this is too much for you!
In the end, when I got up, my whole body hurt and a headache was pounding away behind my forehead. I rang the office and explained the situation to them. They wished me all the best and said I shouldn’t concern myself about Jan. They had already conferred with Cecilie and relief was on its way. ‘Besides Hans Haavik already has competent staff out there, so everything is in hand, Varg,’ they comforted.
A little later Cecilie rang and said the same.
‘And what about you, what are you doing?’ I asked.
‘After two nights at my post I will be taking a day off, at home,’ she said. ‘And you relax,’ she added with an undertone I thought I recognised from the other woman with whom I had shared the last years of my life, intonation that bespoke mistrust and scepticism.
‘And Jan, did he say anything — afterwards?’
‘No. He fell into a kind of coma. Hans is getting Marianne out there this morning, and then it’s up to her. I’m afraid it will be hospitalisation. But you…’
‘Yes?’ There was another sound in my head, as if I were in a concrete cellar.
‘Neither Hans nor I have mentioned a word of this to the — police. But perhaps you ought to contact them yourself. I mean… with reference to what he said to you on Tuesday.’
‘Yes… I’ll see.’
For an instant I could see them all together. Vibecke Skarnes and Jens Langeland. Mette Olsen and Terje Hammersten. Hans Haavik and Cecilie. Jan coming towards me like a torpedo: I hate you! I hate you! And what he had said to me on Tuesday: Mummy did it.
In my mind I balanced them against one another: Mette Olsen with or without Terje Hammersten in one pan of the scales and Vibecke Skarnes in the other.
I had only a vague image of Svein Skarnes from a black and white family photo. After forcing down a skimpy breakfast, I decided to do something about just that.
15
Skarnes Import turned out to be a very small company. They had offices on the second floor of a building in the part of Olav Kyrres gate that had survived the 1916 town fire. I was received by a secretary with red-rimmed eyes and a sniffly nose which she tended, throughout our conversation, with a tiny crumpled lace handkerchief that could hardly absorb more moisture than a stamp.
She introduced herself as Randi Borge and burst into floods of tears when I explained the purpose of my visit. Age-wise, I would have put her at about forty. She had groomed dark blonde hair and was wearing a tight-fitting black dress that, from where I was standing, on my side of her reception desk, put me in far from a funereal mood.
She kindly explained that, apart from Svein Skarnes and herself, the company had consisted of one technician, Harald Dale, who was out on a maintenance job that day.
‘No one else? But they’re heavy machines you import, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they are. Photocopiers and franking machines. But we hire in extra help for when the biggest machines have to be positioned and installed.’
‘And what were Svein Skarnes’ duties?’
‘But…’ She sent me an angry look. ‘That’s obvious! It was his company. He’d built it up from scratch. First he worked for — one of the bigger enterprises. Then he realised there could be just as much money working for himself. And there was. All the contracts, all the marketing, all the dealing with customers… that was his responsibility. And he travelled a lot. We have customers up and down south-west Norway, from Alesund to Flekkefjord.’
‘I see. I didn’t mean it like that. But what will happen now, now that he’s no longer…?’
Her eyes widened as though the future was revealing itself in all its gruesome detail to her inner eye.
‘Will his wife take on the company, do you think?’
‘Vibecke!’ It sounded like a trumpet blast, rich with contempt. ‘Can’t imagine that at all.’
‘No?’
‘No, she simply doesn’t have — the capacity. So unless Harald can take over…’ Again the tears burst forth. ‘Well, then I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to go to the job centre…’
I leaned across the reception desk. She looked up at me. Her shapely legs pointed flawlessly downwards beneath the short dress, and I had to concede that she made an extremely tasty impression, perfect bordering on almost painful. The only thing that spoiled the image was the tearful expression on her face and her red-rimmed eyes; however, that lent her an even more human aspect, a touch of openness and intimacy that invited closer attention.
‘Tell me, fru Borge…’
‘I’m not married…’
‘Indeed?’
She met my gaze and blushed. ‘What was it you were going to — say?’
‘Yes, it was… In such a small company as this and with, if I have understood correctly, Skarnes and you alone here in the office for most of the time…’
Her eyes flashed and the redness of her cheeks assumed a more fiery hue. ‘What do you mean?’
‘No, no. No offence intended. I was just thinking… People talk. You may have had lunch together. You knew each other better than you would have done in a larger company, I would imagine.’
‘Yes, we did. And so?’
‘We at social services are most concerned about Jan. About how he’s going to be. And so I wondered… if we could form a picture of what the relationship was like at home. With his foster parents.’
‘But can’t Vibecke tell you that?’
‘Yes, but you know how it is. Often an outside view may be necessary. Those involved in the situation often become myopic.’
‘Well, I didn’t see much of either her or the boy. They very rarely came by the office. That’s also one of the reasons there won’t be any more… now that Svein…’
Once again her voice faltered. Her expression was distant. It struck me that she bore a slight resemblance to Vibecke. Or a roughly ten-year older version of her. They had the same regular features, the same well-groomed hair, they held their heads in the same slightly proud way. I wondered if it was Skarnes’ taste in women that was being reflected, in both his secretary and his spouse. Not bad taste anyway, but a bit conventional, perhaps…’
‘What was he like, Svein Skarnes?’ I asked tentatively.
‘I…’ She searched for words, and when she eventually found them, there was a new warmth in her voice. ‘He was a good person. Kind to other people. A good boss and one who never let the demand for maximum profit control the business. We had lots of small customers — small firms, many of them in outlying areas, and he insisted they were given the best possible deals and offered fair after-sales. In fact, Harald said that if things went on as they were doing, they would have to employ at least one more technician to take care of the more remote districts. Well, I think… Lots of problems can be solved over the phone, but of course it’s Harald who’s sent off if there’s anything serious.’
‘And, on a personal level? How long had you known him?’
‘Right from the start.’
‘The start of…?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘When the company was set up, five years ago. We had the five-year anniversary last autumn. An anniversary dinner at Sunnfjord Hotel in Forde.’
‘In Forde? Why there?’
‘Well… it was in connection with a sales meeting. Both Harald and I were up there anyway, and so Svein said: Today I think we’ll treat ourselves to a decent anniversary dinner.’
‘Aha. And Vibecke, fru Skarnes, was she with you?’
‘No, she certainly wasn’t! Why should she be? She hardly set her foot in here, as I said, unless there was
