Some people would call her the classic social worker: short hair, metal oval-framed glasses, no make-up, white blouse under a bright little waistcoat I guessed had been manufactured in a Mediterranean country, dark brown, somewhat worn velvet trousers and short black winter boots. Her accent revealed that she came from south of Bergen, more Roldal than Odda. We were chums; we had a great relationship that had moved in two directions since Beate went for separation. On the one hand, we had become more open, on an almost personal level, and, on the other, a new distance had sprung up because her sisterly solidarity demanded that Beate should be seen to be right. But when Beate had complained that I spent too many nights away, on business, in fact it was Cecilie I had spent most of them with, and truly on business: on the streets looking for children and youths who had upped sticks.
‘What do you think?’ I asked.
She looked up into my eyes, as though she could see down to the very bottom of them, and shrugged.
‘I don’t know. Hard to imagine that he’s making it up.’
‘The stuff about his mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know anything about — the parents?’
‘No. It all happened so quickly.’
‘Perhaps we should delve a little deeper?’
‘Really we should just hand him over to the Haukedalen centre, shouldn’t we.’
‘Yes, but…’
She gave a weak smile. ‘You always have to dig deeper into cases, don’t you, Varg.’
‘Well, that’s the way I am. A bit too nosy perhaps. Anyway…’
‘Yes?’
‘Mm, I’m frightened that I may have met him before.’
‘Met — Johnny boy?’
‘Yes.’ Once again I told the story about the hot July day in 1970.
After I had finished, she said: ‘Yes, we’ll definitely have to do some digging into this one. I agree with you.’
She flicked through the magazine without really reading. It was obvious that I had given her something to ponder. I walked round studying the pictures on the wall. They were old photographs of Bergen, most were of the area around Vagen, the bay, some of down from Murebryggen wharf, others of the market square. It was a town in black and white with busy people in motion, something the camera of the time had not always been able to capture, some of the figures were fuzzy at the edges, like apparitions. In the bay the forest of masts revealed how many boats there were. Down on the quay, delivery boys and porters passed by with sacks over their shoulders and barrels on their handcarts. Another town, another time, other problems.
Almost an hour passed before the office door opened again. Marianne Storetvedt carefully led Jan through the double doors into the waiting room. She shot us a look and gave a quick shake of her head. Then in a friendly tone, while patting him on the shoulder, she said: ‘Johnny boy doesn’t feel like talking to us today. That’s his right. I think what he needs most now is something to eat and perhaps a nice cup of hot chocolate.’
I nodded. ‘If I could just use your phone…’
She pointed to her office. ‘By all means.’
I went in, alone. The desk was nice and tidy, and there were no notes about what she might have got out of Jan. I leafed through my address book and dialled the Haukedalen Children’s Centre, an institution which was mainly for children at risk.
The manager himself answered the phone, a colleague of ours called Hans Haavik. I explained the predicament to him and said we were on our way. He promised to have a hot meal ready for us when we arrived.
I took the opportunity to search through Marianne’s telephone directory.
Skarnes, Svein was in the book, no mention of a profession. His wife was not listed. Above the surname I found something called Skarnes Import with General Manager Skarnes, Svein mentioned, giving the same private address and telephone number. The text did not detail what he imported.
I went out to join the others. Marianne Storetvedt and Cecilie were standing by one window speaking in hushed voices. Jan stood behind them with the same distant expression. When I came in, his eyes sought mine, and for a moment I had the impression he wanted to say something. I smiled encouragement and nodded, but not a sound emerged after all.
‘Are you hungry?’
He gave a slight nod of the head.
‘Shall we go in the car again?’
He nodded again, with a bit more energy this time.
‘I’ve been talking to someone called Hans. He’ll have a meal ready for when we arrive,’ I said, including the two women in the conversation.
Cecilie said: ‘Well, I could do with something to eat, too.’
Marianne Storetvedt said she would like to talk to Jan ‘when he was in the mood’, as she expressed it. We thanked her and took our leave, then went down to the car which I had parked in the quay area across the road from the building.
Not long afterwards we had joined the traffic queue to Asane as though unable to keep away, despite all our efforts. An anthropologist might have called it the eternal longing to migrate that all humanity has in its blood.
We were like a small family unit as we wended our way, and not that untypicaclass="underline" no one said a word. For myself, I had more than enough to ponder. Not least — and in vain this time round — Jan’s mother’s real name. If it was him, that is.
5
Haukedalen Children’s Centre lay discreetly set back from Hesthaugvegen on the ridge leading to Myrdalskogen and Geitanuken, one of the mountains screening the central parts of Asane from the sea. The area, originally considered countryside, had been included in the town at the local council merger of 1972. At this time it was the setting for huge building projects, from rows of detached houses to tall blocks, schools and shopping centres. Road extensions had not managed to keep pace with developments, and the proposal for an urban railway that had been put to the council had been rejected by the majority as economically irresponsible. They had decided to build motorways instead. Until these plans were realised we all sat in jams, if we were intending to go in that direction. It wasn’t until we reached the top of Asavegen, by the turn-off to Tertnes, that the traffic began to flow without any further delays, and by the time we were in Haukedalen, Hans Haavik had had plenty of time to prepare the meal.
Hans Haavik was a big man, around one-metre-ninety tall, as broad as a barn door, in his mid-thirties, with a good-natured temperament that inspired trust in all those who, for a variety of reasons, sought shelter beneath his wing. Cecilie’s need for food was met. He had set the table for us all in the refectory, a bright room with large, vivaciously decorated wood panels against the grey concrete walls behind. On the way in we had passed two thirteen- or fourteen-year-old boys standing and kicking a ball to each other in the car park by the entrance. From the lounge we could hear the characteristic sounds of an ice hockey game with the puck whizzing between the one-dimensional mini-players like a bullet.
The meal consisted of a thick stew, served with fresh slices of wholegrain bread and delicious butter. We were given cold water from a jug, and Hans promised us hot chocolate, coffee and homemade cakes for dessert.
Jan did not eat much. He sat picking at his food, regarding the bits of meat with suspicion, but tried the slices of sausage. We left him in peace, but so long as he was sitting there, we couldn’t talk about him.
So we talked shop instead. We were all social workers, Hans had been in harness for ten years, Cecilie and I came into service later, she a couple of years before me. When we had finished eating, Hans glanced across at us and said: ‘It might be a good idea if one of you stays here until he has fallen asleep.’
Cecilie nodded and looked at me. ‘I can stay. After all, you’ve got…’