The Katharina Code

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘I just wanted to see whether he’d been home and found the note. But it was good fortune that you came, to prevent me from going any further forward. I had no idea about the cameras he had installed.’

  ‘But we sent it for analysis,’ Wisting went on, holding up the note again.

  Stiller shook his head. ‘It was never documented,’ he said. ‘I never submitted it. It was only meant to keep him on his toes.’

  Wisting was unsure whether it was the method itself or having been kept out of the loop that he disliked.

  ‘I’ve listened to the entire conversation between you and Haugen,’ Stiller went on. ‘I’m having it transcribed, but it contains everything the public prosecutor needs to close the case.’

  Wisting responded with a nod.

  ‘There’s just one thing I was wondering,’ Stiller continued, shutting the flaps on the cardboard box. ‘It’s really a side issue, but that wrapped gift you said her grandmother had brought home from Paris for Nadia. Can we find out what was in it now?’

  Wisting smiled. He knew what Stiller was after. There was no present from Paris. It had been a story Wisting had manufactured in an attempt to prick Martin’s conscience, to give him a prod in the direction of a confession.

  ‘Words or actions,’ Stiller added, lifting the cardboard box from the desk. ‘It’s really just a matter of striving to reach a goal.’

  Wisting looked at the sheet of paper in his hand and folded it in two. ‘Where are you going now?’ he asked. ‘Do you have a new case?’

  ‘I’m off to Bergen,’ Stiller replied. ‘Someone in prison over there wants to tell me how he buried a body seventeen years ago.’

  Wisting stepped aside as Stiller moved towards the door.

  ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Any new, major cases?’

  Wisting shook his head. For the first time in ages his desk was completely bare.

  1

  Three minutes to ten on the morning of Monday 18 August.

  William Wisting was shown into the vast office, which was different from how he had imagined it. In his mind’s eye, he had pictured imposing furnishings of leather and mahogany, but the room was furnished in a simple, practical style. A desk stacked high with documents dominated the space. The armrests on the chair behind it were worn, and family photographs of varying sizes, all in different frames, surrounded the computer.

  The woman who had greeted him in the outer office followed him in and set out cups, glasses, a water jug and a coffee pot on a table beside a small seating area.

  Wisting gazed out of the window as he waited for her to finish. The sun was already high in the sky and Karl Johans gate was filling up rapidly.

  Clutching the empty tray to her chest, the secretary nodded, smiled, and left the room.

  Less than two hours had passed since he had received the request to come here. He had never met the Director General of Public Prosecution before. Although he had once heard him give a presentation on quality in investigative work at a seminar, he had never spoken to him or been introduced.

  Johan Olav Lyngh was a big man, grey-haired and with a square jaw. The wrinkles and ice-blue eyes gave the impression of obduracy.

  ‘Let’s sit down,’ he said, gesturing with his hand.

  Wisting took a seat on the settee next to the wall.

  ‘Coffee?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  The Director General poured. His hand trembled a little, not a sign of apprehension or disquiet, but a consequence of his advanced age. Johan Olav Lyngh was ten years older than Wisting and had held office as the highest-ranking prosecutor for twenty-one years. At a time when all the familiar structures in the police force were in a state of flux, it felt as if Lyngh represented something safe and enduring – he was someone who refused to change course, despite advice from consultants keen to run public sector operations in accordance with business sector principles.

  ‘Thanks for making yourself available,’ he said, ‘at such short notice.’

  Wisting nodded as he lifted his coffee cup. He knew nothing about why he was here, but appreciated that the impending conversation would contain extremely sensitive information.

  The Director General filled a glass with water and took a gulp, as if he needed to clear his throat.

  ‘Bernhard Clausen died at the weekend,’ he began.

  Wisting felt a knot of anxiety and foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Bernhard Clausen was a retired politician, a former member of parliament for the Labour Party who had held ministerial posts in a number of governments. He spent lengthy periods of the summer months in Stavern. On Friday he had been taken ill in a restaurant near the harbour. He had been transported to hospital by ambulance, but on Saturday the Party office had announced his death at the age of sixty-eight.

  ‘It was reported that he’d had a heart attack,’ Wisting commented. ‘Is there reason to believe otherwise?’

  The Director General moved his head from side to side.

  ‘He suffered another heart attack at the hospital,’ he explained. ‘There will be a post-mortem later today, but there’s nothing to suggest anything other than death from natural causes.’

  Wisting remained seated with the coffee cup in his hand while he waited for Lyngh to continue.

  ‘The Party Secretary contacted me last night,’ the Director General went on. ‘He was at the hospital when Clausen died.’

  Lyngh was referring to Walter Krom, employed as head of Party organization.

  ‘After the death of Clausen’s son, there was no close family left. Krom was listed as next of kin. He took charge of the belongings Clausen had with him when he was taken to hospital, including the key to his summer cottage in Stavern.’

  Wisting knew where the cottage was situated. When Clausen was foreign minister, security measures for it had been included in police planning commitments. It was located at the edge of the cluster of cottages near Hummerbakken, and strictly speaking was closer to Helgeroa than Stavern.

  ‘He took a trip down to the cottage yesterday, mainly to check that the windows were closed and the doors locked, but also with the idea that some sensitive Party documents might be lying about in there. Even though he was retired, Clausen was a member of an advisory group involved with the Party leadership.’

  Wisting edged further forwards in his seat.

  ‘What did he find?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a fairly old cottage, on the large side,’ the Director General added, as if he needed time to come to the point. ‘His father-in-law built it in the 1950s, and when Clausen joined the family, he helped to construct an extension. He originally worked as a structural carpenter and iron-fitter, you know, before he went into politics full time.’

  Wisting nodded. Bernhard Clausen belonged to the old guard of the Party and was one of the few central figures in the Labour Party with a background as an industrial worker. Trade union activity was what had sparked his interest in politics.

  ‘The cottage was extended with a view to accommodating a large family, children and grandchildren. Six bedrooms in total.’

  The Director General smoothed out a crease on his grey suit trousers.

  ‘One of the rooms was locked,’ he continued. ‘Krom let himself in. It was one of the smallest rooms, with only one set of bunk beds. Cardboard boxes were stacked up on the beds, I don’t know how many. Walter Krom examined them and found that they were filled with money. Banknotes.’

  Wisting sat bolt upright. Throughout this conversation his thoughts had strayed in many directions, but he had not expected this.

  ‘Cardboard boxes full of cash?’ he repeated. ‘What are we talking about here? How much?’

  ‘Foreign currency,’ the Director General explained. ‘Euros and dollars. Approximately five million of each.’

  Wisting’s mouth dropped open, but he had to search for words.

  ‘Ten million kroner?’

  The Director General shook his head.

  ‘Five mi
llion euros and five million dollars,’ he corrected him.

  Wisting struggled to calculate the total sum. It had to be in the region of around eighty million kroner.

  ‘Where did it come from?’ he asked.

  The Director General spread his arms and took on an expression that suggested this was a mystery.

  ‘That’s why I asked you to meet me,’ he answered. ‘I want you to find that out.’

  The room fell silent. Wisting let his eyes wander to the window and settle on Oslo Cathedral in the distance.

  ‘You know the area well,’ the Director General added. ‘The cottage lies within your police district, and what’s more, you’re certainly cut out for it. This has to be a confidential investigation. It’s a really high-profile case. Bernhard Clausen served four years as Norway’s foreign minister and has been a major player in our Defence Committee. National interests may well be in jeopardy.’

  Wisting considered what this meant. Final decisions on questions affecting Norway’s relationship with foreign powers had been in Clausen’s hands.

  ‘I’ve asked your chief of police to release you from all other duties, without telling him what you are to work on,’ the Director General said as he got to his feet. ‘You will have full access to resources, both economic and professional. The laboratories at Kripos will give your inquiries top priority.’

  He crossed to the desk and picked up a large envelope. ‘Where’s the money now?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘Still at the cottage,’ the Director General replied, handing him the envelope.

  Wisting could feel that the contents included a bunch of keys.

  ‘I want you to form a small group of well-qualified personnel to deal with this,’ the Director General told him. ‘Krom has informed Georg Himle. He was prime minister when Clausen was in government. Apart from that, no one knows about this. That’s how it has to stay.’

  Wisting stood up, realizing that the meeting was nearing an end.

  ‘The cottage is equipped with an alarm from the time when Clausen was a member of government. A new code has been generated, both for the cottage and his house. You have it there,’ the Director General explained, pointing at the envelope. ‘I suggest the first thing you do is take care of the money.’

  2

  Outside the colossal building in the city centre, the late-summer heat hit him full force. Wisting took a deep breath, crossed Karl Johans gate and headed straight for the multi-storey car park where he had left his car. Before he drove off, he poured the contents of the envelope out on to the passenger seat beside him.

  The new code for the alarm was 1705. In addition to the bunch of keys, the envelope contained a black leather wallet, a gold watch, a mobile phone and a few loose coins, Bernhard Clausen’s personal effects from the hospital.

  The phone was an older model, solid, functional and with considerable battery capacity. There was still some power left in it. The display showed two missed calls, but did not say from whom.

  He laid it aside and glanced at the wallet, scratched, shabby and slightly bent out of shape. Opening it, he found four different credit cards as well as a driving licence, insurance certificate, loyalty cards from various hotel chains and a Labour Party membership card. In the notes section there were 700 kroner, several receipts and a business card from an Aftenposten journalist. Behind a transparent plastic pocket he found a number of photos of Clausen’s deceased wife and son.

  Lisa Clausen had died while her husband was minister of health. It must have been at least fifteen years ago, but Wisting remembered the media storm her death had kicked up. She worked at LO, the Norwegian Confederation of Trade Unions, and was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer. An expensive, experimental treatment, not recognized by the Norwegian health authorities, was available elsewhere. As health minister, Bernhard Clausen was indirectly the highest-ranking person responsible for the fact that his wife did not receive a life-extending medication.

  She was several years younger than her husband, and their son must have been in his mid-twenties at the time. He was killed in a road traffic accident one year later. Two tragedies had struck Bernhard Clausen within a short period of time. He had withdrawn from politics and public life for a period before returning as foreign minister.

  Wisting replaced the phone, keys and wallet in the envelope and examined the gold watch. The strap was also gold, or gold-plated at least. The face was emblazoned with the Labour Party’s red logo.

  He let the second hand rotate all the way round as he gathered his thoughts before returning the watch to the envelope and starting the car.

  The first person he needed to get on board was Espen Mortensen. An experienced crime scene technician, he was a practitioner who knew his profession well, but was also energetic and versatile. In addition he was loyal, someone he could rely on not to talk to others. Wisting had bumped into him early that morning in the police station corridor and knew he was now back in harness after three weeks’ holiday.

  As he followed the signs for the E18 motorway from the city centre, he dialled his number.

  Mortensen sounded busy when he answered.

  ‘Have you managed to find your bearings again after your holiday?’ Wisting asked him.

  ‘Not entirely,’ Mortensen replied. ‘There was a lot waiting for me here.’

  ‘You’ll have to leave it all on ice,’ Wisting said. ‘I need you for a special project.’

  ‘Oh, what would that be?’

  ‘I’ll be back in Larvik in an hour and a half,’ Wisting said, casting a glance at the dashboard clock. ‘Bring your crime scene equipment and meet me at the car park beside Stavern Sports Hall, and we can drive together from there.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mortensen asked.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ Wisting said. ‘But don’t mention this to anyone.’

  ‘What about Hammer?’

  Nils Hammer was second-in-command in the criminal investigation department and deputized for Wisting in his absence.

  ‘I’ll have a word with Hammer,’ Wisting told him.

  He wrapped up the conversation and found Hammer’s number.

  ‘I’ve been given an assignment that will involve being away for a while,’ he explained. ‘You’ll be in charge of the department in the meantime.’

  ‘What kind of assignment?’ Hammer asked.

  ‘A high-level project.’

  Hammer knew better than to ask any further questions.

  ‘How long will it take?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Wisting answered. ‘I’m taking Mortensen with me for the preliminary stages. You won’t be able to call on him for the next week or so.’

  He knew this would place Hammer in a difficult position. Resources were already scarce.

  ‘OK,’ Hammer replied. ‘Anything else I should know?’

  Wisting had full confidence in Hammer. Whatever he told him would not go any further, but there was no reason to inform him. They were not faced with any direct threat or immediate danger that might necessitate a sudden request for assistance.

  ‘I don’t know too much myself,’ he admitted.

  ‘OK,’ Hammer repeated. ‘I’m here if you need anything else.’

  The car radio reconnected when he ended the phone conversation and Wisting switched it off. All that could be heard now was the engine noise and the regular rhythm of the wheels on the asphalt. Thoughts about the origins of the cash were already taking shape in his mind.

  Bernhard Clausen was a Party veteran with a long political career and countless power struggles behind him. He had always been sympathetically inclined towards the USA. During the war in Iraq he had been preoccupied by ensuring that Norway would support the USA’s planned attack. This had led to disagreements in government, and he had suffered a setback when it was decided that Norway should not participate in the actual war of aggression, but instead send military support to ensure stability during the aftermath. Later, as the chair of the Parliamentary Defence
Committee, he was centrally placed when a Swedish contract was rejected and instead a contract was agreed regarding the purchase of American-produced fighter planes for the Norwegian Armed Forces. The contract was worth more than forty billion kroner.

  Wisting’s hands curled around the steering wheel. Money was usually the root of everything that smelled of greed, corruption and abuse of power. This promised to be an investigation on a totally different level from what he was used to, but he had the ideal starting point. The money. Money always left traces behind: it was simply a matter of following them back to the source.

  THE BEGINNING

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  MICHAEL JOSEPH

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  Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com

  Originally published in Norway as Katharina-koden, 2017

  First published in the UK by Michael Joseph, 2018

  Published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency

  Text copyright © Jørn Lier Horst, 2018

  English language translation copyright © Anne Bruce, 2018

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Cover design by Head Design

  Cover images © Arcangel and © Shutterstock

  ISBN: 978-1-405-93808-2