The Caveman (13 page)

A combination of guilty conscience and self-interest made Line pay a visit to her grandfather. Her grandmother had died when Line was four years old, and he had lived alone for many years. Eleven years ago, he had retired from his job as a doctor at the town’s hospital. Although he fulfilled honorary roles in various societies and associations, she knew he spent a lot of time alone and that her father was not a frequent visitor. The clock on the living room wall struck twelve.

She cut the Danish pastry she had brought, placing the slices on a plate and carrying it through to the living room.

Her grandfather sat in front of the television set where a foreign channel was broadcasting a documentary about the prison island of Alcatraz. She picked up the remote control to turn down the volume. The roomy armchair on which he sat was extremely worn: the cushion behind his back was flattened, and the velour on the armrests almost threadbare. Something about this shabby armchair stopped her in her tracks, with the odd sensation of something opening up inside only for a second before it was gone. It felt as if something important had occurred to her, something she had to tell someone, but that vanished before she could put it into words.

She sat in the other chair, struggling to recall what it had been. Her grandfather’s back was now stooped and she wondered if he was lonely, but could not bring herself to ask. Perhaps she was afraid of his answer. ‘It’s cold,’ she said instead.

He leaned towards the window ledge, squinting at the electronic weather station she had given him one Christmas. ‘Minus 16.3 degrees Celsius,’ he said. ‘Last night it was down to 18.7. I’m glad I don’t need to go out.’

Smiling, Line helped herself to a slice of pastry.

‘How’s your brother getting on?’ he asked.

‘I think he’s really busy at work,’ she said. ‘It’s a while since I spoke to him.’

When she and Thomas were children, they had been not only siblings but also friends who shared secrets and protected each other. She still felt a strong bond with him, but they had developed differently and gradually lost contact as they started to live their own lives.

Finally Line told her grandfather about Viggo Hansen and the article she was researching. ‘Did you know them?’ she asked. ‘His parents were Solveig and Gustav Hansen. They lived just beside the old pea canning factory before they moved to Herman Wildenveys gate.’

‘The pea canning factory,’ he said. ‘I had a summer job there after the war.
Sonny Hermetikk
was the name. It wasn’t only peas. All sorts of fruit, meat, fish and vegetables were canned there. Before that, there was a vehicle manufacturer on that site. They built lorries that ran on batteries, did you know that?’

Line shook her head. ‘Did you know them? Solveig and Gustav Hansen?’

‘I grew up on the other side of town, in Fjerdingen, but if they lived on the same side as the canning factory they must have rented from Carlsen. They had lodgers on the first floor. The poet Herman Wildenvey used to live next door, directly across the street from the house where the famous writer, Jonas Lie, used to live. At the time we are speaking of, the grandchildren of Colin Archer, the ship-builder, lived there.’

He produced a sheet of paper and sketched the main road to Stavern. ‘There was an extensive orchard in front of the canning factory by the main road,’ he said. ‘On the corner –
here
- was where the ship pilot lived, and behind him was the Rakke family’s house. On the other side of the street, the Nyhus folk stayed, and Doctor Welgaard had his surgery beside them.’

Line watched his pencil strokes.

‘If they lived beside the canning factory,’ he said, ‘they must have rented the upper storey in Carlsen’s house.’

‘Does Carlsen still live there?’

‘No, the old folk are long since dead. I think they had only one daughter, about my age. I think she got married and moved to Moss.’

‘Does anyone live there now who might remember something from the old days?’

‘That would have to be Annie Nyhus,’ he said, placing a cross on a house across the street from where the Hansen family had rented. ‘She was born during the war and has lived there ever since.’

They continued to chat until the wall clock struck one and Line stood up. The elusive thought had plagued her for the entire hour but when her grandfather rose from his well-worn armchair she felt a shift, not a sudden flash of inspiration, but a slow uneasiness spreading through her body. No, the physical details around Viggo Hansen’s death did not add up.

She rushed to her car and tried to start the engine at the same time as opening her laptop. Turning the heating up full-blast she tapped her way into the
Viggo Hansen
folder and then into the sub-folder where she had assembled the photographs. Searching for her picture of the two empty armchairs, she finally located the image. The chair on the left was discoloured with stains from the dead body, but it was the other that was worn. It had a grubby, flattened cushion on the back, and the fabric at the front edge was almost entirely threadbare where the occupant’s thighs had chafed. It was the chair on the right that had been Viggo Hansen’s usual place in front of the TV set. However, his body had been found in the other armchair.

The fine layer of ice on the windshield slowly melted. Raising her eyes from the computer screen, Line adjusted the heater fan.

It need not be significant that Viggo Hansen had not been sitting in his habitual armchair. He might have noticed that the chair he normally used was becoming worn and shabby, and decided to re-arrange the furniture. But it could also mean that someone put him there to make it look as if he had died in his sleep in front of the TV. She could not shake this thought off, and felt compelled to return to his house for another look. When she was inside before, she had been looking for other things: stories from his life, glimpses of what kind of person he had been. Now a seed of doubt was sown and she wondered whether his death might not be from natural causes after all.

An email arrived from the newspaper’s fact-checking department. A researcher had located Viggo Hansen’s old school friend, Odd Werner Ellefsen, in Bugges gate in Torstrand, the old working-class district in Larvik. According to the Population Register he lived alone and had done so since he moved there in 1972.

She decided to visit Annie Nyhus first, who still lived in the street where Viggo Hansen had grown up. After that, she would drive into town and see if she could get hold of Odd Werner Ellefsen. Then she could do some shopping to stock the fridge before paying another visit to Viggo Hansen’s house.

She should really also cook a proper dinner one day and invite her grandfather over, she thought, as she drove off. A pre-Christmas dinner. He was fond of salted mutton, but at Christmas they always had roast pork. If she bought some later she could soak it in water overnight and serve it in the evening.

She parked on the open gravel beside Larvikveien where her grandfather had told her there had been a large orchard when the canning factory was still operating. An Esso petrol station, now demolished, had later been situated in that spot but, in recent years, it had become a waste ground.

The house where she assumed Viggo Hansen and his parents lived in the fifties and early sixties had been extended and modernised. Close to the road, it nevertheless had an extensive back garden. Taking her grandfather’s sketch map, she crossed the road and located a gatepost with the name Nyhus. Slightly secluded, the house stood in the lee of a clump of deciduous trees with sprawling branches. A scatter of snow fell as a pair of crows took flight from the tops.

A narrow path had been cleared to the front door, spruce branches spread on the stairs, and a ceramic plant pot set on the top step, containing an evergreen plant decorated with red bows. Line rang the doorbell and did not have long to wait before a short, elderly woman opened the door and looked at her over the top of her glasses. Her grey hair was drawn back and she wore an apron tied round her waist.

‘Come in,’ she said before Line had a chance to introduce herself. ‘Don’t stand out there in the cold.’

Line knocked the snow off her boots before scurrying inside to let the old woman close the door. ‘Are you Annie Nyhus?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s me,’ the elderly woman said. ‘Who’s asking?’

Line introduced herself and explained why she had come.

‘I saw the notice in the newspaper and heard that he was dead,’ Annie Nyhus said. ‘Come through.’ The kitchen was filled with the sweet aroma of Christmas baking. Four decorated almond rings sat on the worktop. ‘I honestly didn’t know he was still alive,’ she went on. ‘Far less that he still lived here in town. Can’t remember when I saw him last.’

‘I’m really more interested in what you remember from the time he and his family lived across the street,’ Line said, taking a seat.

Annie Nyhus paid no heed. ‘The cakes are for the Christmas raffle at the Women’s Voluntary Service, but I’ve a few almond sticks here.’

She set out a dish of neatly-iced cakes, before picking up the thread of their conversation.

‘Well, Viggo Hansen,’ she said, setting cups on the table. ‘They lived on the first floor of the Carlsen house, him and his mother, Solveig. His father travelled around Norway building power stations. Gustav, I think his name was. He spent a lot of time in Western Norway.’

She took out a cloth and wiped away a few imaginary crumbs before fetching a coffee pot and pouring, without asking if Line wanted any.

‘I think they moved when he was thirteen or fourteen, to a house up in Herman Wildenveys gate. No idea how they suddenly had the money for that.’ She leaned across the table and lowered her voice. ‘Gustav Hansen had been in jail, you know. We hardly ever saw him and thought he was working away, but Erna told us. She was married to William Sverdrup, who was in the police.’

‘What had he done?’

‘A robbery of some kind, over in Western Norway. He was caught, but whether the money was ever found, well, that’s another matter.’

Line asked a few more questions, but Annie Nyhus had no more information.

‘It was said that Viggo Hansen’s mother was admitted to hospital with psychiatric problems,’ Line said.

A glint appeared in the old woman’s eyes. ‘I didn’t hear anything about that, but it wouldn’t surprise me. She didn’t seem quite right.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘How can I put it? She didn’t really have anything to do with the other women in the street. Kept herself to herself. The curtains were always drawn. I don’t have a clue what went on inside.’

‘Did you have anything to do with Viggo?’

‘He was ten years younger than me. I just remember him as a very quiet boy.’

‘Was there anyone else he was friendly with? Boys of the same age, perhaps?’

Annie Nyhus picked up an almond stick, dipped it in her coffee and sucked it. ‘That would have to be Frank,’ she finally answered. ‘And maybe German Ole.’

‘Who’s Frank?’ Line asked, thinking he had to be the sender of the Christmas cards she had found at Viggo Hansen’s house.

‘Frank Iversen. He was the son of the ship pilot. He would have been a year or so older than Viggo Hansen. They worked together at the prawn factory.’

‘You mean the pea canning factory?’

‘No, no. The Reimes prawn factory. The Reime family lived four houses from here. The factory was in the garden behind their house. I used to shell prawns there myself.’

‘Do you know of someone called Irene that Viggo might have known?’

Annie Nyhus dipped the almond stick in her coffee again. This time she could not assist.

‘Do you know where Frank lives now?’

‘Iver Iversen was appointed master of the ship pilots’ guild in Langesund, so the whole family moved there in the sixties. I heard his wife died soon after, but since then nothing.’

They heard the front door open and footsteps in the hallway. ‘That’ll be Greger,’ Annie said. ‘I promised him a piece of cake if he called in. He’s so good at snow clearing and helping me out.’

She stood up to give a warm welcome to a man of her own age with thick, curly hair and huge fists. ‘You have a visitor?’ he asked with a smile.

‘It’s the Wisting girl,’ Annie said. ‘The grand-daughter of Roald Wisting from the hospital.’

Line was amused by the way she was introduced. Her grandfather was a well-known figure from when he practised as a doctor.

The burly man offered her a cold hand, introducing himself as Greger Eriksen. ‘You write for the newspaper,’ he said, sitting down.

Annie Nyhus placed another cup in front of him, pushing the plate of almond sticks closer. ‘She’s going to write about Viggo Hansen who lived in the Carlsen house in the fifties and sixties.’

Greger Eriksen helped himself from the plate. ‘There was something about him in the paper,’ he said. ‘No name given, but it was him they were writing about. It was four months before they found him.’

As Line gave an account of her planned project, Greger Eriksen stole a glance at Annie Nyhus. ‘No, it’s not so easy being alone,’ he said. ‘But neither is finding someone to share your life with.’

‘We were just talking about the ship pilot’s son,’ Annie said. ‘He and Viggo Hansen used to spend time together. They both worked in the prawn factory.’

‘You mentioned one more name,’ Line said. ‘German Ole?’

‘Yes, that’s what they called him, poor boy. It’s still a thorn in his flesh.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Pia Linge’s boy. He was a few years older, but hung out with the younger boys. Pia lived in the annexe, behind the Reime family’s house, and also worked in the prawn factory.’

‘Did Ole work there too?’

‘No, he worked for a while at the refuse tip in Bukta. After that I’ve no idea what became of him.’

‘Does he still live in Stavern?’

‘I honestly don’t know. I haven’t seen him for a long time. He’s always kept himself to himself.’ She turned to face Greger Eriksen. ‘Have you seen anything of him?’

He shook his head.

‘Neither Ole nor Pia had an easy time of it,’ Annie Nyhus continued. ‘Ole was the son of a German soldier, you see. Pia ran about with the Germans during the occupation, right up until the liberation, and she had Ole in January of the year after that.’

‘That was just a rumour,’ Greger Eriksen added. ‘Nobody knows who his father was.’

‘But she did spend time with the German soldiers out at Rakke.’

‘She was probably in both camps,’ Eriksen said. ‘It was said that she worked for the Home Front as well, that she was an infiltrator.’

‘She had to live with the shame for the rest of her life,’ Annie Nyhus concluded. ‘Although that wasn’t very long. She wasn’t even fifty when she died.’

The conversation turned to Christmas baking and little birds, the cold and the weather. Half an hour later, Line stood up and thanked her hostess. Before she reached her car, she cast a glance at the windows of the upper storey in the building known as the Carlsen house, where the curtains had always remained shut. She was on her way now, she felt.

On her way into the shadows and darkness where Viggo Hansen had lived.