Closed for Winter (12 page)

Suzanne prepared a simple and tasty meal, surprising them with puréed strawberries for dessert. ‘I went home to get them from the freezer,’ she explained, placing the bowl on the table.

‘How are things at your house?’ Line asked. ‘Are the plumbers almost finished?’

‘I don’t really know. I don’t think there was much difference from my last visit.’

Wisting sampled the dessert. ‘You ought to serve this in your restaurant,’ he said.

‘Are you going to open a restaurant?’

Suzanne’s cheeks turned pink. ‘Not a restaurant, a café,’ she said. ‘Possibly.’

Wisting supplied additional details.

‘It’s going to become your favourite eating place,’ Line said.

‘That’s what I think,’ Wisting said. ‘Did you go often to
Shazam Station
?’

Line talked while eating. ‘In the beginning, yes,’ she replied. ‘At least a couple of times a week, less often after a while. Tommy was always there though. It took up all his time.’

‘Were there many customers?’

‘It was never full, but there was always a lot to do. He was partly responsible for the bar as well, so it wasn’t a case of simply coming home when the kitchen closed.’

‘Did you get to know any of the others?’

‘Not many. There were constant changes, but that’s what it’s like. I didn’t meet anyone I’d imagine becoming friends. I’m much happier with my colleagues.’

‘What about Tommy? Did he socialise with colleagues in his free time?’

‘Work and free time blended together, I think.’ Line replaced the spoon in her empty dish. ‘What’s this about? You’re more interested in Tommy now it’s over than you were when we were together.’

‘Sorry, but it’s difficult to have friends in common when a relationship ends.’

Slightly ashamed, he glanced down at his dessert dish. What he was doing was actually detective work. His questions only appeared innocent.

Line cleared the table and put the plates in the dishwasher.

‘Everything okay out at the cottage?’ Suzanne asked.

‘Absolutely fantastic, and I do enjoy wet and windy weather. It’s lovely to sit at the panorama windows with the fire at my back, although what’s happening to the birds is horrible.’

‘What about the birds?’ Wisting asked.

‘Dead birds falling from the sky. Haven’t you noticed? It’s grabbed more headlines than your murder case.’

Line crossed over to the kitchen door and her bag to pull out her laptop. She placed it on the table facing her father.

DEAD BIRDS RAINING FROM THE SKY
was the headline. Wisting recognised the man in the photograph as the farmer who helped him after he had been attacked. He stood with a shovel in his hand on which four dead black birds were laid out.

As many as a thousand birds may have fallen to the ground, dead, in the course of the weekend around Helgeroa in Vestfold, he read. The mysterious phenomenon started on Saturday morning and continued throughout the weekend. Farmer Christian Nalum had experienced dead birds falling onto his house, the roof of his car, and in his fields, and had gathered more than a hundred on his property alone. The Wildlife Board had taken over collection and intended to have the birds examined at the Veterinary College.

‘I ran over two like that on Friday night,’ Wisting remarked.

‘And I found one on the stairs outside the cottage,’ Line told him. ‘It’s happened in other countries too,’ she pointed to a lower paragraph.

The previous week, more than five thousand dead birds had fallen from the sky in the little town of Beebe in Arkansas, Wisting read. The birds had been examined at laboratories in Georgia, where experts had decided they had died as a result of internal hemorrhages and injuries to their vital organs. No real light had been shone on the mystery. There had been a similar event in Brazil.

‘Yep, more hits than your murder case,’ Line repeated, closing the laptop.

They discussed other matters until Line thanked them for dinner and left for the cottage. Wisting had half an hour before he was due back at the office.

‘I think you should go ahead,’ he said to Suzanne. ‘Open that café. Follow your dream of the good life.’

‘I’m living the good life now,’ she said, snuggling up on the settee and leaning her head on his chest. ‘I’ve always felt that. At least if I compare it with those who were born into the same war as me, the ones who didn’t get away, and are living in starvation and poverty. I’ve bought a winning ticket, William.’

Suzanne, born in Afghanistan, was studying at the Sorbonne when the Soviets invaded in 1978. She had not returned, and a great deal of both their lives would have been different if she had made other choices at that time. He understood what she meant.

‘What is the good life?’ he asked.

‘There’s no single answer to that,’ she said. ‘Since we’re all too different, and we all have different dreams and ideas. For the majority, it’s about money and standard of living, but for me it’s about realising a dream.’

‘What’s holding you back?’

‘The road is long and difficult. I don’t know if I dare change direction.’ She turned to face him. ‘What’s the good life for you?’

He decided it was about happiness, but he was unsure where it was to be found. No dreamer, he preferred to enjoy life exactly as it is.

‘Probably it’s sitting at my regular table in
The Golden Peace
.’

The road was always long and difficult.

Behind his desk, Wisting mulled over what Suzanne had said about reaching one’s goal. In a case it meant trawling through reports and other documents for a solution you could not be sure actually existed.

He alternated between reading information logged into the data system and what had been sent as original documents, and it struck him that he actually took satisfaction from this. Life was best when he felt he was doing something important, when he could follow the interplay of thoughts and actions and knew his efforts were going to make a difference. It fed his belief that his work could help create a better world.

As Benjamin Fjeld entered the office, Wisting looked up and removed his glasses to focus. ‘You’re still here?’

‘I was thinking of going now,’ Fjeld replied, ‘if there isn’t anything else.’

Wisting remembered his dread as a young detective of letting something slip, the fear of not being present when there was a sudden breakthrough. ‘I’ll phone you if anything happens,’ he reassured him. ‘Go home and get some sleep.’

Benjamin Fjeld was on his way out of the room when he stopped in the doorway, half-turning towards him. ‘Have you seen that we’re being blamed for the dead birds?’

‘Are we?’

‘Some birdwatcher is blaming the police,’ he nodded in the direction of the computer screen. ‘It’s in the online
VG pages.’

Wisting opened his browser, contributing another click to the editorial counting mechanism. The newspaper was speculating that the sudden deaths of birds were caused by the police helicopter flying low over the area. The director of the Norwegian Ornithological Association thought the birds had possibly died of exhaustion. If large flocks experienced severe stress, they could quite simply fly themselves to death, he pronounced.

‘Everything is connected,’ Wisting said. He reached for his coffee-cup, only to find it empty. ‘How are you enjoying your work?’ he asked, taking hold of the thermos flask.

The young policeman re-entered the room. ‘Fine, thanks.’

Wisting filled his cup and found a clean plastic beaker for Benjamin Fjeld. ‘That’s clear from the work you hand in,’ he said, nodding towards his tray of reports. ‘You’re thorough and efficient.’

Benjamin Fjeld accepted the coffee. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I hope an opening will turn up so I can stay here.’

Wisting nodded. The system was such that officers from the law enforcement section spent a six-month probationary period, taking the experience back with them into front line policing. Benjamin Fjeld, however, had detective qualities. Wisting regarded him as a natural investigator who absorbed everything and really cared about the cases and the people involved.

‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ he said. ‘You have a few probationary weeks left. If this case hasn’t been solved by then we’ll get to hold on to you anyway.’ They remained seated, chatting about the case, Benjamin Fjeld brimming with observations, questions and arguments. It was after midnight when he left.

Returning to his computer screen, Wisting replaced his glasses and got to work with the investigation material.

Nils Hammer had completed his overview of the cars that had passed the two toll stations between Oslo and Larvik, and had entered this information into the data system, noting that it had not been analysed yet.

Wisting scrolled through the long list of car registration numbers, models, owner information and the precise times of their passing. His eyes were heavy and he was rubbing them to focus more clearly when a familiar name popped up.
Thomas Rønningen
. He was the owner of a black Audi S5 that had passed the tollbooth at Sande at 19.32, the same vehicle that had been parked outside Wisting’s house the previous evening.

He found the written record of the tape of Thomas Rønningen’s statement, and located what he was looking for about halfway through.

WW: Where were you yesterday evening and last night?

TR: You would perhaps think I have the best alibi in the world – a million TV viewers, but the truth is that what everybody sees on the screen is a recording. The programme is recorded in the afternoon and broadcast unedited.

WW: So where were you?

TR: At home. Alone.

WW: We’ve been trying to phone you, and even sent a car to your door this morning.

TR: I disconnected everything. Mobile phone, doorbell, television, everything. I arrived home at about seven o’clock and sat down to write. I kept going until almost five, and then collapsed into bed. When I woke, I switched on my mobile, read my texts and phoned you.

Returning to the computer screen, Wisting scrolled to locate the record at the toll station on the local authority border between Larvik and Sandefjord. The time was 20.17. Thomas Rønningen had passed both toll stations, in a direct route between Oslo and Larvik on the evening of the murder.

He sank back into his chair. The famous TV host had sat opposite him in his own home and told barefaced lies.

He read the account again. This was what an interview was all about, a detailed statement that could be used later to expose lies. It was true that one detail was missing from the statement. It was entirely possible that someone else had used Rønningen’s car while he remained in his apartment writing, but Wisting reckoned that possibility was slight. He had encountered numerous accomplished liars and ham actors, and recognised them easily. Thomas Rønningen was one, but he could not make the lie fit with the information given by the informant to Oslo Police.

He pushed his fingers under the lenses of his glasses to massage his eyes. With increasing complexity solutions became more difficult to grasp. Deciding to switch off his computer and travel home to catch up on sleep, he noticed something else on the screen and the rhythm of his breathing changed.

Barely three minutes before Thomas Rønningen’s Audi, a black Golf had passed the tollbooth. The registered owner was Elcon Leasing, but Wisting recognised the registration number of Line’s car.

His thoughts whirled like autumn leaves, flitting and fluttering across his consciousness, and he was unable to grip them. On Friday at 19.29, he had been finishing the meal eaten in the company of Suzanne and Line at
Shazam Station
. Tommy Kvanter had been busy and unable to join them.

It dawned on him that he was sitting open-mouthed, unable to breathe. He gasped for air, but could not shift the icy, tight lump forming in his chest.

Banks of heavy dark clouds hung low over the horizon. Dense fog hovered above the sea, but gusts of wind repeatedly tore deep gashes in the gloom.

Line thought it a good idea to make the central character a female journalist, like herself, who inherits a large house on the skerries. The house has lain empty for many years, but the first time she visits there are fresh flowers in a vase and the clock on the wall is set to the correct time. One of the doors on the upper floor is locked, and none of her keys fits. When she finally succeeds in opening the door, she also opens a spellbinding murder mystery.

She had written late into the night and been wakened early by the seagulls’ cries. Her breakfast was a cup of tea and a slice of crispbread with cream cheese. She read through what she had written and was less than happy with most of it. Some parts though, made her really proud.

Dressing for the squally weather, she slung her camera over her shoulder and stepped outside into wind that hurtled inland from the sea. Waves crashed onto the beach and the old wooden jetty.

She chose the opposite direction from the one she had taken the day she found the dead man. The terrain to the west was different, and the path led her into a tangle of dense woodland where the ground was soft and muddy, showing large, deep footprints. Someone had been here before her, either late the previous evening or early that morning.

She stopped and listened. Beyond the track the undergrowth was so dense it was impossible to see the forest floor, and rampant clusters of honeysuckle snaked around the tree-trunks. A branch snapped in the distance, and then all was silent. A bird took flight, vanishing into the air.

Line walked until coastal rocks replaced the marshy forest and she found herself on a rocky outcrop, breathing the tang of salt and seaweed.

It was an excellent view for a wide-angle photograph, although the light was rather too dull and contrasts were minimal. She looked for some softer images to capture, but the golden autumn leaves further inland also lacked the necessary light.

Searching through the camera lens, she took a couple of preliminary shots but they were underexposed and grainy. She adjusted the shutter speed and positioned herself with legs wide, steadying the camera, and made a fresh attempt. This improved results, and she continued to look for new compositions.

When the viewfinder found two blasted, crooked pine trees on a crag, she took a photograph. Lowering the camera she spotted something jutting from a ledge beneath the pines. Something made by human hands. She zoomed in. Several wooden slats had been placed between two boulders with a green tarpaulin drawn over them. Branches had been placed in front, and a camouflage net covered the entire structure. She took a couple of photographs before packing her camera.

To investigate the slightly remote spot she had to climb around a cleft in the rock. The rudimentary shelter had stone walls at the back. It resembled a den made by children, except for its unlikely location. It was quite a distance to the nearest houses and no path led naturally to the little rocky overhang.

Two openings were carved out of the wooden boards at the front, reminiscent of firing hatches. Pushing her hands inside the net, she used them to lift the branch and inside found a ground sheet and sleeping bag; at the rock face a propane lamp and a camping stove, with a water bottle and several empty cans lying beside them.

Crouching down, she crept inside. Birds’ feathers had been pushed into fissures in the rock. She picked one out and rolled it between two fingers, but suddenly had the unpleasant sensation that she was being watched. Dropping the feather, she turned to face the little opening. No one was there. She hurried out, returning the branch to its former position.

As she turned her back on the little hiding place, she heard a strange rustling as the sky grew darker. An enormous flock of birds rose from the scrubby woodland behind her, manoeuvring as one single, connected organism. The roar of flapping wings grew louder as the flock veered above her and disappeared towards the west.

Line shivered. Turning up the collar of her jacket, she returned to the path and strode back hurriedly.