Ordeal (William Wisting Series) Page 5

  ‘What about the note she had written? That would prove what she had told them.’

  ‘The police never found a note. The Old Man must have burned it or torn it to pieces and flushed it down the loo.’

  ‘So he just sat there and watched your mother get convicted even though she was innocent?’

  ‘He hired expensive lawyers, probably to learn what the case documents said and how much the police knew about him. As far as he was concerned, she was a pawn to be sacrificed. The loss of the drugs was probably more of a blow than what happened to her.’

  Line laid her hand protectively on her stomach. ‘You said that he took her life, though?’

  ‘Mum could not last more than a year in prison. One night she smashed a glass and cut the arteries in her arm. I visited her only once. It was a dreadful experience. It was one thing going behind those thick walls, but even worse coming back out again, leaving her inside.’

  Sofie had picked all the petals off the rose. She placed them in a little heap on the tablecloth. ‘What happened to you when your mother was sent to prison?’ Line asked.

  ‘The first few days I stayed here with the Old Man. There was talk of me staying permanently and I thought that would be fine. I knew all the children and had only a short walk to school, but he didn’t want me. It was too much for him, he said. So I was sent to a foster home. I had three of them. First in Arendal, then Hamar and finally Oslo.’

  A wasp perched on the rim of the glass jug filled with iced tea. Line waved it away.

  ‘She wrote a long letter of farewell to me,’ Sofie said. ‘I didn’t receive it until I was grown up. It stated on the outside of the envelope that I was to get it when I was eighteen. She wrote about what had taken place, about how her father had betrayed her, and how she felt she had let me down. Then she asked me not to have anything to do with the Old Man.’

  She brushed the rose petals off the table with an abrupt movement before she went on. ‘It feels a bit wrong to sit here with this huge house. It’s as if it ties me to him.’

  ‘You mustn’t think like that,’ Line objected.

  Sofie took a drink from her glass. ‘What kind of relationship do you have with your mother?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s dead too,’ Line replied.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘It’s okay. It’ll be six years this summer. It was a car accident in Africa. She worked on a teaching programme for refugees. The car she was a passenger in drove over a cliff. Everyone died.’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘Yes, especially now. She was the sort of person who always gave good advice. I sometimes catch myself thinking I’ll phone her when I’ve something special to tell her.’

  ‘I know,’ Sofie said, with a smile, peering up at the first floor where her own daughter lay sleeping. ‘It’s terrible to think that she won’t get to see her grandchild, and that Maja won’t know her grandmother. I’ve hardly any photos of her either.’

  They sat for a while in silence. The sun had moved and they were no longer in the shade.

  ‘My Dad’s got a safe at home in the basement,’ Line said, after a while. ‘A fireproof safe. He uses it to store old photographs and negatives. Pictures of Mum.’

  9

  After manoeuvring the car slowly in front of the farmhouse, Wisting stopped and got out. Sunlight glittered on the corrugated roof, dazzling him. The crime scene technicians’ vehicles had ploughed through the tall grass all the way up to the barn door. A patrol wagon with a team of officers had also arrived. Nils Hammer remained in the car, talking on the phone.

  Espen Mortensen emerged from the barn wearing the obligatory white overalls used by crime scene examiners. The weeds reached almost to his knees.

  Wisting was pleased to see him. Mortensen was a thorough and experienced crime scene technician with a keen eye for detail. A crime scene investigation is not merely concerned with finding physical evidence left by a perpetrator, but equally about interpretation. Experience had taught Wisting that the impression left by a perpetrator at a crime scene could also be discerned in the life he led. A tidy crime scene as a rule implied that you were looking for someone living a well-organised life. A chaotic crime scene, where the perpetrator had left a trail of obvious clues, could indicate someone whose existence was similarly confused and spontaneous.

  Mortensen was proficient at reading such information. However, he did not draw hasty inferences or conclusions, but preferred to listen to other people.

  ‘What do you think?’ Wisting asked, glancing inside the barn.

  Espen Mortensen pulled down his mask and let it hang below his chin. ‘It’s too early to say.’

  ‘What’s your initial impression?’

  Mortensen cleared his throat: ‘This isn’t a crime scene,’ he asserted firmly. ‘Whatever happened to Jens Hummel, it didn’t happen here. The way I see it, the car’s been driven here and stowed in the barn by someone else.’

  Wisting felt the sunshine spread its heat across his back. He had hoped for more. ‘There is something, though,’ he said. ‘Hiding the car does reinforce the murder theory.’

  ‘It’s a starting point,’ Mortensen said. ‘A fresh starting point.’

  The starting point for the investigation, until now, had been the last sighting of Jens Hummel and his taxi when he had dropped off a passenger outside the Grand Hotel in Storgata. Wisting pictured a map in his mind’s eye. The distance from the town centre to the discovery site was barely eight kilometres, a short distance, and the rest of the stretch was sparsely populated. An agricultural landscape with individual farms and smallholdings set back from the road, and side roads leading to fishing lakes and clusters of holiday cottages. Somewhere on that short stretch of road, Jens Hummel had probably made his last stop. ‘What about the technical side of things?’

  ‘We’ll tow the car into the garage for examination, and do the usual stuff: fingerprints and DNA. Maybe the taximeter and electronics can provide us with answers, although the telecoms data suggests that the taximeter hadn’t been in use.’

  Wisting nodded. That was part of the mystery. A taximeter could give approximately the same information as electronic traces left by a mobile phone, but only if it had been switched on.

  Nils Hammer slammed the car door and approached them. ‘We’re getting two dog patrols,’ he told them. ‘They’ll be here in half an hour.’

  ‘Good,’ Wisting replied. ‘Who owns this place?’

  Hammer waved his mobile phone in the air. ‘We’ll soon have the answer to that.’

  Wisting surveyed the densely wooded terrain. ‘There was half a metre of snow when Hummel disappeared,’ he said. ‘There aren’t many places to hide a body here.’

  ‘Well, he’s certainly not in the barn,’ Mortensen said, replacing his mask before returning to the building.

  Wisting waded through the tall grass to the outbuildings. Fat bees buzzed peacefully round the wild roses. None of the outbuildings was locked. Wisting pulled open the door of the nearest and peered inside. Specks of sunshine danced on the floor. The blue sky was visible through holes in the roof. Apart from a pile of four used tyres in one corner, the space was empty.

  ‘I’ve brought some officers to go door to door beside the main road,’ Hammer said, following Wisting to the other outbuilding. ‘Somebody may have seen something.’

  Nodding agreement, Wisting peered through a window high on the wall of the second outbuilding. Dozens of flies were trapped in a thick spider’s web inside; otherwise it was impossible to see much.

  He went to the door and pushed the bolt to one side. The hinges creaked. Three outboard motors lay in the middle of the floor where the sunlight flooded in, and engine parts and tools were spread out on a workbench along the wall. Hammer’s mobile phone rang. He fished it out of his pocket and remained outside as Wisting entered.

  There was another door at the opposite end of the room. Even from where he stood, Wisting could see that it was locked. In the ga
p between the door and the frame he could see that both the latch and deadlock were engaged in the striking plate. Lifting a large screwdriver from the bench, he pressed it between the door and the frame. The timber groaned, but he managed to force the frame far enough to the side, breaking open the door without too much damage.

  The room inside was in semi-darkness. He located a light switch and flicked it down, but nothing happened.

  The only window in the room was covered with black plastic. In front of this, boxes of empty bottles were stacked, making it difficult to approach the window. He yanked off the plastic cover. A copious layer of dust whirled up and hung in the air.

  A stainless steel machine sat at one end of the room. On either side of it there was some kind of conveyor belt, thick with dust. None of it had been used for some time. A carton of small bottle tops sat on the floor beside it. Wisting picked one up and read Absolut Vodka printed in blue lettering.

  He dropped the cap into the carton and took a step back. The machine facing him was for capping and sealing bottles. They had investigated a few local cases of illegal activity with liquor in the nineties, without success, but information gleaned suggested that alcohol produced in factories in Southern Europe was being smuggled into Norway in plastic containers and barrels, bottled and furnished with false labels and lids.

  Nils Hammer appeared at the door behind him.

  ‘Have you found out who owns the farm?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘According to HQ, it belongs to someone called Trygve Marsten,’ Hammer said. ‘But the entire property is let out on a long-term lease.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘Frank Mandt.’

  Wisting touched his neck with his hand. ‘The Smuggler King,’ he said pensively, scratching.

  Nils Hammer had exchanged his phone for his snuffbox. ‘He died last winter when he fell down his basement stairs.’

  Wisting recalled the case. The conclusion had been that it was an accident.

  Hammer lifted his top lip and slipped the snuff underneath. ‘It happened round about the time that Jens Hummel went missing, of course.’

  10

  The air conditioning in the department was turned off after office hours, just one of the many savings initiatives. It was not necessary to spend money cooling an entire storey when there was no budget even to keep the detectives at work.

  Wisting rolled his shirtsleeves above his elbows and opened his office window. The sky was hazy and white with swallows diving and soaring above the rooftops. He lingered for a moment, pressing two fingers on his temple. It had become badly swollen after his collision with the lamppost. Before summoning Aron Heisel for questioning, he wanted to look through what had been recorded about Frank Mandt.

  Most of it was found in the electronic intelligence register, information Wisting recognised from previous meetings and projects. Frank Mandt was described as the organiser and kingpin for large-scale spirit-smuggling operations stretching far back in time. Informants had spoken of an enterprise that imported 21,000 litres of pure spirits every month. Distilled in Spain, it was cleared through customs labelled as tomatoes. In Northern Germany, it was divided into smaller consignments, smuggled into Sweden and then Norway. The profit could be as much as one hundred and fifty kroner for every litre delivered on to the illegal market in Norway.

  A number of attempts had been made to expose the activity. Police and customs had cooperated in several counter-offensives, and some of the consignments had been stopped at the border, but they had not succeeded in linking them to Frank Mandt personally. More recent notes suggested that he was pulling out of the spirits scene. Now that the East European mafia had cut prices and taken over the market, intelligence suggested that Mandt had shifted his attention to narcotics.

  The case file on his death was slim. The most substantial document was the report containing illustrations of Frank Mandt lying on the concrete floor at the foot of the basement stairs. He had been there for three days before someone called Klaus Wahl found him.

  In a brief interview, Wahl had described himself as an acquaintance of Mandt’s. They were in the habit of having a coffee together at the bakery every Friday, but on Friday 13 January, Mandt failed to turn up. He was seventy-nine years old, had diabetes and was prone to dizzy spells. Wahl became worried and paid a visit to his home. No one responded when he knocked, so he skirted round the house and peered through the windows. No sign of Mandt, and the house was locked with both cars parked outside. In the end Klaus Wahl smashed a basement window, crawled inside and found him as the photographs showed.

  The post mortem report showed atlantoaxial fracture, several broken ribs, fracture of the right cheekbone and crush injuries to the skull, all consistent with a fall down stairs. The report could not establish anything definite about the time of death, but newspapers and post dating back to 11 January were piled up in the mailbox. The date of death was therefore fixed at Tuesday 10 January. Wisting glanced over at the desk calendar: four days after Jens Hummel’s disappearance.

  His mobile phone rang as he got to his feet to collect Aron Heisel for interview. It was Line, and he had promised to paint her living room ceiling this afternoon.

  ‘I spotted you outside The Golden Peace earlier today,’ she said. ‘You looked busy.’

  ‘Yes, it was a man we wanted to get hold of.’

  ‘Did you catch him?’

  Wisting’s hand rose to his forehead again. ‘Hammer got him,’ he replied, shifting the phone across to his other ear.

  ‘I’m calling because I’ve bought too much steak for the barbecue,’ she explained. ‘Do you want to pop round and eat with me?’

  Wisting strode down the corridor as he spoke. ‘I’ll have too much to do this evening,’ he said, opening the door to the stairwell that led to the custody cells in the basement. ‘I probably won’t manage to get any painting done today either.’

  ‘I did the living room ceiling this morning,’ Line said. ‘My next project is the wallpapering. It’ll really take both of us for that.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, Line,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I did say I would do it.’

  She ignored him. ‘The wallpaper I ordered will arrive tomorrow. Do you think you’ll have any time before the weekend?’

  The phone connection deteriorated as he made his way downstairs. ‘I’ll make the time,’ he said. ‘Put some of the grilled steak aside and I’ll heat it up when I get home.’

  ‘I’ll save it until tomorrow,’ Line said, with no discernible change in her upbeat tone. ‘It’s not much fun barbecuing by yourself.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll call in anyway, if it’s not too late.’

  Line ended the conversation, leaving Wisting, phone in hand, in front of the door into the cell corridor. He conjured up a vision of her, now very pregnant. The idea that he was going to be a grandfather made him feel elated. Despite the circumstances of the child’s father, he knew he was looking forward to it. That Ingrid would not be there to experience the grandchild naturally put a damper on his happiness, but for the first time in ages he was looking forward to the future.

  Distancing himself from his thoughts, he opened the door and ventured into the grey corridor. Aron Heisel was in Cell 8, the only person down here. The custody cells in the police station were almost never used now that a central remand centre had been established in Tønsberg. Some of the local cells had instead been pressed into service to store archived materials or for keeping evidence under lock and key.

  Aron Heisel stood up. ‘Sorry,’ he said, looking at the swelling on Wisting’s forehead.

  ‘That’s okay,’ Wisting brushed him aside. ‘We’ll go up to my office.’

  Heisel padded barefoot ahead of Wisting along the corridor. Someone had found him a pair of tracksuit trousers and a slightly too large sweater, and his sodden shoes were left outside his cell door.

  Wisting waited until the man had settled into the visitor’s chair before taking his seat at the opposi
te side of the desk. He spent some time on the practical details, ensuring the personal information they had on file was correct and running through the formalities. Heisel’s eyes slid down to the desk, across to the window, and then to his hands, folded on his lap.

  ‘Tell me about the taxi,’ Wisting said.

  Heisel shuddered, as if the direct question filled him with terror. Wisting had spent a considerable amount of his time listening to liars. The man probably had a lot to hide, but something nevertheless told him that his statement about the taxi ‘just sitting there’ might well be the truth. ‘When did you discover it?’

  ‘The same day the disappearance was covered in the newspaper. It must have been Thursday, last Thursday.’

  Wisting leaned back, keen to hear more.

  ‘I went into the barn to look for a lawnmower. The grass had grown high in front of the house. I let myself in and there it was. There was dust on the tarpaulin, so it must have been there for a long time.’

  ‘When were you last in the barn?’

  Aron Heisel changed position. ‘Last summer. I actually live in Spain, but I’m in Norway for a few weeks every summer.’

  ‘On the farm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had any visitors there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who owns the farm?’ Wisting enquired, though he knew the answer.

  ‘I don’t know the owner’s name, but an acquaintance of mine has it at his disposal. He lets me stay there for a couple of months in summer in exchange for me looking after the place. I do some painting, cut the grass and that sort of thing.’

  ‘Frank Mandt?’

  Aron Heisel nodded. ‘He died last winter. I don’t know how the lease stands, but in any case I’ve got an agreement about living there over the summer.’

  ‘Who lives there in winter?’

  ‘No one, I think. Not as far as I know, anyway.’

  ‘What did Frank Mandt use the farm for?’ Wisting asked. ‘Apart from letting you stay there for a couple of months in the summer, that is?’