by D C Macey
‘Have we been watching him? Watching his office? What’s been happening? Did we inform the church folk that he was out?’ said Wallace. The team shuffled, but all noted the use of we. Wallace was slipping back into harness. For all his shouting, it was clear from the team’s demeanour that they were glad he was back. In his absence, and for whatever reason, the powers that be had destroyed the case. Wallace was the man to bring some sanity to the situation.
‘We’ve been told not to bother the suspect again, boss. That includes his office and staff. If any new evidence comes to light we have to run it past the police HQ and the fiscal’s office before doing anything.’
‘I see. Well they can stuff that for starters. And again, did we inform those people from the church that he’s been set free?’
The team remained silent as Grant shook his head slowly. Noting the signal, Wallace growled and purposefully walked across to the battered wastepaper basket; he retrieved it and placed it back beside his desk. Stepping back, he took a run up to the basket and kicked it as hard as he could. It flew, hit the ceiling, the wall and finally stopped behind the door.
‘Whatever you do, whatever you don’t do, never leave the civilian population exposed, ever. Protecting them is our first and last task. Anyone who can’t buy into that get out of this office now.’ He retrieved the fatally distorted wastepaper bin and placed it by his desk. It rocked gently on to its side and Wallace finally sat down. Welcome back, he thought.
‘Somebody fix me an appointment with that girl from the church, Helen, Helen Johnson, as soon as possible. Somebody get me headquarters on the phone. Somebody, I want a coffee. And Grant, call DS Brogan, tell him I need him to be fully recovered by tomorrow, regardless. The rest of you look lively, this isn’t over, not by a long shot. Get on top of whatever else you’re working on, and then get the decks cleared. Let’s be ready to act if, when, things happen.’
• • •
There was a fast train link to Sandefjord from Oslo’s Gardermoen Airport. She had taken a taxi - an hour’s drive, but after a transatlantic flight, it gave her a bit of privacy and some time to decompress before her meeting. Helen hardly noticed the Norwegian landscape flash by. Having first worked through her texts and messages she then turned her attention back to the coach crash that had taken Erling’s uncle, the pastor; searching the web with her smart phone to revisit the material she had viewed the day before. A cautious streak had grown inside her over the summer and it demanded she scour the available information. Anything linked to the daggers called for care. But there was nothing, it really did seem to have been a tragic accident. Finally, just as the taxi drove into Sandefjord, she put her phone away and sat back to take in the view.
The taxi swept past a big hotel and along the seafront to a huge roundabout. Turning off to the left, the taxi passed what she thought might be the town green and then the taxi slowed as it merged into a light traffic flow. It passed a mix of modern commercial buildings and older traditional properties, some of which might once have been homes. She squinted up. Perhaps above the ground level some still were.
The taxi stopped outside one of the older buildings, now a café. She got out, smiled thanks to Knut the driver. He nodded an unspoken understanding and pointed across the road to an empty parking bay. She stood and watched the car steer into the space, it stopped and Knut settled down to read his book. He was on the meter for the day - easy money.
Helen paused outside the café and for just a moment looked back at the taxi, her lifeboat if things went wrong. The cost was worth it, just in case, and anyway, she didn’t need to worry about money anymore.
She entered the café; it was clean, functional and seemed to be aimed at the quick drinks and snacks market. Low cost value. The only customer was a young man, not much more than twenty. She guessed, correctly, that he was her appointment. Helen walked across and introduced herself.
Erling was delighted to see her and insisted on buying her a drink. She settled for orange juice, thanked him and then asked for proof of his identity. He seemed surprised but after a moment produced an ID card. She looked at it closely, checked the picture and was almost satisfied.
‘Have you anything else?’
Erling looked slightly puzzled but produced a bankcard, worn from too much time in a back pocket, it was going to break soon but his name was clear enough.
Helen handed back the cards and nodded acceptance of his identity. She took a sip of orange and looked more closely at Erling. He had an open face and under other circumstances was probably fun to spend time with. But the furrow in his brow showed he had worries. He had already told her he had money problems. It showed.
‘Don’t you want to see my identity?’ she said.
Erling shrugged. ‘You’ve come to meet me. If you weren’t you, you wouldn’t be here.’
Helen was startled at the naivety of the reply. Erling was clearly an innocent. He had no idea of the danger owning such a dagger would have put him in, even just a few weeks ago. She spent a few moments exchanging small talk but it was quickly clear both parties really wanted to get down to business.
‘Well, I think we should push on. I need to see the dagger and to know how much you want for it,’ she said.
Erling lifted open the mouth of a plastic shopping bag that lay on the table beside him. Something bright glinted in the café’s electric lights. Something familiar, Helen knew exactly what it was. A tension in her stomach, the thrill of discovery, this was easy. Too easy? She leant forward slightly, looked at the point of the dagger, could clearly see the engraving, saw the Roman numeral five. That number alone was enough to convince her - they didn’t have a five yet, this was the real deal. She did not try to touch it, leant back and looked at Erling.
‘How much?’
‘500,000.’ A slight variation in his tone told her that Erling was not at all sure of its real value. She was taken aback at the scale of the request, tried not to show it. But her surprise must have leaked.
‘Kroner,’ he said, quickly. ‘Norwegian Kroner.’ Then, almost pleading. ‘The silver’s metal value is probably that alone.’
Helen fixed a non-committal expression as she nodded acknowledgement. Then she pointedly took her phone and searched out a conversion rate. Erling watched anxiously. In moments she realised he wanted less than £50,000; this was something she could manage.
‘You’re right. I might be able to manage something today, but I will need a little time,’ said Helen.
Erling looked relieved then shifted in his seat. His expression became anxious again. ‘My brother Jan owns the big ring. Will you buy that too? Same price. Cash, please.’ He pulled his clenched fist from his jacket pocket. Opened it to reveal a Templar signet ring. Helen recognised it instantly, it was identical to her own ring - she had to have it.
‘Same price? Are you sure he wants to sell it? I should meet him first.’ Helen could tell Erling was desperate for a deal, for cash. It seemed his brother was too. She reflected that she could easily have haggled the price down, but why should she? The deal was affordable and the boys were just innocently doing the best for themselves. She might even have been tempted to pay a bit more had they asked; after all, they were only trying to get by.
Helen left the café with an agreement to buy, a slip of paper with Erling’s address and an arrangement to meet there two hours hence. He promised his brother would be there too. In the meantime, she needed to phone Franz Brenner, her private banker in Switzerland, to confirm access to the money. Franz was custodian of her trust fund; she had inherited him from John Dearly along with the Trust. While Franz could do his bit from afar, she had Knut drive her to the local bank where she would make use of the local banking connection Franz had established for her.
When she reached the bank, the manager was polite, almost deferential.
‘Please, call me Oskar,’ he said. ‘I understand you are a very valued customer of our friends in Switzerland. Please, my office is your office. Wha
tever you need, just ask.’ He whisked her past the serving counters and into his private office, fine coffee and delightful pastries following directly behind. Then he left her to do what she needed.
First, she phoned Franz who promised to contact the bank manager immediately to confirm her cash requirements. Then she took the time to call Sam. They speculated on why DCI Wallace wanted to visit her. Sam had fixed a meeting for the following afternoon. They swapped news about the epitaph engraved on the Templar gravestone and the Sandefjord dagger and ring, and looked forward to linking up later in the day.
• • •
Knut drove Helen beyond the outskirts of town. The taxi turned into a little lane, both sides of it deeply bordered with thickets of trees. The roofs of traditional houses could be seen, dotting away into the distance; spaced well enough apart to provide privacy, near enough to maintain a sense of community. They passed a smart SUV driving out of the lane and then, bang on time, the taxi pulled up outside Erling’s home. Like every other, it was neat and well presented. It was a lovely home; she could understand why Erling’s girlfriend would want to raise a family here.
There were two cars parked in the driveway, blocking access. The taxi parked in the lane at the foot of the driveway. Helen hopped out, clutching the neat little briefcase full of money she had been given at the bank. Twenty paces and she was at the front door. She tapped, received no answer.
A distant siren broke the still suburban air. She tapped harder, still no answer. Puzzled, Helen peered through the little sighting window set immediately beside the door; she could see no signs of life and wondered if Erling was round the back. Stepping off the porch, Helen started to make her way round the house. The siren was louder now, sounded like more than one vehicle.
Helen passed the front windows, paused to look in. She guessed this was a lounge, spacious, but everything was cluttered as though tossed and turned. Then she noticed there was somebody lying on the sofa, Helen tapped on the window. No response.
She looked again and tensed, peered in carefully. It was Erling and it was clear why he was not moving; he was dead. She scanned the room, and then instinctively stepped back in shock. Inside the room and immediately below the window was a second body. It lay face down, bloodstained puncture wounds across its back showing where this young man was mown down - probably making a dash for the window.
She looked again at Erling, looked more carefully. His injuries were suddenly painfully clear. A bloodied mouth. The lips broken and torn and she could clearly see dark gaps in his tooth line, gaps that had not been there that morning. The bloodied gaps that told of teeth pliered out. A little bloodstained patch on his shirt, over the heart, marked his end. Helen gritted her teeth; it had started again.
She backed away, looked about; nobody was in sight. Without another glance, she turned and walked briskly back to the taxi. The sirens were louder now. She knew exactly what they were wailing for and she had no intention of waiting. She jumped into the back of the taxi. ‘Drive. Drive on quickly.’
Knut had watched her movements closely, he could tell something was wrong and turned in his seat to face her. ‘What’s up? What did you see?’
‘Just drive, now. Quickly, we mustn’t be here.’ The pleasant voice that had so engaged Knut throughout their journey had suddenly acquired an edge. It was a leader’s voice and he was being ordered. Instinctively he obeyed.
The taxi drove further up the lane as police cars and an ambulance screeched to a halt behind them. Lights continued to pulse out warning flashes as the sirens fell silent. Looking back, Helen could see police fanning out, weapons drawn, cautiously manoeuvring into the driveway.
‘What the hell just happened back there?’ said Knut.
Helen shrugged. ‘I don’t know but there were dead people in the house, it looked like a bombsite inside.’
‘Dead people? Why didn’t we wait for the police? We should go back.’
‘No. There is nothing we can do. It happened well before we got there. We’d just be held up here for ages and get in the way of the investigation.’
Knut was not convinced, but recognised they might be held up. His home was on the other side of Oslo and he wanted to get back at a reasonable hour. Certainly, he did not want to be called all the way back here again as a witness, off the meter. He turned his attention back to the lane and started to accelerate away, then stamped hard on the brakes. ‘Hell,’ he shouted through the window. ‘Are you mad?’
Helen was thrown forward between the front passenger seat and the driver’s seat. She pulled herself back and up, and looked ahead to see what Knut was shouting at.
Standing in the middle of the road was a young woman, heavily pregnant, desperate, hands held up towards the car in a stop sign.
Knut was firing off a stream of Norwegian in the girl’s direction. Helen could understand none of it but could sense the spirit of his message. She leant forward, rested a hand on his shoulder to calm him.
‘It’s okay, Knut, nobody’s hurt. Take it easy.’
Knut pointed a finger through the windscreen and shouted again. Then he turned to Helen. ‘Take it easy is easy for you to say. It’s my livelihood, if I’d hit her I would be in trouble.’ He fell silent for a moment, breathing hard. Then he shrugged. ‘Well, I suppose nobody was hurt, but no thanks to that mad woman.’ He pointed again at the girl who had not moved and was still blocking their route. She was in distress, tear streaked, dishevelled.
‘Wait here,’ said Helen as she got out of the car.
‘Are you all right? Do you speak English?’ she said as she hurried towards the girl.
The girl sobbed and threw her arms around Helen, leaning, finding support. ‘Ja, ja, I speak English. Help me please, they have killed my boyfriend.’
Helen didn’t need to ask who her boyfriend was. ‘Come on, let’s get in the car. Take it easy now. Is the baby okay?’ She guided the girl past a scowling Knut and eased her into the back seat.
‘I think so,’ sobbed the girl. ‘Thank you.’ She glanced up at Knut who had turned to give her a closer inspection. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to anger you. But I had to stop you.’
Knut could see her distress, he softened, grunted what seemed a sign of forgiveness and turned away to look through the windscreen. ‘Well you managed that. Should I drive on?’ he asked Helen.
‘Yes, let’s go.’
‘It might be a dead-end ahead.’
The girl shook her head. ‘It’s okay, keep going. You can go this way. The lane loops round and re-joins the main road further on.’
Helen had her arm round the girl’s shoulder. ‘So, what’s your name?’ she said.
The girl was cradling her bump in her hands. Avoiding eye contact, she stared determinedly down as she replied. ‘I saw you arrive at the house, I was watching from up in the woods,’ she paused for a moment, finally looking up to make eye contact with Helen.
Helen gave an encouraging smile. ‘Why were you watching us?’
The girl’s sobs became a howl of distress as she leant into Helen’s shoulder for support. ‘I’m Laila. Erling’s girlfriend. They killed him, killed them both. You’re Helen, I know, the boys were waiting for you to buy their things. Why were they killed, who would do such a thing?’ She stopped talking, overcome with shock and grief.
‘Which way?’ said Knut as the car came to a halt where the lane rejoined the main road. He had decided it was best not to get involved in what was being said in the back of the car; best for him just to focus on the road.
‘Head back into town please. Just keep moving along,’ said Helen.
Helen turned her attention back to Laila. She knew exactly who would launch such an attack and why. But that threat was in the past - wasn’t it? They were broken, their leader locked up. So where did this attack come from?
‘Laila, concentrate, what happened back at the house? I need to know exactly.’ Helen gave Laila’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘Can you tell me?’
&
nbsp; After a little while, Laila spoke. ‘I’m not sure how it all started. I had been having a rest in the sunroom, at the back of the house, while Erling and Jan played some computer game, waiting for you. Then there was shouting and fighting, lots of men. I peaked a look through the serving hatch, maybe four men, guns,’ she shivered and sobbed again as her mind revisited the scene.
‘I heard them demanding the dagger and the boys wouldn’t tell. Jan made a break for the window and they shot him’, another heaving sob, she rubbed her swollen belly. ‘They just shot him.’
Helen pressed her hand on to the girl’s hands; it wasn’t much of a comfort, just a gesture of support. ‘What then?’
‘Erling told them the dagger was in a carrier bag, but when they looked it wasn’t there. They got really angry. You see, I had taken the dagger out of the bag and carried it through to the kitchen with me. I had decided to give it a polish, so it would be nice for you. They started to hurt him and I was afraid. So I sneaked out of the back door and hid in the woods behind. Then I called the police on my phone.’
Helen cradled the girl, supported her and felt sick inside herself. More killings, more brutality. That was all meant to be over now, in the past. She should have completed the purchase earlier when she first met Erling. He and his brother were dead because she had not moved quickly enough. And the dagger was lost. She needed to call Sam; warn him it was all starting again.
‘I told the emergency service telephonist there were armed robbers in the house, she told me to get away,’ said Laila. ‘She said the police would come quickly. I could hear screaming from inside the house, they were hurting Erling. More shots, then just silence. They left in a big black car and then you arrived.’
The taxi was driving through the town now, Knut needed instructions. Helen told him to keep driving round in the traffic flow for a little while, until Laila had settled a bit. She also needed to think, she had let a dagger slip through her fingers. Would it always be like this? Always on the back foot?