Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Oh no! It smelled a bit stuffy, but now the fragrance of green soap has taken over.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Tommy?’

  ‘Yes, he phoned earlier.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘I don’t think he knows what he wants.’

  ‘When do you go back to work?’

  ‘Next Monday, but I’ve a few more days holiday owing.’

  Wisting entered his house. ‘Just phone if you need anything,’ he said.

  Suzanne met him in the hallway. ‘Was that Line?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I just spoke to her. We had a good chat, but I felt she was holding something back. I think she misses her mother.’

  Wisting exhaled heavily. He missed Ingrid too, but said nothing to Suzanne. Instead he gave her a kiss and whispered in her ear: ‘I’m happy I have you.’

  There was room for two women in his life, as he had discovered. They were not to be compared though, and love for one in a way overlapped his love for the other. Ingrid, as the mother of his children, would always be the more significant.

  They sat in the living room, where Suzanne had been reading. A book lay on the table, page down and spine upwards, that had belonged to Ingrid, taken from the bookcase upstairs.

  ‘How’s the case progressing?’ Suzanne asked.

  Wisting shrugged his shoulders. ‘We’ve still a long way to go before we have a breakthrough, but you never know. Something could happen all of a sudden.’

  Suzanne tucked her feet underneath herself on the settee. ‘Are you not scared?’ she asked.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of the unknown. What you don’t know, lying in wait for you.’

  Wisting appreciated Suzanne’s interest in his work. ‘It doesn’t frighten me. I think it’s probably the opposite. Not knowing drives me on.’

  Suzanne appeared pensive and Wisting, lacking energy for a serious discussion, changed the subject. ‘What were you thinking about?’ he asked.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When you were raking the leaves. You said you enjoyed going out to have a think.’

  She laughed, as though embarrassed to share her thoughts with him. ‘I was thinking of a name,’ she responded.

  Wisting did not immediately understand what she meant, but then it dawned. Only twenty-four hours earlier, they had been sitting in this same spot and Suzanne had been talking about resigning from her administrative post and opening an art café. ‘For the restaurant?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Let me hear then!’

  She hesitated slightly before announcing, ‘The Golden Peace.’

  Wisting turned the name over in his head. ‘Excellent choice for an art café! When does it open?’

  ‘It probably won’t come to anything.’

  ‘What’s holding you back? Are you afraid of the unknown?’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what it is, the insecurity. It’s not exactly a secure business, after all. It feels safer to sit in an office as an administrator, with a fixed salary.’

  Wisting studied her. She had experienced war and fled as a refugee to a foreign country. She had sought out new challenges through education and employment. They had been plentiful, and seldom had she known the answers in advance. It was difficult to understand how such factors about insecurity could hold her back.

  ‘Where would we be if we knew everything that lay ahead?’ he asked. ‘There would be nothing left. Hope and faith and dreams would all be worth nothing. I think you should go ahead. Think about how good it would be – I’d be able to have my own regular table.’

  Laughter lines spread across her face and she chuckled as she stood up. ‘Now we must get to bed,’ she said.

  Wisting followed her to the bathroom and ten minutes later was laying his head on the pillow. He had a strong sense of disquiet about what the next day had in store.

  20

  Line slammed the cottage door behind her. She did not usually rise so early, at least not when she had a day off, but had wakened an hour earlier and been unable to get back to sleep. Tying her scarf around the collar of her jacket, she turned into the wind and descended from the verandah onto the coastal path.

  Sheets of rain and ragged clouds hung in the lowering, dismal sky. The wind had freshened during the night, dissipating the fog, though it left the air damp and cold.

  The previous evening, she had written seven pages of her crime novel. She had thought from time to time that it would be fun to use her writing skills for something more than newspaper articles and in-depth interviews. She had technical competence as a writer, and had gained a great deal of knowledge about police work and investigation from her father. Thoughts of a crime novel naturally followed.

  It had started as a game. She brought a fictional protagonist to life, endowing her with personal qualities and outward appearance, set her in a time and place, and sketched out her surroundings. After seven pages though, she had dried up, and when she read those seven pages she thought that much of it was good, but lacked form and direction.

  She had considered how to build her narrative while cleaning the kitchen cupboards, but then thoughts kept buzzing around her head and she was too tired to put them in order. The flood of ideas had disturbed her sleep, and that was why she had wakened early. Also, too many unresolved emotions jangled inside, preventing her from focusing properly, and her thoughts returned to Tommy.

  For breakfast she ate two slices of crispbread and drank a cup of coffee, and then decided to take a long walk and let her thoughts wander.

  She was alone, with the cold and uninviting coast before her, surf breaking over rocks and underwater reefs. On the steely horizon, a cargo ship was heading westwards. The cries of seagulls sounded like teasing laughter on the wind. They looked beautiful from a distance, graceful to watch, but she knew they would eat anything and that made her think of them as filthy scavengers, full of parasites.

  The coastline alternated between pebble beaches, rocky slopes and wind-blasted woodland. Line rambled along the path between dog rose and blackthorn bushes until it petered out in the bare hillside.

  Inside a cove, a flock of gulls thronged in the air above an abandoned rowing boat, the birds swooping around it, fighting over something lying on board, wrestling with their wings and tugging at the same scraps. The unsuccessful ones pecked at the more fortunate, forcing those that were too small or too weak to release their spoils. The strongest birds bolted down their loot to become even stronger.

  The path brought her close to the boat, scaring off the gulls. It was a strange place to tie up, she thought. The little craft must have come adrift somewhere and been washed ashore. Now it was beached and scraped against the large, round pebbles.

  She froze; someone was on board. A man was sitting on the bottom partly supported by the stern crossbench, with his head upturned. His eyes had been pecked out and his mouth was gaping.

  21

  The first phone call arrived while Wisting stood beside the kitchen worktop in the conference room, filling his cup with coffee. The caller’s name was Leif Malm, leader of the intelligence section in Oslo police district. ‘We have information,’ he said.

  Wisting strode towards his office, his mobile phone at his ear.

  ‘An informant has told us about a narcotics delivery that should have arrived by sea from Denmark on Friday evening. The cargo should have been shipped in near Helgeroa but something went wrong. The main man is said to have suffered a loss of several million kroner and one of his men was killed in a shooting incident.’

  This sounded like a breakthrough. Wisting sat down. ‘Do we know the identity of the main guy?’

  ‘He’s Rudi Muller, one of the big fish at the centre of a major network that deals in weapons, narcotics and prostitution.’

  Wisting nodded. Muller’s was a familiar name from many intelligence reports. ‘Was he here himself?’

  ‘No, two men drove down to collect the cargo. We haven’t identified them
yet.’

  ‘Do we know what went wrong?’

  ‘Apparently this was a regular arrangement over the past six months; ten kilos of cocaine every third week. Someone got wind of it and there was a raid.’

  Wisting scribbled keywords on his notepad. ‘Can we arrange a meeting?’

  ‘I think we should,’ Leif Malm replied. ‘We‘re meeting our source at eleven o’clock, and can come down to see you after that. Maybe we’ll know more by then.’

  They wrapped up their conversation. Wisting was unsure what this implied, but he was suddenly tense. They were on the track of something.

  There was another half hour before the regular morning meeting. He could already hear a few of the detectives in the corridor and was looking forward to telling them about this new development when the phone rang again. This time it was Line. Before she uttered a word he could sense that something was wrong. ‘I’ve found a dead man,’ she said.

  He heard what she said, but nevertheless asked her to repeat it. ‘I’m out for a walk,’ she explained. ‘There’s a dead man in a boat. I think he’s drifted ashore.’

  ‘Are you certain he’s dead?’

  ‘The seagulls have pecked out his eyes.’

  Wisting controlled his voice with an effort. ‘Tell me exactly where you are.’

  A chart lay in front of him with Thomas Rønningen’s cottage marked. Drawing it towards him, he scrutinised it closely while Line explained. The discovery site was situated directly west of the camping grounds at Oddane Sand. Only Havnebukta with the skerries of Råholmen and Bramskjæra separated this place from Friday’s crime scene. ‘Okay. Stay there,’ he instructed. ‘We’re on our way.’

  He felt almost ill. Line was alone there and it was not safe now, not safe at all.

  22

  Wisting took Torunn Borg and Benjamin Fjeld with him. Espen Mortensen followed in a crime scene vehicle.

  At the coast he led them through dense alder trees for several hundred metres to where Line stood with her arms folded. A gust of wind ruffled her hair, leaving it tousled around her face. She was soaked and shivering.

  Pulling her towards him, silently holding her before letting go, he rubbed his hands quickly up and down her arms to pummel some warmth into her trembling body. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  When she nodded, he understood she was telling the truth. She had been in similar situations before.

  He stepped away to look at the boat. Scraping against the pebbles, it rocked with every wave that beat against the shore. The dead man leaned against the stern, the wounds inflicted on his face by the seagulls resembling large pustules. He wore an open, black jacket with a grey sweater underneath. The sweater was encrusted with blood. The boat had let in water, which now reached the dead man’s hips.

  Wisting wished his daughter could have been spared this. She was robust, but he knew how such sights return to haunt you, even years later. He had lost count of the number of times he had wakened bathed in sweat, bestial images fixed on his retina, pictures from real life. Line could not know how affected she would be by the unpredictability of their coming, how threatening darkness can be, and how what has been seen once can return and grow in your consciousness. Wisting knew all too well.

  Clearing his throat, he assumed his professional persona. ‘We’ll need you to make a formal statement.’ He turned to Benjamin Fjeld. ‘Perhaps you could go back to the cottage with her?’

  The young police officer nodded.

  Wisting made eye contact with Line again. ‘Okay?’

  She smiled broadly. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Afterwards, what will you do?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Will you go home? I have to work, but Suzanne is there.’

  Line shook her head vigorously. ‘I’m staying at the cottage.’

  Wisting closed his eyes and shook his head. He did not like the thought of Line alone. Staying here probably did not constitute a physical risk, but unwelcome thoughts could come creeping at night. He understood she needed time to adjust to the break from Tommy, but sitting alone out here with all her thoughts and emotions was not a good idea.

  ‘Come home for tonight at least, and you can sleep in your old room.’

  ‘I like being here,’ she said, telling him with her eyes how useless it was to try to change her mind.

  Stubbornness: yet another quality she had inherited from her mother. Wisting shook his head. Looking earnestly at her, he made sure she knew she could change her mind at any time and that he could be reached by phone twenty-four hours a day. Line smiled back, hugged him briefly and pulled her jacket more snugly around herself.

  Benjamin Fjeld let her walk ahead. Wisting followed them with his gaze until they disappeared beyond the headland, before turning to face the sea and a snell wind that blew with all its might, sending angry blasts across the land and rocking the boat. The dead man unbendingly rocked with it.

  ‘What do you think?’ Torunn Borg asked.

  ‘There’s a connection,’ he replied. ‘Must be.’

  Espen Mortensen descended the path with a rucksack on his back, removed it without speaking, and looked down at the dead body. ‘I think I recognise the tread on those boots,’ he said. ‘It’s the same as in the cottage.’

  Wisting approached more closely, balancing on a slippery boulder. The dead man’s boots stuck vertically out of the murky water. He had not studied the crime scene photographs, but the pattern on the soles was chunky and seemed distinctive. ‘The footprints in the blood?’ he asked.

  ‘No, in the living room. The footprints in the blood are from a training shoe or something like that. I may know what type by the end of the day.’

  Torunn Borg stepped out onto the slippery stones beside Wisting. ‘Where did all the blood come from?’ she asked, indicating the saturated sweater.

  Espen Mortensen waded into the water and alongside the boat. ‘The injuries on his face are from the gulls,’ he said. ‘He has more serious injuries in the abdomen.’

  Torunn Borg stepped closer to the boat, leaning on Wisting to do so. ‘Is that a revolver?’ she asked, pointing under the water and between the decking boards.

  Supporting himself on the side of the boat, Mortensen bent forward and peered down into the dirty water. ‘Yes, but the empty cartridges we found over in the area of the cottages were 38 calibre. This is a smaller weapon. Probably a 22.’ Wading ashore again, he opened the rucksack and produced a camera. Wisting and Torunn Borg withdrew slightly. ‘The boat’s unregistered,’ he said. ‘No outboard motor or oars. I wonder what he was actually doing out there.’

  Wisting lifted his eyes. The seagulls were circling low above their heads. The sea blended into the leaden sky, entirely erasing the horizon. ‘What’ll we do with the boat?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ll get a recovery vessel to tow it to the nearest harbour. Then we can haul it up on a breakdown truck and bring it in.’

  ‘With the body on board?’

  ‘I think that’s the simplest solution. I’ll carry out an inspection here first. He’s been out all night, so I don’t think I’ll do much further damage.’

  Wisting tucked his collar up, turned his back to the sea and trudged towards his car.

  23

  Line opened the cottage door. ‘I just need to change,’ she said, heading for the bedroom.

  Closing the front door behind them, Benjamin Fjeld looked around. ‘It’s cold here,’ he said. ‘Cosy enough, but cold.’

  In the bedroom Line pulled off her wet clothes, the skin on her chest and along her bare arms bristling with little goose pimples. Hauling her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for something to wear, finally putting on a tracksuit before returning to the living room.

  Benjamin Fjeld was crouched in front of the fireplace, stacking kindling in the open hearth. ‘Is this all right?’ he asked, taking a box of matches from the mantelpiece.

  ‘Marvellous. I haven’t tried a fire yet, so you need to check the damper
and that kind of thing.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ he asked, striking a match.

  ‘I arrived yesterday.’

  ‘Is this your cottage?’

  ‘It’s Dad’s. He’s just inherited it from his uncle.’

  ‘Are you living here on your own?’

  ‘I live in Oslo. I came down to chill for a few days.’

  The kindling caught fire and Benjamin Fjeld added a couple of logs from the basket before sitting in a chair beside the window.

  Line stepped across to the kitchen corner. ‘I need a hot drink. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Line looked at him as she filled the kettle. Around her age, he was tall and broad-shouldered. Though his dark hair was slightly too short for her liking, it accentuated his clean-cut, chiselled features. She found herself thinking that she was not wearing any makeup, and had not showered or tidied herself before venturing out. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Bjørkelangen,’ he said. ‘A little place to the east of Akershus.’

  Line knew where it was as she had been there on a missing person the previous year. It was an idyllic county where forestry was the main source of employment. ‘Have you been working here long?’

  ‘Almost two years. I started in Oslo after Police College, and then applied for this post. My family had caravan holidays here for years.’

  ‘You like it, then?’

  ‘I love the open landscape. Where I come from is mainly forest.’

  ‘I miss it,’ Line smilingly remarked. ‘Oslo is really so huge and foreign. Don’t you think so?’

  He agreed, smiling broadly. ‘Strictly speaking, I’m the one who should be asking the questions.’

  She chuckled and sat down opposite him, where the warmth from the fireplace heated her back. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘it’s an old habit. It’s part of my job too. I’m a journalist.’

  When he nodded she suddenly realised it was common knowledge where the boss’s daughter worked. Simultaneously, it struck her that she should tell the editorial staff about the discovery of the corpse. The news wasn’t out yet, and they could be first to break it. She really ought to grab her camera and get back to the discovery site before it was too late.