand Fishing Equipment building looked even more run-down than before, and there was no sign of any activity.
I turned into Nora Nedstrand’s drive and parked at the side. The big Mitsubishi Outlander was stowed away tidily in the garage and there was light in several of the windows.
I got out of my car, kept the cap on and stared rigidly at the large windows on the first floor to see if anyone had reacted to my arrival. But I saw nothing. In front of the house I hesitated for another second, then pressed the bell and heard the characteristic ding-dong inside.
With the door half open she stopped and looked at me through the gap.
Nora Nedstrand had changed noticeably since I was last here. It was as though she had shrunk, but not because she had been on a single-minded diet; more that somehow the air had gone out of her. Her colour scheme was new too. She was wearing a grey sweater and dark-blue, baggy jeans and her red hair had gone white, not because of acute despair, probably, but because she had stopped dyeing it.
The look in her eyes was weary and dejected.
‘My name’s Veum. I don’t know if you remember me?’
‘Yes, I do.’ She started to close the door.
I employed the salesman’s trick and put a foot in the crack. ‘Wait! I have to talk to you.’
‘We’ve got nothing to talk about.’
‘Oh, yes, we do. I’m looking for Sturle.’
‘He isn’t here.’
‘No, but—’
She interrupted me. ‘And I have you to thank for that. It was you who put the police onto him.’
‘Yes, but … Can’t we sit down and have a chat?’
‘We can do that here. I don’t want you inside my house.’
‘I see, but won’t you come outside? Talking like this…’
‘Right then!’ She came out onto the step, closed the door hard behind her and stared at me. ‘What is it you want, actually?’
‘As I said, I was looking for Sturle.’
‘He’s moved,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘He left a few weeks after you last came here with all your accusations.’
‘I didn’t accuse anyone! I asked some questions, in connection with Knut Kaspersen’s death. You yourself admitted you had a close relationship with him.’
‘Close relationship! We’d known each other since we were kids. We didn’t have any relationship.’
‘The way you spoke about him suggested you were … good friends.’
‘Knut worked with my husband, Oliver, and as adults it was in that context we met. There was no relationship, I keep telling you.’
‘Your husband took his own life.’
‘Yes, he did, but that has nothing to do with it.’
‘What was the reason then?’
Her cheeks puffed out as though she were pumping herself up to give me an earful. ‘Is it possible for any human being to answer that question? He didn’t leave a letter, but … I had a feeling that … He had been low, but that was probably because they were having problems with the fish farm. There had been an infestation of lice and they had to kill all the salmon. It was an economic catastrophe, and it was only Knut’s hard work in the following years that overcame it. When he died the finances were back on an even keel.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Svein Olav’s running the farm now, but … I don’t know. I don’t think it’s much to shout about.’
‘Back to … So you think he took his life because business was going so badly?’
‘Acute depression, the doctor said. Oliver had been to see him for some medicine. I found the prescription in his bedside table. The priest said the same, as if that were any consolation.’
‘But Knut … helped you?’
‘Knut was a support initially, yes. But then Sturle appeared and everything changed.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘Sturle and I?’ For a brief moment there was a ray of light in her face, before it clouded over again. ‘He was visiting some acquaintances in a cabin close by, not far from Vinnes. Mutual acquaintances, I should add.’
‘And then you got together?’
‘Yes.’ Her lips tightened, as though she didn’t want to say any more.
‘And how did Knut react to that?’
‘Knut? I think he was the same. You mustn’t imagine … If you’re trying to construct some kind of love triangle here, you can forget it. We were all adults. Sturle was retired.’
‘You sold your share of the salmon farm when your husband died and bought a flat in Spain with the money?’
‘Yes, we were down there more and more often, in the heat. It did us good.’
‘But the weekend Knut died, Sturle was back here.’
Her face flushed dark. ‘He was not! He was in Madrid at a football match! Nothing else was ever … Not even the police could be bothered to check.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘So why did you two split up?’
‘Because you came here and brought all of this up. Because … the seeds of doubt you sowed were enough to start a quarrel.’
‘So you had your doubts too?’
‘I had to ask him and … I found…’
‘You found what? The plane ticket proving he’d been back here after all?’
Her eyes darkened. ‘Yes, I did! I asked him about it, but … he exploded. He said he wouldn’t stand for me … I could just go to hell, he said, and as for you…’ She paused.
‘Yes. Me?’
‘He’d take care of you, he said. And then he packed his bags, only a few days after the Chief of Police had been here and said they were shelving the case unless anything new came up. Then he glared at me and said: “See! It wasn’t me!” And then he left.’
‘But you were sitting on the proof he’d been here that day, weren’t you. What did you do with it? Did you contact the police?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t interested in any more trouble.’
‘But you still have it?’
She nodded. ‘In a safe place.’
I observed her, unsure how to tackle this. ‘And since then?’
‘Since then I haven’t heard a word from him.’ She took a deep breath, with a strange sob, and turned away so that I wouldn’t see the tears in her eyes.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. ‘So you don’t know where he is then?’
‘I assume he’s in Bergen.’
‘You haven’t tried to contact him?’
She tossed her head. ‘No, I haven’t.’ But she seemed to be full of regret.
‘It might not be too late,’ I said gently. ‘You’ve got his telephone
number, I suppose.’
‘No. It’s secret. But if you…’
‘Yes?’
‘If you find out where he lives … I’d like to talk to him, once more.’
‘Perhaps we should do it together?’
She appeared uncertain. ‘Together?’
‘Yes.’
We measured each other with our eyes.
Then she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well … maybe. And now you have to go.’
I nodded. ‘See you again perhaps, Nora.’
‘I am not Nora to you! You can call me fru Nedstrand.’
‘Fru Nedstrand.’
She sniffled, tossed her head again, turned and walked to the door. I made no attempt to hold her back, and when she slammed the door it was as if she had marked a definitive full stop to any conversations we might have had, from now till all eternity. But she shouldn’t feel too sure. I was convinced we had a deal, a thousand years from today or perhaps as soon as tomorrow.
30
While I was in the area I used the opportunity to examine the fish farm as well. Svein Olav Kaspersen had already asserted two and a half years ago that he didn’t talk to the police, so I could feel fairly safe in his company if I bumped into him.
There was a car parked in front of the old workshop building; not the blue van, but a red Ford Escort from the mid-90s. The first thing I noticed was that the CCTV camera over the entrance was gone. The second was that one of the windows on the first floor was smashed, and no-one had bothered to do any more than nail a piece of chipboard on the inside. Walking round the house I noticed the camera there was gone too.
I passed the white house where Knut Kaspersen had lived. It looked exactly as it had done the previous time I was there, but it was dark and locked and uninhabited, from what I could see. The flower beds were overgrown and neglected, and an atmosphere of abandonment hung over the whole property.
I followed the path down to the sea, but slowed up when I caught sight of Svein Olav walking along the gangway by an open-net pen with a plastic bucket in each hand. He did the same, and as we approached a point in the middle, on the smooth rocks beside the sea, it was like a classic western with two cowboys preparing for a duel at dawn. We stopped some metres apart. He put down both buckets to have his hands free for his six-shooter.
‘Busy, Svein Olav?’
He mumbled something I didn’t catch.
‘But the business up there is finished?’
‘Th-thanks to you!’
‘Were you charged?’
‘Charged? Didn’t even have to file a waiver of prosecution!’
‘So why didn’t you just carry on then?’
‘The bottom had fallen through. Besides … with the Chief of Police hovering around…’
‘Yes, but … are you still working with Hjalmar Hope?’
‘Not any more. He’s gone to Bergen.’
Him too, I thought.
With a little grin he added: ‘But he said he’d sort you out.’
Another one. The queue outside my office would be long with that kind of creditor too.
‘I remember the last time we spoke, Svein Olav, you said that the weekend your uncle died, your neighbour up there, Sturle Heimark, was back from Spain.’
He stared at me with a furrow between his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’
‘Did you meet him yourself?’
‘Heimark? Nope, but I saw him!’
‘And where were you?’
‘Where was I? I was here!’ He corrected himself. ‘Well, not here. At home.’
‘And where’s home?’
‘Near Vinnes.’
‘And how could you see Heimark if you were there?’
‘I wasn’t there the whole time, was I.’
‘No, you were here.’
‘Right! For a while. Up at the store. I saw him from there.’
‘On his way from the sea then?’
He hesitated. ‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘And your uncle. Did you see him that day?’
‘…Might’ve done. Can’t rightly say.’
‘I think you can. You didn’t go to sea with your uncle that evening, did you?’
‘I did not! Why are you askin’? You don’t believe that … that I…?’
I watched him. I didn’t know. But one thing was certain. Sturle Heimark had been here and he couldn’t get much further from a football stadium than this.
Svein Olav glared at me. ‘I reckon you should go now, Veum.’
‘So you remember my name, do you?’
‘I know where your office is too!’
‘Yes, I had a suspicion you did. But you’re not much good with computers, are you, Svein Olav?’
He didn’t answer. I saw him clench his fists as if considering whether to use them. But he decided against it.
‘Good luck with the farm then. Safer than computers, don’t you think?’
‘That’s none of your business. You clear off! You’re trespassin’.’
‘And if I don’t, you’ll ring the police, will you?’
He grimaced, then he bent down, grabbed the two plastic buckets, turned his back on me and headed towards a farm building.
I went back to my car with a sense that I might have set some wheels in motion. There were at least two people I would very much like to get in contact with, even if it would prove dangerous to my health. One was Sturle Heimark. The other was Hjalmar Hope. And so there was only one place to go. Back to Bergen.
31
Twice in the course of the return journey I passed a police car. The first time was on the road between Arna and Vågsbotn, where I drove through a radar speed trap well under the limit and without being stopped. The second was on the motorway through Åsane towards Eidsvåg. A police car was alongside me for a while and involuntarily I felt beads of sweat break out between my shoulder blades. Then they switched on the blue lights and shot forward, heading for Bergen, where they disappeared down Glaskar Tunnel. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t me they were after this time either.
I turned up one of the side streets off Hans Hauges gate and parked. I let myself in and went up to the flat. Everything was calm and peaceful, just as I had left it.
It was like a refuge, a place of freedom in the life of an unfree, wandering monk, a Francis of Assisi with the authorities at his heels. But precisely for this reason it was impossible for me to settle there. I had to steal a march on the authorities, before they caught up with me, and so I had to try and trace Sturle Heimark and Hjalmar Hope, among others. In addition, I had to see what I could find out about the people working at what a woman who called herself Magdalena had referred to as The Tower, and who Karsten, Bønni and my anonymous client were. I had seen Sturle Heimark in The Tower and someone had mentioned that a Hjalmar was a dab hand with computers. Was this Hjalmar Hope or a completely different Hjalmar? But, most important of all, who had made the pictures Hamre showed me and placed them on my hard drives? And what the hell was I doing in those pictures if it really was me?
I called Vidar Waagenes. He sounded busy, as always. ‘On my way to court, Varg. Have you come to your senses?’
‘I’m still free at any rate. Have you heard anything from our friends in Allehelgens gate?’
‘They’re on the lookout for you. You can be sure of that. They haven’t contacted me.’
‘Svendsbø – is he someone I can trust?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m thinking about contacting him. Is there any danger he’ll report me to the police?’
‘I doubt it. Siggen’s first obligations are to me. But…’
‘Have you got his mobile number?’
‘Just a moment.’ He was back at once. I noted down the number and while I was writing he said: ‘I have to be off. Talk later, Varg.’
‘OK, thanks.’
I dialled the number.
‘Svendsbø here.’
‘Hi Siggen. This is Veum. I don’t know if you’ve hea
rd, but—’
‘Yes, I have. I’m not sure how clever that was, but…’
‘You’ve seen the photos on my computer, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I had no choice.’
‘I can assure you … they have nothing to do with me. Either they’re … manipulated – faked by Photoshop or whatever the bloody software is called – or else there’s something wrong with me.’
‘I hear what you say.’
‘I could do with a chat. Can we meet?’
‘I live in Skytterveien. It might be advantageous if I have my computer equipment handy?’
‘Maybe.’
I could see Skytterveien in my mind’s eye. It was a cul-de-sac. If I parked there I could only escape on foot. But I would have to take some risks and Waagenes had said I could trust him.
‘Can I come now, right away?’
‘That’s fine. It’s the top one of the low blocks. You’ll see my name by the bells outside.’
I didn’t lose a second and just over twenty minutes later I was there.
Skytterveien nestled idyllically between the rocks at the front of the forested hill west of Munkebotn. The blocks of flats stood on the plain beyond the detached houses in Sølvberget, and to get a view as good as the one they had there, you would have to climb up the only high-rise building there was. I took a risk and left my car in a housing co-op space. As I closed the car door and locked it, I heard the sound of children playing at the edge of the wood, in the local kindergarten. Svendbø’s flat was in the line of low blocks beneath the high-rise. Across the street was a community centre, which emphasised the social atmosphere in this area, an inheritance of the loyalty and solidarity in the 50s and 60s, when the patch was being built.
I found the name as instructed and rang the bell. Svendsbø was wearing a different T-shirt this time. It was black with red letters on: CRYSIS 3. He showed me into the flat, through the sitting room and into what was perhaps meant to be a bedroom. In one corner there was, in fact, a sofa bed. The rest of the room reminded me of a control room in a computer centre with several screens, consoles, keyboards, external hard drives, a couple of printers, a scanner and various pieces of equipment I struggled to identify.
Wolves in the Dark Page 14
