He moved into the left lane when he entered the motorway and considered switching on his blue flashing lights. There was little traffic, so he decided against it. Instead he switched on the police radio and let it scan the channels to pick up any surveillance farther ahead.
When he drove over the bridge at Varoddbrua, just outside the city limits, he called Ivar Horne.
‘What a bloody circus!’ Horne said. ‘Everything’s been turned upside down here now. For fuck’s sake, you’ve shot down one of our most important surveillance operations in open court.’
‘Sorry. There was no other way of doing it.’
‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth? You could at least have told me.’
‘Any news on Goldheim?’
‘He’s on his way home, but he’s also received a message. He has his people in the courtroom, of course. His phone’s been melting.’
‘What have they been saying?’
‘He’s keeping a cool head. Says nothing to reveal the extent of his involvement, but claims he’s taken care of the problems.’
Wisting’s thoughts were racing. Goldheim had been in Stavern. Had he been there to take care of the problems?
‘Where is he now?’ he asked, watching the traffic travelling in the opposite direction.
‘He’s passed the turn-off for Kragerø. We’ll pick him up before he’s back in the city.’
Wisting pictured the tiny red dot on the tracking unit. If he had reached Kragerø, he would meet him in approximately forty-five minutes. ‘Will you keep me posted?’ he asked.
‘I’ll try but no promises,’ Horne said.
Wisting tried Line again. When she did not answer, he called Hammer. ‘Did it go okay?’
‘We took him by surprise,’ Hammer said. ‘He’s on his way to the remand centre. Torunn and I are searching his flat now. Are you coming here?’
‘No. You’ll have to assume responsibility. I’m on my way to the hospital.’
‘What’s up?’
Wisting felt his lips broaden into a smile. ‘I’m about to be a grandfather.’
79
Line was lying on her own in the labour suite. Sofie had driven her with Maja whimpering in the child seat. They had not bothered to drive home to Line’s house to collect a change of clothes or her toiletries and Line had gradually recounted what had happened. When they reached the hospital, Sofie did not want to go home, partly because she wanted to offer Line support, but also because she did not want to return to the house where someone had just broken in.
Line was whisked into an examination room where they monitored the baby’s heartbeat. A midwife had recorded the length and severity of her contractions and measured the cervical dilation as four centimetres. After that, Line had provided a urine sample before being handed a hospital gown and told to change.
Scared and alone, she did not know what the staff had done with her bag and belongings. The irritation she felt because her father had failed to answer was turning into anger, and behind that lay a terror she had never felt the like of before.
Another midwife came in and asked how she was. Line could not articulate anything other than that she was fine. Both she and the baby were in safe hands but, surrounded by strangers, she felt insecure.
‘Try to relax,’ the midwife said. ‘It’s going to be all right.’
An alarm sounded in the corridor and Line was alone again. Until now she had felt stronger after each contraction, always with fresh reserves of strength, but now the convulsions grew longer and more difficult, and the pain increased each time. She gripped the edge of the quilt and clenched her fists. Hope that it would all soon be over wrestled with longing for her father to arrive before she gave birth.
80
The road narrowed to a single lane. Wisting was the fifth vehicle behind a heavy goods lorry driving strictly at the speed limit. Lifting one hand from the steering wheel he moved it towards the switch that activated the blue lights. At that moment an Emergency Squad patrol car relayed a message on the police radio. It was calling the central switchboard with the faint sound of a police siren in the background.
One of the operators answered immediately.
‘I’m following a white Range Rover that has evaded the checkpoint,’ the Emergency Squad officer reported. ‘It is travelling south on route E18. Passing through the Sørlandsporten tunnel. Do you have any units that can assist?’
‘Wait.’
Several units responded on their own initiative, as normal when a car chase was announced on the radio. Wisting was the one in the best position. In about ten minutes he would meet Phillip Goldheim and the patrol on his tail. More than enough time to stop a lorry and arrange for a roadblock.
The switchboard operator issued orders. Wisting sat with his hand on the blue light switch, knowing he could not let himself be delayed.
The driver of the police car pursuing Goldheim reported their positions. Other units were being deployed. The distance between Wisting and their quarry rapidly decreased. His phone rang. It was Horne.
‘Car chasing Goldheim,’ was his short message.
‘I’ve picked that up. I’m going to meet them shortly.’
‘We tried to arrange a routine checkpoint to check what he had collected in Stavern. When we waved him in, he just accelerated past.’
‘Do you know anything more about what he was doing there?’
‘Just that he returned to the car with two jam-packed carrier bags.’
Wisting spotted flashing blue lights ahead. ‘Here they come,’ he said.
The vehicles in front of him swerved to one side. The white Range Rover pushed forward. As the vehicle in pursuit approached, he could also hear sirens. The Range Rover was now on the yellow mid-line. Wisting dropped his speed and moved out as air pressure from oncoming vehicles buffeted his car. He managed to see that Goldheim was alone and driving with a look of determination.
‘I need to hang up,’ Horne said.
The traffic resumed its normal flow, and Wisting followed. Announcements on the police radio came hard and fast with a number of units reporting in. It sounded as if a spike mat was being set up a few kilometres away.
Wisting listened intently as he continued northwards. The Emergency Squad leading the chase gave regular reports on Goldheim’s speed and the exit roads they passed. In the middle of a sentence he suddenly swore loudly.
‘He’s driven off the road!’ he told them, repeating the message. ‘We need an ambulance,’ he added, giving the position.
Wisting curled his hands round the wheel with no alternative but to remain a silent spectator to the unfolding drama.
The radio traffic changed into a rescue operation. From what Wisting understood, the car was resting on its roof beyond the verge and Phillip Goldheim was trapped inside. By the time Wisting passed the regional border between Aust-Agder and Telemark, the fire brigade had pulled him out of the wreckage. His condition was said to be critical but stable. The radio signal broke up.
81
Four times Wisting tried to call Line’s mobile, though he knew she would have called him if she could. He found a vacant parking space in front of the hospital, wasting time at the ticket machine. Not knowing how long he was going to be, he pushed all the coins he had into the slot. On his way back to the car with the ticket, his phone rang. It was Christine Thiis. ‘That was a bit of a performance, if we’re to believe the online court reports.’
‘That’s how it turned out,’ Wisting said, placing the parking ticket on the dashboard.
‘The Police Chief wants to speak to you. He’s on his way here now.’
‘He’ll have to wait,’ Wisting said, explaining where he was. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be.’ He wrapped the conversation, stretched his hand into the car, opened the glove compartment and left his phone.
It was the right hospital, but he had arrived too late. When he asked for Line at the labour suite, he was told that the birth was over and that he wa
s grandfather to a little girl. They showed him to the room where Line was resting. When he pushed open the door, she was lying asleep with the baby at her breast. He tiptoed inside, but the door sliding closed woke her. The baby lay on her chest with her tiny hands clenched just below her chin.
‘How are you?’ he asked.
Line smiled as she looked down at the new-born baby. ‘Fantastic.’
He leaned over and their foreheads met as he kissed her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry I got here too late.’
‘Sofie drove me here. Did you see her down in the cafeteria?’
Wisting shook his head. ‘I came straight here.’
His grand-daughter, who looked strong and sturdy, was wrapped in a woollen blanket. Line shifted to a more comfortable position, and the baby tried to lift her head. Trembling with the effort, she managed to move it slightly.
A midwife entered the room. ‘Everything okay here?’
Line replied in the affirmative and Wisting introduced himself as the grandfather.
‘Would you like to hold her?’ the midwife asked.
Wisting looked across at Line. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Maybe later.’
The midwife would not take no for an answer. She lifted the little bundle from the bed and laid it in his arms. He felt the soft down on her small head against his cheek and a warm, convivial silence descended on him. It was a long time since he had held a baby, but it felt completely natural.
The midwife went out and left them alone. Wisting ran his finger carefully over the wrinkled baby face. The skin was almost sticky, but dry and taut at the same time. Suddenly the eyelids opened and two big blue eyes blinked and stared at him with surprising trust.
‘Her name’s to be Ingrid,’ Line said, ‘after Mum.’
Wisting nodded his head as the tears ran down his cheeks. Line had once been a little baby just like this. He thought of all the years that had gone by. Everything that had happened while he had not been there for her. How fast she had grown, and now this, something her mother would not experience.
‘How did the court case go?’ Line asked.
Wisting returned the baby tenderly.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘It took time, but I managed to say what I wanted. Was lucky with the judge, who allowed it.’
The baby struggled a little, and Line helped her to settle. Only then did Wisting notice that she had a bandage round her lower right arm.
‘What happened?’ he asked, taking hold of her hand.
She did not answer, but struggled to hide the other arm underneath the quilt. Wisting took it out and saw that she had deep red marks and lacerations round her wrist.
‘I don’t know if I have the energy right now,’ she said, pressing the back of her head into the pillow.
‘How did you get these cuts?’
Line closed her eyes, holding back slightly before describing what had happened while she was looking after Maja.
82
Wisting was back in the car before his ticket expired. He fumbled for his mobile phone in the glove compartment, his mind in furious turmoil. His phone contained a lengthy list of unanswered calls. Ignoring them, he looked up Ivar Horne’s number. ‘How’s it going with Goldheim?’
‘He’ll survive,’ Horne said. ‘Serious injuries, but not bad enough to prevent him being locked in a prison cell. Though he’ll have to wear a different pair of shoes. The soles of the shoes he was wearing match the footprints in the potato cellar involved in your narcotics case.’
Wisting only just took in what he was saying. ‘The bags he collected from Stavern contained Frank Mandt’s personal archives.’
‘How did you know . . .’
‘Have you found them?’ Wisting interrupted.
‘Most of them. The car turned over several times. There were papers all over the place. We’re attending to this.’
‘I want them here. I’ll come and collect them tomorrow.’
‘That’s not up to me to decide, but one way or another we’ll have to coordinate the upcoming investigation. If nothing else, your murder case impinges on our narcotics enquiry.’
Wisting started the car and reported what he had learned from Line.
‘The gun and balaclava were found in the car,’ Horne said. ‘You’ll probably find his footprints in the Mandt house as well.’
‘I want it all here. Phillip Goldheim too.’
‘I’m not sure that’ll be so easy.’
‘I don’t give a damn about Ryttingen.’
‘I’ve already worked that out,’ Horne said. ‘But Julian Broch was arrested an hour ago. He came ashore from his father’s motorboat with twenty kilos of amphetamines from Denmark on board. He’s already started talking about Goldheim. We must try to engineer some cooperation here but, after what he’s done today, it’s not certain that either you or your police district are best placed to deal with the case against him.’
Wisting was forced to agree.
‘One thing’s certain,’ Horne said, ‘there’s no more Mister Nice Guy.’
83
Wisting assembled the investigators in the conference room. The events of the day had been numerous and there was a pressing need for a run-through. ‘What’s Gjessing saying?’ he asked Hammer, now returned from Kristiansand.
‘Wee only talked about the Hummel case,’ Hammer said. ‘He’s given a short, introductory explanation and denies everything.’
‘What about the fingerprints on the taxi?’ Mortensen asked.
‘He hasn’t been confronted with that, but has said of his own accord that before the murder he tried to hail a taxi from outside the city. He went inside, but had to get out again. He claims he already told this to the police.’
Wisting nodded. It tallied with what Einar Gjessing had said when they visited him in his penthouse apartment.
‘What else do we have on him?’ Torunn Borg asked. ‘Have we established a connection between him and Frank Mandt?’
‘Not yet,’ Wisting replied. ‘But there might be something in Mandt’s personal archives.’
‘There may be a chain reaction,’ Hammer said. ‘If he goes down for the New Year Murder, then he’ll go down in our case too.’
The conference room door opened. It was Police Chief Ivan Sundt, with Christine Thiis behind him. He scanned the small gathering and stopped when he came to Wisting. ‘I expected you to report to me as soon as you returned.’
‘Apologies,’ Wisting said. ‘We urgently needed to run through recent events.’
‘So do I,’ the Chief of Police said sternly.
‘Can we do it in ten minutes?’ Wisting asked.
‘We’ll do it now,’ the Police Chief said, taking a seat.
The other investigators rose from the table. Christine Thiis moved aside to let them out of the room.
‘You can stay,’ the Police Chief ordered, waving her in. She sat beside Wisting.
The Police Chief got right to the point. ‘What proof do you have?’
Wisting went through the case step by step. In the course of giving his account, he realised that what he had was more than enough to sow doubt on Dan Roger Brodin’s guilt. The case against him had ripped asunder like a sail in a severe gale. However, the road from that to a charge against Einar Gjessing was still long and hard.
The Police Chief agreed. ‘It’s not enough. It may be that you have lengthy experience as an investigator, but I’ve sat an equally long time as a judge. What you have isn’t even enough to hold him on remand. You’ve acted too hastily.’ He rose to his feet and turned to Christine Thiis. ‘You both defied my instructions about keeping out of the New Year Murder case, and haven’t achieved anything other than a major scandal.’
Wisting was not interested in entering into any discussion. The Police Chief made for the door, but stopped and looked at him. ‘If this is all you’ve got, you’ll have to let him go before the trial resumes in Kristiansand tomorrow morning.’
84
Just before eight o�
��clock that evening, Wisting was back visiting Line at the hospital. After his meeting with the Chief of Police, the hours at the police station had passed fruitlessly, hours that he had not been able to fill with much other than longing to hold little Ingrid again.
He had been to Line’s house and gathered up some clothes and toiletries, most of which had already been packed. Sofie and Maja had moved in while the crime scene technicians secured and collected traces left by Phillip Goldheim at their home.
Line had just finished feeding Ingrid when he arrived. Putting down her overnight bag, it sprang to Wisting’s mind that he should have brought something with him. Flowers, chocolate or a little teddy bear. He apologised and promised to bring gifts for them both the following day.
Line laughed and handed the baby to him. He sat with her in his arms, nudging her hand gingerly with his thick index finger. Her tiny fingers instinctively grabbed and, with a surprisingly strong grip, held tight.
‘How’s the case going?’ Line asked.
Wisting told her, quietly and calmly, as he studied the expressions on the baby’s face.
‘Do you have to let him go?’
Wisting smiled, aware that, strangely enough, the thought did not upset him. ‘Better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer,’ he reminded her, thinking of Dan Roger Brodin in prison on the top floor of police headquarters in Kristiansand.
‘Have you looked at what was in the safe?’
‘Not yet.’
‘He didn’t take everything, you know,’ she said, and went on to tell him about the cassettes tucked underneath a cushion on the settee. ‘Frank Mandt had a hidden microphone in the kitchen and recorded conversations round the table. There was a recording of them planning a robbery on an armoured security van. Maybe you can do a voice analysis or something to find out who’s speaking on it.’
Ordeal (William Wisting Series) Page 30
