The clientele of Bors Cafe varied according to the time of the day. In the morning, the majority were ageing alkies, seamen on home leave and pensioned-off harbour sweats. In the evening, you could meet anyone from petty criminals to Business School students with a penchant for field studies. At lunchtimes, when Paul and I met on this occasion, most customers were single men who valued the cooking at Bors over their own culinary skills. There had never been many women. Those that dropped in, however, became the centre of enthusiastic attention. No one took any notice of Paul and me raising our midday glasses of foaming beer.
Paul looked at me inquisitorially. ‘What’s going on, Varg? Have you started playing detective or what?’
‘No, no. It’s just this case we’ve been drawn into. We have to take care of a little boy. The mother kind of lives with Terje Hammersten, and that’s why I was interested in his background.’
‘My God. Living together? Poor woman.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s only one thing you can say about the guy. He hits like a hammer and he’s hard as stone.’
‘So I gather. When we got involved with these people three or four years ago, he was being taken in on some GBH charge.’
‘That sounds about right. He has a dangerous temper, as I said.’
‘But you were suggesting that…’
‘Yes?’
‘On the phone. Off the record, you said.’
‘Yes, it’s the kind of rumour we newspaper people have to grapple with all the time, you know. We’re never sure how much faith we can put in it. It was all to do with the great alcohol smuggling affair in Sunnfjord a year ago. I suppose it must have been early 1973. A boat was boarded by customs officials in one of the inlets between Verlandet and Atloy. Full to the gunnels with foreign goods ready for national distribution, so to speak, further down the fjord. A few days later one of the gang was found beaten to death with a baseball bat or something equally hard. Rumour has it that he was the snitch and that Hammersten was summoned from Bergen to deal with the matter. Pure Chicago, as I’m sure you appreciate.’
‘Why didn’t they do the job themselves, the people behind it?’
‘I suppose they were in prison already, most of them. A message must have been passed out via alternative channels. Pretty clear message, let’s put it like that. Blood had to be shed. But the odd thing was…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, the person who was killed…’ Paul tossed his notebook onto the table and opened it. ‘A certain Ansgar Tveiten… was his brother-in-law.’
‘Hammersten’s brother-in-law?’
‘Yep. Married to his sister, Trude.’
‘Uhuh. And what did she have to say to that?’
He grinned. ‘Nothing about that in the story. But he was never arrested for the crime.’
‘I’ll have to ask him face to face then, next time I bump into him.’
‘You do that and in the meantime I’ll order the flowers for your funeral.’
‘Does he belong to any other gangs in town, this Hammersten?’
Paul took a quick scan around. ‘You see the guys in the corner over there? Sort of semi-organised thieves. In Birger Bjelland’s network, the new Mr Big, a fence from Stavanger. The buzz is he’s building up quite an organisation, and Hammersten fits in there somewhere, I would guess.’
‘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.
11
Jens Langeland had his office in Tarnplass, 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?’
