The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

‘It was this guy here,’ she said, picking up the photo of Jan Gudim that had detached from the wall and fluttered to the floor. The movement had set off the alarm.

  ‘Then at least we know it works,’ her father concluded.

  His phone rang. ‘Mortensen,’ he told her. ‘The alarm goes to him as well.’

  He took the call and reassured Mortensen.

  Line rehung Jan Gudim’s photo beside the others. He had sharp, deep-set eyes, a strong chin and his nose looked as if it had been broken.

  She took out her mobile and photographed the entire row of images.

  ‘Is there nowhere else you can store the money?’ she asked.

  Wisting had sat down by now. ‘We’ll find a solution to that over the weekend,’ he said. ‘This investigation is no longer about the money.’

  Line checked the babysitter app on her phone and saw that Amalie was fast asleep. ‘What do you mean?’ she queried.

  ‘It’s now about what happened to Simon Meier.’

  ‘Maybe he got the blame for something he hadn’t done,’ Line suggested. ‘Maybe they thought he had run off with the cash?’

  She stood staring at the photographs on the wall as she mulled over this new theory. Although she could not make all the pieces fit, she nevertheless agreed with her father. If they discovered what had happened to Simon Meier, it might unlock everything else.

  39

  Everyone was assembled in the basement in Wisting’s house when Adrian Stiller arrived the following morning. The Cold Cases investigator stood at the door and looked around.

  ‘Are you working from here?’ he asked incredulously, his gaze lingering on Line before he turned to face Wisting.

  ‘We’re dealing with a highly confidential case,’ Wisting said with a nod. ‘I’ve put together a special investigation team. Line’s included.’

  Line, who sat with Amalie on her knee, acknowledged him with a little wave.

  Stiller and Mortensen had met before. Audun Thule introduced himself as a detective from Romerike police district.

  ‘Romerike?’ Stiller repeated, but he was given no further explanation.

  Wisting drew out a chair and Stiller sat down, placing his notebook on the makeshift conference table.

  ‘What do you really have on Bernhard Clausen?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re working on an assignment from the Director General,’ Wisting said as he sat down opposite him. ‘You can’t report anything you learn here to Kripos.’

  ‘Understood,’ Stiller agreed.

  Wisting gave a sign to Mortensen, who, moving to the wall and picking up one of the boxes of dollar notes, produced a knife and began to open the seal.

  ‘When Clausen died, he left behind about 80 million kroner in foreign currency,’ Wisting said.

  Stiller stood up to inspect the contents of the box Mortensen had opened.

  ‘He kept it at his cabin,’ Mortensen said, going on to explain how the money had been found.

  Stiller glanced across at the boxes along the wall. ‘You’ve got the money stored in here?’ he asked. ‘Does the Director General know about that?’

  Wisting nodded his head. ‘We initially thought this money had been put aside to bribe foreign powers,’ he went on. ‘However, the investigation has taken us in a different direction,’ he added, with a nod towards Audun Thule.

  ‘On Thursday 29 May 2003, a consignment of cash from Switzerland was stolen from Gardermoen airport,’ he said. ‘The proceeds were around 80 million kroner.’

  ‘Twenty-ninth of May,’ Stiller repeated. ‘The same day that Simon Meier disappeared.’

  ‘Among the cash at Clausen’s cabin we also found a key to the old pump station at Gjersjø lake,’ Wisting continued. ‘We believe the proceeds from the robbery were stored in there and that they have some connection to his disappearance.’

  Stiller resumed his seat. ‘You found the key to the pump house with the cash from the robbery?’ he asked.

  Wisting explained how he had driven to Kolbotn the night before last to try the key in the lock.

  Stiller glanced across at Line. ‘That means we may have a crime scene,’ he said.

  Wisting also looked at his daughter.

  ‘The search party broke open the pump-house door to see if Simon was there,’ she said. ‘But the crime scene technicians never went inside. Nothing suspicious was found so they concluded that Simon had drowned.’

  Stiller nodded.

  ‘They examined the area outside the pump house and the path leading to the fishing spot but found no evidence of violence. Whatever happened to Simon Meier most likely happened in the pump house.’

  Wisting now turned to Mortensen. ‘Might it still be possible to find something there?’ he asked.

  ‘The files say that the pump house has remained empty and locked since that time,’ Line interjected.

  ‘If nothing else, we might find traces of blood,’ Mortensen said.

  Stiller began to drum his pen on his notebook. ‘Do you have the equipment you need?’ he asked.

  ‘I have everything in the van,’ Mortensen replied. ‘We can go there after the meeting.’

  Adrian Stiller jotted something down and gripped his pen between his teeth. ‘Nevertheless, the question remains as to how the money ended up with Bernhard Clausen,’ he said.

  ‘That’s what the Director General wants us to solve,’ Wisting said. ‘But to find the answer, we most likely have to solve the robbery and the Gjersjø case.’

  ‘What do you have to go on regarding the robbery?’ Stiller probed.

  ‘Strictly speaking, nothing on the robbery itself,’ Thule said, before going on to give Stiller a quick summary of the old investigation.

  ‘We believe the raiders were equipped with walkie-talkies,’ Wisting added. ‘A jack attached to an earplug cable was also found among the cash. The DNA profile from that matches Oscar Tvedt, a known member of a formidable criminal gang in Oslo.’

  Stiller raised his eyebrows. Thule took the photo of Tvedt down from the wall and handed it to him.

  ‘He was beaten up a fortnight after the raid,’ he said, going on to explain his medical condition. ‘He can’t help us with any of this.’

  ‘In addition, there was a note hidden in the banknotes with a phone number on it that we haven’t been able to identify,’ Mortensen said.

  Wisting went on to explain about the fire at Bernhard Clausen’s cabin and the son who had died in a motorbike accident. It felt useful to talk through the case in order to bring a new member of the investigation team up to speed. He rounded off by mentioning that the DNA from the envelope containing the anonymous tip-off belonged to the same man who had disposed of a used condom beside the pump house.

  Stiller had sat with his arms on either side of his notebook on the table, listening intently, without writing anything. ‘Do you have a strategy for the next steps in the investigation?’ he asked.

  ‘The most important thing will be to consider the two cases as connected,’ Wisting replied.

  Stiller nodded. ‘The tip-off was never followed up properly,’ he said. ‘An officer, who was also an active local politician, spoke to Clausen. Arnt Eikanger. He’s now the fourth candidate on the Labour Party list in Akershus and almost assured of a place in Parliament. I spoke to him yesterday. He personally vouched for Clausen.’

  Mortensen got to his feet and found one of the visitors’ books from the cabin. ‘That name’s familiar,’ he said, starting to leaf through the book. ‘He’s been a frequent visitor to Clausen’s cabin. The latest visit was only a fortnight ago. They’re close friends.’

  ‘Is there any chance of discovering the identity of the letter writer?’ Thule asked. ‘He would be a key witness. What he actually saw could be conclusive.’

  ‘A homosexual guy from the local neighbourhood,’ Mortensen commented. ‘The tip-off was probably anonymous, because he would have had difficulty explaining what he was doing there in the first place.’

  Ama
lie had been sitting drawing pictures. Now she grew restless, and Line put her down. Wisting could see that his daughter was racking her brains.

  ‘He could just have sent the letter anonymously to the local police station, though,’ she said. ‘Instead he sent it to the Director General.’

  Wisting waited for her to continue.

  ‘It could be that he didn’t trust the local police because a close Party colleague of Bernhard Clausen worked there. Sending the tip-off to the Director General was a guarantee that it would be chased up.’

  ‘Good point,’ Stiller said. ‘We probably already have his name somewhere in the paperwork.’

  Wisting realized what his reasoning implied: ‘He might have been interviewed by Arnt Eikanger but didn’t feel he could mention Bernhard Clausen.’

  ‘Or even worse,’ Stiller said, ‘he told him but it wasn’t recorded and he realized it wouldn’t be followed up.’

  ‘Let’s start there,’ Wisting said. ‘Make a list of all the witnesses who were interviewed by Arnt Eikanger or were in contact with him by some other means.’

  He turned towards Stiller. ‘You’ve brought the case documents with you?’

  ‘I have them here,’ Stiller said, producing a memory stick from his shirt pocket. ‘Everything’s been scanned using OCR. All the text is searchable.’

  ‘I can take a look at that,’ Line said, stretching out her hand. Stiller hesitated for a moment before tossing the memory stick across to her. ‘Are the null-and-void documents there too?’ she asked.

  ‘Everything,’ he assured her, before turning to Mortensen. ‘Shall we go?’

  40

  When the courier from the Party office arrived just before noon, Wisting signed for the parcel and opened it. It contained Bernhard Clausen’s laptop and a bundle of papers.

  Setting the computer down in Mortensen’s place so that he could examine it on his return, he took the manuscript across to an armchair.

  It was quiet in the house. Line had taken Amalie and gone home to work on the Gjersjø case, while Audun Thule was continuing his task of gathering updated intelligence on the current robbery suspects.

  The manuscript, obviously unfinished, consisted of around 250 pages of well-spaced lines.

  Although it lacked a title, it was introduced by a quotation from the French philosopher Jean-Paul Sartre about humankind being condemned to be free.

  I claim that freedom for myself, he went on to write on the next page, quoting the Norwegian writer Jens Bjørneboe: That is where the secret of the essence of freedom lies. You claim it for yourself. No one grants us freedom – we have to claim it for ourselves.

  The text contained nothing about Bernhard Clausen’s private life. He wrote about contemporary political issues, and how he was disillusioned with current Labour Party ideals. As Wisting continued reading, it became clear that Clausen had held neo-liberal views and had nurtured a growing mistrust of social democracy.

  The reasons for Clausen’s political shift to the right were not given, but much of what he wrote was surprising and would cause quite a storm if it were ever published.

  Wisting got to his feet, stretched his legs a little and spoke about the book’s content to Thule. ‘For instance, he writes that we need more wealthy people and that he would get rid of wealth tax,’ he said. ‘He believes increased private capital will create more jobs and employment.’

  ‘Maybe that’s how you start to think when you’ve got 80 million kroner lying in your cabin,’ Thule replied.

  With a smile, Wisting returned to the manuscript. At first he had to agree with Walter Krom. There was nothing here that impinged on the investigation but, all the same, there was something in Thule’s comment. Something had made Bernhard Clausen change his fundamental political beliefs, and it looked as if that had happened after he had got his hands on the money.

  41

  Stiller drove up beside Mortensen’s CSI van and stepped out. He had never visited the location where Simon Meier had gone missing and had only seen the old pump house in photographs.

  As he slammed the car door behind him, the wind rustled through the foliage above him and a flock of birds twittered in the treetops.

  Having donned the obligatory white overalls, Mortensen tossed him a pair of shoe covers. Stiller pulled these on and followed the crime scene technician up to the door. The key was in an envelope. Mortensen took it out and remarked how thoughtless it had been of Wisting to use engine oil, since it would have erased any possible DNA traces.

  It slid easily into the lock, but the hinges protested loudly when he yanked the door open. Stiller waited while Mortensen set up a spotlight on a tripod and connected it to a battery in his van.

  He could see footprints in the dust and dirt on the floor, presumably Wisting’s. The prints led across to an open door at the far end of the room and then on to a steel hatch in the concrete floor.

  Mortensen remained standing beside the spotlight, as if keen to take in every detail of the space.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Stiller asked.

  Mortensen did not respond immediately but moved further into the room. ‘This could be difficult,’ he said, without explaining what he meant.

  He went back to his van, took out a tarpaulin and a roll of tape. ‘We’ll have to cover the window,’ he said, holding up one corner of the tarpaulin.

  Stiller grabbed it and blanketed the window for Mortensen to tape up, ensuring that no sliver of daylight could slip through.

  Working with old, unsolved cases meant that Stiller rarely had the chance to watch a crime scene investigation. As a rule, he only read technical reports and looked through folders of photographs or old videotapes. However, he knew technicians could find blood even if it had dried, been scrubbed or painted over. The process itself was simple – they used a sensitive chemical solution that glows in the dark when it comes into contact with blood. If blood were found here, a DNA analysis would reveal whether or not it came from Simon Meier.

  Mortensen returned to his van and brought back a spray bottle. ‘We’ll give it a go,’ he said.

  They headed inside again. Mortensen put on a pair of protective goggles, crouched down and shook the bottle. A fine jet sprayed out from the nozzle and settled on the floor and the nearest pipes. ‘OK, then,’ he said, straightening up. ‘Turn off the light.’

  Stiller pulled out the plug on the spotlight, plunging the room into darkness. A few speckles on the moistened area glimmered with a fluorescent blue light.

  Stiller was impressed by the sheer simplicity and effectiveness of the process.

  ‘I was afraid of that,’ Mortensen said.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Stiller asked, turning on the light again.

  ‘Luminol reacts to the iron in red blood cells,’ Mortensen explained. ‘That means it also reacts to rust.’

  Stiller looked around. ‘What do we do, then?’

  ‘I’ll have to collect samples and have each and every one of them analysed,’ Mortensen said. ‘It’s going to take time, both the collection and the analysis.’

  ‘I see,’ Stiller replied. ‘Can you handle it on your own? I have something else I need to attend to.’

  In response to Mortensen’s nod, Stiller waved his hand in thanks and left. The branches in the dense forest on both verges of the gravel track scraped the sides of his car as he drove out. Once back on the main road, he took a left turn.

  He had been ready to return the Gjersjø case with no recommendation to reopen it when Line Wisting had contacted him. He had been through the case files without finding anything to work on. Reinvestigation of cold cases was often triggered by technical evidence, but the Gjersjø case had yielded nothing, until now.

  He checked the time and picked up speed.

  The other potential trigger was someone who knew something beginning to talk. He had always said that resolving an old case was a matter of the right person coming forward. But what if the right person had already spoken to so
meone unwilling to listen?

  The trip from Gjersjø lake to Ski took fifteen minutes. Parking beneath a Strictly No Parking sign, he peered through the side window at the entrance to the Storsenter shopping mall. A number of political parties had set up stalls and were handing out election leaflets to passers-by. He spotted Arnt Eikanger, dressed in a red T-shirt, speaking to an elderly woman.

  Stiller waited until he was free before emerging from his car to approach him. On spotting him, Eikanger looked uncomfortable. He handed a red rose to a man of similar age before trying to engage him in conversation, but the man walked on.

  Stiller accepted a rose from a Party colleague before accosting Eikanger.

  ‘You again,’ Eikanger said, with a nod.

  ‘I have another question for you,’ Stiller told him.

  ‘Here?’ Eikanger asked. ‘I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘One question,’ Stiller insisted. ‘It won’t take long.’

  Without waiting for a response, he said: ‘You interviewed nineteen men in connection with the Gjersjø inquiry. Did any of them mention Bernhard Clausen’s name?’

  ‘Haven’t you read the documents?’ Eikanger asked.

  ‘I know what they say,’ Stiller said. ‘What I asked was whether any of them said anything about Bernhard Clausen.’

  Arnt Eikanger opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘Think carefully,’ Stiller told him, before he had a chance to say anything. ‘I’m considering asking all nineteen of them the same question.’

  Eikanger closed his mouth again and smiled to a woman passing by. ‘It was years ago,’ he said. ‘I can’t remember now.’

  It was a liar’s easiest answer.

  ‘You and Bernhard Clausen were close acquaintances,’ Stiller said. ‘You were friends. Wouldn’t you remember if his name had cropped up in an interview?’

  ‘You said you had one question,’ Eikanger said. ‘It’s been answered.’

  ‘Vegard Skottemyr,’ Stiller said. ‘I’m speaking to him first of all.’

  Eikanger turned his back on him and continued handing out election pamphlets. Stiller headed back to his car. He had drawn up a list of the nineteen men Eikanger had interviewed. Although there was no guarantee that the anonymous letter writer would be among them, Eikanger’s reaction had reinforced his belief in what had happened.