Wisting recounted the conversation one of the investigators had had with her the day after the murder.
‘I hadn’t picked up on that,’ Horne admitted, reading the interview form for himself.
‘Why would he attempt a straightforward robbery if he’d just done a well-paid job and there was more money where that came from?’ Christine Thiis asked. ‘And what became of the money?’
‘Money doesn’t last long in those circles,’ Horne replied. ‘But in this particular case, there’s a logical explanation.’
‘What’s that?’
Horne was on his way to the door. ‘That he spent it on a revolver.’
52
At two o’clock, Wisting rose from the table. ‘We need a break,’ he said, rubbing his dry eyes. ‘I’ll try to have a few words with Einar Gjessing before I meet Brodin in the prison.’
Christine Thiis leaned back in her chair. ‘We’ll have to eat,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘I’ll come with you.’
Ivar Horne appeared at the door again. ‘Finished already?’
‘Just a short break,’ Wisting said. ‘How long will you be here?’
‘Ages.’ Horne presented his business card. ‘Call me when you’re back and I’ll come down and let you in.’
The car had overheated in the sun. Wisting switched the air conditioner to full blast and adjusted the vents so that air was blown directly at them. He flicked through his notebook, found the main witness’s address and keyed it into the GPS.
Gjessing lived only a few minutes away from police headquarters, in the Lund district on the other side of the Otra River. En route they stopped at a grocery outlet and bought a hotdog each. They sat down on a bench outside to eat.
‘I’ll go to the prison by myself,’ Wisting said. ‘Two members of the police force might be too much for him.’
Christine Thiis agreed. ‘I can continue with the ring binders.’
They finished eating and got into the car again. The GPS led them on past old timber houses and down to an enormous apartment complex beside the river. They parked in the visitors’ car park and walked along the rear of the building until they located the right entrance. Einar Gjessing was the top name on the doorbell panel. Wisting put his head back and peered up at the penthouse flat that was bathed in glorious sunshine.
‘He must have made some money playing at bank managers,’ Christine Thiis said as she rang the doorbell.
They stood waiting. A man with a dog walked by on the footpath. She tried the doorbell again and Wisting looked at his watch. ‘We’ll go and check in at the hotel,’ he suggested. ‘Then we can try him again tomorrow.’
A man in dark sunglasses and a white, short-sleeved shirt approached them as they turned to go back to the car. He took out a bunch of keys and headed for the door.
‘Einar Gjessing?’ Wisting asked.
The man took off his glasses. ‘Who’s asking?’ he replied, smiling.
Wisting introduced himself and explained who Christine Thiis was. ‘It’s to do with the court case that starts next week,’ he said.
‘What about it?’ Gjessing asked in a rough south-coast dialect. An irritated frown crossed his face.
‘I know you’ve been over this many times, but do you have time to answer a few questions from us as well?’
Sighing, Gjessing inserted the key in the lock. ‘You can come up with me.’
Two minutes later they were sitting at a table on the sunny roof terrace with an outlook over the city and the old fortress on Odderøya Island.
‘You said you came from the Vestfold police?’ Gjessing asked, setting glasses and cans of cold drinks on the table.
‘We’re investigating a different case,’ Wisting said, going on to explain the connection between the New Year Murder and that of Jens Hummel.
‘I read about that,’ Gjessing said, hoisting a parasol before he sat down. The shade brought welcome relief.
Christine Thiis sat forward, perched on the edge of her chair. ‘Can you tell us what happened on New Year’s Eve?’ she asked.
‘I expect you’ve read my statement to the police? There’s not much more to say than what’s in that. I was on my way down to the Strand Promenade. Some friends had hired a function room and I was walking along Holbergs gate and across the intersection at the old junior high school.’ He paused to pick up a can of lemonade. ‘You know what happened then.’
Christine Thiis accepted with thanks when he held up the can and offered to share. Wisting took one of the other cans and opened it.
‘First of all, I thought it was just a couple having a quarrel. There’s such a lot of that on New Year’s Eve. Loads of people drinking, and loads of people quarrelling. The man had grabbed her arm, the one that was holding her bag. She pulled free, and that was when I saw the revolver. She’d already turned her back on him and started to run when he pointed it at her. A spurt of flame came out of the muzzle when he fired.’
Einar Gjessing put down his glass and made the shape of a gun with his thumb and index finger. ‘Two shots,’ he said, imitating the sound as he jerked his hand back. ‘She fell on the ground. The man turned and ran towards me. I got such a shock that I just stood there. He ran past me. I didn’t know what to do, so I ran after him, but I was wearing slippery shoes. I slid and fell a couple of times and he got away from me. So, I ran back to where it had happened instead, but by then it was already too late. Even if I had run over to her at once, there wouldn’t have been anything I could have done. Besides, other people turned up.’
Wisting sat thinking, as if to create distance between the explanation Gjessing had given and the questions he was about to pose. ‘When he fired,’ he began, ‘did he have the gun out, or did he pull it out after she had wriggled free?’
Einar Gjessing allowed for the same uncertainty he had voiced during his interview: ‘It happened so fast,’ he said, ‘but I think he had it out the whole time. That he stood there threatening her with it, but I don’t know whether that’s just the impression I have, or whether that’s how it actually happened.’
‘Did you see what he did with the revolver?’
The man on the other side of the table flashed a crooked smile. ‘Don’t you think I would have told that to the police here in Kristiansand? It was one of the first things they asked me. They’ve been searching for it for weeks.’
‘Of course,’ Wisting said, returning his smile. ‘I was thinking more of whether he ran off with it in his hand or stuffed it down his trousers or something like that.’
Einar Gjessing sat back and reflected. ‘He had it in his hand when he ran past me,’ he replied. ‘I remember that very well, but afterwards he must have pushed it down his trousers because I remember him running with both hands free.’
‘How far had he reached when you saw that his hands were free?’
‘Not very far. To the fountain, I think.’
Wisting regretted not bringing a map, but remembered the fountain structure in the first side street. ‘So he ran down the steps to Kongens gate,’ Gjessing ploughed on. ‘I didn’t follow him much farther before I turned back.’
‘How far is it from the place where he passed you down to the fountain?’
‘Not far. Not much more than a hundred metres.’
‘Could he have got rid of the gun along that stretch?’
‘The police have looked for it.’
‘I’m thinking about whether someone might have found it or picked it up before the police began their search,’ Wisting said. ‘Could he have thrown it away without you seeing that?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘You said you slipped and fell twice,’ Christine Thiis reminded him. ‘Where did that happen?’
‘The first time was almost as soon as I started running. The next time was at the foot of the steps down from the square.’
Wisting waited for him to come to a conclusion himself.
‘That fits,’ Gjessing said, now slightly pensive. ‘He could
have got rid of it when I fell the first time. I glanced along Dronningens gate as well when I got up again, and saw that the two other witnesses were on their way over to the girl on the ground.’
‘How far had he reached when you were on your feet again?’
‘I guess he had a head start of fifty metres or so.’
‘Did you see anyone else in the vicinity?’
Einar Gjessing shook his head.
‘Vehicles?’
‘There are usually a few cars parked behind the fountain, but I can’t remember noticing any. Holbergs gate is a pedestrian street.’
‘What about taxis?’
Gjessing shook his head. ‘I would have remembered that. I had actually been looking for an available taxi.’
Christine Thiis sat up straight: ‘You didn’t see any taxis nearby?’
‘No, you see, I had been to visit my mother up in Posebyen and had intended to take a taxi down to the Strand Promenade. There was a taxi in the street, right down from where my mother lives. The light on the taxi wasn’t switched on, but there were no people inside so I tried to flag it down. It was only a matter of a kilometre or so, but it was a taxi from out of town, so the driver wasn’t allowed to pick up passengers.’
Wisting glanced over at Christine Thiis. ‘Where outside town did it come from?’ he asked.
Gjessing shrugged.
‘Exactly where were you when that happened?’
‘I don’t remember, but Mum lives in Tordenskjolds gate. It was probably a couple of blocks further down. In Skippergate, maybe, somewhere round there.’
‘Do you remember what sort of car it was?’ Christine Thiis asked.
‘Not apart from that it was a taxi.’
‘Colour?’
‘Dark.’
‘What did the driver look like?’
Gjessing shook his head.
‘Well, you see, he only half-turned towards me when I opened the back door and sat inside. I’ve no idea what he looked like.’
‘Glasses, beard, moustache?’ Wisting asked.
Gjessing shook his head again.
‘But it was a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he was alone in the car?’
‘Yes, but it looked as if he was waiting for someone.’
Wisting felt sure that it had been Jens Hummel who had been waiting in the taxi. He was keen to know more, but could not hit upon any questions to bring them closer to an understanding of what Hummel had actually been doing that night. Instead he returned to the crime scene and asked the questions that had not been answered in his reading of the documents. ‘Was anything shouted or said?’
‘Elise shouted something,’ Gjessing said. ‘No or stop or something like that.’
Christine Thiis tilted her head to one side. ‘Did you know the victim?’
Einar Gjessing cleared his throat and lifted his glass to his mouth. ‘Elise Kittelsen?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t really know her very well, but I knew who she was. I didn’t see who it was lying there. I didn’t know that until the next day.’
‘How did you know who she was?’
The sun had moved and was now shining directly in Einar Gjessing’s face. He stood up and shifted the parasol to let them continue to sit in the shade.
‘Through mutual acquaintances,’ he said. ‘She had a boyfriend who was a data analyst. He did some work for me a while ago, so I’d been introduced to her in the city once, but of course she was a lot younger than me.’
Wisting did not want to talk about Gjessing’s company and what had led to him being charged and convicted. ‘Tell me about what happened when you came back to the crime scene.’
Gjessing coughed. ‘When I got there, there were only the two boys, but then it got chaotic with people coming from all directions. This doctor turned up and looked after the girl on the ground. The police arrived before the ambulance, but there wasn’t much they could do. I told them where the gunman had gone, and what he looked like. They sent out a message and it didn’t take long until they’d caught him.’
‘They came back to the crime scene with him?’
‘Yes, they wondered if I recognised him.’
‘And did you?’
‘Yes. He was sitting in the back of a patrol car. They asked me to take a look at him before they drove him to the station, to be quite sure.’
‘And you were sure?’
Einar Gjessing picked up his glass again. ‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘Who else would it be?’
53
The lift rumbled and shuddered on its ascent through the storeys. A young woman in a grey-blue prison officer’s uniform greeted him. He handed her his police ID in exchange for a visitor’s pass that he pinned to his breast pocket before she ushered him inside. A bunch of keys in her belt jingled as she walked. Halting in front of a massive wire grated door, she took out the correct key and let him in. The hinges squealed before the door slammed behind him.
In the centre of the wall, a red lamp shone above the door into a visitors’ room. She knocked before opening. Two men were sitting inside. Trainee lawyer Olav Müller sat on a black leather settee beneath the window, wearing a pair of light, grey trousers and a white short-sleeved shirt. A document case sat by his side. Dan Roger Brodin had his back turned. His head was close-shaven and his shoulders narrow.
They stood up in unison. The lawyer held out his hand and introduced himself. Brodin greeted him silently. Behind them the prison officer locked the door. Wisting looked around and noticed toy-boxes on the floor, and that the carpet was patterned with streets and roads. Prisoners had children too.
‘I’ve told Dan Roger what you said on the phone,’ Müller said. ‘That you’re actually working on another case, in a different police district, where the same gun was used as in the case against him.’
Wisting pulled out a chair but waited until the others had resumed their seats before sitting down. ‘That’s right,’ he said, telling them who he was and outlining the case.
Brodin stared at him while he spoke. His skinny face was tense. Serious.
‘One way or another, the revolver was conveyed from Kristiansand to Larvik,’ Müller summarised when Wisting stopped.
Brodin shrugged and began to pick at a scab on his lower arm. ‘I don’t know,’ he said softly.
‘What’s your theory?’ Müller asked Wisting.
‘There are several possibilities,’ Wisting replied. ‘But the murder victim in our case was in Kristiansand on New Year’s Eve. It’s possible he’s the one who took the weapon.’
Müller was making notes.
‘Could he have been the one who shot her?’ Brodin asked.
‘We don’t have any grounds for believing that,’ Wisting said. ‘But regardless of who did it, you were in the vicinity of the crime. The police arrested you only a few blocks away.’
‘I heard the shots,’ Brodin agreed. ‘Or, I’m not sure, it could have been fireworks. There were loads of people letting off fireworks all evening. But it sounded like two clean shots.’
Wisting took out his thick notebook and the few case papers he had brought with him. What Dan Roger Brodin had just told him did not appear in any of the interviews. ‘Where were you when you heard the shots?’
‘Right up in Tollbodgata, I think,’ Brodin answered.
Wisting pictured the map of the city centre in his mind’s eye. Tollbodgata was parallel to Dronningens gate, where the shots had been fired. ‘What were you doing there?’
The taciturn man facing him shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘What did you do afterwards?’
‘After what?’
‘After you heard the shots?’
‘I just walked on.’
Müller interjected: ‘Did anyone see you?’
‘Probably. There were a few people out walking.’
‘Anyone you knew?’
Brodin shook his head and went on picking at the wounds on his arms.
Wisting glanced across at the lawyer. He was too late, he thought. If he had really believed his client to be innocent, then this was a question he should have asked long ago. Now the leads were cold. No one would remember enough to give him an alibi. ‘Did you notice a taxi?’
‘The guy who was shot in Larvik was a taxi driver,’ Müller said, by way of support.
‘I didn’t notice anything other than the police car. It was probably on its way to the woman who was shot, but they turned when they saw me.’
‘And that’s when you ran?’
‘Yes.’
Wisting had no wish to pry, but was bound to ask. ‘Why was that?’
‘Because they came after me.’
It was the same answer he had given in the first interview, when he had said that he had hidden so the police would not find him.
Müller cleared his throat: ‘We’ve been through this with the investigators in the case. That wasn’t what you were supposed to be asking about now.’
Wisting ignored him. A thought was beginning to take shape, and he leaned across the table. ‘But why?’ he repeated.
‘I didn’t want to go in again,’ Brodin answered, gazing at the walls.
Wisting drew his chair even further forward. The young man facing him obviously did not understand the thrust of the question. ‘Why would the police arrest you?’
Dan Roger Brodin looked in consternation at his lawyer and the bundle of case documents in front of him. ‘I matched the description.’
Wisting nodded patiently. ‘Yes, but you didn’t know that then. So why did you run away if you hadn’t done anything wrong?’
‘I was out on parole, you see. I didn’t want to go back inside again.’
Wisting leafed through his papers. ‘You were released on probation on 22 December?’
Brodin nodded. The scab on his arm loosened and he wiped away a trickle of blood with the palm of his hand.
‘The conditions for release were that you should abstain from all intoxicating substances?’
Brodin nodded again. Wisting produced the blood test results establishing that traces of cannabis had been found, and that he had 1.79 per mille of alcohol in his bloodstream when apprehended.
Ordeal (William Wisting Series) Page 20
