Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  He typed Sofie in the search field for first name, entered the same year of birth as Line, and restricted the search to the Larvik district. Vacillating, he finally pressed Enter.

  The search produced three hits: Nina Sofie Lund, Sophie Fladen and Sofie Hekkensmyr. Only the first of these lived in Stavern. He clicked into the detailed picture and saw that she had reported moving from Oslo to Johan Ohlsens gate only a few days earlier, and that she had a daughter aged one. He remembered the pushchair parked between Line and her friend when they were seated outside The Golden Peace.

  A note explained that Sofie Lund had changed her surname. That was not unusual for women when they married, but Sofie Lund was unmarried. Another keystroke revealed that her former surname was Mandt. Drawing closer to the screen, Wisting felt his heart skip a beat. He swallowed hard as the data register confirmed that Line’s friend’s grandfather was Frank Mandt.

  26

  Line stretched out on the settee in her newly furnished living room, too worried to relax. She perched her laptop on her stomach and stuffed a big cushion behind her back. The latest article said the case against the accused twenty-five-year-old was scheduled for Monday 6 August. She clicked into a summary. The alleged perpetrator had not confessed, but three witnesses had seen him flee the scene. In addition, gunshot residue was found on his hands, and a map of the attack area in his back pocket.

  His criminal record also counted against him. He had several previous convictions for violence and narcotics crimes, and had been released on probation a few days before Christmas after serving nine months for threatening with a knife when stealing a handbag.

  The actual killing was described succinctly. Twenty-one-year-old Elise Kittelsen, who lived in Kristian IVs gate, was going to a party at the home of friends in Tangen, a ten-minute walk. Outside the abandoned school in Kongens gate, she was shot and killed.

  One of the witnesses was Terje Moseid, who described how he and a friend tried to save her, but could not staunch the bleeding. They had heard two loud bangs and seen someone running away, and their description led to a twenty-five-year-old suspect being arrested immediately afterwards.

  The speedy resolution was something the police emphasised to the media. Their theory was that a robbery had gone wrong. The arrest could have been even faster if the perpetrator had not attempted to flee the scene. Two policemen had pursued him through the city centre streets and, for a while, it looked as if he had got away. He was found hiding behind a rubbish container.

  Apart from that, the coverage contained the obligatory portrayal of the young victim. Two of the friends at the party were interviewed. A photograph that Elise Kittelsen had published on Facebook that same evening was used by way of illustration. The accused’s lawyer had offered little other than that his client denied any involvement in the crime.

  Line could feel the baby kicking, as if protesting at the location of the laptop. She shut the lid and carried it back to the table.

  She had no idea how the gun had ended up in the safe, but it was certainly a problem now. Uneasy at withholding information from her father, she still did not want to let down her friend. Rolling on her side she used her arm for support, sat up and texted a message to Sofie, asking her if it would be all right for her to drop by, and half an hour later they were on the terrace in her garden.

  The weather was sultry and still. Maja crawled on a rug on the lawn. Line was unsure where to begin. ‘I don’t think it was such a good idea to hand the revolver to the police.’

  A shadow crossed Sofie’s face. ‘Why not?’

  ‘They examined it. They do that with all guns that are handed in.’

  Sofie picked at the cuticle on her thumb.

  ‘I spoke to my Dad. They’ve test-fired it.’

  ‘Why did they do that?’

  ‘To check the bullet. They compare the markings on it with bullets from other cases.’

  ‘My God!’ Sofie grabbed the arms of her chair. ‘Was it used in a robbery, the one the money came from?’

  ‘I’m sorry for creating problems,’ Line said. ‘We should have done as you suggested and heaved it into the sea.’

  ‘What did they discover?’

  Line leaned forward. ‘Someone was shot with it.’ Somewhere nearby, a gull screeched. ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘And killed?’

  Line nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Have you heard of the New Year Murder?’

  ‘I think maybe.’

  When Line told her about how Elise Kittelsen had been shot and killed Sofie stood up and took a few steps. ‘I know he did a lot of bad things, but murder?’

  ‘No, no! It’s not like that. They’ve charged a twenty-five-year-old with the murder. The trial begins in a week’s time.’

  Sofie sat Maja on her knee. ‘How can they be sure it’s the same revolver?’

  Line shrugged.

  ‘I don’t understand how it can have landed up here in the safe,’ Sofie said. ‘Have you told your father where you got the revolver?’

  ‘No. It’s registered as handed in anonymously, but I said I got it from a school friend who found it when she was clearing out her grandfather’s belongings.’ She qualified herself slightly. ‘I did tell him about you, though. Since he saw us together outside The Golden Peace he’s going to put two and two together. We may have to give evidence.’

  ‘There’s nothing to give evidence about. We don’t know anything more than that we found the revolver in the safe.’

  Maja began to make a fuss.

  ‘But we might have to give a statement to that effect,’ Line said. ‘If I’d known it would turn out like this, I’d never have given the revolver to my Dad.’

  Sofie gave Maja a bunch of keys to chew. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘It’s not your fault. It’s the Old Man who’s to blame, for all of it.’

  27

  According to Criminal Records, Harald Ryttingen had responsibility for the New Year Murder case. Wisting did not know him, but knew that he was in charge of the criminal investigation department at Agder Police District. He had heard him give talks at a few conferences and seen him interviewed in the media. He was an athletic man with raven-black hair who looked secure and self-confident in his job. He found his direct number and rang.

  Harald Ryttingen answered apathetically, as if engrossed in something else, but focused when Wisting introduced himself. ‘I’ve received the weapon report,’ he said in the soft tones of the south coast. ‘It changes nothing as far as our case is concerned.’

  ‘I would think it raises a few questions,’ Wisting said.

  ‘The most important questions have already been answered. The perpetrator was arrested fourteen minutes after the crime. The Public Prosecutor has preferred an indictment. The court case starts a week from now.’

  ‘Since the weapon was handed in here, I wanted to let you know we’re happy to assist.’

  ‘The weapon was handed in anonymously, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, but we may be able to take a closer look at its origins.’

  ‘You needn’t bother. The investigation of the case is concluded.’

  ‘Have you already spoken to the Public Prosecutor about that?’

  Ryttingen avoided the question. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘This is our case. You don’t need to make any further enquiries. The report we’ve received is more than enough.’

  ‘It could be of interest to your case to find out how the revolver ended up here,’ Wisting said. This dismissive attitude was very different from how he would have handled a similar development.

  ‘Illegal weapons change hands all the time.’

  ‘The perpetrator must have thrown it away when he ran off or else passed it to someone. Have you looked at the possibility that he wasn’t acting alone?’

  ‘Listen!’ Ryttingen’s soft accent became sharper at the edges. ‘We have three eyewitnesses and I have no intention of letting this pistol
create problems for us in court.’

  ‘Revolver.’

  Ryttingen gave a loud sigh. ‘It’s my job to present the most solid and convincing case possible. I don’t need anything that leaves room for doubt and confuses the judge.’

  Wisting was about to protest. That was not what an investigation was for. On the contrary, it was to bring all the facts to light.

  ‘I’m grateful for you getting in touch. We’ll take care of it from now on,’ Ryttengen said, bringing the conversation to a close.

  Wisting had mixed feelings. Line would be pleased that the investigating officers were not interested in following up on the gun. In his own eyes though, from a professional point of view, this was a misjudgement, a decision he regarded with extreme scepticism.

  Christine Thiis appeared at the door with her bag slung over her shoulder, so he understood that she was on her way home and wanted a final update before she left. A deep furrow became visible between her eyebrows when her eyes met Wisting’s.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ she asked, stepping inside.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Christine Thiis pulled a chair from under the desk and sat down.

  ‘It’s not really to do with our case,’ he explained, pushing the ballistics report across.

  ‘Have you spoken to the police in Kristiansand?’ she asked, after skimming through the papers.

  ‘I’ve just put down the phone. They regard the investigation as done and dusted. The court case begins in a week, and they don’t want us to do anything further.’

  ‘There’s not really much more to be done. It was handed in anonymously.’

  Wisting replaced the document in its folder. ‘It’s not as if someone left the revolver on the steps outside and sneaked away. We do know a little about where it came from.’

  Christine Thiis tilted her head to one side and held his gaze.

  ‘It comes from a deceased person’s estate,’ Wisting said. ‘It was among the possessions left by Frank Mandt.’

  The air conditioning system in the ceiling switched off and its regular drone was replaced by silence.

  ‘That’s not unreasonable,’ Christine Thiis said. ‘We know that Frank Mandt was a central player in criminal circles in Østland. For an illegal weapon to end up in his hands is not really so strange.’

  Nils Hammer came to the door with a cup of coffee and a notepad. ‘What’s not really so strange?’

  Wisting repeated his explanation, still without mentioning Line.

  ‘There are a few things here that are strange,’ Hammer said. ‘A murder weapon is hot. It’s something you get rid of as quickly as possible.’

  ‘The killer couldn’t have done it any faster,’ Wisting said. ‘He was arrested fourteen minutes after the message was relayed.’

  ‘I remember that. The National Police Commissioner bragged about it in an interview.’

  ‘Somebody must have found it and brought it here.’

  ‘Just from sheer curiosity,’ Hammer continued, ‘where was Jens Hummel on New Year’s Eve?’

  Wisting sat motionless for a couple of seconds before swivelling his chair and pulling out a ring binder marked Electronic traces. ‘The taximeter was not in use,’ he said.

  ‘Isn’t that a bit odd? A taxi that’s not in service on New Year’s Eve?’

  Wisting extracted the printouts that showed Jens Hummel’s mobile phone use for the six months prior to his disappearance. They had gone through them before and spoken to everyone he had been in contact with, but it had not taken them any further.

  His index finger slid down the columns to 31 December. Throughout that day the phone had registered at various base stations in Larvik. At around four in the afternoon the signal began to move southwards. It registered at a number of towns along the south coast until he sent a text message from Kristiansand city centre at twenty-eight minutes past six.

  28

  Nils Hammer enlarged the telephone printout on the screen. The investigators had been kept behind and were huddled round the conference table. ‘We know that Elise Kittelsen was murdered in Kristiansand town centre at 19.21 on 31 December with a gun belonging to Frank Mandt,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t know for sure that it belonged to Frank Mandt,’ Mortensen said. ‘It was found among his possessions after his death.’

  ‘Okay,’ Hammer agreed, ‘but we also know that Jens Hummel was in Kristiansand city centre at 18.28.’ He pointed at the data printout where the call was underlined in red. ‘The next thing we know is that he receives a message when he passes Bamble at 21.34, on his return journey.’

  ‘The stretch from Kristiansand to Bamble takes almost exactly two hours,’ Mortensen said. ‘That means he must have left Kristiansand just after the shots were fired.’

  ‘Who sent the text?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  ‘We checked that out earlier,’ Wisting replied. ‘Apparently it was a Happy New Year message. A couple of the people told us they were not even aware they’d sent him a text. They had him stored and selected all their contacts as recipients. The messages sent out by Jens Hummel were also New Year greetings.’

  ‘He did have another phone,’ Espen Mortensen reminded them.

  ‘There could be a connection,’ Wisting said. ‘Hummel was in Kristiansand when the murder was committed. His vehicle was found on Mandt’s farm, and the murder weapon was among Mandt’s belongings. It could all be down to coincidence, but if not – what is it?’

  Torunn Borg got the ball rolling. ‘Jens Hummel brought the gun to Larvik,’ she suggested.

  ‘Jens Hummel could be the murderer,’ Nils Hammer said.

  ‘But the murderer’s already been caught,’ Christine Thiis objected.

  Hammer defended his theory. ‘They might have arrested the wrong guy. If Frank Mandt was Jens Hummel’s employer, he wouldn’t have much problem obtaining a false passport for Hummel to flee the country.’

  ‘You mean that Jens Hummel was a hired killer?’ Christine Thiis said, unable to restrain a smile.

  ‘And why on earth would Frank Mandt want to kill a twenty-one-year-old girl in Kristiansand?’ Torunn Borg added. ‘Besides, you’re forgetting Hummel’s blood in the taxi.’

  ‘There could be other explanations for that,’ Hammer said, looking at Mortensen.

  ‘There were only minimal amounts,’ Mortensen said. ‘Hummel had driven the taxi for a number of years. Maybe he cut himself at another time and some of the blood rubbed off in the car boot, but I don’t see Jens Hummel as any kind of professional hit man for Frank Mandt either.’

  Theories and suppositions were tossed about. In one suggestion, Jens Hummel was an inconvenient witness who had to be liquidated; in the next he had no connection to the gun or the murder and had done nothing illegal apart from putting the money for a lengthy trip into his own pocket.

  Wisting waited to be asked how he knew the revolver came from Frank Mandt’s estate, and how it came to be handed in, but it did not come. Eventually the conversation ebbed to a close.

  ‘We’ve overlooked a pertinent question,’ Hammer said. ‘Who was the passenger when Jens Hummel drove to Kristiansand on New Year’s Eve? Frank Mandt himself?’

  They left with a long list of unanswered questions. The sky outside had turned grey.

  29

  The rain arrived around seven that evening. Sitting on the concrete floor in front of the safe, Line glanced up at the basement window. It was not the sort of rain that would put an end to the dry spell, but a fresh, clean summer downpour that would wash the dust off the grass and leaves.

  Sofie had asked if she would look through the remaining contents after they agreed it would be best to get them cleared out. First, they removed all the money and placed the notes in a plastic carrier bag that Sofie was going to hide somewhere in the house. The rest of the contents she left to Line. ‘But we’re not handing in anything else to the police,’ she had said.

  There were five black ring binders, several plastic
folders, notebooks and envelopes in the safe.

  The first ring binder appeared to contain everything to do with the house: insurance papers, valuation reports, architectural plans, instruction booklets, receipts and guarantee certificates. Some of that could be useful for Sofie, but otherwise was of little interest.

  Line put that ring binder aside and opened the next. It was full of plastic pockets containing newspaper cuttings. She unfolded one. The paper was yellowed and the print faded. The article was from 17 August 1972 and the headline read: Smuggler’s Boat Boarded Near Jomfruland. Customs officials had boarded a fishing smack seven nautical miles beyond Jomfruland. On board they had found 720 litres of spirits. The vessel had been towed in to Langesund, and the skipper, who had been on board by himself, was arrested.

  There were two more clippings in the same pocket. One was a shorter article explaining that the fifty-eight-year-old skipper had admitted the attempted smuggling but, apart from that, refused to cooperate with the police. The last extract was a brief notice about a fifty-eight-year-old man who was sentenced to sixty days unconditional imprisonment for smuggling 720 litres of liquor.

  Next was a story from 1976. A lorry loaded with cigarettes and several hundred litres of spirits had been involved in a traffic accident on route 22, near the Swedish border. The driver sustained slight injuries and was charged with smuggling.

  Approximately every third year there were similar newspaper articles, placed in chronological order in the ring binder. It was a strange collection, and the only explanation Line could think of was that Frank Mandt had saved stories from the newspapers that somehow involved him, probably as the man pulling the strings.

  She put that ring binder aside. Something hit the floor on the storey above her head. Maja burst into tears, and the boards in the ceiling creaked as Sofie crossed the living room floor.