The Consorts of Death by Gunnar Staalesen

Author:Gunnar Staalesen [Staalesen, Gunnar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781908129277
Publisher: Faber Factory (Trade)
Published: 2009-09-23T12:00:00+00:00

32

Passing Førde, I wondered for a moment whether I should drop by the local police offices to hear if anyone was missing me. However, I had a strong suspicion what the answer would be, so I drove on regardless and was caught in the tailback behind a struggling long-load vehicle, round all the bends from Halbrendslia to the Slåtte hills. After Skilbrei I turned off for Bygstad. In the north-west rose Kvamshesten and Litlehesten, towering mountain formations that left their indelible mark on the surrounding countryside.

I drove past Bygstad and turned inland towards Osen to come round south of Dals fjord. The stretch of road between Bygstad and Osen passed beneath greyish-black overhanging cliff faces that looked as if they might collapse onto the road at any moment. There was something dark and forbidding about this section that reminded me that it had been somewhere round here, down by the water’s edge, that Ansgår Tveiten had been found dead, battered to death with a blunt weapon in early 1973.

The inner part of Dals fjord was reminiscent of the Jølster district, even though the mountains were closer to the sea here, with the high fell-like formations that had given the area the name Fjaler from time immemorial. The sun swept low over the mountain ridges and hit the other side of the fjord tributary where the autumn colours frolicked wantonly on the foliage. The road was narrow and relatively well maintained. When I met oncoming traffic I had to pull into a passing place or drive onto the verge to get by.

Not without a touch of eager, child-like anticipation, I drove westwards. Even further to the west, where the fjord opened into the sea, my father had been born and grew up on a tiny farm called Veum, some way outside Hellevik, before he moved into town and looked for work in the mid 1920s. But this time I was not to drive so far.

By Laukeland waterfall the countryside tapered in again. To the north were the towering mountains Kringla and Heileberget. Between two of the Nishamar tunnels I passed a small incineration plant, and after the last tunnel Dale suddenly appeared in the sunshine. The location was perfect. The mountains towards Eikenes and Dokka on the northern side of the fjord stood like blue silhouettes.

I parked my car by the coach station and got out. The old community centre looked still and peaceful. A couple of drivers were standing in front of the buses smoking roll-ups. Some schoolchildren were on their way home with blue and red rucksacks on their backs. Behind a large window on the corner by the crossroads I glimpsed the faces of a few elderly people peering inquisitively in my direction. Who can that fellow be? they were probably wondering. He’s not from around here …

I enquired my way to the post office, which was in the council building down towards the quay, and took a punt that that was where I would get the help I needed.

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