Closed for Winter (7 page)

‘Do you have the murderer’s footprints?’

Now she understood clearly the consequence of what she had revealed, as the perpetrator might be following the press coverage. ‘Wisting?’ she said, passing the question over to him.

‘Obviously it’s too early to say.’ He paused dramatically and cleared his throat to indicate that he had something else. ‘However, a special situation has arisen,’ he continued, fully aware that his words would shift the press focus. ‘The hearse has not arrived at the Forensics Institute. It was expected to arrive at the National Hospital around eight o’clock, and we have a witness who saw it leaving the hospital at top speed, though the driver had not made contact with any of the staff at the forensic pathology department. We have not succeeded in contacting the driver, and we now need to search for the vehicle.’

Wisting read out the registration number and gave a description of the car. Cameras flashed and hands shot into the air. Wisting closed his eyes. They were not going to have a single moment’s peace from now on.

After the press conference Wisting rushed from the conference room. He knew the assembled journalists did not share his misgivings but, as far as he was concerned, the press conference most resembled an amateur dramatics production. The reporters flocked around the police lawyer, anxious to obtain individual interviews, but she knew no more about the vanished hearse than his brief description had indicated, and could therefore not say anything stupid.

Shutting the office door behind him, he stood at his desk while dialling the number for Arnesen at the undertakers. He explained about the initiated search and warned him to prepare to be inundated by phone calls from journalists. He then called together the remaining investigators for a meeting.

Wisting installed himself at one end of the long conference table, extending his arms to grip both sides of the tabletop. ‘The case has taken an unexpected turn,’ he said. ‘At the press conference, we have just announced a search for the hearse that was supposed to convey the body to the Forensics lab.’

The eyes around the table, bewildered and astonished, fixed on him. Wisting continued, fleshing out the few details they possessed, and concluded by putting words to something lingering at the back of his mind. ‘We may be facing a hijacking, which would mean the perpetrator has set the investigation back considerably.’

No one around the table uttered a word. He could see from their expressions that the development had produced a similar feeling of unease in them. In most cases, the perpetrator normally kept his head down, remaining hidden in the hope that everything would pass. Now they were confronted by an adversary actively working to conceal his tracks and hamper their task.

‘One more thing,’ Wisting continued. ‘The hearse also contained the photographic documentation from the crime scene, together with a written report by Mortensen for the Forensics team, summarising our knowledge of the case. I don’t need to explain to you how damaging it will be if these have fallen into the wrong hands.’

‘What’ll we do?’

Standing up, Wisting crossed to the kitchen counter, where he filled a glass of water. ‘What we always do,’ he answered. ‘Investigate. It’s a setback, but we have a fresh crime scene. We need to find the car, and the body.’

He pointed at Torunn Borg and Benjamin Fjeld who were sitting side by side at the table. ‘Get hold of a vehicle and drive out there. The Oslo police are sending a crime scene examiner to Forensics and they’ve said they’ll interview the woman who saw the hearse, but I want more than that. Interview everybody and check the CCTV footage – the whole kit and caboodle. I don’t want as much as a cigarette end left lying on the ground outside the National Hospital.’

The two detectives nodded as they took notes.

‘And one more thing,’ he declared, making eye contact with Nils Hammer. He knew that the experienced investigator was already overloaded, but he was the best digger he had. ‘I want to know everything there is to know about the driver of the hearse.’

Hammer met his gaze with a steady, earnest expression. ‘Right, I’ll get on with that.’

There were no questions, only a scraping of chairs, and the meeting was over.

At half past eleven on the morning of Saturday 2nd October, Wisting returned to the crime scene, twelve hours after he had left. Everything looked different in daylight. More exposed than he had imagined, the landscape was thick with juniper bushes, mostly gnarled and mauled by the wind, and barely a metre high. The spot where he parked afforded him a panoramic view over the sea. A bitterly cold, damp wind whistled ashore.

Wisting broke through the red and white crime scene tape. On the main road behind him, another tape kept the press contingent at a distance. The terrain down to the cottages was rough and steep, and he had to tread warily as the path was covered in slippery roots. On his way he passed two technicians, crouched down studying something that appeared to be a scrap of paper at the edge of the path. Trampled into the heather, it was nothing anyone else would have noticed but, for crime technicians inspecting the tortuous path metre by metre, every fragment was potential evidence, and something that seemed unimportant now could turn out to be vital later. What seemed obscure and unconnected at present could prove to be the decisive detail.

Directly beneath them lay a dead bird, its head snapped backwards, wings spread to one side. ‘Have you seen this?’ Wisting enquired.

The elder of the two technicians nodded as he stood up. ‘There’s another one lying further down,’ he said. ‘Do you think it has anything to do with the case?’

‘Do you?’

The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied decisively, nudging the bird off the path with his foot.

Wisting halted at the clearing in front of the cottage to gain a better impression. In daylight it seemed peaceful and well maintained. Crime scene examiners were busy here too. One of them, on his hunkers at the front door of the cottage, picking at something, stood up when he caught sight of Wisting. The black, coagulated blood and chalk outline of a human body on the uneven timber floor bore witness to the crime.

The investigations Mortensen had conducted suggested that the scenario was entirely different from what they had envisioned the previous night. The man had been bludgeoned to death in the confined space of the hallway, but had already been mortally wounded before he stepped inside the door.

Having brought a map indicating the discovery sites for the mobile phone and empty cartridges, Wisting followed the path until he arrived at the locations.

He positioned himself on the spot where the gunman had stood and surveyed his surroundings. Several broken branches were visible in the nearest grove of trees, but it was questionable whether the damage had been caused by police dogs or by someone fleeing in panic at night.

Raising his arms, he took aim over the desolate landscape, as though clutching a pistol in his hands. Tensing his body, he pulled the trigger of the imaginary weapon, but this simple reconstruction gave him no greater understanding. He folded the map and tucked it into his inside pocket before returning to his car.

A sparrow approached, wings flapping, and settled in front of him on the car bonnet, looking exactly as though it was staring at him. Before it took off again Wisting thought he detected a trace of fear in the tiny bird’s black eyes.

On the return journey, he decelerated as he passed the site of his attack and car hijack. At the farm where he had received assistance, the owner was standing on the road, sweeping something onto a spade and dropping it into a wheelbarrow. Wisting wondered whether he ought to stop to thank him for his help, but decided against this. At the same moment, his phone rang, and noticing that the call was from Line, he answered using his hands-free kit.

‘Hi, Dad,’ she said, ‘it is me.’ He could hear from those five words that something was wrong. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Hectic,’ he replied. ‘How are you?’

‘I was thinking of coming down for a visit.’

‘Are you going to write about the case?’

‘No, I’m on holiday. I was just thinking of coming home for a while. Is that okay?’

Wisting grasped the nettle. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘I just need to get away for a while. Chill out.’

‘Are things okay between you and Tommy?’

‘No.’

Wisting remained silent, noticing how he used the hiatus in the same way as he did in his professional life, when he wanted people to elaborate a point.

‘It’s over,’ Line said. ‘It’s really only been a question of time. I thought I should come home so Tommy could have a few days to pack and find himself somewhere else to stay. Is that all right?’

‘Of course,’ Wisting answered. ‘Suzanne’s living with me just now, of course. Her house is full of tradesmen, but it’ll be fine. Your room is available.’

It went quiet at the other end of the line. ‘Maybe I could stay at the cottage?’ Line suggested.

‘The cottage?’

‘Yes, the one you took over from Uncle Georg.’

‘I don’t know, Line. It’s been years since anybody was there.’

‘Then it’s about time,’ she said. ‘I can clean and tidy. That’ll give me something else to think about.’

‘But I don’t know if I have time to come out there with you …’

‘You don’t need to. I know where it is, and there’s electricity and running water.’

Wisting could hear how the idea of staying at Uncle Georg’s cottage had lifted her spirits. Her voice was livelier. ‘The key’s at home,’ he said. ‘You can help yourself to whatever cleaning materials you need.’

‘I’ll buy some
en route
, and food as well.’

Wishing her luck, he wound up the conversation. In his thoughts he envisaged the map hanging on the wall in the conference room, with the cottage where the victim had been found marked with a red circle. The distance from there to Uncle Georg’s cottage in Værvågen could not be greater than four kilometres, and they still knew nothing about the killer roaming through the bleak autumn landscape.

Wisting found a box of
Paracet
with one remaining tablet in his desk drawer. He pressed it from the blister pack, washing it down with cold coffee from the cup on his desktop.

Nils Hammer entered the office with a pale, shy man in an anonymous charcoal suit following behind. Wisting recognised him as Ingvar Arnesen from Memento undertakers. Hammer slapped a printout of an enlarged passport photograph on the desk. ‘Ottar Mold,’ he announced.

Wisting picked up the photograph of the vanished hearse driver: a broad face with dark close-set eyes, high forehead, wide jaw, and strong, bearded chin. ‘What do we know about him?’

The funeral director remained standing while Hammer sat in the visitor’s chair. ‘A lot,’ he replied, leafing through his notebook. ‘Forty-six years old, two grown-up sons, recently separated and now living in a studio flat in Torstrand.’ Wisting waved him on. These details he already knew. ‘The most interesting fact is that he’s been inside.’

‘In prison?’

‘Twice: three months in 2002 and six months in 2004.’

‘What for?’

‘Receiving stolen goods.’

Ingvar Arnesen took a step forward. ‘I didn’t know anything about it,’ he said.

Hammer produced a number of stapled sheets of paper. ‘I have details of the last court case. He had bought stolen computers, televisions and DVD players and sold them on.’

Wisting fastened his eyes on Ingvar Arnesen, wanting to ask how he could have employed such a man. If there was one time when people really needed to rely on others, it was in connection with a funeral.

Ingvar Arnesen cleared his throat. ‘He approached me,’ he explained, without waiting to be asked. ‘He’d been unemployed for three months and was tired of having nothing to do. I had registered a vacancy for additional staff at the unemployment office, but it’s a special kind of work, and no candidates had declared an interest. I valued his initiative and wanted to give him a chance.’

‘Did he have references?’

‘I spoke to a courier company he had worked for. They gave him a good recommendation. He worked hard and always turned up and that’s what I needed: an assistant to collect from the hospital or nursing home, and accompany me during the night. He was taciturn and polite, but had little contact with our clientele. I take care of that myself. Besides, I know his family. I buried his grandparents and know his mother well. She’s an active church member.’

Wisting gazed steadily at the man, who evaded his eye, causing Wisting to suspect there was more. He waited for him to continue.

‘There are certain circumstances I should tell you about,’ Ingvar Arnesen said, after Wisting had made the silence oppressive. ‘Ottar Mold seems to have considerable financial problems. I’ve been given instructions by the tax authorities and enforcement officers to make deductions from his wages.’

Wisting wondered whether he should invite Arnesen to bring a chair across from the door and sit down, but decided to keep him on his feet.

‘And there’s one more thing,’ the funeral director continued. ‘Things have gone missing from the deceased.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Last weekend, Ottar collected a man who had died relatively suddenly from the nursing home in Stavern. Afterwards, his son reported several thousand kroner missing, money he thought his father had kept in a wallet in the bedside cabinet drawer. It could have been one of the care workers or one of the surviving family members who had taken it, but I’m not so sure.’

‘You think Mold took it?’

‘I’ve no reason to claim that, but other things have gone missing as well. I get to know quite a lot in my conversations with the relatives. There’s been talk about jewellery they can’t find or banknotes that have disappeared. I never suspected him, but now this has happened, I’m beginning to wonder. As I told you on the phone, there’s been too much trouble with Ottar, too many absences without notice. I won’t be keeping him on after his probationary period.’

‘Does Ottar Mold know that?’

Ingvar Arnesen nodded. ‘I’ve told him that I don’t need enough help to justify a permanent post.’

‘When did he find out about that?’

‘Yesterday.’

Wisting leaned back in his chair. A picture was building of a person backed into a corner who might behave irrationally from sheer desperation, but he simply could not see what Ottar Mold had to gain by stealing the body in a murder enquiry.

Twenty minutes later, William Wisting and Nils Hammer let themselves into Ottar Mold’s basement flat with the landlord’s keys.

A glass door led from the porch into a combined kitchen and living room. With all the curtains drawn, the air was heavy and muggy. The kitchen section contained a refrigerator, washing machine, and utilitarian hotplate beside the sink. From the living room a tiny corridor led to the open door of the bedroom, where a quilt with no cover was folded on top of the bed. It seemed as though Ottar Mold spent his nights under a blanket on the settee.

The place showed signs of only a couple of months’ habitation, with bare walls and belongings still packed in cardboard boxes.

On the coffee table, Wisting noticed an empty glass and a half-eaten slice of bread on a plate. The meat spread was desiccated, the bread curled at the edges. Beside these lay a bundle of envelopes of varying shapes and sizes, payment reminders and collection notices, together with a number of unopened letters.

The sparsely furnished flat told them little, testifying only to a lonely man’s uneventful existence. Nothing shed any light on what might have happened. Nevertheless, there was something unsettling about the cramped flat. Wisting could not quite put his finger on it, but it reminded him of a sailing vessel hurriedly and for no discernible reason abandoned by its crew, left like a ghost ship drifting on the sea.