Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  The next two ring binders contained duplicate tax returns and other financial papers. Line’s eyes opened wide. If Sofie was her grandfather’s sole heir, she had become extremely wealthy. He was listed as having capital of fourteen million kroner, divided into bank deposits, shares and properties. Other papers suggested that there was still more cash. Printouts from the Bank Julius Bär in Zurich showed a series of deposits of several hundred thousand euros. Line had heard about Swiss bank accounts, but had never seen anything like this. There was no name or address listed for the account holder, only a number, Relationship No. 0016.2426, concealing the identity. All that was needed to access the money was a code word.

  The next papers showed that Frank Mandt was registered as a one-man business with the stated aim of buying and selling real estate. There were copies of title deeds and transfer agreements going far back in time. At the very end of one ring binder was a collection of payments of winnings from the Norwegian Trotting Association, and Rikstoto, the Norwegian National Tote. She knew that this was frequently how criminals obtained start-up capital. You could buy winning tickets at the racing tracks. It was a sort of win-win situation. The real winner could cash in up to twenty-five per cent more than the original winnings, and the buyer was able to launder money. Property investments were another way of letting black market money grow. You purchased a property at a low price because it was in need of maintenance, and brought in black market tradesmen before selling at a profit.

  Frank Mandt had an almost obsessional sense of order.

  The final ring binder contained police documents: witness statements and interviews of suspects. One of them referred to a man called Aron Heisel, who had been interviewed by the police in Halden on 6 June 2002, charged with importing 2,400 litres of spirits in plastic containers. He admitted his guilt, but would not give a statement about where the consignment came from or the identity of the intended recipient. Another recurring name was Per Gregersen. He had given a statement to the police in a case concerning marijuana smuggling and it looked as if the Hells Angels in Denmark were also involved.

  Line went back to the ring binder full of newspaper clippings and found an article from the Halden Arbeiderblad dated 7 June 2002, which stated that customs officials had stopped a Volkswagen Transporter loaded with more than 2,000 litres of spirits. An older clipping from the Fædrelandsvenn wrote of a man who had been convicted of importing eight kilos of marijuana. During the hearing, he had refused to explain his relationship with the Hells Angels and the criminal motorbike fraternity in Denmark.

  Frank Mandt had created an archive of operations that had gone wrong. Crazy, because the police might find it but, as he had been operating since the sixties without being caught, he had probably become quite self-confident. Anyway, the newspaper cuttings were no more than circumstantial evidence.

  The police documents were from various districts. Although there were different investigators, lawyers’ names were mainly the same. She doubted whether Mandt had obtained the case documents from anyone in the police, and guessed that they were copies of transcripts used by defence counsel. From her experience with organised crime, she knew that those who were arrested often demonstrated their loyalty towards their employers with copies of their police statements in which no names were mentioned.

  Water trickled and poured through the gutters. It was painful to sit on the hard concrete floor. Her back was stiff and her bump made it difficult to lean forward. She changed her position and picked out one of the black notebooks. Full of figures, it was obviously some kind of accounting, but the rows of numbers had no headings. In some places dates were noted, and in others one or two letters were followed by a full stop, like the initials of a name. A detective in Økokrim, the police finance division, would probably be able to extract more from this than she could.

  The envelopes were what Line was most curious about. Sofie had already retrieved photographs of her mother and herself, but there were still several more envelopes at the bottom of the safe.

  The first was bulky and contained small cassettes. One of her most senior colleagues in the local newspaper had used similar cassettes in a miniature tape recorder instead of using pen and paper, much as she made use of the recording function on her mobile phone. They were marked with date and year, and there were more than twenty, but no player.

  She put that envelope to one side and peered down at the next, which contained something resembling surveillance photos. Old and grainy, they had been taken at a distance. The subjects were two men walking along a pavement, one gesticulating as if explaining something to the other. The pictures reminded her of the famous photograph of the meeting between KGB General Gennady Titov and Arne Treholt, convicted of spying in the eighties.

  The next envelope contained similar pictures but they had been taken in an industrial area. It looked as if the buildings and location were the photographer’s focus. Another collection was in colour. Snapped abroad, with palm trees and exotic flowers in the background, the people standing around did not seem to be aware that they were being photographed.

  It was obvious that the pictures had significance. Counter-intelligence had become an important part of organised crime, with reference to both the police and other criminal gangs. The pictures were old, and there was no telling why Frank Mandt had kept them. Even though they could not tell Line anything at present, they bore witness to how he had built up his criminal empire. When she struggled to her feet and returned the contents to the safe, more questions than answers were running through her head.

  30

  When the alarm clock rang, Wisting had already been awake for half an hour, his thoughts circling around Frank Mandt’s death. The last time anyone had seen him alive had been on Monday 9 January. The date of death was fixed as Tuesday 10 January, since that day’s newspaper had been spread out on the kitchen table and the mail for subsequent days had not been brought in. He was unsure whether he recalled correctly, but in one of the photographs there was a detail that, given what had emerged in the past few days, might prove interesting.

  He got up and padded into the bathroom. Dirty laundry had piled up behind the door. He must remember to switch on the washing machine when he came home.

  He was in his office as early as half past six. Blue-grey clouds blanketed the sky, but they parted and let sunlight spill through from time to time. Rain from the previous night had already disappeared from the streets. It was going to be another warm day.

  The Mandt file was still on his desk. He picked it up and thumbed through to the pictures of the kitchen table. Mortensen had taken a close-up of the local paper for Tuesday 10 January. The main story was a quarrel about salmon fishing rights in Lågen. The other photo was of the mailbox. Side by side, these two photographs were self-explanatory. However, it was the next image that had surfaced in Wisting’s subconscious, showing the entire kitchen table. Beside the local paper and a coffee cup lay a pair of scissors and an edition of VG open at an article about the New Year Murder. On its own it didn’t mean a thing, but it could be significant.

  Until now, they had taken Jens Hummel as their starting point and searched for a link to Frank Mandt without finding anything. Now they had to search in the opposite direction: did Frank Mandt have a connection to the missing taxi driver? For decades, the police had struggled to persuade anyone to talk about him and his criminal activity. He had ruled his people with an iron fist, but now he was dead. Maybe someone would be willing to talk?

  The assignments had been divided between Torunn Borg and Nils Hammer. After the morning meeting, Wisting went to the toilet and splashed his face with cold water. His eyes cleared and he looked at his face in the mirror. There was still a hint of bruising on the right side, but the swelling had gone.

  By half past eight, when most of the routine administrative tasks had normally been completed in all the police stations in the country, Wisting dialled Harald Ryttingen’s number in Kristiansand and gave a brief account of t
he possible connection between Jens Hummel and the New Year Murder. ‘I’d like a copy of your case material to see if there’s anything that can be linked to our enquiry,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve already told you that our investigation is over,’ Ryttingen said. ‘All the material is with the Public Prosecutor who will lead the case in court.’

  ‘I only need electronic access. So that we can link up to the case documents from here.’

  ‘We spoke about that yesterday. We don’t need any assistance from you.’

  ‘I know that, but we’re the ones who need assistance from you. You may be in possession of information of interest to our missing person enquiry.’

  ‘I’ll have to clear it with the Public Prosecutor. I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve been in touch with him.’

  Wisting moved the phone to his other ear. There was no need to obtain approval to give him the information. This could only be a delaying tactic. ‘Who at the Public Prosecutor’s office has this case?’

  ‘I’ll get hold of him,’ Ryttingen said. ‘You’ll hear from me.’

  With that, the conversation was over.

  Ryttengen’s unwillingness to accommodate interest from another police district was inexplicable other than that it would disturb a case they had long regarded as fully investigated. There was nothing Wisting could do but wait, time he spent in front of the whiteboard on the wall of the conference room where the whole investigation was mapped out. A timeline stretched back to 31 December and forward to today, with events marked with key words in various colours, supplemented by extracts from maps and photos from the crime scene technicians.

  What is it we’re not seeing here?

  All cases had a hidden door. A concealed opening that only became visible when you looked at everything in the right context.

  At twelve o’clock Wisting felt hungry and realised that he hadn’t prepared a lunch pack. Taking his reflections with him he crossed the square to buy a hotdog and a bottle of Farris mineral water from the Narvesen newspaper kiosk. Scattered clouds were still hanging in the sky, but they were white and fluffy. He sat on a bench to eat and absentmindedly watched a group of gulls fighting over a morsel of bread. Never before had he spent such a long time on a case and been so far from a solution. Other cases had been complicated and difficult, but never had six months passed without more than vague outlines appearing. Maybe it was not the enquiry. Maybe he had grown old and was losing his grip.

  The gulls flew off when someone sat at his side. Wisting wiped his fingers on a napkin and half-turned to the left. It was Christine Thiis. She smiled and handed him a Krone ice-cream cone. Although it was not the price that had given the cornet-shaped ice its name, Wisting could actually remember when it had in fact cost exactly one krone. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  She removed the paper from her own. ‘You mustn’t let it consume you,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you ever think of anything other than this case?’

  Wisting folded his ice-cream wrapper without a word. The unanswered questions gnawed continuously.

  ‘You need a break. It’s like when you’ve mislaid your keys or something. You find them when you stop searching. The best way to resolve a case is often to take a break from it.’

  ‘Of course, you’re right,’ he said.

  Christine Thiis stood up. ‘At my house, seven o’clock tonight. I’ll give you something else to think about.’ He looked at her. ‘Some time off to eat. I’m fed up preparing food just for myself.’

  Wisting wiped ice cream from his top lip with the back of his hand. Before he got as far as accepting, Christine Thiis had turned and gone.

  31

  Sofie was following a recipe she found on the Internet, putting strawberries, water melon slices and ice cubes into her new blender before pressing in the juice from a lime and letting Line sprinkle on some icing sugar. She attached the lid and switched it on. The blades at the bottom of the glass jug went into action, but stopped suddenly. Line glanced up at the ceiling light. ‘The electricity’s off. It must be a fuse.’

  ‘The cupboard’s in the basement,’ Sofie said. ‘Could you do it?’

  Line descended the basement stairs and located the fuse cupboard at the end of the corridor. It was relatively modern with automatic fuses, but everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. Circuit number thirteen had blown. She flicked the switch back into place, but it blew again with a bang.

  ‘Try turning off the dishwasher!’ she shouted.

  ‘Okay!’

  Line connected the circuit again. This time the blender started up in the kitchen.

  She was about to close the cupboard door when, at the base of the fuse cupboard, she spotted a little torch, a few screws, an RCD circuit breaker and some papers left by the installer, but also a key, partly hidden underneath a folded electricity bill. She lifted it out. It was long with a complex set of wards and bits. She stole a glance into the room containing the safe before taking the key upstairs with her.

  ‘Sofie?’

  Sofie did not hear her because of the noise from the blender, but switched off the machine when Line entered the room.

  ‘Have you seen this before?’

  Sofie came closer and took it out of her hands.

  ‘It was in the fuse cupboard.’

  ‘Do you think it’s for the safe?’

  Line grinned. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’

  They went downstairs again. Sofie inserted the key into the safe and pushed. The lock itself had been damaged when the locksmith had bored through, but there was no doubt that it was the right key. She burst out laughing. ‘I got the bill from the locksmith yesterday. It came to nearly four thousand kroner.’

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ Line said.

  ‘That’s the way it always is when you’re looking for something. You find it when you stop hunting.’

  Line tried the key in the lock for herself. ‘At least that mystery’s solved.’

  They left the key in the lock and returned to the kitchen. Sofie took out a bowl of prawn salad and sent Line out on to the terrace with it.

  Sofie’s always the one who pays, Line thought. It gave her a stab of guilt, even though she knew her friend could well afford it.

  After Line had bought her house, she had felt the pinch financially. She was well enough off, but the renovation had been more expensive than anticipated. It was going to be a challenge to pay the mortgage when she also had to look after a child on her own.

  Maja’s pram was parked in the shade of the leafy old trees. Next time she visited, she would bring something with her, Line thought. A cake, or something for Maja.

  Sofie emerged from the living room with the glass jug in one hand and her iPad in the other. ‘They’ve found out about it,’ she said, looking up from the screen. ‘The money was from a robbery in Drammen.’

  Line got to her feet and Sofie handed her the tablet. Dagbladet had broken the news. Million-kroner Gift from Violent Robbery screamed the headline.

  Line skimmed the text. The police had discovered that several of the banknotes could be traced to a robbery on an armoured security van outside the Gullskogen shopping centre in Drammen in 2005. Two Securitas guards were threatened with a revolver and a shotgun. One was knocked unconscious with the gun butt. The total proceeds of the robbery were almost eight million kroner, but among the cash was a case of banknotes ready to be inserted into a cash machine. The serial numbers on the banknotes had now been retrieved from the anonymous million-kroner gift.

  No one had been arrested for the robbery.

  ‘What will we do?’ Sofie asked, sitting on one of the garden chairs.

  ‘Nothing,’ Line answered.

  ‘What if the Old Man took part in it?’

  Line clicked on a link to Dagbladet’s coverage of the case in 2005. ‘I doubt that,’ she said, without mentioning her impression that Sofie’s grandfather was the brains behind many crimes. ‘Remember he
was already an old man by then.’

  The newspaper article from 2005 did not tell her any more, other than that the robbery had been the seventh in the Drammen area in two years.

  ‘Why did he keep the money in the safe?’ Sofie asked.

  ‘He might have received it in payment for something,’ Line said. After they had found the money, she had read more about the subject. Although such money was marked, it was often used as a means of payment in criminal circles, but at ten per cent of its face value. Whoever bought the marked notes also took on the task of using them in slot machines or other places where banknotes were read by machine.

  ‘Why didn’t he just burn them? After all, they’re not worth anything?’

  Line sat down again and put the iPad on the table. ‘That’s not your responsibility,’ she said. ‘You can’t feel guilty about something your grandfather did.’

  ‘I know that, but I feel I ought to do something to make up for the terrible things he did.’

  ‘The best thing you can do is to take care of yourself, and make sure that Maja here has a better upbringing and more stability in her life than you ever had.’

  Sofie flashed her a smile as Line leaned over the salad bowl.

  ‘Is it safe for me to eat shellfish?’ Line knew the answer, but wanted to change the subject.

  ‘Yes, of course, but you should be careful about prawns when you’re breast-feeding so that the baby doesn’t become allergic. Make the most of them now!’

  Line helped herself to a generous portion and the conversation drifted to other topics: baby equipment, renovations and interior décor. Now and again, she had to force herself to concentrate on what Sofie was saying. Her thoughts constantly turned back to the contents of the old safe. The stained banknotes had been lying for years, but the revolver could not have been there for long since it had been used on New Year’s Eve. Frank Mandt had died immediately after, and the safe had not been opened until they broke into it the previous week. The man who had used the revolver had been arrested just after the killing. During the last few days of Frank Mandt’s life the murder weapon must have been conveyed here and locked in the safe. Something in this sequence of events seemed illogical.