Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  They made small talk about the weather and the heat, about the crowds of people, the tourists and old classmates. ‘Why did you move back?’ Line asked.

  ‘I inherited a house,’ Sofie answered, ‘from my grandfather. It suited me to move. Begin over again, so to speak.’

  ‘Who was your grandfather?’ Line asked, noticing that Sofie did not like the question.

  ‘Frank Mandt. I haven’t had much contact with him. He died last winter.’

  Line knew who Sofie’s grandfather was. Most people in Stavern did.

  ‘What about you?’ Sofie asked. ‘Why did you move?’

  ‘Because I fell pregnant,’ Line answered. ‘The life I was living in Oslo was linked to my job with VG and my colleagues there. Without my job I had no connection to the place, and I’d prefer for her to grow up here.’

  Sofie glanced at her stomach. ‘It’s a girl, then?’

  As Line nodded, her thoughts turned to the little body she was carrying inside. If what she had read was true, she was more than forty centimetres long by now and weighed two point five kilos.

  ‘What about the father?’ Sofie asked.

  ‘That’s a long story,’ Line said, smiling. ‘He was out of the picture before I knew I was pregnant.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Sofie commented. ‘Mine stayed, but found other women on the side. I’m better off without him.’

  ‘It wasn’t quite like that for me,’ Line said. ‘I met him through my work. He was an American police officer working on a case here before Christmas.’

  Sofie burst out laughing and pointed at her stomach: ‘So that’s the result of a one-night stand?’

  Line joined in and felt how good it was to laugh. ‘It wasn’t just one night,’ she pointed out. ‘He was here for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘But you kept it?’

  ‘I’m twenty-nine,’ Line said. ‘And she’s not unwanted.’

  ‘Are you in touch with him, the American? Does he know about it?’

  ‘Oh yes, we talk to each other online. He offered to move here to be close to us, but it wouldn’t have been right. He has an important job where he is.’

  A car drove along the pedestrian street with people unwillingly moving aside. Line put down her half-empty glass of coffee and watched it cruise up to the kerb on the other side of the street and come to a standstill. The man who stepped out gazed across at them. It was her father.

  7

  Wisting waited until Hammer left the car before crossing the street. He only just caught sight of Line at one of the tables outside The Golden Peace before the man at the adjacent table stood up. Pulling his skip cap further down over his face, he shoved Maja’s pushchair aside and headed off, walking at top speed.

  They could not see his face, but his height, age and narrow shoulders matched Aron Heisel’s description. He must have realised they were policemen simply from their demeanour, as their watchful awareness of their surroundings betrayed them, at least to anyone on the lookout.

  ‘Hey!’ Wisting yelled, following the man who had now turned his back on them. ‘Wait a minute!’

  The man quickened his pace, seemingly making for a motorbike parked with a helmet hanging from the handlebars. When Wisting called out again, he changed his mind and sprinted in a different direction.

  ‘Stop!’ Wisting shouted. ‘Police!’

  The nearest bystanders turned and stared. Stealing a quick backward glance, the man jostled some youngsters aside and ran on. Wisting dashed after him, his shirt riding up at the waist and flapping around him.

  The man ran off down Dronningens gate and took the first side street to the right, already lost in the bustling crowds when Wisting turned the corner. He caught a glimpse of his skip cap and white T-shirt and forced his way through in pursuit. The man pushed recklessly forward past families with young children and other pedestrians. He tripped over a bike with stabilisers and fell, but scrambled to his feet right away.

  At the next street corner he turned right and ran towards the quays before taking a sharp left and darting across a children’s play park, stumbling again while looking back over his shoulder. Wisting caught up with him at the waffle stall. He grabbed him by the arm, but the man pulled back so violently that Wisting was flung head first against a lamppost. A shudder coursed through his body and he felt blood running down his cheek. The man fled along the quayside.

  Wisting did not see where Nils Hammer came from, but he suddenly plunged in from one side, throwing himself at the man and knocking him off his feet, over the edge of the quay and into the water. Hammer almost followed, but regained his balance and remained on dry land.

  Several customers at the nearest outdoor restaurant stood to watch what was going on. For a moment it looked as if the man intended to swim out, but he shook his head in resignation and grabbed his skip cap as it floated off. Three strokes brought him back to the quayside where Wisting and Hammer hauled him out.

  ‘Aron Heisel?’

  The man nodded, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, letting the water drip.

  ‘Why did you run off?’ Hammer asked.

  Aron Heisel took a deep breath and sighed loudly, but did not answer.

  ‘We need to talk about Jens Hummel and his taxi,’ Wisting said.

  ‘It was just sitting there.’ The man sounded discouraged. ‘I don’t know any more than that. It was just sitting there.’

  A patrol vehicle drove towards them. Hammer waved it over and curious onlookers moved aside. ‘Take him in and see that he gets some dry clothes,’ Wisting ordered.

  ‘I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Heisel protested.

  ‘We can discuss that later,’ Wisting said, touching the side of his own head. Blood soiled his fingers and he could already feel a substantial swelling. One of the uniformed officers opened the rear doors of the patrol wagon and ushered Aron Heisel inside.

  ‘He can sit and wait for a while,’ Hammer said.

  Wisting agreed. Waiting would advantage whoever was going to ask the questions. ‘I want to go back to the barn,’ he said, watching the police officers close the door on Aron Heisel. ‘I think the car will give us more answers than the guy in there.’

  8

  Line put down her empty coffee glass.

  Maja had grown restless. She was reluctant to sit in the pushchair, but would not settle on her mother’s lap either. She wriggled like an eel and began to whimper.

  ‘She’s tired,’ Sofie explained. ‘I need to take her home so she can have a nap. Would you like to come?’

  Line scanned the direction in which her father and Nils Hammer had disappeared. It did not look as if they would be back soon. She wondered what it had been about, but could ask this evening when he popped in to see her. ‘I’d like that,’ she answered.

  Sofie put Maja back into the pushchair and manoeuvred it between the chairs and tables.

  The walk took no more than five minutes. The Mandt house was located beside what was known as the Water Pump Park, because there was an old village pump among the massive birch trees. People in the past had come to fetch water, wash their clothes and hear the latest news. Now a photographer was there photographing a young couple.

  The main entrance was at the rear of the house. Sofie opened the door before lifting Maja from her pushchair and Line followed them inside. They were greeted by a scent of green soap, and the white-painted wooden floor shone. Boxes not yet unpacked were stacked against the walls.

  ‘There’s not much sorted out yet,’ Sofie said, kicking off her shoes. She showed Line into the living room and opened the doors to the glass verandah that overlooked the park. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ she said, disappearing into the kitchen with Maja on her arm. ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Line surveyed her surroundings, feeling slightly envious. This house was larger, brighter and airier than hers. The ceilings were high and heavy beams gave an impression of elegance. The bohemian furnishings that Sofie had brought with her from Oslo fail
ed to fill the room and did not seem entirely appropriate for its grandeur. Sofie appeared in the kitchen doorway. Maja had been given a bottle.

  ‘It’s so lovely here,’ Line said.

  ‘Come upstairs with me,’ Sofie suggested, ‘and see the first floor while I put Maja down for her nap.’

  The staircase was worn, and several of the treads creaked under their feet. The air up here was stuffier and hotter. Sofie went into the first room on the left, opened a window and laid Maja down in a cot at the wall. The youngster kicked her legs before giving her full attention to the bottle of milk her mother had heated.

  Sofie closed the door softly behind her and showed Line round. Most of the rooms were empty, but they were large with broad pine floorboards, faded wallpaper and deep window ledges with latticed windows.

  ‘Workmen are coming next week,’ Sofie explained. ‘I want to paint the ceilings and paper the walls, but apart from that there’s not much needing done.’

  Line pointed at a door that stood slightly ajar.

  ‘And then I need to renovate this bathroom,’ Sofie added as she opened the door on a room with a toilet bowl, a cracked wash hand basin with flecks of rust around the drain where the tap had dripped, and a massive old bathtub. There were no windows and dampness had caused the floral wallpaper to peel.

  ‘Big job,’ Line commented.

  ‘There was money in my inheritance,’ Sofie said. ‘And there’s no rush. There’s an almost new bathroom in the basement.’

  ‘So there’s a basement as well?’

  Sofie headed for the stairs. ‘It’s huge and empty,’ she said. ‘Except for an old safe that I can’t shift.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Sofie lowered her voice as they passed the child’s bedroom. ‘It’s too big. You’d almost think it was installed in the basement before they built the house.’

  ‘But why do you want it removed?’ Line asked, following her downstairs. ‘It’s a good idea to have a safe.’

  ‘I don’t have the key,’ Sofie told her. ‘And it’s locked.’

  ‘Locked?’ Does that mean you don’t know what’s inside?’

  ‘Not a clue. Come and I’ll show you!’

  Sofie crossed to the basement door, opened it and switched on the light. The sudden draught from below fluttered the papers lying on a chest of drawers in the hallway.

  Line led the way. There was a hint of the same dank odour down here as in her own basement, like damp clothes left lying too long. She peeped inside some of the rooms in the basement corridor and shivered with the cold. The safe was at the far end. Sunlight slanted across the floor from a window high on the wall. Line stood where it hit the rough wall and pressed her hand on her stomach.

  The safe was really massive. They must have been only just able to negotiate its bulk through the doorframe, not to mention carry it down the stairs. She moved forward and pushed aside the little metal cover in front of the keyhole. ‘Have you searched for the key?’ she asked, looking round the room.

  Sofie shook her head. ‘I haven’t, but I hired people to clear the house and they didn’t find it.’

  ‘It must be here somewhere.’ Line stood on tiptoe, sliding her hand along a water pipe that ran along the ceiling without finding anything. At the top of the exterior wall, a ventilator was fitted, but the vent was too high to look inside. Instead she thrust in her fingers and rummaged blindly, picking up only dust and balls of fluff. Laughing at herself, she apologised for taking liberties. ‘I’m just so inquisitive,’ she said. ‘What do you think might be inside?’

  Sofie was quiet for a moment or two before she replied. ‘It’s probably empty.’

  ‘Of course, you can always get someone to drill it open or something like that. A locksmith could do it. I know someone who works on that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I really do want to know what’s in there, if anything. Whatever it is, it’s bound not to be anything good. It’s a secret the Old Man took with him into death, and that’s where it might as well stay.’

  ‘How did he die?’ Line asked.

  ‘He fell.’ Sofie stood beside a dark stain on the concrete floor. ‘On the stairs here,’ she said, pointing. ‘He fell downstairs and lay dead on the floor for a few days before someone found him.’

  Line stared at the steep stairs.

  ‘Do you think it strange?’ Sofie asked. ‘That I’m willing to live here?’

  Line shook her head. ‘A man died in my house too. Two, in fact,’ she added, thinking of Viggo Hansen’s father who had hanged himself in her basement nearly fifty years ago.

  Sofie chuckled. A burst of hesitant laughter that grew heartier when Line joined in. ‘I’ve actually not given it much thought, that he died here,’ she explained, climbing the stairs. ‘More about all the bad things he did while he was alive.’

  Line followed, her interest aroused. There was a story here. She was on leave from her job as a journalist with the Verdens Gang newspaper and, strictly speaking, had no plans to go back. She hoped to use the period of leave to finish writing the manuscript of a book she had embarked on a few years ago, and her longer-term plan was to make a living as a freelance writer. What she liked especially about her work as a writer was the opportunity to tell a compelling story, and now she could discern the outline of one. She held back her questions.

  Sofie rattled glasses in the kitchen as Line waited in the living room. An enormous bookcase had been assembled but most of the books were still packed in cardboard boxes on the floor, marked alphabetically. A to E had been placed on the shelves, while the other authors awaited their turn.

  ‘We’ll sit outside,’ Sofie suggested as she reappeared carrying two glasses and a jug of iced tea. Line followed her out into the small shady terrace at the rear of the house, where they were screened from both noise and prying eyes. A lofty rosebush with red blooms climbed the wall and spread out to the eaves. Sofie filled the glasses.

  ‘What were the bad things your grandfather did?’ Line asked.

  ‘You’ve heard of him?’

  Line nodded. ‘I know he sold spirits. Smuggled spirits.’

  ‘He took my mother’s life.’

  Line sat with the glass in her hand, unable to ask her friend to continue.

  ‘When I moved from the town, it was because my mother was sent to prison. She had to take the punishment for something he had done.’

  Line put down her glass, feeling how close they had grown in the short time since they met. ‘You really must tell me,’ she said.

  Sofie crossed her arms and stared at the ground and Line realised this was something she was reluctant to discuss, but also understood that after a long time the need to talk can be irresistible.

  ‘They called him the Smuggler King,’ Sofie said, with a flash of anger in her eyes. ‘As if there was something noble and honourable about what he did.’ She shook her head and continued.

  ‘He began in the sixties, when he worked as a stevedore at the quay. Got the chance to buy some cheap bottles from the crews of boats that came from Rotterdam, Bremerhaven and other European ports. He sold them on at a good profit, but cheaper than at the state monopoly store.

  ‘A few bottles turned into cases. At some point he began to operate his own vessels, and hired the skippers of fishing boats to carry spirits and cigarettes across the Skagerrak.

  ‘He was newly married at that time, so the money came in handy. Mum was born in 1964. Grandma died not long afterwards, so Mum was in a way born and brought up to it all. Eventually he began to import spirits overland as well. Lorries came from factories in Spain and delivered to depots all over the Østland region.’

  ‘Wasn’t he caught?’

  ‘Not he. Some of the vehicles were stopped at the border. He lost a consignment occasionally, but always got off scot-free. Then he turned to other goods. First hash, which was easier to smuggle than bottles and drums of spirits, took up less space and gave a greater profit.’

  Line ha
d heard rumours and gossip. ‘What happened to your mother?’ she asked.

  ‘Mum was on her own with me. My father is just a name I’ve heard. I’ve never met him and don’t know where he lives. I’ve no idea even how he and Mum met. We never got round to talking about it. I was ten, or almost eleven, when she died.’

  Sofie stretched out her arm and picked a rose from the bush flowering on the wall. ‘It was a Saturday in late summer,’ she continued, peeling off a petal. ‘We were going to the Handelsstevn market and fair in Skien, as we used to do. There was a fairground and famous celebrities appeared on stage.’

  Line had been there once, years ago.

  ‘We lived in a small flat right down the street. Mum had an old Opel. She had a lot of trouble with it, and that day it quite simply would not start. We came here to borrow one of the Old Man’s cars, as we’d done loads of times before. He wasn’t at home, but his Volvo was parked outside. Mum let herself in, found the keys and left him a note.’

  The back of the chair creaked as Sofie changed position. Her dark hair fell over her face and she brushed it away, smiling uncertainly.

  ‘At Vallermyrene in Porsgrunn, we were stopped by the police,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why. Maybe it was sheer chance; maybe they were keeping a watch on the Old Man and had his cars on a list. Anyway, the police car drove up behind us and switched on the blue flashing lights. Mum pulled in to the side of the road. They asked all sorts of questions and began to look around in the car. Under the seat where I was sitting they found three kilos of hash and one kilo of amphetamines.’

  Line’s mouth fell open. ‘But she couldn’t have known anything about it?’

  ‘She got five years in jail. They regarded as aggravating factors that she had a young child with her and would not cooperate with the police.’

  ‘But didn’t she tell them what had happened?’ Line asked. ‘That she had just borrowed the car?’

  ‘The Old Man denied having anything to do with it. He sacrificed his daughter to get away with it himself.’