The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

  An older-model Toyota, probably Clausen’s own car, was parked in front of the cabin. Wisting left his car slightly further off, leaving room for Mortensen to park his van near the door.

  He fished out the keys from the envelope and strode towards the cabin, where a pennant fluttered sluggishly at the top of a flagpole. He could hear the sounds of a motorboat down on the water below.

  The cabin was in a sheltered position, not directly overlooked by any of the neighbouring residences. Old, twisted pine trees cast shadows and a grassy field extended more than fifty metres down to the smooth coastal rocks and a shallow inlet. Two children lay on a jetty down there with fishing lines dangling in the water. Above them, a bank of clouds hung motionless in the sky.

  Approaching the front door, Wisting searched through the keys to find the right one.

  The alarm control panel flashed and beeped intermittently. When Wisting keyed in the code, a green diode lit up.

  Two jackets hung from a row of hooks beside the control panel, with a pair of Wellington boots and a pair of sandals lined up on the floor.

  Inside, the kitchen was combined with the living room and a swarm of flies buzzed around a pot on the stove. A plate of leftovers lay on the kitchen worktop. In one corner of the living room there was an imposing open fireplace and a door led out to the glass verandah. From there, a wide flight of steps descended to the outdoor area. A large picture of Clausen was prominently displayed on one wall. In it he wore a singlet and stood beside an axe on a chopping block, wiping sweat from his brow with a checked handkerchief. The photograph had become an iconic image and was how people would remember him, as an ordinary working man who represented the Party’s roots. He appealed to both employees and the higher echelons of society, and the forthcoming election campaign would not be the same without him.

  The other pictures on the wall were smaller but showed Clausen with famous people he had met, mainly from his time as Foreign Minister. Nelson Mandela, Vladimir Putin, Dick Cheney, Gerhard Schröder, a number of Norwegian prime ministers and Jimmy Carter with his Nobel Peace Prize. Clausen’s shock of grey hair was slightly fuller in these photographs than in recent years, but the steely blue gaze remained the same.

  From the living room, a corridor lined with doors opened on to bedrooms on either side. Closest of these was the room Bernhard Clausen had used. The bed was made, a book lay on the bedside table and a few garments were folded on a chair, with a black travel bag on the floor. Directly across the corridor was a small bathroom.

  At the far end of the corridor they found the room they were looking for. It had a different smell from the rest of the cabin – dry and dusty, warm and stuffy. The walls were covered in varnished pine panelling and it was furnished with bunk beds, a bedside table and a built-in cupboard that divided this room from the adjacent bedroom. Posters decorated the walls, various idols of the nineties side by side with posters peppered with political slogans. Nirvana, U2 and Metallica alongside A Steady Course, Security in Everyday Life and If Welfare Is Paramount. A rag rug covered the floor and the window had thin, flowery curtains. The window itself was closed off with an external shutter and two air vents had been inserted high on the wall.

  They counted nine cardboard boxes altogether, four on the lower bunk and five above. On the lower bunk there was also a petrol tank for a boat, with a fuel hose, pump and coupling for an outboard motor.

  The boxes all differed in shape and size. Some were the kind you can pick up in grocery shops.

  Mortensen prepared his photographic equipment and Wisting drew back to the wall to give him space. In doing so, his shoulder accidentally brushed against one of the old election posters and it ripped from the drawing pin to fold down along the middle, exposing a round hole in the wall. Wisting put his eye to it and discovered another hole.

  ‘What have you found there?’ Mortensen asked. ‘Peepholes?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Wisting replied, as he completely removed the poster.

  Another two holes had been concealed. Producing a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, he pushed it in and came up against some thin paper.

  As Mortensen aimed the camera lens at the wall, Wisting moved out to the corridor and into the neighbouring bedroom. Here, too, old election material was displayed on the walls. Social Democracy Because We Need One Another. Renewed Growth for Norway. Health and the Elderly Come First.

  He tore down a poster exhorting people to Vote YES to the EU. Behind it he found four holes, each revealing different parts of the room on the other side.

  Mortensen came to join him. ‘Unusual,’ he commented as he raised his camera to take another picture.

  ‘Let’s get a move on,’ Wisting said, heading back to the room where the cash was stored.

  Producing a pair of latex gloves, Mortensen pulled them on before lifting one of the boxes and placing it on the floor. It was heavy, heavier than a box of copy paper.

  The flaps had been taped down with brown parcel tape. Wisting was unsure whether the Party Secretary had cut them open or if this was something Clausen had done himself.

  Wisting opened the flaps to find the box full of American hundred-dollar notes. Some of the banknotes were in wads secured with grey tape. However, they were not packed neatly at all: it looked as if the box had been filled in haste.

  Picking up a bundle, Wisting reckoned it contained one hundred notes. Ten thousand dollars. There were perhaps two hundred of these bundles in the box. Two million dollars overall.

  After replacing the cash, he lifted down a cardboard box from the upper bunk and opened it. This time, there were piles of euro banknotes of different denominations: twenty, fifty and one hundred.

  Mortensen took a step back.

  ‘These must have been here for years,’ he said. ‘Just gathering dust. It doesn’t look as if he’s spent any of it.’

  Wisting agreed. Nothing about Bernhard Clausen suggested he possessed great wealth. In fact, it seemed as if he had led a simple life.

  Mortensen stepped forward again and picked up a wad of notes. ‘Could it be some kind of secret emergency fund which was under his control as Foreign Minister?’ he suggested. ‘Cash to be used to pay terrorist organizations for Norwegian soldiers held hostage, or something along those lines?’

  Wisting shrugged. That was certainly one possibility. Cash would be required for crises of that kind, but it would be highly unlikely for it to be stored in cardboard boxes in a retired politician’s summer cabin.

  He crossed the room and opened the cupboard to find it filled with stacks of old newspapers and magazines. One shelf was crammed with various spray cans, everything from insecticide to hair lacquer. At the bottom of the cupboard there were propane-gas canisters. Wisting crouched down and looked under the bed, where he saw another two cans of petrol and another cardboard box. A cloud of dust swirled up when he pulled it out.

  The box contained old comics. When he picked up some of the ones on top, he discovered a couple of porn magazines with German text on the front covers. Leaving these, he slid the box back in again, got to his feet and brushed off his hands.

  ‘Let’s get going,’ he said, with a nod in the direction of the bunk beds. ‘We’ll record and document it all before taking it with us.’

  ‘Where will we take it?’ Mortensen asked.

  ‘Home with me,’ Wisting answered.

  ‘Home with you?’ Mortensen repeated. ‘Do you intend to store it there?’

  ‘Temporarily,’ Wisting replied. ‘Until we find out what this is all about.’

  ‘Then I hope you’ve got a good burglar alarm,’ Mortensen commented.

  Wisting took out his phone and left the room so Mortensen could seal and mark the boxes.

  He pulled off his rubber gloves, stepped outside and skirted around to the sea-facing side of the cabin. Beside a rocky outcrop, an attractive seating area had been built, with a fireplace, barbecue, refectory table and patio heaters. Wisting stood with his back to the cabin, g
oing through the contact list on his mobile phone. After a while he found the one he was looking for and pressed call.

  He and Olve Henriksen went back a long time. They had applied for police college together, but Olve had not fulfilled the entrance requirements for perfect vision. Today he owned one of the country’s largest security firms, offering everything from doorkeeper services to transportation of valuables, and probably earned three times as much as Wisting.

  ‘I need a burglar alarm,’ he said.

  Olve Henriksen suggested having a site inspection first.

  ‘I need one today,’ Wisting broke in before Olve had finished speaking.

  ‘I see,’ Henriksen replied.

  A pause ensued. Wisting waited, watching as tiny black ants scuttled to form a line across the slate slabs at his feet and disappeared down a crack in the wall.

  ‘I can send someone to your house at four o’clock,’ Olve finally offered.

  Wisting thanked him and provided his address. ‘One more thing,’ he said, before they rang off.

  ‘Yes?’

  Wisting held back, afraid that Olve Henriksen would put two and two together, but trusted him to be discreet regardless.

  ‘Do you have a machine to count banknotes?’ he asked.

  ‘We do, at our main office,’ Olve told him.

  ‘Is it possible to move it elsewhere?’ Wisting queried.

  ‘We have three, in fact,’ Olve answered. ‘Two of them are portable. The other one is kept as a spare.’

  ‘Could I borrow one?’

  ‘Or you could bring the money here?’ Olve suggested.

  ‘Preferably not,’ Wisting said. ‘I can come and collect the machine.’

  ‘Fine.’

  They arranged a specific time and place before Wisting headed back to the cabin.

  Mortensen was now seated on a chair in the living room, leafing through the guest book, still wearing his gloves. ‘Hans Christian Mukland was here last week,’ he said, showing Wisting a signature on one of the final pages. ‘He was Justice Minister when I was at police college.’

  Wisting took charge of the book.

  ‘There are four more books on the shelf,’ Mortensen explained, pointing. ‘Everyone who’s visited here since the fifties has written a message.’

  Wisting riffled back and forth through the book. Famous politicians had given the date of their visit and written short messages. Sometimes photos of get-togethers, taken outdoors beside the cabin walls or around a dining table, were pasted in.

  ‘We’ll take them with us,’ he said.

  The sound of a car outside made them look at each other in surprise. Wisting moved to the door, pulled aside the curtain at the small window beside it and peered outside. A large black SUV was about to turn on the parking space.

  ‘Is someone coming?’ Mortensen asked.

  Wisting shook his head as the car sped off. His eyesight was not good enough to make out the registration number.

  ‘It’s leaving,’ he said, lingering to watch the car drive into the distance. ‘Probably just a random motorist who’s lost his way. After all, the cabin is at the end of the track.’

  ‘Or some nosy parker who’s heard that Clausen is dead,’ Mortensen suggested. ‘Shall we carry out the boxes?’

  Nodding, Wisting slipped on a pair of gloves.

  Mortensen had drawn a plastic bag over every box. They each picked one up and carried it through the living room and out to their vehicles.

  ‘I need his fingerprints,’ Mortensen said as he set down the first box. ‘To see if anyone else has handled the money.’

  ‘He’s at Ullevål Hospital,’ Wisting said. ‘We’ll arrange that tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll need a biological sample, too, for a DNA profile,’ Mortensen pointed out.

  Wisting nodded. ‘We’ll do that at the same time.’ He stayed outside to keep an eye on the cars as Mortensen carried out the rest of the boxes.

  A gentle sea breeze rustled through the undergrowth, where wild raspberries grew. On the path down to the water’s edge, a man with a fishing rod was walking, holding a boy in a red life jacket by the hand. A woman with a dog tugged on the lead as they passed. Further along the path she met a man wearing dark trousers, a short-sleeved shirt and sunglasses.

  Mortensen emerged with the last box. ‘We’ll have to come back for a more thorough search,’ he said, tossing his head in the direction of the cabin. ‘He’s got a massive desk in there with drawers full of handwritten notes. Could well be something of interest that might put us on the right track.’

  Agreeing, Wisting cast a glance inside the cabin. ‘Wait,’ he said.

  He headed inside again, making straight for the pot on the stove, and waved away a few flies. It looked like some kind of mixed stew. He found a plastic bag and scraped the contents into it, then placed the pot in the sink and filled it with water. Opening the fridge, he collected the various food items and poured away the leftover milk. He took the food scraps with him and activated the alarm before he shut the door behind him.

  4

  Wisting drove to his house in Herman Wildenveys gate and reversed as close to the front door as possible, with Mortensen following suit. He had decided that they would store the boxes in the basement, as he never used it anyway. The walls were made of brick and there were only two high, narrow windows.

  With each box he carried inside, he looked down towards the house his daughter occupied at the bottom of the street. He would not be able to come up with a reasonable answer if she suddenly appeared and began to ask questions.

  The man who arrived to fit the alarm was punctual, and Wisting chose a simple intruder alarm. It would be too laborious and time-consuming to combine this with a fire alarm. He instructed the fitter on how he wanted the basement to be secured with magnetic switches on the door and windows, and for the space itself to be equipped with motion-detector cameras. The control panel was to be fixed to the wall immediately inside the front door. He declined to have an alarm sign displayed outside. The alarm signal should go straight to his mobile phone as well as Mortensen’s, in addition to an internal siren.

  Mortensen stayed as the alarm was being installed while Wisting left to collect the machine they intended to use to count the money.

  When he arrived at the alarm company’s headquarters, he was given a quick lesson on the operation of the machine. The specific currency had to be selected, but the machine had sensors to identify the denomination of notes. In addition, it used infrared rays and UV lights for automatic recognition of fraudulent banknotes. The capacity was 1,200 notes per minute, and the results of the count were printed out on a separate printer that had to be connected up.

  On the return journey Wisting called into an office-equipment store and bought ten large cardboard boxes and a roll of parcel tape, as Mortensen had requested. When he arrived home, the alarm had been fitted and Wisting glanced up at the two motion detectors at either end of the basement.

  ‘I had to choose a code,’ Mortensen said, tapping in four numbers on the control panel to demonstrate. ‘I chose 1808, today’s date: 18 August.’

  The alarm flashed red and emitted faint beeping sounds. When Mortensen keyed in the code again, the alarm was silenced and a green light came on.

  They pushed a table against the wall and Wisting placed the counting machine on one side of it while Mortensen assembled the cardboard boxes.

  ‘We’ll count the notes and move them across into the empty boxes so that we get a complete overview,’ Mortensen said. ‘I can then examine the old boxes for fingerprints here – the cash, too – but we should also take a selection of them to the lab at Kripos for the experts to look at.’

  Before they could make a start, the doorbell rang.

  Moving out into the hallway, Wisting peered through the glass beside the door to see Line and Amalie standing outside.

  ‘Have you locked the door?’ his daughter asked.

  Wisting opened the door and made a
fuss of his granddaughter, who threw her arms around his neck. He did not normally lock the door and Line and Amalie usually walked straight in whenever they paid a visit.

  ‘Mortensen and I are busy working on something,’ he answered, swinging Amalie up into the air. She gasped and laughed with delight.

  ‘We’ve made some iced tea,’ Line said, holding up a jug.

  The ice cubes rattled as he used his free hand to take the jug. ‘Lovely,’ he said, still hovering in the doorway.

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘She’s a little thief, you know,’ Line said, nodding towards her daughter.

  Wisting put down the jug and looked his granddaughter in the eye. ‘What’s this Mum’s telling me?’ he asked in a stern voice.

  Amalie usually chattered nineteen to the dozen, but now she kept quiet and looked away.

  ‘She was sitting in the pushchair while we were in the shop,’ Line told him. ‘When we came out, she had helped herself to a packet of sweets.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘We had to go back in again and hand it back. They were on display right beside the checkout.’

  ‘Silly shop,’ Wisting said, rubbing his nose on Amalie’s cheek to make her laugh.

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Line said, reaching out for her daughter. ‘She won’t understand that she’s done something wrong.’

  Wisting grew serious and again made eye contact with his granddaughter. ‘Grandpa won’t be happy if you do that sort of thing,’ he said, handing her over. ‘But it’s not so easy for a two-year-old to understand the business of paying,’ he added to Line.

  ‘She knows the difference between right and wrong,’ Line said.