Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

‘With a helicopter and guns?’

  The armed policeman tramped back to his post at the barrier. Wisting nodded. He should have prepared a press release before leaving, but assumed that someone at headquarters was already on the job. Pressure from the media would be intense as soon as the few details in their possession became known. News editors could not wish for more. A criminal case and celebrity story combined.

  ‘A statement will be made to the press very shortly,’ he said, winding up the window.

  He was not usually so dismissive, but was embarrassed that the presumed killer had escaped by stealing the car belonging to the policeman leading the investigation. The journalist from Østlands-Posten pointed his camera at the barrier with the helicopter in the background.

  Suddenly the enormous machine swooped like a falcon, plunging towards its prey, before climbing once more, hovering in the air, its spotlight pointing down vertically. The helicopter pilot summoned the police officers on the ground: ‘Fox 05, this is Heli.’

  ‘Fox 05,’ crackled through the police radio.

  ‘We have sighted a suspicious vehicle under the light. Thermal imaging indicates that the engine is warm. No sign of life.’

  ‘Received, we see where you are.’

  One of the cars at the barrier started its engine. Wisting rushed over and clambered into the back seat.

  The man behind the wheel turned and nodded before moving off, heading for the helicopter’s cone of light. They drove past the Color Line terminal building and out towards the container harbour, passing warehouses, workshops and crawler cranes. In the rain, the high lamps lining the road were encircled by golden light.

  Wisting’s stolen car was parked in the open, beside a trolley stacked with stone blocks awaiting shipment. Gusts of wind were driving the water in horizontal cascades across the asphalt. It seemed totally abandoned.

  A police car arrived from the other side, stopping twenty metres from Wisting’s car. Three men stepped out and brief messages passed across the two-way radio. They approached the vehicle with weapons drawn, while the two police officers from the car that had brought Wisting to the scene formed a kind of perimeter defence.

  Rapidly ascertaining that there was no one inside, one of the men positioned himself with the barrel of his gun pointing towards the boot lid, while another opened it from inside. Followed immediately by the crackling message: ‘All clear.’

  One of the officers in the other patrol car led out a dog as Wisting stepped forward to take a look. His sodden jacket was lying on the passenger seat and he opened the door to remove it. Underneath was the evidence bag with the mobile phone. There was still a trace of battery power remaining, but no new messages or calls.

  One of the policemen shone a Maglite into the driver’s compartment. ‘What should we do with the car?’ he asked.

  Wisting surveyed the interior. The keys were still in the ignition and the pale fabric on the driver’s seat was smeared with mud and clay. ‘We must get it towed in for forensic examination. Will you see to that?’

  His colleague nodded as he probed the interior of the vehicle with the beam of light. ‘Did you injure him?’ he asked, pointing with the light towards a number of dark stains on the seat.

  Wisting skirted around the car. ‘Not significantly.’

  ‘That looks like blood.’

  Wisting inwardly reconstructed the events: the play-acting when the man fell to the ground, dark clothing and gloves, nothing to indicate that he was injured. In the brief fight he had glimpsed his face, but it was only the expression he remembered. The man had looked terrified; panicked.

  ‘Wonder why he drove out here,’ the policeman said, interrupting Wisting’s train of thought. ‘He must have been picked up by accomplices.’

  The helicopter above them soared off to continue its search. Wisting turned up his jacket collar and returned to the patrol car. This trail was about to go cold.

  7

  On the return journey Wisting located the number he had saved for Thomas Rønningen and tried one more time. The voice on the answering machine sounded just as bright and cheerful as it did on television. He left a brief message giving his mobile number.

  Torunn Borg was sitting in her office with only the desk lamp for illumination, a yellow ring of light spilling onto her papers. One hand was placed in the middle of the spotlight, the other supported her head. A long, soft lock of hair hung over her right shoulder. She sat up straight when Wisting entered.

  ‘Good to see you,’ he said.

  She swiftly tucked her hair behind her ear. ‘I’ve asked Benjamin Fjeld to come too.’

  Wisting nodded. That was a good idea. Benjamin Fjeld came from the law enforcement section, but had been a probationer in Criminal Investigation for almost six months and had made a good impression. Motivated and knowledgeable, he possessed an enormous capacity for work, as well as a good eye for detail and a rare ability to pinpoint connections and relationships. He was inquisitive and had a particular talent for thinking out of the box. Against all that he lacked experience of a major case, a case such as this. Also, Wisting had a weakness for the purposeful and idealistic twenty-six year old. There was something about him that reminded him of himself at the same age.

  He sat in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘What do we know so far?’ Torunn Borg asked.

  ‘Not much.’ Wisting replied. Nils Hammer joined them and stood leaning against a filing cabinet, sipping at a cup of coffee. ‘It looks as though this started with three burglaries in summer cottages.’

  ‘Six,’ Hammer interjected. ‘The dog patrol has followed the trail and discovered three more cottages with the doors broken open.’

  ‘More work for the technicians,’ said Wisting.

  ‘There’s a whole team out there now,’ Hammer elaborated. ‘They’re going from cottage to cottage.’

  ‘I’ve checked the background of the guy who found the body,’ said Torunn Borg. ‘Ove Bakkerud runs an accountancy firm in Oslo. He’s had the cottage for more than twenty years. Married, with two grown-up children. No criminal record.’

  Wisting nodded. Often, the person who raised the alarm with the police about a serious crime turned out to be more deeply involved than he suggested. So far they had been unable to pin down any inconsistencies in Ove Bakkerud’s story. ‘What about the other neighbour at the cottages?’

  Torunn leafed through her papers. ‘Jostein Hammersnes: recently separated, has two small daughters, the cottage is in joint ownership, works in an IT company in Bærum. He has a few traffic offences, that’s all.’

  ‘The most interesting thing is probably the identity of the murder victim,’ Hammer suggested. ‘It could have been a private quarrel. Two burglars fall out about something and one of them kills the other.’

  Wisting agreed. It need not be any more complicated than that.

  Hammer went on, ‘The murderer leaves, attacks a random motorist and hijacks a car.’

  ‘But why didn’t he use his own car?’ Wisting asked. ‘They must have had a van or truck loaded with stolen goods.’

  ‘It might still be there,’ Torunn Borg suggested. ‘Perhaps the keys are in the murder victim’s pocket.’

  ‘In that case we’ll need to wait until after the post mortem to check it out,’ said Hammer. ‘Mortensen wouldn’t even try to lift the balaclava for a glimpse of his face.’

  ‘I don’t think that would help us anyway,’ Wisting said. ‘His face is probably completely destroyed.’

  Standing up, he produced from his pocket the evidence bag including the mobile phone found near the cottages.

  ‘Can you look into that?’ he asked, handing it to Hammer. ‘Where it has been located during the last twenty-four hours – the way you tracked my phone?’ Putting down his coffee cup, Nils Hammer took hold of the phone. ‘But remember to charge it before the battery runs out,’ Wisting added.

  ‘Give me a couple of hours,’ Hammer said, disappearing out the door.

&nb
sp; Torunn Borg turned towards the computer screen.

  ‘What are you working on?’ Wisting asked, leaning against the doorframe.

  ‘I’ve brought up a list of all the housebreakings at cottages in the Østland area in the past three weeks. There could be a connection. They come in a series. Six or seven burglaries in one place one day, and a similar number somewhere else the next.’

  ‘East Europeans?’

  ‘Probably.’

  Wisting remained standing in the doorway. Aggravated theft committed by people from the poor part of Europe was a growing problem for the police. New gangs and fresh trends cropped up continually. Some gangs specialised in stealing cosmetics and razor blades from shops, others filched boat engines from marinas. Some specialised in electronics stores, while others concentrated on private homes or remote groups of holiday cottages. The gangs were increasingly professional, and the police constantly lagged behind. ‘Are there any clues or information in the other cases?’

  ‘Not so far. I’m in the sifting process.’

  Expressing his appreciation of her initiative, Wisting headed for his own office but his mobile rang before he reached his destination.

  ‘Press release?’

  Wisting recognised the voice of the person in charge at operational HQ in Tønsberg, where most of the media enquiries were directed. The issue of a press release would reduce pressure on the central switchboard. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘The usual.’ The operational leader rustled a sheet of paper, reading aloud: ‘An investigation has been initiated by Vestfold police district after a person was found dead in a cottage near Helgeroa in Larvik. The police received a report of the death on Friday 1st October directly after 22.00 hours. At this point no further information can be issued concerning the case. A press conference will be held at Larvik police station at …?’

  Wisting sat behind his desk, glancing at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Ten o’clock,’ he decided. ‘We can probably give them a little more information. Confirm that we have started a murder enquiry and that searches are being conducted with helicopter and police dogs for one or several perpetrators.’

  ‘Fine. Is there anything we’re seeking information about? Movements, vehicles or such like?’

  Wisting decided it was too early to ask for specific observations. They had provided the public with the time and location of the murder. Experience suggested that anyone who had noticed anything out of the ordinary would make contact. ‘No. Not just now. Will you send me a copy when it’s issued?’

  ‘Yes. It’s going in a few minutes.’ The operational leader hung up without rounding off the conversation.

  Wisting switched on his computer and leaned back in his chair while waiting for the display to appear.

  When he had started in the criminal investigation department in the mid eighties, all the report writing had been done on typewriters. Not until ten years ago had every single detective been allocated a personal computer. Notebooks from the major cases he had worked on, containing complete logs of the investigation of cases in real time, were stacked on the shelves of the cupboard behind him. Names were noted and crossed through, some circled, or connected to others using lines and arrows. Thoughts and reflections were jotted down, tasks distributed. Many cases had approached a resolution through complicated mind maps on paper.

  Now this aspect of police work was digitalised. Dedicated computer tools had been developed and an electronic project room created, sharing the information among all the participants in an investigation. Information gathered was intended to provide a foundation for a particular analysis of the case. All the documents concerning the case were recorded and all the individuals involved in the investigation or mentioned in some way were entered in a special register. Data programs ensured the execution of a comprehensive and effective investigation from the initial phase until the conclusion of the enquiry, the aim being to provide a full overview, verifiability, objectivity and professional quality.

  He logged into the data system and waited while the machine worked its way through its start procedure. Rotating his chair, he opened the cupboard behind and hauled out an unused hardback notebook. He extracted a grey pencil from the desktop holder and opened at the first blank page, writing a caption: Who?

  For the present he was not so preoccupied by motive or method, as the main challenge was to discover the victim’s identity. The answer could lead them directly to the killer.

  Fishing out the spectacles he was now dependent on, he continued to make notes. For almost an hour he wrote down key words about urgent tasks. Important elements more imperative than others he underlined or allocated additional comments in the margin, individual clues were elaborated with explanations and amplifications. He sketched arrows and symbols, and numbered the priorities and the less essential aspects.

  High on the list was the collection of electronic evidence, valuable information that had to be recorded as soon as possible. CCTV tapes from petrol stations were wiped after one week. Recordings of vehicles in transit through various tollbooths were stored for slightly longer. The same applied to traffic data on the mobile phone network. Often they were unsure what they were looking for at this early stage of information gathering, but if they failed to secure all electronic material, it would soon be irretrievable.

  The forensic examination of the body would be crucial. Above all to establish the identity of the victim, but it might also be possible to find strands of hair, fibres or other traces that could link him directly to the perpetrator. Wounds, accumulations of blood and postmortem bruising were also crucial pieces of information that could shed a great deal of light on the sequence of events.

  Often the forensic examinations provided answers about what had taken place, but investigators never knew in advance what types of evidence would emerge, and they could never depend on the possible acquisition of forensic evidence. Focus had to be placed on the tactical investigation.

  A strategy had to be devised with respect to the media as well. As yet, that consisted of two bywords: openness and honesty.

  This was going to be the first press conference Christine Thiis had led. From that point until the conclusion of the case, she was the one who carried formal responsibility for the investigation. It was going to be a steep learning curve, and he hoped she would be equal to the task. This crime, involving a dead man discovered in the summer cottage belonging to one of the country’s most well-known TV personalities, was going to create an explosion of media interest.

  Once more he attempted to phone Thomas Rønningen, but was again connected to an answering machine. Intending to leave a new message, he nevertheless decided to hang up and send a short text message instead.

  Rising from his chair, he stretched himself before stepping into the corridor and across to the conference room where he found a half-full pot of coffee sitting on the hotplate. He fetched himself a cup from the shelf and filled it, glancing towards the door when he heard footsteps.

  Espen Mortensen appeared. Handing him the cup, Wisting filled another for himself. ‘Finished at the crime scene already?’

  The crime scene technician shook his head. ‘We’ve removed the body. I’ll prepare some photographs and write a summary report to accompany it to Forensics. I’ve made an appointment with the ID group at Kripos. They’ll attend the post mortem.’

  Kripos was the national criminal investigation department, where certain aspects of crime investigation were centralised. They sat down at the conference table. ‘Have you discovered anything more?’ Wisting enquired.

  Mortensen nodded. ‘It isn’t as we thought initially.’ Wisting looked at him. ‘He’s been shot. When we turned him over, we found a large entry wound in the stomach region.’

  Wisting pictured the bloody entrance to the cottage where the man was found: blood dripping onto the steps and smeared on the upper part of the door, gory gloves and the pool of blood underneath the corpse. ‘He must have been shot before
he entered the cottage. We have an undetermined crime scene.’

  Mortensen confirmed: ‘The shots were fired in another location. He managed to drag himself to the cottage where the struggle continued. The way the blood was splashed over the walls suggests he was struck at least three times.’

  ‘Have we found the weapon?’

  Espen Mortensen got to his feet. ‘No, neither the gun nor the weapon that caused the blows.’ He crossed to the door with the cup in his hand. ‘And it’s difficult to say what the actual cause of death was. He’s been shot, and then battered unconscious. He might have bled to death from the bullet wounds, but the blows could have been fatal in themselves. And it isn’t certain that the man who shot him was also the man who delivered the blows.’

  8

  Line was reluctant to go to bed, but so bleary-eyed that she had to stretch out on the settee and pull a blanket over herself. She was wakened by her mobile phone when the clock display showed 04.23. Her neck was aching and throat dry.

  Initially, she thought it was Tommy sending his usual message, apologising for being late and telling her he would be home soon, but she was wrong. Instead it was a red alert from NTB, a service she subscribed to, notifying her of breaking news. They called it red alert because, when it rolled over the news feed on the enormous screens in the editorial offices, the letters were in bold red font. There was always great excitement when a news story the journalists had worked on hit the public domain and the newspaper was given the credit in a rushed message from the news bureau.

  She squinted at the display: NTB: The police in Vestfold confirm murder enquiry after body found in holiday cottage. Armed police searching for perpetrator with dogs and helicopter.

  She opened her laptop to read what her newspaper had to say about the case. They had already published a dramatic photograph of an armed, uniformed police officer standing in front of flapping police crime scene tape with a helicopter suspended in the air behind him. A freelancer had taken the photo. The headline warned the public about a fleeing killer. She checked the bye-line and saw that one of their more experienced journalists, on duty in the online newspaper’s editorial office, had got the scoop. Since the police had been armed, it was natural to query whether the situation was dangerous for the public and, as long as the police could not guarantee safety, this strikingly effective headline was legitimate.