The Consorts of Death (27 page)

‘And what does that have to do with this case?’

‘And there are all the other aspects. The 1973 smuggling
business
, amongst others.’

‘And what was that supposed …?’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘Tell me … Who are you representing actually?’

‘For the time being, your colleague, Jens Langeland.’

‘Uhuh.’ She didn’t seem to appreciate that. ‘Well, if you’re
considering
visiting the Almelid family, it won’t be without me being present.’

‘OK, but … when?’

‘It can’t be before the press conference at any rate.’

‘You were thinking of going, too, in other words?’

‘I was, yes. So, if I can get on with the day’s business until then, I …’

‘See you there then.’

‘There will be no avoiding that.’

She nodded and left me with the red-haired secretary, who had not become less reticent as a result of overhearing the
conversation
between Øygunn Bråtet and myself. I saluted a goodbye and went on my way.

There was not much else I could do but wait for the said press conference. I bought some newspapers and had a cup of coffee at a café by Lange Bridge.

The double murder had moved to the back pages now.
Outcome Awaited
ran one headline.
Double Murder Solved
ran another, without any question marks. No one had picked up on the
connection
with the murder of Ansgår Tveiten. Only Helge Haugen of
Firda Tidend
hinted at a connection with ‘the great smuggling ring that ravaged the district in 1973’, without going into any detail about what connections there could be.

Nevertheless, the large meeting room at the police station where the press conference was to be held was fairly full. They had put three tables together for a panel presentation. All the chairs were occupied. I nodded to Helge Haugen who had taken one of the front seats and was sitting ready with his notebook open. Further away, at the table, sat Øygunn Bråtet. I stood by one of the windows, leaning against the frame with my back to the daylight. When Sergeant Standal, a police official and the KRIPOS detective responsible came in, a storm of flashes went off and everyone eyed the new arrivals with excitement.

Standal seemed almost abashed. The police official looked as if he had won the pools. He was a young man with plain glasses and a well-trimmed beard, to all appearances a newly-fledged lawyer. The well-built KRIPOS detective regarded the whole thing as routine and didn’t allow himself to be affected.

Right behind them came Jens Langeland. He quickly scanned the audience and then took up a discreet position by the door. Spotting me, he gave a brief nod and gestured that he would like to talk to me afterwards.

Standal raised one hand in the air and the room fell silent. He had a typed statement on the table in front of him. Without raising his voice he read out the decision to charge Jan Egil Skarnes with the murder of his two foster parents and subsequently firing a shot at police officers. Reference was made to the relevant paragraphs and attention drawn to a meeting to be called later in the day to discuss remand. As a basis for the charges, reference was made to the investigation and to the reports, now available, after the pathologist’s and the forensic examination. The findings were so clear that the police considered it reasonable to draw up charges. However, Standal informed the gathering that the investigation would continue at full strength with the intention of collecting further evidence until the case came to trial. The KRIPOS
detective
nodded in approval.

When the floor was opened to questions, Helge Haugen was quick to respond. ‘But there was also a hostage drama in Angedalen, wasn’t there?’

Standal fumbled for words before saying: ‘Until further notice, he is not charged with taking this girl from the neighbouring farm prisoner. The evidence suggests that she went with him of her own free will.’

‘Isn’t there a chance then that she might be charged with being an accomplice?’

‘Not at the present time,’ Standal rebuffed. ‘But we are
continuing
our investigation, as I said.’

The police official added: ‘At present there is no basis for any charges against this girl. Our preliminary conclusions are that she was unaware of what had transpired at Libakk Farm when she accompanied the accused up to Trodalen.’

I looked at Jens Langeland. His expression gave away nothing, but I could actually see him boiling inside. I would have liked to put up my hand and ask: ‘But isn’t it the case that this young girl actually confessed to carrying out both of these murders?’ I would have liked to see the reactions of the press corps and the
high-ranking
gentlemen at the end of the table, if such a claim were to be made, but it didn’t take me long to repress my inclinations. There were still some people in the room with whom I envisaged friendly relations, and an initiative of that kind would have put an abrupt end to that.

The questions from the floor soon dwindled and thereafter the press conference came to a close. Some radio and TV reporters wanted to ask the usual supplementary questions to the relevant police officials, but beyond that the gathering soon dispersed.

Langeland was waiting for me in the vestibule. I drew him into a corner. ‘I have several snippets of information for you, Langeland.’

‘Already? My goodness. Come on then! Now I need everything I can get.’

‘A source told me yesterday that Klaus Libakk kept a large sum of money at the farm. The takings from the smuggling racket, which, naturally enough, cannot be paid into a normal bank account.’

He viewed me with scepticism. ‘A sum of money from 1973? Which he has been able to eat into ever since? How much could have been left of it, do you think?’

‘Don’t know … But it could support the theory of a possible burglary, or at any rate an attempted burglary.’

‘Ye-es …’

‘But not only that, listen to this. The main person behind the contraband ring, according to the same source, was no other than Svein Skarnes!’

He stared at me in disbelief. ‘
Our
Svein Skarnes, as it were?’

‘Exactly.’

I hastily retold all that Harald Dale had confided in me the
previous
evening, and with every turn the story took I could see his brain beginning to churn. Yet his excitement didn’t seem to be mounting, and when I came to Terje Hammersten’s role in the affair, I understood the reason.

‘Hell’s bells, Veum. If this is true then Vibecke really should have gone free that time! This is too terrible to contemplate. Now I definitely will have to have a serious talk with her as soon as I’m back in Oslo.’

‘Right, but that’s only one side of the matter. Now the police will be obliged to bring in Hammersten for questioning.’

‘Mm, I’ve told them! The problem is that they’re so fixated on the reports they now hold in their hands.’

‘Uhuh. Have you had access to them, too?’

He looked at me gloomily. ‘Yes. And I’m afraid to say, even after a superficial perusal, things don’t look good.’

‘What! What do you mean by that?’

‘First of all, there are the fingerprints on the weapon. His and his alone. And there was a residue of gunpowder on his hands.’

‘Yes, but we know he fired the rifle when he ran away from the police.’

‘Yes, indeed, and we will have to pump that one for all it is worth. Of course. But to go on … there are his bootmarks at the crime scene, in the blood on the floor, and spores of the same blood under his boots. Both Klaus and Kari were killed with this weapon. There is no sign of a break-in. Quite the opposite. The spare key which hung in a cupboard in the hall was in place. Jan Egil had his own key on him. And then Silje retracted her confession. But!’ He thrust an upright finger in the air. ‘She is extremely vague in her statement about what happened there last weekend – and especially last Monday.’

‘What about the suggestions of abuse from Klaus Libakk’s side?’

‘Now she claims that that, too, was something she made up, in an attempt to justify what is now looking like a bogus
confession
. And the medical examination in fact supports her, even if she is not what in the profession is known as a virgo intacta.’

‘Yes, I’d been told about that. Her sexual debut was a fact.’

‘And to tell the truth I’m not sure it would’ve been to Jan Egil’s advantage if she had been abused by her uncle. If Silje and he were lovers, which there is every reason to assume they were, it simply gives him a strong motive for the killing.’

‘Yes, of course you’re right there. So … what do we do now?’

‘First off, I will insist that the police bring in Terje Hammersten for questioning. I will demand that his alibi for Sunday evening is checked, and the police will be able to do that a great deal more effectively than you or I, Veum. Then we can move on from there. Right now I don’t have any more ideas.’

‘When’s the review meeting?’

‘Half past three, I was told.’

‘Is it an open meeting – could I go?’

‘I haven’t been told it’s not open. But the press is not allowed to report on review meetings, so if you want to know how the case is being presented you should be there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But now I have to go in to see Jan Egil. We’d better talk later.’

We parted quickly, and he hurried back into the police offices. As I came out of the building, I saw Øygunn Bråtet on her way to Lange Bridge. I scurried after her and caught up with her by the pedestrian crossing on the other side of the river. When she saw me alongside her, she sent me a bittersweet little smile.

I didn’t waste any time. ‘Ready to go?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘No! Not yet.’

‘Listen … We can do this in two ways,
frøken
Bråtet.’

‘It’s
fru
.’

‘Nonetheless. I can call on Silje and her foster parents on my own, or I can do it in your company. Which would you prefer?’

‘Or I can have you arrested by the police.’

‘For what?’

That stumped her, and we ended up travelling to Angedalen together, though each in our own car with neither of us feeling much pleasure at being reunited as we parked in the yard at Almelid Farm and got out.

Almelid was a well maintained farm, both on the outside and the inside. The walls of the sitting room were white and smooth with just a few pictures up. There was a collection of family photos, an aerial photo of the farm and a landscape picture of the classic kind: a fjord in the evening light with the sun low over the shiny sea.

The crockery Klara Almelid used was white with small pink flowers and a gold edge. Within ten minutes she had made coffee, put out a bowl of biscuits, cut up a small malt loaf and spread golden farm butter and genuine goat’s cheese on the slices. She was small with an efficient, ferret-like nature. Her darting eyes took in most of what was happening in the sitting room and the kitchen.

Silje sat by a little nest of tables by the window, sullen. Øygunn Bråtet had taken a seat on the stool beside her while quietly telling her what had been said at the press conference and explaining to her what the next steps would be.

For the first time I had a chance to study the young girl in peace. She was wearing tight, faded jeans and a dark blue V-necked sweater with a short flower-patterned scarf around her neck. Her dark blonde hair was collected in a ponytail, but when I searched for some resemblance with Trude Tveiten, there was not much I could detect; perhaps the way she held her head, that was all, though. She had nodded sulkily when she saw me, before seeking Øygunn Bråtet’s eyes like a drowning person desperate for
something
at hand to grab.

The front door opened, and heavy steps resounded in the hall. Klara Almelid left quickly to explain the situation to her husband. He growled an answer. A door closed and straight after there was a rushing sound in the heating pipes.

When Lars Almelid came in and stood in the doorway, he had taken off his outdoor clothing and changed his trousers. He had house shoes on his feet, a flannel shirt open at the neck and he smelt of soap. His complexion was fresh and red with a distinct pattern of small, thin blood vessels under both ears. His hair was thinning, but he had large, bushy eyebrows. His eyes were blue, determined, as was the set of his lips.

I stood up and we shook hands. He scrutinised me carefully. ‘And how may I help you?’

‘To be frank, I’d like a little chat with Silje.’

‘Frank?’

‘Yes, I’d like to hear her version.’

‘I understood that, but I believe you said
frank
? From that I conclude there is something else you’re after.’

I glanced at Silje and her solicitor. Øygunn Bråtet returned a mocking look. I lowered my voice. ‘Can we go into the kitchen?’

He nodded silently. We went out and I closed the door behind me. Klara and Lars Almelid were standing by the worktop on the other side of the room, positioned beside each other as if for a family photo.

I looked at Klara. ‘You are the sister of the late Klaus Libakk, I understand …?’

She gave a doleful nod. ‘Yes, I was.’ She faced the window. ‘I grew up on Libakk Farm too.’ Her dialect was as broad as her husband’s.

‘Were there any other brothers or sisters?’

‘Yes, we had a brother. Sigurd. But he was lost at sea when he was very young. So then it was just Klaus and I.’

‘But Kari, she must have had family, I suppose?’

‘Yes, there must be some relatives. But she wasn’t from here, you know. She came from somewhere on the Møre coast. She didn’t have any brothers or sisters, though. That much I’m sure of.’

‘So perhaps it’ll be you who takes it over then?’

She glanced at her husband. ‘Yes, I suppose it might be. If they don’t find a will.’

‘How was the relationship between you and your brother?’

‘It was good, I think. We weren’t very similar, though.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, you know …’

‘Here on the farm we’ve stuck to our childhood faith, for example,’ said Lars Almelid in a sonorous voice.