colourless, as if all the colour in me had leached out during the long hours up in wet Trodalen. This was not a cheery morning.
Taking shaving things from my toilet bag, I tried to improve my appearance. I covered my face with foam until it was nearly invisible against the white wall behind me and then went to work with a vengeance, resulting in a large number of cuts on my chin and neck. When I looked leprous enough to frighten the wits out of anyone, I concluded the abuse, rinsed off the blood and the last bits of foam, pressed a cold, wet hand cloth against my face and walked stiff-legged out of the bathroom.
I went to the window and stared outside. There wasn’t much solace to find there.
Forde was, first of all, no metropolis seething with life and activity. On the other side of the river occasional juggernauts passed, some going to Jolster, others to Bergen. Today, the cloud cover between the mountains lay so low that cars on their way up the Halbrendslia Mountain simply disappeared in the dense greyness. For a little while you could make out their rear lights, then they were gone. They reminded me of UFOs after a lightning visit to Forde, concluding that this place was hardly worth a stay and now they were on their way back to whence they had come.
I dressed and went down to the dining room where the staff were busy clearing up after breakfast, but not so insistent that I was not allowed to help myself to what was left before they finished their tidying up. I could take as much coffee as I wanted until it ran out. I did my best, but there was still some left. While sitting over my fourth or fifth cup I quickly went back over the very last part of the night’s events.
The atmosphere in the car had not exactly hit the heights. Silje was crying silently between us, and Grethe had put a comforting arm around her and pulled her close. ‘A solicitor from Oslo has rung to say he will be coming early tomorrow,’ the officer behind the wheel informed Standal. ‘And what’s the name of this genius?’ the sergeant wanted to know. ‘Langeland,’ came the answer, and I pricked up my ears. ‘Langeland! But he’s a top-class solicitor! What the hell does he want here?’ asked the sargeant. ‘A follow-up to his previous success maybe,’ I mumbled. Standal turned to me: ‘What do you mean by that?’ ‘Nothing, except that if it’s Jens Langeland we’re taking about, he was the one who took the case the last time Jan Egil was involved in something like this.’ ‘In Oslo?’ ‘No, that time he was in Bergen.’ ‘And is he good?’ I smiled wryly: ‘Better than you will like, I’m afraid.’ ‘Well… we’ll see. I’m just wondering who the hell tipped him off.’ ‘Well, it wasn’t me, anyway.’ Standal sent me a surly look: ‘You report to the police HQ early tomorrow, too, Veum. We obviously need a bit of an update on this Jan Egil…’
By the time we arrived back in Forde it was half past one. The car pulled up in front of the hotel to let me out first. Grethe went to the police station to support Silje and Jan Egil, as far as there was anything she could do. She had hugged me quickly before I got out of the car. She looked pretty careworn, too. But on the other hand… she had an official function to perform. As for me, I had just been brought in on the sidelines. ‘See you tomorrow, Varg.’ ‘See you…’
And now I was sitting here, hardly able to move.
I walked over and took the fifth, or sixth, cup from the coffee machine. On the way back, I saw a podgy young man, red-haired with round glasses, striding energetically across the floor in my direction.
‘Is your name Veum?’ he asked.
‘Who’s asking?’
He held out a hand. ‘Helge Haugen. Journalist for Firda Tidend. I would appreciate a few words with you.’
‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
‘No? They all say that, but… would you mind if I joined you?’
I was too tired to offer any resistance. ‘Not at all. Take the weight off your feet, young man. You look as if you need to.’
He pulled out a chair and made himself comfortable with a contented smile. ‘You’re a private investigator, I’ve been told.’
‘Correct…’
‘But who hired you?’
‘No, no, no, it’s not like that.’ I held his gaze. He was in his late twenties and bursting with energy on the other side of the table, he had the enthusiastic glint in his eye of a star reporter on the way up. ‘Not at all. I used to work for social services in Bergen and the boy involved was one of my clients. I was summoned here because he had asked to talk to me.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Well, I can’t actually answer that question. That was the message I was given.’
‘So… what’s his background?’
‘You’ve heard of something called client confidentiality, haven’t you?’
He smirked. ‘I’ve heard of it, yes. But I don’t suppose it counts for much when an Oslo newspaper opens its wallet.’
‘And how much is there in Firda Tidend ’s wallet?’
‘How much do you want?’
I shook my head slowly. ‘Mm… In fact I mean it. I’m not going to say any more than I’ve already said.’
He nodded matter-of-factly, as if taking note, and went on. ‘What do you know about the Trodalen killing, Veum?’
‘That’s a good question. Not much more than I was told last night on my way here. A killing — in 1839, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, shall I tell you about it?’
‘That would be, if not useful, then at least interesting.’
Helge Haugen leaned back in his chair, interlaced his fingers on his stomach, instantly reminding me more of an old grandfather than a young ace reporter. As he began to tell the story, it was obvious that he enjoyed the sound of his own voice and I guessed that the majority of what he said would appear in print in Firda Tidend one day very soon.
‘It was a hot, sunny June day in 1839. The snow still lay on the ground in huge drifts up in Trodalen, the narrow mountain valley that acts as a mountain pass between Ovre Naustdal and Angedalen. A man from Naustdal was passing the tiny smallholding in Trodalsstrand with a cow he was going to sell to a dealer from Aurland in Sogn, Ole Olsen Ottern?s. They had arranged to meet at Indrebo Farm in Angedalen to settle the deal there, but when the man from Naustdal arrived, there was no sign of Ole Olsen. The Indrebo farmfolk were surprised because it was wellknown that a few days earlier the dealer had been in Angedalen. And it was said that he had undertaken the long walk to Trodalen in the hope of selling a few goods there. On June 19th he had left some clothing at the neighbouring farm, and a message that he would be back. He was never seen again.’
‘Really?’
‘The Indrebo farmfolk began to worry that something might have happened to Ole Olsen. He might have had an accident on the way up or down. They set off from Trodalen to search for him. At last they arrived at the only farm in the valley, Trodalsstrand. Neither the farmer nor his wife was there, only an elderly servant. But she had a story to tell… This was June 24th, and the servant said that, indeed, five days earlier Olsen had been at the farm, although he hadn’t sold anything. So he had gone back towards Angedalen, accompanied by the farmer’s son, Mads Andersen. Mads had returned later in the day, but the next morning she had been surprised to see that he had taken the boat and was on the lake, despite the fact that the master had given explicit instructions that the boat was not to go out before he returned.’
‘Where was the father?’
‘He was on his way to Bergen, and the mother had accompanied him down to Naustdal. She didn’t return until late in the day on June 24th.’
‘And where was she now?’
‘Out in the field with Mads. They were drying hay.’
He waited to see if I had any more questions. I didn’t, and he continued the story. ‘Well, the men went there and began to question Mads. No, Ole Olsen had left the farm alone, he said. That’s not true, the men said. You went with him, they said. Well, part of the way maybe, he said. So where did you take your leave of him? they asked. But Mads’s answer was quite vague. Over on the mountainside, he said, with a flourish of his arm. But now the men pressed him harder, and the matter was not made any easier by the mother standing and listening. Opinions are divided as to what role the mother played in this business. Some say she was the one who went to the
