Praise for Jorn Lier Horst’s William Wisting series
‘Horst, a former Norwegian policeman, now produces classy procedurals with plotting, depth and humanity to rival the best of the Scandis.’
-The Sunday Times Crime Club
‘Urban rather than natural settings are the stamping grounds of Jorn Lier Horst, whose Dregs is immensely impressive. The writer’s career as a police chief has supplied a key ingredient for the crime fiction form: credibility.’
-Barry Forshaw, author of Nordic Noir and Euro Noir
‘Closed for Winter is a piece of quality craftsmanship, bringing together an unexpectedly winding plot, highly intelligent characterizations and a delectably subtle noir mood to create a very engrossing crime novel.’
-Edinburgh Book Review
‘Expertly constructed and beautifully written, [The Hunting Dogs] showcases the talents of one of the most accomplished authors of contemporary Nordic Noir.’
-Karen Meek, The Petrona Award
‘The Caveman is not just an intriguing, fast-paced thriller, but a thoughtful meditation on loneliness, and a moving testament to the value of human life.’
-Nicola Upson, author of the Josephine Tey series
‘Horst writes some of the best Scandinavian crime fiction available. His books are superbly plotted and addictive, the characters superbly realised. Ordeal kept me engaged to the end and I cannot wait for the next.’
-Yrsa Sigurdardottir
‘A tense entry to William Wisting’s story, When It Grows Dark turns out to be a satisfying mystery expertly unravelled.’
-Mark Douglas-Home, author of The Sea Detective
‘Horst’s novels are solid, satisfying police procedurals, offering an insider’s view of the tensions between detectives and bureaucrats who want results at any cost.’
-The Sunday Times
‘If you haven’t already, introduce yourself to Norway’s Chief Inspector William Wisting – you’ll warm to him even though his patch can get pretty cold.’
-The Sunday Sport
‘Lier Horst’s books are always an excellent mix of police procedural and character study which give them a special place in Scandinavian crime fiction.’
-Crime Pieces
‘Up there with the best of the Nordic crime writers.’
-The Times
‘Jorn Lier Horst is a phenomenal new voice in Nordic Noir. His handling of landscape and location matches that of Henning Mankell. What makes Lier Horst distinctive is his haunting ability to find the feasible in the psychopathic.’
- Steven Peacock, author of Swedish Crime Fiction
Jorn Lier Horst is one of Scandinavia’s most successful crime writers. For many years he was one of Norway’s most experienced police officers, with the result that his engaging and intelligent novels offer a realistic insight into how serious crimes are investigated, and how they are handled by the media. The critically acclaimed William Wisting Series has sold more than one million copies in Norway, and is translated into thirty languages. Jorn’s literary awards include the Norwegian Booksellers’ Prize, the Riverton Prize (Golden Revolver), the Scandinavian Glass Key and the prestigious Martin Beck Award; The Caveman won the United Kingdom’s Petrona Award in 2016.
Anne Bruce lives on the Isle of Arran in Scotland and studied Norwegian and English at Glasgow University. She is the translator of Jorn Lier Horst’s Dregs, Closed for Winter, The Hunting Dogs, The Caveman and Ordeal, and also Anne Holt’s Blessed are Those who Thirst (2012), Death of the Demon (2013), The Lion’s Mouth (2014), Dead Joker (2015), No Echo (2016), Beyond the Truth (2016) and What Dark Clouds Hide (2017), in addition to Merethe Lindstrøm’s Nordic Prize winning Days in the History of Silence (2013).
The William Wisting Series
Published in English by Sandstone Press
Dregs
Closed for Winter
The Hunting Dogs
The Caveman
Ordeal
When It Grows Dark
First published in Great Britain
and the United States of America
Sandstone Press Ltd
Dochcarty Road
Dingwall
Ross-shire
IV15 9UG
Scotland.
www.sandstonepress.com
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored or transmitted in any form without the express
written permission of the publisher.
Copyright © Gyldendal Norsk Forlag AS 2016
[All rights reserved.]
Translation © Anne Bruce 2017
Published in English in 2017 by Sandstone Press Ltd
English language editor: Robert Davidson
The moral right of Jorn Lier Horst to be recognised as the
author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the
Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.
This translation has been published with the financial support of NORLA.
The publisher acknowledges subsidy from
Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.
ISBN: 978-1-910985-48-9
ISBNe: 978-1-910985-49-6
Cover by Freight Design, Glasgow
Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore
Contents
Title Page
William Wisting
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
33 Years Later
Epilogue
WILLIAM WISTING
William Wisting is a career policeman who has risen through the ranks to become Chief Inspector in the Criminal Investigation Department of Larvik Police, just like his creator, author Jorn Lier Horst. When It Grows Dark is the sixth title in the series to be published in English. The first, Dregs, found him around fifty years old, the widowed father of grown up twins, Thomas and Line.
Thomas serves in the military while daughter Line is an investigative journalist based in Oslo. Line’s career frequently intersects with her that of her father and is one of the defining features of the series. Wisting, at first apprehensive, has come to value how she can operate in ways that he cannot, often turning up unexpected clues and insights.
The setting for the series is Vestfold county on the south-west coast of Norway, an area popular with holidaymakers, where rolling landscapes and attractive beaches make an unlikely setting for crime. The principal town of Larvik, where Wisting is based, is located 105 km (65 miles) southwest of Oslo. The wider Larvik district has 41,000 inhabitants, 23,000 of whom live in the town itself, and covers 530 square km. Larvik is noted for its natural springs, but its modern economy relies heavily on agriculture, commerce and services, light industry and transportation, as well as tourism. There is a ferry service from Larvik to Hirsthals in Denmark.
By the time of When It Grows Dark Chief Inspector William Wisting is a seasoned and highly respected police officer with over thirty years of service behind him and retirement in sight. At the story’s beginning he is found giving an introductory talk to trainee police officers, but a
letter arrives and soon he is drawn into an old case, one that took place in 1983 with reverberations from even farther back in time.
Fans of William Wisting will enjoy seeing him as a recently qualified police officer, still working in the uniformed branch but keen to move into CID. He is married to Ingrid and they have baby twins, Thomas and Line, the very Line, journalist and photographer, who will go on to play such an important role in her adult life. When It Grows Dark therefore serves as a prequel as well as a milestone in William Wisting’s career, a taster for readers new to the series as well as a welcome addition for established followers of the series.
Times shall come
Times shall pass
Generation shall follow generation
From Beautiful Is The Earth,
hymn by B.S. Ingemann, 1850
‘Grandma died twelve years ago,’ explained the woman on the other side of his desk. ‘She was ninety-seven. My brother inherited the house from her. It’s lain empty ever since, but this summer we began to clear things out.’
Wisting glanced at the clock. Shortly, he would take part in an assembly welcoming the new intake of student police officers to their work experience year, but when he heard the name of the woman enquiring after him in the foyer downstairs, he had asked to have her sent up.
‘We found a letter addressed to you,’ she continued, taking an envelope from her handbag. She laid it on the table and pushed it towards him. Wisting was written on it in big, round letters, in a slightly shaky hand.
‘It must be for you, don’t you think?’
Wisting drew the letter towards him and found that the envelope was yellowed and dry. His thoughts slipped back more than thirty years. ‘Yes, it’s probably for me,’ he agreed.
‘She had hidden it behind a framed photograph of our grandfather,’ the woman said. ‘That lends it some sort of significance.’
Wisting weighed the still-unopened envelope in his hand. ‘You haven’t read it?’
‘It’s not addressed to me,’ she said with a smile. ‘Not everyone in my family is dishonest.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, returning her smile.
The woman stood up, her mission accomplished, and Wisting escorted her to the door with the letter still in his hand. As soon as he was alone, he sat down and opened the envelope.
It contained two sheets of paper, each with different handwriting. As he read both, he felt something move somewhere at the back of his mind. Refolding the papers, he tucked them into the envelope again before heading off to meet the waiting students.
The conference room was hot and clammy. Someone had opened a window but the air outside seemed even clammier.
The Chief Superintendent invited Wisting to step onto the podium. Only when he was standing there did it dawn on him that he still had the envelope in his hand.
He let his gaze run over the eager faces as he reeled off the same introductory talk he had given for the past fifteen years.
Ten of them stood in freshly ironed uniform shirts: six men and four women, one of them the grandchild of the man who had stood in Wisting’s shoes when he himself had entered the police force: Maren Dokken. With no idea which of the four women she might be, he searched for a family resemblance, but found none. All the same, he suspected that it must be the blonde girl with the ponytail and full lips who was sitting in one of the chairs nearest to him. Each of the students would spend a few weeks in the Criminal Investigation Department to get a thorough grounding in the realities of practical investigative work.
When he had rounded off his customary speech, he tapped the envelope lightly on the palm of his hand. The Chief Superintendent looked across, waiting for him to step down from the podium.
‘I would like to . . .’ Wisting said instead, ‘I would like to invite you all to help me clear up an old crime mystery, one that will soon be a hundred years old.’
33 years earlier
1
The bank card was ejected from the ATM, and Temporarily out of order appeared in big white letters on the screen. Wisting turned to Ingrid, who was rocking the twins in their pram. ‘It must have run out of money,’ he said, as he scanned the Christmas crowds thronging the street.
With a smile, Ingrid tossed her head back and peered up at the dark evening sky. Almost imperceptibly, it had started to snow. Tiny, papery flakes seemed almost poised in the air. ‘We can have waffles when we get home,’ she said.
Wisting tucked the card back inside his wallet. He did not have much money left in his account, and it crossed his mind that he would have to take on a few extra overtime shifts.
Putting his arm around Ingrid, he used the other to steer the pram. The twins would soon be six months old. Thomas was fast asleep, while Line was still wide-awake. She lay there, eyes blinking, trying to take in everything going on in the world around her.
He pushed the pram forward, out into Tollbodgaten, and turned in the direction of the cobbled square below the church where the town’s huge, twinkling Christmas tree stood.
The stallholders in the square wore Santa hats and an enticing aroma of mulled wine, freshly baked waffles, and porridge sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon wafted from their stalls. A group of seven or eight brass players, dressed as Christmas elves, played carols from the back seat of an open, signal-red veteran car. No one could miss them.
‘There’s Rupert’s Packard!’ Ingrid exclaimed, pointing at the old vehicle.
‘He’s playing the trumpet,’ Wisting said, smiling, as he nodded to the man in the driving seat sporting a Santa beard and hat.
They stood and listened to the music.
Rupert Hansson was a friend of Ingrid’s father. He had played a trumpet solo in the church at their wedding, and chauffeured them in his vintage car after the ceremony. The car, fire-engine red with green circles round the chromium-plated hubcaps, had been decorated for the occasion with birch sprigs and white ribbons.
‘It’s doubtful whether the old engine will start afterwards,’ Wisting remarked, rubbing his hands together.
Ingrid leaned into the pram to check that the twins were comfortable and cosy before moving to Wisting’s side to stand with her head resting on his shoulder.
Spotting them, Rupert Hansson tipped his Santa hat with his free hand. As Wisting waved back, he noticed that the musician was signalling for them to wait.
When the band finished playing, Rupert turned to the others, indicating that they should pack up.
Wisting and Ingrid wheeled the pram over. Rupert stepped from the car and peered in – Line had managed to extricate one hand from the quilt and was waving with her mitten, while Thomas slept soundly by her side.
‘First Christmas,’ Rupert said, looking up at Ingrid. ‘That’ll be lovely.’
‘We’re looking forward to it,’ she answered.
Wisting walked a few paces towards the veteran car. ‘I thought it was just for use in the summer months.’
‘It is,’ Rupert said, with a nod, walking back to the car. ‘But this is a tradition. We always play at the Christmas market.’
Picking up an instrument case from the foot well beside the pedals, he set it down on the seat to open it. ‘I wanted to ask you something,’ he began, placing his trumpet inside.
‘What’s that?’ Wisting asked.
‘Whether you could find out who owns the old barn out at Tveidalskrysset?’
Wisting pictured the place, but could not recall having seen any barn. ‘Is there a barn there?’
‘It’ll soon be in ruins,’ Rupert speculated. ‘It probably won’t stand up to another winter of heavy snow.’
Wisting thrust his hands into his jacket pockets: ‘Why do you want to know who owns it?’
‘It seems there’s an old car inside,’ Rupert answered. ‘I’m on the lookout for a restoration project.’
‘Aren’t there any houses in the vicinity? Somebody you could ask?’
Rupert shook his head. ‘I thought you might be able to find out for
me. Surely the police have registers of that kind of thing?’
‘It’s the Registry Office that holds those records,’ Wisting said. ‘You could ask there.’
‘What kind of car is it supposed to be?’ Ingrid asked.
‘I’m not absolutely sure,’ Rupert said, ‘but they say it’s an old Minerva.’ He realised that neither Wisting nor Ingrid had heard of the vehicle marque. ‘A Belgian maker,’ he explained. ‘They went bankrupt before the war. King Haakon’s first car was a four-cylinder 1913 model Minerva.’
‘Are they rare?’
Rupert nodded. ‘There were never many of them in Norway. Most likely, the King’s car was eventually scrapped. In any case, nobody knows what became of it.’
‘How did you learn about the car out in Tveidal?’
‘Mostly rumour. One of the old guys in the club heard about it from an uncle – that it had been reversed into the barn, covered with a tarpaulin and has remained there ever since.’
‘When did that happen?’
‘Some time in the nineteen-twenties.’
Wisting raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s been there for sixty years?’
Rupert nodded enthusiastically. ‘If it’s true, it might well be totally original and still in good condition.’
Wisting had never been particularly interested in cars. He and Ingrid drove a six-year-old Volvo. However, he grew curious about why this rare vehicle had been stowed away in a barn and subsequently kept there in secret.
‘Would you take a trip out to the barn with me for a look?’ Rupert asked. ‘Then I can explain its exact whereabouts.’
‘In that car?’ Wisting indicated the old Packard.
Rupert laughed. ‘No, I’ll winch that one up on the trailer,’ he replied, pointing at the car park where a Land Rover sat in wait with a vehicle trailer behind it.
When It Grows Dark (William Wisting series) Page 1
