Closed for Winter

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Amazing how they manage to do it,’ Line said.

  ‘Birds have large hearts in relation to their body size,’ he explained. ‘The distance between their eyes and brain is short, and the electrical impulses that are sent out travel at lightning speed. To us, it looks as though the entire flock turns instantaneously when a bird reacts to its neighbour’s movement.’

  Line studied the man, obviously an extremely enthusiastic ornithologist, before extending her hand to introduce herself. ‘Yes indeed,’ he said, confirming that he was the owner of the dirty van. ‘Gunnar Hystad.’

  ‘You’re interested in birds?’

  He smiled at her. ‘It’s always been a hobby, but this summer I took early retirement and that has given me more time. During this past week, I’ve practically lived out here.’

  ‘Do you have a cottage nearby?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. I would like to, especially now at the migration season. The flyways go directly over this area.’

  ‘But you stayed the night out here?’

  ‘Sometimes I sleep in the back of the van, but otherwise I have built myself a lean-to. I arrived here yesterday afternoon. The weather forecast predicted high pressure and wind from the west-northwest, optimal conditions for migration, and I was ready from first light. Now I’m just waiting for the woodpigeons. Tens of thousands of them can pass in the course of a few morning hours.’

  Line looked at the sky, where a number of seagulls were circling. Excepting them, the heavens were empty.

  Gunnar B. lifted the binoculars to his eyes again, scanning the skies before lowering them again. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘What brings you out in the autumn chill?’

  ‘I’m staying at a cottage here,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to write a book.’

  Together they made their way down from the plateau.

  ‘Then it’s a good idea to be fairly isolated,’ the man said, hopping from one boulder to the next. ‘There aren’t many people to be seen out here.’

  ‘I noticed you the first day I arrived, but apart from that, I haven’t seen anyone.’

  ‘When did you arrive?’

  ‘On Saturday.’

  Nodding, Gunnar B. rubbed his hand over the stubble on his chin. ‘That was after all the commotion at Gusland. Did you hear about that?’

  Acknowledging that she had, Line wondered whether she should tell him that she was the one who found the second body. She decided against.

  ‘There was quite a lot of traffic along the coast then, of course. One of the boats was busy all day Saturday, going back and forth all day long, scaring the birds out at the Måkesjæra rock. I don’t know what they were searching for.’ Keeping his head cocked as he spoke, the man abruptly raised his camera to point it at something he had spotted, but too late to capture the image with his lens.

  ‘There’s a sea eagle around here,’ he said. ‘They’re rare. They don’t usually nest so far south. It’s a mature female. Her wingspan is almost two point five metres.’ He came to a standstill. ‘I can show you,’ he said, tilting his camera screen upwards. Various birds glided rapidly over the display until he stopped at an eagle soaring majestically towards a leaden sky. ‘I have a series showing it catching a fish too,’ he said, flicking further on.

  A self-bailing inflatable dinghy with a man onboard occupied the display before the sea eagle returned.

  ‘What was that?’ Line asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The boat.’

  The man flipped back through the images. ‘That was the boat I was talking about. It was going to and fro here all weekend. The pilot was scouting the land along the coast the whole time, obviously searching for something or someone.’

  Line took hold of the camera, scrutinising the picture. The boat was large, battleship grey with an aluminium hull and enormous inflatable pontoons along the gunwales. She knew the police had been searching with helicopters and dogs after the body had been found at Thomas Rønningen’s cottage, but not that they had used a boat. If they had, then they would probably have found the boat that had drifted ashore near her cottage with a corpse on board. This boat was not marked with a registration number or nationality either.

  She tried to study the face of the man behind the steering controls, but the details were too minuscule on the display. ‘I don’t think this is a policeman,’ she said.

  ‘No? Who is it then?’

  Line shrugged. ‘My father works in the police. I can send him the photo.’ The man retrieved his camera, as though reluctant to let go of something so valuable. ‘You can come with me to the cottage,’ she said. ‘Then I can offer you a cup of hot coffee while I transfer the photos to my computer.’

  Stroking his hand over his stubbly chin, the man smiled and nodded.

  49

  ‘In Denmark they call it the black sun,’ Gunnar B. called to her from beside the window.

  Line counted five spoonfuls into the coffee filter. ‘What’s that?’ she asked, filling the container with water.

  ‘When thousands of birds fly in a flock and cover the sky like an eclipse, it’s a tourist attraction every autumn and spring in western Jutland.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Many times.’

  Crossing the room, Line opened the lid of her computer on the low coffee table.

  ‘Can I borrow your memory card?’ she asked.

  Opening his camera, Gunnar B. removed the card and handed it to her. She inserted it in her computer, selected eleven images of the boat and copied them across. By the time she removed the card, coffee was ready.

  Generously filling two mugs, she handed one to her visitor who had taken a seat on the settee. ‘What do you think about the dead birds?’ she asked, curling her hands around her mug.

  Gunnar B. peered through the steam rising from his cup. ‘Dead birds will fall from the sky,’ he laughed. ‘Isn’t that what the doomsday prophets say? It’s the first sign that the end is nigh? There were a hundred thousand birds in that flock we saw today. That makes a few hundred dead birds nothing more than a small percentage. Birds die all the time.’

  ‘But what can have killed them?’ Line persisted.

  ‘If the sea eagle dives into the flock in pursuit of prey, it can kill a dozen just with the flapping of its wings. Others may have become terrified and flown into trees or quite simply died of exhaustion. Birds are easily stressed.’

  ‘I’ve found two on the doorstep,’ Line said. ‘Before that, I think it’s been a decade since I found a dead bird, and that one flew into a window at home.’

  ‘There could be some kind of illness or poisoning. A group of them may have eaten something that did not agree with them. People are so thoughtless. A lot of the stuff they put on bird-trays is downright dangerous, leftover fatty food that causes diarrhoea and leads to the birds being unable to accept nourishment. They die within a day or two.’

  They talked about birds for almost half an hour before Gunnar B. stood up, thanking her for the coffee. As soon as he was gone, Line sat at the computer, allowing one of the photos from the birdwatcher’s camera to fill the screen.

  The resolution was excellent. She could zoom onto the face at the controls without the quality degrading. Leaning slightly forward with a stern expression on his face, his eyes were hidden behind dark pilot’s glasses and his hair ruffled by the wind. He was not wearing any kind of uniform and did not appear to be a policeman or from any of the rescue services. Moreover, police officers always work in pairs.

  She zoomed out a couple of notches to see him full length, searching for details. He was wearing a dark windcheater with a large red R emblazoned on the chest and the name Sailwear. She googled it and discovered a Danish clothing company.

  She then went through the same procedure with the dinghy. Behind one of the pontoons the name RaveRib was printed in white letters. A search on that took her to the webpage of a Danish boat manufacturer.

  Zooming all the way out, she
leaned back in her seat. The boat was large enough to have crossed the sea from Denmark, but what was it doing here?

  It struck Line that she was hungry. She got to her feet and crossed to the refrigerator. Butter and cheese, that was all. Before she sat down again, she refilled her cup. Regardless of what the man in the picture was searching for it must have something to do with the murder case.

  Opening her email program, she typed her father’s name into the address field, noting the words Observation of suspicious boat in the subject field. She then wrote a short summary, giving the name, address and phone number of Gunnar B. Hystad and attaching three of the photographs.

  Just as she was about to send it, it struck her that her father was away. She deleted his address and picked up the business card belonging to the policeman who had interviewed her, adding his email address before clicking Send. With that, she stood up and went to do some shopping.

  50

  Wisting emerged from the shower in his hotel room. His mobile phone was ringing.

  Wrapping the towel around his waist, he stepped out of the bathroom. The caller’s number was not shown in the display. He raised the phone to his ear, announced himself, and immediately recognised Leif Malm’s husky voice.

  ‘Any news?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘There’s a few things, but I waited until now to phone you. I expect you’ve had plenty to do today.’

  Wisting ran his hand through his wet hair. ‘Let me hear anyway.’

  ‘Rudi Muller was in Larvik last night.’

  ‘In Larvik?’

  ‘We followed him down from Oslo yesterday evening. He booked into that new hotel, the Ferris Bad.’

  ‘On his own?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was he doing there?’

  ‘We don’t know. Nobody known to us has gone in or out of the hotel, and there are no interesting calls on the phone number we’re monitoring.’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘No, he drove back early.’

  Wiping the condensation from the mirror, Wisting leaned towards his reflection. The wound had healed into a bright pink mark. He ran his hand over his chin, realising he ought to have shaved before his shower. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possibly some kind of reconnaissance trip. He went out for a drive last night around all the side roads in the area for almost three hours. It was hopeless trying to follow, so we let him go and waited for him at the hotel.’

  ‘Could he have met someone?’

  ‘No, we mounted a tracker on his car after he’d checked in, and he was on the move the entire time.’

  ‘You said he might have been reconnoitring. Do you mean the target for the robbery may be in Larvik?’

  The reply came rather more swiftly and with slightly more assurance than Wisting had anticipated: ‘Yes.’ He waited for his colleague to continue.

  ‘NOKAS, the Norwegian cash handling service, has five cash centres, one of which is located in Larvik. We know that plans for a raid have been circulating for a long time. The plans seem to be worked out down to the finest details, but so far no one has seized the opportunity. The risks are too high, but from the New Year, the centre in Larvik will be moving to Oslo. If the plan is to be carried out, it has to be done sometime in the autumn.’

  Wisting knew that, at one point, plans had circulated for a raid on one of the town’s Norges Bank branches, but this was before the Stavanger premises were raided. Nevertheless, it did not surprise him that plans existed for a robbery on the cash.

  ‘Do you think Rudi Muller has bought the plans?’

  ‘Some things suggest that he is interested in taking them over for a share of the proceeds. An hour ago, we got hold of the list of guests from the hotel. One of the other guests last night was Svein Brandt.’

  The name was familiar to Wisting, but he allowed the intelligence chief to continue.

  ‘Svein Brandt is a central player in criminal circles in the Østland area, but always operates in the shadow of others. His name is included in previous intelligence material dealing with possible robbery plans for the cash handling service in Larvik. He lives in Spain, but it seems he’s paying a visit to Norway.’

  Wisting let the information sink in. ‘What does the informant say about it?’

  ‘He hasn’t been in touch, but we’re hoping to arrange a meeting for this evening.’

  ‘How imminent do you think the robbery might be?’

  ‘We’re probably talking about days rather than weeks. Rudi is really under the cosh.’

  Wisting rubbed his hand over the stubble on his face. ‘I have a return ticket for the day after tomorrow, but I’m not sure whether that will be possible. We haven’t actually achieved anything at all.’

  ‘Take whatever time you need,’ Malm said. ‘We’ll take care of this.’

  ‘What’s your plan?’

  ‘Rudi will need three or four men to carry out the plan. What’s more, he needs vehicles and weapons. Usually we get signals when something like this is going on. We reckon also that the informant’s involvement will continue.’

  ‘What do we do if we find out when and where they’re going to strike?’

  ‘At the end of the day, that’s a decision for your Chief of Police to make, but I would recommend that we grab them there and then. The alternative is to take preventive action by being conspicuous in the vicinity, but that would just postpone the raid.’

  Wisting agreed. Besides, everything that turned up in the wake of such events would help to clear up the murder case. ‘Have you found Trond Holmberg?’ he asked.

  ‘He was removed from the scene of the fire four hours ago, or at least what was left of him. We have the skull and teeth. It was obviously a simple matter for the forensic odontologist to confirm it was him. It will take longer for us to find out whether we have DNA, but the crime scene technicians are optimistic.’

  Wisting gripped the phone underneath his chin as he looked for clean underwear in his suitcase. ‘Cause of fire?’

  ‘That’s not so good. The idiot was a motocross fanatic and had two motorbikes in his living room, ditto petrol tanks. Inflammable liquid has been detected in several places, but it will be difficult to establish whether it has anything to do with the cause of the fire.’

  They exchanged a few more words, and Leif Malm promised to keep him informed about developments.

  Wisting dressed before going into the corridor to knock on the door of Martin Ahlberg’s room. They had to discuss their return journey. In his present location, he felt far too distant from the centre of forthcoming events.

  51

  Martin Ahlberg’s hotel room was slightly smaller than Wisting’s, but just as elegantly furnished with a crimson carpet on the floor and paintings of the Old Town hanging on the walls. ‘We’ve verified the ID,’ Ahlberg said, sitting at the computer on the massive desk. ‘Interpol confirms it was Darius Plater who was found on board the rowing boat.’

  Wisting leaned towards the screen where an open email with the logo of the Organisation for International Police Cooperation was visible. ‘At last,’ he said. ‘We’ll make an early start tomorrow. Things are happening at home that make it difficult to postpone our departure.’

  Ahlberg placed a ballpoint pen between his teeth and looked at him.

  Wisting gave a brief outline of how the parallel enquiry was developing. ‘Can I borrow your computer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Martin Ahlberg logged himself out and relinquished the chair to Wisting. His computer was equipped with software that allowed him to access the police systems via an encrypted mobile broadband connection. As it was an expensive arrangement Wisting had never requested one for himself. He was usually at his office when anything happened, and had no wish to take the electronic aspects of his work home. Emails rolled in as soon as he entered the system. Sorting according to relevance, he read rapidly through mostly formalities and banal information.

 
‘How about dinner tonight?’ Ahlberg asked. ‘We could try somewhere different?’

  Wisting agreed just as a new email arrived. The sender was Benjamin Fjeld, and the subject Danish narcotics supplier in Norwegian waters. The message was marked as extremely important. Have tried to phone you, were the young policeman’s opening words.

  Patting his trouser pocket, it dawned on Wisting that he had left his mobile phone in his hotel room.

  The email was a short summary of how an elderly birdwatcher had taken photographs of a fast boat that had been scouring the coastline at the Gusland fjord, travelling to and fro as though searching for something, the day after the discovery of the first body. Investigation had revealed that the boat was of Danish manufacture. The photograph had been sent to the Danish Police in Copenhagen and they had identified the man on board as Klaus Bang, known to them for repeated drugs violations.

  Wisting clicked on the file attachment: the photograph of the boat with a man surveying the coastline. His eyes were concealed behind dark glasses, but he would be easily recognised.

  He composed a quick response, confirming that he had received the email and telling Benjamin Fjeld to pass the information to the others in the group. He forwarded the message to Leif Malm, requesting him to assess it in relation to his information.

  This fresh information was a huge leap forward in establishing a complete picture. It corresponded well with the case involving a drugs delivery to Rudi Muller that had gone awry. At the same time, there was something that did not add up.

  The source had informed the police that one of the couriers who had crossed the Skagerrak was assumed to have been killed in a confrontation, and that people in Muller’s circles believed he was the man found in the rowing boat. However, now that he had been identified as Darius Plater from Lithuania, there were no grounds for thinking he had arrived from Denmark. Who, then, was the man in the large inflatable boat looking for along the coastline?