Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ he said.

  ‘She’s been caught,’ Suzanne explained. ‘The inspector from the security company you organised caught her in the act.’

  Wisting shifted the phone to his other ear. ‘Did she admit it?’

  ‘In the end. I’ve been in a meeting until now. She came out with loads of excuses, but eventually signed a resignation letter and a promissory note for fifty thousand kroner. There were lots of tears and apologies. I feel completely drained and needed someone to talk to.’

  ‘I’m pleased that it’s over.’

  Suzanne took a deep breath. ‘Is it too late, or could you call in tonight?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Only if it’s convenient.’

  He glanced at the time and then across at Christine who had gone inside to fetch coffee and a plate of cake. He wanted to stay, but could not find the right words to turn Suzanne down.

  ‘Or you could come tomorrow.’

  ‘I can come straight after work.’

  She thanked him and apologised for phoning so late.

  Wisting sat down again. He felt the need to explain who had called, and told Christine about the misappropriation of money from the till in Suzanne’s café. A grasshopper began to sing, but the call had broken the ambience. Half an hour later he made his way home.

  34

  At seven o’clock in the morning the air was already humid as Wisting drove to the police station. Far out at the mouth of the fjord, the sky was crumpled with dark-blue clouds. It would rain before the day was over.

  The regular morning meetings became more difficult with each passing day. The investigators had their assignments, but their enquiries did not take the case any further forward.

  ‘The challenge is to get somebody to talk,’ Hammer said. ‘Frank Mandt has run his operation for decades without any of his associates squealing.’

  ‘Maybe it’ll be easier now he’s dead,’ Christine Thiis said.

  ‘Maybe, but these folk aren’t exactly known for helping the police.’

  Chairs scraped and the conference room emptied. Wisting sorted his papers and, last to rise from the table, found Christine Thiis waiting for him at the door. ‘Thanks for yesterday,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’ He searched for something pleasant to say about the previous evening but, before anything came to mind, she had disappeared into her office.

  Wisting headed for his own office and called in Nils Hammer. ‘I want you to come with me to see Klaus Wahl,’ he said. Hammer moved a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘He’s in Frank Mandt’s circle, one of his closest friends. He was the one who found Mandt dead in his basement.’

  ‘What else do you know about him?’

  ‘Not much. He’s seventy-four and used to work in a haulage company that deals with container freight; clean sheet. A widower since 2002, he lives in Blokkhusveien.’

  Hammer stood up. ‘Then we’ll go there, eh?’

  * * *

  The blocks on their pillars were highly visible on the heights around Stavern. Built at the end of the eighteenth century as combined observation posts and firing positions, they were part of the fortifications surrounding the town. The road that had been named after the blocks was in Ausrød, outside the town centre. Klaus Wahl lived in a detached house tucked tidily into the hilly terrain.

  A short old man with silver hair was standing by a dismantled lawnmower with a spanner in his hand when they drew up. His white legs were inside a pair of shorts that were far too wide, and he had a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

  As they got out of the car he greeted them with a brief nod.

  ‘Klaus Wahl?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  Wisting and Hammer introduced themselves. ‘It’s about Frank Mandt,’ Wisting said.

  A contraction was noticeable round the old man’s eyes. ‘He should be left to rest in peace,’ he said.

  ‘He will be,’ Wisting said, ‘but he’s left a few traces behind.’

  Wahl did not speak.

  ‘You found him?’ Hammer asked.

  ‘He’d been lying for a few days by then. I’ve told you all this before.’

  ‘You were in the habit of meeting up at the bakery?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘He had diabetes and often had dizzy turns,’ Wahl said. ‘When he didn’t turn up, I went to his house. He had fallen down the basement stairs. That’s how it was.’

  Wisting pointed at some chairs and a table underneath a parasol in front of the house. ‘Can we take a seat?’

  Klaus Wahl followed with some reluctance. ‘He had given up all that spirits stuff, you know,’ he said when they sat down. ‘Pulled out completely. He was nearly eighty.’

  ‘He still had a smallholding out at Huken,’ Wisting said.

  ‘He hasn’t been out there for years.’ Frank Wahl grabbed a lighter from the table.

  Wisting gazed at him as he flicked it and lit the cigarette that was still hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘Jens Hummel’s taxi was found out there.’

  ‘I read the newspapers.’

  ‘Do you know if they knew each other?’

  Wahl picked a flake of tobacco from his bottom lip. ‘He sometimes took a taxi.’

  ‘What about Aron Heisel?’ Wisting asked. ‘He lived there when he wasn’t in Spain.’

  Klaus Wahl let the tobacco smoke ooze slowly out through his nostrils. ‘I’ve never been involved in any of that stuff,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t how I knew Frank Mandt. We did some monkey business together almost fifty years ago, when we worked down at the quay. We were young. For me, it was just a short spell, but Frank was more reckless. He took chances that I wasn’t willing to.’

  ‘But you kept in touch?’

  ‘It’s a small town. It was more that our wives were friendly. They had known each other since primary school. We just tagged along, and once they were out of the picture we went on meeting.’

  Wisting made another attempt. ‘What do you know about Aron Heisel?’

  ‘He was an assistant, a message boy. But I don’t intend to sit here telling you all this. He can do that for himself if he wants.’

  Wisting and Hammer had agreed in advance to keep the meeting informal. Each leaned back and crossed his legs. In circles such as Frank Mandt’s it was easier to persuade people to talk outside of an interview room, without what was said being written down or recorded on tape.

  ‘Who took over?’ Hammer asked.

  Klaus Wahl stared at him in silence, as if he had not understood the question, or else thought Hammer should have known better than to ask.

  ‘You said that Frank Mandt had given up,’ Hammer said. ‘Pulled out. Who took over, then?’

  Taking what was left of his cigarette out of his mouth, the old man pinched the glowing tip between his thumb and forefinger to extinguish it. ‘I don’t know that anyone took over.’ He tossed the butt under a bush covered in lilac flowers. ‘When he got diabetes, he gradually stepped down.’

  ‘There were twelve kilos of amphetamines out at Huken.’

  ‘Aron Heisel has probably got an explanation for that.’ Wahl picked up the spanner from the table. Wisting took that as a sign that the conversation was drawing to a close. It was obvious that the man did not want to say anything that might tarnish his deceased friend.

  ‘To me he was a genuine bloke.’ Klaus Wahl got to his feet. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I wasn’t alone in that opinion. Maybe there weren’t so many people at his funeral, but there were certainly loads of flowers.’ He spat as he strode back to the lawnmower, his eyes on Wisting’s as he crouched over the motor parts again.

  There was something elusive in his look, as if he was using his eyes to tell him that he knew more than he was willing to admit.

  Hammer drove on the return journey. Wisting sat beside him and reviewed the conversation. He had a feeling the
re was something hidden in it, and tried to analyse the man’s answers in an effort to find a way forward. Suddenly something struck him. He did not know if Klaus Wahl had wanted his look to convey a message, but the idea was worth following up anyway.

  ‘Turn in here!’ he said to Hammer, pointing at a side street.

  Hammer parked the car outside the florist’s shop, Stavern Blomstermakeri. Frank Mandt’s house was located on the other side of the Water Pump Park. Although it was surrounded by a tall hedge that screened it from view, they could see a couple of open windows on the upper storey.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Hammer asked, following Wisting from the car.

  ‘The florist’s,’ Wisting replied, going inside without further explanation.

  It was a long time since Wisting had been in the shop, but the woman behind the counter looked as if she recognised him. She was decorating a wine bottle with flowers, putting it aside when they came in.

  ‘It’s about flowers for a funeral,’ Wisting said.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Frank Mandt’s funeral, to be more precise,’ Wisting said, adding that it was in connection with an investigation. ‘He died in January. Did you deliver any flowers to it?’

  The woman produced a blue ring binder from the shelf. ‘I did take some flowers there,’ she confirmed, ‘but there weren’t many. There were no relatives or close family, but I think I may have done the decorations.’

  She leafed through the folder. ‘The estate paid for the coffin decorations and a wreath, and then there were a few simple bouquets and condolences . . . and, yes, of course, there was also a huge centrepiece ordered through Floragram. That was to be flowers to the value of five thousand kroner. I mean, a coffin decoration usually costs half that. It was almost a bit too over the top.’

  ‘Who ordered it?’ Wisting asked.

  The shopkeeper hooked on a pair of glasses hanging round her neck. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘It was someone from the south coast, anyway. The order was placed at Floriss in Markens gate in Kristiansand. It was to have PG on the condolence card, but I’ve got the whole name and address here somewhere.’

  She ran her finger down the page as she searched: ‘Phillip Goldheim.’

  The name was unknown to Wisting. ‘Can I have a copy of those papers?’ he asked.

  The woman removed them from the ring binder and ran them through an old fax machine. The resulting copies were paler than the originals but legible. Wisting folded them and took them to the car. The wind had picked up and the dark clouds had moved farther inland.

  As Hammer drove off, Wisting took a second look at Frank Mandt’s house. It was only natural that the people who had been in his circle while he lived would also be around when he died, he thought, flicking through the flower orders with satisfaction. Klaus Wahl had bought a bouquet for 395 kroner with the words Thanks for everything on the card, while the legal firm Krogh & Co had spent 750 kroner on a floral tribute.

  ‘What did it say on the card with the big flower arrangement?’ Hammer asked as he turned out into Larviksveien.

  Wisting produced the copy of Phillip Goldheim’s receipt: ‘With respect.’

  35

  Phillip Goldheim was a confident-looking man in his forties with slate-grey eyes and long hair pulled back into a ponytail.

  His face filled the entire screen on Wisting’s computer. There was something penetrating about his gaze, as if he wanted to read the thoughts of the policeman who had taken the photograph. Wisting shuddered slightly and leaned back a little so that Hammer and Christine Thiis could also study the man who had given Frank Mandt such an outstanding floral tribute.

  The printout from criminal records showed two minor convictions for violence and a longer sentence for the import of eight kilos of marijuana with a well-known Hells Angels leader from Denmark also implicated.

  He was originally called Per Gregersen, but after his release from prison in 2002 had changed his name to Phillip Goldheim. He began by importing cars, did well and invested in shares. The gift of the gab and his ability to juggle loans and current accounts via established businessmen eventually made a successful financier of him. The money he earned, he spent like water. It went on luxury cars and new business ideas. Among other things, he established an import company for snuff that quickly went bankrupt. On his many holiday trips he stayed at the best hotels in Europe: the Arts in Barcelona, the Ritz in Paris, and the Don Pepe in Marbella. His wardrobe increasingly comprised hand-tailored Italian designer clothes, and he decked himself out in expensive watches and gold rings.

  The police in Kristiansand suspected that his successful business interests were built on the proceeds of crime and that his operations involved laundering drugs money. Local police had initiated an investigation with the code name Mister Nice Guy. A great deal of work had gone into tracking Phillip Goldheim’s finances, but had not succeeded in breaking through the confusion of loans, current accounts and creditor exchanges. Many of the investments were undertaken in countries such as Spain and Brazil, where foreign investment and property companies administered the income.

  The old slogan ‘follow the money’ did not seem to have paid off so, instead, the investigators followed a different lead. It was obvious they had an informant close to Phillip Goldheim, someone who might put the police in position the next time he was about to receive a narcotics consignment.

  Last autumn the information from this source had started to become more specific, but suddenly it came to a complete halt. Was it coincidence that this had happened at the same time as Frank Mandt had died?

  ‘With respect,’ Christine Thiis said out loud. ‘How should we interpret that?’

  ‘Good question,’ Hammer said. ‘Were they business partners, or was Mandt a competitor he respected?’

  Wisting was uncertain how to tackle the new information. From what he was able to read, it seemed that Goldheim had been a key person in the criminal fraternity in Sørland, as Mandt had been in the Østland region. The connection between them was demonstrated by the flowers.

  The first raindrops struck the window as Torunn Borg and Espen Mortensen entered his office, each carrying a cup of coffee. Wisting saw no reason for them all to move to the conference room.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What do we know about Frank Mandt that we didn’t know this morning?’

  ‘The only family he has is a grandchild and great-grandchild,’ Torunn Borg said. ‘His grandchild is called Sofie Lund.’ Wisting picked up the ballpoint pen from his desk and twined it through his fingers. ‘I couldn’t find a phone number for her, so I went out there, she lives in her grandfather’s house, but there was no one at home.’

  ‘Have you checked her out?’ Hammer asked.

  ‘All we have are two domestic disturbance incidents when the police were called out while she was living in Oslo with her child’s father. It’s obvious he wasn’t very kind to her.’

  Wisting nodded, keen to continue, but Torunn Borg continued. ‘I spoke to the neighbours. They told me that Frank Mandt was at home on New Year’s Eve. At least, he was out clearing snow that afternoon.’

  ‘Then he wasn’t in the taxi with Jens Hummel when he went to Kristiansand,’ Hammer said.

  The rain outside grew louder as the investigators presented their findings of that day. Nothing of what they had unearthed pointed to a connection between Frank Mandt and Jens Hummel. It seemed as though there was an element missing, a crucial part.

  Torunn Borg remained seated after the others had left the office. ‘We aren’t the only ones to ask the neighbours where Frank Mandt was on New Year’s Eve,’ she said.

  ‘No?’

  ‘Line has asked them the same question.’

  Wisting grabbed the pen again. In the distance he could hear the sound of thunder. ‘She and Mandt’s granddaughter went to primary school together,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘They met each other again by chance this summer, after nearly twenty years.’

  �
�So the revolver wasn’t handed in completely anonymously?’

  ‘It was Line who brought it,’ Wisting admitted. ‘Sofie Lund had found it among her grandfather’s belongings and wanted to throw it in the sea. I’ll ensure that they come here tomorrow, both of them. Then we can get an official explanation.’

  Torunn Borg lingered for a moment before leaving.

  Wisting leaned forward, resting his arms on the desktop as he listened to the rain on the window ledges outside. The phone rang.

  The man who called introduced himself as Ragnvald Hagen from the Kripos fingerprint section. Wisting’s grip tightened on the receiver. A direct call from the fingerprint section normally meant that they had found a match. ‘Do you know about the story of the robbery gift?’ Hagen asked.

  ‘Robbery gift?’

  ‘It’s been reported in the newspapers,’ Hagen explained. ‘The organisation No to Narcotics was sent an anonymous donation of a million kroner last week, but the money was stained. The serial numbers have been traced to a robbery on an armoured van in Drammen in 2005.’

  A thunderclap made Wisting glance outside, where rain was pouring down in torrents.

  ‘We’ve had the banknotes here for examination. We found several fingerprints on them, but there’s one repeated loop pattern in particular. That’s why I’m phoning you. The print belongs to Aron Heisel, the man you have in custody.’

  At last Wisting was able to use his pen to some good purpose. ‘The money was from a robbery in 2005, you said?’

  ‘Yes, two security guards were attacked outside a shopping centre in Drammen. Heisel must have been in contact with the money after it disappeared from the armoured van.’

  ‘And the money turned up recently, as an anonymous gift?’

  ‘Yes, sent in the post.’

  ‘Do you know where it was sent from?’

  ‘No, that was impossible to track down. They’ve stopped using place names when they frank the mail.’

  Another peal of thunder made the ceiling light flicker.