Wisting glanced across at Ingrid and the pram. All around them, stallholders had begun to close and pack up their stalls. ‘Another time,’ he answered.
‘Just go ahead, William!’ Ingrid said, brushing a few snowflakes off the pram hood. ‘I can drive home with the children.’
She probably thought the same as he did: that they owed Rupert Hansson a favour. He had refused to accept payment either for playing at their wedding or driving them to the reception.
‘I’ll give you a lift home afterwards,’ Rupert said.
‘All right, then.’
Wisting took the car keys from his trouser pocket and handed them to Ingrid. He would have to snatch a few hours of sleep before going on night shift, but a trip out to Tveidal would not take very long.
Ingrid accepted the keys and gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘I’ll have waffles ready when you get home,’ she said cheerfully.
The pram wheels left thin tracks in the snow as she trundled away.
Rupert Hansson set off to fetch the Land Rover. Wisting guided him up to the old Packard and they winched the veteran car up onto the trailer’s flat bed.
Wisting clambered into the passenger seat. ‘I’ll drive home and drop off the trailer first,’ Rupert told him.
They drove west along Helgeroveien. The snow fell more heavily, but at the same time the weather seemed milder. The asphalt was bare and wet in the tracks left by tyres on the road.
At Nalum, Rupert turned from the main road to reverse in front of a detached garage. A woman who appeared at a window lit up by an Advent star peered out at them.
Wisting stepped from the car and pushed open the heavy garage door. Rupert reversed inside before jumping out to disconnect the trailer. Two minutes later, they were on the road again.
Rupert switched on the radio but the signal was poor and the loudspeakers made a loud, crackling noise.
‘The local radio station doesn’t reach as far as this,’ he said, turning the channel finder until he located NRK. He modulated the volume and turned to Wisting. ‘I took a run out there in the autumn. It’s a long time since anyone was inside that barn. It’s almost completely overgrown, and the surrounding trees have grown to quite a height.’
‘Is it possible to go inside?’
‘There’s a massive padlock on the door,’ Rupert told him. ‘But there are gaps between some of the timbers on the walls.’
He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘I’ve brought a couple of flashlights. We can shine them in to see whether there’s anything that looks like a car on the inside.’
The next fifteen minutes passed in silence, until Rupert turned off on to Brunlanesveien. A kilometre or so later, they reached the Tveidal intersection, where he manoeuvred the car onto an overgrown side track. The car headlights picked out slender tree trunks and, at the end of the short track in front of them, they saw a barn with a saddleback roof made of rusty, corrugated metal.
2
Rupert Hansson opened the car door to retrieve two sturdy flashlights from the rear seat. Wisting followed him out of the car and glanced towards the main road, from which the old building was just about visible. Rupert left the engine running and the lights on. The snow had not yet settled among the trees.
They followed an old tyre track up to the barn, while the car headlights threw their long shadows ahead of them.
The entire eastern wall and parts of the roof were choked with leafless climbing plants.
It was a mistake to call this a barn, Wisting thought. There was no farm in the locality, and it was more reminiscent of an enormous tool shed, perhaps built to house tractors and other forestry equipment.
Rupert pointed his flashlight beam at the broad double doors, where an iron bolt stretched across, fastened on one side with a chain and padlock.
Wisting strode over and gripped the padlock, his fingers staining brown as flakes of rust loosened and peeled off. It probably would not take more than a blow from a hammer or stone to break the lock open.
Letting it go, he followed Rupert Hansson to the west side of the building. The forest had crept all the way to the wall, and they had to force their way forward through thick undergrowth.
There were no windows on the old building but, around the middle of the western wall, some of the timbers had been separated by a fallen tree. Rupert grabbed one of the branches and hauled himself up on the broken trunk beside the wall. Wisting remained on the ground, watching as he balanced and inched his way forward. He directed the beam of light at the hole in the wall and leaned into it.
Wisting found a gap between two timbers, too narrow for him to insert the flashlight, but he put one eye to it and followed the beam from Rupert’s torch. There seemed to be only a vast space inside. The light slid past an old plough with two blades, a horse-drawn cart, a wooden stool, a zinc tub, and a wheelbarrow missing its wheel. Chains and thick ropes with pulleys and hooks hung from the roof beams. On the opposite wall, a ladder was propped up with fishing nets and a couple of pale green glass balls suspended from the rungs.
The beam of light travelled continuously around the barn, too quickly for his eye to focus. For a fraction of a second, the light flickered over the interior of the doors they had already tried and Wisting thought he could make out a chain and padlock, as if they were also locked from the inside.
The light shifted to the inner part of the barn, shining on four dirty tractor tyres stacked one on top of the other. He could also see a paraffin lamp on top of a barrel only a few metres from where he stood.
Wisting moved along the wall slightly, bending a few branches to find a broader gap between the timbers. He was using his own flashlight now, shining it on the interior barn doors. His eyes had not deceived him. A chain was threaded through two iron hoops and secured with a padlock.
He returned his focus to the paraffin lamp on the barrel, where he saw a box of matches and one or two small items, but could not make them out clearly.
‘There’s something behind there,’ Rupert yelled.
Wisting guided his light beam to meet Rupert’s. Behind several empty potato crates, he could make out the top of a dusty canvas sheet.
Rupert jumped down from the tree trunk. ‘We’ll try to go around,’ he said.
They pushed their way through dense vegetation and around the corner to the rear of the building. Wisting put his flashlight to a chink between two planks and peered inside. It smelled of rot. He could not only see potato crates and the rigging suspended from the ceiling, but also the side of something covered over.
‘It might well be an old car,’ he said, letting the light hug its contours. The vehicle was elevated at the back, while the front section was considerably lower, like the bonnet of a classic vintage car.
‘Train the light on the floor,’ Rupert requested, staring through a smaller gap.
Wisting brought the light down. The tarpaulin hung all the way to the floor over most of its length, but at the rear it was lopsided, leaving a short distance between floor and canvas. The space was just wide enough to disclose a decidedly flat car tyre.
3
The smell of freshly cooked waffles met Wisting at the front door when he arrived home. He went to the kitchen and embraced Ingrid. ‘Have you put the children to bed?’
‘Thomas is sleeping,’ she said. ‘Line’s in the playpen.’
In the living room, Line lay on her stomach on a blanket behind the bars of the playpen, among rattles and soft toys. She pulled herself up and gave her father an inquisitive look.
Ingrid followed with the plate of waffles. ‘Would you like coffee with them?’
He shook his head. ‘I need to catch some sleep before I go on duty,’ he told her, lifting a gurgling, kicking Line out of the playpen.
‘Did you discover anything?’
Wisting sat down. ‘There’s an old car out there all right.’ He perched Line on his lap. ‘Rupert was really fired up about it.’
Before settling into the ar
mchair opposite him, Ingrid lit the first Advent candle on the candelabra in the centre of the table. ‘Do you know any more about who owns the barn?’
‘We could have asked at the neighbouring farm, but it looked as if the family had visitors.’
‘It can’t be too difficult to find out?’
‘The problem is that there’s no specific address, and we don’t know the farm registration details or land number.’ He helped himself to a waffle. ‘I offered to drop into the local council offices after tonight’s shift to look at their maps.’
They sat chatting until Ingrid blew out the Advent candle, took Line from his knee and left the room to change her nappy.
Wisting stepped into what would in time become a children’s room, where they kept the bed settee he used when he was on late shifts. For the present, the twins slept in separate cots in their parents’ bedroom. He stretched out under the blanket, set the alarm clock, switched off the light and closed his eyes, but sleep eluded him.
He was thinking about the old car in the barn and the doors that were locked on the inside. For Rupert Hansson, the most important thing had been to discover who owned it and whether he could buy it. Wisting was more inquisitive about who had left the car there and concealed it under a tarpaulin . . . and how on earth could the barn doors be locked on both the inside and the outside?
The sound of a baby’s crying broke into his thoughts. The noise came from the living room but whether it was Line or Thomas he couldn’t tell. He waited for silence to be restored, but the opposite happened. The noise level rose in volume and intensity. He threw aside the blanket and got to his feet.
Ingrid was in the living room, sitting in the armchair with Line suckling. Thomas, on the other hand, was lying on the blanket with legs drawn up, screaming at the top of his lungs, impatient for his turn.
Wisting lifted him and let the baby’s soft head snuggle against his stubbly chin. The crying turned into gurgling noises and Thomas smiled. Both babies smiled frequently now, and these smiles were not simply grimaces. They were growing fast, acquiring their own personalities, and broke into smiles at anyone’s approach.
‘Thank you,’ Ingrid whispered from her chair.
Line twisted her head to see what was going on, with milk trickling from her mouth. ‘She’s finished,’ Ingrid said. ‘Can you take her?’
Setting Thomas on her lap, Wisting took charge of Line, walking to and fro, jiggling, patting and stroking her back until she burped. He carried her through to the bedroom and laid her in her cot before padding back to his own bed.
It felt as if the alarm clock rang just as he fell asleep. Fumbling in the dark, he switched it off and planted his feet on the cold floor. Before he headed for the bathroom to shave, he looked in on Ingrid and the children.
The bread bin in the kitchen was empty. Instead of buttering himself a slice of bread, he took out a packet of crispbread and ate a dry rusk standing by the window. He stuffed the rest of the packet into his briefcase.
Only a centimetre or two of snow lay on the ground, and the thermometer on the window ledge showed how the temperature had climbed as the night advanced.
At quarter to eleven he let himself into the police station in Prinsegata, where he made for the locker room to change into his uniform, glancing in the mirror to adjust his tie before continuing to the duty room.
The Duty Sergeant had already arrived and taken over from the outgoing sergeant. Erling Storvolden was a heavyset man with a round face, now approaching retirement.
‘Has anything happened?’ Wisting asked.
‘Two road accidents,’ the other officer said, picking up his cap on his way to the door. ‘The roads are like glass.’
Wisting walked over to the kitchenette. As the youngest officer, it fell to him to make the coffee.
Per Haugen turned up when it was ready. Twelve years older than Wisting, he had three stripes on his epaulettes. Apart from that, his uniform shirt was crumpled and splashed with stains.
Erling Storvolden asked them to join him in perusing the logbook. There was no one else present: just two on patrol and one duty sergeant.
Storvolden lit a cigarette and declared at once that no special reports had been filed.
The past twenty-four hours had kicked off with a scuffle in a restaurant that had sent a forty-four-year-old man into custody on a drunk and disorderly charge. A drunk driver had been stopped in Kongegata, and the patrol had been called out after a report of domestic violence at a house in Torstrand. Late at night, a group of teenagers had been caught in a basement where they were in the process of breaking into a storeroom. They were driven to the police station and picked up by their parents. On Sunday morning, a report had been received about a lost dog. Apart from this list the day had been quiet. Immediately after twelve, a report had been submitted about a theft from a construction site north of the town.
‘A digger was stolen,’ Storvolden read aloud from the logbook.
‘A digger?’ Haugen repeated, raising his eyebrows.
Storvolden squinted at the papers through a cloud of cigarette smoke. ‘A Volvo BM 1240. You know? One of those digging machines with a snowplough on the front,’ he confirmed. ‘Left parked with the keys in the ignition.’
‘Who the hell steals one of them?’ Haugen wondered. ‘It must be a drunken prank.’
They continued through the lists. The police log book was, in a sense, a distorting mirror held up to everyday life in town: theft, vandalism, fraud, assault, drunk driving, road accidents, threatening behaviour, housebreaking, driving off the road, false alarms involving emergency flares, abuse, dealing with homelessness, mentally ill people, car crashes, and obvious intoxication. It provided a multi-faceted picture of the shady side of life. Police work was marked by encounters with everything negative: the sick, the destructive, and the deviant. In many ways, Wisting revelled in the darkness. He liked to be the person on the spot when needed, to have importance for other people and at the same time safeguard society. It felt meaningful.
Storvolden rounded off the discussion by handing the patrol car keys to Haugen.
‘Keep an eye out for that Volvo digger,’ he said, with a smile. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, swivelled his chair towards his desk and inserted a blank sheet into the typewriter.
Before they drove into the night, the two officers spent an hour or so on the settee in the staffroom. The police station was equipped with an aerial that picked up two channels from their neighbouring country, Sweden, where broadcasts ended later than NRK’s, the Norwegian national broadcaster. On Sunday evenings, there was usually a film.
Wisting did not enjoy spending his working hours in front of a TV screen but, as the youngest member of the team, he was in no position to change such an ingrained habit and chase the older officers from the settee and into the streets.
He preferred to use his time reading records of solved cases in the archives. This educated him in the local criminal environment as well as providing insight into investigative work. He longed to be up on the first floor, in the Criminal Investigation Department but, while Ingrid was still at home with the twins, he would have to delay any application. A job as an investigator would automatically add two extra increments to his salary, but the loss of evening, night and weekend allowances would mean that he would be less well paid, and access to overtime would be cut.
It was almost one o’clock when Haugen rose from the settee and announced it was time to go for a drive. Wisting packed his belongings into his locker before pulling on his jacket and following his colleague down to the garage.
Haugen turned down Prinsegata, into Thaulowsvingen and out into Storgata. The evening train from Oslo had just unloaded a handful of passengers. Haugen let the vehicle glide slowly past and Wisting studied their faces, recognising several. There was nothing of concern. Haugen drove on through the deserted streets.
This aimless patrolling of the streets in a police car made Wisting uneasy. There w
as nothing especially deterrent about it, nor did it have much to do with investigation. They simply drove around waiting for something to happen. Of course, some form of guard duty and preparedness for emergency was essential, but he felt that it could be conducted in a more effective fashion. It could be more focused. As he had learned from his reading, crime in Larvik seemed to be concentrated in specific areas and committed by specific culprits, usually at specific times of day. Patterns existed that should be easy to pin down and could enable them to beat the criminals to the punch.
‘Could we drive along Hoffs gate?’ he asked.
Haugen was watching a stray dog wandering along the kerb. ‘Anything happening there?’ he asked when they had driven past.
‘I don’t know,’ Wisting answered. ‘A lot of cars have been stolen from this area. The reports usually come in on Monday mornings. A couple of days go by, and then they’re found trashed. They’ve mostly been vehicles belonging to the night shift at the Larvik Pigment factory.’
Per Haugen glanced at him, at first slightly taken aback, before grinning broadly. ‘Then we’ll catch them red-handed,’ he said, and took the first left turn.
Six minutes later they pulled into Hoffs gat, with Larvik Commercial School and Fram Stadium on the right-hand side. On the left was a row of semi-detached houses that belonged to the local housing association. Advent stars twinkled in every other window, and some had brightly decorated Christmas trees in their gardens.
Farther along were huge concrete apartment blocks. A boy in his early twenties, already convicted of both burglary and car theft, lived in one of them. Wisting had submitted a memo about it to the Criminal Investigation Department, but did not know if they had taken any action.
A solitary lamppost cast a pale light over the car park in front of the chemicals factory. They rolled slowly past the cars belonging to the late shift.
‘It seems quiet,’ Haugen commented.
Wisting glimpsed the clock on the dashboard. Almost half past two. ‘Maybe we’re too early,’ he said, looking at the Norwegian State Railways employees’ houses on the opposite side of the street. ‘We could reverse in there and wait with the engine off.’
When It Grows Dark (William Wisting series) Page 2
