Free We Shall Inherit the Wind by Gunnar Staalesen

Sløvåg or Mongstad.’
    ‘No one fishes any more?’
    ‘A few do.’ She came round the desk with the cup of coffee, a little jug of cream and some sugar cubes on a tray. ‘How many waffles?’  
    ‘Two’ll do me. Blueberry jam on one, brown cheese on the other.’
    She beamed. ‘I like a man with a good appetite.’
    I met her eyes. ‘You’re not from these parts, I can hear.’
    ‘No, no. I’m from Bergen. We spent our summer holidays here when I was small, and later I met the man I would marry, as you do.’
    ‘So perhaps you know Mons Mæland from that time?’
    ‘Oh, yes. They had a cabin just down from us. Now I’d better …’
    She turned round and went towards the reception desk.
    When she returned with the waffles, I said: ‘Your son’s involved in the campaign against the wind turbines. How do people feel about that?’
    The smile vanished. ‘Well, they don’t like it, as you can imagine. There’s talk about quite a few jobs being created – and it’s a handy income for the local council.’
    I nodded towards the big window. ‘And big, beautiful electricity-producing towers right along the coastline …’
    ‘Our family is split down the middle.’
    ‘Not just yours, from what I understand.’
    ‘Personally, I think it’s a good idea. It’s good for local trade. But my husband says it’s a crime against creation, and you already know what my son thinks. You’re against it, I take it.’
    I shrugged. ‘As with most things, there are compelling arguments for and against. But I definitely don’t believe the tourist industry – which you might be part of – will benefit from it. And there won’t be that many construction workers here either, at least not when the wind farm is up and running.’
    ‘Oh, they’ll always need to do maintenance and repair work. And they’ll need surveillance people, but what do I know?’ She pulled out a chair and sat down at my table. ‘When you rang yesterday you said that Mons … that he’d disappeared.’
    ‘Yes, that was why I asked when you last saw him.’
    ‘He was definitely here a week or two ago. How long has he been missing?’
    ‘Since Saturday.’  
    ‘Several days then! And you haven’t heard anything?’
    I shook my head. ‘Not a sign of life. No mobile activity, no card use, in short, nothing.’
    ‘Sounds scary.’
    ‘Tell me about him.’
    ‘About Mons?’ Her eyes became distant, and the corners of her broad mouth drooped. ‘What can I say? I’ve known him since we were children, as I told you. In fact, we’re roughly the same age.’
    She gave me just enough time to raise my eyebrows to emphasise my previous surprise and smiled quickly. I folded the waffle with brown cheese in the middle and took a bite, without releasing her gaze.
    ‘Well, he might be a year or two older, but he was here every single summer, with his parents. When we were children we were as thick as thieves – with all the other children too. The population multiplied during the summer, and for us kids this was paradise. Later, when we were in our teens, we went dancing together. To Byrknes by boat. Sometimes all the way to Eivindvik.’
    ‘Dancing was allowed then?’
    ‘Not in all circles, of course.’
    ‘What about your husband?’
    ‘Lars? Do you know him?’
    ‘Ole mentioned his name.’
    Her lips parted. ‘He went dancing too … in those days.’
    ‘But you met him again later, as an adult?’
    ‘Mons?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Yes. Now and then. My mother was from Byrknesøy, so while we she was alive he came over regularly. After she was gone visits were rare because he bought a property on the north of the island. In recent years he’s been here quite often, since the grand project was launched. Planners, investors and others. They always stayed here when they needed accommodation. And he had conferences and seminars here as well.’
    ‘Then I can see why you’re a fan of the project.’
    ‘And I’m not the only one! Most of the