The Consorts of Death

16

The time had come. I couldn’t find any more excuses, neither to myself nor to others. There was nothing else to do but eat humble pie and call on the Muus that roared, in the lion’s den, the new Bergen Police Headquarters, built in 1965.

From the telephone box outside the police station I rang Hans Haavik and received confirmation of what I already assumed would happen. He and Marianne Storetvedt had agreed that hospitalisation was the only solution, and Marianne and one of the assistants out there had driven Jan to the Children’s Psychiatric Centre in Haukeland.

‘But how are you, Varg? Can you feel anything after the fall?’

‘Yes, I can but… I’m fine. I’m just a little bruised.’

‘Right, well, hope you’re better soon.’

I thanked him and rang off.

The duty officer informed me that Inspector Muus was in, and I took the lift up to his office, which was on the third floor overlooking Domkirkgate, where the cathedral was situated, and very little else. Muus himself towered up behind his desk, as fierce as a matron at the annual meeting of the missionary society. When I showed my face through the crack of the door, he seemed to be refusing to believe that this could be true. ‘Yes?’ he said brusquely. ‘What is it you require?’

I sent him a disarming smile. ‘I have a confession to make.’

‘You, too?’

‘Yes? Are there more?’

He swept this aside. ‘Spit it out!’

‘The day before yesterday, when we were driving Jan to Haukedalen, he said something to us.’

‘Did he now?’

‘He said: “Mummy did it.”’

He didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I see. And?’

‘Well… I thought you might like to know.’

‘And that thought took about forty-eight hours to reach base?’

‘There was no one on duty, if I can put it like that,’ I ventured, but it didn’t meet with approval.

‘And what’s the reason for your coming here now with this?’

‘Mm… she’s at large, isn’t she?’

‘You have some idea of where she might be staying?’

For a second my eyes relinquished their hold on his. ‘No, that…’

‘But there’s something you’ve missed, Veum.’ He sent me a triumphant look.

‘Really? And that is…’

‘She’s come forward.’

‘Come forward! Fru Skarnes?’

‘Yes.’

‘When did that happen?’

‘Early today, on the recommendation of her solicitor, herr Langeland.’

‘Yes, I suppose I knew,’ I mumbled.

‘She’s being questioned now, by Inspector Lyngmo.’

‘Questioned? So you…’

‘No, we haven’t, Veum. And you haven’t brought anything new to the case. In fact, she has confessed.’

I found it difficult to understand what he meant. ‘Confessed?’

He raised his voice a fraction. ‘Yes, she’s confessed. Something wrong with your hearing? She admitted she’d pushed her husband down the cellar stairs that day during a marital row. The defence will, of course, plead involuntary manslaughter and that it happened in self-defence. But we’ll see. We’re making further investigations, naturally, but in essence the case is as good as solved. I doubt that comes as much of a surprise to you either, in light of the information you’ve just brought us. Mummy did it. Wasn’t that how it went?’

‘Yes, it… And if she’s really confessed, then… I suppose it no longer has anything to do with me.’

He raised his eyebrows sardonically, the clearest indication of a facial expression since I had arrived. ‘No, I suppose, strictly speaking, indeed it does not.’

‘But you’re aware he has another mother, aren’t you? He was adopted.’

He looked at me without enthusiasm. ‘And this mother…’

‘Mette Olsen. Living with an old acquaintance of yours. Terje Hammersten.’

‘Hammersten? But — ’

‘If I were you, I would…’

His voice rose a notch. ‘What I was trying to say, Veum, before you interrupted me… This mother, has she also confessed?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Exactly.’ He stood up behind his desk. ‘Do you know what you remind me of? You remind me of those bloody private eyes that swan around in American films thinking they’re so much bloody better than the police.’

‘Uhuh?’

‘Yes. So now, would you be so kind as to hop it? We have more useful things to do here than exchange views with representatives of the social services.’

‘Perhaps social services has more useful things to do as well.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Have a good life, Veum. I hope I never see you again.’

He was mistaken, sad to say. Sad to say for us both. Later I often wondered if it was then that the idea was first sown in me: if all else failed… start up on my own. But I never reminded him. That would have been taking the joke too far.

At nine that night there was a ring at my door. I went to open. Cecilie was standing outside, made up to the nines and wearing a slim dark coat I had never seen her in before. She held out a net bag. ‘I’ve brought a couple of bottles of red wine. Can I come in?’