Dregs (2011)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you’re innocent. I think that it wasn’t you who killed the policeman that time in 1991.’

  Ken Ronny Hauge gave her a strange look, as though she had said something to hurt him and he was considering how to react. Rainwater was dripping from the roof onto the weatherboard outside the kitchen window. Line held eye contact and waited for the tipping point to arrive. He would either dismiss her, or he would begin to talk.

  He shook his head. ‘Who else could it have been?’

  ‘Your brother?’ she suggested. Her voice had become unsteady.

  ‘Rune?’ Ken Ronny Hauge laughed. ‘He’s much too cowardly for anything like that.’

  ‘Who was it then?’

  Ken Ronny Hauge got up abruptly, went over to the worktop and filled a glass with water.

  ‘Let it be!’ he demanded.

  Line did not give up.

  ‘The evidence pointed to you,’ she said. ‘It won’t benefit you to argue against it, but I don’t believe it was you. There are possible explanations for how the gunpowder residue came to be on your hands. Transfer of contamination, for example. I think you were driving the car, but I don’t think you fired the gun.’

  The man on the other side of the room leaned against the worktop and watched her. Rainwater was still dripping outside the window as the silence between them became uncomfortable.

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ he said eventually.

  ‘It was you who hid the gun afterwards,’ Line continued. ‘That’s when your fingers became covered in gunpowder residue. There was no way back. If you told the truth, you would have been found guilty as an accomplice anyway. It might have given you a couple of years less, but at the same time you would have dragged down your brother who was soon to be a Dad.’

  Ken Ronny Hauge went over to the window, pulled back the curtains and looked out before standing beside the worktop again.

  ‘Now I think you should go,’ he said.

  Line shook her head.

  ‘I want to know the truth.’

  Wisting blinked. It felt like waking from a deep sleep. He could not manage to gather his thoughts, and remained lying without moving. His head was aching and he felt sick.

  He took time to collect himself and become aware of what had happened. Raising himself carefully on his elbows, breathing deeply and looking about, he found that he was still in Ken Ronny Hauge’s barn in semi darkness. Only a few narrow strips of daylight came in through gaps in the wall.

  He grasped a shelf as he pulled himself upright. His whole body was shaking, and he retched without vomiting anything up. His face felt stiff as he stroked his hand over his chin. When pieces of dried blood fell off he realised that he must have had a nosebleed.

  ‘Nils,’ he called out tentatively, but got no answer.

  A glance at the bundle of hessian sacks by the wall was enough to confirm that Daniel Meyer was still lying in the same place.

  The barn door was closed with the civilian police car right inside. He felt in his pockets for the keys and his mobile phone, but both were gone.

  The car was not locked. He sat inside and swore when he discovered that it was a leased car with no police radio. He checked whether the keys were still in the ignition and swore again when they were not.

  The barn door would not open, even with all of his body weight on the panels. It must have been bolted on the other side.

  He rested his head on the door panels and peeped into the courtyard. He saw no one, but there was a car in the yard outside the main house and he screwed up his eyes to see better. There was something unpleasantly familiar about it.

  ‘Line,’ he groaned.

  His heart was beating anxiously in his chest, and he was afraid he would faint again. He filled his lungs, controlling his breathing carefully. He was fighting against the panicky feeling of fear that came creeping over him and would paralyse his ability to think logically and rationally.

  Slowly he regained control. His eyes searched the room while he found his bearings. There was a single door at the side of the double barn doors. He tried the door handle but that was locked too. He found what he was looking for among the tools that were scattered over the floor, a crowbar. His head swam as he squatted to pick it up, and he forced himself to remain standing, gathering his strength before applying it to the doorframe.

  Line moved away uneasily. Ken Ronny Hauge went over to the window again and looked out, as though he was waiting for something. Then he turned round and picked up a packet of tobacco that was lying on the worktop.

  ‘It was a bad idea to take part in this interview,’ he remarked as he started to roll a cigarette. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He licked the paper and finished making the cigarette before replying: ‘I’m taking it back. I don’t want you to write about me.’

  Something in his voice seemed threatening. Line watched him while he placed the cigarette in his mouth and lit up. She suddenly thought that she could see on him how the years in prison had made him bitter, hardened and intransigent.

  ‘Do you not want to read it first?’ she asked.

  He shook his head, took a drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

  The article was one of her best, both from a linguistic point of view and content-wise. With the help of literary expressions she had managed to describe the intense atmosphere she had experienced at their first meeting. Now he seemed simply cold and indifferent, and she realised that her first impression had been wrong. Nevertheless, she had no intention of complying with his request.

  ‘I don’t think the editorial team will go along with that,’ she said.

  He picked a speck of tobacco off his tongue and inhaled again. His gaze met hers. There was something frightening about it. His eyes had contracted into narrow lines.

  ‘Do what the fuck you want,’ he said, taking the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Just get away from here.’

  He took a few steps towards her, leaned over the worktop and reached for the ashtray to stub out his cigarette. He stopped in mid-movement. Outside, a man was staggering out of the barn. His face was bloody, but Line recognised him at once.

  ‘Fuck!’ Ken Ronny Hauge bellowed.

  Line opened her mouth, but suddenly understood how completely wrong she had been about Ken Ronny Hauge. Fear gripped her with paralysing force. Her chest tightened, and it felt difficult to breathe.

  Her father hesitated in confusion outside the barn before walking unsteadily across the yard.

  Line acted without thinking. She grabbed the camera that was at the top of her bag and swung it at Ken Ronny Hauge’s head with all the strength she could muster. The lens came off and fell onto the table. Ken Ronny Hauge wobbled. Line got up and hit him again, this time with so much force the camera-housing cracked open. Ken Ronny Hauge fell across the table and slid to the floor. Several gurgling sounds came from him before he lay motionless.

  Her legs were unsteady. She tripped on the man on the floor, put her hands out to stop from falling and dashed outside, her heart banging in her chest. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. Tears ran from her eyes and made it difficult to see clearly.

  Wisting squinted in the daylight, taking deep breaths of the salt air. At last his head was clearing.

  The door to the main house was suddenly thrown open and Line came running towards him. He opened his arms and embraced her, but had to sit on the ground.

  ‘What has happened?’ she demanded, squatting down in front of him.

  He did not have the strength to explain.

  ‘It’s just a nosebleed,’ he said, wiping his face with his hand.

  ‘Are you on your own?’

  Wisting shook his head and looked around.

  ‘Nils is here somewhere. He was struck down.’

  ‘My God …’

  ‘Where is he?’ Wisting asked. ‘Where is Ken Ronny?’

  ‘In the k
itchen.’ She gave a quick account of what had happened. ‘He might waken at any moment.’

  ‘Phone for help,’ her father told her. ‘He’s deadly dangerous. He murdered them all.’

  A perplexed expression came over Line’s face, but she did not wait for an explanation.

  ‘My phone is in there,’ she nodded towards the main house. ‘Where’s yours?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She was about to get up to fetch her mobile phone when Ken Ronny Hauge appeared in the doorway, blood running from a wound on his face. In his right hand he carried an iron bar that hung by his side. He approached them with quick strides.

  Line got up, thoughts racing through her mind like a flock of terrified birds. She looked about wildly but the only weapons she could see were two oars leaning against the wall of the barn. They were bigger and longer than the iron bar Ken Ronny Hauge had armed himself with.

  She grabbed one and ran at him, but he warded her off and counterattacked. The force of the iron bar’s blows reverberating along the oar meant she could hardly keep hold of it. She had to take a few steps back, and was about to be trapped against the wall of the barn when her father moved unsteadily to take up the other oar and Ken Ronny Hauge turned on him. Line raised her oar like a lance in front of her and tried to push him over, but he skipped away from each attempt, again forcing her backwards.

  When he lifted the bar to strike again Line threw the oar at him. Ken Ronny Hauge lost his balance and fell, the iron bar slipping out of his hand. He got hold of it again and was about to get up when they both noticed smoke leaking out of the main house.

  Line hit him across the back with the oar. It was as though it woke him up. He scrambled to his feet, threw away the iron bar and ran inside the house as flames burst through the windows and door.

  Line looked on, emotionally exhausted.

  ‘Have you got the car keys?’ Wisting asked her, nodding in the direction of his daughter’s car.

  ‘They’re inside the house,’ she said.

  The flames changed colour and character as they licked fiercely over the kitchen window. She could see Ken Ronny Hauge’s outline inside as he fought the fire.

  Without hesitation she ran into the house and found her way to the kitchen. Orange and red flames, with deeper shades of blue and green and sporadic tentacles of violet, twisted and turned. Ken Ronny was hitting them with the towel he had used to dry himself but the waves of fire only became more intense.

  Inside, she could see how she had struck Ken Ronny Hauge with the Hasselblad camera. When he fell forward his cigarette had shot out of his hand, hit the lace curtain at the window and landed on the pile of old newspapers and magazines.

  She took a few steps into the smoke-filled room and pulled her bag towards her. Ken Ronny Hauge paid no attention to her, but gave up his struggle against the flames that had taken hold of the dry wood. Throwing the towel away he dashed further inside.

  Line ran outside again to her father.

  ‘What about Ken Ronny?’ he asked as the panes of the kitchen window exploded into pieces.

  ‘He’s still in there.’ She handed him the phone. ‘You do it!’

  He keyed in the emergency number, announcing himself in a steady voice when the operator responded. He gave a brief summary and said what assistance was required.

  The conversation seemed to renew Wisting’s strength. He looked towards the house where the flames now had a better grip. Long, ice blue tongues were leaping out through the smashed windows and eating their way up to the second floor.

  He could not understand what Ken Ronny Hauge was doing in there, but could not simply stand watching. He ran into the burning house with adrenalin pumping through his body, his eyes and throat stinging in the smoke.

  The fire had spread extensively. Dry wood around the hallway leading to the kitchen sparked and burned, red-gold flames were being sucked out into the porch and climbing the stairs to the second floor. The angry noise was deafening. The fire stood like a terrifying wall, preventing him from venturing further into the house. He was about to turn when he caught sight of Ken Ronny Hauge standing at the top of the stairs with a suitcase. The man hesitated for a moment before starting to walk, not managing more than three steps before putting his foot wrong. He stumbled, fell and remained lying in the middle of the staircase, in an unnaturally twisted position.

  Wisting held his arm in front of his face to protect himself against the heat, took a few steps up the stairs and tried to drag him down, but could not manage it. He could not fill his lungs with enough air.

  Line appeared behind him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He stepped aside to let her past. Together they managed to pull Ken Ronny Hauge down the remaining stairs and into the yard. Black clouds of smoke billowed around them in the courtyard but they were safe.

  Wisting lay on his back gasping for breath. Ken Ronny Hauge coughed and twisted round.

  ‘There’s a pair of handcuffs in the glove compartment of the police car,’ Wisting told Line, pointing to the barn.

  Line ran in while Wisting dragged Ken Ronny Hauge to the drying frame. When Line came back he cuffed him firmly. Behind them flames stretched upwards, sparks crackling as they rose in the smoky air before dying and falling to the ground. For a moment Wisting felt like one of them. Burned out.

  CHAPTER 63

  Twenty minutes later, the courtyard was full of emergency vehicles.

  An ambulance drove off with Nils Hammer. The dog patrol had found him on board the boat, fastened securely with steel wire to a metal drum. The doctor who examined him was optimistic.

  Line was sitting in the back seat of a police car with her legs outside and Wisting stood beside her with a rug over his shoulders. The fire crew had overcome the flames, but there was almost nothing left of the house. It was smouldering a little here and there, but they were about to roll up their hoses.

  Wisting stepped over the charred remains of the log walls into the ruins. Debris from the furnishings was scattered everywhere in a confusion of blackened and twisted rubbish. Settees, tables, chairs, shelves, worktops, cupboards, and drawers - everything charred by the flames and dripping wet from the firemen’s hoses.

  He found the suitcase at the bottom of what remained of the staircase. The heat from the fire had forced it open. Wisting kicked at it with his foot. The contents had been consumed by the flames, but all the same it was not difficult to work out what had been inside. When he cleared flakes of ash from the top the original contents were easy to identify: bundles of banknotes.

  He squatted down, trying to pick up a bundle, but it disintegrated between his fingers. So, this was what it had all been about. Money.

  He brushed his hands and got up again. The investigation was drawing to a close, he thought.

  Through the shouts and crackling on the firemen’s portable radios, he heard the familiar sound of his mobile phone. It was lying on the garden table together with the keys to the police car. The dog glowered at him from his position underneath it when he picked them up.

  It was the doctor.

  ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you, but have of course seen from the news that you’ve been busy these last few days,’ he said.

  Wisting mumbled an affirmative reply, but didn’t know if he had the energy to listen to what the doctor had concluded after studying all of his test results.

  ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about,’ the doctor continued. ‘You are overworked. You risk a breakdown and becoming completely burned out if you continue at the same pace. How are you feeling, anyway?’

  Wisting supported himself on a patrol car without answering.

  ‘Exhausted and weak?’ the doctor suggested. ‘Lacking energy?’

  Wisting confirmed this.

  ‘Have you had dizzy spells?’

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Well, I’ve already written out a sick note for you. What you need is a long holiday. Relaxation. Do you think you ca
n manage that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wisting responded.

  He received some practical advice before rounding off the conversation. Then he put his arm round his daughter, pulled her towards him and laid his head on her shoulder. The layer of clouds above them was about to break. The sun would soon shine through.

  EPILOGUE

  Wisting sat down to a breakfast of fried eggs and coffee on the terrace. Before he began eating he leaned back and gazed out across the sea without looking at anything in particular.

  Two weeks had passed. He was feeling better and fitter. He wakened feeling more rested, and had regained a great deal of his energy. His days were filled with tasks that he had postponed for too long. Gardening and basic maintenance in the big house. The evenings had been long and warm, and he had spent them with Suzanne, eventually feeling his shoulders relax and his strength returning.

  He breathed in through his nose and filled his lungs with the salt sea air that the breeze brought ashore.

  When he had finished eating, he pushed his plate away and unfolded his newspaper. He leafed through the crime reports, as he had done every day for the past two weeks, but then stopped and had to turn back through the pages. He recognised a picture of a burned out building. The editors must have searched deeply through the archives before putting it into print. It was the same photograph as the one Daniel Meyer had torn out of a newspaper more than twenty years previously and that had been lying amongst all of his notes.

  Wisting began to read. A former fellow prisoner had reported to the police that he had set fire to the washhouse on the farm out in Helgeroa on the orders of Ken Ronny Hauge. Assistant Chief of Police Vetti gave an account of the police’s theory that Ken Ronny Hauge and Daniel Meyer had been together on the safety deposit box robbery in 1991. Ken Ronny had hidden the haul and let Daniel Meyer believe that the money had gone up in flames while he was in prison. Eventually when the newspapers were describing how the exchange of the old banknotes was part of the case of the severed feet, Daniel Meyer realised that he had been deceived. His confrontation with Ken Ronny had resulted in his death.