Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  This time there were a number of voices, but once again none seemed to be that of Frank Mandt. The discussion was about cars and the need for other registration plates, about which road was safest, where they could change vehicles, and where the police were most likely to be posted.

  The men were talking about a robbery, discussing how the four robbers would make their escape. Line sat up straight, grabbed her bag and took out a notepad and ballpoint pen.

  ‘Konnerud is good,’ someone said. ‘Then we can split up. One can drive back and go towards Mjøndalen. The others can drive down to Vestfold.’

  Names were mentioned. Line jotted them down: Aron, Robin and someone simply called PG. She stopped the recording and spooled the tape back to the beginning, but thought she heard a noise. It came from the front of the house. She sat listening, heard nothing more, went out to the kitchen and peered out. Nobody there. She filled a glass with water and returned to the living room.

  Maja stood holding on to the bars of her playpen, watching Line as she sat down again and picked up the Dictaphone. There it was again. This time it seemed the noise came from inside the house, as if a floorboard had creaked in the hallway. Maja looked at the door with big eyes and open mouth.

  Line felt her blood run cold. It was probably only a noise from the old timbers, but the thought that there might be someone on the other side of the door was chilling.

  Footsteps.

  Maja looked at her and back at the door. Line grabbed the Dictaphone and the envelope full of cassettes and hid them behind a cushion on the settee, took hold of the armrest and hauled herself up. Before she could get to her feet the door opened. A man with a black balaclava over his head and a pistol in his hand entered the room.

  74

  The massive doors of the Justice Building slid closed behind him. His footsteps echoed off the walls. A monitor high on the wall indicated that the case against Dan Roger Brodin was being heard in Courtroom 5.

  Wisting took his bearings. The large hall with entrances into the various courtrooms was remarkably silent and deserted. There was nothing to suggest that one of the most talked-about court cases of the year was going on behind closed doors.

  Courtroom 5 was at the far end of the building. He walked through the hall as a judge in his robes descended the stairs from the first floor.

  His mobile phone signalled a text message from Espen Mortensen, who had been given the surveillance assignment: Have picked up the car. It is parked in front of Stavern Church. Observing. Horne has been informed.

  Wisting frowned. Stavern? What was he intending there? Did he have further contacts in the circle around Frank Mandt?

  An abstract painting hung on the wall facing him, resembling a tiny black boat on a huge blue ocean. An engraved sign credited the Vest-Agder branch of the Norwegian Bar Association with the gift.

  He examined it more closely. The picture had vast empty spaces and shapeless figures that invited different interpretations. It struck him that this was an advantage in art, but a problem in law. The greater the ambiguity, the more difficult it was to arrive at the right decision.

  The door to Courtroom 5 opened and the chief prosecution witness, Einar Gjessing, emerged. He gave Wisting a brief nod before strolling out of the Justice Building.

  Wisting was next. He paced to and fro across the floor as he waited for his name to be called.

  75

  The man pointed the gun at her. Line gulped down nothing but air, causing a pain in her chest that rapidly shifted to her stomach.

  ‘Just stand still,’ he said.

  Line was unable to utter a word. The threat was directed not only at her, but also at the child she was carrying. The fear of that life ending before it had begun was overwhelming and paralysed her completely. A feeling of compression grew in her abdomen. She put her hand under her stomach, felt a strange, clammy sensation spread to the small of her back, and hoped it was only because of the sudden fear.

  ‘Relax,’ the man said, taking a step forward. ‘I just want to collect something.’

  Line, struggling to breathe calmly, was totally still in the middle of the room with her right hand carefully holding her belly, trying to feel whether it was actually her womb contracting. As the thought occurred, violent pain coursed through her body.

  Not now, she thought.

  The pain eased. It was certainly not a normal labour contraction, she thought, trying to set her mind at rest. It could have been the accidental tightening of a muscle, a fear reaction, or Braxton Hicks. She took a deep breath and crossed to the playpen. Maja was holding the bars tightly and staring at the man in black. Tears were not far off.

  ‘Leave the child,’ he ordered, waving her away with the pistol. His consonants were soft, she registered, and took some time to stare back at the dark eyes behind the balaclava. He must be from the south coast.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Your grandfather’s papers. The ones he kept in the safe.’

  He thinks I’m Sofie, Line thought. ‘In the basement,’ was all she said.

  ‘You first,’ he commanded.

  Maja began to cry with an uncertain, hesitant whimpering. Line walked towards the door, her footsteps dwindling, as if each stride caused shockwaves through her body, inducing fresh contractions in her womb. The stairs creaked under her weight. Maja’s screams grew quieter as they descended into the basement.

  The man at her back pressed the pistol against her spine. ‘At the far end,’ Line said, moving carefully ahead. He pushed her all the way into the room and ordered her over to the wall.

  The door of the safe was open. ‘Is that all?’ he asked as he crouched down.

  Line considered whether she should tell him about the cassettes upstairs in the living room, but that would be the same as telling him she had listened to them. He had mentioned papers, and she took a chance that he actually was unfamiliar with the contents of the safe. ‘Yes,’ she assured him.

  The man pulled out a ring binder and leafed through it. Only now did she notice that he was wearing light rubber gloves. He nodded with satisfaction, replaced the folder and scanned the room. ‘Are you expecting visitors?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is anybody coming here today?’

  She did not know where that question was leading. ‘A friend . . .’ she answered, thinking of Sofie.

  ‘When will that be?’

  ‘In a few hours.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said, standing up again. ‘Come with me.’ He led her into the corridor, into what had been an exercise room. ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing at the wall bars.

  She did as he ordered.

  ‘Put your hands out!’

  She held out her hands in front of her as he pulled some plastic cable ties from his pocket and grabbed one of her arms.

  Line saw what was coming. ‘No!’ she protested, trying to wriggle free.

  The man put the weight of his body against her and pressed her to the wall, forcing one arm between two of the bars and out again under the one below.

  ‘No!’ she screamed again. ‘Please!’

  He brutally bound her hands together with the cable ties and tethered her tightly to the wall. The hard plastic chafed her wrists. She bit back a scream of pain and concentrated on breathing calmly. If it really had been a labour contraction, more would follow if she did not pull herself together.

  ‘Your friend will be here soon,’ he said, making for the door. ‘You’ll be free in a couple of hours.’ He stopped in the doorway. ‘And you’d better keep your mouth shut about this, both of you. You don’t want anything to happen to that squealing brat of yours.’

  He used the pistol to point at the ceiling where the playpen and Maja were situated on the floor above. ‘Understand?’

  Line nodded as he left the room, closing the door without a backward glance. Through Maja’s weeping, she listened as he emptied the safe in the adjacent room. She struggled to concentrate on her
breathing. By focusing on every single intake of breath, even and quiet, she tried to push everything else out of her mind. She closed her eyes.

  In the distance she heard footsteps on the stairs and the front door slam.

  76

  As the minutes passed Line’s hopes increased that the contraction might have not have been the start of labour, but no sooner had the thought relaxed her than she felt the pains again. Exactly the same, spreading to the small of her back and doubling in intensity.

  Maja was screaming continuously on the floor above. Line tried to do the same, filling her lungs and shouting loudly for help, knowing the sound could hardly penetrate the thick walls. Frank Mandt had tortured people in his own kitchen without their screams attracting attention.

  She struggled with the plastic ties that bound her to the wall bars, and tried to twist her hands free, but they were as hard as handcuffs. She would have to stay here until Sofie came home. How long? Two hours? Three?

  Her mobile phone rang from inside her handbag beside the settee and Maja’s sobbing abated, but as soon as it stopped she began to howl again. Line tried to tell herself that it was not dangerous. Maja was inside the playpen where nothing could harm her. She was scared and frightened, and would soon be hungry, but in the end would exhaust herself and fall asleep.

  Three contractions came rolling, rhythmic and regular, with only six or seven minutes in between. Equally long, equally severe. She sank to her knees, slightly lower each time, as if they robbed her of her strength, sinking until she was sitting with her head on her chest.

  Many of the pregnancy training classes and much of the preparation for childbirth had consisted of relaxation exercises. She practised calm and that eased her anxiety. Soon her breathing was regular and she noticed that her heart had slowed. If she could get this situation more under control the birth could take a more natural progress. A first-time birth normally lasted more than twelve hours.

  The cable ties rubbed at the skin around her wrists. She stood upright to lessen the searing pain, but her stomach contracted and became hard again. She breathed through her mouth in short, fast bursts, without filling her lungs properly and, when the contraction ebbed, changed to deeper breaths. At the same time she noticed the pressure in her belly diminish. She moved her hand between her legs. Amniotic fluid was pouring out of her and ran down the inside of her thighs.

  Her labour was in progress: the contractions from now on would be harder and more frequent.

  From the moment she knew that she was pregnant, she had read books and articles about labour to try and remove some of the fear, but she had not succeeded too well. She had thought that the birth was going to be a unique memory, to be remembered always. This was not how she wanted to remember it, but whatever was going to happen, would happen regardless. She was going to have her baby on the floor here, bound fast to the wall as she was.

  A fresh contraction started, more severe than the others. She used her breathing method to get through it, trying to count how long it lasted, but lost her thread. The following contractions came closer together, were deeper and washed over her in heavier waves. As the regular contractions came rolling, the pains in her back increased and it felt as if she had lost all feeling in her hands.

  She did not notice at first that the crying had stopped on the floor above. Maja must have fallen asleep. How long had she been standing here now? An hour? How long would it be till Sofie returned? At that moment the front door opened. If it wasn’t Sofie, it might be the man with the pistol come back for whatever was left. She took a chance. ‘Help!’ she shouted and filled her lungs again, ‘Help!’

  Footsteps on the stairs. ‘Line?’ Sofie called out.

  ‘Down here!’

  The door opened. Sofie took a step inside, but came to a sudden halt and stood staring.

  A fresh contraction took hold of Line. This time she let the pain come out in a yell. ‘Untie me!’ she pleaded, gritting her teeth.

  Sofie came forward, put her arms around her and held her upright. ‘Have you had many?’

  Line responded with a nod.

  ‘How long between?’

  ‘Four or five minutes. And they’re getting harder and harder. We don’t have much time.’

  77

  Wisting hovered outside the courtroom, waiting. One of the parties inside wanted to discuss practical details before they continued, such as the timetable for the next day or a change of sequence in the witnesses. Another message from Mortensen arrived on his phone. Goldheim was back in his car with two bulging carrier bags.

  He heard hurried footsteps behind him. Harald Ryttingen came trotting through the spacious hall to slip inside the courtroom. Immediately afterwards, the court official arrived and called out Wisting’s name.

  The room was full of spectators and press representatives. Ryttingen had taken a seat, seemingly relaxed and self-assured. The counsel for the victim sat on the other side of them with Elise Kittelsen’s parents. On the opposite side, the trainee defence lawyer, Olav Müller, sat with the accused, Dan Roger Brodin.

  The judge was in an elevated position, looking dignified, behind a raised table with his back to the wall. Associate judges sat to either side. One was an overweight man who seemed sleepy and uninterested, the other a younger woman with her hair gathered in a bun at the back of her neck.

  On his way to the witness box, Wisting’s mobile phone began to ring, provoking laughter among the spectators. He took it out and dismissed the call, noticing that it came from Line. He activated the silent function and placed it with his notepad on the little shelf inside the witness box. He gazed respectfully at the judge who seemed slightly annoyed, as if impatient and in a rush to be finished.

  ‘Your full name?’ he was asked. Wisting gave his name, date of birth, address and position.

  In front of him, the phone began to vibrate. The sound was caught by the microphone and relayed into the room. A text message shone on the display. On my way to the hospital. Think labour has started.

  His heart shot into his mouth. He had promised to be there for her, he was supposed to drive her to the hospital. He ran his tongue over his dry palate, his mind a whirl of concern and confusion. She was ‘on her way’ meant she had someone to drive her, probably Sofie. Or she was driving herself, which would be just like her. He could still make it.

  He was about to lift his mobile phone to answer, at least to write that he had received her message, but was stopped in his tracks by the judge. ‘Have you more important things to attend to than giving your statement to the court?’

  A number of people in the courtroom chortled, including Ryttingen. Wisting looked up at the judicial bench. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Then we’ll try again. Are you related to or connected in any way with the accused in this case?’

  Wisting cleared his throat. ‘No.’

  ‘Nor the deceased and her family?’

  ‘No.’

  The judge continued with the formalities, saying that Wisting had to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, without concealing anything. ‘I affirm,’ Wisting said, glancing across at Ryttingen.

  ‘Then you can take a seat, if you wish,’ the judge said.

  Wisting sat down. It was hot in the courtroom and he regretted not removing his jacket.

  Olav Müller embarked on his questioning. After a short introduction he rounded off by letting Wisting explain that he led the investigation into the murder of Jens Hummel. ‘Tell us about the murder weapon,’ he asked from his position at the bar.

  ‘It was a 7.5 millimetre Nagant revolver,’ Wisting said, ‘part of the estate left by Frank Mandt, who was resident in Stavern and died on 10 January this year.’ He added that Mandt had been a prominent figure in a criminal network.

  ‘How did the police get their hands on the gun?’

  ‘It was handed in for disposal on 24 July, after it had been found inside a safe that had been locked since Mandt’s death.’

  ‘What did you
do with it?’

  ‘Following the usual routine, it was send on to Kripos who conducted ballistic tests on it.’

  ‘What did they show?’

  ‘To put it succinctly, that the gun had been used to kill both Elise Kittelsen and Jens Hummel.’

  The Public Prosecutor cleared his throat, stood up and addressed himself to the judge. ‘As a matter of procedure, your Honour, we do not dispute that we are talking about the same murder weapon. So we have no need to spend time on this. The court has no interest in details that, strictly speaking, have no relevance to this case.’

  The judge nodded.

  ‘I think that the weapon links these two cases,’ Wisting said. ‘The risk of being a murder victim in Norway is not great. From a statistical point of view, you are most exposed in your local community, and there is usually a relationship between the victim and the perpetrator. Fewer than one murder in twenty takes place on the open street. It is therefore difficult to imagine that we are dealing with two cases in which unknown perpetrators have used the same murder weapon to kill two random victims. Besides, both murders happened within a short time frame.’

  He cast a glance at Ryttingen and saw that he was anxious to give counter arguments and plausible explanations of how the gun could have been used twice. Procedure would force him to wait.

  Müller went on: ‘In connection with your own investigation, you have also scrutinised the documents in the case against my client. What is your conclusion?’

  Wisting leaned closer to the microphone. ‘That we’re faced with the same perpetrator,’ he said.

  His statement stirred both the body of the room and the judicial bench. The drowsy associate judge sat up straight and pulled his chair closer.

  Müller left his words hanging in the air and waited until the mumbling had subsided before he asked, with mock astonishment, whether Wisting was aware that his client had been in custody when Jens Hummel had been shot.