Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Mark the spot and bring the phone here,’ Wisting ordered.

  The officer in charge passed on the message and, shortly afterwards, a young policeman arrived at top speed, carrying the phone in a sealed transparent plastic evidence bag.

  ‘There isn’t much battery power left,’ he explained, handing it to Wisting. ‘You should read it before it goes dead. We might need the pin-code to turn it on again.’

  Wisting accepted the bag and, through the plastic, located the button to illuminate the display. Familiar with the menu options on the Sony Ericsson, he rapidly reached the call list. It was empty: no incoming or outgoing calls. Returning to the menu, he found his way to the text messages. There was only one, received at 16.53. All it indicated was a number: 2030.

  The message had been sent from a nine-digit number abroad.

  In the sent folder there were two messages to the same number: the first transmitted at 16.54 – OK – and the next message dispatched at 20.43 – I am here.

  Wisting searched through other folders, but the three text messages were the only information stored. He interpreted 2030 as a message about a particular time of day, with the response being OK, and thereafter the owner of the mobile phone had sent a message suggesting he was at the agreed meeting place. I am here.

  ‘I’ll take it with me and put it on charge,’ Wisting said, tucking the phone into his jacket pocket. ‘Perhaps more messages will come in overnight.’

  A snell gust caused Wisting to shiver as he surveyed the area in the night darkness: black rocky slopes, a grove of windswept pine trees, and clumps of juniper bushes tossing in the breeze. No more than three hours had passed since the fateful encounter resulting in a man’s death. The perpetrator might still be around.

  ‘We’re getting helicopter support,’ clarified the policeman in charge, whose thoughts must have coincided with his.

  ‘Good,’ Wisting nodded, not intending to wait. He would return home for a change into dry clothes before driving to the station.

  Retracing his steps along the path, he discovered a group of journalists huddled beside the parking place. One of the photographers pointed his camera at Wisting’s lined, determined face. As he opened the car door, his ears were bombarded by the racket of an approaching helicopter, flying low from the east, its searchlight skimming the landscape, and deflecting the interest of the reporters.

  He turned his wet jacket inside out, dumping it on the passenger seat before settling behind the wheel. As his car headlights pierced the darkness, they illuminated the dense woodland beside the narrow gravel track.

  A sudden thump battered the windscreen. Wisting slammed on the brakes, and the car skidded across the gravel. Blood and black feathers smeared the glass: he must have collided with a bird. Spraying the windscreen wash, he watched as the wipers removed the mess.

  He restarted the engine, but had not travelled any distance when another bird struck the car, a black ball hurtling through the air before bouncing off the bonnet and disappearing above the windscreen. A few hundred metres later the track terminated at the main road between Helgeroa and Stavern, where Wisting turned right.

  A veil of mist hovered above the dark asphalt, and rain-sodden autumn leaves were buffeted by the wind, plastering themselves on the windscreen and becoming trapped in the wipers.

  One hundred metres further along, he reduced his speed as he spotted a movement at the road verge, and a man appeared, walking unsteadily towards him on the opposite side, using his hand to shield his face from Wisting’s headlights. Automatically, he dimmed his lights, and at the same moment the man clutched his free hand to his chest and keeled over. Wisting halted the car, glanced in the rear view mirror and stepped out. This stretch of road, flanked by black ploughed earth and fields, was deserted. Wisting crouched down beside the man.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. No reply.

  He grabbed hold of him to pull him around. The man turned abruptly to face him, his eyes defiant although anxious and fearful. A fist shot out, smacking Wisting on the nose. Another two furious punches followed before the man got to his feet.

  Wisting tried to hold on but the man wriggled free and swung out again, ineffectually this time. Wisting retaliated. His fist struck the man’s abdomen and he doubled over, gasping for breath. Wisting hurled himself forward in an attempt to knock him off balance but was himself pounded by a series of blows, one of which caught him on the chin, knocking his teeth through his lips. He slumped to his knees as his mouth filled with blood.

  Sprinting to the car, the man flung himself behind the steering wheel, hit the gas pedal and accelerated violently, aiming directly at Wisting. The headlights blinded him, but he rolled off the road and lay still as the car roared past. After a few seconds his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The surrounding area stretched out in variegated grey tints, but he saw the glowing rear lights of his own car as they disappeared into the distance.

  He stumbled to his feet, spitting blood and cursing loudly as it dawned on him that he had left his mobile phone inside the vehicle. He could hear the helicopter searching the coastline. Spitting blood again he glanced backwards, trying to remember the location of the nearest house, before deciding to head in the same direction as the car. Ten minutes later farmhouse lights appeared and he increased his speed, jogging the final few metres.

  The farmhouse, a two-storeyed white building with broad staircase, red-painted barn and a couple of outhouses, had an ancient oak with a colossal crown of leaves in the middle of its yard. Inside the barn, horses whinnied as they stirred restlessly, aware of his presence.

  A grey and white cat stared at him from the top step before lifting a black bird from the doormat and slipping away.

  On one side of the blue-painted door a large ceramic sign gave the residents’ names. Pressing the doorbell, Wisting felt at his bruised face while he waited. A man with a luxuriant red beard opened the door, planting himself in the wide doorway to scrutinise his visitor.

  ‘I’m from the police,’ Wisting explained, fumbling in his trouser pocket before realising his identification card had vanished with his car.

  Nodding, the man stepped back to allow him through. Wisting had been responsible for so many cases highlighted in the media that most people in the area knew him by sight.

  ‘What’s happened?’ the man asked, closing the door.

  Wisting took no time to explain. ‘I need to use a phone,’ was all he said.

  The man produced a mobile phone from his pocket. ‘You don’t look too good,’ he commented. ‘Do you want to use the bathroom?’

  Shaking his head, Wisting took the mobile and tapped in the number for the police central switchboard. His description of what had taken place was short and succinct. The bearded man stood, eyes popping as he listened and, when Wisting ended the call, asked whether he could offer any assistance.

  ‘Do you have a car?’

  The man nodded, reaching for his jacket. ‘It’s in the barn.’

  Wisting requested the man drive him home, but he had no keys for the house either, as they were on the same key ring as his car key, and this also applied to his admittance card for the police station – tucked into his wallet with his ID. He was forced to ring his own doorbell. Suzanne cautiously opened the door. ‘My God,’ she fussed, taking him by the arm. ‘What on earth do you look like?’

  ‘It’s madness,’ Wisting replied, smiling for the first time. Heading for the bathroom, he wrenched off his wet bloodstained clothes while explaining quickly. ‘Can you get me some fresh clothes?’ he asked, stepping into the shower.

  She agreed but first began to gather up his dirty, discarded clothing. ‘Don’t wash them,’ he said, turning on the water. ‘Hang them up to dry. Some of the blood might be his.’

  The water heated rapidly, and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the spray.

  ‘You should see a doctor,’ Suzanne advised.

  Wiping a streak of moisture from the glass door, he peered ou
t at her. ‘I’ll see. Can you phone for a taxi?’

  ‘At least let me have a look at it before you go.’

  He made no protest and finished showering. She handed him a towel from the cupboard before leaving to fetch the first aid kit. On her return, he stood naked before her as she examined his face.

  ‘Do you think it was him?’

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘The killer!’ She pressed antiseptic-soaked cotton wool on his wound. ‘Do you think he was the man you were fighting?’

  It was the same question he had already asked himself. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘That cut doesn’t look too good,’ she said, taking out a small sticking plaster. ‘But I think it’ll be all right.’

  He kissed her to express his thanks, and she stroked his chest with her hand, moving it down over his stomach, as though to remind him what he was missing. Smiling, he kissed her again and began to dress. ‘Have you phoned for a taxi?’

  ‘I can drive,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t have any more to drink after you left.’

  5

  Nils Hammer helped Wisting into the building. A bulky man with rugged features, Hammer was about five centimetres taller than his boss. Though he had the reputation of being a loner, he was a capable investigator who took his job very seriously, never giving up, always throwing himself intensely into his work. Like Wisting himself, Hammer could become obsessed with solving a case, and they had spent countless night hours together at the police station, battling their way through huge wall charts, complex theories and cups of bitter coffee. Nils Hammer was always one of the first personnel Wisting requested when an enquiry group was assembled.

  ‘Torunn’s on her way,’ he said through a faint whiff of beer. He did not appear intoxicated; quite a number of police officers had been forced to change their plans that Friday evening.

  ‘Okay,’ Wisting nodded. It was reassuring to hear Torunn Borg, would participate in the introductory phase of the enquiry. Efficient and thorough, she was always extremely professional. ‘We’ll hold a meeting when she arrives.’

  ‘I’ve initiated a search for your mobile phone,’ Hammer went on, as they climbed the stairs to the criminal investigation department.

  Wisting’s mobile phone was continually transmitting a radio signal and the telephone company could locate it through their base stations. The very thought made him both enthusiastic and optimistic.

  ‘It’s somewhere here in town,’ Hammer continued. ‘Telenor is currently disconnecting individual antenna towers to home in more precisely.’

  ‘When can we expect a result?’

  Hammer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Fifteen to twenty minutes, I suppose. We just have to hope the car isn’t on the move.’

  Thanking him, Wisting entered his own office, where he switched on the computer. While he waited for it to set up there were a couple of phone calls he had to make. The first number he dialled was for Christine Thiis, the lawyer newly appointed as successor to Audun Vetti, who had moved up the ranks and left the police station behind.

  A distinguished defence lawyer from Oslo, she had switched career and relocated from the big city. Clearly the best-qualified applicant for the post, she had accepted the far less lucrative position as Assistant Chief of Police. Now she was in charge of all cases, and automatically assumed responsibility for the investigation.

  Christine Thiis answered after a single ring. ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you,’ she said, her tone tense and slightly irritated. ‘I need to know what’s going on.’

  Clearing his throat, Wisting spent three minutes explaining the case. He could envisage her as he spoke, cheeks tinged pink with annoyance, brown eyes alert.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh yes, fine thanks,’ Wisting reassured her.

  He could hear her leafing through papers; she had probably been taking notes while he spoke. ‘What do we have to go on?’ she asked.

  ‘We don’t have anything specific yet, but it’s still early days.’

  ‘Okay, then I won’t come in. The children are sleeping, and I can’t leave them on their own.’

  ‘We’re going to need a lawyer here,’ Wisting commented. ‘Do you want me to check if someone else can take responsibility for this case?’

  ‘No.’ The reply was blunt. ‘I’ve phoned my mother. She’s coming from Lillestrøm and will be here in a few hours. For the moment I’d like you to keep me posted by phone.’

  Assuring her he would be in touch if anything dramatic happened, Wisting wound up the conversation. The next person he needed to contact was Thomas Rønningen. Assuming the famous television talk show host’s phone number was unlisted, he called the television company, NRK. Introducing himself, he explained it was of critical importance that he be put in touch with Thomas Rønningen.

  The woman on night duty at the switchboard sounded experienced. Apologising, she responded by saying she did not possess his contact details, but asked him to wait. He could hear her tapping at a keyboard.

  ‘I have a mobile number and email address for his agent, Einar Heier,’ she clarified. ‘Would you like those?’

  ‘I’ll take the phone number.’ She read it out to him. ‘Thanks. Tonight’s broadcast, do you know when it was recorded?’

  ‘It’s a direct broadcast.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘We used to record the programme one day in advance, but that meant we lost some of the topicality. Now the programme is recorded four hours before the start of the broadcast, and goes out unedited.’

  Wisting did a mental calculation. ‘So that means the recording was finished around six o’clock this evening?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She hesitated. ‘Is this something you should be discussing with security?’

  ‘Oh no. If I do, I’ll phone back later.’ Terminating the conversation, he keyed in the number for the agent, who replied with feigned affability. Wisting introduced himself once again, requesting contact information for Thomas Rønningen.

  ‘I can give you a mobile number, but it’s not certain you’ll get an answer.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I always phone him after the broadcast to tell him what I think about the programme, but tonight he didn’t answer.’

  Wisting glanced through the window as he spoke, spotting a helicopter flying low above the fjord. ‘When did you last speak to him?’

  ‘Yesterday. May I ask what this is about?’

  ‘His holiday cottage in Helgeroa has been broken into.’

  ‘Oh well. Then I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your call.’ The agent read the number aloud. ‘If he doesn’t answer, send a text message instead to let him know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do; something practical in connection with the burglary?’

  ‘Not at the moment. I have your number now.’

  Outside, the helicopter was hanging aloft, a cone of light directed inshore, where it hovered expectantly. Wisting keyed in Thomas Rønningen’s number before standing up and crossing to the window. Immediately, an automatic answering machine clicked on and Wisting stored the number after disconnecting the call.

  Nils Hammer’s voice on the intercom system broke the silence in the room: ‘They’ve located your phone. It seems to be out at Revet.’ The helicopter outside tilted as it turned in an easterly direction. Revet was originally a sandbank situated between Lågen and the Larvik fjord, but nowadays it was a significant industrial and harbour area. It offered many possible hiding places for a vehicle, but only one exit route. ‘We’re setting up a cordon around the canal quay,’ Hammer explained.

  Wisting took his eyes off the helicopter, staring instead at his own reflection in the window. Raindrops distorted his facial contours, making him a stranger to himself. His heavy eyelids closed, and he kept them shut as he gathered his thoughts.

  This would be his first large-scale investigation since returning from a lengthy period of sic
k leave. He had always considered his work challenging and stimulating, but last summer, confronted with a steadily increasing burden of work divided among ever fewer resources, he had become unwell. The constant overload had resulted in physical and mental exhaustion.

  He had been off work for three months and when he returned, realising he was far from indispensable, he had managed to transfer more responsibility and share out an increased number of tasks to his colleagues.

  Now he stood, aware of his body, wondering if he was ready for this, before reaching a decision. Lifting the jacket hanging on the back of his chair, he strode determinedly towards the door.

  6

  A barrage of rain battered the windscreen as Wisting drove out of the police garage. As he switched on the wipers, the raindrops were swept aside, returned, vanished again. Water tumbled over the kerbs, forming deep puddles where the drains could not cope. A drizzly haze enveloped the deserted streets.

  The journey out to Revet took no longer than three minutes. He was stopped at a roadblock, where two patrol cars were positioned bonnet to bonnet, with another police vehicle in front of them. A helicopter was searching in wide circles overhead.

  A rain-coated police officer approached, his arms resting on a sub-machine gun suspended on his chest. When Wisting wound down his side window, his colleague saluted with two fingers raised to his cap.

  ‘Any news?’

  The policeman shook his head. In his mirror, Wisting spotted the lights of another car. The police officer straightened up, peering in the same direction. A red Golf drew to a halt and Garm Søbakken from the local newspaper jumped out. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked, turning his back to the rain. The uniformed officer did not reply so the journalist directed himself to Wisting.

  ‘We’re searching for a stolen car,’ he explained.