The digression brought her back to the police murder. Whether it was Ken Ronny Hauge or someone he was protecting who had committed it, the motive was incomprehensible. There was no relationship between the victim and the culprit. It was an accidental meeting. Two people in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anything else would have been easier to understand.
She left the folder of material about Beate Olsen lie and read the articles about the police murder one more time, picking out some chance snippets here and there. If she continued to let her thoughts revolve around the case there was always the possibility that she would arrive at something that hadn’t struck her before.
Finally, she was sitting looking at the interview with the brother that the local newspaper had printed the previous Saturday in connection with the new, large contracts his company had entered.
Rune E. Hauge had started his company with two empty hands seventeen years before, she read. Today he runs a million kroner business.
Another clipping talked about the son who had been newborn when his father started up. Nowadays he worked part-time in the company as well as pursuing his studies, preparing to take over the successful business some day.
Line’s thoughts began to wander. She wondered what the E in Rune E. Hauge stood for, and thought that Ken Ronny should really have called himself Ken R. Hauge, which had a somewhat grander appearance.
The storm had come closer while she had sat at the kitchen table, the sound of thunder rumbling in from the sea. Lightning lit up the room in a blue-white flash when she clicked on to the folder with the photographs she had taken out at Ken Ronny Hauge’s little farm. In one of them, he was sitting with empty hands on his lap. She liked that picture; it was of the kind that didn’t simply provide an illustration, but also told a story. The light was captured in the right way, making his hands appear warm and protective.
She felt she knew Ken Ronny Hauge now, but she knew almost nothing about his brother.
CHAPTER 51
The phone rang at 03.40. Wisting sat up in confusion and fumbled for his mobile phone on the mattress.
He answered in a rough voice, listened, said thanks and promised to be there within half an hour.
Suzanne turned over by his side. He’d been dreaming about her and tried to hold on to what it had been about, but the details had already slipped away.
He lay back, closing his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts. It was pouring rain. The sound echoed through the entire house, and he contemplated simply remaining there. He did not need to go around and look at every single dead body that was washed up by the sea. He could read about it in a report, sit with a coffee and study the photographs that would be lying on his office desk in an hour or two.
A clap of thunder shook the house as he was about to slip back into sleep. Instead, he got up and pulled on the same clothes he had been wearing the night before.
Suzanne sat up, drawing the duvet round her.
‘Are you going out?’
He whispered a reply and kissed her on the cheek before he left.
The rain darkened the summer night. He squinted ahead with his forehead at the windscreen. Trees lining the road were swinging and swaying in the wind. Just before he reached his destination, he was overtaken by a police patrol car, the blue light pulsing rhythmically through the driving rain before disappearing beyond a bend.
He had been to Bondebrygga at Nalum a couple of times previously, but had problems orientating himself on all the little side roads that criss-crossed the area where all the summer cottages were situated, taking wrong turns twice before reaching the spot where three police cars were already parked.
Two police officers strode across the long wooden quay that stretched at an angle over the shallow waters of the bay. Farmers and fishermen in the area had used the tidy construction for many hundreds of years, but now it had been turned into a harbour for small boats.
At the far end of the quay, large, hand-held torches swept through the night darkness, streaks of rain drawn across the beams of light. Wisting had an umbrella in the car and considered bringing it out, but threw it aside. A gust of wind snatched the car door when he opened it and almost pitched him out of the car.
The waves were lashing high up on the wooden supports and the quay creaking beneath him. The boats tugged at their moorings like tethered animals. A sudden lightning bolt tore through the sky and illuminated the bay and, in the flash, Wisting saw that several men were gathered at the far end of the quay.
There were five altogether. He wiped the rain from his face as he approached. Four of them he knew from the department for minor crimes. The fifth was a civilian wearing a heavy raincoat and a sou’wester.
‘I was going to see to the boat,’ Wisting heard the man explain to one of the uniformed officers. ‘The kids had been out in it yesterday evening, and they’re not all that careful about tying it up.’
Wisting approached the edge of the quay and looked down into the rough waters.
‘Where’s the corpse?’ he asked.
‘It was lying right below the bow,’ the man with the sou’wester explained, ‘but now it’s gone.’
‘What do you mean gone?’
‘Look at the sea,’ the man said. ‘It must have drifted off while I was waiting for you.’
The policemen cast their lights in the direction the waves were moving.
‘What did it look like?’ Wisting asked.
The man looked as if he did not understand.
‘Was it a man or a woman? Young or old?’
‘It’s not so easy to say, but I think it was an old man. He must have been in the water for a long time. His face was sort of gone. The skin was hanging in a way and floating in shreds.’
The wind blew in relentless gusts. Wisting gazed into the darkness. He regretted making the journey. A white, crackling flash lit the heavy seas, and the thunder that arrived a second afterwards made the quay shake.
One of the policemen had boarded a boat and was casting his light underneath the quay.
‘Over here!’ he shouted, directing his beam of light to where a couple of supports were propped on large stones.
Wisting knelt down and leaned over the edge. The points of light were dancing backwards and forwards. He had a glimpse of a human body being tossed about in the waves, the face distorted with empty eye sockets and open wounds.
‘Can we get him ashore?’
The policeman in the boat grabbed an oar and tried to hook the corpse towards him, but could not manage. It looked as if the body had snagged on planks of wood that had been placed crosswise to stabilise the framework.
The uniformed policeman put the oar aside and swore. Then he unclipped his equipment belt and passed it to one of his colleagues before jumping into the water. It reached up to his waist, but some of the waves that were rolling towards him were so huge that he had to turn his head to avoid being hit in the face.
He went in underneath the quay, caught hold of one trouser-leg and dragged the body with him towards the shore.
Two of the other policemen got a tarpaulin ready on the stony beach, a third waded out to help with pulling the corpse ashore.
Wisting took out his torch and shone it down. The face was unrecognisable, with flakes of rotting skin and two pale, violet-coloured starfish clinging to the neck.
He moved the light to the legs. The left foot was missing. Shreds of fatty tissue were suspended where it had been amputated.
‘It’s one of them,’ the man in the sou’wester declared.
Wisting nodded. The dead body was dressed in a tweed jacket and dark flannel trousers, matching the description of Torkel Lauritzen.
It abruptly stopped raining. Wisting glanced automatically at the sky and saw that dawn was breaking.
CHAPTER 52
Wisting drove home, had a hot shower, shaved and put on clean clothes. It was half past six when he put on the coffee machine, and thought he would phone to give Audun Vetti an update. Ou
tside, the clouds had broken to let shafts of sunlight through. He drank a cup of coffee before driving to work. The news about the discovery of yet another dead body had spread through the police station. Wisting gathered the investigators for a short briefing just after eight o’clock. They agreed to reconvene at two o’clock for a thorough review of the case.
None of the newspapers had heard about the development before the print deadline, but the news was already out on radio and the internet. Vetti was conducting a telephone interview when Wisting passed his office, using the standard phrases about the deceased not being identified, and that the corpse showed signs of having been in the water for a long time.
Wisting closed his door, sat down at his desk and keyed in the number of Torkel Lauritzen’s eldest son.
Oddmund Lauritzen answered immediately. Wisting began by referring to the news reports the other man must have heard.
‘On the basis of the clothing, we have reason to believe that it’s your father,’ he concluded.
The man at the other end of the phone cleared his throat and thanked him for keeping him updated.
‘Could you see anything on him?’ he asked. ‘Was he shot too? Like Sverre Lund?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wisting replied. He could imagine the powerful man with thick, grey hair walking back and forth on the oak parquet in the large villa. ‘He’s already been driven to the forensics department. I’ll receive a report from them in the course of the day. Then I’ll call you back.’
Oddmund Lauritzen thanked him again.
‘Are you phoning Mathias as well?’ he asked, referring to his younger brother. ‘Or shall I do it?’
‘I’m going to phone him too.’
‘Fine.’
‘Do you know if your father had any guns?’ Wisting enquired.
The man at the other end hesitated before answering.
‘He had a pistol, but Mathias has it now.’
‘Do you know what type?’
‘A Colt, but you won’t find it in the weapons register. It was his personal service weapon, but since what he was involved in was secret it was never registered. Mathias took charge of it when Dad moved into the old folks’ home. He didn’t want to just hand it in. It has a kind of sentimental value for him.’
Wisting ended the conversation by reassuring Oddmund Lauritzen that he would keep him informed, and gave him his mobile number to call if there was anything he was unsure of. Then he sat back thoughtfully. Instead of phoning Torkell Lauritzen’s youngest son, he went to Torunn Borg’s office and asked her to accompany him.
The cloud cover was denser again when they drove away from the police station. The blue-grey sky warned of more rain.
Mathias Lauritzen was sitting in the same place as the last time Wisting had visited the shabby flat: well ensconced in the chair in front of the television set.
‘Which of them is it they’re talking about on the news?’ he asked, glancing over at his wife. ‘Who’s been found?’
Wisting sat down, explaining why they had reason to believe that the corpse that had been found during the night was his father.
‘What about Otto?’ he asked, looking across at his wife. ‘Is there any news about him?’
‘Not in relation to what has happened, but both your father and father-in-law handled a lot of money before they went missing. They deposited almost five million kroner that they withdrew again only a few days later. Do you have any explanation?’
Mathias Lauritzen shook his head as horses do when they want to get rid of annoying insects.
‘We’ve never received a single krone from either of them. I’d no idea they had so much money.’
‘We’re probably talking about money that’s been lying hidden for many years,’ Torunn Borg explained.
‘Dad didn’t talk to me about money,’ Kristin Lauritzen said cautiously. ‘But I know that he has a lot after selling the house.’
She took a bundle of letters from a drawer.
‘Since he disappeared, his mail has come here,’ she continued. ‘There’s just over a million in a high interest account. That’s all I know.’
‘Why did he do it?’ Mathias Lauritzen asked. ‘Put in and take out money. What was the point?’
‘We think it’s about exchanging money,’ Wisting replied. ‘And that they were sitting with money that was about to go out of circulation, so they had to exchange them for new banknotes.’
‘Dad had many secrets,’ Kristin Lauritzen said. ‘He never spoke about anything to do with the alert force. The money might well have something to do with that though.’
Wisting turned to her husband: ‘I understand that you took over your father’s service weapon.’
Mathias Lauritzen’s shoulders twitched in confusion.
‘Was he shot?’ he asked.
‘We’re awaiting a provisional post mortem report,’ Wisting explained. ‘I know that the gun isn’t registered, but that’s a side issue at the moment. Do you have the weapon?’
‘It’s in the bedroom,’ Mathias Lauritzen nodded. ‘I’ve got it in a box right inside the wardrobe. Kristen, can you get it?’
Kristen Lauritzen remained sitting, saying nothing.
‘Kristen?’
‘It’s not there,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s not been there for many years.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I discovered that when I was looking for your cufflinks when we were going to Trine and Frank’s wedding.’
‘You didn’t say anything?’
The woman with the big hairstyle was silent, biting her bottom lip.
‘I thought Trond had taken it.’
‘Your son?’ Torunn Borg asked.
Mathias Lauritzen’s face darkened, as though talking about his son cast a cloud over him.
‘He’s a drug addict,’ he said curtly. ‘God knows what he’s done with it.’
‘Where can we get hold of him?’
Kristen Lauritzen wrung her hands, looking at them anxiously.
‘He’s in Oslo,’ she explained. ‘That’s all we know.’
Wisting let it lie. He had nothing to gain by blaming them for irresponsibly keeping a weapon.
‘What about your father’s gun?’ he asked instead, directing his gaze at Kristin.
Her voice was hesitant: ‘We didn’t find anything like that when we cleared the house. He must have got rid of it long ago.’
Mathias Lauritzen agreed: ‘He’s probably handed it in or something.’
‘That would of course have been the right thing to do,’ Kristin added, pushing responsibility for the missing gun back to her husband. ‘Not leaving it lying in a wardrobe.’
Wisting got up. The purpose of the visit had been to alert the relatives to the discovery of the corpse the night before. In addition, he had some questions. The answers he had received had not been of any help.
Heavy banks of cloud hung in the sky when they left. Torunn Borg drove. The first, heavy raindrops fell on the windscreen.
Wisting had not met Greta Lund before. The old head teacher’s widow was completely white-haired with fine wrinkles around her grey eyes that shone white against her brown skin when she raised her eyebrows.
She invited them in for coffee, and they sat round a small table in the living room. Wisting allowed her to talk about the funeral she was planning before coming to the point: ‘Did your husband have a gun?’
Greta Lund put down her coffee cup.
‘Yes,’ she nodded, looking from one to the other. ‘He had a pistol. It’s many years since it’s been out of the cupboard. I don’t know what to do with it.’
‘Can we see it?’
The old woman got up and went into the house. She came back almost immediately.
The weapon was wrapped in a white cotton rag stained with oil. She placed it on the table and unfolded it. It was identical to the pistol that had been found on the bottom of the sea. A fully loaded cartridge clip lay beside it.
‘I’
d be grateful if you took it away with you,’ Greta Lund requested. ‘Then I’ll be rid of it.’
Wisting nodded, picking up the weapon. Then he told the old woman in detail about the money her husband had deposited in the bank and withdrawn before he disappeared.
They heard that the married couple had had a tidy and orderly budget, with her taking responsibility for the family accounts.
‘Do you have any idea where the money came from?’ Wisting asked.
He saw that she was searching for an answer. The information about the money unsettled her, as though it was a lover or an illegitimate child that had turned up after her husband’s death.
Wisting put the pistol in the glove compartment when they got into the car. They had one more call to make. He wanted to talk to Daniel Meyer about the pistol he had taken from his grandfather in Kongsberg.
Daniel Meyer lived in a small, white house with green decorative mouldings down by the sea. A pennant in Norwegian colours was flying from a flagpole in the yard.
It was raining harder, drifting in torrents from the sea. Wisting turned up his jacket lapels before getting out of the car and ran along the shelter underneath the entrance. He heard the doorbell echo when he rang, but there was no response.
‘We should have phoned first,’ Torunn Borg said.
Wisting agreed. He rang the bell one more time before going round the side of the house. The garden at the back was bordered with honeysuckle and roses. A rocky crag separated the property from the beach below, but gave little shelter. The wind had swept the tablecloth off the table and knocked over a plastic chair.
He crooked his hands against one of the windows, put his face between them and peeped inside. Daniel Meyer obviously used the living room as a workroom. Reference books and notes lay spread out over the coffee table seemingly without any order or system. Several papers were lying on the floor. A lamp on the wall above the settee was lit, but the room looked abandoned. He knocked on the window without getting any reaction from inside before hurrying back to the car.
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