The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

‘What sort of people?’

  ‘People who drive around on motorbikes in the middle of the night without paying any heed to the speed limits,’ Krom replied, referring to the night Lennart Clausen had been killed.

  ‘Criminal friends?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘Well, narcotics were involved, but I don’t know the details. I don’t think it ever went far enough for the police to take an interest.’

  Walter Krom lifted his cup but put it back down again. A pensive air had come over him. ‘There is an heir,’ he said. ‘Do you know about that?’

  Wisting raised his eyebrows to signal that this was news to him. ‘Another child?’ he asked.

  ‘A grandchild,’ Krom clarified. ‘Lennart Clausen had a girlfriend when he died. “A female friend” might be a better description. It turned out that she was pregnant, and she gave birth to a daughter seven months later.’

  Wisting prepared to take some notes. This would be an assignment for Line.

  ‘I’ll find her name and contact information,’ Krom offered, glancing in the direction of his desk. ‘The little girl must be almost a teenager now.’

  ‘Did they have any contact?’

  Walter Krom shook his head. ‘None whatsoever,’ he answered. ‘That was the mother’s choice. I think Lennart had told her far too many negative things about his father for her to allow him any contact.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘That he’d let his mother die.’

  Krom turned the conversation to other aspects of Bernhard Clausen’s character and related a number of anecdotes from his political life, until there was a knock at the door. It opened before anyone had time to answer and Georg Himle entered the room with the same authoritative bearing as he had shown as Prime Minister.

  Wisting got to his feet and they shook hands, before all four sat down again around the table. Georg Himle was first to speak. ‘I’m concerned about three things in this case,’ he said. ‘Honesty, integrity and discretion.’

  He continued without waiting for the others to comment. ‘Bernhard Clausen is a great loss to us, that can’t be denied. We’re the opposition, and Clausen would have been extremely useful for us in the forthcoming election campaign. He was a down-to-earth, popular politician who represented the true face of social democracy. When I heard about this, I didn’t know what to think, but I do want the truth to emerge. At the same time, I’m anxious to avoid rumour and gossip. That would be damaging to everyone.’

  ‘We hope you can shed some light on the cash found in Clausen’s cabin,’ Wisting said. ‘You can rest assured that we intend to avoid rumour and gossip. We’re working in the utmost secrecy.’

  Georg Himle shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I had no knowledge of the money at all.’

  Wisting let him know about the time frame to which they were now able to trace the banknotes. ‘That suggests they originate from a period when Clausen was a member of your government,’ he summarized.

  Georg Himle answered with only a brief nod of his head.

  ‘Are there government funds in the form of cash reserves kept for emergency purposes, or anything like that?’ Wisting asked.

  The former Prime Minister looked thoughtful. ‘Nothing that’s out of control. Anything of that sort is tightly monitored,’ he replied.

  ‘Could other countries have deposited funds of that kind with Clausen?’

  Himle leaned forward in his chair. ‘I understand you have to ask that question, but the answer is that it’s absolutely inconceivable.’

  ‘A few days ago it would have been considered inconceivable that Bernhard Clausen had more than 80 million kroner in cardboard boxes in his summer cabin,’ Wisting reminded him.

  ‘But there’s no credible explanation for why he might receive funds of that nature,’ Himle replied. ‘I really have to reject it out of hand.’

  Wisting nodded. ‘We need an overview of the people in the organization he had closest contact with,’ he said. ‘All advisers and personal secretaries.’

  Georg Himle delegated the task to Krom with a flick of his hand.

  ‘Who is there we can talk to outside the Party?’ Wisting queried. ‘Someone who can tell us about his personal life?’

  Himle and Krom exchanged looks. ‘There’s Edel Holt, of course,’ Krom answered. ‘Apart from that, I don’t think there is anyone, at least not after Lisa and Lennart died.’

  ‘Yes, you must speak to Edel,’ Himle said. He stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, as far as he was concerned.

  ‘Edel worked closely with Clausen,’ Krom explained. ‘Both here at the office and while in government. No one knew him better than she did.’

  8

  Edel Holt lived in Hausmanns gate, within walking distance of Youngstorget, where she had worked for Bernhard Clausen.

  Line had been unsure how to approach her when she rang to request a meeting. Introducing herself as a freelance journalist, she explained that she wanted to write an article about Bernhard Clausen. Although Edel Holt explained that Clausen’s death had been sudden and unexpected, and she was still reeling from the shock, she nevertheless invited Line to her home that same day.

  Edel Holt was a short woman with a round face and fine, delicate features. The eyes behind her glasses twinkled with warmth. She showed Line to a table beside the living-room window overlooking the Akerselva river. Cups were set out, as well as a small plate of biscuits.

  ‘I’ve made some tea,’ she said. ‘Or would you rather have coffee?’

  ‘Tea’s fine, thank you,’ Line said.

  Edel Holt disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the teapot.

  ‘They say you’re the one who knew him best,’ Line began.

  ‘I worked with him until the Party lost the election and the government stood down in 2009,’ she explained. ‘I was already past retirement age by then. It became difficult for me when everything had to be done on computer.’

  Line looked at the grey-haired woman facing her, aware that she was ten years older than Clausen. ‘Haven’t you been in touch since then?’

  ‘I was a professional resource, organizing Clausen’s political work. When he left politics, our relationship naturally dwindled away.’

  ‘What did your work consist of?’

  ‘The most important aspect was managing his calendar, arranging meetings and events, filtering incoming communications and sending them on to wherever in the country Clausen happened to be. Most of all, it was a case of finding practical solutions and clearing up everyday problems, both large and small.’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘If he suddenly needed a clean shirt or a dark tie, or was on his way to a meeting and got delayed. There could be major consequences. The other participants had to be informed – some of them might have flights to catch that they’d no longer make, and so on.’

  ‘You got to know each other well?’

  Edel Holt nodded. ‘I was a part of his daily life for twenty-eight years. I was never treated as a casual employee who could be easily replaced. We had respect for each other.’

  She smiled as she went on: ‘Sometimes I said to him, “I think you should sleep on that,” or something even less diplomatic. He always took it well.’

  ‘So you were on familiar terms?’

  ‘I would say so. But of course he didn’t discuss confidential government business with me,’ Edel Holt said. ‘I had no need to know anything about it, but I got to know him well and was well acquainted with his needs. I made sure he had peace and quiet whenever he needed it.’

  ‘So you became a kind of care-giver for him?’

  ‘Care?’ The old woman gave this idea some thought. ‘Actually, it wasn’t so much a matter of care-giving but of organizing things so that he could do as good a job as possible. For instance, he was in New York for a week and travelled to Brussels on his way back, so I blocked out a day in his calendar for him to relax on his return. Everyone does a better job when they’re well rested. It’s ju
st a question of being professional.’

  She put her cup to her lips to indicate there was nothing more to be said.

  Line moved the conversation on to talk about Clausen’s work with Prime Minister Himle and visits from leaders of foreign governments. They also spoke about Clausen’s wife’s illness and the accident that killed his son.

  ‘He decided to sell the summer cabin when Lisa became unwell to cover the costs of the experimental treatment,’ she said, ‘but that would have meant avoiding the queues in the Norwegian health service and buying privilege. It was also highly uncertain whether it would be successful and it could have prolonged her suffering.’

  Line took notes. This would be an interesting angle if she were to write something about Bernhard Clausen.

  ‘I felt lucky to have been able to work with him,’ the woman on the opposite side of the table rounded things off. ‘He was a principled, steady and shrewd man. Always friendly, always present.’

  ‘Always?’ Line asked.

  Edel Holt took another gulp of tea and sat for a while without swallowing, as if she had too much in her mouth. ‘There were three times when I’ve known him to be different,’ she finally said. ‘Distracted and confused. The first time was when Lisa became ill and died. There was something melancholy about him then. He withdrew into a kind of internal place of refuge, if you understand what I mean. He began to go on lots of long walks, often late in the evening or even at night. The same thing happened when he lost his son. Family was important to him, and when both his wife and son were gone, it all became too much. He drew back and then resigned as Health Minister, but he returned after the election and was appointed Foreign Minister.’

  ‘And what was the third time?’ Line asked.

  ‘That was one time between the death of his wife and his son.’

  ‘What was the reason for that?’

  Edel Holt shook her head. ‘There was no single incident that sparked it off,’ she said. ‘At least not that I knew of. I figured that it was the aftermath of losing his wife, but it seemed to happen more or less overnight.’

  ‘Do you remember when that was?’

  ‘It was in 2003, six months or so after Lisa died.’

  Curiosity mounting, Line felt she had touched upon something. ‘Would it be possible to find out more exactly?’ she asked. ‘Are there any appointment books or anything from that time?’

  ‘I have kept my calendars,’ the old woman told her. ‘But I don’t know how I’d find the date. It can’t be helped, anyway. And Bernhard Clausen’s no longer here to answer for himself.’

  9

  Wisting and Mortensen had three further appointments in Oslo. The first was at Ullevål University Hospital’s Forensics Department, where Mortensen deposited the material for DNA analysis. In addition to the saliva sample from Walter Krom, there were swabs with scrapings from the key, the scrap of paper with the phone number on it and the radio plug.

  From the forensics department, their journey moved on to the Kripos laboratories at Bryn. Mortensen had already filled in the required forms detailing what he wanted done. First and foremost was fingerprint examination.

  ‘It has top priority,’ Wisting said.

  The woman in a lab coat who recorded the items lifted her glasses. ‘Everyone asks for top priority,’ she said, smiling. ‘Everything’s urgent.’

  Wisting returned her smile. ‘This does actually have to go to the front of the queue,’ he said, pointing to the special reference number.

  The woman shrugged. ‘Some people have the right contacts,’ she said.

  ‘When can we expect the results?’ Mortensen asked.

  ‘You should receive a phone call around this time tomorrow.’

  They thanked her and moved on.

  Their next stop was Kolbotn, on the eastern side of the Oslo fjord. Lisa and Bernhard Clausen had set up home in Holteveien immediately after their son was born. The drive from the city took just over quarter of an hour.

  The street comprised small houses with gardens and ancient trees. Mortensen identified the right one, a grey-painted, two-storeyed detached house with white window frames and a pitched roof. The coarse gravel in the driveway crunched under the tyres as they swung in.

  Another empty house, Wisting thought. He had visited a lot of these. That was his job: venturing into houses that lay empty, either because the person who had lived there had suffered a sudden death, or because it belonged to a perpetrator he had taken into custody. In both cases his work entailed finding traces of the lives of the human beings who had lived there.

  A train passed somewhere in the vicinity when they got out of the car. Wisting marched up to the door, unlocked it and switched off the alarm.

  The air was dry and dusty. The kitchen was straight ahead, the living room to the left, and to the right there was another corridor with doors into the bathroom, bedroom and office, as well as a staircase to the upper floor.

  First, they did the rounds of the upper storey. It consisted of two bedrooms, a small sitting room and a compact bathroom. None of these looked as if it had been used for a long time. One of the bedrooms had apparently belonged to the son. It contained a stereo system and there was a collection of CDs on a shelf, but otherwise it seemed as if all the personal touches had been cleared away. The desk drawers and cupboard shelves were empty. The only thing left hanging on the wall was a photograph of him.

  On the ground floor they walked into the office. A large desk stood in front of the window with a clunky computer and stacks of newspapers and magazines. The walls were lined with bookshelves overflowing with non-fiction titles, political biographies and books about American history. A filing cabinet was placed in one corner. Wisting pulled out the top drawer and leafed through the files – judicial registration documents, public service testimonials, old examination papers, insurance documents, tax returns, invoices and receipts. The next drawer held a variety of newspaper cuttings and personal correspondence. A separate folder, with sparse contents, was labelled Lena. It didn’t take Wisting long to realize that this was Clausen’s grandchild. There was a newspaper cutting with a photograph from a special occasion at nursery, a similar clipping from a school event and announcements of Lena Salvesen’s birth and baptism.

  The bottom drawer contained two jam-packed files. The larger of these was crammed with hospital correspondence in connection with Lisa’s illness and death. The other held a collection of papers to do with Clausen’s son, everything from school report cards to his death certificate.

  The school reports showed that the boy had initially performed well in several subjects but his absences had increased and his marks had deteriorated as a result. It emerged from a number of notes and comments that his schoolwork had been affected by lack of concentration. There were also papers concerning an inquiry about ADHD, though this did not seem to have drawn any conclusions.

  Mortensen had taken a seat at the desk and was rummaging through the drawers.

  ‘Diaries,’ he said, taking out a bundle of small red yearbooks from the bottom drawer.

  They were organized chronologically and spanned the years 1981 to 2005. Wisting picked up one from 1998 and flicked backwards and forwards through it. Each double page was a week, with nine lines for weekdays and four lines for Saturdays and Sundays. Clausen had noted various appointments, some in abbreviated form, others with names recorded. A few had been scored through and others were underlined. No personal comments were attached to the appointments, merely the time and place of different meetings.

  Mortensen laid them aside to take away with them.

  The next few hours were spent systematically searching the office. Bernhard Clausen did not seem to be a man with anything to hide; there was no safe and none of the drawers or cupboards was locked. Nothing of what they found gave the impression of being compromising in any way.

  Mortensen found the computer password scribbled on a note on the underside of the desk pad. He logged on and clicked thr
ough the files without finding anything of interest.

  As well as the diaries, they took an address book containing a comprehensive list of phone numbers and addresses.

  Before they left, Wisting was keen to check the two garages. One was attached to the house and the other was located near the road. The keys for both hung in a key cupboard in the hallway. The garage beside the house was not locked so he flipped up the retractable door and peered inside. At the far end he could see a workbench with a tool shelf above it. A snow shovel and a yard brush were propped up against the wall. Apart from that, there was nothing to be seen.

  They closed the door and locked it before checking the other garage. The door hinges screeched as they pulled it up. Unlike the other garage, the interior was a mess of motorbike parts, tools, engines and other pieces of equipment strewn across the floor.

  ‘The son,’ Mortensen remarked as he stepped over an oilcan. His shoes left footprints in the dust and dirt on the concrete floor.

  ‘It must have been left like this since he died,’ Wisting said. He stayed outside while Mortensen peered into various cupboards and tried a door at the far end.

  ‘I don’t think we’ll find anything in here,’ he said as he came out again. ‘It doesn’t look as if Clausen senior ever set foot inside the garage.’

  Wisting agreed and drew the door down. If they were to find answers, they would have to search elsewhere.

  10

  Line fired up the engine but remained staring straight ahead without moving. She had spent considerable time with Edel Holt and asked all the questions her father had wanted her to ask, but nothing specific had really emerged. She hoped her father and Mortensen had been more successful at the Labour Party offices.

  Her next interview was with Guttorm Hellevik, who had held several different posts in the Labour Party. Line remembered him from newspaper coverage as an overweight man with thick, grey hair.

  It was his wife who opened the door and welcomed her in. ‘She’s here!’ she called out. Guttorm Hellvik shouted back an answer and his wife led Line into a workroom.