I remembered him the way he had been in those six months. From the apathetic tiny boy we had seen in the first days he had developed into an active and vigorous boy, a bit too vigorous at times. He didn’t know where to draw the line and sometimes he seemed to be deliberately provoking us, to make trouble, to create an unpleasant atmosphere and evoke rejection. ‘Extremely characteristic of children with early emotional damage,’ Marianne informed us in a conversation we had with her. ‘So what can we do?’ I had asked, and she had looked at us with a tiny resigned smile: ‘Hope the therapy helps, hope that he gets clear signals from the adult world and that someone sets new boundaries for the life he has to teach himself to live.’ We had nodded in agreement, but after leaving her we felt as despondent as we had when we arrived.
‘What are the people he’s living with like?’ I had asked Hans that September day. ‘Decent folk. I know them personally. Klaus and Kari Libakk. Klaus is a cousin of mine. They run a farm in Angedalen, north-east of Forde,’ ‘Does he have local support?’ ‘Of course. Social services in Sunnfjord has put one of their own on the case…’ He flicked through a few papers. ‘Grethe Millingen. That name mean anything to you?’ ‘No,’ I said and Cecilie just shook her head sadly.
In the car back to town we had little to say to each other. We both sat enclosed in our own worlds, and when we parted neither of us saw any reason to celebrate anything.
It was a miserable year in general. The period of separation came to an end and the divorce from Beate was executed without mercy. We negotiated a visiting agreement for Thomas and it wasn’t long before it came to my ears that she had got herself a new friend, some teacher, Wiik, whom Thomas called Lasse. In my welfare work I regularly became frustrated and there were a number of episodes that indicated that perhaps I was not the right man to tackle all the challenges I confronted. The whole thing came to an end the year after when, under strong pressure from above, I was requested to look around for something else to do.
I had a distressing feeling that life was passing me by before my very eyes, outside my windows, and that feeling was not exactly diminished when in August of that year I turned Muus’s nightmare into reality and started my own little firm as a private investigator in Strandkaien, a street fronting the harbour and a block away from Marianne Storetvedt.
Nine years later, I received a phone call from Forde.
18
A private investigator’s office can be a depressing place. It’s not a lot better when the rains beat against the windowpanes, the floods start and there is only a limited number of tickets left for the ark. The call from Forde did nothing to improve my mood. Quite the opposite, it took the ground away from beneath me.
Her voice was both hoarse and pleasant, in an extremely sensual way. ‘Veum? Varg Veum?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Grethe Mellingen here. From social services in Sogn and Fjordane. I’m based in Forde.’
I had an unpleasant sensation in my abdominal region. ‘Right! How can I help you?’
‘It’s about a client of ours. One Jan Egil Skarnes, seventeen years old.’
‘Yes, I know who you’re talking about. But…’
‘It’s just terrible. I don’t know if you heard the two o’clock news, did you?’
‘No, I haven’t…’
‘There’s been a double murder here. In Angedalen. Both of Jan Egil’s foster parents.’
‘What was that?’ The glaring ceiling lamp seemed to have grown, filling the whole of my head with intense light, an interrogator’s lamp from my unconscious.
‘Yes and… I’m afraid there is every reason to believe that Jan Egil did it, because he’s holed up in a neighbouring valley and refuses to speak to anyone except — you.’
‘Me? But I haven’t had anything to do with him since…’
‘And he’s not alone. He has someone with him. A girl from the neighbouring farm.’
‘As a hostage or what?’
‘We don’t know. They’re about the same age, anyway. But the police have contact with him via a loud-hailer and he’s told them he won’t talk to anyone except… you.’
‘I’m amazed he can remember me!’
‘I was summoned there myself to negotiate with him, but… I’ll only talk to Varg! he shouted. Varg? Who’s Varg? we asked. Varg, he repeated, and I contacted Hans Haavik to see if he knew who he was talking about, and he referred me to you.’
I swallowed. ‘So then…’
‘The question is just… how quickly can you get to Forde, Varg?’
I looked at my watch. ‘There are several hours till the afternoon boat leaves, and I have no idea about plane routes. But… if I jump in my car now, if I’m lucky with the ferries and ignore speed limits, I should be there in five to five and a half hours.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘I’ll have to, won’t I! How will I find you?’
‘I’ll meet you… Do you know where Sunnfjord Hotel is?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go there and I’ll meet you in reception.’
‘OK, let’s say that. But it’ll take me getting on for half an hour to leave. I have the car parked…’
‘Yes, yes. Just come as quickly as you can. We’re relying on you
…’
People had had their fingers burnt doing that before, but I didn’t say that to her. I switched off the lights, locked the office and hared off up to Skansen to fetch the car. Barely half an hour later, I was on my way.
It had turned dark by the time I reached Forde a little before nine that evening, and it had not been an easy drive. If it had been dark in Masfjorden before, the dense rain had not made it lighter. I stopped in Brekke to wait for the ferry, but once over the fjord I broke all the speed limits that existed in the hope that every available variety of local police official was in Forde and Angedalen on this dark October day which was to go down in the local history annals under the headline: Double Murder in Angedalen.
There is much that could be said about Forde and most of it has already been said. In many ways it is the centre of the Vestland region, south-west Norway, in reality it is a huge crossroads with a few buildings thrown in for good measure. I passed the bridge over the Jolstra River and bore left towards Sunnfjord Hotel. The rain was hammering down on the car roof and I pulled the hood of my all-weather jacket tightly over my head as I sprinted, bent-over, the few metres to the main entrance.
Grethe Mellingen realised who I was, got up off a chair and came towards me. ‘Varg?’
I nodded and we shook hands.
‘I’m Grethe. Come with me!’
She looked to be two or three years older than me and had sleek, golden yellow hair which hung in damp clumps on either side of her symmetrical face. I immediately noticed her eyes, light blue, as if made of glass. She was dressed in full rain gear, dark green from the sou’ wester to the high wellies. ‘We have no time to lose,’ she added as we charged from the hotel entrance to the car and tore open the doors on both sides.
‘That way,’ she said pointing west, towards the main hospital. ‘Just follow Angedalsvegen and we’ll see the lights when we’re there. We can only go on foot in Trodalen.’
‘Trodalen?’
‘Yes, you may have heard of it?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Trodalen Mads — does that mean anything to you?’
‘An old criminal case, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I can tell you all about it — later.’
‘But the old case has no connection with this one, I suppose?’
‘No, no. Of course not.’
‘Why don’t you tell me — how Johnny boy is?’
