Closed for Winter (5 page)

Line was reluctant to go to bed, but so bleary-eyed that she had to stretch out on the settee and pull a blanket over herself. She was wakened by her mobile phone when the clock display showed 04.23. Her neck was aching and throat dry.

Initially, she thought it was Tommy sending his usual message, apologising for being late and telling her he would be home soon, but she was wrong. Instead it was a red alert from
NTB
, a service she subscribed to, notifying her of breaking news. They called it red alert because, when it rolled over the news feed on the enormous screens in the editorial offices, the letters were in bold red font. There was always great excitement when a news story the journalists had worked on hit the public domain and the newspaper was given the credit in a rushed message from the news bureau.

She squinted at the display:
NTB: The police in Vestfold confirm murder enquiry after body found in holiday cottage. Armed police searching for perpetrator with dogs and helicopter.

She opened her laptop to read what her newspaper had to say about the case. They had already published a dramatic photograph of an armed, uniformed police officer standing in front of flapping police crime scene tape with a helicopter suspended in the air behind him. A freelancer had taken the photo. The headline warned the public about a fleeing killer. She checked the bye-line and saw that one of their more experienced journalists, on duty in the online newspaper’s editorial office, had got the scoop. Since the police had been armed, it was natural to query whether the situation was dangerous for the public and, as long as the police could not guarantee safety, this strikingly effective headline was legitimate.

She skimmed the brief article, noting that it did not add much more factual information than the hurried message from
NTB
. The police were unforthcoming, and the
VG Nett
online newspaper would provide further details later.

She checked the other newspapers.
Dagbladet
had illustrated their report with a map, while
Aftenposten
was text only. As far as content was concerned, neither of them had any details to add.

Line had been employed at
Verdens Gang
for just over two years, but during this short tenure she had won several journalistic awards. She could not conceive of doing any other kind of work. It had become more than a source of income for her. Being a journalist was her way of life. Envisioning the busy editorial office, she felt pleased she had just taken some time off. She enjoyed working on such cases, but at present had too much on her mind.

A car door slammed in the street and she crossed to the window to look. The streetlamps swayed in the wind, and the asphalt three floors below was running with water though the rain had at last subsided.

Tommy had parked in an empty space directly opposite their block of flats. Standing beside the car, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes before selecting one. His clean-cut features glowed as he lit up. His mobile phone rang in his trouser pocket and he hurried to answer, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. When he glanced up she withdrew slightly from the window.

Line collected her cup and plate from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen as Tommy let himself in. He smiled when he caught sight of her. ‘Haven’t you gone to bed?’ he asked.

She shook her head, avoiding his speckled brown eyes. Something still stirred inside her when he entered, but she had made her decision and would let common sense triumph.

He attempted to give her a quick kiss, but she turned away to avoid the tobacco smell. Laughing at her, he threw his leather jacket on a chair. Underneath he was wearing only a tight white T-shirt that was stretched around his upper arms.

Opening the fridge, he helped himself to a beer before producing an opener from the drawer and leaving it lying on the worktop together with the bottle top. The taut sinews in his neck stood out as he drank. ‘How did dinner with your father go?’ he asked, leaning against the kitchen worktop. ‘Did it taste good?’

Taking a deep breath, Line carefully enunciated the sentence that had been waiting, ready, inside her head, for some time. ‘This isn’t working anymore.’

He stared at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re hardly ever home, and I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing.’

‘I’m running a restaurant.’

‘You’re hardly ever there either. I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know your friends or the people you spend time with.’

‘You haven’t been particularly interested in getting to know them either.’ His Danish accent was more noticeable when he was riled.

Line flung out her arms expressively. ‘The ones I have met I haven’t been especially interested in getting to know better,’ she admitted. ‘But that’s not the point.’

‘What is the point?’

‘The two of us. Don’t you see that we’re drifting apart?’

‘That’s not only my fault. I don’t always know when you’re home either. You’re sometimes away for days on an assignment.’

‘That’s my job.’

‘And
Shazam Station
is my job. I’m doing it for us, you know, even though I’m not paid for every hour I’m there.’

‘For us? What do we have to show for it? There aren’t any profits. You’re living in my flat and driving around in my car.’ She grabbed the bottle top from the counter and hurled it into the rubbish bin. ‘You don’t contribute much at all.’

He set down the bottle and stepped towards her. ‘It will get better,’ he said, making a move to embrace her.

She wriggled free. She had heard him say that too many times before.

The first six months with Tommy had been ecstatic. She hardly ate, hardly slept, and every hour away from him had felt like a meaningless waste of time. She was head over heels in love, and the protestations of her girlfriends were simply irritating. Kaja, one of Line’s best friends from the newspaper, had appeared at the flat one evening, clutching a bottle of wine, full of good intentions. After a couple of glasses, Kaja delivered pragmatic advice together with remarks about Tommy’s background, his lack of education, his family relationships. She thought it obvious that he was not a suitable life partner for Line. The evening had ended with Line showing her the door, offended by her lack of faith in her, and more certain than before of her love for Tommy.

Now the intensity of their love had diminished she reluctantly had to admit that Kaja had a point. Lack of education and a few mistakes in his past were not in themselves problematic, but it felt as though large parts of Tommy’s life were hidden from her, and in recent months anxiety had overwhelmed her happiness. A week earlier she had done something she could have sworn she would never do and checked Tommy’s text messages when he was in the shower.

Trembling, she had scrolled through his inbox, searching for answers to the questions that troubled her night and day, but had emerged none the wiser. She had found no sign of infidelity, only business appointments and innocuous messages from people involved in
Shazam Station
. Afterwards, she had felt ashamed, and the only way she was able to forget her disgrace and disquiet was to lose herself in Tommy’s arms.

She completely recognised how clichéd her situation was, but that did not improve matters. Accustomed to being in control of her life, even after her mother’s death she had understood who she was and what was right for her. However, she was now on the verge of disintegrating and needed to be alone for a while, to renew contact with old girlfriends, go for walks, take exercise, and discover what kind of life she really wanted. In Tommy’s company she lived from day to day; she had adopted his habits, and it was becoming clear that this was not the route to a harmonious life. She was robust, but needed some measure of predictability at home. As her job was full of surprising twists and turns and grotesque assignments, she needed to feel secure with her nearest and dearest, but she did not feel even safe with Tommy. He held his cards too close to his chest, communicated physically rather than verbally, seemed troubled and restless but refused to concede that something was worrying him.

‘This isn’t working anymore,’ she repeated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The two of us,’ she said, pointing from him to herself. ‘I no longer know if this is what I want.’

He did not speak, but simply continued to stand, clasping the beer bottle he had picked up again, clutching it to his chest as he looked at her.

‘I need some time to myself,’ she declared.

This was a tentative method of articulating her intentions. Nevertheless she noticed a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes. She gave all her thoughts expression through words and once they were set free, they continued to spill out. She had to make a determined effort to remain calm.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, shaking his head.

‘Maybe that’s the problem, she suggested.

He was about to say something, but was interrupted by a signal from his mobile phone. He read the message and glanced up at her. ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’ he asked, putting down the beer bottle.

‘Are you going out again?’

‘There are some problems down at
Shazam
,’ he said, lifting his jacket. ‘They need me.’

She wanted to say that she needed him too, but that was no longer true. ‘I won’t be here when you come back,’ she said instead.

He sighed, continuing to stand with his jacket in his hand. ‘Can’t we discuss this?’

‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say. I’m going home for a while.’

‘What is it you want, then?’

‘I want you to come back and pack your belongings, and find yourself somewhere else to stay.’ She stood with her arms folded as Tommy continued to stare at her. Then he lowered his head, turned on his heel and left.

Just before six o’clock Wisting leaned back in his office chair and closed his eyes. He had gathered his strength like this many times before, and knew that a doze of only half an hour would put him in better shape for the rest of the day. He drifted into sleep but was wakened twenty minutes later by a knock at the door. Straightening up, he cleared his throat and greeted Christine Thiis.

The newly appointed Assistant Chief of Police sat at the opposite side of his desk, looking intently at him. Her state of mind was always revealed by her eyes. Open and straightforward, her eyes were like those of an intelligent child, eager to learn.

‘How are the children?’ Wisting asked before she had broken the silence.

For a moment it appeared that she had not understood his question, and then she smiled, ‘They’re fine. Fast asleep. My mother’s arrived and will stay for the weekend. Next week too, if necessary.’

‘That’s good.’

In the four months she had been with them Christine Thiis had never mentioned the children’s father. All they knew was that he was a corporate lawyer in Oslo, but there was never any suggestion of the children staying with him. Wisting had the impression that her former marriage was something she did not want to discuss, as though it comprised only unhappy memories she would prefer to forget.

‘How are things going here?’ she asked.

Wisting stroked his chin. ‘Situation normal: complex and confusing.’

Apprehension appeared in her eyes, and it dawned on him that she had never previously participated in such an investigation. ‘It’s always like this in the beginning,’ he said. ‘Gradually we get a grip on things.’

He clarified the overnight developments in the case, letting his eyes slide over her instead of meeting her penetrating gaze. Her hair was short and chestnut-coloured with unruly curls. She had soft and generous lips and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. He suddenly felt that he had lost concentration, struck by an abrupt, involuntary thought about what type of man could let her go, before continuing his report and concluding with the discovery of the bullet wounds in the murder victim.

‘Have we any theories?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ Wisting answered. ‘This early in the case all we have are speculations.’

‘But you must have some thoughts about what might have happened?’

Wisting considered the implications of her question. Building a case on mere speculation was like pouring sand into your petrol tank, the road to ruin. ‘What is obvious, of course, is that there’s some connection between the burglaries at the cottages and the murder. It will all become much simpler once we establish the identity of the victim.’

‘And when do we get to know that?’

‘That can take time. The post mortem will begin in a couple of hours. We’ll have people from the ID group at
Kripos
joining us there. They’ll start by undressing him. As soon as we have a picture of the face behind the balaclava, we’ll know a great deal more, but it’s far from certain that it’ll tell us anything valuable. He won’t necessarily be someone already known to us. He may not even be Norwegian. If we’re lucky he’ll have an ID card of some description, or something else in his pockets that takes us further. If we’re really lucky, his details will be in the fingerprint register. Then we’ll have our answers before this day is done.’

Christine Thiis stood up. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘When are you meeting with the investigators?’

Wisting glanced at the clock. ‘In half an hour. In the conference room.’

‘Then I’ll see you there.’ The Assistant Chief of Police stepped towards the door.

‘There’s one thing more,’ Wisting called after her.

‘Yes?’

‘The prosecutor’s responsibilities also include liaison with the media.’ Christine Thiis nodded with what Wisting thought was a trace of uncertainty. ‘A press conference has been arranged for ten o’clock.’

‘You’ll accompany me, I hope?’

‘Yes.’ Wisting smiled. ‘I’ll come with you.’

A few minutes before seven, the investigators gathered in the conference room. Wisting paid a visit to the toilet, where he splashed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror for several seconds. His pale face was swollen, his hair untidy and his eyes fixed. Tearing a paper towel from the holder, he dried himself before tossing the paper in the bin and leaving to join his colleagues.

Someone had switched on the television and Wisting stood in the doorway following the news report about the case in progress. On the screen, four policemen carried a covered stretcher, placing it in the rear of a hearse as a reporter gave an account of what the News Channel knew about the case. In the lower corner of the picture, his commentary was summed up in bold text:
MURDER ALARM IN LARVIK
.

The report continued with alternating photographs of the police helicopter, dog handlers, and police officers wearing bulletproof vests and carrying weapons while they played the recording of a telephone interview in which Christine Thiis made a few concise comments. Wisting recognised his own words from his briefing of her. The reportage was rounded off with photographs of the hearse leaving the scene accompanied by Christine Thiis commenting that the victim had not yet been identified and that the investigation would make considerable progress as soon as the post mortem had been carried out, establishing the identity of the murder victim.

She managed well, Wisting reflected, her voice betraying no trace of the uncertainty he had read in her eyes.

The newsreader promised viewers that they would continue to pursue the story in the course of the day and return with a live broadcast from the press conference at ten o’clock.

The TV set was switched off as Wisting stepped into the room where a rapid head count showed twenty-two people in total. The dog handlers were sitting on chairs lining the wall, together with others from the operational force who had worked through the night. The investigators who would progress the case were seated around the conference table. At the top, the Chief Superintendent had already taken his place, with Christine Thiis in the chair Wisting normally occupied at such meetings.

He sat in the vacant chair at her side. Outside, the autumn darkness would persist for another hour yet. ‘Welcome,’ he said, going on to thank the officers who were on overtime duties.

Nils Hammer started the ceiling projector, and an overview map showing the area between Hummerbakk fjord and Nevlunghavn illuminated the screen. At a point on the inside of the cove described as Ødegårdsbukta, a cottage by the edge of the sea was highlighted.

Wisting cleared his throat before delivering as succinct a summary as possible, appreciating from the expressions surrounding him that everyone in the room was already familiar with the case. Locating the leader of the operational force in his seat beside the row of windows, he nodded in his direction.

‘What’s the latest from the crime scene?’

Placing his coffee cup between his legs, the burly officer produced his notebook. ‘We called off the search for the presumed perpetrator half an hour ago,’ he explained as he flicked through the pages. ‘As you know, it was fruitless and we have neither an arrest nor the murder weapon. In the meantime, a couple of interesting things have cropped up. The crime scene technicians will probably say more about those, but I will say this much. There have been a lot of people out there. The dog handlers have tracked in every direction, from cottage to cottage. I think we’re talking about four or five sets of unidentified footprints at least.’

Wisting made a few notes. Although information would appear in a report later in the day, it was nevertheless useful to record it now.

‘The prints frequently end up at one side road or other, so they had a vehicle.’

‘Have you found any cars?’

‘We’ve checked several. There will always be a few cars parked at a group of cottages like that, but they are all accounted for. You’ll receive a detailed list, but we’re talking about cottage owners, fishermen, birdwatchers and farmers, all of whom have seen or heard zilch.’

The operations leader grabbed hold of his cup and leafed through his notes.

‘The most interesting discovery is one we made just before we finished,’ he said. ‘Out at Smørvika we found three empty cartridges.’

Wisting turned to the map hanging on the wall behind him. Nils Hammer placed the cursor on a little inlet east of Ødegårdsbukta. The surrounding area was shaded green, indicating a nature reserve. The cottage where the body had been found was the nearest habitation, at a distance of five to six hundred metres.

‘They’re lying in the middle of the path and can’t have been there long. At one side of the path there’s a patch of woodland, and two of the cartridges are lying on top of newly fallen leaves. We’ve cordoned off the area and have covered them with a tarpaulin, so the technicians can have a look at them when they have time.’

‘That’s good,’ Wisting remarked. ‘Excellent.’

He had not previously heard about the discovery of the cartridges, and his spirits were lifted by the operational leader’s account. Magazine clips, firing pins, strikers and fingers all left traces on gun cartridges. This discovery represented the securing of vital evidence.

He assigned a further fifteen minutes of the meeting to the officers who had worked through the night to relate their thoughts and impressions, before thanking them for their attendance, thus reducing the number of assembled participants. In this type of case, there was always some information he was reluctant to share with more colleagues than absolutely necessary. What he had christened the
Telephone Trace
on his notepad fell into this category.

He gave a brief account of the mobile phone found by the search dogs.

Nils Hammer placed the mobile, still inside a transparent plastic bag, before them on the table. ‘I’ve managed to charge it now,’ he said, looking at Wisting. ‘There’s a message in the inbox,’ he continued, directing himself now to those who were not familiar with the details. ‘It was received at 16.53 yesterday.
20.30
.’

‘A time of day?’ Christine Thiis suggested.

‘Probably. The message was answered by
OK
. Later, at 20.43, the owner has sent
I am here
.’

Christine Thiis gave voice to her thoughts. ‘First a message about a meeting time, and later a confirmation that the person in question had arrived.’

Leaning forward across the table, she lifted the mobile phone, as though it could provide further answers in itself.

‘I interpret it that way as well,’ Hammer affirmed.

‘Is it at the correct time?’ Torunn Borg asked.

‘Approximately. It’s thirty-seven seconds slow.’

‘Who’s the subscriber?’ Christine Thiis asked.

Hammer removed the phone from her hands, as though afraid she might damage it. ‘That’s interesting,’ he replied. ‘It makes this case bigger than it’s been up till now.’ Leaning forward, Wisting eagerly waited for him to continue. ‘There’s a Spanish pay-as-you-go card inside it,’ Hammer explained.

‘Spanish?’

‘Yes, the numbers are Spanish, both the sender and the receiver, and registered to the same person. Carlos Mendoza in Malaga.’

Wisting jotted down
SPAIN
in large capitals on his notepad. They had a name, but he was not sure he liked the sound of it. International ramifications posed great challenges.

‘I’ll follow it up today,’ said Nils Hammer, ‘but I think I’ve found something else of significance.’

Wisting nodded as a sign that he should continue.

Nils Hammer held up the phone as he spoke. ‘When the first message was received, the phone was located in Oslo. The text message was registered by a telephone base station in Havnelageret. Three hours and fifty minutes later, when the owner texts
I am here
, it’s in Nevlunghavn.’

‘An Oslo connection,’ the Chief Superintendent concluded. He had been sitting in silence, listening intently, until this point. ‘Where’s the other phone located?’

‘In Nevlunghavn also, but we can get more out of this.’

Crossing to the flipchart, Nils Hammer picked up a pen and wrote
20.43
at the foot of the sheet of paper before drawing a line to the top of the page and writing
16.53
.

‘If the person concerned sends
I am here
when he arrives in Nevlunghavn …’

‘Then he’s almost a quarter of an hour late,’ Christine Thiis interrupted him. ‘And he has taken nearly double the length of time it usually takes to travel from Oslo.’

Nodding, Nils Hammer continued. Wisting, understanding where he was going with this, leaned forward on the table.

‘Here and here,’ Hammer said, drawing two crosses on the line between Oslo and Nevlunghavn, ‘there are tollbooths. The normal travelling time from the tollbooth on the E18 at Langåker is twenty-five minutes, and from the toll station at Sande one hour and ten minutes. All vehicles in transit are registered with a photograph of the number plate or a subscription chip.’

The Chief Superintendent concurred. ‘All vehicles that pass through the toll station at Langåker about twenty-five minutes before the text message was sent, could be connected to the case.’

‘As Christine pointed out,’ Hammer went on, ‘he arrives nearly fifteen minutes late, and it’s hardly believable that he has taken a break on the last part of the journey, or waited to send the message about having arrived. Nevertheless, if we give him a few minutes slack, he ought to be among the cars passing through the tollbooth between 20.00 and 20.20.’

‘That’s quite a number all the same,’ Torunn Borg piped up. ‘On a Friday evening there must be several thousand vehicles an hour passing through?’

‘Yes, that’s true, but our man is coming from Oslo, and we’re only looking for the cars that have also passed through the toll station at Sande. In addition, it’s reasonable to assume that he drives back the same way, that same evening.’

Christine Thiis recapped, as though to demonstrate that she had understood: ‘So you’ll begin with the vehicles that pass through the toll station at Sande around 19.30 and at Langåker around 20.15, and additionally registered on the return journey that same evening.’