14
So Cecilie had to spend the night there after all. I was driven to A amp; E by Hans who had only just managed to squeeze himself in behind the wheel of the Mini. There, they confirmed a bad strain and a pulled muscle in my right arm, but as the on-duty doctor laconically added: ‘If you hadn’t grabbed hold of the railing, things could have been a lot worse for you.’
‘What the hell was that all about?’ Hans had asked me on the way there.
‘Don’t ask me! But it’s given me something to mull over…’
Again and again I went back over the absurd moment when I lost my footing and lurched down the stairs. I struck out blindly with my right arm, grabbed hold of the railing, lost my grip, got hold of another support, gripped and held on so tightly that I broke my fall but pulled a muscle in my arm, which felt as if it had come out of the socket and would never settle back.
For a second or two I seemed to have passed out. Then I heard Cecilie from above: ‘Varg! Are you alright?’ — and Hans come charging out of the vestibule office: ‘What the hell’s going on?’
I turned over and crawled up into a kneeling position before slowly getting to my feet. I looked up the stairs. There were Cecilie and Jan standing together. She was holding his arms tight while both stared down at me as if they had seen a ghost.
I met Jan’s gaze. It was black with fury.
‘But, Johnny, I thought we were friends.’
‘I hate you! I hate you!’ he screamed, his face bright red.
‘Now, now… Don’t say that,’ Cecilie said in a consoling tone of voice, but who she was consoling I was not at all sure. ‘Come on…’
She led Jan back into the bedroom while Hans supported me out of the building and to my car. When A amp; E were finished with me, he said: ‘I can drive you home, Varg. I don’t live that far away.’
‘Well, I’m not going to say no. I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to change gear at this moment.’
That night I slept even worse. I lay brooding until the early hours, and when I did finally fall asleep I was drawn into a nightmarish dream where once again I mixed up Jan with Thomas, and on waking I was confused as to which of them kept pushing me down the steep stairs again and again. And the matter was not made any better by Beate replacing Cecilie at the top of the staircase, with a gloating expression on her face: What did I say? Even this is too much for you!
In the end, when I got up, my whole body hurt and a headache was pounding away behind my forehead. I rang the office and explained the situation to them. They wished me all the best and said I shouldn’t concern myself about Jan. They had already conferred with Cecilie and relief was on its way. ‘Besides Hans Haavik already has competent staff out there, so everything is in hand, Varg,’ they comforted.
A little later Cecilie rang and said the same.
‘And what about you, what are you doing?’ I asked.
‘After two nights at my post I will be taking a day off, at home,’ she said. ‘And you relax,’ she added with an undertone I thought I recognised from the other woman with whom I had shared the last years of my life, intonation that bespoke mistrust and scepticism.
‘And Jan, did he say anything — afterwards?’
‘No. He fell into a kind of coma. Hans is getting Marianne out there this morning, and then it’s up to her. I’m afraid it will be hospitalisation. But you…’
‘Yes?’ There was another sound in my head, as if I were in a concrete cellar.
‘Neither Hans nor I have mentioned a word of this to the — police. But perhaps you ought to contact them yourself. I mean… with reference to what he said to you on Tuesday.’
‘Yes… I’ll see.’
For an instant I could see them all together. Vibecke Skarnes and Jens Langeland. Mette Olsen and Terje Hammersten. Hans Haavik and Cecilie. Jan coming towards me like a torpedo: I hate you! I hate you! And what he had said to me on Tuesday: Mummy did it.
In my mind I balanced them against one another: Mette Olsen with or without Terje Hammersten in one pan of the scales and Vibecke Skarnes in the other.
I had only a vague image of Svein Skarnes from a black and white family photo. After forcing down a skimpy breakfast, I decided to do something about just that.
15
Skarnes Import turned out to be a very small company. They had offices on the second floor of a building in the part of Olav Kyrres gate that had survived the 1916 town fire. I was received by a secretary with red-rimmed eyes and a sniffly nose which she tended, throughout our conversation, with a tiny crumpled lace handkerchief that could hardly absorb more moisture than a stamp.
She introduced herself as Randi Borge and burst into floods of tears when I explained the purpose of my visit. Age-wise, I would have put her at about forty. She had groomed dark blonde hair and was wearing a tight-fitting black dress that, from where I was standing, on my side of her reception desk, put me in far from a funereal mood.
She kindly explained that, apart from Svein Skarnes and herself, the company had consisted of one technician, Harald Dale, who was out on a maintenance job that day.
‘No one else? But they’re heavy machines you import, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, they are. Photocopiers and franking machines. But we hire in extra help for when the biggest machines have to be positioned and installed.’
‘And what were Svein Skarnes’ duties?’
‘But…’ She sent me an angry look. ‘That’s obvious! It was his company. He’d built it up from scratch. First he worked for — one of the bigger enterprises. Then he realised there could be just as much money working for himself. And there was. All the contracts, all the marketing, all the dealing with customers… that was his responsibility. And he travelled a lot. We have customers up and down south-west Norway, from Alesund to Flekkefjord.’
‘I see. I didn’t mean it like that. But what will happen now, now that he’s no longer…?’
Her eyes widened as though the future was revealing itself in all its gruesome detail to her inner eye.
‘Will his wife take on the company, do you think?’
‘Vibecke!’ It sounded like a trumpet blast, rich with contempt. ‘Can’t imagine that at all.’
‘No?’
‘No, she simply doesn’t have — the capacity. So unless Harald can take over…’ Again the tears burst forth. ‘Well, then I don’t know. I suppose I’ll have to go to the job centre…’
I leaned across the reception desk. She looked up at me. Her shapely legs pointed flawlessly downwards beneath the short dress, and I had to concede that she made an extremely tasty impression, perfect bordering on almost painful. The only thing that spoiled the image was the tearful expression on her face and her red-rimmed eyes; however, that lent her an even more human aspect, a touch of openness and intimacy that invited closer attention.
‘Tell me, fru Borge…’
‘I’m not married…’
‘Indeed?’
She met my gaze and blushed. ‘What was it you were going to — say?’
‘Yes, it was… In such a small company as this and with, if I have understood correctly, Skarnes and you alone here in the office for most of the time…’
Her eyes flashed and the redness of her cheeks assumed a more fiery hue. ‘What do you mean?’
‘No, no. No offence intended. I was just thinking… People talk. You may have had lunch together. You knew each other better than you would have done in a larger company, I would imagine.’
‘Yes, we did. And so?’
‘We at social services are most concerned about Jan. About how he’s going to be. And so I wondered… if we could form a picture of what the relationship was like at home. With his foster parents.’
‘But can’t Vibecke tell you that?’
‘Yes, but you know how it is. Often an outside view may be necessary. Those involved in the situation often become myopic.’
‘Well, I didn’t see much of either her or the boy. They very rarely came by the office. That’s also one of the reasons there won’t be any more… now that Svein…’