We Shall Inherit the Wind (14 page)

Once again I caught the ferry from Leirvåg, but this time I didn’t drive off at Skipavik but at the next stop, Sløvåg. The extensive industrial site there cut brutally into the landscape, but over the first brow of the hill I came to a far more idyllic part, along cultivated, autumn-yellow fields leading to Eidsbotn. From there I followed the road along the Eids Fjord, past Dalsøyra, down through the steep, narrow Undal Tunnel to Leversund, past Haveland to northern Gulen, where I turned west towards Eivindvik.

In 1961, when I was doing my final exams at Bergen Katedralskole, I was tested orally on Henrik Wergeland’s poem about ‘Eivindvig’. Inwardly, I had sung the praises of my teacher, Dahl, for his thorough analysis of the poem in Norwegian classes. I knew all about Provost Dahl, the priest at Eivindvik, and the final line of the poem, about how Dahl had nurtured young Strileland minds, was etched in my brain for ever.
Our
Dahl had squeezed a modicum of intellectual curiosity out of Bergen lads and lasses with more passionate looks for one another than the potato-pioneering priests of yore. The oral exam went well. Dahl later became a famous literature professor. I didn’t get to Eivindvik until the end of the 80s, also then in connection with a case I was investigating.

The beautiful white timber church that meets you as you arrive in Eivindvik is from 1863, eleven years after Provost Dahl’s death, so it couldn’t have been there he had nurtured young Strileland minds. To the west of the church stand two stone crosses – a sign of early Christianisation, and it was here, in this region, that the historic legislative assembly of Gulating was held, where some of the oldest laws in the country were passed.  

Today Eivindvik was a quiet, sparsely populated municipal centre with a hotel – we were never quite sure whether it was open for business or not – a quay where the old ferry had long stopped plying its trade and a council building that looked more like a children’s school from the 60s, up on the ridge opposite the old rectory. However, it would be hard to find more beautiful surroundings, with Mount Kvitbergnova to the north and Mount Fonnefjellet to the south of the sound. Between the mountains idyllic Eivindvik nestled in the warm September sun.

Before I left Bergen I had made sure that the Housing and Property office would be staffed this Friday. I was received by a middle-aged man with a none too neatly arranged comb-over, who had dug out the contract between Per Nordbø and Mons Mæland, dated February 1988, in advance of my arrival. I was immediately able to identify it as a copy of the one I had seen in Bringeland’s office.

‘Could I have a copy, please?’

‘No problem,’ said the man with the comb-over, taking the contract with him to a side room, where I heard a photocopier starting up. Without being asked, he took out an official stamp to confirm that the copy was genuine, stamped the document and signed it himself before slipping it into an envelope and giving it to me. Exemplary administrative conduct, I had to concede.

‘I’m afraid there’s a small fee. Copy charge.’

‘And it is …?’

‘Twenty kroner.’

‘That’s fine.’ I took out my wallet and paid. Then I said: ‘Could I ask you a question?’

He nodded and looked at me expectantly.

‘Do you remember this case yourself?’

‘No, I can’t say that I do. This concerns a property on Brennøy, and I didn’t know the people concerned. Anyway, the contract was signed in February 1988, and at that time I was in fact off sick. For a couple of months.’

‘But one witness, Gunvor Matre, was supposed to be employed at the nursing home here.’  

‘At the nursing home? Yes, I remember her vaguely. But she left. She wasn’t from Eivindvik, I don’t think.’

‘So she doesn’t live here any more then?’

‘No, logically she must have moved.’ Then he seemed to remember something. ‘Hang on …’

He went over to one of the filing cabinets, found a file, opened it and nodded. ‘That’s what I thought …’ He came back to me with a pensive expression on his face. ‘She bought a lot on Brennøy, too.’

‘A lot?’

‘Yes, a little piece of land. That was the year after, January 1989, and by then I had been back in the office for quite some time. That was how I remembered.’

‘Could I …?’ I held out my hand.

‘Yes, yes, be my guest.’

He gave me the sheet and I read what was on it. It concerned the sale of a plot on Brennøy. The seller was Mons Mæland. The buyer was Gunvor Matre. The signature was witnessed by two people. One was Bjørn Brekkhus, the other Jarle Glosvik.

‘Where is this on Brennøy?’

He took back the document, checked the property number, found a map of the area and began to search with his finger. ‘Here: this must be the chapel, unless I’m very much mistaken. And this is Gunvor Matre’s land.’

He showed me where on the map, and I leaned over. I immediately saw where it was. The small, red house we had passed on the road towards the cross.

‘Bit strange, don’t you think?’

His expression was blank. ‘Well, a sale’s a sale. So much happens on that front.’

‘May I have a copy of this, too?’

He nodded, and the procedure was repeated: photocopier, stamp, envelope, fee.

‘The Deputy Chairman: Do you think he’ll be in his office today?’

‘I believe I saw him earlier in the day. It’s two doors down from this one.’  

I thanked him warmly and left the office. Deeper into the bowels of the council building I came to a door with a sign saying
Deputy Chairman
.

I knocked. Straight afterwards I heard footsteps across the floor. The door opened, and in the doorway stood Jarle Glosvik, staring impatiently at me.

‘Yes? What do you want?’ Then he recognised me, and his eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, yes. You’re the person who … don’t think we’ve been introduced.’

‘No. My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. Have you got a moment?’

‘I have got one or two. Come in.’

He showed me into a very ordinary office where the only thing to brighten it was a large photograph of the building on one wall, taken as far as I could see from a plane flying north-east. The furniture was simple and practical and signalled that, in this regard, the council was as sober as the taxpayers in Gulen could expect.

Glosvik sat down behind the desk and motioned with his hand to two chairs, one on either side of a little table, where visiting administrators could put their piles of documents if they were too heavy to hold.

After I had taken a seat, he said: ‘Veum … I couldn’t really place you when you were on Brennøy, I must confess.’

‘No?’ I had a rejoinder on the tip of my tongue, but decided to be rather more tactical than was my wont. ‘I’m a private investigator and I was there because my assignment was to track down Mons Mæland.’

‘Yes, he’d been missing for some days, I’d been told. It was a dramatic turn of events. It’s still whirring away inside me.’

The ‘me’ he referred to was small and compact. His hair was dark blond, in need of a trim, his face was round with fleshy lips and narrow eyebrows. He was wearing plain, everyday clothes: brown trousers, blue pullover and a white shirt with a faint check woven into the material. ‘But now he’s been found, so that can’t be why you’ve come to see me.’

‘No. I’ve been given a new assignment in connection with a matter that came up on Brennøy.’

‘Came up? What matter would that be? No doubt the environmental organisations are behind this. If you only knew the sort of accusations they hurl at us. We aren’t worth the ground we walk on, according to them!’

‘Really?’

‘And all we work for is the good of the council and the community. This is about the local economy above all else. Income from property, new workplaces, tax breaks, money for the sale of power. If we can get these wind-power projects off the ground – and not just on Brennøy but in other places in the municipality, as well as Solund and further north in the county – all the indications suggest that life will be better for those who live here: the health system, social services, schools, roads … For me, this is a “to be or not to be” question for the whole region. The difference between poverty and wealth, and at the same time huge progress for people all over the globe in the fight for the environment.’

‘But you knew that Mons Mæland had changed his mind?’

‘Changed his mind? What about?’

‘The wind farm. Word is he may have been about to change his mind at the time of the land sale. And I have this from reliable sources: his son, Kristoffer, for one.’

He glared at me furiously. ‘Oh, really? This is news to me, I have to admit.’

‘So, in other words, the environmental organisation was interested in keeping Mons Mæland both alive and at the head of its company.’

‘Yes, but did they know?’

‘Absolutely sure they did.’

‘So then …’

‘Then the perpetrator could equally well be on the opposing side, among the potential developers.’

‘We-ell …’ He raised both palms. ‘I can see that. But one thing I can tell you, Veum: Such actions are way beyond the scope of official politics in the municipality of Gulen.’

‘
Official
politics, you say!’

‘Now, don’t try and be funny, Veum. There are much stronger powers
at work here than we in Gulen can access. But I assume you didn’t come all the way from Bergen to Eivindvik to tell me this.’

‘No, my real business was with the Housing and Property office.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘The sale of land that is being contested.’

He flushed with annoyance. ‘Yes, what a case that was! Solicitors … You can have them for free, as far as I’m concerned!’

‘Solicitors? Free? Which planet do you inhabit?’

‘Yes, I know what you mean. What an idea to come up with, ten years after the event! But they won’t get far with it; I’ll make sure of that.’ Then his face changed, something sly and feline entered it. ‘I hope the solicitor didn’t hire you, did he?’

‘No, not at all. But I’ve been given a copy of the contract … well, not given; I paid for it …’

‘Yes, yes, get to the point!’

‘And it looks relatively genuine. It was witnessed by the then Chief of Police in Lindås and a nurse from the home here.’

‘Relatively genuine? What’s relative about it?’

‘Well, it transpires this nurse … you clearly know her yourself – Gunvor Matre.’

‘Yes. What about her?’

‘The following year she bought a little part of Mons Mæland’s land on Brennøy, this time witnessed by the Chief of Police in Lindås, Bjørn Brekkhus, and you yourself.’

‘Yes? I remember that. You’re not going to question Mons Mæland’s sanity as well, are you?’

‘No, no. Not initially. But the sale itself is a bit odd.’

‘Odd? It was an old house, right by the chapel, and it had no value in itself, at least not with reference to the wind farm. It’s where Per Nordbø lived while he could still look after himself.’

‘And the price?’

‘Erm, that must be in the contract, isn’t it?’

‘Yes … 75,000. Seems quite reasonable, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re not talking about a plot in the heart of Bergen, Veum. This is
the reality in Fringe Norway. I would imagine 75,000 kroner was probably a pretty normal fee there, even with an old house on the plot.’

So you found nothing strange about the contract when you witnessed it? Or now?’

‘What should be odd about it?’

‘The only thing I know about Gunvor Matre is that she was one of the witnesses on a property transfer that has turned out to be very significant. A year later she buys a slice of the same property. If someone subsequently questions whether Per Nordbø was of sound mind when he signed the contract, someone might also wonder whether
fru
or
frøken
Matre has been persuaded to sign with the promise of later remuneration.’

He took stock of me. ‘Are you aware that this is a particularly serious accusation you’re making, Veum?’

‘I’m not making any accusations at all. I’m just suggesting the kind of thing someone might spread. Especially now that a solicitor has entered the arena.’

Jarle Glosvik sighed heavily, half-turned in his chair and gazed out of the window. ‘Is it any wonder we have trouble recruiting new people for posts as local politicians? When folk who don’t have a clue about the problems we confront here in the so-called provinces are constantly putting spokes in our wheels?’ Then he turned to me again, with a hang-dog expression. ‘Were there any other glad tidings you wanted to bring me today, Veum?’

‘Let’s conclude this business first, shall we. I assume when you witnessed this contract in 1989 it was in good faith. What would
fru
or
frøken
…’

‘If we’re going to be precise, it’s
frøken
.’

‘I’ll make a note of that. What did she want with a property on Brennøy?’

‘She had her roots there and had always wanted a retreat facing the sea. So she had the opportunity to spend some of her savings on this purchase.’

‘You’re from Byrknesøy, I understand.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘Almost everyone I’ve met on this case has roots somewhere there, I’ve been told.’

‘Yes, and so? Where did the wealth of this country come from? Had it not been for fishermen and farmers Norway wouldn’t exist. Without Western Norway we would have been a wasteland. Fish in the old days, hydro power for most of the century, oil the last decade and for a while yet – and then wind – and maybe wave power in the future. Tell our friends at Storting that, Veum. Without Western Norway there would be no Norway.’

‘I don’t mix with that kind of person on a daily basis.’

‘No, nor me.’ He got up and came round the desk. ‘Now I’ve got other matters to attend to.’

I got up, too. ‘Besides politics you run a business, I gather.’

‘It’s no secret, Veum. Full-time politicians are city folk. Here we need to have something on the side to live.’

‘Any jobs in connection with the wind farm?’

He flushed again. ‘I’m deaf in that ear, Veum. Say it again and I might have to contact a solicitor myself.’

‘Would you like me to recommend one?’