Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘It’s so long ago that I can’t remember.’ His irritated voice was very different from the tones he employed on TV. ‘But I’m sure you haven’t asked me to come here to talk about my car?’

  ‘Yes indeed, I have,’ Wisting said, ‘because it was here in Larvik on Friday.’

  ‘It hasn’t got anything to do with the case,’ Rønningen said.

  ‘It has everything to do with the case. You no longer have an alibi. On the contrary, it puts you in the vicinity of the crime scene, and the fact that you have lied about it places you in an extremely bad light.’

  ‘It’s not as you think,’ Rønningen stuttered. ‘Am I suspected of something?’

  ‘We can charge you with making a false statement,’ Wisting informed him calmly, producing the printouts from the toll company. He placed them in front of him and pointed to the column showing the time and name of the car owner: 20.17, Thomas Rønningen.

  Despite years of research into how body language can expose liars, no one hundred percent certain method existed to distinguish between falsehoods and truth. In Wisting’s experience, liars did not have shifty eyes, their bodies were not more restless, and they did not touch their noses or clear their throats more often than people who were telling the truth. The only thing that could expose them was proof, such as the printouts. For Rønningen there was no way out.

  Although the physical signs of telling a lie could not be interpreted with certainty, the body’s resignation, as a signal that the lie had been uncovered, was easier to discern.

  Rønningen subsided into his chair, shaking his head. ‘I can explain,’ he said.

  Wisting had heard those three words from many others sitting in that same chair. He did not say anything, but waited for Rønningen to continue.

  ‘I was in Larvik, but I wasn’t at the cottage.’

  ‘What were you doing here?’

  Thomas Ronningen stood up and stepped over to the window before turning around and returning to his seat. ‘Her name is Iselin Archer,’ he said, remaining on his feet.

  Wisting knew the name. She was a young painter who had received more attention for her marriage to Johannes Archer, a much older property investor and multimillionaire with a high media profile, than for her artistic endeavours. The ill-matched pair lived in Nevlunghavn where they had renovated the disused prawn factory into a combined residence and studio, where Iselin Archer regularly held private viewings and other functions duly reported in newspapers and magazines.

  ‘She’s been a guest on your programme,’ Wisting recalled.

  Thomas Rønningen nodded. ‘Twice. That was how it began. I phoned her from the cottage the day after the first programme, to ask if she was happy with it. Johannes wasn’t at home and she was alone in that vast house. He hadn’t even seen it. When she heard I was sitting on my own in my cottage nearby, she invited me to her house for lunch. She served champagne and strawberries, and I stayed with her until the following day.’

  Wisting listened vigilantly. When respect for the truth had been broken or impaired, everything became doubtful, but the story about how a relationship developed sounded convincing. Thomas Rønningen spoke with sensitivity and commitment once he started, somehow relaxed after admitting the secret relationship.

  ‘We usually met at the cottage,’ he said. ‘But Johannes was away on business, so we were at Iselin’s for the entire weekend. I daren’t think about what might have happened otherwise.’

  Wisting sat in silence for a while before asking: ‘Where is Johannes Archer?’

  ‘In France,’ Rønningen replied. ‘He’s looking at some vineyards.’

  ‘Do you think he suspected you were meeting at your cottage?’

  ‘I think he suspected Iselin, but not that it was me she was meeting.’

  ‘Does he know where your cottage is?’

  ‘He’s been there. Iselin was a guest on the final programme of the spring season. Johannes was present in the studio. I don’t know how it came about, but I invited them both to a shellfish party.’

  ‘Is he on his own in France?’

  ‘As far as I know. Why do you ask?’

  Wisting shook his head without answering. An absurd thought was forming in his mind, but he dropped it. ‘I need to talk to her,’ he said.

  Rønningen nodded. ‘She’s prepared for that. All the same, I hope this part of the investigation won’t become public.’

  Wisting made no promises. As the case now stood, they had to determine the people about whom they had no grounds for suspicion, and he was not yet sure that Thomas Rønningen could be struck from the list.

  He rose and accompanied the TV host as he left. The rain had increased in intensity and was now falling in torrents. Wisting remained standing under the roof as Thomas Rønningen dashed, neck bowed, towards his car, a liar making his way to his incriminating evidence.

  36

  Two messages awaited Wisting in his office. One was from Martin Ahlberg, informing him there was a direct flight from Oslo Gardermoen airport to Vilnius the next day at 10.45 and that he would meet him at the airport with their tickets. The other was from Leif Malm asking Wisting to phone him.

  ‘We’ve located Rudi Muller,’ Malm explained. ‘He arrived at Shazam Station half an hour ago. I’ll switch on the loudspeaker so you can hear the status report.’

  A crackling sound and pressing of keys preceded an increased humming on the line. ‘Charlie 0-5,’ Malm announced. ‘Do you have a situation report?’

  The head of the surveillance operation responded: ‘Muller is sitting at a window table with two other people, position 2-4. The vehicle is in Grensen. A black BMW 730, BR-registered.’

  Wisting saw the restaurant building in his mind’s eye. 2-4 was the dimensional information, placing Rudi Muller on the second floor, fourth window from the left. This meant he was sitting beside the table where he and Suzanne had eaten with Line three days earlier.

  ‘Muller has taken off his grey jacket and is wearing a red T-shirt,’ the surveillance operator continued. ‘Directly opposite him Tage Larsen is sitting dressed in a green hooded jacket. They’re in the company of a third man we don’t know. Dark, but Norwegian, black leather jacket, black cap. We have a photo.’

  Wisting transferred his mobile phone to his other ear. It was a vague description, but could fit Tommy. ‘We have identified the man who was found in the rowing boat,’ he said loudly.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a Lithuanian called Darius Plater.’

  Another unit broke in: ‘Charlie 0-5; did you hear that?’

  ‘Negative. What are you referring to?’

  ‘We’re listening to channel three. 01 has just reported a fire at Teppaveien 5 in Grorud. Isn’t that Trond Holmberg’s address?’

  Silence followed, until the surveillance leader spoke to Leif Malm: ‘Charlie?’

  ‘I’m in now,’ Malm replied. Wisting could hear him working on a computer keyboard. ‘The report came via the emergency number 110 switchboard three minutes ago and states that the gable end apartment in a block of flats at number 5 Teppaveien is an inferno. The registered resident is Trond Holmberg.’

  ‘This is Charlie 3-1 interrupting. There’s movement here now. Are we ready to tail him?’

  ‘Charlie 3-2 in Akersgata,’ the first patrol acknowledged.

  ‘Charlie 3-3, Pilestredet.’

  ‘Charlie 3-4, Møllergata at Stortorvet Square.’

  ‘Muller’s making a phone call. Are we covering him at KK?’

  Leif Malm answered: ‘There are no personnel on duty there. We’ll get a printout later.’

  ‘They’re in a hurry. All three heading for the car.’

  There was silence on the line as they waited for the next message. ‘They’re getting in. Muller’s driving.’

  ‘Direction?’

  ‘They’re going up into Akersgata.’

  ‘Charlie 3-2. We’ve got him.’

  The radio messages came thick and fast.


  ‘Charlie 3-3 in position for the Vaterland Tunnel.’

  ‘Charlie 3-4 driving parallel in Grubbegata.’

  ‘3-2 under control. Following behind as third vehicle. They’re in a rush, but there’s a hold up in the traffic.’

  ‘Charlie 3-1 following on.’

  ‘They’re driving along Ullevålsveien, along past Vår Frelsers graveyard.’

  The leader of the surveillance team gave directions: ‘Charlie 3-3 – Drive to Bislett and be ready to pick him up at St. Hanshaugen.’

  ‘Received.’

  ‘Stopping at red light in Waldemar Thranes gate. He’s turning right.’

  ‘3-1 driving along Bjerregaards gate. We can pick him up further ahead.’

  ‘Charlie 3-4, be ready for Sinsenkrysset!’

  ‘Received.’

  Wisting listened to the messages ricocheting at top speed. Surveillance was a special skill. It was important to remain three steps behind the object, but also one step ahead. The people who chose this type of work were, as a rule, not particularly enamoured of paperwork but had a well-developed hunting instinct. Many thought it exciting, although it mainly consisted of waiting. They could sit for hours staring at a door, but when something happened, it happened fast.

  ‘It’s taking Trondheimsveien,’ Wisting heard a scratching on the police radio. ‘Repeat: Trondheimsveien. I’m losing him, can someone take over?’

  ‘Charlie 3-1 has him. He’s probably going to Grorud. I’ll bet he’s heard about the fire at Holmberg’s.’

  ‘Oh fuck, we can see the smoke all the way down here at Bjerke.’

  Leif Malm broke in. ‘You can let him go. He’s going to Teppaveien. He got a phone call from his lady friend a few minutes ago with news about the fire.’

  ‘Received.’

  ‘Charlie 0-5 can drive to Grorudveien, the others get yourselves into position. Be ready to follow when he takes off again.’

  The various units acknowledged the order and Malm switched off the loudspeaker. ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ he asked. ‘The flat’s empty, of course.’

  ‘I think you’re going to find Trond Holmberg,’ Wisting predicted.

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘If Rudi Muller is as calculating as we think, then there is only one thing he can do.’

  ‘Oh fuck,’ Leif Malm commented at the other end as he realised what Wisting meant. ‘He’s put Holmberg’s dead body in the flat and set it alight.’

  ‘It’s a rational course of action. He has to get rid of it without it being connected to him or to the case. Every dumped body with shotgun wounds is going to be linked to the murder enquiry.’

  ‘He could have simply buried him or made sure that his body was never found,’ Malm said, but he had already accepted Wisting’s theory.

  ‘Despite everything, we are talking about his girlfriend’s young brother, whose disappearance would also lead to investigation. If he’s lucky, there will only be teeth left to identify. If it hadn’t been for the informant we wouldn’t have seen the connection, and concluded that it was death by fire.’

  ‘Fuck,’ Malm swore again. ‘We thought he was reading about fires and physical injuries on the net to find out how things had gone with the driver in the hearse, but it was research he was conducting.’

  Wisting pressed ahead with information about the identification of the corpse Line had discovered in the rowing boat. ‘It sheds light on a great deal of what we had visualised,’ he said. Leif Malm agreed. ‘Are you sure that this is all about cocaine?’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ Malm said. ‘We seized some earlier deliveries.’

  ‘Could the Lithuanians be behind it?’

  ‘There could be a smuggling connection. We have very little intelligence, but we know that South American narcotics cartels are trying to build a network of transport routes via the Eastern European states. Many of the routes to Western Europe have been charted and broken by European police work. In the East European market, they see possibilities to avoid alert police officers, or think they’ll be open to bribery.’

  ‘I’m travelling to Lithuania tomorrow morning,’ Wisting said. ‘Could we meet before then?’

  ‘Whenever you like,’ Malm said. ‘We’ll try to get our source into position this evening. Hopefully we’ll have news for you by then.’

  37

  The rain was too torrential for Line to venture out. More­over, the temperature had dropped as darkness set in. The logs in the hearth refused to burn and lay smouldering. Instead of trying to light the fire again, she had put on a thick sweater. She had attempted to write, but was stuck on the same sentence. Restless, she had to admit she felt lonely.

  On the first evenings at the cottage she had not even tried to use the old portable television that was perched on a stool. Now she had managed to bring it to life but there was nothing onscreen but interference. It dawned on her that the analogue signal was defunct and she needed a decoder.

  Thinking she might phone some old girlfriends from when she lived in Stavern, she ticked off some names in her head from school and the handball team, but understood they would be busy on a Monday evening.

  It wasn’t too late to drive into town. She enjoyed sitting on her own at a café table reading a newspaper or book, or working on her notes. Being surrounded by people gave her a sense of having company, while she carried on with her work, but it was not an appealing prospect. Pleasant enough with someone waiting at home, but not now.

  At the window she folded her arms for warmth; the wall lamp outside cast a semi-circle of illumination on the verandah. At the far edge of the cone of light lay another dead bird, the fifth, which must have fallen in the last hour. She thought about throwing it into the bushes, but instead left it lying. Probably some hungry animal would carry it off during the night.

  Behind the yellow shimmering light, the evening lay opaque and oppressive. It was impossible to see what lay out there, and the only sound was the ceaseless crashing of waves on the shore. Her mobile phone rang, wresting her away from her gloomy thoughts. It was her father. Her voice sounded hollow, even to herself, when she answered.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine,’ she replied, sitting down. ‘You have to stop worrying. I’m managing okay.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but it was good of you to call.’

  ‘I’m going away for a few days, work related,’ he said. ‘I’m sure Suzanne would appreciate some company in the house.’

  Line smiled at her father’s concern. ‘She’s used to being alone. She lived on her own for many years before she met you, you know.’

  ‘The offer’s there, all the same.’

  ‘Thanks anyway. Where are you going?’

  ‘Not far. I can be reached by phone.’

  She understood he was afraid she would pass on the information and that someone at the newspaper would guess that the case was about to turn a corner. It must be important, since he was leaving town.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  Line tucked her feet underneath herself on the settee, selecting a book from the chaotic bookcase. ‘Reading,’ she answered.

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘An old crime novel from the bookcase here.’

  ‘Okay. I won’t disturb you. Phone if there’s anything you want.’

  She promised before disconnecting the call and turning to the first chapter. She liked the opening sentence. Immediately after midnight he stopped thinking. Suddenly the flames in the hearth leapt into life and she smiled as she snuggled up on the sofa.

  Wisting put down the phone. On the television, a newsreader announced that someone was missing after a fire in an apartment block in Grorud, Oslo. The following report showed images of fire fighters running to and fro in the barricaded street. The flat where the blaze had started was already burnt out and the fire crew was battling the flames as they licked their way towards the neighb
ouring apartments, flames billowing as streams of water played across them.

  Picking up the remote control, Wisting waited until the end of the report before switching off. ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be away,’ he said to Suzanne. ‘Do you think you could go out to see Line tomorrow?’

  ‘Why are you the one who has to travel to Lithuania?’ she protested. ‘As leader of the investigation, shouldn’t you stay here?’

  ‘Right now I think it’s best that I keep my distance,’ he replied.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Running his hand through his hair, Wisting fixed his eyes on a spot on the wall. ‘I think Tommy may be mixed up in this somehow.’

  Suzanne sat up. ‘How can that be?’

  Seldom did Wisting confide details of cases. The duty of confidentiality, and obligation to protect personal data, often constrained their conversations, but this time he needed to talk. ‘We have information that the case revolves around a narcotics delivery that went wrong,’ he said, going on to give an account of the smuggling route across the Skagerrak. ‘The main man in Norway is called Rudi Muller, one of the owners of Shazam Station. The Oslo Police believe the whole restaurant business is about laundering drugs money, and that the restaurant is a focal point for criminals.’

  Suzanne’s eyes filled with concern. ‘It doesn’t have to mean that Tommy is involved.’

  ‘He was jailed for narcotics before.’

  ‘That was long before he met Line,’ Suzanne said, but he could see the doubt in her face.

  ‘There’s more to it. The evening he was supposed to meet us, he was here in Larvik.’

  ‘The evening of the murder?’

  Wisting nodded.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘We’ve surveyed all the traffic through the toll stations between Oslo and Larvik. Line’s car passed the tollbooths at the optimum time relating to the murder. Tommy had the car then.’

  Suzanne sat in silence.

  ‘I discovered it by accident,’ Wisting said, ‘but haven’t spoken to any of the others yet.’

  ‘Have you told Line?’

  ‘Not directly. I can’t, as long as the enquiry is in progress.’