‘Veum! I’m afraid I will have to show you the door. I’m closing.’
He grabbed my shoulder with great determination and shoved me towards the exit.
‘Just one more thing,’ I objected on my way out.
‘No, Veum, no.’ He shook his head resolutely, pushed me into the corridor and, before locking up behind me, said: ‘Mind your own business, Veum.’
I heard what he said, but for some reason I was not in an amenable frame of mind that day. I walked down towards Christian Michelsens gate, then decided to play detective for another hour. I stood in a house entrance and waited.
I didn’t have to wait very long. Jens Langeland appeared after less than half an hour, and he was not alone. There was a woman with him, and I realised that the secretary had not been lying when she said he was busy with a client. She was wearing a light brown sheepskin coat, and her hair was concealed beneath a large woollen hat. Nevertheless, I had no problem recognising Vibecke Skarnes from the photograph on the bureau in her hallway.
12
From the gateway in Tarnplass I watched Jens Langeland and Vibecke Skarnes cross the square to the part of Fortunen Design offices that led up to Markeveien. They passed between Scylla and Charybdis: on the one side, the Law Courts and, on the other, the state-owned off-licence, the Vinmonopol. The former ate you alive; the latter sent you headlong into ruin, all according to personal predisposition and adversity.
They made an odd couple, he with his tall wading bird figure, she small and slender, but with a determined gait nonetheless. The notion that she was on the run from the police couldn’t have been further from your thoughts.
I followed them far enough to see them getting into a car parked by the pavement in Markeveien. I recognised the car without any difficulty. It was Langeland’s orange BMW. He held the door open for her and she got in. He walked round to the other side and surveyed the scene.
He seemed to hesitate before getting into the car. For a second I was frightened he had seen me. I flipped up my lapels and turned in the opposite direction, as though unsure where I was going. Glancing back, I saw the car was gone.
I walked down to the nearest call box, in Strandkaien, and flicked through the telephone directory. Jens Langeland had a comfortable address in Fjellsiden. Ole Irgens had been Bergen’s first headmaster, he had been a central figure in Bergen’s Timber and Tree Planting Company and one of the founders of Fjellveien. In gratitude, the winding road from Fjellveien right up to Starefossen had been named after him, and somewhere along this road Langeland had acquired accommodation of as yet indeterminate format.
I took the Floien funicular up to Skansemyren and walked from there. Reaching Ole Irgens vei, I studied the street numbers and headed uphill. The orange-coloured car was unmistakable. It was parked outside the gate of a brown box-shaped property with a white basement floor that matched the address in the telephone book.
The house turned out to contain six apartments. According to the signs by the doorbells, Langeland lived on the first floor to the right. I peered up. The curtains were partly drawn and the lighting inside was muted. But, from a room at the side, harsh, naked light fell onto the winter-dark garden. I guessed they were in the kitchen; hopefully in front of the worktop and not on top of it.
I went through the gate, up some steps and followed the path round to the main entrance which was at the back of the house. The front door was open. I went in and up to the first floor. In front of Langeland’s flat I hesitated for an instant. I stood listening, but no sounds carried through. So I rang the bell.
For the second time in a couple of hours, I was standing face-to-face with Jens Langeland. He didn’t seem at all happy to see me at his door again. His face reflected extreme distaste, although there were clear signs of nervousness. ‘Veum…’
‘I’d like to speak to fru Skarnes.’
He gulped. ‘And what brought you here?’
‘Save me the hassle, Langeland! I saw you in Tarnplass. I know she’s in there.’ I angled my head towards the inside of the flat.
‘That’s correct,’ he said with the same tight-lipped expression that I recognised from before. ‘I do have a client in here. But I feel no obligation to reveal the identity of the person.’
‘Of course not. But I suppose you would feel an obligation to do so to the police, bearing in mind the status of the client.’
‘The status?’
‘Yes, she’s a witness in a case involving a suspicious death, isn’t she?’
‘Suspicious! What are you talking about, Veum? It was an accident. He fell down the damn stairs.’
I smirked. ‘You admit this is the case in question then?’
He didn’t answer.
‘And that you have Vibecke Skarnes in there?’
He eyed me in silence.
‘But you… If you don’t let me in, I will have no choice but to ring the police. Now, this very minute. Could I use your phone or should I try a neighbour?’
He heaved a heavy sigh. Then he thrust out his arms and stepped aside. ‘You’d better come in. I don’t understand what you’re after, but… We’re in the kitchen.’
The hallway was long and narrow. It must have been just redecorated. The whole apartment gave the impression that he had moved in recently. A glance into the living room revealed a sparsely furnished area in which pictures had not yet appeared on the walls and books were piled up on the floor.
The kitchen was bright and modern. A pan was simmering on a red stove. Vibecke Skarnes stood in front of the worktop with a sharp knife in her hand, and leeks, carrots and celeriac on the chopping board. She was wearing a blue and white striped blouse she must have brought with her from the hospital and a short black skirt that set off her slim legs well.
‘Hello,’ I said, motioning towards the frying pan. ‘Food for thought…’
She looked nervously from me to Langeland and said nothing.
‘This is the fellow from social services. Veum. I think I mentioned his name, didn’t I?’
She nodded and stared at me with enlarged eyes.
I sent her an encouraging smile and introduced myself properly. Then I said: ‘I can assure you that Jan is in the best hands.’
‘The best?’ She didn’t seem to grasp what I meant.
‘Yes. But it would be very helpful to us if you could tell us exactly what happened…’
She still seemed perplexed. ‘Happened?’
‘Yes, from your point of view. I mean…’
Jens Langeland walked past me and stood beside her. ‘There is no reason why my client should tell you anything at all, Veum.’
‘Yes, there is. I want to!’ she blurted. ‘I — must…’
Langeland sighed with an expression designed to tell her that if she did, he would wash his hands of her. She put down the knife and perched on a kitchen chair. I remained on my feet. I saw my reflection in the kitchen window behind her.
Langeland turned away. He demonstratively collected all the prepared vegetables in a bowl, took the lid off the pan and carefully emptied them in. The aroma of Toro pea soup reminded me of how hungry I was.
‘It was… Jan had been absolutely impossible for a few days. He refused to go out. And I had some errands that had to be done, I needed to go to the doctor’s, amongst other things, and then Svein…’ Her voice cracked and tears formed in her eyes.
Langeland interrupted. ‘Don’t put yourself through this, Vibecke! He has no right to interview you like this. I’m your solicitor. Let me
…’
‘You know the alternative yourself, Langeland. It’s not certain they would be so understanding.’ I turned back to Vibecke Skarnes. ‘I do appreciate that it’s difficult to talk about this.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, it’s… terrible! That that tiny… that he should be such a cuckoo in the nest…’
Langeland again signalled that she should desist. I said nothing. After a pause, she continued: ‘Svein was supposed to stay at home with him until I returned. I didn’t take longer than I had to! But when I… I knew of course that they were at home, so I just rang the bell when I arrived. But when no one opened up, I had to unlock the door and then…’