The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

  Amalie began to scream, mainly from surprise. Its claws had left two scratches on the back of one hand. Line gave Amalie her dummy and brought her into the bathroom, where she washed the wounds and applied a plaster.

  After eating, Amalie was ready for a nap. She still slept for an hour or so in the middle of the day and snuggled her head into the pillow as soon as she lay down. Line drew down the roller blind to darken the room.

  ‘Puss,’ Amalie whimpered from the bed. Line leaned over her and ran her hand across her hair. Amalie was pointing at the wall. ‘Puss,’ she repeated from behind the dummy.

  Line realized what she meant. The drawing they had made together a few days earlier was gone. All that was left was a tiny pinprick in the wall where the drawing pin had been.

  ‘Yes, where is the pussycat?’ Line asked, casting around for the drawing in case it had slid down between the bed and the wall.

  It was nowhere to be found. Amalie could not give her any explanation and soon lost interest. She turned her head to one side and found a soft corner of the quilt to rub against her face.

  Line carried the laundry into the utility room. In one of Amalie’s pockets, she found a red crayon that her daughter must have taken from the play corner in the café.

  With a sigh, she loaded the clothes into the washing machine, switched it on and headed downstairs to the office in the basement. Before she sat down, she stood staring at the noticeboard, which she had divided into two. On the left-hand side, she had hung pictures and clippings about the Gjersjø case. The right-hand side contained information about Lennart Clausen and his circle. Until now, she had failed to find any clear lines of connection between the two sides of the board.

  She still had not spoken to Rita Salvesen, the mother of Lennart’s child. Line had been unsure how to approach her. She lived in Spain and would have to be contacted by phone. It seemed contrived to call her under the pretext of the Simon Meier case. After a while, she worked out a plan.

  The phone rang for a long time before anyone answered and then a bright, cheerful voice confirmed that she was Rita Salvesen.

  Line identified herself. ‘I work as a journalist, but I’m not calling to interview you or anything,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering if you knew that Bernhard Clausen was dead?’

  A moment’s silence ensued at the other end of the line. ‘I’ve seen it in the news,’ Rita Salvesen confirmed. ‘But no one told me about it.’

  ‘You’re the only heir,’ Line went on. ‘That is to say, your daughter is.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘Why are you phoning, actually?’

  ‘I’ve been working on an article about him,’ Line explained. ‘About his life. That was how I found out about you and Lennart. They say he’s left everything to the Labour Party and that he has no heirs, that you’ve relinquished all claim.’

  ‘That’s not right,’ Rita Salvesen said, her voice sounding obviously perturbed. ‘I just saw no reason to have any contact with him after Lennart died. He and his father hardly ever spoke to each other, anyway.’

  ‘That was what I reckoned,’ Line said. ‘That was why I phoned. I wanted to assure myself that everything was being handled fairly and above board.’

  ‘What do I do now?’ Rita asked.

  ‘You can just get in touch with the district court in his home area and they’ll help you with it. But the easiest way is probably to make contact with a lawyer.’

  ‘Can you recommend anyone?’

  Line had actually written an article about the distribution of deceaseds’ estates and gave her the name of the lawyer who had helped her with it.

  ‘Why weren’t Lennart and his father on speaking terms?’ she asked.

  ‘His father was self-centred and mostly taken up with politics,’ Rita replied. ‘He was always preoccupied with helping others instead of his own family.’

  It sounded as if she was repeating something that Lennart had told her.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, for instance with Lennart’s mother. She got cancer and died. There was medicine that could have helped her, but his father thought it would show a lack of solidarity if she were to get it.’

  ‘Lack of solidarity?’

  ‘He was mainly thinking about himself, about how it would look if he, as Health Minister, changed the rules just so that his wife could live longer.’

  ‘Have you ever spoken to him?’

  ‘Not when Lennart was alive. We hadn’t been together long when he died, you see. But his father came to see us when Lena was one.’

  It sounded as if Rita was reluctant to say anything further.

  ‘Why did he come?’ Line asked, mostly to keep the conversation going.

  ‘I wondered about that, too,’ Rita answered. ‘He gave me a card with his direct number on it and said that if we needed help with anything just to get in touch. I called him a few years ago because we were going to move to Spain, and asked if I could borrow some money. He told me that wasn’t what he had meant.’

  ‘What did he mean, then?’

  ‘That he could help if we were ever seriously ill or something.’

  ‘Did you inherit anything from Lennart?’ Line asked, in an effort to close in on what she was really after.

  ‘No. He died before Lena was born.’

  ‘Did he have money?’

  Rita Salvesen gave a brief burst of laughter. ‘He didn’t even have a permanent job,’ she said. ‘But I suppose he got some money from his father.’

  ‘But he had bought himself a motorbike?’

  ‘I think he’d taken out a loan for that.’

  ‘So you didn’t get the impression that he had much money?’

  ‘No.’

  Line changed the subject before Rita Salvesen could start quizzing her about why she was asking.

  ‘On a different note,’ she said. ‘You’re from Kolbotn, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m going to write about an old missing-person case,’ Line told her. ‘Simon Meier. Do you remember him?’

  ‘He was the one that drowned?’

  ‘He disappeared near Gjersjø lake, yes,’ Line replied. ‘I’ve spoken to a number of people who grew up with him to find out how the other young people felt about someone of their own age disappearing like that.’

  ‘Are you asking me about it?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Tommy Pleym, among others.’

  ‘Tommy.’ Rita laughed when she spoke his name. ‘Surely he wasn’t too bothered about it?’

  ‘He didn’t remember much,’ Line replied.

  ‘I don’t either, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you remember the day he disappeared?’

  ‘Yes, they were searching with helicopters and all sorts, but I don’t recall anything more than that.’

  ‘That was when he was reported missing,’ Line said. ‘He went AWOL two days earlier.’

  ‘I just remember the helicopter. But Lennart knew him.’

  Line sat bolt upright and grabbed a pen. ‘Oh, how?’

  ‘They had played together when they were little, went to school together and all that. Simon lived just a few houses further along the street, but he was a bit strange. I don’t think he and Lennart had any contact after they left school.’

  That chimed with what Simon Meier’s brother had told her.

  ‘How did Lennart react when he went missing?’ Line probed.

  ‘I don’t know if he reacted in any particular way, but he did mention that he knew him.’

  ‘Was that long afterwards?’

  ‘I think it was while it was in the newspapers and they were all talking about it.’

  ‘How did he behave?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Line mulled this over for a few seconds but decided that the simplest thing would be to ask a direct question: ‘Did he say or do anything that suggested he knew what had happened to Simon Meier?’

  Rita did not react to t
he question. ‘No, but he drowned, didn’t he? That’s what they all said.’

  Line realized she would get no further with this and prepared to end the conversation. ‘Someone thought they’d seen him in Spain,’ she said, attempting to sound flippant.

  ‘Well, I’ve never seen him,’ Rita answered.

  Line had no more questions. She rounded things off and leaned back in her chair. She may not have probed particularly deeply into the relationship between Simon Meier and Lennart Clausen, but it was enough to link the two sides of her noticeboard together.

  47

  Jan Gudim was incarcerated in Halden prison. They set off at 9 a.m. to arrive there by noon. Wisting was driving, with Thule beside him, while Stiller sat in the back seat. First they reached Horten, where they took the ferry across the Oslo fjord and then the motorway down to the jail, which was located near the Swedish border.

  The prison was situated at the top of a hillside, surrounded by forest. The heather beyond the smooth, circular walls was scorched brown. Several of the pine trees on the fringes of the forest were bare and black, as if in the grip of some destructive disease.

  It was one of the most modern prisons in the country. Education, vocational training and excellent opportunities for cultural and social diversion were the tools used for rehabilitation. But the impression created in the media was not entirely correct. Several years of cutbacks and budget trimming meant that prisoners spent increasingly lengthy periods of time behind closed doors.

  They parked in an empty space at the far edge of the large car park and walked up to the entrance. Wisting rang the bell, gave their names and explained that they had an appointment with the prison governor.

  Inside, two guards were waiting for them on the other side of an X-ray machine with a metal detector. Wisting took a plastic tray from a stack, emptied his pockets and pushed it across to the guard manning the X-ray machine. The other waved him through the detector. Although the machine did not react, he had to undergo a body search all the same.

  Thule and Stiller submitted to the same process before all three were escorted to the administration block, where they had to hand in their mobile phones.

  ‘I need mine,’ Stiller said. ‘I have a case ongoing.’

  The prison guard on the other side of the glass wall protested about this breach of normal procedure, but his arguments did not prevail.

  The prison governor met them in a room equipped for monitoring the inmates. His name was engraved on a black badge fastened above his left breast pocket. E. Kallmann. They informed him about the case, without going into too much detail, and showed him the documents that gave them permission to listen in on Jan Gudim’s phone conversations.

  ‘Where does he call from?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘From the guardroom in his section.’

  ‘From which phone? Can you show us?’

  ‘Gudim is in section C, so we’ll have to go out and walk.’

  Wisting gave him a nod.

  Kallmann led them out of the building, through a small grove of trees, towards another building further inside the area.

  The prison was divided into separate building complexes. Kallmann explained that the idea behind this was to re-create everyday life, with prisoners moving from their residence to their employment and a separate activities space. It was intended to give them a perspective of time and place.

  ‘Can he see us?’ Thule asked, glowering at the two-storey building.

  The prison governor shook his head. ‘His living quarters are at the rear,’ he said.

  They let themselves in through a series of doors and walked along grey corridors with linoleum floors that squeaked under their shoes. They could hear some of the prisoners from another section hammering on metal and concrete. A shout reached them, muffled by locked doors and zigzag corridors.

  The prison governor stopped in front of a cubicle and pointed at a cordless phone on a charger. ‘They can either ring from here, or take the phone with them into their cell.’

  ‘And when you’re monitoring the calls?’ Stiller asked. ‘How does that work?’

  ‘From an extension in the guardroom,’ Kallmann explained. ‘The conversation is set up from there.’

  He nodded towards the adjacent room. Its glass walls looked out into the common areas. A prison guard was seated in front of a computer with the phone on the table beside him.

  The three detectives exchanged looks. ‘That won’t work,’ Thule said.

  ‘Is there somewhere else we can sit and listen in?’ Wisting asked.

  The prison governor shook his head. ‘Gudim doesn’t have phone time until tomorrow evening,’ he told them.

  ‘Can he phone someone if something important crops up?’

  Kallmann smiled. ‘You’re in a prison now,’ he said. ‘He can call his lawyer or the public authorities, and those are conversations we’re not allowed to monitor.’

  ‘I need the number of that phone,’ Stiller said, pointing into the cubicle.

  The prison governor nodded. He let himself into the guardroom, spoke to the guard sitting there and emerged clutching a note of the phone number.

  Stiller took out his mobile phone. Kallmann raised his eyebrows but handed over the note and the number without a word and Stiller keyed it in. Shortly afterwards, the phone in the cubicle began to ring.

  ‘OK,’ Stiller said. ‘We just need a guarantee that this is the phone he’s going to use and that some other guard doesn’t let him borrow his office.’

  ‘I’ll let my staff know,’ Kallmann assured them.

  He ushered them out of the building. On their way back to the administration building, Stiller called his colleagues at Kripos to action formal phone surveillance. ‘Up and running in half an hour,’ he said after ringing off.

  Stiller and Thule were the ones who would conduct the interview. Wisting would watch via a monitor in the adjacent control room and observe through a one-way mirror. They received instructions about how they could contact the guard on duty when they were finished and spent a little time activating the video equipment before asking for Gudim to be brought in.

  Wisting waited in the side room. He could hear everything they said, but they could not hear him.

  Stiller flicked through to a blank page in his notebook. Thule had his notes collected in a folder. They had devised a detailed plan but were also prepared to improvise.

  Almost ten minutes passed before the door opened. A guard nodded at the two officers and moved a metre or so into the room to check that everything was as it should be. Then he stepped aside and let Gudim enter.

  He was tall and broad-shouldered with taut facial muscles.

  Stiller and Thule stood up and gave their names without offering handshakes.

  Gudim stepped forward to the empty chair but waited until the guard had left the room before he sat down.

  ‘I haven’t anything to say to you,’ he said, leaning his arms on the table in front of him.

  This opening remark was anticipated. Wisting had heard it many times before.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Stiller assured him. ‘We can do the talking, but it’s important that you listen.’

  The man opposite didn’t say a word.

  ‘I work with a group at Kripos dealing with old, unsolved cases,’ Stiller went on. ‘Audun Thule is an inspector with Romerike police district,’ he added with a gesture to one side. ‘In 2003 he was responsible for the investigation of a robbery at Gardermoen airport.’

  It was difficult to see on the monitor, but it seemed that a muscle twitched on Gudim’s face.

  ‘The case has been taken up again because part of the stolen money has been found,’ Thule explained.

  He drew a picture from his folder and pushed it across the table. The previous evening, they had gained access to Mrs Tvedt’s apartment, which had lain empty since her death. Placing one of the boxes of cash at the bottom of a wardrobe, they had taken photographs of it.

  ‘There�
�s a total of 650,000 British pounds,’ Stiller said.

  ‘Along with the money, we found this,’ Thule continued, putting down the picture of the torn-off cable with the jack plug attached. ‘That’s from the lead for earplugs on a walkie-talkie radio,’ he clarified. ‘Oscar Tvedt’s DNA profile was found on it.’

  He laid down the report from the DNA database.

  ‘You know him,’ Stiller said. ‘You were arrested together in 2002.’

  They had discussed the possibility of the conversation going two ways from this point onwards. Either Gudim would put a stop to it there and then, in order to speak to his lawyer, or he would come up with some kind of explanation.

  Gudim cleared his throat.

  ‘Oscar was a radio officer in the Telemark battalion,’ he said. ‘He worked on that sort of thing. Bought damaged equipment, tinkered with it, repaired it and sold it on. It could well be that he’s had his fingers on it, but that doesn’t mean he robbed the plane.’

  ‘This photo was taken in Else Tvedt’s home,’ Thule said, pointing at the money. ‘Oscar’s mother. She died not long ago.’

  These were rehearsed sentences. Wisting liked them. Their backs were covered if they had to play the recording of this interview at some future time.

  On screen, Gudim turned away from the two investigators, as if he regretted having said anything at all.

  ‘Together with the cash, we also found something interesting,’ Stiller went on.

  He put down a picture of the key. They had agreed not to say anything more. As far as Jan Gudim was concerned, the photo would reinforce the seriousness of the situation.

  ‘Have you spoken to Oscar Tvedt lately?’ Thule asked instead.

  This question would create the impression that Oscar Tvedt was sufficiently recovered to be capable of holding a conversation.

  ‘He stays at the Abildsø Nursing Home now, near Østensjø lake,’ Stiller added. ‘He’s still in a wheelchair, but he’s doing well.’

  ‘We’re meeting his lawyer again on Wednesday,’ Thule said, as he began to pack up the papers. This was not a lie either. Frida Strand acted as Oscar Tvedt’s guardian and Thule had made an appointment with her.