Dregs (2011)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘That was a part of her perception of the world. She had notions that this mafia organisation had doped her, carried her off and operated on her to insert the radio transmitter. At regular intervals, they repeated this to exchange the transmitter for a new, more up-to-date version with a greater operating distance.’

  Wisting squirmed in his seat, not knowing how to shape a stray thought he had. ‘You’re sure these abductions were delusions?’ he eventually enquired. ‘That nothing might actually have taken place, but in a different manner and with a different purpose than she described?’

  The psychiatrist indulged in a smile. ‘I have been practising for more than thirty years,’ he said. ‘Believe me, Hanne Richter was diagnosed correctly.’

  Wisting’s eyes narrowed. Cocksure certainty was a quality he disliked. ‘She’s away now, of course,’ he pointed out.

  CHAPTER 22

  Two unanswered calls were shown on his mobile when he came out of the psychiatrist’s - both from his father. Now 79 years old he had been a widower for 22 of them. He was independent and wanted to be as little bother as possible, but recently he had been asking his only son for help more often. The clock on the phone showed 13.23. He had forgotten that he had promised to drive the old man to a two o’clock appointment at his eye specialist. He still just had time but was exasperated to be held up.

  His father had been complaining that he couldn’t see clearly, his vision foggy and sometimes double. He had made the cataract diagnosis himself. It was simply part of being old, he knew, almost as common as grey hair, but it tormented him. He had to read newspapers with one eye closed, and couldn’t manage with books. Wisting phoned him, to reassure him that he had not forgotten.

  ‘Let me take a taxi,’ his father said. ‘You’ve got a lot to do.’

  ‘I’m already on my way,’ Wisting said dismissively and a quarter of an hour later, his father was sitting beside him in the car, wearing a large pair of sunglasses that fitted tightly on his head.

  ‘Has it got worse?’ Wisting enquired.

  ‘A little,’ his father conceded. ‘Line’s home,’ he continued quickly, as if he wanted to talk about something else. ‘She called in yesterday. I could’ve got her to drive me.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Wisting assured him.

  ‘How’s the case going?’ Wisting admitted that they were groping in the dark. ‘Oh, I know all about that,’ his father commented, removing his sunglasses. The pupil of his left eye was covered by a greyish haze.

  ‘Did you know them?’ Wisting asked abruptly, suddenly realising that his father was about the same age as the men who had disappeared.

  ‘Not well, but more than some others.’

  ‘But you knew them?’

  ‘Many years ago,’ his father nodded. ‘Sverre Lund was probably the one I had most contact with.’

  ‘The head teacher?’

  ‘Your mother was at school with his wife. I’ve forgotten her name.’

  ‘Greta.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Is he one of the ones you’ve found … remains of?’

  ‘We don’t know for certain, yet.’ Wisting reached for a bag on the back seat. ‘I’ve got something I’d like you to look at,’ he said. He took out the photograph he had borrowed from the nursing home and handed it to his father while he drove. His father held it up to one eye and screwed up his face. ‘Do you know any of them?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘That’s Sverre,’ his father replied, pointing to the man furthest back on the stairs. ‘Is that Torkel?’ he asked, pointing to the person who sat diagonally below the old head teacher.

  Wisting nodded. ‘And then that’s Otto Saga and Christian Hauge,’ he explained, pointing.

  ‘Christian Hauge, yes,’ his father mumbled. ‘He’s dead now, poor man.’

  ‘Poor man?’

  ‘He was widowed early, and had a daughter who got mixed up with a drunkard. There were two grandchildren. You know about it of course? The police murder?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Wisting admitted. ‘He’s out now and living in Helgeroa.’ He neglected to tell him that Line was going to meet him. ‘What about the one with the pipe?’

  His father held the picture up so that the reflection of the sun on the glass didn’t get in the way. ‘There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t think what.’ He laid the picture on his lap. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It might be,’ Wisting answered. ‘The four others are probably dead.’

  They had reached the eye specialist’s when the phone rang. It was Nils Hammer. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘In town.’

  ‘You need to come out to Blokkebukta cove. There’s a severed foot lying there.’

  Wisting glanced over at his father, who held up his hand to prevent his son from saying anything. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a taxi home.’

  CHAPTER 23

  Blokkebukta cove was situated in the lee of the Skaggerak, behind a large spit of land covered in pebbles that had been left behind after the ice age, a moraine spine extending from Finland through Sweden to enter the sea at Molen. A pleasant spot, the area had been used as an overnight stop for bathing tourists for almost a century. The caravans were sitting on flat areas extending to the encircling grove of trees. Three sandy beaches stretched out one after the other, separated by steep hillocks and sections of dense, shady oak forest.

  Part of the most northerly beach was closed off. Wisting drove as close as he could before leaving the car. Journalists stood like a wall in front of the red and white crime scene tape, but quickly gathered round him, bombarding him with questions. Wisting ignored them and crouched under the tape.

  Nils Hammer was standing with Espen Mortensen on the pebbles. The beach was a bit rougher at the discovery site, consisting of small stones and broken shells, and waves rushed backwards and forwards, almost in rhythm with Wisting’s own breath.

  The foot was a left limb, exactly like the three others, but this find was different. The shoe did not have the same faded appearance from having been in water for a long time. The pleats of skin and flesh protruding from a thick, yellow sock had taken on a grey colouring, but the rotting process had not set in completely.

  ‘Camilla Thaulow?’ Hammer suggested.

  Wisting squatted down, studying the foot in the sharp sunlight. ‘The type of shoe matches, at least,’ he said. ‘Black Nike.’

  All the same, there was something different, Wisting thought, examining the shoe with the curved logo of one of the world’s biggest sports equipment manufacturers. The other feet had drifted to land several nautical miles from here. This had to have been dumped somewhere else to have washed ashore at this place. Since it was only three days since Camilla Thaulow disappeared the dumping spot had to be somewhere in the vicinity.

  Wisting turned and peered at the barrier. In a huddle beside the journalists were the amateur spectators, seaside visitors, tourists from the campsite, and summer cottage folk. He scanned them - it was a habit he had adopted. It wasn’t unusual for the perpetrator to appear among the spectators. Pyromaniacs were especially known for it - returning to the scene to watch what they had set off. However, it could also apply to other criminals. The fact that the guilty party dared to show himself could even, in a way, serve as an alibi.

  He scrutinised the faces: women with children in their arms, men with bare chests and large bellies, a couple of young boys on bicycles. There was nothing in particular to notice. Neither was there anything to suggest that whoever was behind all this could know the fourth foot would be washed up exactly here, exactly now.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ Hammer groaned, bringing Wisting back. ‘What are we talking about? Someone who kills and dismembers, and who throws the left feet into the sea?’ Wisting did not reply, but acknowledged that it was beyond his comprehension. ‘Why are we not finding the remainder of these people?’ Hammer continued. ‘We’ve had people searching the beaches and rocky shores for days, but nothing has tu
rned up.’

  ‘If this is her foot …’ Wisting began. Loud voices from the press corps fifty metres behind them interrupted him. The journalists were drowning each other out and the photographers pressing their triggers.

  Audun Vetti forced his way through, presented himself inside the barrier and raised his hands. ‘I shall have a discussion with my investigators, and then return with a statement,’ Wisting heard him announce.

  ‘My investigators,’ Hammer chuckled.

  The Assistant Chief of Police descended with purposeful steps. He stopped to stare at the foot on the powdery shells. ‘A left foot,’ he declared. Wisting saw no reason to disagree. ‘It appears … fresh,’ Vetti continued.

  ‘That was our impression too,’ Wisting conceded.

  ‘Is it hers? The missing nurse?’

  ‘It’s too early to say.’

  The Assistant Chief of Police peered over his shoulder. ‘But what shall I say to that bunch up there?’

  ‘As I said, it’s too early to say anything at all.’

  ‘We must confirm the discovery at least?’

  ‘Must we?’

  Vetti remained standing. ‘Do we know anything more?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything more we can talk about?’

  ‘The less we say, the less there is to retract if it turns out to be wrong.’

  Vetti nodded, smoothed his hair over the bald crown, turned and approached the waiting crowd.

  ‘What if it is hers?’ Mortensen asked, preparing to remove the foot. ‘You were about to say something when Vetti arrived. Some kind of deduction.’

  ‘Nothing, really, but Vetti is right, naturally. If it is Camilla Thaulow’s foot, it confirms that there is a connection.’ He turned round, staring across the shining sea. ‘It means that we are only three days behind the culprit. We are about to catch up with him.’

  CHAPTER 24

  William Wisting parked at one of the visitors’ spaces at the Rodberggrenda housing co-operative, and looked around.

  He should have come here earlier. As soon as it became clear they were facing something more than a straightforward missing persons case he should have sent investigators for new interviews with the relatives. It was several years since he had realised that his greatest weakness as a leader was that he couldn’t bear to entrust important investigation tasks to others. It was both a wish and necessity for him to have a close involvement with the assignments he thought most essential. It was not enough to read a report, a statement or a record of an interview since he could not reach through reading the sort of intuitive impression that might emerge in a conversation, and that might expand into a chink in the mystery.

  Looked at this way, his worst enemy as an investigator was time. Not that he considered it a growing advantage for the perpetrator, whom he knew he would catch eventually, but it was a challenge to get time for everything. He had taught himself to be sure to have time enough for the most important things. As a rule it didn’t involve making a choice, only approaching tasks in the correct order. He didn’t like any sense of losing control. At the same time, he had to take time to allocate tasks to others when it was often just as easy to do the job himself. Nevertheless, it demanded that he prioritise his different duties and this was very challenging in itself.

  The car door slammed behind him. At one time, in the 1970s, the Rodberggrenda housing co-operative had represented the new way of thinking about housing. With its playgrounds and common outdoor areas the intention was that the residents should feel as if they were living in a village. Now the decline was obvious. Vandals had put their various signatures in a row on the garages. The grass on the small lawn between the parking area and the row of houses was scorched and filled with clover and withered dandelions. The fence around the playground had fallen in places, rubbish bins were overflowing, and children of varying ages played around a rusty climbing frame. Both the game and the conversation were conducted in a foreign language.

  Kristin and Mathias Lauritzen lived in the middle of a row of seven flats. They were both in their mid-fifties. She was Otto Saga’s daughter, and he was the youngest son of Torkel Lauritzen, who had disappeared from the nursing home within three days of each other. It was this ‘coincidence’ that had placed their names high on the list of people he wanted to speak to.

  A background check on them had already been carried out. Mathias Lauritzen had been receiving disability benefit, and his wife Kristin worked as a cleaner in a children’s nursery. A number of payment defaults had been noted in their credit records, enough to check their alibis against the possibility that something criminal had taken place. Money was always a possible motive for a criminal act. Since they didn’t have an exact time of day for when the old men had vanished, it was difficult to come to any conclusion. Their alibis were not watertight for all the hours involved, but appeared credible.

  Before he entered, Wisting had already formed an impression of the married couple that he could not have obtained from simply reading about them. A lawnmower was standing in the middle of the little lawn in front of the house after someone had left the job half-finished. On the staircase, there were three tied plastic bags filled with stinking rubbish. An overflowing ashtray was balanced on the banister. The nameplate on the door also displayed the names of the sons who had left home long before. All this spoke of the people who lived here.

  It was Kristin Lauritzen who opened the door. She was plump and her face was puffy. Her curly hair was dishevelled, as though she had been lying sleeping.

  ‘I phoned earlier today,’ Wisting said after introducing himself.

  The woman responded with a nod, showing him in. The air was stuffy and warm. The architects for the housing co-operative had laid out the flat in traditional fashion with the kitchen and bathroom to the left of the entrance door, a corridor that led to an L-shaped living room with tall windows on to a small balcony and flimsy doors that divided two adjacent bedrooms from the living room. Most of the internal furnishings looked as if they had been there since the flat was new.

  Mathias Lauritzen was sitting in a deep armchair. He was a large, stocky man, and stared at Wisting with blue, watery eyes. He did not get up, but moved a weekly magazine from his lap as the policeman entered.

  ‘Is there any news?’ he asked.

  Wisting sat down. ‘We’ve received answers from the tests that the forensic experts have carried out on the feet,’ he began. ‘They confirm that the first shoe that was found belongs to your father.’

  Mathias Lauritzen said nothing. It didn’t seem as though the information affected him at all.

  ‘What about the others?’ his wife asked.

  Wisting shook his head. ‘We haven’t had it confirmed that any of them belongs to your father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘No DNA relationship has been established between yourself and any of the finds,’ Wisting elaborated. ‘The forensics experts are carrying out another analysis of the samples, but there is nothing to suggest that the result will be different.’

  Mathias Lauritzen got up, flinging the magazine onto the coffee table. ‘Fuck,’ he swore, taking several steps out of the room before turning, coming back and sitting down again. ‘I’d hoped we could soon be finished with all this.’

  ‘We won’t be finished until we know what happened,’ said his wife cautiously. ‘It’s not certain that we’ll ever be finished with it.’

  ‘But it would’ve helped if we could get them declared dead, so that we could move on and put it all behind us.’

  Wisting took out his notepad. Until just a few days before, they had all thought that the disappearance cases involved their fathers having an accident of some kind. The discovery of the severed feet suggested something more. ‘What do you think has happened?’ he asked. Neither of them could give an answer. Wisting straightened up, asking the direct question: ‘Do you know of anyone who might wish for this to happen?’

  ‘Are you asking if the old man had any enemies?’
Mathias Lauritzen enquired.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Enemies …’ The man in the deep leather chair seemed to relish the word. ‘Not any longer. For the past forty years, the enemies have existed only in his own head.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Soviet invaders,’ Mathias Lauritzen explained. ‘The communists were his enemies. They were Kristin’s father’s enemies too,’ he went on, nodding in the direction of his wife, ‘Our fathers were members of a military group sitting in readiness for an occupation.’

  Wisting raised one eyebrow. ‘Readiness for an occupation?’

  ‘The cold war,’ Mathias Lauritzen explained. ‘They were afraid that Stalin would invade Norway and were active in the intelligence network.’ He held up his hand. ‘You mustn’t ask because I don’t know much more. The whole network was exposed in the media at the end of the 1970s, I don’t know any more than that. The old man never talked about it, at least not to me who’s never been in the military.’

  Wisting had difficulty shaping his thoughts, but it was as though something had opened up. He felt he might be close to something important, something they had previously overlooked.

  ‘Otto was the leader,’ Mathias Lauritzen continued, referring to his father-in-law. ‘Of course he worked in the Air Force, and got to study a lot of things in the newspapers. I think he was the one who recruited the others.’

  ‘Who were the others in this group?’

  ‘Head teacher Lund was involved in any case,’ Mathias Lauritzen said. The expression on his face changed as soon as he had said this, as though he had made a discovery. ‘But for fuck’s sake,’ he exclaimed, getting up once more. ‘He’s away too of course. What’s happening, really?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

  ‘Have you found a foot belonging to him?’ Kristin Lauritzen asked tentatively. ‘Head teacher Lund’s?’

  Wisting shook his head. ‘How many were in this group?’ he asked.

  Mathias Lauritzen shrugged his shoulders. ‘A couple more, at least,’ he replied. ‘Four or five altogether, I think.’