The Consorts of Death (7 page)

‘Birger Bjelland?’

‘Yes. Unknown quantity round here, but in Stavanger he’s pulled off some impressive jobs, my colleagues there tell me, using false companies and false accounts, if you understand what I mean.’

‘Not quite. But I get the gist. And where does Hammersten fit into this picture?’

‘A sort of errand boy, to put it euphemistically. Send Terje
Hammersten
to the creditors’ door and they beg you to be allowed to pay, the sooner the better.’

‘I hope he never comes to mine.’

‘Let’s hope so for your sake, Varg.’

We raised our glasses and finished our beer. Afterwards it was not far to Langeland’s.

Jens Langeland had his office in Tårnplass, across the street from the Law Courts. When they rang the bell for the first sitting, he could glance at his watch, stroll downstairs, cross the square and take his place on the bench before the judge had raised his eyelids to declare the court in session.

It was nearing the end of the working day and, as I stepped into the anteroom on the second floor, which he shared with two
colleagues
and a secretary, the secretary was on her way out, dressed as if she were on a charter trip to Eastern Mongolia: under the
furlined
anorak hood I could only just make out that she was blonde.

‘Is
herr
Langeland in?’ I asked.

‘We’re closed,’ she said flatly.

‘Yes, but I think it would be to his advantage to hear what I have to tell him.’

She examined me with a sceptical gaze. ‘He’s busy with a client.’

‘You couldn’t buzz through and tell him I would like a word with him, could you? It would be very quick, tell him. It’s about – Johnny boy.’

‘OK …’ Reluctantly she went to her desk and tapped in a number on the telephone. ‘There’s a man here who wants to talk to you. About someone called Johnny boy. – Yes. – No. – I’ll ask him.’ She looked at me. ‘What was the name?’

‘Veum. From social services.’

She passed on the information, listened in silence to what Langeland had to say and then shifted her gaze back to me. ‘He’s coming out.’

‘Thank you very much.’

She sent me a cool stare. ‘Not at all.’

The door to one of the offices opened. Jens Langeland came out, closing the door behind him. He was wearing a dark tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows and dark brown trousers.

The secretary was quick off the mark. ‘Can I be off now? I’d like to catch the half past four bus.’

‘Of course, Brigitte. Have a good evening. See you tomorrow.’

She nodded briefly to me in passing and was gone.

‘What’s this about?’ Langeland asked. ‘As I’m sure you were informed, I’m busy with a client.’

‘Yes, I … Not Mette Olsen, I trust.’

‘Mette Olsen! What makes you ask about her?’

‘Well, her partner – a certain Terje Hammersten – suggested that he might contact you.’

‘Well, I definitely haven’t heard from either of them.’

‘I’ve come about Johnny boy.’

‘So I understood.’

‘You didn’t mention yesterday that you were his mother’s
solicitor
as well. The real mother, I mean.’

‘No, and why should I? What’s this supposed to be anyway? Don’t tell me that social services have taken up criminal
investigation
as well! You have a strictly delineated sphere of influence, let me remind you. Social services, that’s your remit.’

‘Have you contacted Haukedalen?’

‘I have spoken to Hans, yes,’ he said, tight-lipped. ‘Your
colleague
– something or other Strand – was there keeping a close eye on things, but progress was slow, he said. I assume you will put him in professional hands before very long.’

‘We already have a psychologist in the team. Dr Storetvedt.’

‘I see. But you wanted to talk to me, my secretary informed me.’

‘Yes. This is about Mette Olsen.’

‘Uhuh?’

‘She said you recommended her not to proceed when she wanted to try to hold onto Jan.’

His eyes glazed over. ‘Mm … I suppose that is a correct interpretation, as far as it goes. But I’m not at liberty to discuss client issues, Veum. I’m sure you appreciate that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why didn’t I recommend her to proceed?’

‘Yes.’

‘Poor odds. That much I can say. And I also had the child’s welfare to consider. The child was better off where he was.’

‘You’d been her solicitor before, she said.’

‘Yes, indeed, but only as a solicitor’s clerk. A matter she got involved in during the mid sixties.’

‘You were fresh out of school, she said.’

‘We-ell, school … She was also a very different person then. Young, sweet and mixed up in something that had suddenly gone sour on her.’

‘And that was …?’

‘They’d been arrested at Flesland airport, she and one other person. Charged with trying to smuggle in a hefty stash of dope. But we managed to have her acquitted.’

‘Mm?’

‘But as you have discovered, it didn’t end there. She drifted into the habit and when the Jan business blew up, she contacted us again. Then I was given the case on my own. But it was hard going and, as I mentioned previously, I had to prioritise his interests over hers, even though I was her solicitor.’

‘But at the same time you were acting on behalf of Svein and Vibecke Skarnes.’

‘No, no, no! Not at all. That came later.’

‘Uhuh?’

‘A coincidence. I knew both Vibecke and Svein from university. Svein contacted us – that is, the partnership here – in connection with a compensation matter, and the case landed on my desk.’

‘What was his line of business?’

‘Photocopiers. Not the big brands, but they were very competitive in the local market, in Bergen and south-west Norway generally.’

‘But the fact that you’d been Mette Olsen’s solicitor first, didn’t that disqualify you from acting for Skarnes?’

‘No, why should it? This was a business matter. And today … today the situation is quite different, for everyone. Now I have to assess what is best for Jan once again. But I don’t have time for this, Veum. I have to get back to …’ He faced the office door.

‘Has Vibecke Skarnes contacted you?’

Something happened to his eyes, a brief flash of panic
immediately
replaced by frostiness. ‘It’s beyond my comprehension what this has to do with you, Veum.’

‘It has nothing to do with me, except that the police would very much like to speak to her.’

‘In that event, the police would have every opportunity – when the time comes.’

‘When the time comes. So she has contacted you?’

‘Veum! I’m afraid I will have to show you the door. I’m closing.’

He grabbed my shoulder with great determination and shoved me towards the exit.

‘Just one more thing,’ I objected on my way out.

‘No, Veum, no.’ He shook his head resolutely, pushed me into the corridor and, before locking up behind me, said: ‘Mind your own business, Veum.’

I heard what he said, but for some reason I was not in an amenable frame of mind that day. I walked down towards
Christian
Michelsens gate, then decided to play detective for another hour. I stood in a house entrance and waited.

I didn’t have to wait very long. Jens Langeland appeared after less than half an hour, and he was not alone. There was a woman with him, and I realised that the secretary had not been lying when she said he was busy with a client. She was wearing a light brown sheepskin coat, and her hair was concealed beneath a large woollen hat. Nevertheless, I had no problem recognising Vibecke Skarnes from the photograph on the bureau in her hallway.

From the gateway in Tårnplass I watched Jens Langeland and Vibecke Skarnes cross the square to the part of Fortunen Design offices that led up to Markeveien. They passed between Scylla and Charybdis: on the one side, the Law Courts and, on the other, the state-owned off-licence, the Vinmonopol. The former ate you alive; the latter sent you headlong into ruin, all according to
personal
predisposition and adversity.

They made an odd couple, he with his tall wading bird figure, she small and slender, but with a determined gait nonetheless. The notion that she was on the run from the police couldn’t have been further from your thoughts.

I followed them far enough to see them getting into a car parked by the pavement in Markeveien. I recognised the car without any difficulty. It was Langeland’s orange BMW. He held the door open for her and she got in. He walked round to the other side and
surveyed
the scene.

He seemed to hesitate before getting into the car. For a second I was frightened he had seen me. I flipped up my lapels and turned in the opposite direction, as though unsure where I was going. Glancing back, I saw the car was gone.

I walked down to the nearest call box, in Strandkaien, and flicked through the telephone directory. Jens Langeland had a comfortable address in Fjellsiden. Ole Irgens had been Bergen’s first
headmaster
, he had been a central figure in Bergen’s Timber and Tree
Planting
Company and one of the founders of Fjellveien. In gratitude, the winding road from Fjellveien right up to Starefossen had been named after him, and somewhere along this road Langeland had acquired accommodation of as yet indeterminate format.

I took the Fløien funicular up to Skansemyren and walked from there. Reaching Ole Irgens vei, I studied the street numbers and headed uphill. The orange-coloured car was unmistakable. It was parked outside the gate of a brown box-shaped property with a white basement floor that matched the address in the telephone book.

The house turned out to contain six apartments. According to the signs by the doorbells, Langeland lived on the first floor to the right. I peered up. The curtains were partly drawn and the lighting inside was muted. But, from a room at the side, harsh, naked light fell onto the winter-dark garden. I guessed they were in the kitchen; hopefully in front of the worktop and not on top of it.

I went through the gate, up some steps and followed the path round to the main entrance which was at the back of the house. The front door was open. I went in and up to the first floor. In front of Langeland’s flat I hesitated for an instant. I stood listening, but no sounds carried through. So I rang the bell.

For the second time in a couple of hours, I was standing
face-to-face
with Jens Langeland. He didn’t seem at all happy to see me at his door again. His face reflected extreme distaste, although there were clear signs of nervousness. ‘Veum …’

‘I’d like to speak to
fru
Skarnes.’

He gulped. ‘And what brought you here?’

‘Save me the hassle, Langeland! I saw you in Tårnplass. I know she’s in there.’ I angled my head towards the inside of the flat.

‘That’s correct,’ he said with the same tight-lipped expression that I recognised from before. ‘I do have a client in here. But I feel no obligation to reveal the identity of the person.’

‘Of course not. But I suppose you would feel an obligation to do so to the police, bearing in mind the status of the client.’

‘The status?’

‘Yes, she’s a witness in a case involving a suspicious death, isn’t she?’

‘Suspicious! What are you talking about, Veum? It was an
accident
. He fell down the damn stairs.’

I smirked. ‘You admit this is the case in question then?’

He didn’t answer.

‘And that you have Vibecke Skarnes in there?’

He eyed me in silence.

‘But you … If you don’t let me in, I will have no choice but to ring the police. Now, this very minute. Could I use your phone or should I try a neighbour?’

He heaved a heavy sigh. Then he thrust out his arms and stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in. I don’t understand what you’re after, but … We’re in the kitchen.’

The hallway was long and narrow. It must have been just redecorated. The whole apartment gave the impression that he had moved in recently. A glance into the living room revealed a sparsely furnished area in which pictures had not yet appeared on the walls and books were piled up on the floor.

The kitchen was bright and modern. A pan was simmering on a red stove. Vibecke Skarnes stood in front of the worktop with a sharp knife in her hand, and leeks, carrots and celeriac on the chopping board. She was wearing a blue and white striped blouse she must have brought with her from the hospital and a short black skirt that set off her slim legs well.

‘Hello,’ I said, motioning towards the frying pan. ‘Food for thought …’

She looked nervously from me to Langeland and said nothing.

‘This is the fellow from social services. Veum. I think I
mentioned
his name, didn’t I?’

She nodded and stared at me with enlarged eyes.

I sent her an encouraging smile and introduced myself
properly
. Then I said: ‘I can assure you that Jan is in the best hands.’

‘The best?’ She didn’t seem to grasp what I meant.

‘Yes. But it would be very helpful to us if you could tell us exactly what happened …’

She still seemed perplexed. ‘Happened?’

‘Yes, from your point of view. I mean …’

Jens Langeland walked past me and stood beside her. ‘There is no reason why my client should tell you anything at all, Veum.’

‘Yes, there is. I want to!’ she blurted. ‘I – must …’

Langeland sighed with an expression designed to tell her that if she did, he would wash his hands of her. She put down the knife and perched on a kitchen chair. I remained on my feet. I saw my reflection in the kitchen window behind her.

Langeland turned away. He demonstratively collected all the prepared vegetables in a bowl, took the lid off the pan and
carefully
emptied them in. The aroma of Toro pea soup reminded me of how hungry I was.

‘It was … Jan had been absolutely impossible for a few days. He refused to go out. And I had some errands that had to be done, I needed to go to the doctor’s, amongst other things, and then Svein …’ Her voice cracked and tears formed in her eyes.