I thanked him, but on the way out I was not at all sure this was something I would anticipate with relish. From my side of the road, it sounded more like a threat.
Back in my office, after a brief search on the internet, I found Cecilie Lyngmo, who, after reaching pensionable age, had travelled ‘home’, as she put it, to a valley north of Flekkefjord.
When I rang her and introduced myself, she chuckled. ‘Veum? How can I help you?’
‘You remember me?’
‘You made an indelible impression on me,’ she replied, and not being able to see her I assumed there was an ironic expression on her face. ‘Besides, we rarely heard from you at Bergen Police Station unless there was something you were after.’
‘I was also taken there against my will on occasion.’
‘Well…’
‘I’m ringing about the Mette Case.’
The phone went quiet. ‘I see … Have there been any developments?’
‘None, except that it’s approaching the statute of limitations and consequently her mother has contacted me.’
‘I see … again. Have you spoken to anyone else?’
‘I come hotfoot from Dankert Muus.’
Again she chuckled. ‘The Muus that roared? How’s he getting on?’
‘Believe it or not, he’s grown green fingers. He was digging in his garden on the side of Mount Løvstakken, but whether he was digging for gold or buried dogs, God only knows.’
‘You had a chance to grill him, though?’
‘Yes. In fact, he was amazingly communicative. But, as you know, it was a long time ago and the details are probably vague inasmuch as he hadn’t got the case files to hand.’
‘Was he going to get them for you?’
‘There was no mention of that. I doubt I’ll be given access to them. The reason I’ve called you is that I was given to understand by Maja Misvær, Mette’s mum, that you and she got on well during the investigation.’
‘Yes, that’s possible. As a woman perhaps I was able to empathise more with how she felt.’
‘Exactly. Could you give me your view of the case, now that so many years have passed?’
‘Erm. Yes…’ She hesitated. ‘I can try.’
Cecilie Lyngmo had been forty-seven in 1977 and an inspector for Bergen Police with a special expertise in sexual offences. It was therefore not without reason that she was called in almost straightaway when Mette disappeared from her home that Saturday morning in September. During the first few days she participated in the general search, like everyone else in the department. As time passed and the focus turned to former sex offenders in the local area she was charged with interviewing them, often alongside alternating colleagues. Together with Dankert Muus she drew up the strategy for the developing investigation, and she was sent to several other police districts to interview potential suspects in those parts of the country. All to no avail; like the investigation in general.
In the end a feeling of despondency spread through the whole of the investigative team. It came as no surprise, either to her or her colleagues, when the case was shelved. Initially it remained ‘active’, as the police put it; later it was placed in the happily not inordinately high pile of unsolved crimes – the term ‘incident’ could not be applied as no one yet had the slightest idea what had happened to Mette except for the perpetrator or perpetrators.
Cecilie Lyngmo was childless, yet hadn’t had any difficulty understanding the despair Mette’s mother felt. She found it more and more embarrassing as time after time she had to say, on behalf of the force, that there was still nothing new to report. At length, naturally enough, contact became more sporadic. Now, as she enjoyed her retirement, going for long walks in the forest and beyond, birdwatching, fishing for
cod and whiting from the little boat she had moored in Flekkesfjord harbour, and otherwise having as little as possible to do with her former occupation, she managed to put the Mette Case so far to the back of her mind that it was only seldom re-awakened, and then mostly when stories of similar cases appeared in the media. And then she reacted in the same way as Dankert Muus. She lay awake brooding until well into the night.
I tried to sum up what she had told me. ‘In other words, you have no concrete theories on what might have happened, either?’
‘Er … no. Actually I don’t.’
‘You hesitated.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll give you two interesting titbits, Veum.’ After another pause she continued: ‘I don’t suppose you remember someone called Jesper Janevik?’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘No. Well, he was a harmless sort, living on Askøy. He’d come under suspicion for indecent exposure and had been interviewed several times in that context. Later he was interviewed in connection with some unsolved attempted rapes. There was some link with him and the local area, and so, like many others, he was brought in for questioning during the investigation.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well … Muus was a bit too quick off the mark. He was arrested and held in custody for a day, but at our meeting it was decided to let him go. There wasn’t an ounce of evidence.’
‘Muus said nothing about this.’
‘Understandably enough. The newspapers followed it up and Muus didn’t exactly come out of it smelling of roses.’
‘No, I can well imagine. Hm … anything else?’
‘No, not really. I just had a gut feeling then that Janevik was holding something back, that he knew something he would never admit. For a while we had him in the spotlight, hoping he would give himself away.
We had undercover detectives after him, kept our ears to the ground, but … well, we were banging our heads against the wall there, too. We quite simply had nothing to go on. I just mention this as one of the many gut feelings I still have, even today.’
‘I’m taking note. But you said there were
two
titbits.’
‘Well, the second’s even vaguer, but … there was something about that co-op, Veum. I had an odd sense there was something out of kilter. It could have been because of the case, of course. Several of the families had children, about the same age as Mette, and obviously they were anxious. Nevertheless … there was something underneath it all. Do the same people still live there?’
‘Some of them, yes. There have been the usual divorces though, from what I’ve been told. I’m going up there tomorrow as I don’t have a proper overview yet.’
‘Well … don’t quote me. But if there’s anything else you need, you know where to find me.’
‘Yes, if you haven’t gone to the fjord, that is.’
‘I never go so far that I can’t find my way back.’
‘Wish I could say the same.’
We finished the conversation and rang off.
There wasn’t a great deal more I could do until I had been to the co-op. I ran my tongue over my lips. My mouth was as dry as a school sponge at the end of the summer holidays and in my desk drawer a remedy was calling. I pulled the drawer open and peered inside. My heart started beating abnormally at the sight of the familiar label with the little clipper loaded to the brim with barrels, all sails set for a foreign coast, where gold medals awaited. There were two people aboard, dressed in sou’westers, and for some reason I pictured Cecilie Lyngmo and myself going fishing, fully equipped with drinks in case we ended up stranded on an islet somewhere in the fjord.
I took out the bottle, undid the top and breathed in. The caraway aroma was unmistakeable. This was the water of life,
aqua vitae
, and my pulse accelerated until I gave in, stretched my hand out for the beaker on the desk and waited, filled the glass half-f with the shiny
liquid, raised it to my mouth and took my first sip since breakfast on this remarkable Monday in March, when I was suddenly at work again.
I relished every drop while promising myself:
Tomorrow there will be nothing. Tomorrow you have to drive.
To persuade myself, I had another glass. The decision dangled above me like a fish hook; indeed they both had me wriggling on it, Maja Misvær and Cecilie Lyngmo. But the person I sat thinking about most was tiny Mette, who had vanished into thin air almost twenty-five years before.
Was there any hope of salvaging anything so long afterwards? If so, there was one important decision to take. I screwed the top back on firmly, dropped the bottle into the drawer, finished off the very last drop and went down the stairs and out on to the pavement with a tingling sensation in my knees.
I walked to Bryggestuen and ordered the special of the day: fresh cod with Mandel potatoes. With the meal I had a non-alcoholic beer. Afterwards I went home. The die was cast. It was going to be a lengthy and troubled night.
For the first time in as long as I could remember there wasn’t a bottle of aquavit to grab when the radio alarm went off at half past seven next morning. I’d had enough foresight to put an unopened bottle of lemon-flavoured mineral water on the bedside table. With trembling hand I unscrewed the top, put the bottle to my mouth and washed away the dry remnants of another sleepless night, the way a cloudburst wets the forest floor after a long drought.
With stiff muscles, I clambered out of bed. I went into the sitting room and did some stretching exercises and press-ups to get my circulation going, then went into the bathroom and freshened up. In the meantime, the water for my tea was boiling. On my return to the kitchen I cut myself a couple of slices of bread, put sheep sausage and cucumber on one and honey on the other, drank a glass of milk and a cup of tea and sat down in the best chair, unfolded the newspaper, which was delivered to the door each morning, and confirmed that the world hadn’t come to an end overnight, despite tenacious endeavours. I felt unwell. My muscles ached as though I had a bad bout of flu.
Outside, there was chilly March weather with rain and localised hailstorms. The car, which hadn’t been used during the last month, appeared to be relieved something was happening again. It behaved like a four-year-old Toyota Corolla should. It bounded off as I let go of the clutch and chortled with satisfaction as I drove to the top of Øvre Blekevei, turned left twice and then gingerly sneaked between the two long lines of parked cars either side of Henrik Wergelands gate. The white rows of houses had rear buildings that were reminiscent of the time most of the traffic in this part of town consisted of horses and carts and house-owners here had their own horses stabled in the backyard.
In Nordås I pulled into the kerb alongside the sign telling me this was the Solstølen Co-op. The area was bordered by a low wooden fence and a large box hedge. Five garages faced the street. To the left of them was the entrance to the co-op, a low gate, wide enough for a car to pass through if necessary.
I looked around. From the description Maja Misvær had given me I had imagined a more open location. Now neighbouring houses and vegetation had crept closer and from where I was standing it was hard to get a sense of the view down to the water.
I opened the gate and went into the yard. The five houses had been built in a kind of horseshoe shape. The tall two-storey facades, painted in strong contrasting colours, and the gently pitched roofs to the back betrayed their 1970s origins. The house forming the base of the horseshoe was the biggest. It had been painted red, as was one of the others; two were yellow and one was white.
According to the description I had been given the previous day, Maja Misvær lived in the red house to the right, directly behind the garages. In front of the house was a little sandpit. In it were a bucket, spade and some other toys left scattered around as though the child had gone in for some food before coming out again to continue playing.
I went over and rang the doorbell. While waiting for her to answer I took another look around. There was no sign of life in any of the houses, nor would you have expected there to be on a Tuesday morning in March, with the Easter holidays still a long way off.
Maja Misvær opened the door with a jerk and looked out excitedly as though hoping Mette had finally reappeared. When she saw it was only me, she nodded resignedly and stepped aside to let me in. As I passed I noticed her stick her head out of the door and glance around quickly to check whether anyone had seen she had a visitor.
She closed the door behind her and led the way. ‘First of all I’d like you to see…’ We entered the kitchen, a practical design, with an inbuilt stove, fridge and washing machine. In front of the window was a kitchen table with four chairs around it. In the middle of the table there was a small, grey, decorative cloth with white cross-stitch. The other colours
in the room were light green and white. There was a coffee machine on one worktop, ready with coffee and water, but not yet switched on.
‘I just wanted to show you…’ She went to the window, drew the light-coloured curtain to the side and pointed. ‘She was playing there. Here – in the middle of the floor – was the ironing board, where I was. Then I popped into the laundry room…’ She indicated where in the house with her hand. ‘I put down the iron and pulled out the plug, to be on the safe side. But then, when I returned and looked out, I couldn’t see her.’
She remained impassive and pensive, as though still wondering whether there was anything she could have done differently.
I nodded. ‘The area wasn’t as populated then, I’m told.’
‘No. We were the only ones here. The neighbouring houses on both sides weren’t built until the 1980s. And then there was the housing co-op up there…’ She pointed to the south-west. ‘That was being built then.’
‘And people came to inspect the properties there?’
‘Yes.’
‘And across the road there were fields?’
‘Yes. Now we have houses there too, but in those days there was just a path through the countryside up to what’s known as Søråshøgda. In the really old days there were two farms here, apparently, Nordås and Sørås, but that’s a very long time ago and I don’t know any more. Terje can fill you in, if you’re interested.’
‘The architect?’
She nodded.
‘Which one’s his house?’
‘The end one. It’s red. It looks like the biggest one, but in one part there’s a large communal function room, which we can all use…’ She swallowed. ‘For christenings, confirmations, family events, that sort of thing.’
‘I see.’
She fidgeted nervously. ‘But you asked me … Come into the sitting room. I’ve made some notes.’ She caught sight of the coffee machine. ‘Oh, yes! Would you like a cup of coffee? I’ve got some ready…’
‘Yes, please.’ My mouth was as dry as wood shavings. ‘And a glass of water if you have one.’
‘Yes, of course. Just … you go in and I’ll … It’s over there.’ She pointed to a door at the end of the hallway. ‘I’ll be with you in a jiffy.’
I entered a large, light room with high windows looking over a part of the garden behind the houses. From here I could glimpse Nordåsvatnet between the houses and trees, a bit of one of the forest-clad, uninhabited islets south of Marmorøyen island and, like a motley-coloured steppe in the background, behind the water, the small towns of Bønes and Kråkenes up towards the southern side of Mount Løvstakken.
The sitting room was furnished in pine and light fabrics. There were bookcases, sideboards, cupboards, and pastel pictures on the walls. There was something impersonal yet cosy about the whole room, as if it had been taken from a furniture catalogue and was not somewhere a family lived. For the time being the family consisted of only one person and perhaps that was how she wanted it.
On one sideboard there was a large framed photograph of a small girl with blonde, slightly untidy hair, laughing at the photographer with her mouth open and her eyes sparkling. Squeezed to her chest she held a somewhat ragged teddy bear with a melancholic expression. Beside this, but much smaller, there was a photograph of a young boy in a maroon suit, probably a confirmation photograph, judging by the boy’s age. He was blond with thick, arched eyebrows and a distant gaze. Like his sister’s teddy, he had a distinctly mournful droop to his mouth.
Cups clinked as Maja came in behind me. She put the cups and plates down on the low coffee table and came over to join me. ‘Yes, that’s Mette … and that’s Håkon.’
‘Right.’ You didn’t need a university degree to realise that.
Again she was lost in her own world as she looked at the pictures, probably thinking there should have been a confirmation photo of Mette as well, and she had just forgotten to put it out.
‘I’ll probably need a photo of Mette like that one, or something similar, before I get going.’
‘Yes, I’ve got lots of copies the police used. You can have them. I’ll
just…’ She went to the kitchen. The aroma of fresh coffee was spreading and seconds later she was back with the jug. ‘Now, erm … do you take any…?’
‘No, thank you. But a glass of water would…’
‘Oh, yes, goodness me. I’d forgotten that.’ She nervously poured coffee into the two cups, then took the jug back into the kitchen. I heard a cupboard door being opened, a tap running, and then she returned with a glass of water in her hand, almost at a run. ‘Here we are! Do sit down.’
I held the glass, sat on one of the chairs and took a swig, which I washed around my mouth before swallowing it. My mouth was as dry as an atheist’s at a revival meeting.
She perched on a chair, sipped some coffee, got up again and went to the sideboard. She opened a drawer, took out some papers, came back and sat down. ‘Let me show you…’ She turned one piece of paper round and pushed it in my direction so that we could both read it. ‘I’ve made a kind of précis.’
I leaned forward and studied it. A very precise précis. She had divided the page into five sections, numbered from one to five, one for each house. Beside the list of the houses she had drawn two columns. She pointed and explained. ‘The names I’ve written here are the people who lived here in 1977 when Mette … disappeared. And those here…’ She pointed to the column on the right. ‘They’re the people living here now. Or are still here. So their names appear twice.’
‘Shall we go through them house by house?’
She nodded and pointed to the kitchen. ‘In the first house, opposite us, that’s where Helle and Tor Fylling lived then. They had two children.’
‘She was in town with her kids when Mette went missing, wasn’t she? He was at home.’
‘Yes.’
‘But they aren’t married anymore, I see.’
‘No, Tor moved out … a few years later. After a couple of years she found a new husband. Lars Svendsen. But they don’t have any children. The other two children are adults now, so only Helle and Lars live there.’
‘Can I take this piece of paper with me afterwards?’
‘Of course. So you don’t need to make any notes, if that’s what you were thinking?’
‘The children there…’
‘Yes, as you can see … that’s Asbjørg and Einar. Both of them were older than Håkon. They moved out ages ago, but drop in now and then.’
‘This Tor then, he was at home on his own?’
‘Yes, but I don’t suspect … He was as surprised as I was when I knocked on his door, asking about her. About Mette.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Do you mean what was his job?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well … he had his own car business. Still does, I assume. Helle worked at an accountant’s and she still does as well.’
‘But they got divorced?’
‘Yes, although … maybe Lars was more her style. He’s a consultant in some company or other to do with investments and so on.’ She moved her finger. ‘But there, in house number two, live Synnøve and Svein. They lived there then and still do. Two grown-up children as well: Eivind and Else.’
‘And their surname is…?’
She put her finger on the surname. ‘Stangeland.’
‘And their jobs?’
‘Svein works in a civilian capacity at Haakonsvern Naval Base. Synnøve’s a teacher. They were at their cabin the weekend Mette disappeared, the whole family.’
I took notes. ‘Then there’s house number three. That’s where Terje Torbeinsvik lives, I see.’
‘Yes. The architect behind this whole project. Married to Vibeke Waaler, the actress, at that time. But they got divorced many years ago. Now he’s married to a colleague. Britt. They have two small children.’
‘How small?’
A painful expression crossed her face. ‘Between six and ten, I would guess…’
‘Great. I’ll definitely talk to him. So that just leaves this house here.’
‘Yes, Randi Hagenberg lived there, who helped me to look for Mette that day. But that relationship ended in divorce as well, and a new family’s living there now. In fact, it’s the second since … then, so that house has been through the most changes.’
Randi Hagenberg
, I wrote. ‘And where are they now? The Hagenberg family, I mean.’
‘Well, now they’re not called … She was using her maiden name even then. But I don’t really know what’s happened to her. And Nils … he died.’
‘Nils?’
‘Nils Bringeland,’ she said a little impatiently, as if I wasn’t following.
‘Bringeland…?’
‘Yes. They had two children as well. Janne, who was the same age as Mette, and a boy called Joachim. He was a couple of years older than Håkon, but they were good pals anyway.’ Her expression changed. ‘Things didn’t go so well for Joachim.’
‘No?’
‘He started on drugs very young. That might have been what caused the break-up. I know from my own … yes. Today you’ll find him among the regular clientele in Nygårdsparken.’
Another note re: the Hagenberg/Bringelands. ‘And all of them were at home when Mette disappeared?’
‘You mean…?’
‘The architect and his wife; Bringeland.’
‘Yes, Terje was at home. Vibeke was at the theatre. They were rehearsing a new play. And Nils was at home. I remember Randi shouting to him. I don’t know where Joachim was. I don’t remember.’
‘Well, his parents probably will. But you said Nils was dead, didn’t you?’
Again she looked at me as though I wasn’t following. ‘I told you! It was one of the reasons for me coming to you. It was vital to try again before everyone who could remember anything was gone.’
‘And by that you meant Nils Bringeland?’
‘You must remember that. He was the man who was shot in the street during the robbery in Bryggen before Christmas last year.’
‘I thought I’d heard the name before.’
‘Really?’
I sat looking at her. But she had no more to give me, and I couldn’t see how the murder of a casual passer-by during a robbery three months ago could have anything to do with a disappearance twenty-five years earlier.
‘One last detail, Maja. Your husband … Does he still live in Bergen?’
Her eyes flickered. ‘No, he … they moved a few years ago. Him and his new wife, Gudrun. To Oslo.’
‘So he re-married?’
‘Yes, he did, quite early on.’