Benjamin Fjeld accepted the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I hope an opening will turn up so I can stay here.’
Wisting nodded. The system was such that officers from the law enforcement section spent a six-month probationary period, taking the experience back with them into front line policing. Benjamin Fjeld, however, had detective qualities. Wisting regarded him as a natural investigator who absorbed everything and really cared about the cases and the people involved.
‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ he said. ‘You have a few probationary weeks left. If this case hasn’t been solved by then we’ll get to hold on to you anyway.’ They remained seated, chatting about the case, Benjamin Fjeld brimming with observations, questions and arguments. It was after midnight when he left.
Returning to his computer screen, Wisting replaced his glasses and got to work with the investigation material.
Nils Hammer had completed his overview of the cars that had passed the two toll stations between Oslo and Larvik, and had entered this information into the data system, noting that it had not been analysed yet.
Wisting scrolled through the long list of car registration numbers, models, owner information and the precise times of their passing. His eyes were heavy and he was rubbing them to focus more clearly when a familiar name popped up. Thomas Rønningen. He was the owner of a black Audi S5 that had passed the tollbooth at Sande at 19.32, the same vehicle that had been parked outside Wisting’s house the previous evening.
He found the written record of the tape of Thomas Rønningen’s statement, and located what he was looking for about halfway through.
WW: Where were you yesterday evening and last night?
TR: You would perhaps think I have the best alibi in the world – a million TV viewers, but the truth is that what everybody sees on the screen is a recording. The programme is recorded in the afternoon and broadcast unedited.
WW: So where were you?
TR: At home. Alone.
WW: We’ve been trying to phone you, and even sent a car to your door this morning.
TR: I disconnected everything. Mobile phone, doorbell, television, everything. I arrived home at about seven o’clock and sat down to write. I kept going until almost five, and then collapsed into bed. When I woke, I switched on my mobile, read my texts and phoned you.
Returning to the computer screen, Wisting scrolled to locate the record at the toll station on the local authority border between Larvik and Sandefjord. The time was 20.17. Thomas Rønningen had passed both toll stations, in a direct route between Oslo and Larvik on the evening of the murder.
He sank back into his chair. The famous TV host had sat opposite him in his own home and told barefaced lies.
He read the account again. This was what an interview was all about, a detailed statement that could be used later to expose lies. It was true that one detail was missing from the statement. It was entirely possible that someone else had used Rønningen’s car while he remained in his apartment writing, but Wisting reckoned that possibility was slight. He had encountered numerous accomplished liars and ham actors, and recognised them easily. Thomas Rønningen was one, but he could not make the lie fit with the information given by the informant to Oslo Police.
He pushed his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to massage his eyes. With increasing complexity solutions became more difficult to grasp. Deciding to switch off his computer and travel home to catch up on sleep, he noticed something else on the screen and the rhythm of his breathing changed.
Barely three minutes before Thomas Rønningen’s Audi, a black Golf had passed the tollbooth. The registered owner was Elcon Leasing, but Wisting recognised the registration number of Line’s car.
His thoughts whirled like autumn leaves, flitting and fluttering across his consciousness, and he was unable to grip them. On Friday at 19.29, he had been finishing the meal eaten in the company of Suzanne and Line at Shazam Station. Tommy Kvanter had been busy and unable to join them.
It dawned on him that he was sitting open-mouthed, unable to breathe. He gasped for air, but could not shift the icy, tight lump forming in his chest.
29
Banks of heavy dark clouds hung low over the horizon. Dense fog hovered above the sea, but gusts of wind repeatedly tore deep gashes in the gloom.
Line thought it a good idea to make the central character a female journalist, like herself, who inherits a large house on the skerries. The house has lain empty for many years, but the first time she visits there are fresh flowers in a vase and the clock on the wall is set to the correct time. One of the doors on the upper floor is locked, and none of her keys fits. When she finally succeeds in opening the door, she also opens a spellbinding murder mystery.
She had written late into the night and been wakened early by the seagulls’ cries. Her breakfast was a cup of tea and a slice of crispbread with cream cheese. She read through what she had written and was less than happy with most of it. Some parts though, made her really proud.
Dressing for the squally weather, she slung her camera over her shoulder and stepped outside into wind that hurtled inland from the sea. Waves crashed onto the beach and the old wooden jetty.
She chose the opposite direction from the one she had taken the day she found the dead man. The terrain to the west was different, and the path led her into a tangle of dense woodland where the ground was soft and muddy, showing large, deep footprints. Someone had been here before her, either late the previous evening or early that morning.
She stopped and listened. Beyond the track the undergrowth was so dense it was impossible to see the forest floor, and rampant clusters of honeysuckle snaked around the tree-trunks. A branch snapped in the distance, and then all was silent. A bird took flight, vanishing into the air.
Line walked until coastal rocks replaced the marshy forest and she found herself on a rocky outcrop, breathing the tang of salt and seaweed.
It was an excellent view for a wide-angle photograph, although the light was rather too dull and contrasts were minimal. She looked for some softer images to capture, but the golden autumn leaves further inland also lacked the necessary light.
Searching through the camera lens, she took a couple of preliminary shots but they were underexposed and grainy. She adjusted the shutter speed and positioned herself with legs wide, steadying the camera, and made a fresh attempt. This improved results, and she continued to look for new compositions.
When the viewfinder found two blasted, crooked pine trees on a crag, she took a photograph. Lowering the camera she spotted something jutting from a ledge beneath the pines. Something made by human hands. She zoomed in. Several wooden slats had been placed between two boulders with a green tarpaulin drawn over them. Branches had been placed in front, and a camouflage net covered the entire structure. She took a couple of photographs before packing her camera.
To investigate the slightly remote spot she had to climb around a cleft in the rock. The rudimentary shelter had stone walls at the back. It resembled a den made by children, except for its unlikely location. It was quite a distance to the nearest houses and no path led naturally to the little rocky overhang.
Two openings were carved out of the wooden boards at the front, reminiscent of firing hatches. Pushing her hands inside the net, she used them to lift the branch and inside found a ground sheet and sleeping bag; at the rock face a propane lamp and a camping stove, with a water bottle and several empty cans lying beside them.
Crouching down, she crept inside. Birds’ feathers had been pushed into fissures in the rock. She picked one out and rolled it between two fingers, but suddenly had the unpleasant sensation that she was being watched. Dropping the feather, she turned to face the little opening. No one was there. She hurried out, returning the branch to its former position.
As she turned her back on the little hiding place, she heard a strange rustling as the sky grew darker. An enormous flock of birds rose from the scrubby woodland behind her, manoeuvring as one single,
connected organism. The roar of flapping wings grew louder as the flock veered above her and disappeared towards the west.
Line shivered. Turning up the collar of her jacket, she returned to the path and strode back hurriedly.
30
A man stood on the wide verandah with his hands cupped on the living room window, peering inside. Only when she approached more closely did she see it was her father.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.
‘I wanted to see how you were getting on.’
‘At nine o’clock on a Monday morning?’
‘I was in the vicinity.’
‘This isn’t in the vicinity of anywhere,’ she commented, turning to face the bitter wind. It buffeted her hair back from her face.
‘The crime scene’s not so far away,’ he explained, following her into the cottage. ‘I want to talk to Thomas Rønningen.’
Line unhooked her camera bag from her shoulder. ‘Have you released the crime scene?’
‘Yes, we finished there yesterday evening. I can’t get hold of him by phone, so I thought I’d take a trip out to see if he’s at his cottage.’
‘Has he not made a statement?’
‘Oh yes, but I’ve a few supplementary questions. A few details need to be set straight.’
Line wanted to ask more, but decided to let it drop.
‘I haven’t been here for years,’ her father remarked as he surveyed the room. ‘It’s very pleasant.’
‘I’m happy with it.’ She crossed to the kitchen worktop to fill the kettle. ‘Would you like a cup?’
‘Yes, please,’ he replied.
Her father made a tour of the house, checking room after room, before sitting at the table in front of the large window. ‘You shouldn’t leave your computer like that,’ he said. ‘It’s easily seen from outside. Tempting for burglars.’
‘You’re right,’ she answered. ‘I’m relieved I wasn’t here on Friday night, when everything happened.’
Her father picked up the business card Benjamin Fjeld had left. ‘Did you go straight home after dinner on Friday?’
‘Yes, I did some shopping before going home to watch Rønningen on TV.’
‘Did you have your car?’
‘No, I took the tram. It’s much easier.’ She sat down to wait for the water to boil. ‘Tommy had the car.’
‘Why didn’t he come and eat with us?’
‘I don’t know. He said something about a meeting with some Danes who were going to open a restaurant. I wasn’t really interested. It suited me just as well that he didn’t come. I’d already decided to finish with him.’
Her father replaced the young policeman’s card on the table. ‘When did you tell him?’
‘When he came home. I sat up waiting but he didn’t arrive until almost four in the morning. By that time I had fallen asleep on the settee. We had a brief conversation and he disappeared again. I went to bed.’
‘Did he go out in the middle of the night?’
Line did not understand her father’s intense interest in Tommy. There was concern in the tone of his voice, but his questions seemed to be heading towards a definite goal. He was weaving an invisible web.
The kettle was boiling, so she rose from her seat. ‘He went out. That was after I told him I was coming home for a few days, and he’d to pack his belongings and find another place to live before I returned.’
‘Do you think he’s met someone else?’ her father asked, accepting the cup she handed him.
Line sat down again. She hadn’t wanted to think about that since it involved betrayal and deception, but it was an obvious conclusion. Many of Tommy’s explanations about why he could not be at home or with her were just too blatant.
‘That may turn out to be the case,’ she said, tucking her feet underneath herself on the chair. ‘But at the moment I couldn’t care less. I’m just glad it’s over.’
She wanted to change the subject and was going to tell him about the little hiding place someone had built on the steep outcrop, but her father spoke first. ‘Is there a lot needing done here? It looks as though some of the timber is pretty dry.’
‘Yes, it will probably have to be treated this summer,’ she replied. ‘I was thinking I could do some painting inside as well. Brighten the place up.’
‘I can take care of the outside. You can fix things up inside, if you like,’ her father suggested.
They sat talking about the things needing done, and how wonderful the summer was going to be at the mouth of the fjord, before her father stood up. He had to move on.
31
A sizeable bonfire was ablaze on the muddy, well-trodden area in front of Thomas Rønningen’s cottage. Two men in joiners’ overalls each carried a bundle of wooden planks in their arms that they threw on the flames. Wisting could feel the heat all the way to the walls of the cottage. All the bloody flooring in the outer hallway had been removed, as well as the walls, front door and splintered doorframe.
Wisting asked for Rønningen, but neither of the joiners had seen him. He dialled the number he had stored on his mobile, and this time received an immediate answer. ‘Is there any news?’ the TV host asked.
‘I’m at your cottage,’ Wisting explained. ‘The joiners are keeping busy.’
‘That’s good. The insurance company agreed I could rip it all out.’
‘Are you back in Oslo?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve a few more questions, and we need to take your fingerprints.’
‘I see. I’ll be able to come down, but it will be late this afternoon,’ Thomas Rønningen said, suggesting a time.
They made an appointment and Wisting replaced his phone in his jacket pocket. A flock of black birds wheeled above a plateau in the dense woodland. Like him, he thought, they were searching.
Instead of walking up to his car, he followed the path eastwards to the nearest cottage. Thick black smoke rose from the chimney, where it was dispersed by the wind.
Wisting had read Jostein Hammersnes’s statement to Benjamin Fjeld, describing how he travelled to his cottage on Friday evening, as he had done every weekend since the summer. Until the divorce settlement was finalised, he still lived under the same roof as his wife and two daughters, aged seven and nine, in a villa in Bærum. The weekends had become long and difficult, and he preferred to spend them on his own at the cottage.
The written statement did not contain any information about his short visit to the petrol station at the exit road for Larvik. It was probably a detail he considered insignificant, as indeed it was. The receipt found on the path below the parking place had turned out to be a dead end.
Wisting recognised the man from the CCTV footage when he opened the door to invite him in. He was wearing different clothes now: a loose-fitting pair of jogging trousers and chunky sweater. The cottage had probably belonged to Jostein Hammersnes’ family for generations and never been modernised. The living room was decorated in rustic style with bell pulls and old copper kitchen utensils hanging on the walls. The damp air was filled with a strange, pungent odour, which Wisting could not identify.
Jostein Hammersnes crossed to the open fireplace where he rummaged in the embers, reinvigorating the flames before putting on two logs.
Wisting sat down at a long pine table with newspapers from the past few days spread over its surface, one of them opened at an article illustrated by a photograph of Christine Thiis. ‘Haven’t you gone back to work?’ he enquired.
Jostein Hammersnes sat opposite. ‘I would have liked to be somewhere else, but it’s autumn half-term holiday and my wife, or former wife, is a teacher. We’ve just separated but are still living under the same roof. It’s unbearable to be bumping into each other all the time. Anyway, I can get most things done from here using broadband. I usually like being out here, but the enjoyment has gone.’
‘Why is that?’
‘The physical damage from the burglary is not too great, but the thought that there
’s been somebody here is almost intolerable. It overshadows all the happy memories I have of Else here with the children, and from the time when I was little. Now I’m not bothered that the cottage has to be sold to finalise the divorce settlement.’
Jostein Hammersnes avoided Wisting’s gaze by lowering his eyes and staring at the tabletop. When he looked up again, they were shining. ‘It’s empty here,’ he said wearily. He glanced past Wisting, towards a shelf on the panel wall, where a pale area revealed that something had been on display.
‘They even took my glass ornament,’ he said, crossing to the bare spot. ‘I got it from my father the summer of my eighth birthday, after I succeeded in swimming across the inlet.’ He moved his head in the direction of the sea.
‘It’s the only prize I ever won. I was a good swimmer, but I’ve never been involved in any kind of sport. My father was a glass craftsman. He had his own workshop at home in Høvik. I could sit for hours watching how he transformed molten, red-hot glass into the most beautiful shapes. That ornament was one of the loveliest things he ever made. He treated glass as if it were a precious metal, melted it, shaped, ground and polished it with love and care. When he gave it to me, he said that I could collect all my dreams in it. Fill it with my thoughts and hopes, without it ever becoming full or running over. Now it’s gone.’
Wisting allowed the owner of the cottage to express the feelings he was nursing before making a start. ‘Did you stop anywhere before you arrived at the cottage?’
‘I dropped into the Meny shop at Holmen and did some shopping. I’d done my packing in the morning and worked a few hours overtime before I set out.’
‘Did you make any other stops? At a petrol station for instance?’
‘Yes. I stopped at an Esso station when I left the motorway.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I usually stop and buy some takeaway food. That way I avoid having to make anything myself.’
‘What did you buy?’
Closed for Winter Page 13
