We Shall Inherit the Wind Read Free

lure, ready for use.
    We followed Ranveig and Brekkhus to the end of the hall where we emerged into the cabin’s main room, which had a view of the sea and a kitchenette to the right. There was nothing luxurious about the furnishings. Traditional Norwegian pine furniture dominated. The TV set in one corner was between ten and twenty years old, the portable radio on the tiny bureau even older. The walls were decorated with a mixture of landscape paintings, nature photographs and the odd collage, the latter clearly put together by children. Tucked into one corner was a cabinet, which I imagined contained drinks, and along the wall to its right a bookcase so crowded with books that they were stacked higgledy-piggledy on top of one other without any obvious system. The electric radiators under the windows made a clicking noise, but the room wasn’t warm enough for us to take off our coats.
    Ranveig went to the kitchenette, ran water from the tap and put a kettle on the stove. ‘I’ll brew us up a nice cup of coffee.’
    ‘Or two,’ I said.
    Bjørn Brekkhus stood musing in the middle of the floor. He appeared uncertain what role to play, whether he should be the host, the guest or some point in between. Karin went over to Ranveig to ask whether there was anything she could do to help.
    From the kitchenette Ranveig said: ‘Relax. It won’t take a second.’
    I refrained from a witticism, despite the temptation. Besides, Brekkhus was much bigger than me. We each put a slightly under-sized chairby the pine table, which was scarred from years of use and covered with a red and green runner in the middle, on which sat a pewter candle-holder shaped like a Viking ship with a half-burnt candle inside, probably a present from such close friends that it would have been embarrassing not to display it.
    I glanced up at the retired policeman. His steel-grey hair was cut in a short-back-and-sides fashion, but the combed-back fringe was long and parted over the rear part of his head to reveal his scalp. His oblong nose had a visible network of thin veins and resembled a sallow marine animal caught in a red net. His eyes were a glacial blue and his gaze was measured, as though he regarded everyone he met as potential suspects.
    I snatched a sidelong glimpse at the kitchen. ‘Could you tell me a bit more about what happened to … Mons Mæland’s first wife?’
    He puckered his lips in thought. ‘There’s not much more than I’ve already said.’
    ‘When did it happen?’
    ‘Early 80s, one hot August day. She used to go for a morning swim from the quay here, often on her own, but on the odd occasion she managed to entice Mons or one of the children to go with her. On this day she was alone. We found her dressing gown and a pair of slip-ons on the quay. When she didn’t return, Mons began to suspect some-thing was amiss. There were just the two of them out here, and he was dozing in bed. They had been fishing the night before. She used to make breakfast after the swim, but … as I said, on this day, she didn’t return, and when he went to look for her he just found her dressing gown and shoes.’
    ‘How old was she?’
    ‘About forty, if I’m not mistaken.’
    Karin came in and put out mugs. Ranveig poured freshly brewed coffee from a white Thermos flask. ‘What are you talking about?’ she asked.
    Brekkhus made a vague motion with one arm.
    ‘Lea?’  
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I don’t understand what she has got to do with this.’
    ‘Well, Veum was asking about her.’
    I nodded. ‘I was just wondering what happened.’
    ‘The general assumption was that she drowned in a swimming accident.’
    ‘But?’
    She shrugged. ‘It’s no secret that she had her problems. Periods of terrible depression.’
    ‘She was never found,’ Brekkhus repeated.
    ‘Did you know them at that point?’ I asked, focussing on Ranveig.
    She flushed. ‘Not really. I was employed there later on. In the company.’
    ‘Your husband’s