‘Copies of our reports will reach you in the usual fashion,’ Ragnvald Hagen concluded. ‘But it is such an unusual case that I wanted you to know about it at once.’
Wisting thanked him and hung up, unsure whether what he had just learned could progress their enquiry or if it was simply another bewildering element, but he had a strong suspicion about where that money had come from.
36
Line turned on the bathtub tap and poured in plenty of bath salts. She had not yet tried out the big new bath, having contented herself with the shower, but now dark clouds and heavy rain encouraged a relaxing soak.
She stripped off and switched on the washing machine while the tub slowly filled, dimmed the light and lit a scented candle before stepping in. She lay back with a deep sigh of gratification. All she had to do for the next half hour was relax. The foam was scented with cinnamon and vanilla. The baby kicked, reminding her of the approaching birth, and she blew away the bubbles that covered her bulging stomach.
Every day that passed increased her sense of dread, a kind of fear that she had never known before. She was afraid of the pain, afraid of how long labour would last, afraid she would not cope, afraid she would not reach the hospital in time, afraid of the cutting, tearing, and that something might be wrong with the baby. She had no control, and had to face it entirely on her own. This last point was the most terrifying of all.
Submerging herself further she closed her eyes and emptied herself of all thoughts, immersed her head and held her breath for as long as she could.
The house was silent. All she could hear was the rain falling outside and the low thud of the washing machine, and she regretted not having put on some soft music. She stretched out for the sponge, but a noise made her pause. It sounded like the front door opening. She had thought to lock it when she was in the utility room, but it had slipped her mind again. She listened intently, certain that she could hear footsteps, certain that someone had come in.
‘Hello!’ her father called out in the hallway.
‘I’m in the bath!’
‘Your doorbell’s not working.’
‘I know.’
‘Will it be long till you’re out?’ he asked through the door.
‘Why?’
‘I need to talk to you. I’ll see if I can work your coffee machine in the meantime.’
Line leaned forward and pulled out the plug. ‘Just give me a few minutes.’
It had to be something important since he hadn’t offered to go home and come back later. She rinsed her hair, massaged in some shampoo, rinsed again and repeated the process with conditioner before stepping clumsily out of the tub. She picked up a towel and dried herself before throwing on a dressing gown and going out.
Her father was standing in the living room with a cup of coffee, studying the freshly painted window frames. His shoulders were soaked with rain. ‘You should lock the door,’ he said.
‘Everything’s fine, including me and my bump. I’m just not looking forward to the birth.’
A look of concern passed over his face which he banished with a smile. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he reassured her.
She understood that he too was thinking of her mother, and how much simpler it would have been if she had been there. ‘Promise me you’ll be with me when the time comes,’ she said, her stomach contracting at the mere thought. ‘That you’ll come with me to the hospital.’
‘I promise.’ He changed the subject. ‘You’ve made a grand job in here.’
While she had been decorating, all her living room furnishings from Oslo had been stacked at one end of the room. Now they were in their rightful places she was not entirely happy with the result herself. ‘This living room is bigger,’ she said. ‘I’ll need more things eventually.’
‘This is a good start.’
Line raked her fingers through her wet hair. ‘Why are you here?’
‘It’s about the Hummel case,’ he said, taking a few steps towards her. ‘You know that his taxi was found in a barn out at Huken?’
‘Yes, and that you discovered a large consignment of narcotics out there.’
‘Frank Mandt had that barn.’
Line frowned, and a couple of drops of water fell from her forehead. ‘I thought it belonged to a local farmer.’
‘It’s true that a local farmer owns the smallholding. Mandt had an agreement for a long-term rental, but hadn’t been there for a long time.’
‘Do you think he had something to do with it?’
‘He has had some role in it, but he always stayed behind the scenes. I doubt whether he’s had anything directly to do with the disappearance.’
Line folded her arms, making an effort to reconcile what she had just learned with what she already knew about Frank Mandt. ‘He was at home on New Year’s Eve,’ she said.
‘Yes, while Jens Hummel was in Kristiansand.’
Line sat down, her stomach pressing against her ribs. ‘How does it all hang together?’
Taking a seat opposite her, Wisting admitted he did not know. ‘But you and Sofie will have to come to the police station tomorrow and give statements about the revolver. I’m sorry, but I’ve kept you out of it for too long already.’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Sofie’s prepared to do that.’
‘How did you find the revolver?’
‘It was inside a safe, the only thing left in the house when Sofie moved in. There was no key, so she hired a locksmith to drill it open. I was there at the time.’
‘The revolver’s been locked in there from the time that Frank Mandt died until you opened the safe last week?’
‘More than likely. I came across the key in the fuse cupboard yesterday.’
‘What else did you find in the safe?’
Line had promised Sofie she would not tell anyone.
‘Was there any money in it?’ he asked, before she had overcome her reluctance.
Line felt herself blushing.
‘Stained banknotes?’
‘I promised Sofie I wouldn’t say anything. There were enough problems with the revolver.’
‘Did it contain anything else? Something that might have some relevance for the case I’m working on?’
‘Photographs and personal papers.’ It wasn’t a downright lie, but she knew too little of the Hummel case to judge whether there was anything in the safe that might be of interest to the investigation. ‘Have you anything at all to go on? Did you find any clues in the taxi?’
‘He had a mobile phone with a fictional subscription hidden under the dashboard,’
Line struggled to find a comfortable position. She put a cushion in the small of her back.
‘All the numbers and messages were deleted,’ Wisting said.
‘What about the itemised usage data?’
‘That information’s also gone.’ He flung out his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘All phone data is erased after six months.’
‘So what’s the connection between Frank Mandt and Jens Hummel?’
‘We haven’t succeeded in finding one, apart from the taxi being found in Frank Mandt’s barn.’
‘What does the guy in custody have to say?’
‘Nothing. He refuses to give a statement.’
‘Technical traces? Have you as little to go on as the newspapers suggest?’
‘I don’t want you to bring this to light.’
‘I’m on leave.’
Wisting knew that she would not pass on information that the police did not want to divulge. ‘Jens Hummel’s blood was found in the boot,’ he told her.
‘So he was murdered?’
‘That’s the theory.’
‘What about traces left by the perpetrator?’
Wisting got to his feet and stood in the middle of the room with an anxious look on his face. ‘All we have is some sawdust.’
‘Where did that come from?’
‘That’s what we’re wondering too. We’re checking sawmills and joiners’ workshops
, but so far they haven’t led anywhere.’
Line took hold of the armrests and levered herself out of the chair. ‘I can make some food later,’ she said, tightening the belt on her dressing gown. ‘You can drop in and have something to eat.’
‘I’m going to call in on Suzanne,’ Wisting said. ‘One of her employees has been stealing from the till. She was caught red-handed yesterday and Suzanne wanted a chat about it.’
At the front door Line watched as he strode, head bowed, through the rain to his car. She was fond of Suzanne and had been sorry when the relationship came to an end. Her father needed a focus in his life apart from work, so it was good for him that they still stayed in touch.
37
Wisting had not visited Suzanne’s loft apartment above the café before. A steep staircase from the backyard of The Golden Peace led him to a creaking door and into an attractive flat with painted floors and sprigged wallpaper.
Moving aside a throw and a cushion he sat on a leather chair. Roof windows usually let in more light, but the sky was covered in grey-blue storm clouds. To compensate, Suzanne had lit candles and arranged them on the table. She fetched coffee and a plate of Wisting’s favourite caramel cake from the simple kitchenette. ‘It wasn’t her,’ she said, taking a seat.
‘Hmm?’
Suzanne poured coffee into his cup. ‘It wasn’t the one I thought it was. Unni. It was one of the other girls.’
‘Which one?’
‘Nina. She was working both evenings you were there.’
A shorthaired blond girl who had seemed more withdrawn than the others.
‘I was so sure it was Unni,’ Suzanne said. ‘She made so many mistakes when ringing up the till, but I realise now that she’s just a bit confused about the cash register.’
‘How did she manage it?’ I watched them all closely and didn’t notice any irregularities.’ Wisting noted that the coffee was better than in the café.
‘It was quite simple, the cash register has a function where you can enquire about price. Instead of registering a drink as a sale, she keyed in price enquiry. Then the amount comes up on the display, and it looks identical to the customer.’
‘But she put the money in the till?’
‘She’s given a full explanation. Whenever she started her shift, she would put a handful of peanuts in her right trouser pocket. Every time she pretended to ring up the sale of a particular drink, she moved a peanut to the left-hand pocket. Towards the end of the evening, she counted them up, so it was just a matter of calculating how much she could take out of the till without it being noticed.’
‘Crafty.’
‘She’s admitted it all, signed a letter of resignation and says she’ll pay me back.’
‘Then at least you’ll avoid any further problems.’
A bolt of lightning split the dark sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Suzanne stood up and pulled out the plugs from the television and computer. Remaining on her feet, she touched her hand to the back of her head and straightened her hair, piled up in a topknot. Wisting recalled how she used to let down her hair before they made love, her teasing smile that appeared as her hair danced around her shoulders.
‘How’s the Hummel case going?’ she asked, sitting down again.
‘I don’t quite know.’
‘I’m pleased you had time to help me.’
‘I may be slightly out of training when it comes to surveillance operations.’
‘All the same,’ she replied, returning his smile. ‘I’m glad you spared the time.’
They continued chatting, the way they used to when she had been living with him. About people they had met, books they had read since they’d last seen each other, and films they hadn’t got round to seeing.
In mid-conversation, there was a power cut. Neither of them commented on the darkness, but they continued to sit in silence. The candle flames reflected in her eyes and cast flickering shadows around the room. Her face looked slightly different in the dim light. All of a sudden she looked sad and pensive, almost as if she were weeping.
She held out her hand and put it in his. Wisting remembered what it had been like to wake with her by his side every morning, and realised that he had let her go too easily. For a long time there had been only one woman in his life and after she, Ingrid, died he could not imagine a space for anyone else. Suzanne had entered his life quite unexpectedly, and taken part of it with her when she left.
Suzanne cleared her throat, about to say something, when his phone rang somewhere in the depths of his trouser pocket. It was Christine Thiis. ‘Are you at work?’ she asked.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Haven’t you heard? ‘They’ve found Jens Hummel.’
38
Slanting rain battered the car bonnet. The windscreen wipers whined, smearing water and dead insects across the glass.
The body had been found on Brunla farm, a sizeable landholding northwest of Stavern with a farm whose history stretched back to before the Viking period. The farm and surrounding land had passed from one prominent family to another, with the land parcelled off and the farm eventually falling into disuse. In the mid-seventies, a major riding centre had been established there. Wisting had taken Line a few times before she discovered that horse riding wasn’t for her.
He turned off the main road. Some of the rainwater had turned to vapour where it came into contact with the warm ground, shrouding the estate in a grey mist. The courtyard in front of the main building was so muddy the car slewed from side to side. Wisting followed the tracks of larger, heavier vehicles round the barn to where the horses were stabled.
Three patrol cars and a large tractor were parked at the rear of the enormous stable. In addition, Espen Mortensen had arrived with the crime scene van. Mud gurgled under his feet as Wisting stepped into the rain.
The barn was in need of a coat of paint, and weeds grew along the white cellar walls. Plaster had fallen off and several of the windows were broken. The roof tiles had loosened and one rone pipe hung loose so that water gushed down the wall. Police officers were huddled in a semi-circle round what was left of a dump of horse manure.
The tractor’s engine was running and the scoop was raised. Rain fell like shining threads in the glow from its headlights. Wisting breathed in the damp air and wiped the rain from his face.
The corpse was lying beside the mottled, stone wall, still half-covered in sawdust and manure. Somewhere inside the barn, a horse whinnied. Another one answered, slightly farther away.
The decomposing remains were being washed clean by the rain. Much of the body had gone. Tracks and traces of rats marked the manure pile and the neck and head looked as if they were picked clean of flesh. In certain other places on the body, there were only a few dark bones protruding.
Wisting approached the nearest police officer and nodded without saying anything in particular, trying to form a picture of what had happened.
The taxi with Jens Hummel in the boot compartment had driven round the barn, stopped beside the manure pile and perhaps reversed into place. Hummel had been lifted out and horse manure shovelled over him. One man could do it by himself.
‘Who found him?’ Wisting asked.
‘The stable master,’ one of the policemen said. A man in overalls was sheltering from the rain at the top of the barn ramp. Wisting positioned himself in the door opening beside him. The horses inside the barn turned to look at him from their stalls, pricking up their ears.
The stable master was a tall, slim man in his fifties. ‘He’s been lying there for a long time,’ he said, without Wisting having to initiate a conversation. ‘Since early last winter.’
‘You’re probably right.’
‘We’re spreading muck on the fields. We don’t always clear it all, but just before Christmas I scraped away almost all of it. I took a few more scoops when the snow began to disappear in March, but never so deep as I did today, not since last December.’
Below them, the uniformed
officers were closing off the area while Mortensen set up a crime scene tent. He was faced with a laborious task. It was one thing to bring out the body, but something else entirely to examine the surrounding area in minute detail.
‘What does it look like out here in winter?’ Wisting asked.
‘I clear the area round the stables and up the barn ramp, all the way to the dunghill. You can drive all the way up.’
‘Who could have put him there?’
The stable master shrugged. ‘Anybody at all. There’s nobody here after ten o’clock at night, except when one of the girls decides to sleep over.’
Wisting peered into the stable, where the air was warm and oppressive. He saw a few dirty pigeons ensconced high under the rafters. ‘Wouldn’t you have to be familiar with the place to think of hiding a body here?’
The stable master looked Wisting straight in the eye. ‘I’ve no idea what has happened, but there’s one thing I’m sure of. Nobody here at the stables has done this.’
The horses were restless. A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered outside the barriers, watching the police at work: three young girls in riding boots, a man with a dog, and two boys on bikes. They moved back when an unmarked police car lurched over the boggy ground. Nils Hammer was behind the wheel with Christine Thiis in the passenger seat.
Heading down to the discovery site again, Wisting, together with his two colleagues, squeezed into the crime scene tent. The warm odour of manure and urine filled the air, but now they could also smell the corpse.
‘Can you tell us anything?’ Christine Thiis asked Mortensen.
‘It’s Jens Hummel, obviously. It all fits. Both the time perspective and what’s left of the clothes he’s wearing.’
‘And the sawdust,’ Hammer said, kicking the ground.
‘They use the tractor to spread the manure over the fields,’ Wisting said. ‘The last time they emptied the dung heap was in December, before the snow came.’
‘How far is it from here to the farm where we found his taxi?’ Christine Thiis asked.
‘Less than two kilometres.’
Ordeal (William Wisting Series) Page 15
