Closed for Winter (10 page)

Wisting took Torunn Borg and Benjamin Fjeld with him. Espen Mortensen followed in a crime scene vehicle.

At the coast he led them through dense alder trees for several hundred metres to where Line stood with her arms folded. A gust of wind ruffled her hair, leaving it tousled around her face. She was soaked and shivering.

Pulling her towards him, silently holding her before letting go, he rubbed his hands quickly up and down her arms to pummel some warmth into her trembling body. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

When she nodded, he understood she was telling the truth. She had been in similar situations before.

He stepped away to look at the boat. Scraping against the pebbles, it rocked with every wave that beat against the shore. The dead man leaned against the stern, the wounds inflicted on his face by the seagulls resembling large pustules. He wore an open, black jacket with a grey sweater underneath. The sweater was encrusted with blood. The boat had let in water, which now reached the dead man’s hips.

Wisting wished his daughter could have been spared this. She was robust, but he knew how such sights return to haunt you, even years later. He had lost count of the number of times he had wakened bathed in sweat, bestial images fixed on his retina, pictures from real life. Line could not know how affected she would be by the unpredictability of their coming, how threatening darkness can be, and how what has been seen once can return and grow in your consciousness. Wisting knew all too well.

Clearing his throat, he assumed his professional persona. ‘We’ll need you to make a formal statement.’ He turned to Benjamin Fjeld. ‘Perhaps you could go back to the cottage with her?’

The young police officer nodded.

Wisting made eye contact with Line again. ‘Okay?’

She smiled broadly. ‘Fine.’

‘Afterwards, what will you do?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you go home? I have to work, but Suzanne is there.’

Line shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m staying at the cottage.’

Wisting closed his eyes and shook his head. He did not like the thought of Line alone. Staying here probably did not constitute a physical risk, but unwelcome thoughts could come creeping at night. He understood she needed time to adjust to the break from Tommy, but sitting alone out here with all her thoughts and emotions was not a good idea.

‘Come home for tonight at least, and you can sleep in your old room.’

‘I like being here,’ she said, telling him with her eyes how useless it was to try to change her mind.

Stubbornness: yet another quality she had inherited from her mother. Wisting shook his head. Looking earnestly at her, he made sure she knew she could change her mind at any time and that he could be reached by phone twenty-four hours a day. Line smiled back, hugged him briefly and pulled her jacket more snugly around herself.

Benjamin Fjeld let her walk ahead. Wisting followed them with his gaze until they disappeared beyond the headland, before turning to face the sea and a snell wind that blew with all its might, sending angry blasts across the land and rocking the boat. The dead man unbendingly rocked with it.

‘What do you think?’ Torunn Borg asked.

‘There’s a connection,’ he replied. ‘Must be.’

Espen Mortensen descended the path with a rucksack on his back, removed it without speaking, and looked down at the dead body. ‘I think I recognise the tread on those boots,’ he said. ‘It’s the same as in the cottage.’

Wisting approached more closely, balancing on a slippery boulder. The dead man’s boots stuck vertically out of the murky water. He had not studied the crime scene photographs, but the pattern on the soles was chunky and seemed distinctive. ‘The footprints in the blood?’ he asked.

‘No, in the living room. The footprints in the blood are from a training shoe or something like that. I may know what type by the end of the day.’

Torunn Borg stepped out onto the slippery stones beside Wisting. ‘Where did all the blood come from?’ she asked, indicating the saturated sweater.

Espen Mortensen waded into the water and alongside the boat. ‘The injuries on his face are from the gulls,’ he said. ‘He has more serious injuries in the abdomen.’

Torunn Borg stepped closer to the boat, leaning on Wisting to do so. ‘Is that a revolver?’ she asked, pointing under the water and between the decking boards.

Supporting himself on the side of the boat, Mortensen bent forward and peered down into the dirty water. ‘Yes, but the empty cartridges we found over in the area of the cottages were 38 calibre. This is a smaller weapon. Probably a 22.’ Wading ashore again, he opened the rucksack and produced a camera. Wisting and Torunn Borg withdrew slightly. ‘The boat’s unregistered,’ he said. ‘No outboard motor or oars. I wonder what he was actually doing out there.’

Wisting lifted his eyes. The seagulls were circling low above their heads. The sea blended into the leaden sky, entirely erasing the horizon. ‘What’ll we do with the boat?’ he asked.

‘We’ll get a recovery vessel to tow it to the nearest harbour. Then we can haul it up on a breakdown truck and bring it in.’

‘With the body on board?’

‘I think that’s the simplest solution. I’ll carry out an inspection here first. He’s been out all night, so I don’t think I’ll do much further damage.’

Wisting tucked his collar up, turned his back to the sea and trudged towards his car.

Line opened the cottage door. ‘I just need to change,’ she said, heading for the bedroom.

Closing the front door behind them, Benjamin Fjeld looked around. ‘It’s cold here,’ he said. ‘Cosy enough, but cold.’

In the bedroom Line pulled off her wet clothes, the skin on her chest and along her bare arms bristling with little goose pimples. Hauling her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for something to wear, finally putting on a tracksuit before returning to the living room.

Benjamin Fjeld was crouched in front of the fireplace, stacking kindling in the open hearth. ‘Is this all right?’ he asked, taking a box of matches from the mantelpiece.

‘Marvellous. I haven’t tried a fire yet, so you need to check the damper and that kind of thing.’

‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, striking a match.

‘I arrived yesterday.’

‘Is this your cottage?’

‘It’s Dad’s. He’s just inherited it from his uncle.’

‘Are you living here on your own?’

‘I live in Oslo. I came down to chill for a few days.’

The kindling caught fire and Benjamin Fjeld added a couple of logs from the basket before sitting in a chair beside the window.

Line stepped across to the kitchen corner. ‘I need a hot drink. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

Line looked at him as she filled the kettle. Around her age, he was tall and broad-shouldered. Though his dark hair was slightly too short for her liking, it accentuated his clean-cut, chiselled features. She found herself thinking that she was not wearing any makeup, and had not showered or tidied herself before venturing out. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Bjørkelangen,’ he said. ‘A little place to the east of Akershus.’

Line knew where it was as she had been there on a missing person the previous year. It was an idyllic county where forestry was the main source of employment. ‘Have you been working here long?’

‘Almost two years. I started in Oslo after Police College, and then applied for this post. My family had caravan holidays here for years.’

‘You like it, then?’

‘I love the open landscape. Where I come from is mainly forest.’

‘I miss it,’ Line smilingly remarked. ‘Oslo is really so huge and foreign. Don’t you think so?’

He agreed, smiling broadly. ‘Strictly speaking, I’m the one who should be asking the questions.’

She chuckled and sat down opposite him, where the warmth from the fireplace heated her back. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s an old habit. It’s part of my job too. I’m a journalist.’

When he nodded she suddenly realised it was common knowledge where the boss’s daughter worked. Simultaneously, it struck her that she should tell the editorial staff about the discovery of the corpse. The news wasn’t out yet, and they could be first to break it. She really ought to grab her camera and get back to the discovery site before it was too late.

‘I’m afraid there isn’t very much I can tell you,’ she continued. ‘I found a dead man in a boat, and that was that.’

Benjamin Fjeld produced a notebook and flipped through to find a blank page. ‘Did you meet anybody?’

She shook her head. ‘A lot of people go walking out here, but it was early and the weather wasn’t too great.’

‘Have you seen anyone else here since you arrived?’

Line remembered the man with binoculars and nodded eagerly.

‘He was quite conspicuous,’ she said after describing him. ‘I don’t know what he was looking for.’

Scribbling notes, Benjamin Fjeld lifted his gaze to look past her. ‘Kettle’s boiling,’ he said.

Line rushed over and, filling the cups only half-full, returned with them to the coffee table. Benjamin Fjeld lifted his and raised it cautiously to his mouth. His sinewy neck contracted when he swallowed. He rose and walked past her to throw another log on the fire. The flames blazed, and the glimmer of light played in his eyes as he sat down again. They were brown, the pupils completely dark. Blinking, he returned to his notebook. ‘What did he look like?’

‘Hm?’

‘The man with binoculars. What did he look like?’

‘I only saw him from a distance. He wore an enormous black raincoat that reached below his knees, and Wellington boots.’

‘Anything on his head?’

‘An old-fashioned sou’wester.’ Another thing struck her. ‘He must have parked in the space out there.’ She pointed in the direction of the area where she had parked her own car. ‘At least there was a big, dirty van there, a VW Transporter or something like that.’

Benjamin Fjeld asked her to describe the van before laying aside his notebook. ‘How long are you staying here?’ he enquired.

‘A week.’

He stood up. ‘Well, I may come back. You must phone me or your father if you think of anything else.’ He placed a card with his name and phone number on the table. ‘Or if the man with the binoculars turns up again.’

Letting the card lie, Line collected their teacups and carried them to the kitchen sink. ‘I’ll come with you.’

‘You don’t need to do that,’ he said, pulling on his jacket.

Line took down the camera bag hanging from a hook beside the door. ‘I think my news editor will have a different opinion,’ she said with a grin.

The morning meeting had been postponed until everyone returned, but the only person now missing was Espen Mortensen. Wisting had informed Christine Thiis about the communication from the Oslo police. Now he opened the staff meeting with the same information. ‘Leif Malm from the intelligence section is meeting me here later with the person who dealt with the informant. I’d like Christine Thiis and Nils Hammer to join me.’

The atmosphere around the conference table became optimistic as the investigators contributed comments and suggestions on how an unsuccessful drugs deal could fit.

‘And,’ Wisting continued, leafing through his notepad. ‘Another body found.’

Benjamin Fjeld started the projector and Wisting indicated the discovery site on the map that appeared on the screen. ‘As the crow flies, it’s less than three kilometres to the cottage where the first body was discovered on Friday. We have every reason to believe there’s a connection. Also, the pattern on the soles of his shoes is strikingly similar to the prints found in the cottage.’

‘Do we know who he is?’ one of the detectives asked.

As Espen Mortensen had entered the conference room, Wisting passed the question to him. ‘No,’ he replied, taking up position at the far end of the table. ‘He only had one thing on him that might help.’ The crime scene technician took a step forward and placed a transparent evidence bag on the table. ‘This photograph.’

Wisting reached forward and pulled the bag towards him. The photograph was somewhat larger than a normal passport photograph and stained with moisture. A woman in her mid-twenties, she had chubby cheeks, wore rather too much lipstick, and her smile showed slightly crooked teeth. Blonde hair lay in loose curls around her shoulders. ‘A girlfriend?’ he suggested, passing on the photograph.

‘Maybe.’

Espen Mortensen took charge of the computer from Nils Hammer. ‘I’ve just uploaded another photograph, which is extremely interesting.’

The investigators turned back to the screen. Wisting recognised the receipt found the day before on the path near the group of cottages. Yesterday the ink had been watery and illegible. Now the scrap of paper had been freeze-dried and was bathed in stark blue light. The text remained difficult to read, but it was possible to interpret.

The receipt was from the Esso station at the exit road from the E18. Someone had purchased a hotdog and a packet of
Dent
pastilles.

‘None of our team dropped it,’ Mortensen continued, crossing to the screen and pointing. ‘It’s dated Friday evening at 20.49, barely an hour before the alarm was raised.’

‘Then it must have been the killer or the victim!’ Hammer said. The burly detective stood up and made his way towards the door. ‘I have the DVD from the CCTV camera at that petrol station in my office.’

Wisting leaned back in his chair, enjoying the satisfactory sound of pieces falling into place.

‘Okay,’ Mortensen went on. ‘While we’re waiting for the pictures: I’ve had it confirmed that the tread on the soles of the shoes tramped through the blood is from a Nike trainer.’

He clicked his way forward to display the photograph of a white leather training shoe. The curved Nike logo was clearly marked in blue on the side.

‘A Nike Main Draw men’s shoe,’ Mortensen said. ‘The same print has been found in at least one of the other cottages as well.’

‘Which one?’

‘The nearest for one, but there are still piles of footprint samples to go through. Probably we’ll find it in other cottages too.’

‘There’s a good chance the perpetrator has got rid of them by now,’ Torunn Borg supposed. ‘They must have been covered in blood.’

Wisting agreed, but avoided commenting that the remarks made by Christine Thiis at the press conference might also have done some damage.

Nils Hammer returned, holding the DVD aloft before inserting it into the computer. The images were unusually sharp and clear, and the text below showed time and date. Nils Hammer fast-forwarded.

‘We can’t be sure, of course, that the clock on the cash register and the CCTV camera are set to the identical time,’ Mortensen reminded them.

‘We’ll need to keep a lookout for everybody eating hotdogs.’

Only the noise of the ceiling projector disturbed the silence as the counter on the CCTV film passed 20.45.

Two minutes later, a stocky bald man wearing fine-rimmed glasses entered the shop, exchanged a few words with the girl behind the cash desk, lifted a box of pastilles from a display stand and produced a wallet from his back pocket. The girl accepted a banknote and returned his change together with a receipt. The man placed both in the side pocket of his jacket as the girl crossed to the serving counter, where she inserted a hotdog sausage into a bread roll and handed it to him.

Hammer froze the video picture as the man opened his mouth, about to take his first bite.

‘It’s Jostein Hammersnes,’ Benjamin Fjeld said.

‘Who?’

‘One of the other cottage owners. He also had a break-in. I interviewed him yesterday. He arrived at the cottage about nine o’clock on Friday night, using the same path, but didn’t see or hear anything. It must have been all over by the time he arrived.’

‘A dead end,’ Hammer pronounced, stopping the video player. ‘Damn.’

‘How’s the toll booth project going?’

‘The systems will soon be up and running again.’

Hammer sat down at the conference table again and flicked through his notes. ‘It’s actually quicker getting responses from abroad than from our own data systems.’ He produced a printout. ‘Carlos Mendoza,’ he said, leafing through. ‘The Spanish mobile account for the phone found beside the cottages was opened at a combined Internet café and mini-market in Malaga. The proprietor was imprisoned last month on suspicion of fraud and identity theft. The Spanish police believe that our accounts in the name of Carlos Mendoza are only two of many false identities he has sold to criminals. They aren’t optimistic about finding the actual user. The telephone has been switched off, and the last registered use was here with us.’

It’s another dead end, Wisting thought, staring through the window. The wind was still gusting, though the rain clouds had disappeared. The photograph of the woman with blonde curls had circulated around the table. Grabbing it, he rose from his seat.

‘I want to know who this is,’ he said, slapping it down in front of Torunn Borg. ‘She meant something to the man who was carrying her portrait. I want to talk to her. She may have the answers we’re looking for.’