The Katharina Code

by Jorn Lier Horst

  They rinsed and washed the fish at the water’s edge before heading up to the cabin. Martin got the stove going again while Wisting lit some more paraffin lamps and a couple of candles. He took one with him into his bedroom, stripped off his wet clothes and changed into some dry ones. He located the other recorder and attached it to his shirt pocket.

  When he walked into the kitchen again potatoes were boiling in a pot and the fish were ready for cooking.

  Martin passed him a can of beer and drank his own. Wisting sat down on a stool, his thoughts drifting back to Katharina and Nadia Krogh. There had to be a connection between these two cases. The fact that Martin could not have been directly involved in Katharina’s disappearance opened up other possibilities. Katharina could have been behind the kidnapping on her own, or she could have been working with another person altogether.

  He realized Martin was watching him.

  ‘Have you ever wanted to disappear?’ Martin asked. The potato water was bubbling on the wood stove.

  ‘Not for good,’ Wisting replied, wondering where Martin was planning to go with this question. ‘Maybe when a case has reached deadlock or a reporter asks a tricky question I occasionally wish I could just hand everything over to someone else, but not otherwise. Have you?’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I could take off and start over again, in a different place, without having to drag all my problems with me.’

  ‘Where would you go, then?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Martin answered. ‘Probably back in time and start again, without making the same mistakes.’

  ‘What mistakes have you made?’

  Martin’s eyes were fixed somewhere in the darkness, beyond the light shed by the paraffin lamp.

  ‘Inger Lise was a mistake,’ he replied. ‘I should never have married her.’

  Wisting pulled a smile. ‘I can’t disagree with that,’ he said.

  ‘Apart from that, it’s probably more the sum total of many small mistakes,’ Martin continued. ‘I’m more than halfway through my life and I haven’t accomplished anything. I’ve nothing to look back on. No family, I haven’t travelled anywhere, I haven’t experienced much, and I’ve had the same job for more than thirty years.’

  ‘The same as me,’ Wisting commented.

  ‘But you have an interesting job – your everyday life is stimulating.’

  The tiny kitchen fell silent. Martin took a log from the firewood box and tossed it into the stove.

  ‘Do you think your relationship with Katharina was a mistake?’ Wisting probed.

  Martin took a deep breath before exhaling slowly through clenched teeth. ‘Marrying her was the only thing I ever did right. Things just didn’t work out the way we had planned,’ he said.

  Wisting refrained from speaking. It felt as if Martin had more to say.

  ‘Sometimes I think she regretted being with me,’ he went on. ‘That maybe she just moved on in life, simply disappeared, the way she had disappeared from her homeland. That was what she was like. The most important thing for her was to leave the past behind. The entire time, she was putting distance between herself and her past. I can’t do the same. I’m marking time. Still on hold.’

  For a moment the conversation was tinged with regret and despondency, and Wisting glimpsed a possibility of steering it forward to some kind of admission, or at least to let Martin understand that settling accounts was what was required in order for him to move on in life. Before Wisting had the chance to seize his opportunity Martin stood up and put the frying pan on the stove.

  ‘What did we do with the butter?’ he asked, looking around.

  ‘It’s in the bag outside,’ Wisting reminded him.

  Martin walked to the door and brought in one of the shopping bags that had been left suspended from a hook on the outside wall to keep them cool. He dropped a generous knob into the pan. It sputtered as the butter quickly melted.

  The cleaned fish were on the worktop. Martin made a few slashes in the skin on either side of them. As soon as the butter had browned, he laid them in the pan and seasoned them with salt and pepper.

  ‘I don’t think she chose to disappear,’ Wisting said. ‘I think someone is responsible for her no longer being alive.’

  The fish sizzled in the pan, but Martin remained silent.

  ‘I haven’t given up on the idea of finding that person,’ Wisting added.

  Martin drank from the can of beer and used a fork to prod one of the fish in the black frying pan.

  Wisting leaned forward a little on his stool. ‘Most likely he’s someone just like you and me,’ he said. ‘I’m speaking from experience. When I started in the police I regarded these things as more black and white – I thought there were good people and evil people – but eventually I came to realize it’s more complicated than that.’

  Martin turned the fish; the skin had turned brown and crisp.

  ‘I’ve experienced enough to understand that all humans are capable of killing, if circumstances force them into it,’ Wisting went on. ‘It’s about people ending up under such pressure that, in the end, it’s the only way out.

  ‘I believe all people are actually able to take another person’s life, as long as there’s a reason for it,’ he continued.

  This statement ought to provoke a comment. Martin Haugen ought to protest and ask what Katharina had done wrong to make her deserve her fate. Instead of saying anything, he took out a knife and pierced one of the potatoes. ‘I think they’re ready,’ he said, drawing the pot aside. ‘Could you go outside and pour the water out?’

  ‘My point is that you can be a decent person even though you’ve done something seriously wrong,’ Wisting said, getting to his feet. ‘Everyone has occasionally done something that impacted on others. We can’t pigeonhole people as nice or nasty, good or evil. It’s not either/or.’

  He lifted a couple of pot holders and carried the steaming pan outside, walking a few paces away from the cabin wall to stand looking through the window at Martin on the inside, unsure whether his words had accomplished anything. It was really a matter of paving the way for him to confess.

  Once he was back inside, the fish were lying on plates and Martin was stirring crème fraîche in the frying pan to make a sauce.

  They each carried a plate into the living room and sat opposite each other at the table.

  The potatoes were a bit hard and could have been cooked a fraction longer. The fish, however, was perfect.

  ‘Tastes good,’ Wisting said. His phone buzzed.

  ‘I’ve switched mine off,’ Martin said. ‘I think that’s one of the best aspects of being here.’ He surveyed the room. ‘At home I usually sit and eat in front of the TV, but here I’m completely unplugged.’

  Smiling, Wisting checked his display. It was from Line with a full stop. ‘It’s from Line,’ he said apologetically.

  Just wanted to wish you a good trip, Hammer wrote. The weather forecast is fine all weekend. Say hi to Martin!

  It was a code. They had prearranged that, if Hammer or Stiller had an important message for him, they would first send a text saying something about the weather, a warning that the next message would contain something it was crucial Martin did not see.

  ‘I’ll just send a short reply,’ he said, writing Have a good weekend yourself in response.

  He sat cradling the phone in his hand. The new message arrived so quickly he surmised it must have been already composed: MH has a live weapon. Illegal Glock 34 with ammunition.

  Martin extracted a fishbone from his mouth. Wisting glanced up at him then back to his phone. He had no idea how Hammer and Stiller had found this information but imagined it must have something to do with the air pistols. Anyway, it meant Martin Haugen felt under pressure and was afraid of something.

  ‘She’s wondering if I’ve listened to the podcast,’ Wisting said, deleting the message. ‘She wants to know what I think. Could we listen to the rest of it?’

  Martin nodded, and Wist
ing started the playback again.

  He tried to study Martin’s reactions as he listened to the podcast. Not until near the end of the broadcast did he notice something that could be construed as a nervous tic. Line was speaking about Nadia Krogh’s handbag, and about whether she had taken it with her when she left the party. Martin Haugen fumbled with his cutlery and his fork fell from his hand on to the floor. His chair scraped as he pushed it back to stoop down. Line was already talking about the next episode, which would deal with the letters from the kidnappers. And then the programme was over.

  As Wisting switched off the recording, he noticed he had twenty-one per cent battery power left. Things had been so hectic before his departure he had forgotten to charge it. The playback on loudspeaker had used up a lot of juice.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s smart,’ Martin answered.

  ‘I have to send another text,’ Wisting said. ‘About her podcast. Do you think she got close to Nadia Krogh?’

  Martin pushed his empty plate aside. ‘I guess so,’ he replied.

  ‘Enough to make you curious about how she disappeared?’ Wisting went on.

  Martin took a gulp of beer. The can was empty and he crumpled it in his hand. ‘It’s a bit strange, really,’ he said. ‘It makes me think about Katharina.’ He rose from his chair and pointed at Wisting’s can of beer. ‘Do you want another one?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Wisting said.

  Martin moved through the kitchen and out on to the steps. The light from the paraffin lamp flickered in the draught when he opened the door. On his return, he threw more logs into the stove. Wisting drained off the rest of his beer and picked up the new can Martin pushed across to him when he sat down.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to be able to tell you one day what happened to Katharina,’ he said. ‘But we’ve not even managed to find a suspect, let alone a motive for why anyone would do her harm. But I do believe what that detective said about Nadia Krogh on TV last night. Somebody knows what took place.’

  Foam spurted from the hole when he cracked open the can of beer.

  ‘A murder inquiry isn’t just about searching for a killer,’ he added. ‘It’s also about delving into the circumstances that might force a person to commit homicide.’

  He lifted the can to his mouth, leaving Martin the opportunity to say something.

  ‘Have you thought about what it might be?’ he asked when Martin stayed silent. ‘The reason someone took her?’

  It was a bold question. Their conversation had taken on an intimacy that would have been impossible ten years before, or fifteen, but their regular meetings had drawn them closer together and opened up the possibility for Wisting to ask such questions.

  ‘I’d rather not think about it,’ Martin answered. ‘There are so many crazies out there. People who rape and murder and dispose of bodies. You tracked down that Caveman a few years ago, didn’t you? How many women did he abduct and kill?’

  Wisting nodded. A sexual motive was the most likely. The Caveman had been a topic of several conversations with Martin. He was a serial killer on the run from the USA who had arrived in Norway in 1990 and so could not possibly have any connection with the Katharina case.

  ‘Another possibility has crossed my mind,’ Wisting said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Wisting hesitated before going on. He was keen to steer the conversation on to the idea that Katharina had been preparing to hand herself in to the police and serve time in prison.

  ‘Revenge,’ he said, planning the forward trajectory of the conversation in his head.

  Silence fell between them again, as if Martin had to chew over what Wisting had said.

  ‘Could she have done something for which someone was seeking revenge?’ Wisting asked.

  Martin shook his head. ‘What on earth could that have been?’ he demanded. ‘I would have known about it, anyway.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Wisting agreed. ‘But something’s been bugging me, one of the things I haven’t found an explanation for until now.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Her suitcase.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Bear in mind it’s just a theory,’ Wisting told him, ‘but I think she might have been packing to go into prison.’

  No reaction was forthcoming from Martin.

  ‘She had packed a specific number of clothes,’ Wisting continued. ‘The contents match what is allowed when you’re called up to serve a prison sentence. She’d seen the list when she paid a visit to Steinar Vassvik. She knew what was permitted and what was not, and also how many different items of clothing you could take.’

  They sat in the light of the paraffin lamp, on either side of the table, looking each other in the eye, almost like in an interview room. If their roles had been defined, with Wisting the investigator and Martin the suspect, this would be the point at which to throw out an adversarial line and assert that Martin must have known what Katharina had done. The way they were sitting now, it was enough to let Martin understand that Wisting was only a few steps away from the truth.

  ‘She had taken out a photograph of the two of you as well, and removed it from the frame,’ Wisting added. ‘Exactly as described in the prison brochure: one picture with no glass or frame.’

  Martin shook his head half-heartedly, as if he felt compelled to protest.

  ‘It could also explain the flowers,’ Wisting said, referring to the fourteen red roses lying on the chest of drawers in the hallway. ‘She could have bought them herself to give to someone by way of apology.’

  ‘No,’ Martin stated firmly. ‘Don’t you think I would have known about it, if there was anything of that nature going on?’

  ‘But there was something,’ Wisting insisted. ‘Her friends in the choir said she was dispirited and depressed.’

  ‘Not that I noticed,’ Martin said dismissively. ‘They didn’t know her like I did. We’ve talked about this before. She wasn’t depressed. Nothing was bothering her. She was even laughing when we last talked on the phone, just as she always did.’

  If they had been seated in an interview room, Wisting would have pressed him harder and confronted him with the fact that everything had not been as usual. For some reason or other she had packed her suitcase, for some reason or other there was a bouquet of roses in the hallway, for some reason or other she had scribbled a code and left it in the kitchen, and for some reason or other she had disappeared without trace.

  Instead of berating Martin with inconsistencies he stood up and made for the kitchen. ‘I’ll put on some coffee,’ he said.

  He filled the coffee pot with water from the bucket and placed it on the stove before going outside to take a leak.

  The moon lit up the landscape sufficiently for him to find his way to the edge of the forest, where he stood with his back to the cabin. The temperature had dropped a couple of notches and hot steam rose from his urine.

  He turned round and walked back, but stopped a few metres from the cabin wall. The light from the windows had taken on a coppery glow, and he could see Martin Haugen inside. He was on his feet, heading towards his bedroom with a candle in his hand. Wisting moved aside to see what he was doing.

  Martin set down the candle on the bedside table and hunched over his rucksack. He stood with his back to the window and, in the faint light, it was difficult to make out what he was up to. It looked like he was taking clothes from his bag in order to change. He pulled his shirt out of his trousers, then picked up the candle and left the room.

  Wisting made straight for the door. The water in the coffee pot was boiling when he re-entered and he spooned in coffee powder before taking the pot and two cups through to the living room.

  ‘I brought some chocolate with me,’ Martin said, indicating a bag on the table.

  Wisting put down the coffee pot and cups. ‘I brought something too,’ he said cheerfully, then disappeared into his bedroom.

  He unwra
pped the bottle of cognac from his woollen sweater and carried it through. ‘It’s a limited edition,’ Wisting told Martin as he placed the bottle on the table. ‘Have you tasted it before?’

  Martin shook his head. ‘It’s a bit beyond my price range,’ he said ruefully.

  ‘Mine too,’ Wisting said, twisting the cork to break the seal. ‘I received it as a present from a bus driver in Risør.’

  The cork loosened with a dull report. Wisting raised the neck of the bottle to his nose and sniffed. The strong aroma of spices tickled his nostrils.

  ‘His daughter was one of the Caveman’s victims,’ Wisting continued. ‘She had been missing for more than six years when we found her body in a well at Tanum. Her father was so grateful to know the truth about what had happened that he gave me this.’

  ‘I didn’t think the police were allowed to accept gifts,’ Martin said.

  ‘I couldn’t really turn him down,’ Wisting replied. ‘He had lost his only daughter.’

  He went into the kitchen and brought back two tumblers. ‘These will have to do,’ he said, pouring half a glass each.

  Martin picked up a tumbler and raised it halfway to his nose to smell it.

  ‘Hilde, her name was,’ Wisting told him, replacing the cork in the bottle. ‘Hilde Jansen. She was only twenty.’

  Martin swirled his glass attentively before sniffing again.

  ‘I promised him the very first toast would be to her,’ Wisting said, raising his glass to look at Martin’s face distorted through it.

  Martin clinked his glass against Wisting’s before they both sipped the expensive drink.

  Wisting wondered whether Stiller had used his own money to buy the bottle of cognac or whether it had been claimed on expenses from the Kripos budget. Irrespective of that, he was slightly surprised at himself at how easy it had been to fabricate a lie about the origins of the cognac. He had constructed the story as a parallel to that of Nadia Krogh.

  Admittedly, he had been involved in recovering Hilde Jansen’s body from the bottom of an old well. Her father had been extremely grateful and had brought an expensive bouquet of flowers when he had met up with Wisting. It was easier to tell a lie when there were elements of truth within it.