Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  The airport was located only a few kilometres from the city centre. The landscape outside the car windows managed all the same to change from thick forest and black ploughed fields to industrial areas and tall, drab blocks of flats. The sun broke through the monotonous carpet of grey covering the skies, and was reflected in the glass facades of the soaring buildings and new office blocks in the city centre. Tall cranes towered above the concrete carapaces of buildings under construction.

  The police station was a sombre four-storey building on the northern bank of the river which divided the city. White police patrol cars with green stripes along their sides were parked outside. Martin Ahlberg paid the taxi driver and led the way in. He introduced them to a uniformed man sitting at the desk inside and produced a printout of the email with the appointment details.

  They were half an hour early, but a young man dressed in an iron-grey shirt and maroon tie appeared immediately and waved them through a door. Depositing their luggage in a separate room, he accompanied them further into the police station, footsteps echoing as they followed him to the top floor. Halfway along the empty corridor he stopped outside a door marked Sigitas Lancinskas – Policijos Viršininkas. He seemed apprehensive about knocking. A young woman opened the door, letting them into an anteroom and thanking the man who had brought them up.

  The woman asked them to wait before disappearing behind double wooden doors that led into the next room. Almost at once, she returned with a pale-faced man in his fifties with short silver hair, dressed in a thick green uniform jacket with three stars twinkling on the epaulettes. His chest was decorated with medals.

  ‘Welcome to Lithuania,’ he said in English, stretching out his arms before shaking with both hands. ‘My name is Sigitas Lancinskas. I am Chief of Vilnius County Police Headquarters,’ he said, translating the title on the doorplate..

  His office was large and warm, but poorly lit. Deep-pile carpets covered the parquet flooring and the windows were obscured by venetian blinds and heavy curtains. An oval conference table with its green felt cover, surrounded by twelve chairs, was the dominant item of furniture. In the centre of the green felt sat a carafe of water and several glasses.

  Lancinskas suggested that they sit at the top of the table. As soon as they were seated, there was a knock at the door and a man in a dark suit entered. ‘This is Head of CID, Antoni Mikulskis. He has been given responsibility for assisting you.’

  The new arrival shook hands with them and handed each a business card with his contact details printed in English. ‘Did your journey go well?’ he asked as he sat down.

  ‘No problems at all,’ Wisting assured him.

  The head of the crime department nodded, as though pleased, before opening a folder containing a number of documents and selecting one with a Norwegian police logo.

  ‘Let me hear if I have understood this correctly,’ he said in eloquent English. ‘One of our countrymen has been shot and killed in southern Norway. You have come here to conduct interviews with three named persons who travelled with him, as well as with the family of the victim.’

  Both Wisting and Ahlberg nodded in confirmation.

  Antoni Mikulskis reached for the carafe of water. ‘Has anyone been charged with this crime?’ he asked, filling four glasses.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I understand your request to mean that the people who were travelling with him left Norway without talking to any officials. Is it the situation that some of our countrymen may be suspected of having something to do with the actual crime?’

  ‘The enquiry is more comprehensive than you are aware of, and extremely complicated,’ Wisting replied, producing the ring binders and documents. For over an hour he explained the case in detail, lingering on the photographs and illustrations. As his report progressed the two officers contributed comments, suggestions and advice.

  ‘Very interesting, and very strange,’ the Chief of Police said. ‘I hope your trip to Vilnius can provide the answers to all of your questions. Now, let’s discuss the practical aspects. The case is of such a type that you want to make simple informal preliminary enquiries before later conducting formal interviews. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then there is no point in bringing these people here. Instead we’ll visit them unannounced. I’ll accompany you personally. We can collect you in an unmarked police car from your hotel at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, if that suits.’

  Wisting would have preferred to start that evening, but agreed anyway. The two Lithuanian police officers exchanged a few words in their own language before standing up. Wisting thanked them for their helpful attitude, and the Chief of CID promised to arrange transport for them to their hotel.

  This is where the answers lie, Wisting reflected outside the police station. At the same time he was conscious of an indefinable anxiety. This must be what Suzanne meant when she spoke about the unknown. The thought that something unforeseen and dramatic could happen at any time in this foreign country frightened him.

  41

  From the rear seat of the police car they watched the young generation which had transformed Lithuania from a Soviet republic into a modern society. Vilnius was a contemporary, cosmopolitan capital city, reminiscent in many ways of Copenhagen or Paris, with busy city streets and picturesque squares and alleyways. Exclusive shopping centres, chain stores, pavement cafés and designer boutiques were everywhere spotless and spruce. It was not as Wisting had expected.

  Martin Ahlberg pointed to a cathedral with a freestanding clock tower and a fortress on the crest of the hill behind the city, landmarks he had visited. Their driver nodded and smiled without seeming to understand what they were saying.

  The Astoria Hotel was situated in the city’s old quarter. As they neared their destination, the streets became cobbled, the gaps between buildings narrowed, and many of the old houses looked recently renovated. This part of the city had character and charm.

  They were allocated adjacent rooms on the third floor, overlooking the main street of the old town. Wisting stepped onto his tiny balcony and took a firm hold of the cast iron railing. A biting wind gusted between the buildings and the sky was slate grey. Customers sat in the pavement cafés below, leaning back with cups of coffee and glasses of wine. Souvenir stalls offered amber jewellery, knitwear and babushka dolls. From here he could count eleven church spires, which contrasted with his view of Lithuanians as itinerant criminals.

  Before dinner, Wisting phoned Nils Hammer who had no further news about the investigation. Wisting could tell from his voice that he was puzzled about something, and guessed that he had completed his analysis of the traffic through the toll stations. He should have spotted Line’s car. His work colleagues were very familiar with her relationship to Tommy Kvanter, and Tommy’s past. Only a few years earlier, his name had figured in several intelligence reports.

  ‘There’s one thing we haven’t talked about,’ Wisting said. ‘Tommy Kvanter is one of the owners and proprietors of Shazam Station.’

  ‘I know that,’ Hammer answered. ‘I thought it was over between them?’

  ‘It’s over,’ Wisting confirmed. ‘But I want you to tell me if his name crops up.’

  ‘Is there any reason to believe it will?’

  ‘No,’ Wisting said, mentioning his meeting with Leif Malm. ‘The informant thinks that Rudi Muller was in Larvik to collect the cocaine.’

  ‘Do they know what car was used?’

  ‘No, but they want you to send them all the material from the toll stations so they can check the vehicles.’

  ‘I’ll get it sent it over right away.’

  Wisting refrained from saying that he had gone through the lists himself and spotted Line’s car. He could not hear anything in Hammer’s tone to suggest that he had made the same discovery and said nothing. After concluding their conversation, he felt that it had been wrong of him and was about to phone Hammer when he was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  It seemed
that Martin Ahlberg knew of a basement restaurant in one of the side streets where they served roast wild pork and a fantastic local beer.

  42

  Line looked up from her computer screen, rubbing her eyes. Late afternoon twilight settled on the cottage walls. She had read of an author who wrote five pages daily, and then finished for the day, regardless of whether it took one hour or ten, and of whether it had gone well or badly. The next day he read what he had written, deleting half and embarking on five new pages. She had decided to do the same, and eventually discovered that what she wrote assumed a deeper and more complex meaning. Her characters began to soften and become living beings.

  She glanced through the window, where a black bird stood the windowsill, staring in with shining, glittering pinpoint eyes. While she sat staring back, another bird joined it. She stood up quietly to avoid startling them and a third bird landed, jostling between the first pair. In the background she saw an entire flock sitting in a row on the banisters and the branches of nearby trees.

  As if at a signal they all took flight at once, joining in the air, swooping in an arc, and disappearing over the cottage roof. Line crossed to the window to see what might have scared them, but saw nothing. She drew the curtains and returned to her seat. The fabric was too narrow to cover the whole window and a narrow gap was left between them.

  She turned her attention to the screen, scrolling through her text to read the last three paragraphs, but stopped before she was halfway through. Rising from her chair again, she stepped to the door and turned the latch before taking a pace back to stand and listen, her body filled with a peculiar sensation she had experienced before in the evenings, when the darkness was filled with strange sounds. Never, though, as intensely as this.

  She had a horrible, creeping feeling that she was not alone, that someone outside was watching her and waiting. It was an irrational thought, but she felt vulnerable and exposed all the same. She fastened the curtains shut with clothes pegs while, outside, darkness descended. She lit a fire in the open fireplace and, this time, the logs burned easily, the blaze sending a congenial, flickering light into the room. She watched the flames until the yellow shafts of light stung her eyes.

  Her laptop was in sleep mode, but sprang to life when she stroked the touchpad. Reading rapidly through the text she soon regained her focus. Rain was falling outside, but there was no wind.

  She did not know how much time had passed when she was startled by a hollow sound from just outside the wall where she was sitting. It sounded as if someone was thumping on the grass. Then it stopped. She sat uneasily, straining to hear more, but could not catch anything other than the rain.

  On the desk facing her she spotted the business card left by the policeman who had interviewed her, telling her to phone if anything turned up. Benjamin Fjeld, she read. She sat fingering it, but left the phone undisturbed. Then she heard the noise again, followed by a scraping sound along the wall.

  A wild animal from the forest behind the cottage, she thought. At the kitchen worktop she filled a glass with water and stepped across to the front door to make sure it was locked.

  The hands on the kitchen clock showed half past ten. She was not tired, but decided to go to bed and read. She saved her work on the computer before brushing her teeth and checking that all the windows were closed. She took out a torch in case of a power cut and, before undressing, switched off the lights. She was searching for a T-shirt to wear in bed when a shadow fell on the living room curtains.

  She froze and listened tensely, but could only hear the sound of her own breathing and raindrops dripping on the roof. There! A creak of timber on the verandah outside.

  Her heart raced at murderous speed, pumping all the strength out of her. She trembled as though she felt cold and sweated as though she felt hot. There was someone outside the door, casting a shadow in the lamplight.

  43

  The wet cobbles shimmered in the street. It must have rained while they were eating. Feeling that the beer and strong liqueur they had consumed with dessert had gone to his head, Wisting told Martin Ahlberg he would take a breath of fresh air before returning to the hotel.

  Evening gave the Old Quarter a different character. The streets were filled with upbeat laughter and pulsating music pouring from restaurant doors flung wide. He regretted being allocated a room facing the busy street.

  Well-dressed men and heavily made-up women in flimsy, loose-fitting clothes hurried past beggars sitting on the ground. A man with no hands or feet, tied to something resembling a skateboard, propped himself up with the aid of two sticks. ‘Help me, sir!’ he begged. ‘Help me! No food! No home!’

  Shaking his head, Wisting thrust his hands deep inside his pockets, hurrying past with a twinge of conscience. When he took refuge in a narrow side street a young woman shot him an appraising glance. Alone under a lamp she was pretty in an alarming kind of way, in leather jacket, skin-tight jeans and high leather lace-up boots. She was nineteen or twenty years old.

  ‘I might help you,’ she said in stuttering English, placing her hand on his arm.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Wisting said.

  ‘Are you not alone?’ Her hand stroked his face and his body quivered. Never before had such a young, presumptuous woman touched him like this.

  ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

  ‘Norway.’

  ‘I can come to your hotel room with you.’

  ‘Sorry, no.’ Clearing his throat, Wisting emphasised that he was not interested and strolled on.

  A ten-year-old boy in filthy clothes approached him, holding out a tray of amber jewellery. ‘Present for your lady at home,’ he said. The selection comprised necklaces, bracelets and earrings made of solidified resin. A chain with a finely wrought, heart-shaped pendant of transparent burgundy drew Wisting’s eye.

  Noticing his hesitation, the boy grabbed his arm. ‘Very nice price,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two hundred litas.’ Four hundred and fifty Norwegian kroner, Wisting calculated. He shook his head and tried to move on. ‘Please, mister! Tell me your price.’

  As far as Wisting could judge, it was a good piece of craftsmanship. ‘One hundred,’ he offered.

  The boy looked insulted, but reduced the price to 150 litas. Wisting stood his ground, but capitulated at 120.

  He had only a large denomination banknote, which the boy couldn’t change. Another street vendor joined the discussion and Wisting began to wonder if he would receive any money back at all. In the end, the boy handed over a bundle of banknotes, which Wisting accepted without counting. At the same time, he noticed a little girl emerging from the shadows. Encouraged by the jewellery seller’s success, she held up a bowl of knitted dolls.

  About eight years of age, her features were appealing. The time was now almost half past eleven. Wisting waved her towards him, and she offered him the bowl while speaking a few words of Lithuanian in a reedy voice.

  He had a number of small denomination notes in his hand, but instead produced another high-value note and handed it to her before selecting one of the dolls. The girl searched through her pocket for change, but Wisting signalled that she could keep the money. It was a useless form of benevolence, but he sacrificed his principles to brighten this late hour for the little mite. Perhaps she would remember it even though the money would soon be gone.

  He found his way back to the hotel with no more stops. Placing the jewellery in his suitcase, he set the knitted doll down on his bedside table and, before retiring for the night, stepped onto the balcony again. Europe’s new playground for the rich was spread before him. However, the new economy did not benefit everyone. The contrasts in wealth were more noticeable after nightfall. Open prostitution and poverty existed side by side with rich men emerging from expensive cars in the company of long-legged blondes. He understood how those who saw no future for themselves in this city would choose to steal in other countries.

  44

  Li
ne’s breath came in stiff, staccato jerks as the male silhouette raised his hands to his head and leaned forward against the living room window to peer inside.

  She fumbled for a sweater hanging over the chair and pulled it on, lifted the poker from the hearth and stood still, holding it by her side, her sweaty hands sticking to the hard steel. She was on the point of lifting her mobile phone when a fist knocked on the windowpane.

  ‘Line?’ someone called. Another knock on the window, and her name was repeated.

  It took some time for her to realise whose voice it was: Tommy. Laying the poker aside, she unlocked the door.

  His hair plastered to his scalp by the rain, Tommy smiled warmly at her. She opened the door to let him in. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He ran his hand through his abundant hair. ‘I had to see you.’

  Line folded her arms across her chest. ‘How did you find your way?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ he said. His training shoes left muddy footprints on the floor. ‘There are a lot of cottages out here.’

  ‘You’re soaked through. Wait here.’

  Tommy glanced down at his clothes while Line fetched a towel. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing it to him. ‘Have you any dry clothes with you?’ Shaking his head, he rubbed his hair vigorously.

  ‘You’re going to catch a fever.’

  ‘I can dry my clothes at the fire,’ he said, nodding towards the glowing embers.

  Line was about to protest when he removed his shoes and pulled off his sweater and trousers. She sat on the settee, drawing a blanket around her shoulders, as he hung his garments on the chairs and around the fireplace, keeping on only his T-shirt. ‘What do you want, actually?’ she asked.

  ‘I want to sort things out,’ he said, sitting opposite her. In the room’s semi-darkness, the flames from the fire reflected on his wet face.