The Katharina Code

by Jorn Lier Horst

  32

  Line looked down at the speedometer. She had a tendency to slow down when lost in her own thoughts, as she was now. The needle hovered on 90 kph. A large pickup truck that had pulled out and drawn up alongside accelerated and overtook her, even though she increased her speed.

  She had two interview appointments – one with Geir Inge Hansen at Porsgrunns Dagblad, and the other with police officer Kittil Nystrand, whose shift would start at four o’clock.

  Yet another vehicle passed her, even though she was observing the speed limit. She kept a steady pace until she turned off from the E18, heading for Porsgrunn. The newspaper offices were in Jernbanegata, and she found the address without using her satnav, a grey, dismal building opposite the railway station. All the guest parking bays were occupied, but Line found a vacant spot in the nearest side street where she could park for two hours free of charge.

  She was almost half an hour early and took out the recording gear to compose an introduction.

  ‘We’re on our way into the editorial offices of Porsgrunns Dagblad, or simply PD, as they say in these parts,’ she began, thinking it appropriate to use the pronoun we, even though Daniel was not with her. She and the listeners were we.

  ‘PD is a small local newspaper covering the Porsgrunn and Bamble area. It comes out five days a week and has a circulation of just over three thousand. Geir Inge Hansen has worked here as a journalist for more than forty years and has covered all sorts of stories, both major and minor. The story he has written most about is the one concerning Nadia Krogh.’

  She stopped the recorder and stowed it in her bag. She was delighted to have found Geir Inge Hansen, who had seemed enthusiastic when she spoke to him on the phone. The last time he had written about Nadia Krogh had been one year ago, on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the case. Hansen seemed pleased the local paper had already shown renewed interest in the topic, and was keen to know what had happened to make VG decide to run the story now. She had avoided telling him that a new investigation had been initiated. This news would be made public on Friday. Instead she had said something vague about an emphasis on the podcast.

  There were still twenty minutes until the appointment. She killed some of the waiting minutes by reading through the statements given to the police by Nadia’s boyfriend, Robert Gran. Adrian Stiller had arranged contact and she was to meet him on Saturday – she was on tenterhooks about what he might have to tell her. He had given three different statements to the police about what had happened on the night Nadia had gone missing, so it was not difficult to appreciate why suspicion had been directed at him. She would have to ask him questions both difficult and critical.

  At five to two she stepped from the car and strolled to the newspaper building, where a man stood at the entrance with a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Line had seen photographs of Geir Inge Hansen on the Internet and easily recognized him.

  The man at the front door had obviously undertaken similar research. He smiled at her and took one last drag of his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray.

  Line switched on the recorder again as she approached him. Her hand seemed small in his when they shook hands.

  ‘Welcome to PD,’ said the experienced journalist. ‘Let’s go up.’

  She followed him upstairs to the first floor and they passed through a kitchenette, where Geir Inge Hansen refilled his coffee mug. Line accepted a glass of water and continued after him into a cramped, stuffy office.

  Line sat down in the visitor’s chair while Geir Inge Hansen tidied the desk between them.

  ‘The Krogh kidnapping,’ he said, as if clarifying the topic for himself. ‘I’ve been a journalist for forty-two years, but I’ve never been interviewed before.’

  Line smiled. Journalists interviewing journalists usually added little news value to a story.

  ‘Do you remember when you first heard of the case?’ she asked.

  Geir Inge Hansen replied, ‘It wasn’t a kidnapping at that point, but a missing-persons case – of the kind that is pretty common: a teenager who hasn’t come home from a party. When the search was set in motion it became something of interest to us. People get inquisitive when they see the police, the Red Cross and volunteers out and about.’

  He cast a glance at the recorder, as if it prevented him from expressing some of the thoughts in his head.

  ‘The police got started early,’ he said, all the same. ‘Maybe it had something to do with it being Joachim Krogh who had raised the alarm, but probably also because it fairly quickly became clear she had not spent the night with her boyfriend or her best mate. Quite the opposite – she had left the party early. Something must have happened.’

  The old journalist paused again. ‘Of course, it was a dramatic development when her boyfriend was charged,’ he went on. ‘Firstly, for having given a false statement and later for murder. I’d never come across anything like it before. I remember the remand hearing. I’ve never seen so many press folk gathered in one place. Robert Gran was led in and seemed virtually unmoved by everything going on around him. He seemed so cold. Cynical. Stared straight ahead with those dark eyes of his.’

  A mobile phone rang. Geir Inge Hansen took it out of his pocket, checked the display and flicked it off.

  ‘Then the great turnaround came about,’ he continued. ‘Nearly a fortnight after the girl’s disappearance the police called a press conference. We thought it meant one of two things. Either the boyfriend had confessed, or they’d found the body. Or both. But that wasn’t it at all. The police chief opened the meeting by saying that over the past week the police had been in touch with people who claimed they had abducted Nadia Krogh and demanded a ransom for her release. No one had seen that coming. The room fell totally silent, as if after an explosion. And then the cameras began to click.’

  The journalist on the opposite side of the desk raised his coffee mug and took a loud slurp. ‘The rest of the story, you’re familiar with,’ he said. ‘Her boyfriend was released. Nadia was never found.’

  ‘What did people think about what had happened?’ she asked.

  ‘In my opinion, people didn’t know what to think,’ Geir Inge Hansen replied. ‘At first, of course, it created fear, that a young girl was missing. Then the arrest brought some kind of relief, but caused shock. When this business of the kidnapping became known, I think people were confused. Joachim Krogh, Nadia’s father, was a controversial figure. He still is. Lots of people thought it might have something to do with him. He was in the midst of a business reorganization and had just closed down the timber factory when it happened. Some folk thought the kidnapping could have been revenge by a former employee. Almost a hundred people were made redundant, workers who had been there all their lives, some for several generations. But if that were the case, the outcome was different from what was expected. The kidnapping had stirred people’s sympathy, and no one blamed Joachim Krogh for the industrial closure after what had happened to his daughter. On the contrary, politicians and trade unionists kept their heads down. However, there were some who claimed Joachim Krogh used the situation to his financial advantage. They speculated that the money demanded for Nadia was such small change in comparison to what he had made, but no one felt they could protest or oppose a grieving father.’

  Geir Inge Hansen went on to describe how he had covered the story. He had been there when the divers searched in Eidanger Fjord and when they dug up the forest looking for a body, after a clairvoyant claimed that Nadia had been killed and buried. People also became convinced that they had seen her alive in another town or country. The mystery had grown out of all proportion.

  By the end of the interview Line had quotes and ideas she could use and had identified people who could contribute.

  She reassured herself that the interview had been saved before switching off the recorder. Geir Inge Hansen got to his feet to accompany her out.

  ‘I still think it was the boyfriend,’ he said.

>   ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Call it a hunch,’ Geir Inge Hansen answered. ‘There’s something about that guy. Something not quite right.’

  ‘What about the ransom letters?’ Line quizzed him. ‘After all, they were sent while he was in custody.’

  ‘Anyone at all could have sent those letters,’ Geir Inge Hansen said.

  ‘Not anyone at all, surely?’ Line objected. ‘Not Robert Gran?’

  ‘But somebody who wanted to help him could easily have done it,’ the local journalist pointed out. ‘As soon as Robert Gran was freed, nothing more was heard from the kidnappers.’

  ‘A photograph was enclosed with the letters,’ Line interjected. ‘A picture of Nadia and her little brother that she had in her purse when she disappeared.’

  Geir Inge Hansen shrugged and smiled. ‘I expect you’re right,’ he said. ‘It can’t have been just anybody who sent those letters. It must have been an accomplice. Someone who knew what had happened to Nadia and where she was.’

  Line regretted having turned off the recorder, but this was probably why Geir Inge Hansen had dared to express his personal views on the case.

  He took out a cigarette, inserted it in the corner of his mouth and followed her downstairs.

  ‘Who would have wanted to help him, then?’ Line asked, once they were standing outside.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Geir Inge Hansen admitted as he lit his cigarette. ‘What I do know is that Robert still lives at home with his mother.’

  These last words rang in her ears as she headed back to her car.

  Now she had acquired a fresh perspective prior to her meeting with Nadia’s boyfriend.

  This thought evaporated as soon as she returned to her car. A yellow ticket on the front windscreen made her swear out loud. Yet another parking fine.

  This was her second in a week. She flopped down behind the wheel and tossed the yellow ticket on to the passenger seat, annoyed, discouraged and frustrated. Switching on the ignition, she stepped too hard on the accelerator and the tyres squealed as she reversed out of the parking bay.

  On her way to meet Kittil Nystrand, she phoned Thomas. He told her he and Amalie were having a good time. As of New Year, she would no longer be dependent on having someone look after Amalie whenever she was working, as she had been allocated a nursery place.

  She was early once again. Kittil Nystrand was due to start work at four and had arranged to meet her at half past. On the whole, the weather had been fine all day, but now the rain had started again.

  Line turned on the recorder while the engine idled and the windscreen wipers cleared away the water.

  ‘I’m at Olavsberget Camping in Porsgrunn,’ she said. ‘It’s out of season so the campsite is closed: there’s just a faint light in the shower block and in the dome above the yellow kiosk in front of the entrance. Twenty-six years ago, three million kroner was stashed in a bin bag behind this kiosk. We’ll find out more about this shortly, when we meet Police Sergeant Kittil Nystrand.’

  The patrol car arrived on the scene just as she finished speaking, almost ten minutes early. It drove alongside her and the window slid down.

  ‘Are you the person I’m due to meet?’ the driver asked. His gruff voice suited his appearance – short, bristly hair, prominent cheeks and a strong chin. ‘Will you come over to me?’ he asked.

  Thanking him, Line picked up her equipment and transferred to the police car. She had previously alerted him to the fact that she would be recording their conversation and that parts of it might be used in the podcast.

  Line embarked on her questions. ‘Tell us about your role in the case.’

  ‘I worked in the Drugs Squad at that point,’ the policeman began. ‘We were a separate group that undertook surveillance activities. One afternoon we were called into the section leader’s office. It was a Thursday. We were given a brief rundown of the situation. Nadia Krogh had been abducted by kidnappers and the family had received a ransom demand. The payment was to take place here, in a black bin bag hidden behind the kiosk. We were told to come out and move into position before Joachim Krogh turned up with the money.’

  ‘What was the actual plan?’ Line asked.

  ‘Joachim Krogh wanted to pay up for his daughter. Our job was to keep our eyes on the money. We were not to intervene in any way, just keep a lookout. Of course, the risk was that some nosy parker would come along and start rummaging through the bag.’

  A message was announced on his police radio. Kittil Nystrand turned down the volume.

  ‘The people who worked here didn’t have a clue about it,’ he went on. ‘We told the owner that we were conducting a surveillance operation in connection with a narcotics case. You see, the E18 went directly past here at that time so there was a great deal of traffic, and a lot of coming and going. The plan was to let them take the money and then follow them. We had reinforcements from Oslo and three surveillance groups altogether. Two on the ground for twelve-hour shifts, and one resting. Eighteen men, both in cars and on motorbikes. In addition, we had a plane standing by at Geiteryggen airport. I was sitting in a van camouflaged as a plumber’s vehicle, just about where we’re parked right now.’

  ‘And what happened?’ Line asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ the policeman said, with a sigh. ‘The problem really was that no particular time had been stipulated in the letter from the kidnappers. It simply stated where the money should be left. It was never collected, and there was no further communication from them. After that weekend we reduced the manpower, and towards the end of the week the entire operation was called off. We took the money and returned to base.’

  A lorry passed on the road and Line waited until the noise had died out. ‘Have you been involved in anything similar, before or since?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts about what was actually going on?’

  ‘Plenty,’ the policeman answered. ‘But none to provide any clue about what really happened.’

  33

  The tracker image had appeared on one of the screens in the CS room. The red dot showed Martin Haugen’s pickup at a standstill just outside Porsgrunn, only a few hundred metres after he had turned off the E18.

  Hammer replaced the map image with an aerial view. The vehicle was parked in an industrial area. The most obvious feature of the scene was an extensive sandpit. It was becoming overgrown again and in the aerial photograph it looked like a scar on the landscape.

  ‘He’s parked outside a retail unit,’ Hammer said, checking the address. ‘Monter Building Supplies. What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Nadia Krogh disappeared a few kilometres from there,’ Stiller reminded them, pointing at the screen. ‘They searched for her in that sandpit.’

  ‘Has there been any phone activity?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘No, but triangulation shows the phone is located in the same place as the pickup,’ Hammer told him.

  ‘We should have had him followed,’ Stiller said. ‘Then we could have watched what he’s doing.’

  ‘Maybe he’s buying a spade?’ Hammer suggested.

  At that split second, the red dot began to move. The three men in the room stood in silence, watching the vehicle continue towards Porsgrunn. It drove through the town centre and across the bridge to Vestsiden before taking the road heading west.

  ‘He’s going to his cabin,’ Wisting said.

  Hammer swung his chair round to face him. ‘Isn’t that suspicious?’ he asked. ‘After all, he hasn’t been there for ages, and now all of a sudden he leaves work early to take a trip out to his cabin.’

  Wisting refrained from answering and instead sat down on a vacant chair.

  The red dot progressed through Kilebygda and after ten minutes turned off from the main road and came to a halt.

  ‘The barrier,’ Wisting said.

  Hammer zoomed in on the aerial image, and they could see a narrow ribbon of track snaking through the forest. The red dot was now advancing more sl
owly, and it stopped after another ten minutes.

  ‘That’s the cabin,’ Wisting told them, indicating a building located beside an elongated lake. ‘The track doesn’t go all the way up to it. He has to walk the final stretch.’

  ‘Do you have the coordinates?’ Stiller asked.

  Hammer placed the cursor in the centre of the picture to trigger a read-out of the degrees of latitude and longitude.

  ‘I’ll ring the helicopter service,’ Stiller said, locating a saved number on his mobile phone. ‘We currently have electronic surveillance on a person of interest in connection with a homicide case,’ he explained on the phone. ‘Is it possible to obtain assistance in the form of a fly-past to find out what the suspect is doing?’

  The response sounded positive. Stiller provided the coordinates.

  ‘Could we have photographs?’ he asked, making a note of what was being said before rounding off the conversation.

  ‘Are they able to do it?’ Hammer enquired.

  ‘They were in the process of winding up an assignment in Agder,’ he explained. ‘Now they’re just going to refuel at Kjevik and attend to it on their way back to base. They’ll be above him in three quarters of an hour.’

  ‘And we’ll get live images?’

  Stiller tore a sheet of paper from his notepad and handed it to Hammer. ‘If you log in here,’ he said.

  Hammer opened a new window on the screen where they could stream a live video from the helicopter. All three sat staring at the blank screen.

  ‘I think he took both of them,’ Hammer said, digging a box of snuff from his pocket. ‘Nadia and Katharina. Two missing-persons cases with one common denominator – Martin Haugen.’

  Wisting had run through the same thoughts himself but had not arrived at the same conclusion. Martin Haugen had been in a different part of the country, eight hours away, when Katharina disappeared.

  They sat swapping thoughts and ideas, but he believed the theories underpinning any connection were fanciful and the alleged motives absurd.