Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  He gave a brief account of the mobile phone found by the search dogs.

  Nils Hammer placed the mobile, still inside a transparent plastic bag, before them on the table. ‘I’ve managed to charge it now,’ he said, looking at Wisting. ‘There’s a message in the inbox,’ he continued, directing himself now to those who were not familiar with the details. ‘It was received at 16.53 yesterday. 20.30.’

  ‘A time of day?’ Christine Thiis suggested.

  ‘Probably. The message was answered by OK. Later, at 20.43, the owner has sent I am here.’

  Christine Thiis gave voice to her thoughts. ‘First a message about a meeting time, and later a confirmation that the person in question had arrived.’

  Leaning forward across the table, she lifted the mobile phone, as though it could provide further answers in itself.

  ‘I interpret it that way as well,’ Hammer affirmed.

  ‘Is it at the correct time?’ Torunn Borg asked.

  ‘Approximately. It’s thirty-seven seconds slow.’

  ‘Who’s the subscriber?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  Hammer removed the phone from her hands, as though afraid she might damage it. ‘That’s interesting,’ he replied. ‘It makes this case bigger than it’s been up till now.’ Leaning forward, Wisting eagerly waited for him to continue. ‘There’s a Spanish pay-as-you-go card inside it,’ Hammer explained.

  ‘Spanish?’

  ‘Yes, the numbers are Spanish, both the sender and the receiver, and registered to the same person. Carlos Mendoza in Malaga.’

  Wisting jotted down SPAIN in large capitals on his notepad. They had a name, but he was not sure he liked the sound of it. International ramifications posed great challenges.

  ‘I’ll follow it up today,’ said Nils Hammer, ‘but I think I’ve found something else of significance.’

  Wisting nodded as a sign that he should continue.

  Nils Hammer held up the phone as he spoke. ‘When the first message was received, the phone was located in Oslo. The text message was registered by a telephone base station in Havnelageret. Three hours and fifty minutes later, when the owner texts I am here, it’s in Nevlunghavn.’

  ‘An Oslo connection,’ the Chief Superintendent concluded. He had been sitting in silence, listening intently, until this point. ‘Where’s the other phone located?’

  ‘In Nevlunghavn also, but we can get more out of this.’

  Crossing to the flipchart, Nils Hammer picked up a pen and wrote 20.43 at the foot of the sheet of paper before drawing a line to the top of the page and writing 16.53.

  ‘If the person concerned sends I am here when he arrives in Nevlunghavn …’

  ‘Then he’s almost a quarter of an hour late,’ Christine Thiis interrupted him. ‘And he has taken nearly double the length of time it usually takes to travel from Oslo.’

  Nodding, Nils Hammer continued. Wisting, understanding where he was going with this, leaned forward on the table.

  ‘Here and here,’ Hammer said, drawing two crosses on the line between Oslo and Nevlunghavn, ‘there are tollbooths. The normal travelling time from the tollbooth on the E18 at Langåker is twenty-five minutes, and from the toll station at Sande one hour and ten minutes. All vehicles in transit are registered with a photograph of the number plate or a subscription chip.’

  The Chief Superintendent concurred. ‘All vehicles that pass through the toll station at Langåker about twenty-five minutes before the text message was sent, could be connected to the case.’

  ‘As Christine pointed out,’ Hammer went on, ‘he arrives nearly fifteen minutes late, and it’s hardly believable that he has taken a break on the last part of the journey, or waited to send the message about having arrived. Nevertheless, if we give him a few minutes slack, he ought to be among the cars passing through the tollbooth between 20.00 and 20.20.’

  ‘That’s quite a number all the same,’ Torunn Borg piped up. ‘On a Friday evening there must be several thousand vehicles an hour passing through?’

  ‘Yes, that’s true, but our man is coming from Oslo, and we’re only looking for the cars that have also passed through the toll station at Sande. In addition, it’s reasonable to assume that he drives back the same way, that same evening.’

  Christine Thiis recapped, as though to demonstrate that she had understood: ‘So you’ll begin with the vehicles that pass through the toll station at Sande around 19.30 and at Langåker around 20.15, and additionally registered on the return journey that same evening.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Wisting said. ‘Prioritise that task.’

  Every single electronic trace contained potential evidence in such a case. Wisting considered all the kinds of stored data that were the silent witnesses of the modern age, all to be selected and analysed.

  Espen Mortensen entered the room, crossing to the coffee machine to help himself before sitting in a vacant seat.

  ‘Any news?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘Not really. The body’s en route to Forensics. You’ve heard about the gun cartridges?’ The others nodded.

  ‘Thirty-eight calibre. Our man has lost a lot of blood, so we’re searching the area for blood, but it’s difficult because of the rain. There are several footprints on the ground close to where the cartridges were discovered, but they’ve been ruined by the rain as well.’

  ‘Do you think he was shot out there and then managed to make his way to the cottage?’ Christine Thiis enquired.

  ‘Yes. His bullet wounds are in the stomach region, but the blows to his head are probably what killed him. I estimate three blows. From the blood spatter on the walls in the hallway, it looks as though he was first struck twice while he was standing upright, and then a last, more violent blow after he had fallen to his knees.’

  The crime scene technician was drinking his coffee. ‘Have you managed to get hold of Thomas Rønningen?’ he asked.

  William Wisting shook his head. ‘I tried him again just before this meeting, but I’ll get a patrol car to drive out to his home.’

  ‘I think he’s staying at his cottage, writing a book.’

  ‘A book?’

  ‘Yes, there are papers all over the living room floor. They look like the manuscript for a book.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  Espen Mortensen shrugged his shoulders. ‘You can read it once we’ve gathered up the pages,’ he suggested. ‘There aren’t very many, but it looks like some kind of documentary novel. There were quite a few famous names mentioned.’

  Wisting moved the meeting on, ending after barely an hour. The detectives rushed out, eager to work on their allocated tasks. He detained Espen Mortensen.

  ‘This manuscript,’ he said, recollecting that he too had seen some typewritten pages in Thomas Rønningen’s cottage. ‘What names does it mention?’

  Espen Mortensen resumed his seat. ‘Celebrities,’ he replied. ‘It looked as though it had to do with people who have been guests on his show: actors, musicians and politicians. Why?’

  Instead of responding, Wisting let his gaze drift thoughtfully towards the window. Outside, the darkness was lifting.

  10

  Wisting instructed his police colleagues in Bærum to drive out to Thomas Rønningen’s house in an attempt to make contact with him.

  There was something unsettling about this case. He was not certain what it was, but it was something more than the usual gnawing perplexity typical of the initial stage of an investigation. There was something cool and calculated about the entire business, but simultaneously something that indicated a kind of desperation, or failure of organisation.

  Wisting forced himself to be optimistic. Despite everything, the case had picked up momentum. There were a number of loose ends that needed to be tied up, but they were making their way towards something specific. Investigating a murder case with an unknown perpetrator was like picking the label off a beer bottle. It was never possible to remove it in one piece. Instead it had to be torn off one ragg
ed little section at a time. Nevertheless, a case like the one facing them now was among the simplest to solve. The distinguishing factor was that nothing was planned. One act had led to another, and everything that happened subsequently was part of a sort of domino effect. The investigation followed the same pattern. If they could discover the original act the rest would fall into place. He had no idea what it was, and this was what he was searching for as he read through the bundle of reports.

  An hour later he walked into the conference room, where he filled a cup with coffee and crossed to the window. The press had already arrived and stood in groups on the hard area fronting the police station, waiting to be allowed inside.

  Wisting glanced at the clock. He and the Chief Superintendent had been asked to a meeting in Christine Thiis’ office half an hour in advance for a final review. Having five minutes left, he sauntered back to his office to gather his notes. The telephone on the desk was ringing when he entered. Wisting remained on his feet to take the call.

  ‘This is Anders Hoff-Hansen at Forensics,’ a shrill voice barked into his ear. ‘We’re waiting for the body.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m working overtime here. Asbjørn Olsen from the Kripos ID group is too. I received a fax requesting a post mortem, but I don’t have a body.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Wisting enquired, picturing the television images of the hearse leaving the crime scene. ‘It should have been with you several hours ago.’

  ‘I’m quite sure.’

  Wisting performed a quick mental calculation. The body had been collected just before five o’clock that morning. Mortensen had been in the police station preparing folders of illustrations and writing a preliminary report to accompany its transfer to Forensics. The plan had been to begin the post mortem at nine o’clock. ‘Let me check this out,’ he said, sitting down at his desk.

  ‘Okay. We’ll have a cup of coffee while we’re waiting.’

  Wisting put his own cup aside as he replaced the receiver, and then dialled Espen Mortensen’s number. He replied abruptly at the other end, as though concentrating deeply on something or other. ‘Forensics is waiting for the body,’ Wisting explained.

  He heard Espen Mortensen changing the phone receiver from one hand to the other. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The body hasn’t arrived.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the undertakers? They came to collect the documents about six o’clock.’

  ‘Which undertaking company?’

  ‘Memento. The driver was a new man. They should have got there by eight. There’s hardly any traffic on a Saturday morning, of course. Do you want me to phone them?’

  ‘I can do that.’ Wisting was familiar with the company, as he had used them for Ingrid’s funeral. ‘Is there any news from the crime scene examination?’

  ‘Not really. There were good footprints in the blood in the hallway, when I managed to illuminate the floorboards properly. I’ve checked them against those of the neighbour and they aren’t his shoes. He hadn’t gone very far inside, so they must be from the killer. The pattern on the sole is so clear that the type of shoe can probably be traced. It will all eventually come to you in a folder with photographs and a written report.’

  Wisting was listening with only half an ear while he tracked down the telephone number of the undertaking company. Having drawn his conversation with Mortenson to a close, he dialled the emergency number listed in Yellow Pages. The funeral director introduced himself by announcing the company name.

  Wisting recognised the calm, earnest voice of Ingvar Arnesen, the third generation proprietor of the business. ‘Your car hasn’t arrived,’ he explained. He had to repeat the message so that Arnesen understood what he meant.

  ‘I don’t understand that.’ Some of the composure in Ingvar Arnesen’s voice had vanished. ‘Ottar left just before six o’clock. He should have arrived long ago. Have you checked whether there have been any road accidents or anything of that nature?’

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Wisting admitted. ‘But maybe you could phone him?’

  ‘Yes, wait. I can do that from the other telephone.’ Wisting heard him keying in the number at the other end, followed by the voice on an automatic answer phone. ‘No,’ Arnesen stated. ‘Might there have been a road accident?’

  ‘I’ll find out. What’s his name, other than Ottar?’

  ‘Ottar Mold. He hasn’t worked for me for very long. To be quite honest, I’m not sure if I’ll keep him on after his probationary period.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There have been a number of things. He’s newly separated, and has been off work a lot in connection with that. That’s okay in itself, but he doesn’t always give notice, and we can’t do with that in this line of business. People rely on us.’

  ‘Could he have done that now, do you think? Gone home to his ex-wife instead of driving to Oslo?’

  ‘I don’t really think so, but I can ring her and find out if she’s heard from him.’

  ‘Great. Do you have the vehicle registration number?’ Wisting waited while Ingvar Arnesen leafed through papers before reading out the registration number.

  ‘It’s a black Voyager,’ he added.

  ‘With a cross on the roof?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘A cross on the roof and the company logo on the side. It shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.’

  Wisting called for Torunn Borg over the loudspeaker. He brought her up to date on the situation and asked her to investigate whether the hearse had been involved in an accident. He then glanced at the clock. There were twenty minutes to go before the press conference. He looked out of the window and saw that the fog had dispersed. The leaden sky was overlaid with scudding clouds that were perpetually, but almost imperceptibly, changing shape, dissolving and then merging once more.

  The phone rang again. It was Arnesen. All the restraint had disappeared from the funeral director’s voice. ‘I’ve spoken to his wife. She hasn’t heard anything. I’ve tried to phone him several times but I don’t think his phone is switched on.’

  ‘Okay,’ Wisting replied. He could not think of anything more sensible to say, concluding the conversation just as Torunn Borg appeared at his office door.

  ‘He drove through three police districts on his way to Forensics,’ she explained. ‘Søndre Buskerud, Asker and Bærum, and then Oslo. None of them have any reports about a road traffic accident involving personal injury, or any other kind of accident.’

  Wisting ran his hand over his hair. A feeling of disquiet gnawed deep inside him.

  ‘What should we do?’ Torunn Borg asked. ‘Search for the vehicle?’

  There were only fifteen minutes until the press conference, when they would have all the attention of the media directed at them. However, he had no desire to sit facing the camera lenses, forced to announce that the body had vanished. ‘Send a car on the same route,’ he requested, rising from his chair. ‘Full emergency status. Perhaps the hearse is stopped by the roadside somewhere with a flat tyre, and that idiot behind the wheel has let his phone battery run down.’

  Torunn Borg nodded her head and disappeared. Lifting his suit jacket from the chair back, Wisting headed for the preliminary meeting with Christine Thiis. Several members of the press corps were already in the building and being directed to the conference room on the second floor. A couple of them threw a few questions at him, but Wisting hurried past.

  Christine Thiis’ desktop was bare, apart from a printout of the progress report Wisting had emailed her, and a ballpoint pen she had used to make corrections and additions. The report summarised the parts of the case he felt they should inform the public about, expressed in general terms, but nevertheless containing sufficient detail to satisfy the press. He sat in the vacant visitor’s chair beside the Chief Superintendent. ‘We may have a problem,’ he said, and told them that the hearse had gone missing.

  ‘What shall we do?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  ‘I suggest we lea
ve this until after the press conference,’ the Chief Superintendent said. ‘Shall we go through the statement?’

  Accepting this, Wisting let Christine Thiis read it out. They discussed individual points before coming to an agreement.

  ‘Have we made contact with Thomas Rønningen?’ she wanted to know.

  ‘No. He lives in Bærum. I’ve instructed the police there to drive to his house but haven’t heard back from them yet.’

  ‘Do you think the press know about his involvement yet?’ Christine enquired. ‘That his cottage is the crime scene?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wisting answered. ‘But if they do, none of them will ask you about it. That’s a headline each one will want to keep from the others. It’s probably only a question of time before it’s out in the open, but we can’t give out any information yet.’

  They divided out roles and tasks. It was the young police lawyer’s duty to lead the press conference, and Wisting could see that she was unused to the situation. ‘It will go all right,’ he said as they stood up. ‘If there’s anything you can’t answer, you can pass the question to me.’

  She gave him a swift, friendly look before crossing to the mirror beside the door. Tidying a few wisps of hair, she assumed a serious expression before nodding to her two colleagues to indicate her readiness. Wisting glanced fleetingly at his own reflection. His face was swollen on one side and the skin surrounding the sticking plaster on his chin had developed a bluish tinge. His encounter with the previous night’s assailant had produced visible results, and the bruise had started to throb.

  His phone rang as they left the office, with his daughter’s name illuminated on the display, but he declined the call, wondering at the same time whether he would see her at this press conference. She had covered some of his cases, and he always felt uncomfortable about it.

  Nonetheless he had to admit that she was a competent crime journalist. She understood the different phases of police work and had a particular talent for interpreting the developments in a case. Her articles had sometimes led to progress in an enquiry. He had to concede that he was proud of her.