‘A hotdog, and a box of pastilles. Is this important? The policeman who spoke to me on Saturday didn’t go into so much detail.’
‘It wasn’t important in the beginning, but we found an Esso receipt on the path out here,’ Wisting said. ‘There was a possibility it had been dropped by either the perpetrator or the victim, or there could be a third, simple explanation.’
He went through the rest of the man’s statement, trying to make him recall whether he had passed any vehicles along the road or heard any sounds that might be connected to the burglaries or the murder. In the end he had to admit that Hammersnes had nothing to contribute. When they concluded their conversation, the flames in the hearth had died. Wisting rose to his feet and thanked the man for his time.
‘I’ll come out with you,’ Hammersnes said. ‘I need some air.’
Two pairs of girls’ light summer shoes were lined up beside Hammersnes’ big Wellington boots in the hallway. Wisting thought of how the girls would no longer be able to run over the rocks or paddle at the edge of the sea once the cottage was sold. A stroke of the pen by their intransigent parents wiped out future summer memories.
Hammersnes pulled on his boots and followed Wisting out. They trudged together partway along the path without uttering a word, until Wisting broke away and ascended to his car.
32
A magazine lay open in the conference room. Someone had acquired the summer edition of Se og Hør with the report about Thomas Rønningen’s cottage. In the largest photograph, Thomas Rønningen was sitting closest to the camera, at the end of a long table laden with prawns and crabs. His guests were drinking white wine against a backdrop of blue sky. Summer Idyll in Vestfold was the caption.
Thomas Rønningen showed the readers around his cottage, room by room. In one of the pictures, he sat in a deep armchair in front of an abundantly filled bookcase, flicking through a crime novel. The article related that Rønningen was engaged in a book project, the theme and contents of which were secret.
The famous TV host enjoyed having visitors at his summer paradise, the report explained, rattling off a list of names almost identical to the list he had given Wisting.
Wisting read through half the report before being interrupted by his phone. It was Leif Malm from the intelligence section of Oslo Police. ‘The surveillance team has lost Rudi Muller,’ Malm said. ‘He left home half an hour ago, much earlier than usual, and so we were short staffed. He called into Deli de Luca in Bogstadveien before continuing towards the centre. They lost him at the National Theatre.’
‘Do you know where he was going?’
‘No, we haven’t picked up anything in particular on the KK, so he hasn’t talked about it on the phone.’
KK was the abbreviation in use for Kommunikasjonskontroll, meaning that the police listened in to all forms of communication a person had either by phone or via the Internet. One of the hidden methods of investigation, it was used mostly in the fight against serious organised crime, but was not as effective as they wished. The real candidates for this form of surveillance were aware of the interest and spoke in pre-arranged codes using keywords, and then only to arrange times and places.
‘It’s possible he has a mobile number and phone we don’t know about,’ Leif Malm continued. ‘We’re covering both his flat and Shazam Station.’
‘What about the internet?’
‘He’s reading more or less everything the online newspapers have written about the case. There’s one thing that supports our suspicion that he was involved in the incident with the hearse. He’s spent a long time looking at pages dealing with fires and incineration. The one he has spent most time on describes fires and arson and the injuries caused by the effects of heat. The search words indicate he is interested in how lengthy and intense the heat must be in order to incinerate an entire body, and what possibilities exist to identify a charred body from dental records and DNA.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Yes, it could be valuable evidence if we eventually reveal the communications surveillance,’ Leif Malm agreed.
‘Has the informant come up with anything else?’
‘No. There was no meeting between him and Rudi yesterday. It may be that he’s getting cold feet and wants to pull out.’
‘That mustn’t happen,’ Wisting said. ‘We need him.’
‘Petter is encouraging him.’
‘What’s his motivation, really? Why has he put himself in such a dangerous position?’
For a moment there was silence. The use of police informants was demanding and could eventually turn out to be a game in which the police were simply pawns. The person who gave the police information often had his own personal motives: possibly revenge, possibly ambition within the criminal circle. It was a dangerous game, where the stakes were life-threateningly high. Therefore only an extremely restricted number of investigators knew the identity of any source.
‘That’s our business.’
Wisting considered asking whether they had taken into account that the source might have an interest in shifting their focus, that giving information to the police might involve moving suspicion away from himself and onto a trustworthy third person. He decided to let it lie, reassuring himself that Leif Malm and his officers were specially schooled in handling informants.
‘I see the pilots of the police helicopters are denying their responsibility for the deaths of the birds,’ Malm said. ‘They’re even writing about it in American newspapers. Rudi Muller is preoccupied by that as well. He’s reading everything that appears about it on the net.’
‘I’m relying on you to keep me informed,’ Wisting said, returning to the point. He rounded off the conversation with a feeling that Malm was holding something back.
He stood by the window. The rain had started again, an impenetrable fine drizzle that made the town and landscape even greyer than before.
A broad-winged bird flew from a crack in the chimney on the old factory building beside the police station. It circled and squawked hoarsely before gliding in soundless flight over the rooftops and out of sight. At once Wisting felt an internal chill, as though the temperature in the room had fallen by several degrees. The unpleasant sensation crept down his spine and across his fingers. His hands became clammy, his heart was racing and his mouth became dry.
The cold is not inside the room, but inside me, he thought, and shrugged it off.
33
Espen Mortensen placed a photograph on the desk in front of Wisting. It showed a slight, naked male body on the dissecting table. The missing eyes showed it to be the dead man Line found. Now the clothes had been removed and the body washed clean, it was not difficult to see what had been the cause of death. Two dark holes at the lower edge of his skinny ribcage indicated where the bullets had pierced his body.
‘We know who he is,’ Mortensen said. Lifting the photograph, Wisting waited to hear the name. ‘Darius Plater.’
‘East European?’
Mortensen leafed through his papers and read aloud. ‘He comes from Vilnius in Lithuania. Twenty-three years old. Car mechanic.’
‘How did we find that out?’
‘Fingerprints. He was arrested for theft in a marina in Østfold last summer and registered in our records. Served thirty days’ imprisonment in Halden Prison and was deported afterwards. Obviously he came back.’
Wisting replaced the photo. Crime committed by criminals from Eastern Europe had increased since the enlargement of the EU, mainly theft, but more frequently their lawbreaking also involved other types of serious crime, and the threshold for exercising violence was lowering. ‘I can’t quite get it to fit,’ he said. ‘This man’s an itinerant burglar, but what took place was a drugs deal.’
‘The Lithuanians are big in narcotics,’ Mortensen reminded him. ‘It could have been a combined job. Drugs in, stolen goods out. We’ve seen that before.’
‘That was amphetamines,’ Wisting said. ‘Cocaine comes from South America,
via Spain and Portugal, sometimes via West Africa. Not from the east.’
‘It fits with the information from Oslo intelligence that one of the men who arrived by boat from Denmark is missing.’
Wisting picked up the photo again. ‘Did the pathologist find any bullets?’
‘That’s where it starts to get interesting. They’ve found two bullets, of different diameters.’
‘Do you mean he was shot by two different guns?’
Mortensen handed him the report. ‘That’s what the numbers indicate. 10.4 millimetre and an ordinary 9 millimetre.’
‘How big was the revolver we found beside him?’
‘That’s a much smaller weapon, a 22 calibre. The serial number’s been filed off. We may be able to retrieve it but, before we place it in an acid bath, we must make some test shots to see what kind of marks are made by the firing pin and ejector.’
Wisting cast his mind back. ‘Nine millimetre corresponds with the cartridge cases that were found on the path?’
‘10.4 millimetre corresponds with 41 calibre. It could be from a revolver that doesn’t discharge empty cartridges.’
Wisting looked at the photograph again. If they were right, something had happened in the darkness last Friday that turned the perpetrator into a victim.
‘Two shooters,’ Mortensen concluded.
‘Or one shooter with two guns. Do we have any information on Darius Plater?’
Mortensen leafed through the pages again. ‘Not much. He was stopped with several others travelling in a delivery van outside Grimstad this summer. Plater was driving, and only his name was entered. The van was searched. There were a lot of tools onboard, but nothing that allowed the police patrolmen to arrest them.’
‘Have you been in touch with Grenseløs?’
‘No, I thought you would do that.’
Wisting nodded. The flood of mobile thieves from Eastern Europe had become so overwhelming that the police district had established its own investigative group. The project had been given the name Grenseløs – without boundaries – for obvious reasons. The group comprised dedicated investigators who conducted enquiries directed at specific individuals across the boundaries of police districts.
Their innovative work had brought excellent results. Some of this success was due to a fairly informal cooperation with police in a number of East European countries. The group possessed skills that might be invaluable in the murder enquiry, but there was a long way to go.
Wisting sat deep in thought. These developments brought forebodings of a level of criminality he had rarely encountered: totally pragmatic, unscrupulous and cynical. We’re falling short here, he mused. We need to redraw the map when the landscape changes.
34
The leader of the Grenseløs section was Martin Ahlberg, a bald man with a small beard, whose big dark eyes stared across the conference table at Wisting. He held a folder in his hand. ‘I was expecting you to phone earlier,’ he said. ‘Serial thefts from holiday cottages are the pattern of activity we’ve come to expect.’
Wisting thanked Ahlberg before introducing him to Christine Thiis, Espen Mortensen and Nils Hammer. ‘We have information that points in a different direction from Eastern Europe,’ he explained, giving a brief presentation of the information they had received from the Oslo Police.
‘Are you certain that cocaine is involved?’ Ahlberg asked. Wisting admitted that they only had the whistle-blower’s word.
‘I have a hard time entertaining the idea that Lithuanians are involved in trafficking cocaine,’ Ahlberg said. ‘On the other hand, most of the amphetamines on the market in Norway come from illegal laboratories in Eastern Europe, and Lithuania has assumed the role of main supplier. Poland is still the most important country of origin, but most of the people who are arrested come from Lithuania.’
Martin Ahlberg helped himself to coffee from the thermos flask on the table but continued to speak with authority.
‘Increasingly the drugs are transported by ferry across the Baltic Sea, but the most established route goes from Lithuania and Poland up through Germany and Denmark, across the Øresund Bridge and through Sweden to Norway. One place in Northern Europe is a point of intersection for cocaine coming up from Spain. The Lithuanians are prominent operators in the narcotics market and could have taken over the final stage. You must remember that we’re talking about well-organised criminal gangs. They know how to make use of economies of scale the same as any other organisation.’
‘What do you know about Darius Plater?’ Wisting asked.
‘Quite a lot.’ Martin Ahlberg opened his folder and produced a photocopy of a Lithuanian passport. It was the slightly built man from the rowing boat. His name was printed in capital letters.
‘Darius Plater belongs to a group of thieves from the outskirts of Vilnius. They’ve been in Norway at least six times in the past three years. Last year he was captured in Østfold together with this man.’ Ahlberg placed a copy of another passport on the table. The man in this photograph was called Teodor Milosz. He was a powerfully built man with a bull neck, flat nose and tiny eyes. ‘They had prepared five large outboard motors for collection out at Hvaler. They were sentenced to thirty days each, and were deported after they’d served their sentences. They’ve been back twice since then.’
Wisting nodded.
‘You must remember that the thefts vary according to the season,’ Ahlberg said. ‘The summer is high season for stealing large outboard motors. The autumn is the time for burglary from cottages closed for winter. Winter and spring it’s houses and vehicles.’
‘When did they last come to Norway?’
Martin Ahlberg produced a bundle of papers, but did not reply immediately. ‘This is organised crime,’ he repeated. ‘The men behind this are former army officers and soldiers and they fear nothing, neither punishment nor prison conditions. They are a greater danger to society than most people imagine.’
Wisting glanced at the photograph of Darius Plater. The slim man was listed as a car mechanic. The picture contrasted starkly with the description provided by the section leader from Grenseløs, but he resisted pointing that out.
‘Darius Plater and Teodor Milosz belong to a group we have christened the Paneriai Quartet,’ Ahlberg said, ‘four men from the same suburb of Vilnius, about ten kilometres south-west of the centre.’
‘Have you been there?’
‘We were invited by the consul in the spring. The local authority has a joint project on education, health, culture and industrial development that has been extended to incorporate cooperation in the fight against crime.’ He paused while he drank his coffee. ‘The thieves’ market is located in Paneriai. You can buy anything there.’
‘Who else is part of the quartet?’ Hammer asked.
Martin Ahlberg gave two names with practised pronunciation and placed two more passport photos on the table. The sight of one of the men provoked a tingling sensation in Wisting’s chest.
‘That’s him,’ Wisting said, pulling the photograph towards him. ‘That’s the man who stole my car.’
‘Are you sure?’
Wisting had only caught a glimpse of his assailant, but he was sure. He recognised the coarse facial features and deep-set eyes.
‘Valdas Muravjev,’ Ahlberg said. ‘He’s the oldest. Sentenced for robbery and violence in his home country.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘He’s at home in Lithuania.’ Ahlberg lifted a printout marked DFDS Seaways. ‘The entire quartet arrived by ferry in Karlshamn in Southern Sweden on the 18th September. They were driving a VW Transporter. Three returned by ferry at six o’clock yesterday evening.’
‘What do you suggest we do now?’
‘What is absolutely crystal clear,’ Ahlberg replied, ‘is that you have a case in which a Lithuanian citizen was shot and killed. The Lithuanian authorities must, of course, be informed. At some point too, the nearest relatives must be informed and an arrangement has to be made
to transport the dead man home. At the same time, we know who he was with when he was killed. We could send over a legal request letter and have them interviewed, but if I were you, I’d travel over and do it myself.’
Wisting had reasoned similarly. Returning the photo of his assailant across the conference table, he leaned forward. ‘Can you order tickets for us?’
35
At 17.07 Thomas Rønningen parked his black Audi S5 in the square outside the police station, seven minutes late for his appointment.
Wisting stood at the window watching him. His car was newly washed and he could see from a distance how the raindrops formed beads on the bonnet before sliding off. At the top of the windscreen was the outline of the subscription chip from the toll company.
Slamming the car door behind him, Rønningen threw a glance up at the façade of the police station building. He waved a greeting as their eyes met and he jogged through the rain to the entrance.
Two minutes later he was sitting in Wisting’s office. He put down his mobile phone and car keys on the edge of the desk and used his hand to wipe the rain from his shoulders.
‘Nice car,’ Wisting said.
‘I’m happy with it.’
‘Is it yours?’
‘Yes, why do you ask?’
‘No, I was thinking it might be a company car or a car used by several people.’
Rønningen continued to smile, but now it seemed indulgent rather than sincere. ‘It’s a kind of company car, but I don’t let anybody else behind the wheel.’
‘So you’re the only person who drives it?’
A slight grimace crossed Rønningen’s face. His smile vanished.
The TV star was about to become of less interest, Wisting thought. The clues were pointing in every direction other than his, but there was something he was hiding and now he was about to be trapped by his own falsehood.
‘It’s possible somebody else has used it,’ Rønningen said.
‘Who would that be?’
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