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 Førde.
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 Førde 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 Førde.’
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 Førde, 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 Førde 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 Førde and Angedalen on this dark October day which was to go down in the
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 Førde.
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 Førde 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 Førde.’
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 Førde, 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 Førde 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 Førde and Angedalen on this dark October day which was to go down in the
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