It was a cow, and he stood with the piece in his hand, casting his mind back to his conversation with Finn Petter Jahrmann in prison. The trip had turned out to be a wild-goose chase, one surplus piece that did not fit into their picture.
The right key for the right lock, he muttered aloud. He still struggled to recall which of his older colleagues had mentioned this.
He returned to the kitchen and studied the map Line had left on the table. She had marked a cross on the old pump house near Simon Meier’s usual fishing spot. The distance from the airport to that location was around sixty kilometres, and it was only a short detour from the E6 motorway, leaving room for a certain possibility.
He carried the thought with him into the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. After he had gone to bed, he lay tossing and turning. He knew from experience that it would be hours before he fell asleep, hours of useless mental turmoil that would lead to nothing but fatigue.
Half an hour later he threw aside the quilt and got up. Collecting Line’s map and the rest of what he needed, he checked that the alarm in the basement was activated before heading for his car and reversing out of the courtyard.
In the rear-view mirror he noticed that the light was switched off in Line’s living room. He put the car in gear and drove slowly out of the street.
He turned on to the motorway and had to make a stop to fill up with fuel. It was almost 2 a.m. when he took out the map and searched for the turn-off that led down to the old pump house.
His headlights shone on mugwort and other weeds growing at the edges of the track. The opening was easier to find than he had anticipated, but the track looked as if it was no longer in use. As he turned on to it, he heard shrubs and grass brush along the undercarriage and sides of the car.
The darkness was total on all sides. Wisting leaned forward in his seat, hunched over the steering wheel in an effort to make out any obstacles that might lie ahead.
After a hundred metres the narrow track opened out into a wider space that had been gravelled at one time, but now tufts of yellow grass protruded from the crushed stones on the surface. In some places the grass was squashed flat and he could see tyre tracks.
He stopped, but left his engine running. The headlights lit up the entrance to the disused pump station, where insects darted in and out of the beams of light. Somewhere between the dark trees a large bird flew up, maybe a wood pigeon or an owl.
Wisting got out of his car and made for the door, watching as his own shadow danced on the grey brick walls. In his pocket he had the evidence bag that Mortensen had marked B-3. Drawing on a pair of latex gloves, he broke the seal and plucked out the key they had found in the final box of money. He guided it towards the cylinder lock on the old door and pushed it in.
The key was reluctant, and stuck almost halfway in. He wrenched it out, inserted it again and turned it several times, but it still proved obstinate.
Returning to the car, he opened the bonnet, withdrew the oil dipstick and dribbled a couple of drops on to the key before heading back to the door. This time, the key slipped in more easily, and he could turn it round. Raw, chilly air wafted towards him as the door slid open.
Investigation is a matter of finding the right key for a particular lock.
It occurred to him that it had been Ove Dokken, head of the criminal investigation department when Wisting had started there in 1984, who had said this.
He stood for a moment before heading back to the car for his torch.
A flight of five steps led down to the floor of the pump house. As plaster crunched under his feet, the noise echoed off the walls.
In the middle of the room stood a large pump. Pipes rose from the floor on one side and disappeared out through the wall on the other. A door leading into a second room was wide open and the room beyond lay empty, but there was a hatch in the floor. The hinges screeched when he lifted it. He shone the torch towards the opening and let it sweep around the empty space, which measured about two metres in height and one in depth. The walls were mottled with black damp. He was about to close the hatch when he spotted something lying in one corner. A padlock with a key inserted. He considered jumping down and taking it with him but decided to leave it and instead lowered the hatch carefully back in place.
Standing up straight, he was fired up with adrenaline, certain now about what he had found. This was the place where the airport cash had been ‘frozen.’ Now he just needed to find out what had happened next.
33
Overnight, a grey sea mist had swept across the landscape. Wisting had encountered the first wisps as he approached Larvik at around 4 a.m. Now it was so thick that he could not even see Line’s house from his kitchen window where he stood, staring out into the distance.
A pair of headlights sliced through the fog and drove up in front of Wisting’s house while he stood beside the coffee machine. Espen Mortensen, turning up promptly, as usual, for their morning meeting. Wisting put out another cup and went downstairs to let him in.
‘Sleep badly?’ Mortensen asked as he studied Wisting’s face.
‘I slept well enough, but not for long,’ Wisting answered.
‘What were you up to?’
Wisting retrieved the evidence bag containing the key from the kitchen table. ‘I took this and went for a drive late last night. I didn’t get back until early this morning,’ he said, going on to explain where he had been.
Mortensen sat down. ‘The money from the robbery was stored there, then?’ he asked.
‘Most likely,’ Wisting replied.
‘Have you spoken to Audun Thule?’
‘Not yet. He’ll be here soon.’
Mortensen produced a bundle of papers from his folder. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ve come across something else of interest.’
They heard a noise at the door downstairs as Line let herself in.
‘Have you talked to Trygve Johnsrud?’ Wisting asked her when she entered.
‘Good morning to you, too,’ Line replied.
Mortensen glanced up from his papers. ‘The Finance Minister?’ he queried.
‘He visited Clausen at the cabin immediately after Simon Meier disappeared,’ Wisting explained. ‘I want to know whether he has anything to tell us about that time.’
He turned to face Line again. ‘Have you spoken to him?’
‘You’d have known about it if I had.’
‘But have you made an appointment with him?’
‘I tried to call him yesterday,’ Line said. ‘He didn’t answer.’
‘Try again,’ Wisting insisted.
Line gave him a long-suffering smile. ‘I’ll follow it up.’
‘We have to speak to Lennart Clausen’s girlfriend as well,’ he said, finding her name on the pad: ‘Rita Salvesen. She’s the nearest we’ll come to a relative of Bernhard Clausen.’
He fixed his eye on his daughter to indicate that this would be something for her to tackle. ‘It’s only natural for a journalist trying to find fresh, obscure aspects of a politician’s character to ask what he was like as a grandfather.’
‘I thought they had no contact, though,’ Line said.
‘She must have become pregnant by Lennart Clausen not long after the airport robbery,’ Wisting told her. ‘So they may have had some contact in the past.’
‘She lives in Spain now,’ Mortensen broke in. ‘Has done for the past three years.’ He leafed through his own notes and handed her a piece of paper with the address and phone number.
‘You said you’d found something interesting?’ Wisting reminded him.
Mortensen nodded. ‘I’ve started to chart Lennart Clausen’s circle of acquaintances with a view to matching them with the airport raid,’ he said. ‘We got some names from Aksel Skavhaug,’ he pointed out. ‘One of them is really interesting. He worked for Menzies Aviation at Gardermoen in 2003.’
Wisting began to search through Thule’s case documents to find the ring binder that dealt with the attempts to identify th
e informant the raiders must have had on the inside at the airport. ‘What was his job there?’
‘I don’t know what he did exactly, but they operate most of the ground services at the air terminal.’
‘Name?’
‘Kim Werner Pollen.’
Wisting ran his finger down a list of names. ‘He was interviewed,’ he said, locating the interview record in another folder.
‘He wasn’t at work when the robbery took place …’ he said, skimming further: ‘A part-time employee for eight months. Worked on loading and unloading aircraft as well as other technical services for various airlines.’
‘We could be on to something here,’ Mortensen ventured.
‘What does he do nowadays?’ Line asked.
‘He lives in Asker, runs a petrol station,’ Mortensen said. ‘Married, two children.’
Line flipped up the lid of her laptop. ‘When was he born?’ she asked.
‘Nineteen eighty-one. Why do you ask?’
‘He’s the same age as Simon Meier,’ she said, homing in on the old class lists. ‘They were in the same class at school. I can have a chat with him.’
The doorbell rang and Wisting went downstairs to let Audun Thule in. They all sat around the kitchen table and updated him on their latest findings.
‘I can’t get all this to add up,’ Thule said. ‘We’ve found Oscar Tvedt’s DNA on the banknotes. We know he was connected to a professional criminal ring, but this doesn’t link up with the gang of boys from Kolbotn.’
‘There’s some point of contact, though,’ Wisting continued. ‘How did the raiders get hold of the key to the pump house, I wonder?’
‘The police broke in when they were searching for Simon Meier,’ Line said. ‘The building must belong to the local authority or the water board or something like that. Maybe Ulf Lande knows something more.’
‘Can you follow it up?’
Line nodded and made a note.
Wisting turned to Audun Thule: ‘Have you any news about Oscar Tvedt?’
‘He’d been living at home with his mother in Nordstrand until she died this summer,’ Thule explained. ‘She was given a carer’s allowance for looking after him. Now he’s living in a nursing home near Østensjø lake.’
‘Can he talk?’
‘No.’ Thule was searching for something in his notes. ‘He has multiple brain injuries that have affected his cognitive functions. He’s able to express what he wants and doesn’t want, grunts and gestures, but no more than that.’
‘Were there any suspects for the showdown at Alna?’
‘Not really – it was regarded as an internal confrontation.’
‘What do you mean by “internal”?’
Audun Thule took out a folder and removed the elastic band. ‘We’ve already discussed Aleksander Kvamme,’ he said, setting down a photo of a muscular man with a shaved head and a scowling expression.
‘This is Jan Gudim,’ he went on, laying down a picture of a man with curly hair. ‘Leif Havang, Rudi Larsen, Jonas Stensby,’ he continued, adding various headshots. ‘They’re the most central characters, the core group.’
The photographs of these hardened criminals from police records suggested that these men operated at a completely different level from Lennart Clausen and his circle.
‘Who were the ones thought to be involved in the gang of robbers?’ Mortensen asked.
‘Not Leif Havang. He was too unstable, and still is. They wouldn’t have taken the risk of bringing him along. All the others are serious candidates. Jan Gudim has taken part in motor sports and is likely to have been the driver. Jonas Stensby usually played supporting roles and could be the one who set fire to the bogus robbery vehicle.’
‘Were their alibis checked at the time?’
‘We didn’t get as far as that, but we monitored their movements afterwards. None of them went abroad in the following six months, and none of them showed evidence of high expenditure. That was the sort of thing we looked for at the time. In hindsight, that wasn’t enough.’
Line picked up the picture of Jonas Stensby. In contrast to the others, he seemed short and puny. ‘Was there anyone called Daniel in that gang?’ she asked.
Audun Thule shook his head. ‘You’re thinking of the phone number in the box of cash?’ he asked. ‘Your father’s already asked me that.’
‘Do you have any telecomms data from that time?’ she continued.
Thule stood up to fetch a ring binder from one of his cardboard boxes. ‘Printouts of calls from the base stations around Gardermoen for one hour before and after the raid,’ he told her. ‘I have them on computer disk as well, but I didn’t bring them, I’m afraid. I’ll get someone who still has a disk drive to locate them and send them over to us.’
Wisting got to his feet. He could now make out a possible chain of events. ‘The cash from the robbery was stored in the old pump station,’ he said, as he crossed to the kitchen worktop. ‘Around the same time, Simon Meier disappears from the same place. What we know is that the robbers never reaped the benefits of the money they stole. Could it be that Oscar Tvedt was blamed for that? That it was his role to store the cash but the police search meant that the place he’d chosen wasn’t so secure after all?’
‘Someone who took part in the search may have found the money,’ Mortensen suggested.
Wisting looked at his daughter. ‘Are there any lists of names or an overview of the people who took part in the search?’ he asked.
‘I didn’t see anything of that kind among the case documents,’ Line answered. ‘The chief investigator said someone had broken into the pump house, but didn’t disclose their identity.’
‘Do we know if Clausen’s son or any of his pals took part in the search?’ Thule asked.
‘According to Aksel Skavhaug, they didn’t,’ Wisting replied.
‘All the same, this is pretty hard to swallow,’ Line said. ‘The search was conducted from the area outside the pump house. If anyone found the money or took it from there, it must have been noticed. It’s more straightforward to believe that the money disappeared along with Simon Meier.’
Wisting had to agree with her. ‘The only snag is that the money didn’t actually disappear,’ he said. ‘For some reason or other, it ended up with Bernhard Clausen.’
34
Adrian Stiller opened the thick envelope that arrived from Follo police station and drew the contents out on to his desk.
One folder was labelled with Simon Meier’s name, case number and a note of how case expenses were to be registered. Papers dealing with the same subject were fastened together with a paperclip. The first bundle included an official complaint. The parents’ committee at Østli school had written to say that the door to the old pump house had been left open after the police search and it could have endangered the children playing in the vicinity. The attached answer from the police directed the complainant to the water and sewerage board.
The next documents were copies of the final report from the Red Cross, an attachment listing those involved in the search, the expenses they claimed and the main rescue coordination centre.
There was further correspondence between the victim’s counsel and Simon Meier’s family, as well as a copy of the court record declaring him dead.
Towards the very back of the bundle, two sheets of photocopied paper were stapled together. The first one was written by the Director General of Public Prosecution: Forward to the local police office in Oppegård. Enclosed was a letter with a single line of text: Check Health Minister Bernhard Clausen re: the Gjersjø case.
A faded Post-it note was attached bearing one name: Arnt Eikanger. Stiller recognized the name as one of the investigating officers. He had probably been asked to follow up the tip-off.
‘Bernhard Clausen,’ he said aloud, speaking to himself.
Something clicked into place. Stiller did not believe in coincidences – investigators never did. Experience told him that one event was usually triggered by
another.
He liked the feeling produced when he uncovered hidden connections. Just to be certain, he did a quick online search and found the reports of Bernhard Clausen’s death and the fire at his cabin in Stavern.
So Line Wisting did have an agenda. She knew more than he did.
35
There were several empty tables outside the Golden Peace café, but Line went inside and left her belongings at one nearest the back before returning to the counter to buy herself a latte. When she sat down, her phone buzzed. It was Henriette Koppang, letting her know she’d be a quarter of an hour late.
Line drank some of the milky foam at the top of the cup and then looked for the phone number for Trygve Johnsrud, the man who had served in government with Bernhard Clausen. She had seen a different side to her father over the last few days and gained an insight into what he was like as a boss. Her father’s micro-managerial style irritated her. Especially as he did not tell the other members of the investigation group how to prioritize or figure out their tasks.
When Trygve Johnsrud answered, Line introduced herself and asked when he might have an hour to spare to talk about Bernhard Clausen.
‘Not until after the funeral,’ the former Finance Minister said. ‘I’m in France at the moment, but I’m coming home on Sunday.’
‘Sometime next week, then?’ Line suggested.
‘What are you intending to write?’ Johnsrud asked.
‘It will be angled towards the election,’ Line said. ‘About why the old Labour Party ideals that both you and Clausen stood for are so important today.’
‘What sort of thing do you have in mind?’ Johnsrud asked. It sounded as if he was testing her.
‘That social democratic policies, such as a strong welfare state, are vital to ensure Norway’s future,’ Line heard herself reply.
‘What about Wednesday?’ Johnsrud suggested.
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