Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  She skimmed the brief article, noting that it did not add much more factual information than the hurried message from NTB. The police were unforthcoming, and the VG Nett online newspaper would provide further details later.

  She checked the other newspapers. Dagbladet had illustrated their report with a map, while Aftenposten was text only. As far as content was concerned, neither of them had any details to add.

  Line had been employed at Verdens Gang for just over two years, but during this short tenure she had won several journalistic awards. She could not conceive of doing any other kind of work. It had become more than a source of income for her. Being a journalist was her way of life. Envisioning the busy editorial office, she felt pleased she had just taken some time off. She enjoyed working on such cases, but at present had too much on her mind.

  A car door slammed in the street and she crossed to the window to look. The streetlamps swayed in the wind, and the asphalt three floors below was running with water though the rain had at last subsided.

  Tommy had parked in an empty space directly opposite their block of flats. Standing beside the car, he fumbled in his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes before selecting one. His clean-cut features glowed as he lit up. His mobile phone rang in his trouser pocket and he hurried to answer, gesturing with his hand as he spoke. When he glanced up she withdrew slightly from the window.

  Line collected her cup and plate from the coffee table and carried them to the kitchen as Tommy let himself in. He smiled when he caught sight of her. ‘Haven’t you gone to bed?’ he asked.

  She shook her head, avoiding his speckled brown eyes. Something still stirred inside her when he entered, but she had made her decision and would let common sense triumph.

  He attempted to give her a quick kiss, but she turned away to avoid the tobacco smell. Laughing at her, he threw his leather jacket on a chair. Underneath he was wearing only a tight white T-shirt that was stretched around his upper arms.

  Opening the fridge, he helped himself to a beer before producing an opener from the drawer and leaving it lying on the worktop together with the bottle top. The taut sinews in his neck stood out as he drank. ‘How did dinner with your father go?’ he asked, leaning against the kitchen worktop. ‘Did it taste good?’

  Taking a deep breath, Line carefully enunciated the sentence that had been waiting, ready, inside her head, for some time. ‘This isn’t working anymore.’

  He stared at her in surprise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re hardly ever home, and I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing.’

  ‘I’m running a restaurant.’

  ‘You’re hardly ever there either. I don’t know what you’re doing. I don’t know your friends or the people you spend time with.’

  ‘You haven’t been particularly interested in getting to know them either.’ His Danish accent was more noticeable when he was riled.

  Line flung out her arms expressively. ‘The ones I have met I haven’t been especially interested in getting to know better,’ she admitted. ‘But that’s not the point.’

  ‘What is the point?’

  ‘The two of us. Don’t you see that we’re drifting apart?’

  ‘That’s not only my fault. I don’t always know when you’re home either. You’re sometimes away for days on an assignment.’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘And Shazam Station is my job. I’m doing it for us, you know, even though I’m not paid for every hour I’m there.’

  ‘For us? What do we have to show for it? There aren’t any profits. You’re living in my flat and driving around in my car.’ She grabbed the bottle top from the counter and hurled it into the rubbish bin. ‘You don’t contribute much at all.’

  He set down the bottle and stepped towards her. ‘It will get better,’ he said, making a move to embrace her.

  She wriggled free. She had heard him say that too many times before.

  The first six months with Tommy had been ecstatic. She hardly ate, hardly slept, and every hour away from him had felt like a meaningless waste of time. She was head over heels in love, and the protestations of her girlfriends were simply irritating. Kaja, one of Line’s best friends from the newspaper, had appeared at the flat one evening, clutching a bottle of wine, full of good intentions. After a couple of glasses, Kaja delivered pragmatic advice together with remarks about Tommy’s background, his lack of education, his family relationships. She thought it obvious that he was not a suitable life partner for Line. The evening had ended with Line showing her the door, offended by her lack of faith in her, and more certain than before of her love for Tommy.

  Now the intensity of their love had diminished she reluctantly had to admit that Kaja had a point. Lack of education and a few mistakes in his past were not in themselves problematic, but it felt as though large parts of Tommy’s life were hidden from her, and in recent months anxiety had overwhelmed her happiness. A week earlier she had done something she could have sworn she would never do and checked Tommy’s text messages when he was in the shower.

  Trembling, she had scrolled through his inbox, searching for answers to the questions that troubled her night and day, but had emerged none the wiser. She had found no sign of infidelity, only business appointments and innocuous messages from people involved in Shazam Station. Afterwards, she had felt ashamed, and the only way she was able to forget her disgrace and disquiet was to lose herself in Tommy’s arms.

  She completely recognised how clichéd her situation was, but that did not improve matters. Accustomed to being in control of her life, even after her mother’s death she had understood who she was and what was right for her. However, she was now on the verge of disintegrating and needed to be alone for a while, to renew contact with old girlfriends, go for walks, take exercise, and discover what kind of life she really wanted. In Tommy’s company she lived from day to day; she had adopted his habits, and it was becoming clear that this was not the route to a harmonious life. She was robust, but needed some measure of predictability at home. As her job was full of surprising twists and turns and grotesque assignments, she needed to feel secure with her nearest and dearest, but she did not feel even safe with Tommy. He held his cards too close to his chest, communicated physically rather than verbally, seemed troubled and restless but refused to concede that something was worrying him.

  ‘This isn’t working anymore,’ she repeated.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The two of us,’ she said, pointing from him to herself. ‘I no longer know if this is what I want.’

  He did not speak, but simply continued to stand, clasping the beer bottle he had picked up again, clutching it to his chest as he looked at her.

  ‘I need some time to myself,’ she declared.

  This was a tentative method of articulating her intentions. Nevertheless she noticed a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes. She gave all her thoughts expression through words and once they were set free, they continued to spill out. She had to make a determined effort to remain calm.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘Maybe that’s the problem, she suggested.

  He was about to say something, but was interrupted by a signal from his mobile phone. He read the message and glanced up at her. ‘Can we talk about this tomorrow?’ he asked, putting down the beer bottle.

  ‘Are you going out again?’

  ‘There are some problems down at Shazam,’ he said, lifting his jacket. ‘They need me.’

  She wanted to say that she needed him too, but that was no longer true. ‘I won’t be here when you come back,’ she said instead.

  He sighed, continuing to stand with his jacket in his hand. ‘Can’t we discuss this?’

  ‘I’ve said all I’ve got to say. I’m going home for a while.’

  ‘What is it you want, then?’

  ‘I want you to come back and pack your belongings, and find yourself somewhere else to stay.’ She stood with
her arms folded as Tommy continued to stare at her. Then he lowered his head, turned on his heel and left.

  9

  Just before six o’clock Wisting leaned back in his office chair and closed his eyes. He had gathered his strength like this many times before, and knew that a doze of only half an hour would put him in better shape for the rest of the day. He drifted into sleep but was wakened twenty minutes later by a knock at the door. Straightening up, he cleared his throat and greeted Christine Thiis.

  The newly appointed Assistant Chief of Police sat at the opposite side of his desk, looking intently at him. Her state of mind was always revealed by her eyes. Open and straightforward, her eyes were like those of an intelligent child, eager to learn.

  ‘How are the children?’ Wisting asked before she had broken the silence.

  For a moment it appeared that she had not understood his question, and then she smiled, ‘They’re fine. Fast asleep. My mother’s arrived and will stay for the weekend. Next week too, if necessary.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  In the four months she had been with them Christine Thiis had never mentioned the children’s father. All they knew was that he was a corporate lawyer in Oslo, but there was never any suggestion of the children staying with him. Wisting had the impression that her former marriage was something she did not want to discuss, as though it comprised only unhappy memories she would prefer to forget.

  ‘How are things going here?’ she asked.

  Wisting stroked his chin. ‘Situation normal: complex and confusing.’

  Apprehension appeared in her eyes, and it dawned on him that she had never previously participated in such an investigation. ‘It’s always like this in the beginning,’ he said. ‘Gradually we get a grip on things.’

  He clarified the overnight developments in the case, letting his eyes slide over her instead of meeting her penetrating gaze. Her hair was short and chestnut-coloured with unruly curls. She had soft and generous lips and her nose was sprinkled with freckles. He suddenly felt that he had lost concentration, struck by an abrupt, involuntary thought about what type of man could let her go, before continuing his report and concluding with the discovery of the bullet wounds in the murder victim.

  ‘Have we any theories?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Wisting answered. ‘This early in the case all we have are speculations.’

  ‘But you must have some thoughts about what might have happened?’

  Wisting considered the implications of her question. Building a case on mere speculation was like pouring sand into your petrol tank, the road to ruin. ‘What is obvious, of course, is that there’s some connection between the burglaries at the cottages and the murder. It will all become much simpler once we establish the identity of the victim.’

  ‘And when do we get to know that?’

  ‘That can take time. The post mortem will begin in a couple of hours. We’ll have people from the ID group at Kripos joining us there. They’ll start by undressing him. As soon as we have a picture of the face behind the balaclava, we’ll know a great deal more, but it’s far from certain that it’ll tell us anything valuable. He won’t necessarily be someone already known to us. He may not even be Norwegian. If we’re lucky he’ll have an ID card of some description, or something else in his pockets that takes us further. If we’re really lucky, his details will be in the fingerprint register. Then we’ll have our answers before this day is done.’

  Christine Thiis stood up. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘When are you meeting with the investigators?’

  Wisting glanced at the clock. ‘In half an hour. In the conference room.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you there.’ The Assistant Chief of Police stepped towards the door.

  ‘There’s one thing more,’ Wisting called after her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The prosecutor’s responsibilities also include liaison with the media.’ Christine Thiis nodded with what Wisting thought was a trace of uncertainty. ‘A press conference has been arranged for ten o’clock.’

  ‘You’ll accompany me, I hope?’

  ‘Yes.’ Wisting smiled. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  A few minutes before seven, the investigators gathered in the conference room. Wisting paid a visit to the toilet, where he splashed his face with cold water and looked at his reflection in the mirror for several seconds. His pale face was swollen, his hair untidy and his eyes fixed. Tearing a paper towel from the holder, he dried himself before tossing the paper in the bin and leaving to join his colleagues.

  Someone had switched on the television and Wisting stood in the doorway following the news report about the case in progress. On the screen, four policemen carried a covered stretcher, placing it in the rear of a hearse as a reporter gave an account of what the News Channel knew about the case. In the lower corner of the picture, his commentary was summed up in bold text: MURDER ALARM IN LARVIK.

  The report continued with alternating photographs of the police helicopter, dog handlers, and police officers wearing bulletproof vests and carrying weapons while they played the recording of a telephone interview in which Christine Thiis made a few concise comments. Wisting recognised his own words from his briefing of her. The reportage was rounded off with photographs of the hearse leaving the scene accompanied by Christine Thiis commenting that the victim had not yet been identified and that the investigation would make considerable progress as soon as the post mortem had been carried out, establishing the identity of the murder victim.

  She managed well, Wisting reflected, her voice betraying no trace of the uncertainty he had read in her eyes.

  The newsreader promised viewers that they would continue to pursue the story in the course of the day and return with a live broadcast from the press conference at ten o’clock.

  The TV set was switched off as Wisting stepped into the room where a rapid head count showed twenty-two people in total. The dog handlers were sitting on chairs lining the wall, together with others from the operational force who had worked through the night. The investigators who would progress the case were seated around the conference table. At the top, the Chief Superintendent had already taken his place, with Christine Thiis in the chair Wisting normally occupied at such meetings.

  He sat in the vacant chair at her side. Outside, the autumn darkness would persist for another hour yet. ‘Welcome,’ he said, going on to thank the officers who were on overtime duties.

  Nils Hammer started the ceiling projector, and an overview map showing the area between Hummerbakk fjord and Nevlunghavn illuminated the screen. At a point on the inside of the cove described as Ødegårdsbukta, a cottage by the edge of the sea was highlighted.

  Wisting cleared his throat before delivering as succinct a summary as possible, appreciating from the expressions surrounding him that everyone in the room was already familiar with the case. Locating the leader of the operational force in his seat beside the row of windows, he nodded in his direction.

  ‘What’s the latest from the crime scene?’

  Placing his coffee cup between his legs, the burly officer produced his notebook. ‘We called off the search for the presumed perpetrator half an hour ago,’ he explained as he flicked through the pages. ‘As you know, it was fruitless and we have neither an arrest nor the murder weapon. In the meantime, a couple of interesting things have cropped up. The crime scene technicians will probably say more about those, but I will say this much. There have been a lot of people out there. The dog handlers have tracked in every direction, from cottage to cottage. I think we’re talking about four or five sets of unidentified footprints at least.’

  Wisting made a few notes. Although information would appear in a report later in the day, it was nevertheless useful to record it now.

  ‘The prints frequently end up at one side road or other, so they had a vehicle.’

  ‘Have you found any cars?’

  ‘We’ve checked several. There will always be a few cars parked at a group of cottage
s like that, but they are all accounted for. You’ll receive a detailed list, but we’re talking about cottage owners, fishermen, birdwatchers and farmers, all of whom have seen or heard zilch.’

  The operations leader grabbed hold of his cup and leafed through his notes.

  ‘The most interesting discovery is one we made just before we finished,’ he said. ‘Out at Smørvika we found three empty cartridges.’

  Wisting turned to the map hanging on the wall behind him. Nils Hammer placed the cursor on a little inlet east of Ødegårdsbukta. The surrounding area was shaded green, indicating a nature reserve. The cottage where the body had been found was the nearest habitation, at a distance of five to six hundred metres.

  ‘They’re lying in the middle of the path and can’t have been there long. At one side of the path there’s a patch of woodland, and two of the cartridges are lying on top of newly fallen leaves. We’ve cordoned off the area and have covered them with a tarpaulin, so the technicians can have a look at them when they have time.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Wisting remarked. ‘Excellent.’

  He had not previously heard about the discovery of the cartridges, and his spirits were lifted by the operational leader’s account. Magazine clips, firing pins, strikers and fingers all left traces on gun cartridges. This discovery represented the securing of vital evidence.

  He assigned a further fifteen minutes of the meeting to the officers who had worked through the night to relate their thoughts and impressions, before thanking them for their attendance, thus reducing the number of assembled participants. In this type of case, there was always some information he was reluctant to share with more colleagues than absolutely necessary. What he had christened the Telephone Trace on his notepad fell into this category.