‘Murder?’
‘That, too. Inside the fraternity, that is. Internal showdowns, quarrels between various factions. Big money’s involved. Drugs. Contraband alcohol. Prostitution. And behind all of this — the backers. Yes, some of them are even under lock and key and steering the whole thing from prison. Ullersmo Executive, as we call it. I could give you a number of names. Others conceal themselves behind respectable facades. Business people, restaurant owners, entrepreneurs. And you won’t find what they earn from this on any tax register, if that’s what you thought.’
‘No, I didn’t think that. We’ve got them in Bergen, too, though on a smaller scale.’
‘At the moment, Veum. At the moment. Norway is virgin territory for organised crime of this calibre. The worst is yet to come. Mark my words.’
‘But… you’re maintaining that Jan Egil is part of this?’
‘We have substantiated evidence that he is. In a sense, prison is the best school you can attend.’
‘So what shall we do with them? The ones who deserve to be there?’
She sighed. ‘It’s a weighty issue, Veum. Either they have to invest more in preventive measures, including precautionary surveillance of criminal milieus. Or else we’ll just have to lock them up, chuck the keys and walk away. One of the two options.’
‘So, in reality, there’s just one.’
She smiled weakly. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Are you suggesting that the killing of Terje Hammersten was a hit job?’
‘It could be. Hammersten was himself a link in the criminal network.’
‘He’d left it, my informant tells me. Rumour had it he’d been converted. He was holding the Bible in his hand when he was murdered.’
‘Yes, a Bible was found at the crime scene. That’s right. But we stick to what we’ve got on Hammersten in our files, and a good part of that comes from Bergen. If he’d converted today, there would’ve been a lot to pay for from the past. And this criminal fraternity can bear grudges for a long time. Deliberately, so that the punishment is not linked too closely to the actual deeds.’
I sat pondering what she had just said. Then something clicked. ‘Tell me… You said you were holding this flat in Ildalen under observation, that was why you brought me in.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘So it wasn’t you following me from Eiriks gate then?’
‘Not as far as I know. Do you think you’re being followed?’
‘Perhaps.’ I had a sinking feeling in my stomach, a warning sign that something was brewing, something I wasn’t going to like.
‘Another reason to look at least twice before crossing the street.’
‘So… what would you recommend I do, Anne-Kristine?’
She showed with the utmost clarity that she did not appreciate my familiar tone. ‘Go back home, Veum. The sooner, the better. Oslo is not a healthy place for you to stay.’
‘I found that out a long time ago for myself, but…’
She breathed in through her nose, raised her head a fraction and peered at me through her shiny glasses. ‘Yes?’
‘There’s an old friend I just feel I should visit first.’
‘And that is?’
‘Langeland, the solicitor. Jens Langeland.’
50
Twilight had begun to fall as I got off the Holmenkollen line train at Besserud, and after a bit of a search, but without falling into any traps set for me, I found Jens Langeland’s huge detached house in Dr. Holms vei. A solid brick wall separated the property from the passing peasantry, and the lock mechanism on the gate was so complicated to work that I considered shimmying over instead.
The house stood screened against prying eyes by thick, well-established elm trees. The architectural style was a strange mixture of national romanticism and functionalism, rustic red with vast flat surfaces. From the plot, the view was beyond what money could buy, at least for all those of us who didn’t have millions handy in our inside pockets, a dizzying drop to the fjord below.
I followed the gravel path to the solid, green front door, pressed the bell and announced my arrival.
The woman who opened was small, nimble and of Asian origin. She was wearing a plain turquoise dress of shiny material. She smiled gently and said in a somewhat sing-song voice: ‘Yes? How can I help you?’
‘Is herr Langeland at home?’
‘One moment,’ she said, and tried to close the door, but I had been in fancy areas like this before and already had my foot in the door. I pushed the door firmly and stepped inside; she was powerless to prevent me.
She glared at me, and for a second or two it went through my head that, for all I knew, she could do kung fu and karate, with dreadful consequences. I said quickly: ‘I’ll wait here.’
She stood still for a second. Then she turned her back on me with no other comment than a chill smile. I watched her cross the spacious hallway and start ascending the stairs to the first floor with springy steps and small, firm buttocks.
Not long afterwards she came back down, followed by Jens Langeland. He cast a glance at me from the top of the stairs and frowned, then, still a good distance away, called: ‘Veum?’
‘Correct.’
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ he asked, crossing the floor.
‘I’m sure, with a moment’s thought, you know.’
He gave a routine nod, as if in court. ‘Jan Egil.’
‘Jan Egil,’ I said.
‘Let’s go into my study,’ he said, pointing west with a sweep of his hand. ‘Lin can take your coat.’
Lin took my padded jacket with a deep bow, placed it elegantly over her arm and carried it to a wardrobe as if expediting a royal cape.
Before we got as far as the study, we were interrupted by a woman’s voice from the top of the stairs. ‘What’s this about, Jens?’
We both looked in her direction. She was standing on the landing, slim and graceful in a short black skirt and light grey silk blouse with a black print, like the casual brushstrokes of a bewitched artist. She had very nice legs, and her hair was arranged in a studied casual fashion, steel grey with dark streaks.
‘Business, my dear,’ said Langeland. ‘This way,’ he said to me with an imperious gesture.
But it was too late. I had recognised her.
My eyes held hers, even from this distance. ‘Vibecke… Skarnes?’ I said with a conscious pause before her surname.
She continued to descend without speaking.
‘My wife,’ said Jens Langeland, quite superfluously.
It was twenty years since I had last seen her, and the only time close up had been that late afternoon when I had met her at Langeland’s place in Ole Irgens vei.
‘Haven’t we met before?’ she asked, searching my face.
‘Yes, in Bergen the time your first husband… died. I was in social services and…’
‘Oh, yes, I remember you now,’ she interrupted. She shook my hand. ‘Vibecke Langeland.’
‘Varg Veum.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ came the toneless response. She was still something of an everyday beauty, with attractive regular features and a lovely smile. But her eyes were pensive and distant, and time had drawn two bitter furrows on each side of her mouth. She stroked her steely grey hair with a graceful movement. ‘What is it you wish to discuss with my husband?’
‘It’s…’
‘Is it about Johnny boy?’
‘Yes, I can’t…’
‘Then I want to be present as well!’
Langeland threw his hands in the air in frustration. ‘I suggest then that we go up to the living room,’ he said. ‘It’s cosier there after all.’ He turned to the Asian woman who had stood in attendance in the background like a shadow. ‘Lin? Could you brew us up a pot of tea, please?’
‘As you wish, herr Langeland,’ Lin said, swifly withdrawing.
On one wall in the hallway there was a stuffed elk head. ‘Did you shoot it?’ I asked Langeland as we passed beneath.
He shook his head. ‘Came with the house. None of the heirs wanted it.’
Despite being on the losing side in both court cases I had witnessed, Jens Langeland had had a meteoric career in the last decade, which his des res on Holmenkollen Ridge confirmed. His lean figure was unchanged, but his hair had suffered deep inroads and the strains of grey were stronger, and there was an air of fatigue about his face that I could not recall having seen before. Then again he was one of the most popular defence counsels in the country and appeared in the newspapers as often as the Prime Minister.