‘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.
12
From the gateway in Tarnplass 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 Floien 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 Tarnplass. 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.’
