‘And the others?’

He thumbed through the archive material to find their names. ‘Arild Hjellestad and Harry Kløve. It’s symptomatic that I can’t even remember their names. Decent background musicians, solid support for the other two, but they could have played in any bands and they could have been replaced without anyone noticing the difference. Here you are.’ He passed me a yellowing newspaper cutting.

I unfolded it and studied the grainy photograph. The caption was ‘The Harpers in Espeland Hall’. Beneath the picture were the names of the four, although Aasen was spelt with an Å and Hjellestad with Gj. The raster image had blurred their features until they were almost unrecognisable, but Johnny Solheim in the foreground was at least himself, a bit thinner in the face and with thicker hair, at full tilt, holding the mike so close to his mouth that it looked as if he were about to eat it. Behind him I could see Jakob at the organ, facing the audience, alert and watchful, the way he had always observed how their music was being received. To the left Harry Kløve stood rooted to the spot 183with his bass guitar, and Arild Hjellestad’s head protruded from the drum kit as if it were part of it, while his hands appeared to be making a sign of the cross with the drumsticks against the black background.

‘1962,’ Arild Sletten said.

I held up the newspaper cutting. ‘Have you any idea why they suddenly split up in 1975.’

‘No, although signs of wear and tear had been evident long before. The last years, from 1973 to 1975, they performed less and less. They ditched the Norwegian lyrics and went back to their old hits. God knows, they may have even gone back to calling themselves The Harpers again as well – at least when they appeared on golden oldies’ evenings.’

‘They never dusted themselves down and came out of retirement, did they?’

‘No, strangely enough, although recently promoters have tried to breathe new life into anything that held a guitar in those days.’

‘There’s a reason why there was no Harpers’ revival, of course.’

He looked at me in surprise. ‘Oh, yes? And that is…?’

‘I suppose you know that they’re dead now, most of them?’

‘Dead? Who? Not Jakob Aasen anyway?’

‘No, but he’s the only one left. Harry Kløve died last year, Arild Hjellestad earlier this year and Johnny Solheim the day before yesterday.’

‘Oh. I … didn’t know.’

‘You didn’t? I’m surprised. I mean…’ I motioned towards his display of comprehensive material.

‘Oh, that … It’s just professional interest, Veum. When they stop playing, they also disappear from the card index. If I were to follow up on the musicians who drop by the wayside I would be giving the National Registration Office a run for its money – 184they would come to me for help. No, I’m afraid my information system isn’t that extensive. Have I answered your questions?’

‘Sort of. Is there nothing you can add? Something of a more unofficial nature? From the rumour mill?’