When It Grows Dark (William Wisting series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  Haugen did not reply, but manoeuvred the patrol car into a secluded spot. He switched off the ignition, but the green light on the radio display remained on. Wisting covered it with a newspaper to ensure they were in total darkness.

  Noises from the melting shop within the factory perimeter reached them from time to time. A delivery van drove past, and soon afterwards a taxi followed the same route.

  After twenty minutes, it grew chilly inside the car. Wisting rubbed his hands together. Eventually this felt just as hopeless, sitting idly in a parked car, as had driving around at random.

  ‘How long should we give them?’ Haugen asked, smothering a yawn.

  Wisting shrugged. ‘A bit longer,’ he answered, letting his eyes roam along Hoffs gate.

  The streetlights shed a dull glimmer on the wet asphalt. Parked cars, trees and rubbish bins cast irregular shadows, but something seemed to be moving beside a group of mailboxes on a wooden frame.

  Wisting sat upright, knowing that it might have been a gust of wind that stirred the evergreen bushes into life. ‘There!’ he said, now certain.

  Haugen peered in the same direction. A dark, skulking figure emerged from somewhere around the high-rise blocks and crossed the road, darting glances over his shoulder and skirting along the fence towards the chemicals factory.

  The distance from the police car to the car park was a bit less than one hundred metres. If he tried to steal one of the cars he would have a start on them, as they would have to turn on the engine and rev up. In addition, he had several routes to choose from if he ran, places impossible for them to follow in the car.

  ‘I’m going out,’ Wisting said.

  Haugen nodded as he placed his hands on the steering wheel. Wisting flicked the interior light switch to off before opening the door a tiny crack.

  As he stepped out of the car, the police radio crackled into life. ‘6-0-3, this is 2-0,’ Duty Sergeant Storvolden called out.

  Haugen tweaked the volume knob but too late: the sound carried extremely well through the night. The man stopped and looked in their direction.

  ‘Drive to Stavern!’ Storvolden ordered without waiting for a response. ‘I’ll be back with more information.’

  Haugen started the car, catching the potential car thief in the headlights. Wisting resumed his seat and unhooked the microphone. The announcement suggested urgency, probably some break-in or violent crime in progress and Storvolden would be receiving details as he called.

  ‘Over,’ he said into the microphone.

  The patrol car accelerated forward. The man on the opposite side of the street shrank towards the fence, glancing from one side to the other, as if considering which way to run but, in the end, standing still. Wisting glimpsed his pallid face, enough to be able to recognise him another time. Fastening his seatbelt, he turned on the blue lights.

  4

  Haugen revved up the Corsa and put the pedal to the floor, but skidded at the first intersection. Road conditions were slippier than he had thought. The vehicle swerved sideways, threatening to spin all the way round. He turned the steering wheel and controlled the skid.

  This did not slow their response to the emergency call-out. Their tyres squelched furiously on the road surface, and streams of water sprayed behind them. They passed Storgata and took a left turn at the railway tunnel onto Stavernveien.

  The police radio crackled: ‘6-0-3, this is 2-0.’

  Wisting sat with the microphone on his knee. ‘Reading you.’

  ‘It’s a Volvo digger,’ Storvolden said, ‘They’ve driven it into the wall at the Sparebank premises. The caller is watching from the first floor of a neighbouring building. The driver is wearing a mask. Another man is standing by, waiting for the hole to get big enough.’

  Wisting felt an adrenaline surge as his mouth went dry. ‘Armed?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘We’re at Tenvik,’ Wisting said, glancing at the speedometer. ‘We’ll be there in four minutes.’

  ‘Three,’ Haugen corrected, stepping on the gas.

  ‘I’ve got the caller on the line,’ Storvolden explained. ‘They’re still in action.’

  Blue lights flashed rhythmically in the darkness on either side of the patrol car and Haugen’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. Wisting gritted his teeth. He had no idea what awaited them or how they would tackle it. In an encounter with a Volvo digger used as a ramming tool, they would have little to contribute.

  The patrol car shook at this pace, almost turning over as it crested the last hill before Stavern town centre.

  Storvolden was still on the radio: ‘They’ve taken the night safe. It seems there are two men. They’ve loaded the contents into a black Ford Sierra, and they’re about to drive away.’

  Racing round the final corner they found half of the street in front of them was strewn with bricks and rubble. A yellow digger with huge rear wheels was parked on the pavement with its bucket lowered, a massive hole gaping in the wall of the bank where the night safe deposit slot had been. An alarm was wailing.

  One of the robbers slammed the boot shut and leapt into the Sierra as it took off.

  ‘We’re on the spot,’ Wisting declared, noting the exact time. He read out the getaway car’s registration number, watching it swerve sideways out of the street, accelerating rapidly.

  Wisting’s head banged on the ceiling as Haugen drove over the bricks.

  The black Sierra, in better condition than the old patrol car, rapidly increased its lead. However, what the police vehicle lacked in power, it made up for in manoeuvrability. They gained an advantage with every corner, but on flat stretches the getaway car pulled away.

  Wisting continually reported their position to Storvolden, aware that they were alone in their pursuit. Once the car crossed into a different police authority, they could reckon on a roadblock being set up or a spike mat rolled out.

  Approaching the sharp bends before Askeskogen, Haugen shifted down a gear and moved the car to the edge of the road in the hope of reducing the robbers’ lead. Suddenly the left wheels slipped beyond the asphalt, and Wisting steeled himself for the vehicle leaving the road, which he thought was imminent. Miraculously, Haugen managed to return the car to the road, but lost control of both steering wheel and direction in the process. It lurched sideways before doing a 180-degree turn and coming to a shuddering stop.

  Haugen swore loudly as he turned in reverse gear, veering from side to side before the tyres gripped. When they emerged on to a straight stretch, the black Sierra was gone.

  ‘We’ve lost them,’ Wisting reported. Storvolden did not respond. Most likely he was busy on the telephone, sounding the alarm in neighbouring districts.

  Haugen maintained a steady speed, but the wooded area they were now driving through was intersected with minor byways and off-road tracks. Escape was easy.

  When they came out at the Helgeroa crossroads, Haugen brought the car to a halt, swearing again as he hammered both fists on the steering wheel. The stench of burning clutch filled the compartment.

  Wisting switched off the blue lights. A pair of car headlights appeared on the road leading from Nevlunghavn. They sat watching as they approached.

  ‘They’ve probably swapped cars,’ Wisting said, without taking his eyes off the headlights.

  ‘Think so?’

  Wisting responded with a nod. He was reluctant to be a know-all but, in every successful robbery he had read about, a change of getaway vehicle was part of the plan.

  The car coming towards them took the recognisable shape of a Volkswagen Beetle. ‘Do you think that’s them?’ Haugen said, grinning.

  As the car passed, their headlights illuminated the interior. The elderly woman in the driver’s seat turned her head and stared at them, wide-eyed, keeping both hands on the wheel.

  Haugen put the car in gear and began a turn as a prelude to driving back to the crime scene.

  ‘Wait!’ Wisting said, pointing north, where the sky had taken on an
orange glow.

  Haugen twisted the steering wheel to jolt the car into the required direction. Wisting switched on the blue lights again and shortly afterwards they overtook the grey Volkswagen.

  The blaze was about a kilometre ahead and, as they drove, the orange glow increased in intensity.

  Wisting had driven that same stretch of road the previous evening, en route to the barn that contained the veteran car.

  As they approached the crossroads at Tveidal, his suppositions were proved correct. Halfway along the track to the barn, a car was on fire.

  Haugen stopped on the asphalt road, thirty metres away, and Wisting jumped out into the eye-stinging smoke of burning rubber. He quickly rounded the police car to take the fire extinguisher from the boot. Elongated, pale-blue flames darted through the shattered windows of the black Sierra. Fierce heat made it impossible to approach the blaze.

  From within the patrol car, Wisting could hear Haugen telling Storvolden that the robbers had set the getaway car on fire, and requesting him to call the fire brigade.

  Wisting shielded his eyes. The light from the explosive inferno was intense. Waves of thick, black smoke billowed into the dark night.

  Flames spread to the surrounding vegetation, and a crooked pine tree caught alight. The distance from the car to the barn was identical to that from the fire to the spot where Wisting was standing. There was a risk that it might spread in that direction.

  Haugen stepped from the patrol car, covering his nose and mouth with his hand. Behind them, the Volkswagen had drawn to a halt at the road verge.

  They watched the fire from a distance, the wind gusting towards the barn, the flames creeping steadily closer.

  When the woman in the Volkswagen came out, Wisting went to speak to her. ‘Do you know who owns the barn?’

  At that moment, something inside the Sierra’s engine exploded and a wave of hot air blew towards them. They moved even further away, and Wisting repeated his question.

  ‘Knut Heian,’ she answered. ‘He lives just down the road. Do you want me to drive there and let him know?’

  Wisting nodded and she clambered into her car again, pulled on her safety belt and drove off.

  The intensity of the fire subsided as quickly as it had grown, but the barn was out of danger. When the first fire tender appeared ten minutes later, the flames were dying out by themselves.

  The fire crew flung out hoses, connected them and attacked what was still burning, water from the hoses making the remaining flames flare up before folding into themselves like flowers.

  A couple of cars with inquisitive spectators had parked at the road verge, but they drove off when the drama petered out. A little flatbed truck came driving towards the intersection, followed by the ancient Volkswagen Beetle. Both vehicles stopped behind the fire tender and a man in his fifties leapt down from the truck. His hair was all over the place; his sleep had been disturbed.

  Wisting crossed over to meet him. ‘Are you the landowner?’

  The man confirmed that this was the case, peering over Wisting’s shoulder at the fire.

  ‘It’s taken some of the scrub,’ Wisting told him, ‘but the barn is unscathed.’

  The man ran his hand through his hair. ‘What actually happened?’

  The woman from the Volkswagen stood within hearing distance.

  ‘The car was used in a break-in at the Sparebank branch in Stavern,’ Wisting said. ‘They probably had another car here, and they’ve changed vehicles.’

  The man took a few steps beyond Wisting for a better look.

  ‘Have you noticed anything unusual around here in the past few days?’ Wisting asked. ‘Parked cars or anything like that?’

  ‘I don’t use the hay barn,’ the man explained, not really answering the question.

  Wisting turned to face the woman from the Volkswagen and repeated his question. If she drove past here often she might have noticed something. She pondered this but nothing came to mind.

  Wisting produced his notebook and jotted down their names, addresses and phone numbers.

  Haugen, who had been standing with the fire crew, now waved Wisting over.

  ‘The fire brigade will cordon this off,’ he said. ‘Storvolden has called out personnel from CID. We have to go back to the bank and secure the crime scene until the technicians arrive.’

  A photographer from the local newspaper turned up before they drove away. The smell from the fire was starting to give Wisting a headache, and he knew that his hair and uniform would stink for days to come.

  ‘There are two roads they could have taken,’ Haugen suggested. ‘West, through Tveidalen and across to Telemark, or north and on to the E18.’

  Wisting agreed, but there was a third alternative: that the robbers had taken refuge in a house nearby. There was always risk when you were on the move. The chances of being caught were great, especially at night with a minimum of traffic on the roads. If the police emergency plan was followed to the letter, blocks would be set up on all roads leading from the area. The robbery had been professionally executed. Everything indicated that they knew what they were doing.

  It started snowing as they returned to Stavern. Tiny snowflakes whirled through the air. Three bank employees were pacing about in the street, gathering the papers and documents that had been scattered over the road. Wisting recognised Leon Prytz, the bank manager, who approached them as they parked. Haugen remained behind the wheel, giving Storvolden information via the police radio, while Wisting stepped out.

  All that was left of the night safe itself was twisted metal.

  ‘We’re pretty well protected against robbery and break-in,’ the bank manager told him. ‘But not against this.’

  ‘How much money might be involved?’

  The bank manager shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of cash in circulation at present,’ he said. ‘People are doing Christmas shopping. Lots of shop owners put the whole week’s takings into the night safe for the weekend. We’ll need every single customer to report before we can calculate an exact sum.’

  ‘But a rough estimate?’

  The bank manager hesitated before answering: ‘I’d think there would be about two million kroner, probably a bit more than that.’

  Wisting took a deep breath. He earned just less than one hundred and twenty thousand in annual salary. Two million was a great deal of fast money for the thieves.

  ‘How does the night safe actually function?’ he asked.

  ‘In principle, the same way as a post box. Businesses that have an arrangement with us put their takings into a sealed bag and drop it into the slot in the wall. There’s a locked gate arrangement that prevents the bags being fished out again, and they remain lying inside a metal compartment.’

  ‘Is it locked?’

  ‘Yes, of course. A locked compartment in a locked room, but it’s not a safe or a strongroom. Once they had breached the wall, it was a relatively simple matter to open the storage compartment.’

  Wisting took notes. Neither the bank nor the police had been prepared, but they should have been aware of the possibility that this might happen. There had been similar robberies in other locations in the Østland region – in Akershus, Asker, Bærum, Buskerud and Romerike, a geographical spread around the capital city. It suggested an organised gang based in Oslo, or possibly other criminals who had copied their method. They should have seen this coming as surely as a meteorologist could forecast bad weather.

  5

  Wisting began writing his report around half past six, having already given a verbal account to the detective squad.

  Using two fingers he pecked his way across the keyboard. Tired as he was, the words came sluggishly, even though he followed a standard template: time and place of notification, the call-out, what he had seen, who he had spoken to, and what they had told him. If he had initiated the investigation he would have begun with the black Sierra. It had probably been stolen, which would be a starting point. The same applied to the Volvo digge
r. Someone might have seen something on the construction site where it had been stolen, or the culprits might have left traces. The second getaway car had most likely also been stolen, and they could make a list of all possible vehicles. Finally, he listed the unsolved cases that used the same modus operandi in other police districts.

  After half an hour’s overtime, he tugged the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and left it in the CID pigeonhole.

  It was still dark when he went home. At this time of year, night shift meant living in constant darkness. The sun did not come up until you had gone to bed in the early morning, and it set before you woke again in the afternoon.

  He arrived home to be met by a baby crying. Thomas was lying in the playpen while Line was being fed. He took him on his knee, but that did not stop his sobbing.

  ‘He probably won’t stop until he’s been fed,’ Ingrid said.

  Although unflappable, she was also exhausted. He knew she would not have had much sleep.

  ‘I found out who owns that old barn,’ he said, and described the night’s events.

  Thomas quietened down after a while, and Wisting took him to Ingrid when she was ready. They exchanged babies, and Wisting laid Line across his shoulder before pacing the living room.

  ‘Have you told Rupert?’ Ingrid asked.

  Wisting shook his head. ‘I’ll phone him this afternoon.’

  Line gave a loud burp, and warm milk spread across his shoulder.

  Ingrid smiled. ‘She has to have a bath anyway.’

  Heading for the bathroom, he laid his daughter on the changing table and watched her while he took off his shirt and filled the bathtub with lukewarm water. He stripped off her clothes, lifted her into the tub and lowered her carefully in. Delighted, she gave a scream of pleasure, kicking her chubby legs and gasping when water splashed on her face.

  ‘When are you going back to work?’ Ingrid called through.