31
The stretch of road alongside Lake Jolstravatn must be one of the most beautiful in Norway. The vast lake lies there, extending into the far distance, blue and looking as though it could last for all eternity. The mountain formation is beautiful and majestic, and against the arch of the sky you can glimpse Jostedal glacier, dazzlingly white in the daylight. An atmosphere of timelessness and calm rests over the countryside, the north-bound traffic on the main road the only disturbance.
It was no longer raining. There were patches of blue in the ceiling of cloud where the sun broke through with compact bundles of rays, like a harbinger of better times. The trees were rusty brown, specked with green and red. In a little boat in the middle of the lake sat a man with a fishing rod in his hands, patience personified. If he waited long enough he would undoubtedly get a bite. If I was lucky, his good fortune would rub off on me.
Grethe had rung before breakfast. ‘Sorry, I didn’t ring back, Varg, but I slept round the clock,’ she had said before asking:
‘What are your plans for today?’
‘I’m driving out to Jolster. Would you like to join me?’
‘’Fraid not, I have to be with Silje today, too. And Jan Egil, if need be. Will we see each other later?’
‘I’ll be in touch when I’m back.’
‘Fine. I’ve got something I’d like to show you.’
‘Oh yes?’ She had given a low chuckle: ‘Yes…’
Before leaving, I dropped by the police offices to hear if anyone had any need of my services. No one had. The KRIPOS officers were going to speak to Jan Egil, they were still waiting for the first results of both the pathologist’s and the forensic examinations, and as far as the local police division in Naustdal and Forde were concerned, I could travel to Jolster and further afield without any concerns.
A big, shiny silver milk tanker ensured that I did not break the speed limit before it finally indicated right and turned up into the valley by Ardal. Arriving in Ski, I branched off what was still called the A14. The road on the north side of Kjosnes fjord was being improved because further along they were building a tunnel through the mountain to Fj?rland. But I was not going that far. I turned down to the long, low Kjosnes bridge, crossed over and bore left to high up on the slope to the south of the fjord.
I rolled down the car window and asked an elderly man standing on the roadside where I would find a farm called Leitet. He gave me a long, thoughtful stare while considering in some depth whether this was a question it would be appropriate to answer. He was chewing tobacco and spat a gobbet some distance into the ditch before half-turning and pointing to some old buildings further up: a grey farm building, a little outhouse and a white farmhouse. I thanked him for his help, and he returned my gaze with a sardonic look, without uttering a word.
I continued and came to a steep, narrow gravel path which seemed to lead up to the tiny farm. I turned off. Twice I had to get out of the car to open and close a farm gate before, at last, I was up in the untidy farmyard. I switched off the engine and sat behind the wheel for a while to see if anyone would come out to receive me. No one did.
Inside the open outhouse stood a red, rust-stained tractor. The white one-and-a-half-storey farmhouse with an attic facing the fjord also looked as if it could do with a spot of paint. From the farm building there was not a sound to suggest animals were housed inside. The barn was overgrown, and the grass had been allowed to grow wild. The whole place seemed abandoned, dead, a derelict monument to the trials of yore by the fjord to the east of Lake Jolstravatn.
As I opened the car door and stepped onto the yard, something happened. The front door opened, and a woman came out. She was wearing threadbare dark blue jeans without a hint of a fashionable cut and a reddish- brown sweater that had not seen a washing machine for many a day. And high green wellies on her feet. Her hair was blonde with broad grey streaks, much greyer than the last time I had seen her. Her face was lean and the network of wrinkles denser, but I still had no problem recognising the Mette Olsen of ten years ago.
She, on the other hand, squinted through scrunched-up eyes and snarled in dialect: ‘Who are you? What d’you want here?’
‘Veum,’ I said. ‘From Bergen. I don’t know if you remember me.’
Despite not being more than in her late thirties, she looked as though she were well over fifty, and they had been fifty hard years. She had put on weight, although not so much, but what there was round her waist on the otherwise lean body, looked inert and unhealthy.
‘Veum?’ She closed one eye and looked at me stiffly with the other. ‘Ye-es, I remember you… you were one of those social services arseholes.’
‘I’m not there any more.’
She wobbled a little and put out an arm to steady herself. ‘What are you doing here then, eh?’
‘It’s partly to do with… your son.’
She raised her head and inhaled deelpy through her nostrils. ‘Johnny boy?’ she said in such a low voice that I barely heard. ‘What’s up with him now then?’
‘You haven’t seen the papers?’
‘I don’t get a paper.’
‘Listened to the radio? Seen the TV?’
‘Yes, I saw the news, but…’ The significance of what I had asked suddenly seemed to hit home. Once again she almost lost her balance, but it was because she turned her head quickly and stared at the other side of Lake Jolstravatn, at the mountains she had to pass to reach Angedalen. ‘It wasn’t at that house… What did you say? How is he? Johnny boy?’
I observed her. The consternation seemed genuine, and even if she had read the papers, none of the dead persons had been named yet. On the radio and TV they were even more reluctant to identify the murder victims.
‘He’s fine,’ I said, if for no other reason than to tell her that at least he was alive. Otherwise, it was a dubious choice of words. ‘Can we go inside for a moment?’
She looked at me with suspicion.
‘It’s not exactly summer temperatures outside.’
‘Well…’ She held out an arm to steady herself again, turned her back on me and stepped over the doorsill. But she left the door ajar behind her as a sign that I could follow.
I walked into a dark hallway where a steep staircase led up to a trapdoor. Two doors led into the rest of the house, one to the kitchen, the other to the sitting room. She had gone into the kitchen, and I followed. She ushered me to the table which was covered with a worn blue and white gingham oilcloth. A very well used coffee pot stood in the middle of the cloth. Beside it, there was a cracked coffee-stained cup. On the worktop in front of the window there were breadcrumbs, a tub of easy-spread margarine, an opened plastic pack of sheep sausage and half a jar of jam. The smell inside was stale, cloying, a combination of food and unwashed pots and pans.
She sat down at the table, grabbed the cup, confirmed that it was empty and filled it from the coffee pot, a pitch black, cold-looking liquid. She offered me nothing. I was glad.
She sat on her chair, crouched over the cup, holding it with both hands. It was only with the greatest effort that she managed to raise her head and look at me, or so it seemed. Her eyes were listless and tired, as if the shock had already left its mark. ‘Is it that double murder that’s being talked about?’
I nodded. ‘Just tell me first, Mette… how long have you lived here?’
‘What’s it got to do with you?’ she said at first, then after a short pause for thought she answered. ‘Soon be two years.’
‘What made you move here?’
‘I wanted to get away from the town!’ she said irascibly. ‘I should have left many years ago. Perhaps everything would have turned out different then…’
‘So your coming here wasn’t a coincidence?’
‘Coincidence? What do you mean?’
‘Well, did you have family here?’ I looked around at the greasy, unwashed walls. ‘Did this place belong to the
