The Cabin

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘You’re going to film our staff inside his room, while they’re working?’ the charge nurse queried.

  Stiller fixed his eyes on her. ‘Is that a problem?’

  He received no answer.

  ‘There will be a rota,’ he continued. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow morning to be here in person.’

  The lawyer held up her hand in warning. ‘Wait a minute,’ she said. ‘It seems as if you’re using the patient as a kind of bait. Do we have any guarantee that no one will be injured?’

  Wisting glanced at her. She was sharp, he thought, and should really use her legal expertise somewhere other than the local-government sector.

  ‘I can’t guarantee anything if we don’t take appropriate measures,’ Stiller objected. ‘As I said, we’re talking about a very short period of time until the situation is cleared up.’

  Line phoned again. Wisting excused himself and stepped out into the corridor to answer.

  ‘It’s me,’ Line said.

  Wisting could discern a note of desperation in her voice.

  ‘Has something happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Someone has stolen my laptop,’ Line told him.

  ‘Where did this happen?’

  ‘In the street, after I’d been to the National Library. A man in a motorbike helmet and gloves came along, grabbed my bag, took my laptop and then jumped on a motorbike.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘A few scratches,’ Line said, pausing for a moment before adding: ‘I don’t think it was random. I think it has to do with the investigation.’

  ‘Have you phoned the police?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘This was a robbery, Line. You have to report it.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘In my car, in a street down from the National Library.’

  ‘I’m in Oslo, too,’ Wisting told her. ‘I’ll come to you.’

  They ended their conversation and Wisting returned to the others. ‘We have to go,’ he said.

  Thule and Stiller got to their feet. ‘We’re finished here anyway,’ Stiller said, with a nod. He checked the time and turned to the manager: ‘Our people will be here in an hour.’

  None of the three women had any further comment to make.

  ‘What’s up?’ Thule asked when the door closed behind them.

  ‘Line’s been attacked,’ Wisting said. ‘Someone stole her laptop. She’s down at the National Library.’

  He rushed out ahead of them and jumped into the car. Stiller directed him through a short cut while Wisting told them what he knew. A police patrol vehicle was parked behind Line’s car when they arrived and a police officer with a notepad and recorder was taking her statement. A woman in uniform scanned the ground.

  Wisting hung the lanyard with his police ID around his neck before he stepped out. Thule and Stiller followed suit.

  The officer taking the statement looked as if he had finished. Thrusting the recorder into his pocket, he turned to face them. His gaze rested on their police IDs.

  ‘I think we have everything under control here,’ he said in a quizzical tone.

  ‘I hope so,’ Stiller said. He lifted his police ID from his chest. ‘Adrian Stiller, Kripos,’ he said. ‘She’s one of us,’ he added, with a nod in Line’s direction.

  ‘A colleague?’ the policeman asked, turning towards her.

  Line shook her head. Wisting approached her, held her by the shoulders and pulled her towards him.

  ‘She’s working with us as a special adviser,’ Stiller clarified. ‘She was on duty when she was attacked.’

  The policewoman who had examined the ground where the attack had taken place now joined them.

  ‘I suggest you call out the crime division,’ Stiller suggested. ‘They’ll be able to gather all the CCTV footage in the vicinity. One of the cameras might have caught the motorbike.’

  ‘Is this linked to the case you’re working on?’ the police officer asked.

  ‘We can’t exclude that possibility,’ Stiller replied.

  ‘Bag-snatching isn’t uncommon,’ the policewoman commented.

  ‘On this particular occasion, it’s an unusual occurrence,’ Stiller said.

  He fumbled in his inside pocket. ‘Here’s my card,’ he said, handing it to the policeman. ‘I’d like you to let me know if you track down the motorbike.’

  The policeman took it. ‘We’re finished here,’ he said.

  Stiller turned to Line. ‘We’ll take your car,’ he said, meaning himself and Thule. ‘You can go with your father.’

  Line gratefully handed over her keys. Wisting appreciated Stiller’s quick thinking but refrained from saying anything.

  ‘This might have nothing to do with the case,’ Thule said. ‘But we have to take it into consideration. It means we have a different situation now. The stakes have been raised.’

  Stiller agreed. ‘But all the same, we’re the ones who make the rules,’ he added.

  52

  The chairs scraped across the floor when they drew them up to the table in the basement at Wisting’s house. Line sat at one end. A headache was brewing and she felt how swollen the left side of her face was where the punches had landed.

  Espen Mortensen had also arrived and he was keen to know how anyone could have traced her. ‘How did they find you?’ he asked.

  ‘I think someone may have followed me from the petrol station,’ Line answered, explaining her encounter with Kim Werner Pollen. ‘I think he may have been the inside man at the airport.’

  ‘But how could they know you were working on the case?’

  Line had spent her time in the car on the way home from Oslo reflecting on the various possibilities. ‘Someone I’ve spoken to must have been directly involved in the airport robbery, or else Henriette must have mentioned me to her informer.’

  She had forwarded the pictures she took of the interview with Aleksander Kvamme to her father and now used his iPad to show them to the others.

  ‘But surely that also puts her in danger,’ Thule pointed out. ‘Have you spoken to her today?’

  Line shook her head. ‘I was trying to get hold of her when I was attacked.’

  ‘Try again,’ Stiller instructed.

  Line took out her phone. It rang, but there was still no answer.

  ‘Wouldn’t she have phoned you back when she missed your call?’ Stiller asked. ‘It’s been more than two hours since you tried.’

  Line wrote a brief message asking Henriette to call her. ‘She might be busy with something,’ she said, but realized that she felt troubled. ‘How much can I say when I speak to her?’

  ‘We have to warn her,’ her father said. ‘You can tell her a police source has told you that Aleksander Kvamme is a suspect in the robbery investigation.’

  ‘That’s not a problem,’ Thule agreed. ‘Who else have you spoken to about the robbery?’

  ‘No one,’ Line answered. ‘I’ve just been talking about Simon Meier.’

  Mortensen sat back in his chair and tried to summarize: ‘So if the attack has something to do with the case, we don’t really know whether “the case” is the airport robbery or the missing-person investigation?’

  ‘They’re both connected,’ Thule pointed out.

  ‘Who have you spoken to about the missing-person case?’ Stiller asked.

  Line had drawn up a list, but it was not a lengthy one. In addition to Henriette, there was Simon’s brother, Kjell Meier, and the officer in charge of the original investigation, Ulf Lande.

  ‘The only outsiders were Tommy Pleym and Kim Werner Pollen,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll take a closer look at them,’ Thule told her.

  Just then, Stiller received a phone call, got to his feet and headed outside.

  ‘You’ve spoken to people about Bernhard Clausen as well?’ Mortensen asked.

  ‘Only people in the Party,’ Line replied. ‘Edel Holt and Guttorm Hellevik. I also have an appointment wit
h Trygve Johnsrud on Wednesday.’

  Audun Thule stood up. ‘I have to get back to my hotel,’ he said. ‘But all things considered, this could benefit the investigation. These people have been lying low for years, believing that both the robbery and the missing-person case have been forgotten. Once we started rooting around, we scared them out. That’s good. People like that are always easier to catch when they’re on the move.’

  Having finished his phone conversation, Stiller returned. ‘It was from Halden prison,’ he explained. ‘Harnes, the lawyer, arrived at a quarter to four. He’s just left.’

  Thule looked at his watch. ‘Almost three hours,’ he commented. ‘They must have had a lot to talk about.’

  Stiller’s phone rang again. He took the call without leaving the room this time, answering, ‘Yes,’ and ‘OK,’ before he finished. ‘The undercover detectives are in place,’ he told them, referring to the nursing home at Abildsø. ‘The cameras have been installed. They’re wireless. We can watch from here, if we like.’

  ‘I have to pick up Amalie,’ Line said, pushing her chair away from the table. Her father offered to do that for her. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she insisted.

  Stiller returned her car keys. On the way out she visited her father’s bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The skin was blue, almost black, beside her left eye.

  Sofie and the girls were out in the garden when she arrived. Amalie ran towards her and threw her arms around her mother’s neck. Line swung her up.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Sofie asked.

  ‘I tripped,’ she said. ‘Dropped my phone and broke the screen as well.’

  Amalie pushed away from her and looked up at her face.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Line told her, kissing her daughter on the cheek.

  ‘Have you seen a doctor?’ Sofie asked. ‘You could have concussion.’

  ‘It honestly looks worse than it is,’ Line replied, smiling. ‘I think I’ll just go home and rest.’

  Sofie followed her to the car. ‘Shall I take her tomorrow, too?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t need to,’ Line answered, putting Amalie into the child seat. ‘I’m not planning on going anywhere tomorrow.’

  When they parked at home, the black cat was sitting in front of the steps, licking its fur. Amalie rushed towards it, but the cat, alarmed, leapt up and disappeared.

  As Line let herself in, it crossed her mind that she must remind her father to talk to the alarm company for her. The idea that a stranger had sneaked inside her house appeared more likely following the attack.

  For their supper she made a smoothie with yogurt and fruit. Afterwards, she gave Amalie a bath and read to her for a while before she fell asleep.

  When she sat down in front of her computer in the basement office, it dawned on her that her travel insurance might well cover the theft of her laptop. She logged into the insurance company’s website but found that she needed both confirmation from the police and the exact specifications of the stolen machine.

  There was also a function on the stolen Mac that meant she could trace its whereabouts at any time, but that depended on the laptop being connected to the Internet. She checked all the same, but nothing came up.

  She sat reading the online newspapers. Bernhard Clausen’s funeral received extensive coverage, with photographs of the well-known politicians and former ministers who had attended. Jonas Hildre had been present, representing Dagbladet. The report was followed by links to other stories, including an article about the arson attack at his cabin and the book he had been working on.

  There was also an interview with Arnt Eikanger. He spoke of Bernhard Clausen as his political mentor and talked about their friendship. The interview included pictures of Eikanger in a checked shirt, chopping wood. Other Party colleagues were also present and told of how Eikanger had filled Clausen’s shoes. It concluded with speculation as to whether he would be the country’s next Justice Minister if the Labour Party won the general election in four weeks’ time.

  53

  Amalie’s crying woke Line. The clock on the bedside table gave the time as just past 5 a.m. She cast aside the quilt and went in to see her.

  Her daughter was sitting on the bed. ‘The man,’ she said, stretching out her arms.

  Line lifted her up. ‘It was just a bad dream, sweetheart,’ she consoled her daughter, and handed her the dummy.

  Amalie buried her head in the crook of Line’s neck as her mother carried her into her own bed. Line could feel her heart hammering inside her small ribcage.

  Switching on the light above the bedside table, she snuggled up to her daughter. Amalie lay babbling behind her dummy. Line stroked her hair until she grew quiet and was breathing more evenly.

  Line lay wide awake. The motor on the fridge kicked into action and hummed steadily. A car started up somewhere and drove off. Her head ached. She got up again, took a painkiller and returned to bed. Only once the first rays of daylight began to filter through the sides of the roller blind did she finally drop off.

  When she woke again, it was nearly half past eight and her headache had dissipated. Already awake, Amalie had gone to her room to fetch some dolls and was playing happily.

  ‘We have to hurry,’ Line said. There was a meeting at her father’s house at 9 a.m.

  She let Amalie play with her dolls at the table while they ate. Then she headed to the bathroom before getting her daughter ready.

  ‘Shall we go see Grandpa?’ she asked.

  ‘Grandpa!’ Amalie yelled with delight.

  A note fell on to the steps when she opened the front door. It must have been caught in the gap between the door and the frame.

  Line felt a stab of anxiety. She picked up the paper and unfolded it. It was Amalie’s cat drawing, the one that had been pinned to the wall in her bedroom. Beneath the sketch, something was written in clumsy handwriting: Curiosity killed the cat.

  Amalie tugged at her. ‘Mummy.’

  Line looked all around as the door started to close behind her. ‘Wait,’ she said.

  She wanted to go back inside and find a plastic bag so that the drawing could be forensically examined, but as she turned, she caught sight of it. The black cat was hanging by the tail from a rope looped over the door handle. Its lips were drawn back and the teeth exposed in a deathly grimace. Something was running from its open mouth and dripping on to the steps.

  Her stomach tensed with a mixture of disgust and fear. She whirled around again.

  ‘Mummy,’ Amalie whimpered. There was nothing to suggest she had seen the dead cat.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Line said, hurriedly pushing her daughter in front of her, towards the street, without either closing or locking the door behind her. She was filled with panic but knew better than to do anything that might contaminate the scene.

  54

  Wisting stood in the doorway. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  Line looked over her shoulder. ‘There’s a dead cat hanging on my front door,’ she mouthed, gasping for breath.

  Wisting stepped aside and let his daughter and grandchild move inside. ‘What did you say?’ he asked as he closed the door behind them.

  Line handed him the sheet of paper: Curiosity killed the cat.

  ‘The cat,’ Line explained in a whisper. ‘The one Amalie’s been playing with. Someone has killed it.’

  Espen Mortensen and Audun Thule appeared from the basement and Wisting showed them the drawing.

  ‘Yesterday’s attack wasn’t random, then,’ Thule said. ‘They wanted to know what you’d found out, and now they’re scared you might dig up more.’

  ‘I just left the house,’ Line told them. ‘The door’s still open and the cat’s hanging there.’

  ‘Mortensen will take care of it,’ Wisting said. Mortensen nodded and made for the door.

  ‘Have you spoken to the security company?’ Line asked. ‘I need that alarm. The drawing was on the wall in Amalie’s bedroom. Someone’s been inside my house. In
Amalie’s room.’

  Mortensen’s CSI van started up outside. Wisting carefully laid aside the sketch. ‘I’ll phone them,’ he reassured her. ‘But until then I think you and Amalie should move in here with me.’

  Line made no protest.

  Wisting picked up his granddaughter. ‘We’ll go upstairs,’ he said, locking the basement door.

  ‘When did that drawing disappear?’ Thule asked, once they were seated at the kitchen table.

  ‘It must have been on Saturday,’ Line answered, ‘while Amalie and I were at the play park. When I got home, the door wasn’t locked.’

  She turned to face her father. ‘You said you’d seen a man come out of my driveway.’

  Wisting nodded. He had noticed him behind Line’s parked car. When he emerged, he had turned right and walked down the street. The man had been dressed in dark clothing: that was all he could say about him.

  ‘In that case, it was before you’d spoken to Kim Werner Pollen?’ Thule asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve checked on Tommy Pleym as well,’ Thule continued. ‘It can’t have been him. He’s been in hospital since Sunday.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I don’t know yet,’ Thule replied. ‘I got it from a message on the operations log. It’s coded as a violent crime, with him as the victim, but I haven’t spoken to the investigator yet.’

  ‘I must get hold of Henriette,’ Line said. ‘She may be even more at risk than I am.’ She grabbed her phone. ‘She’s still not answering,’ she said, removing the phone from her ear. ‘Can you check police records and see if anything has happened to her?’

  They sat in a huddle at the kitchen table. Wisting took out his iPad and logged on to the search tool.

  ‘Henriette Koppang,’ Line reminded him.

  Wisting keyed in the name, confining the search to the last seven days. No result.

  ‘Is there anyone else you can call?’ he asked. ‘Someone who knows her?’

  Line shook her head.

  ‘I can find her parents,’ Wisting suggested, opening the population register.