The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

  Line gave a smile in answer as she disappeared around the corner of the house. Wisting stacked the glasses in the dishwasher and stood at the kitchen window, following his daughter with his gaze. A black cat sneaked out beneath her garden hedge, rubbing up against a lamppost before prowling on. When it vanished into the darkness, Wisting sat down with a notepad at the kitchen table.

  A phone number, a short cable, a key, a few unidentified fingerprints and an approximate time frame – that was all they had. The answer lay somewhere in Bernhard Clausen’s past; he just needed to find where.

  He sat studying the timeline he had sketched out. This was how he worked at the start of an investigation. He jotted down times, key words, stray thoughts and little reminders. Sometimes he doodled and made ink drawings, scribbled absent-mindedly.

  Bernhard Clausen’s life had been long and eventful, but it was a non-political aspect that Wisting began homing in on. His son. Lennart Clausen.

  Bernhard Clausen had described the accident in an in-depth interview following his return to politics. His son had died in a motorbike accident in Kolsås, Bærum, in the early hours of 30 September 2003. Two friends had been with him at the time. Lennart Clausen had been overtaking but lost control of his bike and drove off the road. He was declared dead at the scene.

  After his son’s death, Clausen had no close family left. Nevertheless, Wisting had noted two names. One was Guttorm Hellevik, the long-time leader of the Labour Party group on Oslo City Council who had been Clausen’s best man at his wedding and probably his closest friend. Another name that had cropped up in a couple of articles was Edel Holt. Bernhard Clausen had described her somewhere as a loyal political comrade. In another article, she was named as the woman behind the great man.

  It was after midnight when he rose from his chair. He headed for the bathroom and brushed his teeth while wandering around the house, checking that all the windows were closed and the doors were locked.

  6

  A distant noise roused Wisting from sleep, and he lay there, struggling to locate its source. It was still dark outside and the clock radio on his bedside table showed 5.13.

  Pushing aside the quilt, he planted his feet on the floor and listened intently, but the sound had gone.

  He got up and made for the bathroom, since he was wide awake now. On retracing his steps to the bedroom, he heard the noise again. It was coming from somewhere inside the house, down in the basement.

  It dawned on him that it must be the new alarm system. He rushed to find the keys to unlock the door to the basement.

  He opened the door, flicked on the light and stepped inside. His movements made the control panel light up, demanding the access code. After keying in the four digits, he heard the noise again, but it came from elsewhere in the room. He tried to find his bearings and follow the sound. Halfway across the basement, he realized that it was Bernhard Clausen’s mobile phone ringing. It lay on the table with his wallet and gold watch, and Mortensen had connected it to a charger.

  He grabbed it to find some way of turning off the noise. The display glowed with the caller ID Alarm Company. Wisting hesitated for only a second before answering. ‘Yes, hello?’

  ‘Am I speaking to Bernhard Clausen?’ the young woman at the other end asked.

  ‘I’m speaking on his behalf,’ Wisting replied. ‘Is this about an alarm?’

  The woman explained that she was phoning from the Guardco central switchboard. ‘We’ve received an error message from Hummerbakken 102,’ she told him. ‘Are you there now?’

  ‘What kind of error message?’ Wisting demanded.

  ‘The wrong alarm code has been keyed in three times,’ the woman said. ‘A security guard has been dispatched. I need a password to switch off the alarm.’

  ‘No,’ Wisting answered. ‘I’m not there.’

  ‘That’s odd,’ the woman commented.

  ‘What is it?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘The fire alarm has just gone off,’ she told him. ‘At the same location.’

  Wisting swore under his breath and ordered the alarm-company operator to call the fire brigade, before throwing on some clothes and bolting out to his car.

  The fiery yellow glow lit up the night sky from afar and its intensity grew as he approached the scene.

  Neither the police nor the fire service had turned up as yet, but a security vehicle was parked, with its warning lights flashing. Wisting manoeuvred around it and drove down to the patch of grass beside the water to avoid obstructing the fire engines when they arrived.

  He felt the scorching heat as soon as he stepped out of his car. Orange, yellow and red flames entwined and enveloped the entire cabin.

  As a window exploded, a huddled group of neighbours from nearby cabins backed away. The flames surged out, licking their way along the wall and darting out under the roof.

  Wisting stood back, like the others. The dry timbers creaked and cracked, and his skin tensed in the searing heat.

  Another explosion sent plumes of blue flame up through the roof, and burning planks and huge red cinders were tossed up into the air. The security guard told everyone to draw back.

  The first blue lights appeared after a few minutes, two fire engines followed by a police patrol car. The fire fighters set to work with the water they had on board while they rolled out hoses down to the shore.

  Wisting introduced himself to the officers in the patrol car. Without divulging anything about the background, he told them that the alarm had been triggered and the cabin had been unoccupied.

  When the security guard headed for his vehicle, Wisting pursued him. He showed his police ID and asked if he had seen anything of significance.

  ‘What did the fire look like when you arrived?’ he asked. ‘Did you notice if any part of the cabin was burning more than another?’

  ‘The flames were certainly more vigorous at the back of the cabin,’ the guard told him. ‘It looked as if the fire started there.’

  ‘Did you encounter anyone on your way down here?’

  The guard shook his head. ‘People from the neighbouring cabins had already gathered here, though.’

  ‘What about along the road?’

  ‘There was the odd car, but nothing I paid any attention to.’ He opened the car door and sat inside. ‘Why do you ask? Do you think the fire was started deliberately?’

  ‘I spoke to the operator at your central switchboard,’ Wisting said. ‘Someone had keyed in the wrong access code before the fire alarm was set off. That is grounds for further investigation.’

  ‘I have a dash camera,’ the guard told him, pointing up at the rear-view mirror. ‘My whole shift is recorded. You can’t have the file right now, but I can make sure you get a copy some time tomorrow.’

  ‘That would be a great help,’ Wisting said. He moved to the front of the vehicle and spotted the small, discreet camera. ‘Are you filming now, too?’ he asked.

  ‘All the time,’ the guard replied, nodding.

  Glancing at his watch, Wisting registered that it was 6.01.07. He took out a card with his contact details and handed it to the security guard. A sudden noise made them both turn their eyes to the burning cabin, where the roof had now collapsed. The front wall swayed before it split open and half slid back into the shattered roof. A shower of sparks flew upwards, carried by the hot, smoky air. The fire fighters had their generators working and were drenching the flames with seawater, but by now it was not a case of saving the cabin but simply damping down and controlling the blaze.

  Dawn was breaking around them as Wisting strode across to his car, sat inside and took out his phone. He sent a brief text message to Espen Mortensen, telling him what had happened and asking that they meet up at Wisting’s house asap. Then he sent a similar message with the same information to the Director General, adding that the valuables had been secured and the fire would be investigated as a case of potential arson.

  7

  The sun spilled in through the kitchen window as
Wisting put a cup of coffee in front of Mortensen and produced a few slices of bread from the freezer.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asked as he popped them into the toaster.

  ‘Yes, but thanks anyway.’

  Wisting brought out some butter and marmalade. Through the kitchen window, he saw his daughter park her car in the street. ‘Line’s joining us,’ he said, explaining how he had let her in on the investigation the previous evening.

  Mortensen seemed sceptical but did not pass any comment.

  When Line entered, she took out a cup and dropped a capsule into the coffee machine.

  ‘Where’s Amalie?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘Sofie’s taking her today,’ Line explained, naming her friend, who also had a young daughter and frequently babysat for her.

  The toaster clicked as it spat out the two slices of bread. While he buttered the toast Wisting told them about the fire at the cabin.

  ‘The cabin is just a smoking heap of ashes,’ he concluded. ‘I’ve arranged with Hammer to put an officer on guard at the scene until it can be examined.’

  Mortensen sipped his coffee. ‘The fire makes things easier for us,’ he pointed out. ‘We can use the investigation into it as cover for our questions.’

  Wisting took a bite of toast. ‘Mortensen and I have an appointment with the pathologist at ten o’clock,’ he said, looking in Line’s direction. ‘And then at the Party office at eleven. After that we’ll drop into Kripos and pay a visit to Clausen’s home. I suggest we do as planned and then we can go and take a look at the scene of the fire this evening.’

  ‘Where should I begin?’ Line asked.

  Dipping into his notebook, Wisting took out a Post-it note and jotted down a phone number. ‘This number was on a scrap of paper in one of the boxes of cash,’ he told her.

  ‘Gine Jonasen in Oslo,’ Mortensen interjected.

  ‘Find out who she is,’ Wisting said, adding her date of birth and address. ‘There’s nothing on her in the police records,’ he added. ‘See if she has any connection whatsoever to Bernhard Clausen, or if she knows anything that might be helpful.’

  ‘OK,’ Line replied. ‘What else?’

  ‘Guttorm Hellevik and Edel Holt,’ Wisting said, writing down their names and contact information on a note for her.

  ‘I know who Guttorm Hellevik is,’ Line said.

  ‘As well as being a political colleague, he was also best man at Bernhard Clausen’s wedding,’ Wisting elaborated. ‘Edel Holt was some kind of personal assistant to him.’

  He made a list of key points concerning information he was keen to extract from her interviews with them. Line had a number of questions regarding what she could and could not say. They discussed the case before Wisting gathered up the coffee cups and stacked them in the dishwasher.

  ‘Then let’s meet back here this evening,’ he said, rounding off the meeting.

  Line used her own car and Mortensen drove the unmarked police car. Neither he nor Wisting had much to say en route. They passed Sandefjord and Tønsberg.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the fire and those peepholes,’ Mortensen said, glancing in the mirror. ‘Without a doubt, something went on at that cabin. Something someone thought important enough to hide every trace of. Something not necessarily connected to the money.’

  Wisting had been harbouring the same thoughts, but neither of them could make an educated guess about what might be at the bottom of it all.

  One hour later, Mortensen turned into the hospital grounds at Ullevål and followed the signs to the laboratory buildings. They introduced themselves in the office and produced documents from the Director General that gave them authority to collect fingerprints and a DNA sample from the deceased politician. An attendant was called to accompany them, and they were ushered along several corridors to a tiled room that reeked of disinfectant. At one end of the room was a refrigerated facility in rust-free, acid-resistant steel for the storage of corpses. The doctor drew out a moveable trolley, opened one of the fridge doors and checked a label before removing the dead body and transferring it to the trolley.

  Mortensen prepared his instruments for taking fingerprints while the doctor pushed the trolley towards a work lamp and folded aside the white sheet.

  Wisting stood by the door, reading the post-mortem report, as Mortensen worked on securing prints from Bernhard Clausen’s stiff fingers.

  His medical history was described in some detail. His first heart attack had struck him two years earlier, caused by a blood clot in one of the coronary arteries. The artery had been unblocked and he was prescribed blood-thinning medication. About a year later he suffered another heart attack and a stent was inserted. The most recent heart attack was massive and damaged extensive parts of the heart muscle, and when a further attack occurred it had caused total heart failure.

  Mortensen did not take long to complete his task. The doctor slid the stretcher back into place in the storage facility and followed them out. From Ullevål, they drove directly to the Labour Party offices in Youngstorget.

  They located the appropriate entrance and took the lift to the fourth floor of the enormous building. The walls of the reception area were plastered with election posters and photographs of Party leaders. A picture of Clausen in a thick, black frame was displayed on the counter beside a flickering candle. The woman behind the counter stood up and escorted them to a spacious corner office when Wisting told her they had an appointment with Walter Krom.

  Krom, smaller in stature than Wisting had imagined from the times he had seen him on television, rose to his feet when they were shown in. ‘Georg Himle will join us in half an hour,’ he said, gesturing with his hand towards a conference table, where coffee and biscuits were already laid out.

  ‘Thanks for seeing us at such short notice,’ Wisting said as he sat down in one of the leather chairs.

  The Party Secretary took a seat opposite him and filled the cups. ‘Have you made any progress?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve counted the money,’ Wisting replied, explaining how it was divided into different currencies.

  ‘Is there any way of tracing it?’

  ‘We’re conducting a number of searches on the serial numbers through various channels to see if it’s flagged up anywhere,’ Mortensen said.

  ‘Flagged up?’ Krom repeated.

  ‘If the notes come from a consignment of cash that’s gone missing, for example after a robbery.’

  The Party Secretary nodded slowly, as if taking time to absorb all the possibilities.

  ‘We’ll need your fingerprints,’ Mortensen said. He opened the briefcase he had carried with him and placed the stamp pad and registration card on the table in front of them. ‘To eliminate your prints on the cardboard boxes,’ he added.

  ‘Of course,’ Krom answered.

  Standing up, he took off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Mortensen guided him as he moistened each individual finger with printer’s ink and applied each in turn to the fingerprint form.

  Wisting got him to relate in detail how he had let himself into the cabin and found the money. As Clausen’s next of kin, he had been given both key and code. He explained how he had cut open the tape on three of the boxes before letting himself out again.

  ‘What’s your theory?’ he asked.

  Walter Krom shook his head. ‘It’s absolutely incredible,’ he said. ‘I’ve no explanation for it whatsoever.’

  ‘How long have you known Bernhard Clausen?’

  ‘A long time,’ Krom answered, picking up a moist tissue to wipe his fingers. ‘For thirty years at least.’

  ‘And nothing happened, either politically or personally, in those thirty years that you can link to the money in any way?’

  The Party Secretary shook his head and went to drink from his cup.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ Mortensen said. ‘I need a clean saliva sample from you, too.’

  Packing away the fingerprinting equipment, he took out a DNA testing kit. Krom l
eaned back in his chair and opened wide as Mortensen swabbed the inside of his mouth.

  ‘Do you have any idea who else might know something?’ Wisting asked, once he had finished.

  ‘Georg Himle might have some knowledge, based on their time in government. But nothing of that nature, I should think,’ Krom replied. ‘He’ll be here shortly, as I said.’

  ‘Have you been out there often?’ Wisting inquired. ‘At the cabin, I mean.’

  ‘Well, we normally had a trip out there each summer – at least we did once he was on his own.’

  ‘Did you spend the night there?’

  ‘Not always, but usually.’

  ‘Can you recall when he started locking the back room?’

  ‘That was his son’s bedroom,’ Krom told him. ‘It was at the far end of the hallway, furthest away from the living room. I don’t know when he began to lock it but, after Lennart died, visitors never used that room.’

  ‘Tell me about his son,’ Wisting requested.

  ‘There’s not much I can say about him,’ Krom said. ‘He was pretty much an immature, unruly boy, but there was no badness in him. It became a real challenge when Bernhard was left on his own with him.’

  ‘What do you mean by “unruly”?’

  ‘It might be more accurate to say that he was a lad who was easily led. And in revolt against everything his father stood for.’

  ‘How was that?’

  Walter Krom took another mouthful of coffee, as if he needed time to choose the right words. ‘Lennart was twenty-four when Lisa died,’ he began. ‘You know the story? That she had a rare form of cancer?’

  Wisting nodded.

  ‘It was difficult for Lennart to appreciate why she couldn’t be given medicine that might extend her life. He blamed his father for that. Everything he did afterwards I believe he did to hurt his father.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘He dropped out of his studies and hung out with the wrong kind of people.’