‘Jan? You call him Johnny boy, do you?’
‘We used to call him that — ten years ago.’
The road climbed abruptly to Angedalen now, to the long valley that lay like a hollow in the countryside between the municipalities of Naustdal and Jolster. I had never been there before.
‘Well, what should I say? He hasn’t been so easy, but… we thought things were going better now. At any rate, this came as a shock to us all. Like a bolt from the blue.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Now we don’t know yet if it was him who did it…’
‘Don’t we?’
‘Well, it’s like this. His foster parents are called Kari and Klaus Libakk. One of their neighbours called the police. He thought something must have been amiss because he hadn’t seen either Kari or Klaus since Sunday, and the only person who went to the cowshed was Jan Egil. He made up some pretext about wanting to see the Libakks and asked after Klaus, but Jan Egil behaved so strangely, said they were away and didn’t know when they would be back. So this neighbour, Karl on the Hill, as we call him, contacted the local sergeant, who sent up one of his officers. And that was when everything came out.’
‘Mm?’
‘Jan Egil must have seen him coming because after the officer knocked on the door he suddenly saw Jan Egil and Silje racing up the mountainside behind the farm buildings, towards Trodalen.’
‘And Silje, that’s…’
‘Silje Tveiten, she’s from a neighbouring farm. But the worst of it all is…’
‘Yes?’
‘When the officer tried to follow them, Jan Egil fired a shot at him. A rifle shot.’
‘Oh, bloody…’
‘Then he gave up. And when he went back into the farmhouse it was a gruesome sight that met him. At first the place seemed empty, but when he went to the first floor, into the bedroom… Klaus had been shot in the chest while he was still in bed. Kari must have tried to escape, because she was lying on the floor right in front of the window, shot in the back. There was blood everywhere!’
‘But… had no one heard the shooting?’
‘It’s mid deer-hunting season, Varg. There’s shooting at all hours.’
‘And now they reckon it was Jan who shot them?’
‘There was no sign of a break-in, so for the moment they haven’t got anything else to go on, I’m afraid.’
‘When did the murders take place?’
‘I don’t know, but all the indications are that the bodies have been lying there for a couple of days.’
‘My God!’
‘Yes, there’s not a lot else you can say! And now he’s holed himself up in the scree on the eastern side of Lake Trodalsvatn, not far from Strand.’
‘Strand?’
‘Yes, or Trodalsstrand. Where the murder took place in 1839.’
We passed a farmyard, and I slowed down. Round the next bend we were met by a mass of lights: brake lights, courtesy lights, headlights and torches. The exhaust fumes drifted like patches of mist over several of the cars parked in a line winding its way up a narrow gravel path to the north of the main road. At the very top a patrol car was parked across the path, blocking any movement in that direction. There was an ambulance with the side door open, the driver in conversation with a policeman. Beside the patrol car was another constable with his arms crossed, staring sternly ahead.
‘Pull in there,’ Grethe said, pointing to a narrow gap between a large Mercedes and a four-wheel drive Mitsubishi Pajero. I rammed the Mini halfway up the slope. From the boot I took my waterproof trousers I had had the foresight to bring with me. I always kept rubber boots there, in case I went fishing.
We trudged up to the patrol vehicles and the ambulance. They had gathered around the two vehicles, the whole caboodle: photographers under wide rain capes with their cameras held against their chests; radio commentators with portable recorders held in shoulder straps and microphones sticking out, as if to measure the moisture in the air; and veteran reporters with soaking wet, lit cigarettes between their lips, sou’westers and rain hats pulled down over their foreheads.
Grethe ploughed a way through the media throng for us before she was stopped abruptly by the brusque police officer. ‘No one passes here!’
She gasped for breath. ‘But we’re on our way up to — negotiate. This is Veum, the social services man from Bergen that Jan Egil demanded to speak to.’
The uniformed officer gave me a sceptical look, then turned to the car. There were two others sitting there. He motioned to one of them to roll down the side window.
‘It’s that welfare bloke. They should be let through, shouldn’t they?’ he said in vernacular.
‘Yeah, but Standal said that everyone should be escorted.’ The officer got out of the car. He stuck out his hand and introduced himself. ‘Reidar Ruset.’ His face was thin and pale, his handshake wet and cold. ‘In addition, they have to wear bulletproof vests.’ He stretched into the car and pulled out two stiff, greyish-black vests.
With a little difficulty, we put the vests over our all-weather jackets. If nothing else, they provided a little extra warmth.
Reidar Ruset pointed up at the dark, tree-clad mountainside. ‘On that mountain.’
We began walking. Directly in front of us lay an old hay barn. As we passed it, Grethe said: ‘This is where he lived as an old man.’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Trodalen Mads.’
No more was said. In the heavy rain and with only Reidar Ruset’s head lamp as illumination we had more than enough to think about just looking where to put our feet. We followed the path upwards alongside a stone wall. Then we entered the forest, a mixture of deciduous and dark spruce trees. Neither of us said a word. Thoughts were ricocheting around my head, completely out of control.
Memories of 1974… the call-out to the accident in Wergelandsasen, which would later turn into a crime scene, Jan and all the work with him, the search for Vibecke Skarnes, the confession, the trial and the six months with Jan afterwards, before he was sent up here. All this merged with the impressions I had formed during the hectic hour since I had met Grethe Mellingen: a possible double murder with Jan as the principal suspect, a boy fleeing with a girl of the same age, a boy who ten years earlier had pushed me down the stairs in a violent fit of anger…
We waded up through withered ferns, bare blueberry bushes and a path that regularly became a rushing stream through the dense undergrowth. Now and then we passed a clearing with bare rock face. If we had cast our eyes across we would have glimpsed the lights from the farms at the furthest end of Angedalen valley, already a long way down. After a good half an hour we were at the top of the incline. We continued through the forest until we could make out black water. On both sides of the lake rose steep mountainsides. Even in the daylight Trodalen had to be a fairly gloomy place. Now, in the dark and the rain, it was just one black abyss in the night, a slumbering volcano which could erupt at any time.
Reidar Ruset pointed along the eastern bank of the lake. A powerful searchlight lit up the scree where the rough terrain and the crooked old tree trunks formed troll-like shapes on the mountainside. Around the searchlight we saw the flickering light of less powerful lamps. ‘Over there.’
We followed him up the slope from the lake, fast at the beginning, slower as we approached. We were almost there when it happened.
The rifle shot rang out like a whiplash in the darkness. With a splintering sound the glass lens of the large searchlight was smashed, there was a scream, followed by more, and the flickering lights in front of us suddenly scattered in all directions, away from the area where the searchlight had stood. Then it was dark. Completely dark.
Through the darkness came the sound of piercing laughter from somewhere up in the scree. It was an eerie, almost supernatural sound.
Reidar Ruset switched off his head lamp and mumbled in local tones between clenched teeth: ‘Yeah, isn’t it what they’ve always said? That there are ghosts here…’
