‘Why are you asking?’
‘’I’m looking for somebody whose name was given as a contact for the Kristiania Haulage Company in 1925,’ Wisting said.
‘In 1925?’
‘Yes, it’s about a vintage car.’
‘I’ve no knowledge of anything like that.’
Wisting repeated that he was trying to track down Martinius Bergan but, after a few more exchanges, he was able to strike Bjørn Bergan from his list.
In the next two phone conversations, questions and answers went to and fro in similar fashion before he could score out another couple of names.
The fourth person he rang was called Erik. Wisting introduced himself and added that he worked for the police in Larvik. That meant no questions were asked about why he was phoning. Erik Bergan gave straightforward answers and told him that he had never heard of anyone called Martinius in his family.
He managed to call another two before it was time to go to work.
The first few hours flew by, taken up with minor tasks. Someone had been throwing icy snowballs and broken a window at Mesterfjellet School. The ferry from Denmark had reported an extremely intoxicated passenger who had to be extricated from underneath a staircase and arrested for being drunk and disorderly. Two boys had broken into the area behind the fences at the Farris factory and stolen empty bottles. Footprints in the snow led straight to the bottle depository in the shop along the street.
At seven o’clock they drove back to have a bite to eat and write their reports. Wisting brought his lunchbox with him into the workroom and filled out the forms while he ate one of his sandwiches. When he had finished, he closed the door and took out the phone list. He rang Halvor and Halfdan, with no result, but Geir Bergan did recognise the name.
‘My grandfather was called Martinius,’ he said.
Wisting’s grip on his pen grew tighter. ‘Is he alive?’
‘No, but my grandmother is.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Ragna. She lives at Veitvet.’
‘Would it be possible to phone her?’
‘She’s got a phone, but she’s a bit deaf. I don’t think you’d get much out of her. You’d be better speaking to my father.’
Wisting asked for his name and phone number and made a note of Jan Bergan at Kalbakken. He thanked Geir for his help and dialled the number.
Jan Bergan’s voice was deep and husky, as if he smoked too many cigarettes. Wisting introduced himself and explained that his son had given his name and number. ‘I’m looking for descendants of the Martinius Bergan who was connected to the Kristiania Haulage Company.’
The man at the other end cleared his throat. ‘That sounds like my father,’ he replied. ‘What’s this about?’
‘I’m trying to locate the owner of an old car.’
‘What kind of car?’ The voice had changed, the tone more guarded.
‘A vintage car from 1925. The records show that it was reported missing in 1925.’
Wisting could hear the man breathing faster. ‘Have you found it?’
‘Apparently so.’
‘What about Marvin and the money?’
Wisting moved the phone receiver from one ear to the other. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Have you found Marvin and the money?’ Jan Bergan repeated.
‘No, just the car,’ Wisting said, ‘but there are circumstances about the discovery that I’d like to talk to you about.’
‘I was no more than three at that time,’ Bergan said. ‘I don’t know much about it.’
‘What about your mother?’
‘This business of the car wasn’t something that was talked about much.’
‘Now that it’s been found,’ Wisting ventured, ‘do you think she might be interested in arriving at some sort of resolution?’
‘You should really come here,’ Bergan said.
Wisting recalled what his duty roster looked like. ‘I can come tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
The workroom door opened and Per Haugen waved at him: ‘Road accident!’
Wisting hurriedly concluded the arrangement to meet Jan Bergan and his mother at four o’clock the following day before dashing out to the patrol car.
Haugen was already behind the steering wheel with the engine idling. ‘Head-on collision on the E18.’
Wisting pulled a face. Front collisions on the motorway were always serious. The stretch of road through the Larvik police district was one of the most vulnerable in the network and had claimed the lives of four victims already that year.
The traffic ahead was at a standstill and they struggled to inch forward through the driving snow. Fire and ambulance services were already on the scene. Wisting leapt out and tried to gain an overview of the situation. It looked as though an Opel Ascona had skidded into the oncoming lane and hit a Mazda, one of the newer models. Two of the injured were already on stretchers, with another two left in the wrecked cars. The front-seat passenger in the Ascona was trapped inside and screaming in pain while the fire crew worked to cut him free. The driver of the Mazda appeared lifeless, with the steering wheel and instrument panel compressing his ribcage.
It took half an hour to transport the injured to hospital and leave the accident scene to the police and the salvage company workers.
Wisting took witness statements and photographs, made a note of registration numbers and sketched out the location of the vehicles before the cars were taken away and the debris removed.
He spent the rest of the evening shift writing reports. An elderly couple from Skien were the occupants of the Mazda, and two friends from Horten had been travelling in the Ascona. The hospital reported that the man in the Mazda had been declared dead on arrival at Accident and Emergency. His wife had escaped with a broken arm.
The driver of the Ascona had received minor injuries, but his companion had sustained serious head wounds. Wisting transcribed the information to the report form before extracting it from the typewriter.
He sat with the form in his hands pondering on how grim, dramatic events turned into sober words when committed to paper, and reflected on whether this was what his life in the police force would be like. Momentous episodes for individual people would become a routine part of his everyday life.
On the night shift, he was paired with Eivind Larsen, a conscientious police officer almost twenty years his senior. Wisting was behind the wheel of the patrol car when they drove into the night.
Their first assignment concerned a bus that had skidded and become stuck in a snowdrift, forcing traffic to be redirected while a tow truck hauled it out. The next report was about a chimney fire in Langestrand. Around restaurant closing time they had to break up a fight outside the premises of Otto På Torget; and at 01.40 they had to take care of a drunk man who had fallen asleep on the train from Oslo.
After all the report writing and a quick snack, Eivind Larsen took over the driving seat.
‘I understood you noticed a pattern,’ Larsen said, as they drove to the east end of town.
Wisting did not immediately understand what he meant.
‘The car thefts,’ Larsen said. ‘What do the statistics look like for Thursday nights?’
‘Sunday nights and Thursday nights stand out.’
‘What do you say to us trying to put a stop to it?’
‘I’m in.’
They found a different surveillance post that afforded an equally good view of the car park in front of the chemicals factory. For the first half hour, they sat in silence.
‘Have you ever thought of becoming a detective?’ Wisting asked.
Eivind Larsen shook his head. ‘That’s not up my street. Having things hanging over your head all the time. I like to go home and relax when the working day is over, and not have constant responsibility and the weight of expectation resting on my shoulders. In the uniformed branch you can write a report about what you’ve done and what you’ve seen, and then your job is over. The detectives look after the rest, a
nd they never have time off. We’re the ones who have all the fun.’
Wisting could not quite follow his train of thought. What lay behind the crime was what interested him. It was not sufficient to observe and record what had happened. He wanted to unearth more answers and not merely uncover what had taken place. Who was behind it and why did they do what they had done? There was a certain satisfaction in continually moving closer to a solution, almost the same as filling in a crossword when the answers began to intersect and lead to fewer blank spaces. He liked to reveal secrets and expose things that had been kept quiet.
His thoughts slipped back to the old car in the barn and his forthcoming meeting with Martinius Bergan’s widow. What she might be able to recall brought with it a feeling he had not experienced for a long time, a tingling sensation in the pit of his stomach reminiscent of hunger.
‘Over there!’ Eivind Larsen said, before dropping his voice: ‘Two o’clock.’
Diagonally in front of them was a man in dark clothing with a small rucksack on his back and his hands deep inside his jacket pockets.
In the shadow between the light shed by two streetlamps, he stopped and surveyed his surroundings. He was too far away for them to notice any distinguishing features.
Neither said anything. The man continued walking.
Twenty metres farther on, a Corolla was parked with a fox’s tail dangling from the radio antenna. The man slowed down and looked around again when he was level with the vehicle, before hunkering down and peering into the car.
Wisting grabbed the portable radio, thrust open the car door and stepped outside. Snow crunched under his boots. The man beside the Corolla straightened up and walked on, although he could not possibly have heard him.
Pushing the car door shut, Wisting looped the radio strap across his chest. He moved towards the road through the shadows, approaching from an angle, ensuring that he would remain invisible to the other man as he crossed the street.
The suspect had left footprints in the snow on the pavement. As Wisting passed the green Corolla, he realised that the man must have turned into the car park outside the chemicals factory.
He would have preferred to be equipped with earplugs, like the guys in the Security Service. Eivind Larsen would have been able to give him directions from the car. He was reluctant to switch on the police radio, in case a sudden message warned the man ahead.
Wisting stopped where the tracks veered into the car park. Instead of following the footprints, he waded through the snow, beside a clump of bushes, and found a position affording him a good view.
It took a while before he saw the man again, hunched between two parked cars. Then he heard a click, an almost inaudible sound, and the interior light in one lit as the door opened.
Wisting took a few strides through the deep snow, sinking up to his knees, but finally managing to totter on to the car park, where he picked up his pace. The man was sitting in the driver’s seat, his head dipped to one side as he fumbled to connect the leads along the steering column to get the car started.
Behind him, Eivind Larsen switched on the patrol car headlights and rolled the vehicle towards him.
With a single swift movement, the car thief raised his head and looked around. He caught sight of Wisting and flung himself out of the car.
It was the man with the pale complexion he had spotted when they had been interrupted by the report of the bank raid in Stavern.
‘Stop!’ he shouted.
The man’s start was barely twenty metres. Wisting was rapidly catching him when he changed direction and disappeared between two buildings. A wire fence blocked the end of the alley, but he ran straight at it, gained a foothold and jumped over.
Wisting hesitated for a moment, enough to lose both speed and power, and had to retrace his steps and take another run before he could climb the fence.
They were near Alfred Andersen’s mechanical workshop. A floodlight high on the building was the only source of light.
The suspect was gone, but had left his tracks in the snow. Wisting turned on his police radio and directed Eivind Larsen to the other side of the building.
The tracks showed that the man he had been pursuing had tried the door of the workshop building before scrambling onwards. His footprints continued round a workman’s shed, behind a container and towards a warehouse building in the part of the premises that was shrouded in darkness.
The warehouse had a roof, but no walls. The snow had blown in at the sides but, a couple of metres beneath the roof, the concrete floor remained clear of snow. He could follow. Snow from the grooves on the soles of the man’s boots had left stains between shelves which were stacked with iron pipes and metal sheets of various thicknesses and lengths.
Suddenly the man appeared directly in front of him, aiming a kick that caught Wisting in the groin. He doubled up, groaning, and took a punch in the head. He blocked the next blow and reached for his baton.
The man pulled an iron pipe from a nearby pile and struck out, missing as Wisting jumped back. When he raised the pipe again, Wisting threw himself forward and used his shoulder to knock him off balance. Lifting his baton he struck at his opponent’s upper arm, forcing him to drop his weapon. He swung the baton and struck again, this time hitting the large muscle group in the man’s thigh. He yelled in pain and fell to his knees. Wisting struck his other arm before grabbing it and pulling it behind his back until he finally lay face down on the ground. Wisting sat astride him, hauled up his other arm and handcuffed them together.
Boots trudged towards him and the light from a torch danced before his eyes.
He called to Eivind Larsen and let him catch his breath before they hoisted the man to his feet and searched his pockets. He was carrying a pocketknife, a lighter and a bunch of keys.
‘What’s your name?’ Wisting asked.
The man did not answer.
‘I know him,’ Larsen said. ‘It’s Simon Becker. I’ve arrested him before. I know his father as well.’
Becker was a name Wisting had seen in reports. This was the man who had been suspected of the car thefts all along.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘You’re coming with us.’
They dragged Simon Becker with them to the patrol car and drove him to the cells at the police station.
Once Becker was installed in Cell Eight, Eivind Larsen drove out again to pick up the rucksack left behind in the stolen car and talk to the night shift workers at the chemical factory. Wisting made his way to the workroom to write a report of the arrest and draw up a charge sheet for attempted car theft. Thereafter he enclosed the papers in a green document folder and dropped them in the CID mailbox.
Next morning a few of the investigators would visit Simon Becker’s apartment to conduct a search. They would then bring him up for interview. Wisting imagined the questions the interviewer would begin with and how, little by little, Becker would be confronted with the evidence. His impatience for real investigative work brought a frisson of excitement.
Two hours were left of his shift. They were called to check a vandalised phone kiosk at Lilletorvet, and a car hit by a snowplough, before their shift was over.
Wisting dashed home to exchange a few words with Ingrid and tell her about the car thief before taking a nap. In a few hours he would meet Jan Bergan and his mother. Maybe they could provide him with the solution to the mystery of the vintage car in the barn.
15
Wisting grabbed four hours sleep before leaving, driving though Larvik and out on to the E18 in the direction of Oslo. As he joined the road an oncoming snowplough with rattling chains stirred up a white cloud. Snow piled onto the windscreen, and he dropped his speed just enough to see the road ahead. Traffic was moving at a snail’s pace.
After the new tunnel at Holmestrand, he got stuck in a queue behind a lorry. He thought he had allowed plenty of time, but now wondered whether he would be late. As he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, the microfilm at the library came to mind. I
f this trip yielded the result he was hoping for, he would be spared reading through reams of old newspapers.
At Sande the crawling lorry turned off the motorway, but only when the road opened into two lanes after the toll station at Drammen was he able to pick up speed. Approaching Oslo, he took the Store Ringvei bypass to avoid heavy traffic in the city centre. At Bjerke racing track he pulled into a layby and looked up his road atlas to take his bearings. Still though, he got lost twice before finding his way to the low-rise apartment block where Ragna Bergan lived on the second floor.
Her son opened the door. In his early sixties, he was tall with thick, dark hair and a beard of the same colour. They shook hands and Wisting thanked him for their phone conversation the previous day.
The apartment faced west with a view towards Oslo Fjord and the rest of the city. The coffee table was set with a porcelain coffee set and a crocheted tablecloth. Ragna Bergan came in from the kitchen with a cake dish. She had completely white hair, a stooped back and walked with a slightly shuffling gait.
Setting down the dish, she wiped her arthritic hands on her apron before shaking hands with Wisting.
‘Thanks for agreeing to see me,’ he said.
‘Have a seat. I’ll fetch the coffee.’
He sat on the settee. In the centre of the table, a framed photograph of a tall, sharp-nosed man was displayed. He was dressed in a dark chauffeur’s uniform with shiny buttons and a peaked cap, and he presumed this was her late husband, Martinius Bergan. Behind him in the photo was a sleek, black, newly polished car.
‘That’s Dad,’ Jan Bergan confirmed with a nod of his head. ‘After the bankruptcy he began to drive taxis and, after the war, bought his own car. A Chevrolet.’
Jan Bergan talked as though Wisting was familiar with aspects of the Bergan family history. He was not aware of any bankruptcy, but assumed this was something that happened after the disappearance of one of the company vehicles.
Ragna Bergan, who had returned with the coffee pot, filled the three cups on the table before she sat down.
‘I don’t know anything about the case from 1925,’ Wisting began, making sure to speak loudly and clearly. ‘To the best of my knowledge, it was never investigated in my police district, but now the car has been found in our neck of the woods.’
When It Grows Dark (William Wisting series) Page 8
