When It Grows Dark (William Wisting series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘In two or three days,’ he answered. It was a depressing thought. The investigation would be at it most hectic in the first few days and he would prefer to be involved, but his job was over and done when the report was written.

  He took Line out of the water and cradled her small, naked body against his chest, before using his spare hand to locate a towel and wrap it around her. Soon she was stretched out on her back in the playpen – dry, in clean pyjamas, hunger satisfied. After a struggle, she turned onto her front and examined her toys.

  ‘I’ll do Thomas,’ Ingrid said, standing up. ‘You go to bed.’

  He went to the bed settee in the spare room and lay down, feeling that he had forgotten to include something in his report. Something significant. It niggled him so much that he took a while to fall asleep. When he woke six hours later, the thought lingered.

  As he pulled on a T-shirt, he felt some tenderness on his chest from the chafing of his seat belt during the car chase.

  It must have been snowing the entire time he was asleep and, outside the kitchen window, plump snowflakes were still falling from the sky.

  Ingrid went out to the mailbox. The newspaper boy pushed his bike through the snow. Normally the newspaper was delivered before three o’clock. Now it was after half past.

  He looked through the post, already spread across the kitchen worktop, but saw nothing of interest.

  Ingrid stamped the snow off her feet and came inside.

  ‘They were talking about it on the radio news,’ she said, putting the newspaper down on the kitchen table. The front page was facing up and showing a picture of the bank with the Volvo digger in front of the demolished wall.

  Wisting drew the paper towards him and leafed through to more photos of the bank and the blazing car at Tveidalskrysset. They must have been taken before snow blanketed the ground.

  He skimmed the text, but understood that the journalists had not discovered anything new about the case.

  Ingrid put on a pan of potatoes.

  ‘Are the children sleeping?’ he asked.

  ‘Finally,’ she replied. ‘They’ve been a bit tiresome today.’

  ‘Well, you can go for a nap after dinner.’

  He read through the rest of the newspaper: photographs and interviews of children attending the switch-on of the Christmas lights, results and reports of the day’s sporting fixtures, and a considerable amount of space given to the Polish union leader Lech Wałęsa who did not dare travel to Norway to accept the Nobel Peace Prize. A lesser amount of column space contained reports about the man who had ended up arrested for being drunk and disorderly after an argument in the town centre, about the drunk driver, the house break-in, the teenagers caught red-handed in a basement storeroom and about the dog who was still missing. The final report stated that the police had received a complaint on Monday morning about a Ford Escort stolen from its parking spot outside the chemicals factory.

  Wisting heaved a sigh, and Ingrid gave him a quizzical look. He told her that he and Haugen had been in their car, observing the person who was probably the car thief, when the alarm came in from Stavern.

  ‘We could have caught him,’ he said, shaking his head.

  At that moment, a thought struck him. One of the cars stolen earlier had been a fairly new Ford Sierra, the same type as the one used by the bank robbers. He got to his feet and left the living room.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Ingrid asked.

  ‘I just need to make a phone call,’ he said, from the telephone bench.

  He dialled the direct number for the Criminal Investigation Department, checking the time while he waited for someone to answer. It was outside normal working hours, but he doubted whether the Chief Inspector had gone home.

  At last the phone was picked up, and Wisting recognised Ove Dokken’s voice, answering in his usual abrupt and dismissive manner.

  Wisting explained who he was. ‘I thought of something,’ he said. ‘A black Ford Sierra was stolen from Hoffs gate a fortnight ago. That could be the one used last night.’

  ‘We’ve got everything under control, Wisting,’ Dokken replied, sounding anxious to bring the conversation to a close.

  ‘Was it the same car?’

  ‘Yes. It had stolen plates, but Haber located a chassis number and checked it out.’

  ‘A lot of cars have been stolen in that vicinity,’ Wisting said. ‘I wrote a memo about it a week ago.’

  ‘We’re looking into it.’

  ‘Any other news?’ Wisting ventured. ‘Do you have any suspects?’

  ‘We don’t have anything specific, but we’re concentrating on a criminal gang in Groruddalen, east of Oslo.’

  Wisting weighed up whether to mention that he had a couple of days off, and that he was available if required, but the Chief Inspector beat him to it.

  ‘This is a serious business,’ he said. ‘The investigation is being organised in conjunction with other police districts where they’ve had similar ram-raids. The Public Prosecutor has ordered a coordinated investigation, and a Kripos team from National HQ are on their way to assist. They’re sending down their best officers.’

  Wisting shifted the receiver to his other ear. They had used the time he had been sleeping on organisation and administration only. The actual investigation was not yet off the ground.

  ‘Thanks for phoning,’ Dokken said.

  Wisting understood they had no use for him, but all the same asked Dokken to let him know if there was anything he could do. The call ended.

  Ingrid was leaning on the doorframe. ‘Have you called Rupert?’ she asked.

  The veteran car had slipped Wisting’s mind. He rose from the telephone bench. ‘I can do that after five o’clock.’

  After dinner he took out the telephone directory and looked up Rupert’s number. He explained about the coincidence of the bank robbers’ vehicle being set on fire just beside the barn they had visited.

  ‘It’s not such a strange coincidence,’ Rupert said, ‘when it’s such an ideal hiding place.’

  Wisting agreed. ‘All the same, the coincidence led to the owner of the barn turning up last night.’

  ‘Did you ask him about the car?’

  ‘No, but I have his phone number.’ Wisting reached for the notebook he had left on the sideboard. ‘I thought you would want to talk to him yourself,’ he added, reading out the name and number.

  Rupert Hansson hesitated. ‘Should I phone him now, or do you think I should wait until all this business of the robbery and the fire has faded into the background?’

  ‘I can’t see any reason to wait. Phone and let me know how you get on.’

  Twenty minutes later, Rupert Hansson phoned back. ‘Are you doing anything tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m off duty,’ Wisting replied.

  ‘Could you come with me to the barn? The farmer has promised to meet me there at twelve o’clock.’

  Wisting needed no time to think about it. His curiosity was aroused.

  6

  Rupert Hansson and the landowner had already arrived when Wisting turned off the main road. Knut Heian was wearing overalls – the same ones as on the night of the fire when Wisting had spoken to him. He had used a tractor to clear the track that ran between the trees. The burned-out wreck had been towed away, and snow had blanketed most of the area, leaving only a few scorched, black tree stumps as evidence of the fire.

  Stepping from his car, Wisting said hello and followed in their footsteps to the barn doors. Rupert was carrying two flashlights, and Heian had brought an axe.

  ‘I couldn’t find a key,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been in here for at least fifteen years.’

  He lifted the padlock in the same way that Wisting had done. Letting it go, he delivered a heavy blow with the back of the axe. The lock sprang open. He unhooked it, laid down the axe and pulled open the massive iron bolt. He tried to open the double doors, but something held them shut on the inside.

  Wisting kept silent about having looke
d through cracks in the timber wall the first time he had been here, and what he had seen.

  ‘That’s odd,’ Heian said.

  Rupert Hansson assisted him in pulling the double doors as far out as they could manage. ‘There’s a chain hanging in there,’ Rupert said, pointing through the gap.

  Knut Heian nodded in agreement. ‘Hold on to this,’ he said. Entrusting the door to Wisting he grabbed the axe again, raised it above his head and aimed a well-directed swipe with the sharp edge through the narrow gap. The chain glinted and rattled, to no avail. He lifted the axe and struck again, but not until he struck a third time did something give. The chain fell to the floor on the inside, and the dry hinges creaked as the doors slid slightly ajar.

  Knut Heian inspected the damage to his axe blade before taking hold of one door and yanking it open. The snow piled up behind the door impeded its movement. Rupert put his back into helping and soon both doors were wide open.

  Pearly winter light spilled into the huge space as Heian kicked aside the chain on the earth floor.

  Rupert Hansson switched on one of the flashlights and handed Heian the other.

  The barn contained more clutter and junk than Wisting and Rupert had seen from outside. It was crammed full of boxes, packing cases and barrels, items stacked and stowed away, hidden and forgotten.

  Wisting crossed to the barrel with the paraffin lamp on top. In addition to the box of matches, there was also a ballpoint pen and a postcard of sun, sea and rocky shoreline. Nothing was written on it.

  Farther inside the barn, there was a cart laden with hay poles, and behind that a pile of folding chairs, a bathtub and a broken dresser. Shelves on the wall were full of paint cans, jars, rags and rusty tools.

  ‘We played in here as kids,’ Heian explained. ‘There wasn’t so much stuff then. It was mainly used for drying hay.’ He pointed at the beams underneath the roof. ‘We used to balance on those, and fought until one of us lost and fell down.’ He squeezed between two potato crates. ‘We made these into mazes or piled them up to build a house several storeys high.’

  ‘When was that?’ Wisting asked.

  Knut Heian ran his hand through his hair. ‘It must have been at the beginning of the thirties.’

  ‘Was the car here at that time?’ Rupert Hansson asked, aiming his torch into the dark recesses.

  Heian nodded. ‘It’s been here for as long as I can remember. We often sneaked under the tarpaulin and sat behind the steering wheel. I couldn’t reach the pedals, even when I perched at the front of the seat. I think I must have been five or six, so it must have been in the thirties. Long before the war.’

  ‘And the car has been here ever since?’ Rupert Hansson asked.

  ‘I don’t know any differently. It was my uncle who owned the place, and he worked mostly with timber. My father took over his farm in 1954. That’s why it stayed like this. We have all the hay barns we need on our own land, so this one has never been used.’

  A sheet of corrugated metal, propped on its edge, blocked their way. Heian moved the sheet aside, revealing a thin mattress, dirty and stained, with a faded, folded blanket at the foot, on the floor.

  ‘Has anyone being sleeping here?’ Wisting asked.

  Heian kicked the mattress with the toe of his shoe, and a cloud of dust whirled up in the light from his torch.

  ‘If so, it must have been a long time ago,’ he answered.

  Wisting glanced at the door opening and the chain lying on the floor. He reached forward and picked up the blanket. There was a newspaper and a stash of weekly magazines lying underneath. He dropped the blanket without taking a closer look at any of them, and followed the others. Heian shifted some glassless window frames to reach the vintage car. The canvas covering was dusty and spattered with bird droppings. Heian gave Wisting the flashlight and used both hands to grip the tarpaulin, tugging it towards him before lifting it to one side.

  All three stood rooted to the spot until the dust had subsided.

  The tarpaulin covered a classic veteran car with sleek lines, closed cabin, long bonnet and broad running board. In dilapidated condition, it was dirty and dented and far from perfect. The paintwork had once been black and glossy, but now the metal had corroded, and extensive areas were covered with a white coating that looked like salt. In some parts the metal was completely absent.

  The left front wheel was rotten. The wheel brace had rusted so much that it had snapped, and the car had leaned to one side. What was left of the wheel rim was covered in green moss.

  Wisting stepped forward and shone the torch inside. The grey glass was shrouded with cobwebs, and the seats looked as if they had been nibbled by mice. The stuffing was gone, and coiled springs jutted through the mottled leather upholstery.

  Wisting took a step back and looked at the car from a distance. It had a dent on the left front wing, but had probably been in good, driveable condition when it had been left inside the barn.

  ‘What make of car is it?’ Knut Heian asked.

  ‘It’s a Minerva,’ Rupert said. ‘I’ve seen pictures of them. It dates from about 1915.’

  ‘There are no plates on it,’ Wisting pointed out.

  Rupert made a beeline for the engine housing. ‘May I?’ he asked Heian, taking hold of the hinge that held the lid in place.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The metal made a scraping noise as Rupert lifted the lid.

  ‘How does it seem?’ Wisting asked.

  It looked like a simple engine: a moulded iron crankcase with fuel hose, pistons, a fan with a crumbling belt, radiator and a jumble of wires. Rupert jiggled some of the engine parts.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he said, turning to face Heian. ‘Are you interested in selling?’

  Knut Heian beamed. ‘It’s no use to me sitting in here. But I’m not so sure that it’s up to me to sell it. Strictly speaking, it’s not mine.’

  Wisting peered into the engine cavity. ‘Can you manage to locate an engine number?’

  Moving the flashlight to his other hand, Rupert leaned forward again. ‘Let’s see . . .’

  Wisting turned to Heian. ‘You say it’s been here for as long as you can remember, but do you know anything about how it got here?’

  Heian ran his fingers through his hair again. ‘Not really, but there was talk about the car when my father took over in 1954. Uncle Harald was still living then. Apparently, Grandpa made some arrangement to store it.’

  ‘Do you know who this arrangement was with?’

  ‘No, and it seemed as if the car shouldn’t really be talked about. There’s always been undue secrecy surrounding it. I never knew who brought it here, or why it was left, but Grandpa was probably well paid for storing it.’

  ‘Is your grandfather still living?’

  Heian laughed at the question, and it dawned on Wisting that the man would have to be more than a hundred years old.

  ‘Okay, what was his name?’

  ‘Peder. Peder Heian. Uncle Harald told me he once asked Grandpa about the car, but didn’t get an answer. Grandpa lost his temper when he heard the question, and was so angry that Harald never mentioned it again.’

  ‘How did you youngsters get in and out of here?’

  ‘There’s an opening in the wall - up there,’ Heian answered, pointing. ‘We climbed a ladder on the outside, pulled it up after us and lowered it down on the inside.’

  Wisting glanced up. There was no opening now but there was a small ledge formed by a tier of beams, where there was just enough room for a few young lads to huddle together before pulling the ladder up after them.

  ‘Now we’ll see,’ Rupert Hansson mumbled. He had found a rag that he used to wipe the base of the engine cavity. ‘Here’s the number,’ he called out, reading aloud the series of numbers from the side of the engine housing.

  Wisting produced his notebook. ‘One more time,’ he said, jotting down the numbers as Rupert rattled them off again. Some of them were difficult to read, and it took time to be sure the
y had them right.

  ‘There has to be some kind of register, don’t you think?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘The automobile register goes back to 1899,’ Rupert informed him. ‘It was established by the Oslo police force.’

  ‘What about the number on the chassis? Where would we find that?’

  ‘As a rule, somewhere near the driver’s seat.’ Rupert opened the door and, leaning in, examined the floor. A metal plate was fastened to the inside of the cabin. ‘Here it is,’ he said. Wisting asked him to read it out. It comprised only five digits: 55356.

  Rupert Hansson sat behind the steering wheel, studying the instrument panel. Knut Heian stepped on to the running board beside him.

  ‘What do you think it might be worth?’ he asked.

  Rupert hesitated, before answering: ‘Difficult to say. After all, it’s really a restoration project. Someone in the club embarked on a similar project a few years back. That was an old Pathfinder. I think he paid fifty thousand kroner for the car, but he spent many times that fixing it up.’

  Knut Heian licked his lips. This sum amounted to half an average annual wage.

  Wisting wanted to mention what Rupert had said about King Haakon driving the same make of car, but let it drop. If these two ended up discussing a sale, that little snippet might crank up the price.

  He skirted round to the other side with the flashlight in his hand, and studied the dent. Obviously, the car had hit something. The front wing was pressed in, and the bodywork was scraped along the length of the whole side. The impact had probably led to a weakness in the front suspension that had later caused it to break down.

  Wisting ran his hand along the collision damage to feel the depth of the scratch. Immediately above the rear wheel arch, he discovered a hole, completely circular, and slightly too small for him to poke his finger into.

  Opening the rear door, he stood with his head halfway inside while he pointed the flashlight beam at the hole. The light shone through the cabin, continuing inside the car to a gash in the back of the rear seat.

  He studied the entry hole again until he was sure. It was a bullet hole.