‘Not easy to say. It looks as if he switched off his mobile phone. It wasn’t in use again until he returned to Kristiansand at eight o’clock that night. We didn’t have the box on then, or we could have followed him really precisely.’
‘The box?’
Wisting let Ivar Horne explain. The box was a term undercover detectives used for electronic surveillance of a vehicle. It stemmed from the time when the tracking unit was a large and heavy box that had to be attached to the car with strong magnets. The equipment was costly and had limited battery capacity, and it was a challenge to place it without it being discovered. Nowadays the equipment used was the size of a thumbnail, required little power and had pinpoint accuracy when giving location information.
Horne brought up a map program to demonstrate. A red dot stood still on an address in Andøya, less than a mile from the centre.
‘He’s at home.’
‘What sort of car does he drive?’ Wisting asked.
‘A Range Rover.’
‘Then they weren’t using his car. They disappeared in some kind of Japanese car.’
Christine Thiis addressed herself to Wisting. ‘We have some footprints from the floor in the potato cellar, don’t we?’
Wisting nodded.
‘Is that investigation material we can have access to?’ Horne asked.
‘Of course. We have a man in custody who refuses to talk to us. You might want to run his name through your system: Aron Heisel.’
Horne keyed the name into the search field in the locked project database. ‘He’s here.’
It was an intelligence note from October the previous year. The subject was Phillip Goldheim – contact in Spain.
Wisting leaned forward in front of the screen. The actual note was not more than a few lines: Source says that Phillip Goldheim has returned to Norway after a weekend trip to Marbella. He has had a meeting with a Norwegian who has been living there for a number of years – Aron Heisel. The purpose of the meeting is unknown. Heisel was previously convicted of smuggling spirits.
The information was classified as having a high degree of reliability, indicating that the informant was tried and tested and was trusted, because accurate information had been provided before.
‘Where did the information come from?’ Wisting asked. ‘Whoever told you might know more about our case.’
Ivar Horne clicked on the tab for more information on the source. What came up was a standard text about the source being contactable via the person who had entered the information.
‘It’s Robert Hansson,’ Horne said. ‘He worked here in the department. Then it might be the main source we had, the one who broke off contact. It was Robert who was the handler.’
‘Where is Robert Hansson now?’
‘In Haiti,’ Horne replied. ‘Some UN project for the police there.’
‘Can you get hold of him?’
‘I can send him an email.’
At that moment, a signal arrived on the computer screen with the surveillance map. The red dot marking Phillip Goldheim’s car was blinking. At the same time, the police radio on the table crackled into life.
‘Object is moving.’
‘Received,’ was the answer given.
Ivar Horne snatched up the radio and got to his feet. ‘We’re intending to hang on to him tonight. Do you want to tag along?’
61
Wisting joined Ivar Horne in the anonymous surveillance vehicle while Christine Thiis returned to the hotel. He wanted to see Phillip Goldheim for himself and to check if he could recognise him from the chase through the field at Huken. The undercover detectives reported that Goldheim was heading into the city, but had stopped at a petrol station.
Horne fiddled with an iPad while he drove and a map appeared on the screen. He scanned it quickly and handed it to Wisting. ‘The goods you impounded in the potato cellar match with our information. Goldheim has suffered a substantial loss and needs to make a few moves to cover that. Whoever he’s going to meet tonight could prove very interesting.’
Wisting agreed. Electronic surveillance was effective and economical, but the undercover detectives were still dependent on a presence out in the field.
‘Any contact?’ Horne enquired through the police radio.
‘Negative,’ was the answer. ‘He’s eating a burger.’
‘It’s not going to take place there,’ Wisting said. ‘Not in front of CCTV cameras at the petrol station.’
‘You’re right. We can pick him up here if he drives towards the city.’
He turned off, drove under a motorway bridge and stopped at a layby beside the main road.
Wisting checked the screen. The red dot was still at rest beside route 456 at a place called Auglandsbukta. A green dot marked their own location, and three blue dots showed the other units.
‘How do you envisage the connection between your case and our man?’ Horne asked as he reversed the car behind a boat on a trailer.
‘The common denominator is Frank Mandt, everything revolves around him. The murder weapon in both cases was locked in his safe when he died, and the taxi belonging to our murder victim was found on a smallholding on which he had a long lease. Aron Heisel lived on that same smallholding, and Heisel is linked to the consignment of amphetamines in the potato cellar. Goldheim visited Heisel in Spain last October, and he sent flowers to Mandt’s funeral.’
Horne switched off the ignition and wound down the window. A soft breeze swept the salty tang of the sea across the land. Above them the traffic thundered past on the motorway. ‘Mandt and Goldheim,’ he said, as if tasting the combination. ‘Were they working together or competing against each other?’
‘They could have done both. In the trade they operate in, people enter into cooperation and coalition if it’s beneficial financially.’
‘Movement now,’ one of the detectives reported. ‘Going on towards the city.’
Wisting glanced at the screen on his lap. The red dot was flashing and moving, with a blue dot a few hundred metres behind. Ivar Horne grabbed the microphone: ‘Kilo 4-2, are you in front?’
‘Picking him up at the roundabout at Vågbygd Centre,’ the unit responded.
‘Keep your distance,’ Horne warned. ‘We have him on the map.’
Wisting watched as the red dot moved north on the main road, turning off after less than a kilometre.
‘It’s going towards Slettheia,’ the detective in the nearest car reported. ‘Do we have somebody who can meet him?’
Horne directed a car as the red dot continued into a housing estate. ‘Løvsangerveien,’ Wisting read. ‘Does he have any contacts there?’
‘He’s probably testing to see if there’s anyone following.’ Horne took back the iPad. ‘Keep your distance,’ he warned again over the radio. ‘He’s driving back and forth through the residential streets.’
‘Kilo 4-2 has lost him!’
Ivar Horne reported positions as the red dot moved along the streets. Eventually it ended up at the far end of a cul-de-sac and came to a halt. ‘Stopped at the far end of Rødvingeveien,’ he said.
‘What do you want us to do?’ one of the detectives asked.
‘Kilo 4-1, drive along Gransangerveien and see if you can observe the object from above.’
‘Received.’
A blue dot slid on to the map from the west and followed the road parallel to the cul-de-sac where Phillip Goldheim had parked. Just before the car was in position, the red dot flashed again.
‘He’s moving,’ Horne said, and went on to issue instructions to the other units.
Goldheim drove past the Hennig-Olsen ice cream factory, the nickel works, underneath the motorway where he circumnavigated a roundabout several times before driving back, and on to the main road leading to the city.
‘He wouldn’t be behaving like this if he wasn’t on his way to an important meeting,’ Horne said. ‘He wants to be absolutely sure that nobody’s following him.’
‘Now he�
�s heading for us,’ Wisting said, pointing at the screen. The red dot had increased speed and was moving on to the motorway.
Horne started the car. After only a few hundred metres Goldheim left the motorway and crossed underneath. ‘Here he comes,’ Horne said, as a white Range Rover swept past, so rapidly that Wisting did not manage to catch sight of the driver.
‘We’ll follow him,’ Horne said, giving the other units instructions about how to position themselves.
They let the car reach so far ahead of them that they became dependent on the GPS unit. The journey went down Vestre Strandgata, turning left along Dronningens gate. The red dot continued past the location where Elise Kittelsen had been shot and killed. When it stopped at an intersection, probably waiting for a green light, they drew closer and when the dot began to blink again they were only four car lengths behind.
Goldheim continued straight ahead, using the Lundsbrua Bridge to cross the River Otra, and then turned right.
‘I was here earlier today,’ Wisting said, recognising the grocery shop where he and Christine Thiis had eaten their hotdogs. ‘We were here talking to one of the witnesses in the New Year Murder case. He lives in one of the penthouse flats down beside the river.’
‘Høivold Quay,’ Horne said, pulling further back. ‘Expensive neighbourhood.’
They drove through a residential area with old timber houses where the branches of ancient fruit trees hung over white picket fences. The red dot turned towards the modern apartment block on the riverbank. Ivar Horne snatched the police radio. ‘Driving down to Høivold Quay. We’re dropping him.’
They drove past the turn-off Goldheim had taken and swung the car on to the pavement. The red dot on the map stopped at the water’s edge. ‘There’s a pair of binoculars in the glove compartment,’ Horne said. ‘Jump out and see if you can watch him while I turn the car.’
Wisting took the binoculars and stood behind a tree to survey the road below.
Phillip Goldheim was already out of his car and walking along the quayside. Tall buildings blocked Wisting’s view and he had to change position to follow him. When he raised the binoculars again, Goldheim was gone. Wisting moved the lens to and fro. Expensive boats were lined up in rows, a man was out walking a shaggy dog, a flock of gulls were fighting noisily over the refuse strewn round a rubbish bin. Goldheim could not have managed to enter one of the buildings, but he could have got into another vehicle.
Wisting lowered the binoculars. An open motorboat slipped away from the quayside. He put the binoculars to his eyes again as Goldheim sat down in the stern. A younger man was standing at the tiller.
Ivar Horne strode up behind him. ‘Can you see him?’
Wisting handed him the binoculars. ‘In that boat there,’ he said, pointing.
Horne stood open-mouthed as he studied what he saw through the lens. Then he spoke again on the police radio: ‘Object on board a day cruiser, on its way along the Otra. Do we have a telephoto lens that can capture it?’
‘Kilo 4-1.’
They watched the boat as it disappeared out of the mouth of the river. The sun had set behind the hills east of the city, and a warm, velvety-soft dusk enveloped them.
‘Did you recognise the man at the tiller?’ Wisting asked.
Horne lowered the binoculars and shook his head. ‘No, but it’s a bit too late at night to set out on a jaunt.’
‘What are they up to?’
‘They want to discuss something,’ Horne said, looking out at the shimmering sea, ‘where no one can hear them.’
The police radio crackled. ‘Got some photographs,’ Kilo 4-1 reported. ‘Reg. no. looks like KAR247. We’re checking the small boat register.’
Horne smiled and waved Wisting back to the car with him. Once they had settled inside, the radio crackled again: ‘Registered to a Gerhard Broch of Prestvikveien.’
Horne shrugged to indicate that the name meant nothing to him.
‘The man at the tiller must have been in his twenties,’ Wisting said.
Horne lifted the police radio: ‘Age?’
The answer came quickly: ‘Fifty-one.’
‘Check family members.’
A woman on an electric bicycle passed as they waited for an answer.
‘One son,’ the voice on the radio said. ‘Julian Broch.’
Wisting felt a muscle pulsate on his temple. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered through tight lips.
‘Do you know who it is?’ Ivar Horne asked.
‘The New Year Murder,’ Wisting replied. ‘Julian Broch was Elise Kittelsen’s boyfriend.’
62
It was past midnight when Wisting let himself into his hotel room. Spacious, it had a carpet on the floor and a small balcony overlooking the street. He kicked off his shoes and sat on the bed with too many thoughts whirling in his head to sleep. He had the uneasy feeling that they were closing in on something and would not be able to rest until he had marshalled all his impressions. He lay down and closed his eyes.
This case was different from any other he had encountered. To come close to a resolution, he would first have to break a case that was already regarded as solved. Wisting felt convinced that Harald Ryttingen and his team had gone in the wrong direction. Concentrating on making the case against Dan Roger Brodin, they stood on the threshold of a miscarriage of justice. Wisting’s objections were serious, but not serious enough to halt the court case. The climbdown would be too great for that. The court would convene on Monday morning and, if he were unable to point to another perpetrator, an innocent man would stand in the dock.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. A fly took off from the air vent, buzzed lazily around the room and landed on the curtain. They had come across a great deal of new information in the course of the day, but the cogs did not properly engage. Who was the perpetrator if Brodin was innocent?
All his experience told him that the motive for a murder was often found close to the victim. There was usually a relationship with the killer, but in the New Year Murder case there had been no need to investigate Elise Kittelsen’s circle, since the perpetrator had been arrested only fourteen minutes later.
If you were to start looking, then Julian Broch would be the person of maximum interest. His alibi had not been verified. No one had checked whether he had been at the party the entire time. It had been their intention to visit him the following morning, but now that he had turned up in surveillance they would need to wait to avoid disturbing the current operation.
As the fly flew from the curtain and buzzed away, Wisting struggled to recall whether he had read anything that could be interpreted as a conflict in Elise Kittelsen’s life. There was something. He stood up and took out his copy of the documents.
One of Elise’s girlfriends had mentioned that Julian Broch was jealous. Wisting spent almost ten minutes hunting for the right paragraph. Guro Fjellborg had known Elise Kittelsen since nursery. They had gone through primary and secondary school together and now both intended to become teachers.
Elise met Julian Broch at Hovden during the winter holiday, he read. They became an item, but it was a bit of an on-off relationship. Julian was jealous, and Elise had to put a pin code on her mobile phone so that Julian couldn’t read her messages.
Why was it important that her boyfriend did not read her messages? Did he have reason to be jealous? Was there something on the phone that it was important for her to keep hidden? He glanced up from the papers. And why did the killer take her phone?
The questions began to multiply, as he jotted down the name of her childhood friend. There was another possibility. Did Jens Hummel have something to do with the murder?
He crossed to the desk and took a bag of peanuts from a dish. Somewhere in the building a child was crying bitter and broken-hearted sobs. He poured some nuts into his hand and tossed them into his mouth. The child seemed inconsolable. The sobbing rose and fell, ending in a long wail, before starting again. Left alone in a hotel room while the parents w
ere down in the bar? Wakened and scared?
He chewed another fistful of peanuts and counted the days until Line was due to give birth. Seventeen. Ingrid had gone eleven days over her due date when she produced Line and her brother. He had sat in the corridor and gone in when it was all over. He wondered whether Line had in mind that he should stay with her through the entire labour, or whether he could wait outside this time too.
He was in no doubt that Line would be a good mother, but it would be demanding, being alone with the responsibility.
One thing many murderers had in common was that something had gone wrong in their upbringing, lack of intimacy, love, warmth and commitment had done something to them. They carried painful stories they had never dared to share, or that others had not seen or plucked up the courage to see. Stories of disappointment and damage and broken relationships. Prisons were full of young men whose childhood needs had been badly met or not met at all. Men who had grown up without fathers, as Dan Roger Brodin had done, and as his own grandchild was going to do.
He gazed at the door, wondering whether he should listen for the source of the screams, when it dawned on him that he would have to adopt some kind of paternal role and give his grandchild the necessary security.
Someone knocked on a wall and somehow silenced the crying.
He sat at the desk, pushed aside the folder of hotel information and put down the ring binder he had brought with him. Neither he nor Christine Thiis had leafed through this one. It contained background material and information from the investigators’ special reports, and documents that had no direct relevance to the enquiry. There were staff lists, reimbursement requests, time sheets and copies of press releases. Of all the documents he had regarded these as being of least interest and now only perused them through a sense of duty.
Around the middle of the folder he came across an email attachment that had been sent to the police from Elise Kittelson’s phone company, about the tracing of her stolen mobile phone. The printout was an overview of who she had been in contact with on the date of her murder. It supported the police report and, strictly speaking, ought to have been included as a separate case document.
Ordeal (William Wisting Series) Page 24
