the meantime she would try to find out something about Jan.
From Telthussmauet I took the quickest route down, straight across Vetrlidsallmeningen and past the Floien funicular. The weather had turned. Outside it was bitingly cold with specks of frost in the air. The low cloud cover hung like a taut drum skin over Bergen valley, a snare drum ready to be used.
I dropped in on Elsa Dragesund. She had been promoted to assistant director since we had last met, but her office door was always open and she waved me in when she saw me in the doorway.
I went straight to the point. ‘Can you remember the summer of 1970 when you and I were sent to the Rothaugen estate to take care of a neglected child? The mother was a drug addict and a man turned up while we were there.’
She nodded, deep in thought. ‘Yes… vaguely. There have been quite a few of those cases unfortunately.’
‘The boy was placed with foster parents who later adopted him.’
‘Right…’
‘He was known as Johnny boy. But he’d been christened Jan Elvis.’
She grinned. ‘Yes, I do remember that bit.’
‘You wouldn’t have the adoption papers, would you? I’m afraid I may have bumped into him again, in perhaps an even trickier situation.’ I explained the background to her and I observed that not even twenty years in social services had taken from her the ability to be visibly moved.
‘My goodness… Mummy did it! Did he really say that?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Talk to Cathrine. She’ll find you the papers. But… what is it exactly you’re after?’
‘Most of all, confirmation that it is the same boy. After that… well.’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose, strictly speaking, it’s a police matter.’
‘It certainly sounds like it. I don’t think we should get ourselves caught up in the criminal investigation anyway.’
‘No, no,’ I said, thanked her for her help and went to see Cathrine Leivestad, three offices along.
Cathrine was fair-haired and attractive and as fresh to the job as I had been in 1970. ‘No’ didn’t exist in her vocabulary, at least not in a professional context. As for her private life, I hadn’t gone there yet.
She produced some papers from a drawer in the filing cabinet, cast a quick glance over it and passed them across the table for me to peruse for myself.
It didn’t come as much of a surprise. Nonetheless, my heart seemed to sink even deeper in my chest, like a leaden weight in polluted waters.
The papers were factual and bureaucratic in style. The only thing that caused me to react was the new middle name.
Skarnes, Jan Egil, born 20.07.1967 was a child of (mother) Olsen, Mette, born 29.03.1946 and (father) unknown. In June 1971 he was adopted by Skarnes, Svein, born 03.05.1938 and Vibecke, born 15.01.1942. From the papers it emerged that he had been placed with foster parents, Vibecke and Svein Skarnes, since October 1970. There were two medical certificates attached. The first, dated August 1970, attested that Jan Elvis was under- nourished and suffered from severe emotional trauma. The other, dated December 1970, stated that his general condition was a great deal better, but the boy had several symptoms of what in clinical terminology were called reactive attachment disorders. He was anxious, restless, impulsive and a constant attention-seeker.
You hardly had to be King Solomon to appreciate that the two mothers were key figures here. The question was whether they could be traced, a question which I transported a bit further down the corridor where Cecilie and I shared an office, for space rather than practical reasons.
I made two telephone calls. The first was to the police, where I got Inspector Muus on the line and he didn’t seem all that well disposed towards me. ‘Yes?’
‘Veum here. Anything new?’
He permitted himself a pause. ‘What do you want?’
‘I was wondering whether… Have you found her?’ For lack of an immediate reaction, I added: ‘Vibecke Skarnes.’
‘Oh, you mean Vibecke Skarnes, do you?’ he said sarcastically. ‘No, Veum. We haven’t found her yet. You haven’t, either, I take it?’
‘Well, I’m not out looking…’
He interrupted me. ‘No, I certainly hope you are not! For your own sake. Was there anything else you required?’
‘No, not at this moment.’
‘Right, well, I think we can continue with today’s duties then, Veum.’ And with that he hung up.
I took a grip on myself before dialling the next number on the list, Karin Bjorge, my friend at the National Registration office. A couple of years ago I had brought her sister, Siren, home from Copenhagen and got her back on an even keel. At the time Karin had said that if there was anything she could help me with — anything at all, she had said with an expression in her eyes that had caused my brain to go into a tailspin for a moment or two — I was to ring her. Later I had, several times in fact, and she was always just as helpful, fast and efficient. If I ever started up on my own, it would do no harm to have a loyal friend at the NR office.
It didn’t take long to trace her. Mette Olsen had an address in Dag Hammerskjolds vei in Fyllingsdalen, a tunnel away from Bergen town centre. ‘I think this is the house number of one of the high rise blocks out there,’ she added.
I added quickly: ‘What about someone called Terje Hammersten… Can you find his address as well?’
She flicked through, then located it: ‘The last address given here is Bergen Prison. It may be out of date, though. The last official address before that is Professor Hansteens gate, but in fact it says here he’d moved.’
‘Right, I’ll check that. Thanks very much.’
When I rang the social security office, Beate answered. ‘What is it now? I’m sitting here with work up to way over my ears, Varg. Can’t we talk outside office hours?’
‘This is a business call.’
‘Oh yes?’ She sounded more than sceptical.
‘We’re looking for someone who by all accounts is in your system.’
‘Really? And that is…?’
‘Hammersten, Terje. Would you mind checking him out?’
She emitted a loud sigh, but I could hear her getting up from her chair and straight afterwards there was the familiar sound of a stuffed filing cabinet drawer being opened and then the efficient leafing through of a great many case files, like the flapping of heavy wings.
Then she was back. ‘He has to report regularly to the police and his finances, except for unemployment benefit, are under administration.’
‘Well, that’s something. Have you got an address for him?’
‘Just a c/o.’
‘And that is…’
‘Mette Olsen, Dag Hammerskjolds vei, if that’s…’
‘Yes, thanks, but — I’ll catch you another day, okay?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Take care.’
‘You, too,’ I said, but she wasn’t listening. She had already put down the phone.
I went to the window and looked out. Snowflakes were slowly fluttering down and settling on the black tarmac outside, like dandruff on the lapels of a dark dinner jacket. I didn’t linger long and was soon on my way.
8
The party at Mette Olsen’s was in full swing. I could hear it from the stairwell. Her flat was on the second floor and her next-door neighbour — a well-filled out lady wearing a brown coat and grey hat as if on her way out — came to the door when she heard me ring. She scrutinised me suspiciously and said with irritation in her voice: ‘Are
