Ordeal (William Wisting Series)

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘So when you said in your statement that you ran away from the police because you were scared of being arrested, it was because you had broken the conditions of your release on parole?’

  Brodin nodded again, as if it had been obvious to everyone from the very beginning. ‘I’d just got out.’

  The lawyer glanced across at Wisting’s papers and produced the same documents from his own bundle. He opened his mouth to speak, but sat in silence.

  The air was already hot and stuffy in the small room. Wisting looked over at the windows, but naturally they could not be opened. ‘I need to ask you about something else as well.’

  Dan Roger Brodin looked at his defence counsel, as if to obtain permission. Olav Müller nodded. Wisting sat back in his chair with the notes on his lap. He would have to take this step by step.

  ‘Do you know someone called Mathias Gaukestad?’

  The man accused of murder seemed confused.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘From junior high school.’

  Wisting nodded. ‘Do you know where he works now?’

  ‘At McDonald’s.’

  ‘Do you remember that you were in McDonald’s on New Year’s Eve?’

  Brodin hesitated. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Mathias Gaukestad remembers you,’ Wisting said. ‘He says you tried to pay with a thousand-kroner note.’

  It looked as if something had dawned on the young man. Müller thumbed through the list of witnesses. ‘Where are you now?’ he asked Wisting.

  ‘This is from the log of tip-offs. You won’t find it in your copy set.’

  He turned to face Brodin again. ‘Leni Dyste says the same thing. You met her at the Amfisenter in Vågsbygd a couple of days earlier. You had a lot of money on you and you treated her at the Kafé Seblis.’

  ‘Leni’s dead,’ Brodin told him.

  ‘I know that,’ Wisting said. ‘But she said you had been well paid for a job.’

  The lawyer shifted in his seat. Wisting could see he was sceptical about drawing his client into a relationship that had anything to do with money. ‘Does this have anything to do with the case?’ he asked.

  Wisting appreciated his reluctance to touch on a topic that could cast suspicion on his client, but Müller obviously did not understand the whole connection.

  ‘You were convicted of robbing people before,’ Wisting explained. ‘This case also looks like a robbery, but the point is that you did not have any obvious reason to rob Elise Kittelsen if you had already been well paid for a job.’

  Both the defence lawyer and his client sat in silence.

  ‘Can we take a break?’ Olav Müller requested, getting to his feet. ‘I need to have a private chat with Dan Roger.’

  Wisting agreed. The thought that had struck him had obviously also struck the lawyer. The job Dan Roger Brodin had been paid for might well have been the murder of Elise Kittelsen.

  51

  When the defence lawyer pressed the button on the intercom beside the door, there was an immediate buzz on the loudspeaker. ‘Guard speaking.’

  Müller explained the situation and the need to let Wisting leave the room. It took some time before they heard keys rattling outside and a different prison officer opened the door. Wisting followed him to a break room where he was offered a cup of coffee. He had really had more than his fill, but accepted with thanks mainly to pass the time.

  ‘Did he say anything more?’ the prison officer asked as he handed Wisting a cardboard beaker.

  ‘He was a bit more forthcoming.’

  ‘He hasn’t confessed, has he?’

  Wisting smiled and drank his coffee instead of answering.

  ‘Most of them here are innocent, of course,’ the officer said with a nod in the direction of the board where the names of the inmates were listed. ‘Even when the opposite has been proven.’

  Wisting crossed to the window. The city outside had more than double the number of inhabitants than his own town. He was a stranger here. All towns and cities have their own pulse, their own personality, with which it took time to become familiar. Kristiansand seemed to be a quiet, almost sleepy city, but here too there were currents below the surface. Here too crime was on the march, more complex and organised, crossing all borders, than ever before.

  ‘This is the first time he’s had anyone to see him since the date for the court case was fixed,’ the prison officer said, sitting on a deep settee.

  ‘Who is it who comes to see him?’

  ‘Mainly lawyers or someone from the prison visiting service.’

  ‘No family or friends?’

  The prison officer shook his head. ‘I don’t think he has so many. His mother was in here a couple of years ago. I don’t expect she’ll come back again of her own free will.’ He leaned over the table and drank his own coffee. ‘But come to think of it,’ he went on, ‘he visited her. One hour every Wednesday. You could almost set your watch by him.’

  The radio on his belt crackled. The officer fumbled to release it and gave a confirmatory reply before glancing over at Wisting again. ‘I think this is the fourth or fifth lawyer who’s been here. He’s not even really a lawyer yet, just a trainee. Of course, it’s not unusual to have a change of lawyers, but it’s usually at the client’s request.’

  Wisting nodded. Hijacking clients was a known problem. All of the legal firms wanted court cases that gave them publicity. Individual lawyers used their own clients to put in a good word for them among those remanded in custody, so that they could acquire a larger circle of customers.

  ‘They usually want Kvammen, Elden, Meling or some other celebrity lawyer when they’re arrested,’ the officer added. ‘But when the case is no longer in the public eye, then it’s the lackeys that turn up.’

  Wisting turned again towards the window. Four different lawyers from the same office meant that Dan Roger Brodin was no longer of any interest to them. The New Year Murder was a lost cause in which all sympathy lay with the victim. The radio crackled again. The two men in the visitors’ room were ready.

  Wisting threw the rest of his coffee down the sink and discarded the beaker in the rubbish bin before following the prison officer back along the grey corridors.

  Dan Roger Brodin and his lawyer were sitting in the same places as before. It was impossible to read anything in their faces. Wisting thanked the officer who had accompanied him, entered the room and sat down. The door was locked behind him. Olav Müller gave his client a brief nod. ‘Tell him about the money,’ he said.

  Brodin swallowed noisily. ‘I stole a container,’ he said, eyes fixed on the table.

  Without uttering a word, Wisting waited for him to elaborate.

  ‘It was a theft to order,’ Müller explained when nothing further was forthcoming. ‘A container full of fireworks. He got ten thousand kroner for the job.’

  ‘It was in the newspapers afterwards,’ Brodin informed them, picking at the sores on his arms again.

  Wisting looked over at Müller and back to Brodin. ‘You’re aware that for this to have any value as evidence in court, you’ll have to tell us who gave you the money?’

  Brodin shifted in his seat. ‘I don’t know his name. It was somebody else who gave me the job.’

  ‘And who was that?’

  ‘Somebody called Stikkan, or at least that’s what he’s known as.’

  Wisting sat back. The theft had nothing to do with his case. It was a circumstance Brodin and his defence counsel were obliged to ask the Kristiansand police to investigate more closely if they wanted to use it in court. ‘How do you know him?’ he asked nevertheless.

  ‘He’s from Arendal. We were in prison together once.’

  A sunbeam had sneaked in through the window on the wall, catching Brodin in the face.

  ‘He came with a big lorry, late on Christmas Eve,’ he went on, moving away from the sunlight. ‘He had a map with him, told me how I was to do it and where I was to deliver the lorry.’
/>   ‘Did anyone see you?’ Müller asked. ‘Were you with anybody on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘I was at Shalam.’

  ‘Shalam? What’s that?’

  ‘It’s a Christian organisation. They serve Christmas dinner to people like me.’

  Wisting cast his mind back to his own Christmas dinner. There had been Line, his father and himself. The close family, but all the same it had felt empty and lonely. ‘Weren’t you at your mother’s?’ he asked.

  Dan Roger Brodin shook his head. ‘It didn’t suit.’

  ‘Did anyone see you taking the lorry? Are there any witnesses who can confirm your story?’

  ‘No, it happened after that. Late at night. There’s nobody out at that time, late at night on Christmas Eve.’

  ‘What did you do with the money?’

  ‘Spent it.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘All sorts of stuff. Paid off some debts and that kind of thing. Most of it was gone in a couple of days.’

  ‘You had 643 kroner on you when you were arrested.’

  ‘I took some of the fireworks as well. Sold some on the side.’

  Wisting sat lost in thought, turning over in his mind whether what had now emerged had any significance. There were witnesses who could confirm that Brodin had money over the Christmas period, but even though his lawyer should get hold of Stikkan and get him to confirm the story, it did not mean anything other than a slight shift in relation to the question of guilt. There were still three eyewitnesses to the murder.

  ‘That was why I ran off,’ Brodin added.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t just that business about being out on parole. I’d just lit a barrage and tossed it into a rubbish container. It made a huge bang when it exploded, and sprayed green and red all over the place.’

  Müller leaned forward: ‘Where was this rubbish container?’

  ‘At the bus stop outside the Kiwi supermarket,’ Brodin replied. ‘It went on fire, so I ran away.’

  ‘Was there much damage?’

  His client shrugged, not seeing or understanding where the lawyer was going with the question. If anyone had reported damage and the fire brigade had been called, he might have something like an alibi. At least, something to disturb the police’s timeline.

  ‘How long after that did you hear the shots?’ Müller asked.

  Brodin answered in his usual fashion, with a shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Five minutes?’ the lawyer suggested.

  ‘A bit more than that.’

  Wisting leaned back again, observing them both. Dan Roger Brodin picked distractedly at the scabs on his arms, while the trainee lawyer tried to extract as much information from him as possible. However, though there should be a report of a burnt-out rubbish container somewhere, it would not be of much value in the forthcoming court case. The defence counsel would accentuate how illogical it was for Dan Roger Brodin to be playing with fireworks only minutes prior to a brutal robbery, while the prosecutor would claim that the story about the rubbish container could have its origin in something Brodin had seen on his way to the crime scene and which he only now had incorporated into his own statement.

  ‘Did you have any more fireworks?’ Müller asked.

  ‘I had a little store. There were a few barrages left.’

  ‘Where was this store?’

  ‘In an electricity substation down by the Otra. There’s a loose grating in an air space at the back.’ A smile formed on Müller’s lips.

  ‘Could the fireworks still be there?’

  Brodin heaved his shoulders. ‘If nobody’s been there, I suppose.’

  The defence lawyer was enthusiastic. ‘If the fireworks are still there, they reinforce your explanation. You weren’t in the city centre to commit a robbery. You had money, and were about to earn even more by selling the stolen fireworks.’

  Another scab on Dan Roger Brodin’s arm loosened. For the first time, something had been said to spark his interest. ‘Will they believe that? Are they going to believe me?’

  ‘If we find the rockets.’

  Müller took out a sheet of paper and asked his client to draw a map that showed where the fireworks were hidden. The pen sped across the paper.

  Wisting did not share Müller’s optimism. The fireworks story was only a tiny counterweight to the prosecution’s list of evidence. In the best case scenario, it had the ability to disturb and create some distraction from the otherwise extremely straight line of the prosecution’s case, but these developments could also be used in the opposite direction. Dan Roger Brodin knew the city well, knew where he could hide a small store of fireworks. He must also know where he could hide a revolver so that the police could not find it but where other criminals could pick it up.

  Müller grabbed his document case as if he had received a message that his time was up. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked, turning to face Wisting.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘To see if the fireworks are still there. I can’t do it by myself. I need a trustworthy witness, and doubt whether anyone from the police here will show up.’

  Wisting glanced at the time. The meeting with Brodin had not taken him any further on the trail of the gun, and there were still several hundred documents to examine.

  ‘It’ll only take a few minutes,’ the trainee lawyer said, opening his document case.

  ‘Okay,’ Wisting agreed.

  Olav Müller removed a sheet of paper from his case and handed it to Wisting before packing his case papers inside.

  ‘What’s this?’ Wisting asked, but understood in a flash.

  ‘Just some advance warning.’

  It was a copy of a letter to the Public Prosecutor in which the legal firm requested that Chief Inspector William Wisting be summoned as a witness in the case against Dan Roger Brodin.

  ‘But the court case starts on Monday,’ Wisting protested. ‘Do you think the Public Prosecutor will go along with that? It’s short notice.’

  ‘The murder weapon only turned up recently,’ Müller replied. ‘Besides, they won’t allow a postponement. This is a prestigious case for the police to demonstrate their efficiency and energy. They’d actually have preferred to have the case called before summer.’

  Wisting folded the letter. The defence lawyer approached the intercom system on the wall and reported that the meeting with Dan Roger Brodin was over.

  55

  Olav Müller lit a cigarette as soon as they were out on the pavement. He pinched it between his lips and studied the map Dan Roger Brodin had sketched. ‘We might as well walk,’ he said, pointing in the direction of the river. ‘It’s only a couple of blocks.’

  Wisting agreed. A heavy, warm haze drifted above the asphalt, blurring the streetscape. ‘Have you had many cases like this?’ he asked.

  Müller flicked some ash from his cigarette. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Murder cases.’

  ‘Not on my own. I’ve a couple of months to go before I get my own practising certificate. This case will give me good experience of procedure.’

  ‘You could have chosen a simpler case.’

  ‘It would have been easier if he’d confessed,’ Müller agreed. ‘Or if there were some grounds I could plead. But we’ve been through that. He denies having anything to do with the killing.’

  They walked on in silence. The buildings on either side of the street were grimy with exhaust fumes and dust from the road. Wisting wondered whether the lawyer actually had any studied strategy. It was one thing to point out deficiencies in the police investigation and demonstrate weaknesses in the evidence but he would have to present an alternative explanation to the court. In practice, it was not sufficient to sow doubt. If anyone were to believe in his client’s innocence he would have to present an explanation that made sense of all the evidence and provided an alternative interpretation. Above all, he should also be able to finger an alternative perpetrator.

  ‘It’s going to come down to the as
sessment of sentence,’ Müller said, as if he had read Wisting’s thoughts. ‘That’s where I’ll have something to contribute. He hasn’t had it easy, you know.’

  The rest of what he said was lost in the dust whipped up by a bus stopping to set down passengers, but Wisting understood that the strategy was psychological and depended on generating sympathy for the accused. Telling them that Dan Roger Brodin was a victim with a difficult childhood, and that he had never received any of the help or treatment he needed.

  The street ended at a fenced-off children’s playground, a small park and a jetty down by the river. A group of children were playing on the swings. Müller threw away his cigarette and checked the map Brodin had drawn.

  ‘Down there,’ he said, pointing at a grey brick structure underneath a silver birch. The walls were covered in graffiti. He pushed some branches aside and skirted round to the rear of the substation. ‘Here’s the grating!’

  ‘You should take a photograph before we remove it,’ Wisting suggested.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Müller took out his mobile phone and held it up. A beer can had been crushed and pressed between the metal bars on the grating. More rubbish was lying on the ground. Wisting prodded a used syringe with the tip of his toe.

  The trainee lawyer inserted his fingers between the bars and rocked the grating. Plaster loosened at the corners. ‘It’s off,’ he cried triumphantly as he tugged it out.

  Wisting drew closer.

  Müller put the grating aside and used the torch on his mobile phone to light the space inside. It was no more than thirty centimetres deep, but had been hollowed out in both directions. He pointed the light first in one direction, then the other. There was nothing to be seen.

  56

  A pizza box had appeared on the table in the conference room at police headquarters. Christine Thiis laid aside a ring binder when Wisting entered. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  Wisting took a slice of pizza. ‘He doesn’t know anything about the revolver. At any rate nothing he wanted to tell me.’ He sat down and told her about the theft of the fireworks.