The Dark Fjord series

THE DARK FJORD SERIES 1

Agnes Lovise Matre

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“Agnes Matre’s writing is good and compelling […]. She has created a universe in which both she and the reader can enjoy themselves. We are in beautiful Hardanger with its fjords and fruit trees. An effective contrast to the dark deeds Matre sprinkles throughout her crime novel.”

Truls Horvei, Haugesunds Avis

“Agnes Lovise Matre can write – and the framework surrounding this year’s crime novel Ice Cold is great.”

Sindre Hovdenakk, VG

“This is a great brand of crime.”

Kjersti Gullvåg, Hamar Arbeiderblad

photo: haakon nordvik

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CONTENTS About the author 5 Introduction by the author 7 Appearances Are Deceptive - Sample translation 9 The Dark Fjord Series 36

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR Agnes Lovise Matre (1966) is an adjunct professor and author from Haugesund.

Matre teaches Norwegian, social subjects and English at Sonans, a private school in Haugesund. As well as being a teacher, she previously worked as a freelance journalist. She was also a member of the interim board who started Forfatterforbundet, the Norwegian Authors Union.

She debuted with her novel Stroke My Hair in 2012. In Autumn 2016, her novel Naked Truth was published by Gyldendal Litteratur.

Her Dark Fjord-series is situated in the spectacular Hardanger land­ scape with the dark, elongated fjord, blossoming fruit trees and snow on the high mountaintops during the summer and fog, rain and huge amounts of snow during the winter. In these settings she uses the crime genre as a framework to talk about “forbidden” themes like shame, feelings of guilt, suppression and secrets.

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photo: haakon nordvik

THE DARK FJORD SERIES Introduction by the author

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I have set the events of my books in Kvam municipality in Hardanger.

I personally lived in these beautiful surroundings for the first eight years of my life. With the dark, elongated fjord, blossoming fruit trees and snow on the high mountaintops during the summer and fog, rain and huge amounts of snow during the winter, Hardanger is a landscape of contrasts. Such was the case for myself as well, the day my mum died. She became acutely unwell on my eighth birthday and died two days later. My birthday was forgotten, and we moved away over the course of two short summer months.

When I was older and met my husband – who comes from ­Øystese in Hardanger, where I’m writing from – I reclaimed the ­paradise of my childhood. My mother’s death showed me two things: even in the most peaceful and idyllic landscape, pain can still strike, unexpected and brutal, and not speaking about things can be downright dangerous. In 1974, death was a taboo. You didn’t speak to children about things like that. As such, I had to try as well as I could to find a way through it on my own – something which led to years of serious eating disorders as an adult.

In The Dark Fjord Series, I use the crime genre as a framework to talk about taboos. Such “forbidden” themes contain shame, feelings of guilt, suppression, secrets and cover-up attempts – feelings which can drive some people to kill or commit other criminal activities.

In the first novel, Naked Truth, I write about rape. I take the reader deep inside the thoughts of the victim, because that’s precisely what I want to talk about. The statistics are clear. Several hundred thousand women have been raped. Just one in ten dares to report it. Of them, nine in ten are dismissed by the police. My project is to discuss what an attack like this does to the victim and their relatives, and how the ­rapist terrorises and terrifies just by being in the village. As a long-serving lay judge in the Norwegian district court, I have seen

how the judiciary treats these women and unfortunately often sides with the attacker.

In Looks Can Be Deceiving, we meet little Ina and her brother Anders who live together with their alcoholic father. As a teacher, I’ve seen children be exposed to neglect in several forms. Sometimes I’ve known without a doubt, thus the path to reporting is short. But when the suspicion is levelled towards parents who hold important ­positions in society, it’s not as easy to report. What if I’m wrong?

What consequences will I face? In small, transparent villages, this becomes even more problematic. But what happens to the children if we don’t take responsibility?

In Ice Cold, I discuss abuse of power and shame. Here, we en­ counter stories of three strong women, who in their own ways are trying to find a path in a society characterised by Christian pietism.

What they have in common is that they don’t speak about taboos in their environment, such as abortion and problem gambling.

I grew up in the West of Norway. At that time, many of the leisure activities were connected to chapels and the inner mission, where moral influencers during the socialisation process were so bound to teachings of sin and punishment that it could have serious conse­ quences in later life. While working on this book, I discovered that not much has changed within these environments, and that they often choose to follow God’s law ahead of society’s.

Unconsecrated Ground is coming out in 2020. The taboo here is homosexuality. As a teacher, I’ve experienced that most homosexuals don’t come out until they have finished middle school. Some don’t come out until they are adults, while others never dare to live accord­ ing to their true selves. In small villages, it is rare to meet a homosexual who is out. They exist, but we don’t see them. It’s better now, say the villagers when I ask. Homosexuals themselves reply that you don’t need to scratch much below the surface before coming across prejudice.

As an author, I want my readers to think about what they have read. My stories should preferably shake them up a bit, cling to them, make them angry or sad. The most important thing is that they start to talk about it.

Agnes Matre

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Appearances Are Deceptive Sample translation Translated by Siân Mackie

Øystese, Sunday 5 July 2015 The lifeless body in the bottom of the old wooden boat wasn’t ­bothering anyone. Covered by a grey tarp, between two polystyrene boxes. Nothing strange. Nothing to draw the eye. There were two other ­people in the boat too.

Their sweaty foreheads and the damp patches under their arms could just as easily have been blamed on the hot sun. Both heat and fear make you sweat. The combination always does.

The white beach next to Hardangerfjord Hotel was packed with screeching holidaymakers. The tourist coaches were lined up in the big car park between the hotel and the cemetery. People lay soaking up the sun on towels and lilos on the rocks towards Norheimsund.

The two people in the boat didn’t pay them any heed, just chugging lazily past like one would on a hot summer’s day in Hardanger.

A tall man watched them from the beach down by Lundanes. He was crouched down, petting an Alsatian that had just taken a bracing dip in the fjord.

Some of the tourists had also taken boats out, despite their lack

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of seamanship. Sometimes two or three of them would stand up in the boat at the same time. Someone really ought to run a course for Germans on how to behave when out on a Norwegian fjord, thought one of the two people in the boat. Several pleasure boats bobbed next to or punted past them at a leisurely Sunday pace.

In Hardanger, most old wooden boats with superstructures are very alike. You need to be something of a boat enthusiast to tell one from the other. It wasn’t good weather for fishing. It was too hot and still. Despite this they had a boat rod with baitcaster set up as they puttered along at a snail’s pace.

The boat was heading for Kvamsøy, a small island between Øystese and the village of Herand on the other side of the fjord. People with boats went there instinctively on hot days.

The two people in the wooden boat avoided eye contact, staring fixedly past each other.

There was a tug on the line. The fishing rod strained. They had a bite.

‘Reel it in?’

The question was asked as if it were a command. The motor speed decreased, the boat coming to a stop as a fish thrashed about on the hook. A fat, glistening mackerel. Two whacks with the heavy hilt of the sheath knife and it was ready to go in the polystyrene box.

There was a flash of white toes before everything was covered with the tarp again.

Hardangerfjord is 183 kilometres long and more than 850 metres deep at its deepest point. After passing Kvamsøy, the boat maintained the same course. When it finally stopped, both of the people in the boat looked around for a moment before nodding curtly at each other and tipping the body over the gunwale. The motor boat sat bobbing on the ripples caused by the splash for a moment. One of them

watched the body until it sunk into the depths. The other looked in the opposite direction, as if entirely disinterested. A trivial matter.

A necessary evil.

The motor spluttered a few times before starting again. Then they set a course back towards land. The smell of diesel mixed with saltwater, and the cries of gulls. On the way home they caught another couple of mackerel.

Skipadalen, the day before, morning of 4 July 2015 The Folgefonna glaciers shone like mica between the grey mountains. It were as if the world were holding its breath, the surface of the fjord like glass. District Sheriff Bengt Alvsaker pulled an unripe apple from the branch of a shaggy old tree and threw it as hard as he could across the water. Demonstratively he turned his back, walked over to his bike and gave the pedal an unenthusiastic shove. Inside his emotions shifted as rapidly as the autumn weather along the west coast. Where he should have felt joy and anticipation, there was only fear and a suffocating guilt.

The ochre house with fresh grass matting on the roof was right at the water’s edge in Skipadalen, midway between the two villages of Norheimsund and Øystese. Bengt Alvsaker had grown up here, leaving as soon as he was old enough. In this house he had held less value that the lumps of dry paint on his father’s palette. He had only returned to the house, the fjord and the mountains when his father had died eleven years ago.

It was also almost exactly eleven years since he’d screamed down the phone at Katrine. Harsh and uncompromising, he had accused her of going behind his back. Getting pregnant on purpose to force him to stay in Oslo. She hadn’t bothered calling him while there was

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still time to do anything about it. She’d only called during overtime, far into extra time. It was only when the removal van was fully loaded in the yard in Ammerud that she’d told Bengt he was going to be a dad. He’d thrown the phone down and refused to acknowledge any of her countless attempts at reconciliation.

For a moment he saw how he must have seemed to her back then.

A young, self-centred prick who disappeared as soon as things got serious. The kind of person lambasted online. An irresponsible egoist who wasn’t there for his child. Fatherhood reduced to a monthly debit from his salary account.

Bengt lifted his bike down from the rack and wheeled it into the garage. In the last three years Thomas had started sending him presents for every birthday and Christmas. This week he’d fetched the box he’d put everything in down from the attic. He left the Santas and Easter chicks in there, but he’d arranged the rest around the living room. On the fridge there was a drawing of a man and a boy in police uniforms. It wasn’t that Bengt hadn’t seen it coming, but when Katrine had called him a few months ago and said the boy insisted on meeting him, his entire emotional range had come out to play.

The boy had his life in Oslo, with his mother, a well-to-do stepfather and younger siblings. Bengt had his life. The visit might turn out to be an awkward experience for both of them. It might even be too late, but he had to try. In his usual, rational way he’d finally managed to calm himself down and start thinking practically. Thomas would spend a week with him while Katrine and her husband were on holiday in France. Bengt had taken two weeks off work. The first week had already passed. He had spent that time making everything ready.

The bedroom on the ground floor smelled of fresh paint. At first he’d intended to paint it pale blue, but then he’d realised he didn’t

have a baby coming to visit. If he were to be honest, he didn’t have a clue what the boy liked. In the end he’d gone to IKEA in Bergen and grabbed a helpful shop assistant. She’d picked out furniture and suggested colours that might be suitable for an eleven-year-old’s bedroom. This morning he’d gone shopping for food. Sugar puffs, chocolate spread and other things.

On Monday evening, in two short days, Thomas would arrive to meet his dad for the first time.

His thoughts were interrupted by the voices of Ina and Anders Gulliksen, the two children, aged six and twelve, who lived in the neighbouring house. They were calling for the cat. Ina sort of co-owned Bengt Alvsaker’s furry – and only – housemate. Glad of the distraction, he headed in their direction. The wall around the lawn went all the way down to sea level at low tide, and at high tide you couldn’t walk past it without getting your feet wet. The two children laughed as they splashed water at each other.

‘Out for a walk, are we?’ Bengt caught Anders’ arm as he streaked across the lawn at top speed. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at nursery?’

Dark unruly curls danced under Anders’ cap.

‘No, it’s Saturday, and besides, it’s the summer holidays,’ he said.

‘I don’t go to nursery anymore. I’m starting school.’

‘School?’ Bengt lifted the boy and spun him around before they both tumbled over onto the lawn. ‘But you’re just a baby!’

Anders pulled away from Bengt, stuck his tongue out at him and laughed.

‘Well, I’m starting school soon. You knew that, didn’t you?’

‘No, really?’ Bengt feigned surprise. ‘You’re only… well, let me see…’ He counted on his fingers. ‘Three?’

Andres shook his fist at him before lifting his foot and gripping his big toe, trying to stretch like a ballet dancer.

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‘Dad told me Mum’s dead,’ he said solemnly.

Ina, who had sat down on the ground next to Bengt, now turned to him.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ she whispered. ‘He’s always talking nonsense.’

‘Nooo, I’m not talking nonsense. She’s in heaven,’ Anders protested, looking up at the sky.

Bengt pointed at the same sky.

‘Did you know that when the trail behind a plane disappears as quickly as that one up there, it means the weather will stay nice a while longer?’

‘How do you know so much?’ Ina asked.

‘I read,’ Bengt said, ruffling Anders’ curls.

The boy ran up to where the lawn plateaued slightly and tried to do some cartwheels, with varying success. Bengt retrieved a ball from the foot of the apple tree and did a few keepie uppies with his knee before leathering it towards two cherry trees. The branches, which were loaded down with near-ripe fruit, brushed against the ground.

‘I can be the goalie, like last time,’ Anders said as he ran eagerly across the lawn to fetch the ball.

‘By the way, have you seen the cat?’ Bengt asked as the ball was kicked back to him.

He let it bounce off each foot a couple of times before kicking it in an arc to Anders, who had now turned his cap round the right way and was standing with his knees bent and his hands ready.

‘I expect he’s out looking for mice, or curled up on the bed I made him in the boathouse,’ Ina said. ‘I’ll go look. Have you seen the bed?’

‘Mmm… it’s great,’ Bengt said, but he couldn’t remember the last

time he’d been in the boathouse. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Anders throw himself into the path of the ball at just the right moment.

‘Yes!’ he cried. ‘Got it!’

Bengt’s boathouse was old and rotting. It had stood on the pebble beach since before his father bought the land. The wooden panelling had collapsed and now lay like a grey pleated skirt over the stone wall. Bengt caught the ball that Anders kicked to him, but just stood with it in his hands as he watched Ina grind to a halt on her way down to the boathouse, turn and come running back.

‘We need to go home now, Anders. Dad’s back. I heard his car.

He’s got visitors coming today. I need to help out.’

Before Bengt was able to say anything else, the kids were sprinting across the lawn. Ina first, with a tight grip of Anders’ hand. The boy looked like a rag doll hanging passively from her fist.

A few hours later, the party was in full swing at the neighbours’ house. If the shouts and whoops were anything to go by, it was no child’s birthday party. Bengt got his wheelbarrow and tools out, half-heartedly starting to clear the strawberry patch as his thoughts strayed to Ina and Anders.

Bengt Alvsaker’s contact with the children’s father, and his other neighbours for that matter, was limited to a curt nod when they passed each other in the street. There was no more than fifty metres between the two properties, but they were separated by dense shrubbery. Not that that stopped Ina and Anders. They were as unrestrained as the reindeer on Finnmark Plateau and had hacked a passage through the undergrowth. When the water temperature permitted it, they waded along the water’s edge to the sheriff’s.

Bengt Alvsaker didn’t consider himself a lonely man. He didn’t have that many close friends anymore, and because he was thirty-fi-

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ve, most of his former social circle had settled down with wives and children. He met up with them now and then when there was an event in the village. For the most part he hung out with William Kjosås, or Esso William, as he was known in the village. William owned a petrol station in Øystese. He was childless, uncomplicated and generally available. You just had to pop into the Esso garage during the evening, and if he wasn’t there, his house, which sat on a hill above the village and was much too big for a young man, was always open.

Bengt took off his gardening gloves, left the wheelbarrow where it was and went inside, shutting out the sound of neighbours’ party. It was only when he turned the television on that he realised he’d forgotten the first stage of the Tour de France was today, the indisputable highlight of the summer for a cycling enthusiast such as himself.

Norway’s hopes were pinned on two cyclists who were both good at pacing themselves, but a quick check of the results showed that neither of them were doing very well.

Bengt ran his fingers over the spines of the books in the bookcase covering an entire wall in the living room before taking out the book his son had given him for Christmas. Presents can be like punishment, Bengt had thought when Katrina had sent him a text to make sure he knew that the boy had bought the presents with his own money. Hard and Far: From Couch Potato to Ironman. Thomas had clearly done his research. Bengt had toyed with the idea of doing an Ironman Triathlon since Haugesund had arranged its first 70.3 in 2012. But the book had stayed in the bookcase. He for his part had transferred money directly into Thomas’ account last Christmas for lack of any idea what to buy. He’d excused himself by saying he had no idea what the boy’s interests were. In the last picture he’d seen of him, he’d been around forty-three centimetres long and wrapped in a blue Ullevål Hospital blanket.

Skipadalen, evening of Saturday 4 July 2015 The music and laughter from the porch cut to Ina’s stomach as she sorted dirty laundry in the utility room. She hid the last items of clothing in the cupboard behind some baskets so that her dad wouldn’t find them. Then she quickly ran out into the hall and checked the closet.

There was a small gap to the left. Just big enough that she or Anders could sneak inside and hide. If they curled up, they could both fit.

She appraised a stack of clean bed linen, picked out a duvet cover, pillow covers and a sheet, and went into Anders’ room. Her stomach rumbled. She and Anders hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Their dad had been drinking all day. Anders was sitting on the floor playing with his Lego. The acrid smell of urine assaulted her nostrils when she pulled his duvet aside. There was a dirty yellow stain in the middle of the sheet. This was normal. She changed the bedclothes with practised movements.

‘There, now you can go to bed,’ she said when she was done.

‘Come on, I’ll take you to the bathroom.’

‘OK, but I’m hungry. I haven’t…’

He stopped when he met his sister’s gaze, following silently behind her.

‘I’ll see what I can find for us, but not yet.’

They snuck along the hall. Shoes and coats lay haphazardly inside the basement door, as if the house were full of small children. The Gulliksens’ front door was always locked.

‘Shh! We need to be quiet,’ she said.

Anders opened his mouth. Ina brushed his teeth and got him into some clean pyjamas that she retrieved from the drawer under the sink.

‘Where are the ones you were wearing last night?’ she asked gently.

Anders didn’t answer. Just shrugged.

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‘You realise they’ll need washing? If Dad finds them…’

Ina didn’t like to threaten her little brother, but he was so impulsive, not seeing the danger until it was too late. Anders grabbed her hand and pulled her back into the bedroom. There he opened the wardrobe and found his pyjamas behind a stack of clean clothes. Ina took them from him just as the doorbell rang. She quickly spread the duvet over the boy. They sat quiet as mice, waiting for someone to come running downstairs and open the basement door, but nothing happened. The music upstairs thumped rhythmically against the ceiling. Quietly she started to sing a lullaby to her little brother, the one she remembered their mother had always sung to him.

Now sleep is drawing near, Lay down and rest, my dear…

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‘Can I sleep in your room?’ Anders squeezed her hand hard.

Ina shook her head firmly.

‘No, not while you’re wetting the bed.’

She kept singing while her mind painted pictures of what might happen during the night. She let the song follow the rhythm of the steps above them.

I’m sure an angel crossed your path, When in sleep you suddenly laughed…

Ina got up just as the doorbell rang again. Anders didn’t react. She stood for a moment with her hand on the door handle before sneaking out into the hall and quietly closing the door behind her. When she turned round, she walked straight into a man wearing blue ­trousers, a white shirt and a tie. He was carrying a huge box from

Alpino Pizza in Norheimsund. The smell made her empty stomach clench, but she knew the pizza wasn’t for her. She’d met this taxi driver many times before. Their dad sometimes sent Ina and Anders their dinner by taxi after he was done with work on the days he stayed at the pub until late at night. Other times the taxi would be sitting in the yard when they came home from school, waiting with pizza or hamburgers from the Esso garage. Ina would always try to take them quickly before anyone saw. In the here and now the taxi driver was smiling at her in recognition. Ina said a polite hello and pulled her short nightie down over her thighs.

‘It wasn’t you who order this pizza, was it?’ His hair was bushy, his eyes kind. The packet of snuff attached to his gum was visible under his top lip.

‘It’s for them upstairs. Just go up.’ Ina squeezed past him and into her room. Then he was standing in her doorway. She sat down against the wall and wrapped her arms around her knees. The taxi driver smiled at her. A sad smile, as if he were upset, Ina thought.

Without saying anything, he put one of the pizza boxes on her desk before turning and closing the door behind him. Shortly afterwards she heard cheers from the porch. The pizza had arrived.

She waited in her room until the taxi started outside. Then she went into Anders’ room with the pizza and they ate it as quickly as they could. They hid the box under the bed when they were done.

Anders’ dirty bedding would have to be washed before she went to bed. Ina peered through the glass of the washing machine door. It was still on the wash cycle. She quickly set it to rinse, ran into her room again and locked the door. Exactly fourteen minutes later she took the wet clothes out and put the bedding in to wash. She’d just closed the washing machine door again when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Her dad was standing watching her.

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‘Put some clothes on and come upstairs,’ he slurred.

‘I need to hang these clothes up. The dryer’s full.’

‘It can wait.’ He grabbed the clothes from her and threw them on the floor. ‘Do it later.’

She lowered her eyes.

‘I don’t really want to,’ she said, more defiantly than she’d expected. ‘I’m tired and want to go to bed.’

‘Go to bed? Nonsense! It’s lovely out.’ He paused to think before coming up with something that usually worked. He pinched Ina hard on the inside of her upper arm as he turned. ‘You can have pizza.’ Ina was full, but she couldn’t refuse now. He’d find out otherwise.

‘I need to put more clothes on.’ She ran to her room.

He’d never asked her to come to one of his parties before. She quickly pulled on the shorts and T-shirt she’d folded so neatly earlier in the evening and rubbed her arm. When she discovered a bruise, she changed into a long-sleeved blouse. Her dad was sitting on the stairs waiting, and ran a hand over her back as they went up into the living room. A woman sitting on the sofa looked up as Ina and her dad came in.

‘Oh, is this your daughter, Kjartan? How sweet.’

She got up and came towards them. Her long brown hair fell all the way down her back. The woman looked a lot younger than Ina’s dad. She scrutinised Ina like an item of clothing on a sales rail.

‘Hi, I’m…’ The woman looked at Ina’s dad, who nodded. ‘Well, I’m your dad’s girlfriend.’

Ina said nothing, just obediently shook the woman’s hand before pulling back again. Her dad always had someone on the go. They didn’t usually hang around for more than a few weeks. He always brought them home and introduced them to Ina and Anders. For Ina, each new girlfriend was a much-needed break from her dad’s drin-

king. For those first few days of a new relationship, he behaved. That was when they’d go out on the fjord and fish like they had when they’d first moved to Øystese. But Ina knew when it was time to back out of family board game and TV evenings. After a few days their dad just couldn’t help himself. To start he drank with the girlfriends, but when they realised he drank all the time, they left, one after the other, leaving Ina and Anders to keep out of his way, with varying success.

‘Want some juice?’ her dad asked.

‘I’m really tired. I want to go to bed,’ Ina replied.

He didn’t seem to hear her, just sat down next to the woman on the sofa and pulled Ina down onto his lap. The smell of the alcohol on his breath mixed with the woman’s sweet perfume. Ina felt sick.

It didn’t get better when her dad pulled a cigarette out of the packet on the table, only turning his head slightly away from Ina as he lit it before turning back and blowing the smoke right in her face.

‘What are you doing?’

The woman took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Ina felt her dad’s body tense before he kissed her, as if she were his girlfriend. Then he pushed her away into the other chair.

Ina found a nook on the porch, tucked her legs under her body, making herself as small as she could. There were loads of people there, mostly men, but some women too. She didn’t know many of them. The table was littered with bottles of different shapes and sizes. Two men wearing motorcycle jackets sat in the corner. She read ‘Hardanger MC Club’ on their backs. One of the men had a tattoo that looked like it had grown from his chest and up towards his throat.

His long hair hid most of his face. The other was wearing dark sunglasses and had a shaved head. They looked over at her now and then,

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but didn’t smile. Ina recognised a younger boy in a denim jacket, also with the motorcycle club logo on his back. It was Joar Børven.

Once, right after they’d moved to Skipadalen, Ina had been walking along the road from the Rema supermarket when Joar Børven had stopped and offered her a lift. Her dad had told her she wasn’t allowed to go anywhere with strangers, but the plastic bag handles were digging into her hands, her arms were aching and he had already called her twice to tell her to hurry. That’s why she’d given in and accepted. She could still feel his clammy hands on her bare thighs.

Ina got up. There were people lying and standing around on the lawn. A man sat playing the guitar in the middle of a group of people over by the brambles. She turned and caught Joar Børven’s eye. He patted the chair next to him and grinned. Ina looked down at the ground. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she moved back into the living room, praying Joar wouldn’t follow. She was almost pushed over by a man passing her on the way to the loo. Quickly she ran downstairs and into her room. The clothes in the washing machine would just have to stay there. Most of all she just wanted to lock her door, but didn’t dare in case Anders needed her.

Ina lowered the blinds, casting her room into darkness. A thin strip of light slipped in over the doorsill. She lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, but jumped when she heard the telltale creak of someone sneaking downstairs. The footsteps stopped outside her door, a shadow crossing the strip of light. The door slowly opened.

Ina closed her eyes before she could see who it was, pulling the duvet over her head. She lay still, aware of a hand fumbling its way under her duvet, finding her thigh and then moving up and slipping under the elastic of her pants. The sound of a man’s breathing, getting heavier and heavier. He left as quietly as he’d come. Ina didn’t want

to know which one of her father’s friends had visited her this time.

She got out of bed. Stood for a moment on shaky legs before going to wake Anders.

‘I’ve changed my mind – you can sleep in my room,’ she whispered.

She put her arms under her little brother’s back and knees before lifting him and carrying him to her room. He’d be too heavy for her soon.

She woke up during the night with Anders’ curls tickling her face.

He was lying close to her with his small hand tucked into hers. Ina stroked his cheek, rolling over and holding him a while. Listening.

Everything was quiet. She looked at the numbers on the digital clock on her bedside table. It was ten to six in the morning. The birds were already awake and twittering outside the window.

She climbed carefully over Anders and went out into the hall.

Just as she made to open the bathroom door, she heard someone shambling across the room above. She grabbed Anders and took him to the bathroom with her. A crash above, followed by loud cursing, made her shudder. She pulled Anders closer, locked the door and sat on the bathroom floor. He crawled close to her.

‘Ina!’ their dad shouted.

She didn’t answer.

‘Ina!’ he repeated. Louder this time.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs followed by rummaging in the hall outside made Anders press himself even closer to her. Something fell to the floor and broke. Their dad cursed again and yelled her name. Anders held his ears and clutched at her with white fingers. She prised him off.

‘It’ll only be worse if I don’t go. Stay here. Keep quiet. Lock the door after me.’

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‘I’m scared,’ he squeaked.

‘I know,’ she whispered.

Their dad was standing leaning on the banister with one hand.

His belt was undone, his trousers down round his hips.

‘Why didn’t you answer?’ he replied, taking a wobbly step towards her.

Ina stepped back, afraid.

‘I was going to the toilet. I needed to finish up.’

Her dad scrutinised her.

‘I needed to finish up,’ he mimicked. ‘Yeah, alright, but come on.’

He waved her over to him. ‘I need help.’

He shuffled upstairs ahead of her. In the living room she saw straight away what had caused the almighty crash. The white glass cabinet had tipped over.

‘What happened?’ she asked without thinking.

‘Shut it! Christ.’

He turned so quickly she didn’t have time to duck. The blood roared in her ear as he slapped her. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. Just concentrate on helping. Damn brat. Who the fuck do you think you are?’

He almost overbalanced as he leaned forward to lift the cabinet.

Ina quickly collected herself and grabbed the other side, lifting with all her strength, ignoring the pain in her ear. For a moment she was afraid the cabinet would fall on her, but she clenched her teeth and pushed it away. The glass tinkled as everything fell from the shelves.

When they’d finally got it upright, she hovered uncertainly with her hands at her sides. Broken bottles swam in foul-smelling liquid on the floor. Her dad cursed.

‘Tidy this up!’ he commanded.

Ina nodded, but didn’t budge until he had disappeared into his bedroom. It took until seven o’clock to get the living room tidy again.

Only the glass missing from the cabinet and the lack of contents bore witness to what had happened. The sun was rising behind the Folgefonna glaciers. She glanced at the door to the porch. A glass lay on its side on the garden sofa. There was a big red stain on one of the cushions. It looked like blood. Forgotten items of clothing lay scattered around, along with several fleecy blankets. Empty bottles littered the table and parts of the porch floor. Cigarette ends floated in half-empty pint glasses. Ina rubbed her eyes. Her fingertips were rough, as if she’d just had a long bath. She didn’t have the energy to do any more, even though she knew she should. It would have to stay that way for now. Their dad would likely sleep late into the day, like he usually did on Sundays. Ina would have time to tidy up if she woke up in time.

She tiptoed down the stairs to the basement and went into the bathroom to find Anders. He wasn’t there. She walked towards her little brother’s bedroom. The door was closed, but unlocked. Carefully, so she wouldn’t wake him, she opened it. His bed was empty.

‘Anders!’ she called as loudly as she dared.

No response. Ina would have to go out and look for him. This wasn’t the first time the boy had gone to hide when their dad had been this way. As she opened the front door, she heard a faint sound.

She stuck her head out, but couldn’t see anything. The morning sun bounced off the greenhouse roofs on the other side of the road. A swarm of flies buzzed over an upset beer bottle on the flagstones.

Now she could clearly hear someone moving. The sound wasn’t coming from outside. She smiled, relieved. At the end of the hall, behind the baskets in the closet, Anders lay curled in the foetal position. His head was resting on a stack of duvet covers. He held his teddy in his arms, and his thumb was tucked firmly into his mouth.

Ina’s eyes stung as tears threatened, but she forced herself to think

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of something other than the boy before her. She carefully shook him.

He blinked and gave her a fearful look, as if she were part of some nightmare. Gently, she steered him into his room, where she tucked his teddy back into the crook of his elbow before lying close to him.

It was only when he was deeply asleep that she staggered back to her own bed, forgetting to set her alarm clock.

Skipadalen, the next day, morning of Sunday 5 July 2015

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His morning dip in the fjord had been a bracing one. Bengt quickly found his cycling gear – his thigh-length cycling shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. He whistled as he filled two bottles with water.

The sheriff had slept well, against all odds. From tomorrow things would be different for a while. Just how much remained to be seen.

Reluctance and responsibility fought for dominance in his thoughts.

Reluctance prevailed. Bengt felt queasy, probably not unlike how a criminal felt when the police were at their door and they knew the jig was up. Thomas Alvsaker. He tried out the name. Katrine had given the boy his surname. A clear message on her part. He couldn’t escape the responsibility forever.

Bengt clicked his cycling shoes into place on the pedals and threw the unpleasant thoughts to the wind, as he had so many times before. He started at a gentle pace, passing the greenhouses on the right with long, slow pushes of the pedals. As he approached the Evighetssvingen bus stop, he spotted someone he recognised. No one else had the same dark curls. Bengt crossed the road and pulled up alongside him.

‘Hi there, Anders. You’re out early today,’ he said. ‘Are you allowed out on your own this early?’

Anders didn’t answer, just kept walking with his eyes fixed on

the ground, as if Bengt were a stranger he wasn’t allowed to talk to.

His pyjamas hung haphazardly from his body. It looked as if the boy had just got out of bed, stepped into the red Crocs that were too big for him and carried on out of the house like a sleepwalker. His washed-out old pyjama bottoms came down to mid-calf.

‘Where are you off to?’ Bengt asked. He got off his bike and wheeled it along next to the boy.

‘To Selma’s,’ Anders said sullenly, speeding up.

Bengt was confused. The boy wasn’t usually so quiet – quite the contrary.

‘Is everything OK?’ Bengt bent down and tried to make eye contact, but Anders just glanced quickly at him before continuing on.

‘Yes,’ he said bluntly.

Something was wrong. Perhaps he’d had a fight with Ina. They did have the occasional falling-out.

‘Selma’s… I see,’ Bengt said. ‘Isn’t she really quite old now?’

‘Very.’ Anders stopped suddenly. Relief washed over Bengt as the boy smiled. His big brown eyes twinkled. ‘Her hair’s completely grey,’ he said, laughing.

‘Her hair was grey when I was little too,’ Bengt said, glad the boy seemed to be himself again. ‘I haven’t seen her in years. Is she well?’

‘She has strawberries in her garden,’ Anders said, as if they were the answer to happiness itself.

‘Well, I should get going.’ Bengt adjusted his helmet. ‘I’ve got a long way to cycle today. Say hello to Selma from me. Ask her whether she remembers Bengt who used to love her waffles.’ He jumped on his bike. ‘Mind you watch out for cars.’

‘You too!’ Anders called, starting to run after him.

The size of the shoes must have been a hindrance, since when

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Bengt turned to look at him after only a couple of seconds, Anders had stopped. The little boy stood looking down towards Vallandsholmane, a recreation area with a public beach.

Bengt pedalled steadily through Evighetssvingen. Selma’s old white house brought back good childhood memories. He wondered whether her son, Johan, still lived at home. He couldn’t remember having seen him recently. Selma’s husband must have been dead for years. Johan had never been like other children. It was likely he had some form of autism. When Bengt had been little, he hadn’t given it much thought. That was just the way Johan was.

He passed the police station in Norheimsund, changed gear and pedalled laboriously across the plain towards Steinsdalsfossen waterfall. During the winter the waterfall was partly piped, but in the summer it wasn’t as easily contained. His wheels had a somewhat precarious grip on the ground up to Kvamskogen.

A few hours later he stopped for a rest at Omastrand. There was a bench in a clearing in the forest. The stretch home from Strandebarm was the prettiest. Precipitous mountains and sheltered green slopes on the left, and the long Hardangerfjord on the right. Bengt refilled his water bottles in a stream nearby. He sat on the bench and tore the wrapper off an energy bar before calling Police Inspector Susanne Hauso. She picked up after one ring. He could see an orange cargo ship gliding up the fjord through the dense foliage of a huge silver birch. The rhythmic hum of the motor echoed in the mountains.

‘Has anything happened today?’ Bengt asked.

‘Not much,’ Susanne replied. ‘Esso William called a while ago.

He found a kid sleeping in a car behind the workshop at around eleven this morning. The boy was clearly intoxicated… Hold up.’

Bengt could hear her sifting through some papers and had to

smile at her use of the nickname his friend had had since he was little.

‘Joar someone or other,’ Susanne said.

‘Joar Børven,’ Bengt said. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised. I can almost guarantee you he drove there himself.’

‘Børven, yes, that’s what it says here. The car had clear damage to the left of its front fender. I’ve put Peder on the case. He’s in anyway, even though it’s Sunday. He’s interviewing the kid right now.’

Bengt hung up, glad it was a quiet Sunday for the police station, and washed the rest of his energy bar down with water. Protein and carbohydrates consumed, he was ready for the rest of his trip. As he approached Vikøy, he looked across the fjord towards Steinstøberget out of old habit. In his mind’s eye he saw Iselin Melstveit’s car, which she had driven into the fjord the previous year. They’d never found her. Bengt banished that train of thought. He had the rest of his Sunday afternoon to enjoy. God knows he’d have enough to contend with in the coming days.

Skipadalen, morning of Sunday 5 July 2015 Ina had overslept. Voices from the travel radio rose and fell as she opened the door to the porch. Her dad had got up after all. She looked around warily, but couldn’t see him. Maybe he’d gone back to bed.

The porch had been tidied, the concrete floor wet, the hose winding its way down the lawn like a snoozing adder. The only evidence of the party the night before was a pile of forgotten clothes on a chair and the broken glass cabinet in the living room.

Ina rubbed the sleep out of her eyes before letting her gaze alight on the small area of woodland nearby. She liked Sunday mornings best. That was when their dad tended to sleep in and not drink. It

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was as if the day of rest spun cobwebs of white gold over all the bad.

She shielded her eyes. The sun threw strips of white light between the birch tries and over the damp lawn. A branch moved in one treetop before a squirrel gained momentum and landed in a neighbouring tree. It shot down the tree trunk and disappeared into the undergrowth.

The angry cries of gulls drew her attention towards the fjord.

She crossed the porch and leaned over the railing to see better while waving away an orange butterfly on a collision course for her nose. A brown rowboat sat close to their jetty. Four lesser black-backed gulls circled over the boat, flapping their wings and jostling each other for room. An oselver, Ida thought. Bengt had told her that they were easy to recognise because they had a hole for a mast in the thwart. The sail was lowered, hanging slack against the mast. Ina leaned even further over the railing to see better.

That was when she found him. Her dad was on all fours on the lawn below, digging in the soil. The house’s porch was built on a huge sea wall made of natural stone. It was a big drop from where Ina was standing. Three boxes of peach-coloured summer plants sat next to her dad. She clenched her fists. She was usually the one who cut the grass and planted flowers. Ina stepped back a bit when her dad got up. He took a step to the side, as if to regain his balance. He stood for a few seconds with his back to her, watching the people in boats on the fjord, before pulling up his blue shorts and tucking his shirt in. Ina held her breath in anticipation, like in the seconds before you swat a fly. His eyes when they finally met hers, before he had a chance to school his expression, told her how the rest of the day would be. ‘Hi there. Finally up?’ Ina nodded, gauging the tone of his voice.

‘Well, that needed doing, you know.’ He nodded in the direction of the flowers. ‘It’s not easy to get everything done by myself when you sleep half the day away.’ He reached the porch. The fear from the night before returned, like when you sit stock still waiting for the next lightning strike, counting seconds. ‘It’s been too hot this summer.’ Her dad sat on one of the garden chairs. ‘The flowers died.

I got new ones from Gjermund Lundanes at the nursery. You really were out for the count, weren’t you, sweetheart?’

Sweetheart… Ina couldn’t bring herself to reply.

She counted the hours. Her dad had gone to bed at six o’clock.

And he’d been at Gjermund Lundanes’ nursery a couple hours later?

Ina knew Gjermund got up early, and it wasn’t at all unusual for people to pop into his greenhouse to buy plants, but what had her dad been thinking? Not about child welfare, that was for sure. They’d been to child welfare services when they lived in Bergen. A man and a woman had come during the day while their mum was sleeping and their dad was at work. Ina had let them in. The woman had said that adults couldn’t have children when they were intoxicated.

She moved closer to her dad, standing close behind the bench and taking a deep breath. A half-full cup of coffee sat on the table.

‘Sit for a while, Ina,’ he said. Ina sat down on the edge of the garden chair. ‘Here.’ He patted the cushion next to him. She folded her hands in her lap. Her knuckles were white. Her dad pulled her close to him. There was a faint smell of sweat from his armpits. ‘You… ah, I’m sorry about last night.’

Now she was sure. His words were slurred.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Ina squirmed.

‘I don’t remember everything, but… it was nuts,’ he continued.

‘Like a fucking free for all.’

‘It’s alright,’ Ina said. She wanted him to talk about something

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else. Something innocuous that wouldn’t start the cycle over.

Her dad leaned forward and prised a cigarette out of the packet on the table. Took a gulp of coffee. His gaze moved past her, fixing on a red bucket in the corner.

‘Sorry that I… overslept. I was so tired. I meant to tidy up out here too,’ Ina said.

She regretted it as soon as she said it, but her dad just shrugged and got up.

‘It’s fine. I managed by myself, didn’t I?’ His tone was caustic now.

‘Have you woken Anders? He doesn’t need to sleep all day.’

As she went downstairs, she heard her dad’s heavy footsteps across the living room floor. The door to his bedroom creaked when he opened it. Ina could picture him rummaging in his wardrobe, knew what he was looking for. There was always a bottle tucked between the jumpers in the top basket, where he thought she couldn’t reach. She waited until she heard his footsteps on the living room floor again. When she came up, he was sitting in the same place on the porch. His coffee cup was full.

‘Anders isn’t there,’ she said.

Her dad drained the cup in one and shrugged indifferently.

‘Then I expect he’s at Selma’s. He’s over there every chance he gets.’

Ina was glad Anders was gone. He was so little, too little for Sundays like these.

‘Ina, I promise. This was the last time.’ Her dad lifted his empty cup to his mouth and got up. Ina followed him inside. He stopped and turned towards her. The coffee cup shook slightly in his hand.

‘I think I’m going to lie down for a while. Wake me in a few hours. I need to go into work later.’

Ina didn’t reply, just followed close behind him into the kitchen,

checking he put his cup in the dishwasher before disappearing into his bedroom. She carefully opened the dishwasher, took out the cup and lifted it to her nose.

Skipadalen, later the same day, Sunday 5 July 2015 Ina’s dad had showered at dizzying speed. In jeans and a blue stripy shirt, he was like a new man. The living room smelled of soap and aftershave. Even when he bent down, gave Ina a hug and held on tight to her upper arm, she couldn’t smell any alcohol on him.

‘Stay here, and remember Anders,’ he called as he got into the photographer’s car. He blew her a kiss before saying something to the driver and laughing loudly.

How does he do it? she wondered, closing the door behind her.

She took one last look around the house, leaving the door to the basement open before getting her bike out the garage and cycling inland towards the centre of Øystese. A few minutes later she passed Nes Camping, where huge caravans sat in rows. Norwegian, German and French flags fluttered from wooden balconies. Ina cycled in the middle of the road. There wasn’t much in the way of traffic on the old road winding its way along the outside of the tunnel.

At the Esso station in Øystese she took a right and cycled down towards the fjord. There she leaned her bike against an old oak tree and strolled over to a big rock by the shore. A boy was waterskiing.

Screams and shouts could be heard from the long beach by the hotel.

Two men stood at the back of a fishing boat wrestling with a net.

At the Esso station she sat on a bar stool at the table furthest from the door. She was disappointed that Esso William wasn’t working.

He usually talked to her. She wondered whether he was perhaps in the workshop, but then she remembered it was Sunday. The woman

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behind the counter scowled at her when she came out the loo. She didn’t dare sit there any longer. She didn’t have any money.

There were a lot of families on the beach. Ina plopped down onto the hot, white sand. She pulled her legs underneath her and sat like a moss-covered statue, no one paying her the least bit of attention. She sat close enough to others that it wouldn’t look like she was alone, but far enough away that she wouldn’t irritate them. Mothers gave sandwiches and juice to children. It was almost eight o’clock in the evening when she cycled home to Skipadalen without having talked to anyone. She was cutting it fine.

She’d just got the clothes out of the washing machine when the basement door opened. Her dad threw his notebook on the table under the mirror in the hall before running his fingers through his hair and giving her a tired nod. Ina followed him upstairs.

‘Did the photographer drive you home?’ she asked. ‘Have you eaten, or should I make you something?’ She could hear she was talking too fast and too much. Ina moved slightly away from him and buried her nose in the fabric of her t-shirt. It still smelled of the fresh evening air.

‘No, I’m fine. I had something to eat at the bar in Sandven Hotel after we finished the job.’

Her dad grabbed the remote, put his feet up on the table, turned on the TV, changed position, changed position again, went down into the basement, came up again, disappeared out onto the porch. Ina followed him, standing in the doorway. He lit a cigarette. Blew out smoke in short bursts. Paced back and forth. The thought of all the bottles that had been broken during the night didn’t make her feel any better. He had more. Always more.

‘Are you just going to stand there?’

Her dad sat down in one of the garden chairs, scowling at her

through the cigarette smoke. She nodded defiantly and crossed her arms over her chest like a bouncer. Her dad gave her an ironic smile and stumped out his cigarette in the ashtray.

‘Go to Selma’s. Ask for Anders.’

The words were sharp and harsh. Ina moved reluctantly away from the doorway. Her dad passed her with quick steps and went towards the kitchen. She heard him open the fridge and pull out a can of beer.

‘Should you be drinking more… today?’ she said, the words slipping out before she could think.

‘I won’t go overboard. I’m working tomorrow.’

As if that usually made a difference, she thought. She stood a little too long in the middle of the room when her dad wanted past. She might as well have shouted what she was thinking, because in two steps he was right there, his grip on her upper arm painful.

‘What, so I’m not even allowed one fucking drink? Besides… last time I checked, I made the decisions in this house, not you!’

Ina cautiously tried to get out of his grip.

‘I didn’t mean…’

She steeled herself for the blow, but it didn’t come. Instead he let her go and put his face in his hands, sobbing like a child.

‘Go. I’m going to bed soon. No one in this house understands what it’s like for me,’ he sobbed.

Ina’s muscles gave out like a hair tie around too much hair.

Punches and kicks she could handle. Tears, on the other hand…

Clumsily she tried to wipe his cheek, but he waved her away. She left her bike where it was. It wasn’t far to Evighetssvingen, where Selma lived.

An hour later she ran as fast as she could along the main road to Bengt Alvsaker’s. Anders wasn’t at Selma’s.

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The Dark Fjord Series

Naked Truth What happens when the idyll fractures?

Everyone looks after each other in the small, idyllic village community of Øystese in Hardanger, but what happens the day the idyll fractures and one of their own does the unthinkable?

After a wild village party on Holmatun, the local party venue, Iselin is brutally raped by a close friend. Fear of village gossip and shame over the fact that she wasn’t able to prevent the attack leads to her keeping the rape to herself – a choice which has fatal consequences when rumours in the v­ illage start to swirl and the culprit becomes more and more ­threatening. Iselin is extremely affected by the attack, and it doesn’t help that her ­attacker can be lurking around her and her family at any time.

PRESS QUOTES “This is crime of first class.”  Kjersti Gullvåg, Hamar Arbeiderblad “Agnes Lovise Matre is an author to keep an eye out for.”  Sven Gjeruldsen, Tvedestrandposten “Looks Can Be Deceiving is promising for what is (of course) thought of as a new crime series from beautiful Hardanger.”

Sindre Hovdenakk, VG “It will be exciting to see what this author does next.”

Ingvar Ambjørnsen, Dagbladet

The Dark Fjord Series

Looks Can Be Deceiving Idyllic summer, dark secrets.

It’s a warm summer by the calm Hardanger fjord. The Folgefonna glacier is shining white in the distance, the cherries are ripening. Early one Sunday afternoon, six-year-old Anders is observed walking along the main road in his pyjama trousers. That is the last time anyone sees him.

In any case, Anders isn’t reported missing until the next day, and it’s his older sister, twelve-year-old Ina, who phones the police station.

The missing little boy turns the whole Hardanger village on its head, and Officer Bengt Alvsaker must delay his holiday – the week he had taken off in order to meet his own son for the first time.

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PRESS QUOTES “Agnes Matre’s writing is good and compelling […]. She has created a universe in which both she and the reader can enjoy themselves. We are in beautiful Hardanger with its fjords and fruit trees. An effective contrast to the dark deeds Matre sprinkles throughout her crime novel.”

Truls Horvei, Haugesunds Avis “Matre writes credibly and in a nuanced way about how compulsive gambling can lead to a ruined family life and desperate actions.”

Gro Jørstad Nilsen, Bergens Tidende

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The Dark Fjord Series

Ice Cold

“Agnes Lovise Matre can write – and the framework surrounding this year’s crime novel Ice Cold is great.”

Sindre Hovdenakk, VG

Agnes Lovise Matre is back with a new crime after the success of Looks Can Be Deceiving At 5 o’clock in the morning, the sound from the whistle on the M/F Utne echoes between the mountains in Hardanger. Norseman Xtreme, the world’s toughest and decidedly coldest triathlon competition, is underway. Local police officer Bengt Alvsaker is one of 250 nervous athletes who jump into the dark, ice-cold fjord. But when he and the other swimmers scramble ashore in Eidfjord and heave themselves onto their bikes, a figure with starting number 22 remains lying in the water, lifeless.

When the count is done at the end of the competition, it is revealed that a participant with the same starting number has actually arrived safely at the finishing line on Gausatoppen. Who, then, is the person who drowned, and how did he end up among the Xtreme participants? It soon becomes clear that this was no accident.

Bengt Alvsaker and his team are faced with their most complicated case to date. The hunt for a murderer in the small local community will throw up a lot of dirt and reveal old and painful secrets. The idyllic Hardanger villages will never be the same again.

photo: haakon nordvik

The Dark Fjord Series

Unconsecrated Ground It is time for the fourth book in The Dark Fjord series, Unconsecrated Ground, coming out in autumn 2020. And this time, Agnes Matre wishes to touch on important social issues which are still taboo in many environments. In Unconsecrated Ground, it is homosexuality.

In Unconsecrated Ground, the story begins in the garden of a building site in the village of Øystese. Relics from a number of dead animals are found when the new house-owner is digging in the garden. She calls the police after finding such a large number of bones that it has to be something more than dead pets. The police dig and find more. Much more…At the same time, we follow a personal drama from 1980s Hardanger, where a young homosexual boy tries to manoeuvre his feelings in a youth environment where coming out as homosexual isn’t just frowned upon, but downright life-threatening.

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Anne Cathrine Eng Foreign Rights Director anne.cathrine.eng@gyldendal.no Nina Pedersen Literary Agent nina.pedersen@gyldendal.no