Closed for Winter (17 page)

Line looked up from her computer screen, rubbing her eyes. Late afternoon twilight settled on the cottage walls. She had read of an author who wrote five pages daily, and then finished for the day, regardless of whether it took one hour or ten, and of whether it had gone well or badly. The next day he read what he had written, deleting half and embarking on five new pages. She had decided to do the same, and eventually discovered that what she wrote assumed a deeper and more complex meaning. Her characters began to soften and become living beings.

She glanced through the window, where a black bird stood the windowsill, staring in with shining, glittering pinpoint eyes. While she sat staring back, another bird joined it. She stood up quietly to avoid startling them and a third bird landed, jostling between the first pair. In the background she saw an entire flock sitting in a row on the banisters and the branches of nearby trees.

As if at a signal they all took flight at once, joining in the air, swooping in an arc, and disappearing over the cottage roof. Line crossed to the window to see what might have scared them, but saw nothing. She drew the curtains and returned to her seat. The fabric was too narrow to cover the whole window and a narrow gap was left between them.

She turned her attention to the screen, scrolling through her text to read the last three paragraphs, but stopped before she was halfway through. Rising from her chair again, she stepped to the door and turned the latch before taking a pace back to stand and listen, her body filled with a peculiar sensation she had experienced before in the evenings, when the darkness was filled with strange sounds. Never, though, as intensely as this.

She had a horrible, creeping feeling that she was not alone, that someone outside was watching her and waiting. It was an irrational thought, but she felt vulnerable and exposed all the same. She fastened the curtains shut with clothes pegs while, outside, darkness descended. She lit a fire in the open fireplace and, this time, the logs burned easily, the blaze sending a congenial, flickering light into the room. She watched the flames until the yellow shafts of light stung her eyes.

Her laptop was in sleep mode, but sprang to life when she stroked the touchpad. Reading rapidly through the text she soon regained her focus. Rain was falling outside, but there was no wind.

She did not know how much time had passed when she was startled by a hollow sound from just outside the wall where she was sitting. It sounded as if someone was thumping on the grass. Then it stopped. She sat uneasily, straining to hear more, but could not catch anything other than the rain.

On the desk facing her she spotted the business card left by the policeman who had interviewed her, telling her to phone if anything turned up.
Benjamin Fjeld
, she read. She sat fingering it, but left the phone undisturbed. Then she heard the noise again, followed by a scraping sound along the wall.

A wild animal from the forest behind the cottage, she thought. At the kitchen worktop she filled a glass with water and stepped across to the front door to make sure it was locked.

The hands on the kitchen clock showed half past ten. She was not tired, but decided to go to bed and read. She saved her work on the computer before brushing her teeth and checking that all the windows were closed. She took out a torch in case of a power cut and, before undressing, switched off the lights. She was searching for a T-shirt to wear in bed when a shadow fell on the living room curtains.

She froze and listened tensely, but could only hear the sound of her own breathing and raindrops dripping on the roof. There! A creak of timber on the verandah outside.

Her heart raced at murderous speed, pumping all the strength out of her. She trembled as though she felt cold and sweated as though she felt hot. There was someone outside the door, casting a shadow in the lamplight.

The wet cobbles shimmered in the street. It must have rained while they were eating. Feeling that the beer and strong liqueur they had consumed with dessert had gone to his head, Wisting told Martin Ahlberg he would take a breath of fresh air before returning to the hotel.

Evening gave the Old Quarter a different character. The streets were filled with upbeat laughter and pulsating music pouring from restaurant doors flung wide. He regretted being allocated a room facing the busy street.

Well-dressed men and heavily made-up women in flimsy, loose-fitting clothes hurried past beggars sitting on the ground. A man with no hands or feet, tied to something resembling a skateboard, propped himself up with the aid of two sticks. ‘Help me, sir!’ he begged. ‘Help me! No food! No home!’

Shaking his head, Wisting thrust his hands deep inside his pockets, hurrying past with a twinge of conscience. When he took refuge in a narrow side street a young woman shot him an appraising glance. Alone under a lamp she was pretty in an alarming kind of way, in leather jacket, skin-tight jeans and high leather lace-up boots. She was nineteen or twenty years old.

‘I might help you,’ she said in stuttering English, placing her hand on his arm.

‘I don’t think so,’ Wisting said.

‘Are you not alone?’ Her hand stroked his face and his body quivered. Never before had such a young, presumptuous woman touched him like this.

‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Norway.’

‘I can come to your hotel room with you.’

‘Sorry, no.’ Clearing his throat, Wisting emphasised that he was not interested and strolled on.

A ten-year-old boy in filthy clothes approached him, holding out a tray of amber jewellery. ‘Present for your lady at home,’ he said. The selection comprised necklaces, bracelets and earrings made of solidified resin. A chain with a finely wrought, heart-shaped pendant of transparent burgundy drew Wisting’s eye.

Noticing his hesitation, the boy grabbed his arm. ‘Very nice price,’ he said.

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred litas.’ Four hundred and fifty Norwegian kroner, Wisting calculated. He shook his head and tried to move on. ‘Please, mister! Tell me your price.’

As far as Wisting could judge, it was a good piece of craftsmanship. ‘One hundred,’ he offered.

The boy looked insulted, but reduced the price to 150 litas. Wisting stood his ground, but capitulated at 120.

He had only a large denomination banknote, which the boy couldn’t change. Another street vendor joined the discussion and Wisting began to wonder if he would receive any money back at all. In the end, the boy handed over a bundle of banknotes, which Wisting accepted without counting. At the same time, he noticed a little girl emerging from the shadows. Encouraged by the jewellery seller’s success, she held up a bowl of knitted dolls.

About eight years of age, her features were appealing. The time was now almost half past eleven. Wisting waved her towards him, and she offered him the bowl while speaking a few words of Lithuanian in a reedy voice.

He had a number of small denomination notes in his hand, but instead produced another high-value note and handed it to her before selecting one of the dolls. The girl searched through her pocket for change, but Wisting signalled that she could keep the money. It was a useless form of benevolence, but he sacrificed his principles to brighten this late hour for the little mite. Perhaps she would remember it even though the money would soon be gone.

He found his way back to the hotel with no more stops. Placing the jewellery in his suitcase, he set the knitted doll down on his bedside table and, before retiring for the night, stepped onto the balcony again. Europe’s new playground for the rich was spread before him. However, the new economy did not benefit everyone. The contrasts in wealth were more noticeable after nightfall. Open prostitution and poverty existed side by side with rich men emerging from expensive cars in the company of long-legged blondes. He understood how those who saw no future for themselves in this city would choose to steal in other countries.

Line’s breath came in stiff, staccato jerks as the male silhouette raised his hands to his head and leaned forward against the living room window to peer inside.

She fumbled for a sweater hanging over the chair and pulled it on, lifted the poker from the hearth and stood still, holding it by her side, her sweaty hands sticking to the hard steel. She was on the point of lifting her mobile phone when a fist knocked on the windowpane.

‘Line?’ someone called. Another knock on the window, and her name was repeated.

It took some time for her to realise whose voice it was: Tommy. Laying the poker aside, she unlocked the door.

His hair plastered to his scalp by the rain, Tommy smiled warmly at her. She opened the door to let him in. ‘What are you doing here?’

He ran his hand through his abundant hair. ‘I had to see you.’

Line folded her arms across her chest. ‘How did you find your way?’

‘It wasn’t easy,’ he said. His training shoes left muddy footprints on the floor. ‘There are a lot of cottages out here.’

‘You’re soaked through. Wait here.’

Tommy glanced down at his clothes while Line fetched a towel. ‘Here,’ she said, throwing it to him. ‘Have you any dry clothes with you?’ Shaking his head, he rubbed his hair vigorously.

‘You’re going to catch a fever.’

‘I can dry my clothes at the fire,’ he said, nodding towards the glowing embers.

Line was about to protest when he removed his shoes and pulled off his sweater and trousers. She sat on the settee, drawing a blanket around her shoulders, as he hung his garments on the chairs and around the fireplace, keeping on only his T-shirt. ‘What do you want, actually?’ she asked.

‘I want to sort things out,’ he said, sitting opposite her. In the room’s semi-darkness, the flames from the fire reflected on his wet face.

‘I don’t know, Tommy,’ she said. ‘It’s too late.’

‘It’s never too late. Not if this is the real thing, Line, and for me it is. I know what I want. The question is: what do you want?’

She was clear about that. ‘I want stability. Security. Peace and quiet and a certain predictability. And, in fact, I want a man who has time to spend with me.’

‘I can sell myself out of the restaurant business,’ he said.

‘You’ll lose a lot of money.’

‘I’ll lose more if I don’t.’

Confused, Line struggled for the right words as Tommy crossed to the chairs facing the hearth where steam rose from his trousers.

‘What do you think about Mauritius?’ he asked abruptly, but he knew what she thought. It was not so long since they had lain in bed talking about exotic destinations they could visit. The little group of African islands in the Indian Ocean was one such place, lush and fertile, fields overflowing with waves of sugarcanes and splendid waterfalls cascading down the mountainsides, lagoons and coral reefs and beautiful beaches encircled by palm trees.

Tommy took a sheet of paper from his back pocket and placed it in front of her. ‘I’d like us to go there. Just the two of us.’

Line glanced at the ticket without picking it up. ‘How …’

‘I got them cheap.’

‘All the same, you can’t afford it.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ he sat beside her. ‘I’m going to get a lot of money from the restaurant. Everything’s going to work out. I have a number of things to tidy up, and then we’ll be on our way.’

She glanced at the departure date, only eight days off, and gazed at him without uttering a word. It was impossible to say what was going on behind those feline eyes. He rested his hand on her lap. ‘It’ll be wonderful.’

Her eyes went to the ticket again. Tommy had not paid for cancellation insurance.

When he rested his head in the hollow of her neck, she breathed in his satisfying scent, a pleasant, familiar and masculine fragrance. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he whispered.

His was the only safety and warmth she had right now and she felt a sudden impulse to embrace him. Her hand stroked across his cheek, explored his ears, found the warm nape of his neck. His skin felt good. He looked at her, examined her, placed his mouth against her neck and kissed it. She had thought she would never feel like this for him again. She gripped the back of his head, where his hair grew thickest.

‘Is it okay?’ he asked, looking deep into her eyes. When she did not reply, he leaned forward and kissed her mouth. She moved her tongue against his teeth. Her fingers coiled around his hair, stroked his back, and found their way inside his T-shirt. She let him pull her sweater over her head and throw it halfway across the room, laid her forehead on his chest, slightly shyly, listening to the hammering of his heart. He kissed her again.

Flinging her arms around his neck, she responded eagerly, teasing his tongue, nibbling his lips, sharing his breath and wanting only more. Soon afterwards, they were both naked. She gasped as he slid inside her. Tears ran down her cheeks as he moved in his gratifying, familiar rhythm.

A tidal wave of emotions grew in her until she closed her eyes, biting her bottom lip, and reached climax with a little sigh, slowing down, almost unwilling to stop and afterwards lay breathless, her heart racing as Tommy stroked her hair. She sat up, drawing the blanket around her as he borrowed a corner to cover himself.

‘How did you locate me? she asked.

‘It wasn’t so easy,’ he said, ‘but I knew roughly where you were so I drove around until I found your car. Then it was simply a matter of going from one cottage to the next. I visited almost all of them before I found you.’

‘Whose car do you have?’

Tommy crossed to the window where he stood, naked, looking out. ‘I borrowed a car from one of the waitresses,’ he said. ‘There was another car parked over there,’ he added, pointing with his head. ‘A muddy van.’

Line was glad she was not alone.

William Wisting and Martin Ahlberg each carried a coffee cup from the breakfast room to one of the small tables in the reception area. Wisting had slept badly. The impressions left by the city had pursued him in his dreams and he had wakened before his alarm rang.

At nine o’clock precisely, CID Chief Antoni Mikulskis entered through the swing doors. Wearing an unbuttoned dark overcoat, he stood with his hands in his pockets. He caught sight of them when they stood up, and came over to greet them, shaking with both hands. ‘Have you slept well, gentlemen?’

‘Very well,’ they both said.

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Excellent. Your car awaits.’ He turned on his heel and led them out of the hotel. A silver Opel was parked at the kerb, waiting with the engine running. The Lithuanian policeman opened the rear door for them, and Wisting caught a glimpse of the carrying strap on the service revolver he wore concealed inside his coat. Behind the wheel of the unmarked police car sat a bullnecked man with cropped hair. Turning around, he uttered a polite comment in Lithuanian.

‘Where are we going?’ Mikulskis asked.

Wisting opened the folder of case documents. ‘We’ll make a start with this man,’ he said, handing over the printout with the photograph and personal details of the man who had assaulted him. ‘Valdas Muravjev.’

Antoni Mikulskis took the document, repeating the name aloud. ‘Vilkišk˙es gatv˙e 22,’ he said to the driver. The man with the broad neck nodded and the car moved off.

The city centre streets were well maintained, but only a few blocks from the hotel the impression deteriorated when they passed through what reminded him of an old, Soviet suburb. The contrast with the wealthy and successful people around the hotel during daylight hours increased sharply the farther they travelled. After ten minutes, the buildings became more scattered.

They drove past weather-beaten timber frame houses and farmyards littered with wrecked cars, makeshift shacks, rusting septic tanks and hens pecking at the ground. In one place, a pig was rooting in a dunghill. They saw handwritten signs dotted around, offering vegetables.

After several kilometres, the driver swung off the asphalt road onto a gravel track bordered by moss-covered oak trees, and water stained by green algae pouring into a ditch.

Mikulskis pointed towards a cluster of houses on the other side of a field. ‘Over there,’ he said. The driver swung the car around, continuing to the end of the track and five buildings surrounded by a tangle of trees, bushes and ankle-high weeds. The largest was a once-white, two-storey house, its paintwork now faded and peeling. The place was strangely silent and gloomy. Foul smelling smoke from one of the smaller houses drifted down from a chimney, hanging like fog in the air.

Behind the houses, an old woman was hanging washing on a line. Antoni Mikulskis shouted her over and asked something. She pointed to a low timber house, its windows opaque with dust and dirt. Steps were missing as well as parts of the banisters. The Lithuanian policeman positioned himself in front of the door, shoulder to shoulder with the driver, while Wisting and Ahlberg waited on the wet grass. A flock of black birds took flight from a tree when they knocked at the door. Wisting thought he could hear a baby crying inside, but there was no response.

The CID Chief knocked again. At once they heard a footstep, and a buxom woman appeared, her face pale and blonde hair lank. As the two Lithuanians explained they were from
Policijos
, they displayed their ID cards. Wisting understood only the name
Valdas Muravjev
in the deluge of words that followed.

The woman shook her head, looking behind her into the house where the squalling baby was crying loudly, and gave an explanation as she pointed to a handwritten sign in the window, the words
Kambariu nuoma
.

Mikulskis took a notebook from his coat pocket and asked a series of questions the woman seemed unable to answer. Her voice rose and she became angry, flinging out her arms expressively. The police chief responded sharply before the conversation was concluded with determined nods from the Lithuanian officers. The woman vented her annoyance with a few more exclamations before going inside, slamming the door behind her.

‘He’s moved away,’ Antoni Mikulskis said. ‘She’s living here on her own and lets out a little room.’

The policeman pointed to the sign in the window to support the woman’s explanation.
Kambariu˛nuoma
. Room to let. ‘He moved out just over a week ago, owing her a hundred litas for a fortnight’s rent. All she knows is that he was to travel somewhere to try to get work. Now she doesn’t know how she’ll manage to get food for the child. The room is difficult to let because there’s no bus to the city.’

One hundred litas, Wisting mused. The woman let out a room in her house to a stranger for less than five hundred kroner a month, the same amount he paid for the knitted doll.

‘Shall we press on?’ Ahlberg suggested. Mikulskis asked to see the list of addresses they were to visit. Wisting handed him the sheet of paper. ‘Teodor Milosz is the one who lives nearest. Only five minutes away.’

Wisting sat in the back seat of the police car, studying the photo of the shorthaired man with the wide neck. Teodor Milosz was twenty-four years old and the next oldest of the Lithuanian men who had been given the name
Paneriai Quartet
in the Norwegian police intelligence files. It seemed he was some kind of leader. He owned the grey delivery van and had also booked the tickets for their journey across the Baltic Sea. They also had telephone data pinning him to the time and date of the incidents out at Nevlunghavn.

The address was in a more densely populated area, but here too the decay was apparent. The driver twice drove in the wrong direction before stopping in front of a low brick building, almost hidden between two gigantic trees. Several of the windows were nailed shut. The roof had subsided and was mottled with moss. An abandoned wheel-less lorry was supported on stone blocks and left to rot. Children’s toys scattered on a pile of earth nevertheless suggested that the house was occupied.

Wisting stepped out of the car, inhaling the stench of mud and rotting leaves, and the less pungent scent of a bonfire. Roughcast flaked off the grey, liver-spotted façade at the corners and windowsills, and the gutters hung loose from the gable end. One of the two cast iron railings along the wide staircase had partly collapsed. Stepping over piles of rubbish bags, they arrived at the door.

Mikulskis knocked loudly and a young woman arrived almost immediately, a small child in her arms. Her hair hung straight at the sides of her face and she wore an olive green sweater.

The policemen introduced themselves and Wisting heard the word
Norvegija
when Mikulskis pointed to him with his arm. The woman nodded when they asked for Teodor Milosz but her voice took on a quizzical tone. Antoni Mikulskis replied, and they exchanged words to and fro until the policeman turned to face Wisting.

‘She’s his sister,’ he said. ‘Teodor Milosz is not at home. She says he has been to Norway for work, but came home sooner than expected. Yesterday he went away again.’

‘Where does she think he might be?’

The police officer translated the question. ‘She doesn’t know, but he may be at the market in Gariunai.’

‘The thieves’ market,’ Martin Ahlberg said.

‘Who is he with?’ Wisting asked.

The question was again relayed and the answer came back quickly. ‘She does not know.’

The child began to whimper and the officers rounded off the conversation without Wisting detecting any polite leave-taking.

‘What now?’ Mikuskis asked as the car reversed out of the farmyard.

‘It won’t take long for them to realise we’re looking for them,’ Wisting said.

‘She’s probably phoning her brother now,’ Mikulskis said, taking a cigarette packet from his coat pocket. ‘Shall we go to the last place on the list as fast as we can?’

Assenting, Wisting removed the printout with details pertaining to Algirdas Skvernelis from the bundle on his lap, passing it to the front passenger seat. The policeman put a cigarette in his mouth and lit up before accepting the paper.

‘We know this man’s brother very well,’ he said, tapping the photograph with his finger. ‘He’s in Lukiskes Prison awaiting sentence for robbery on a shop.’ He held the cigarette firmly between his lips as he talked, half closing his eyes to avoid the smoke. ‘Algirdas is only a petty thief. He’ll talk.’

On the main road they found themselves behind a horse-drawn cart. It was heavily laden with a high, wide stack of bales of straw, and they could not drive past until it turned onto a farm track. Noticing that none of the houses they passed were numbered, and only few of the streets had name plates, Wisting wondered how the driver could find his way at all.

Ten minutes later they stopped beside a modern, grey stone house with ploughs, old engines and lorry parts scattered around the yard. An ancient bicycle was firmly attached to a rusty gate with an enormous chain. A couple of windows were lit, and a woman of Wisting’s age looked out as they parked. Small and slender, she had a narrow, pale face with a short, straight nose. She opened the door before they reached it.

The police officers introduced themselves, and the woman stared at them with glassy, blue eyes. She spoke a few words in Lithuanian before returning inside. Wisting followed Antoni Mikulskis through a cool hallway where dark wall panels and wallpaper brown with age created a bleak ambience. Tiles were missing here and there on the floor, but the house was clean and well cared for. The living room was adorned by orange, fringed lampshades with brown scorch marks. Yellow, faded curtains hung on either side of a window, and the only view was towards another grey stone building. On the top shelf of an empty bookcase sat a stuffed bird that someone had attempted to revive by opening its beak slightly, spreading its wings and inserting glass beads to replace its missing eyes.

On a shelf below the bookcase stood a huge flat-screen television, in contrast to the other old, sad furnishings. The woman sat on a settee covered by a blanket that matched the curtains. The two Lithuanian police officers sat opposite. As there were no more chairs in the small living room, Wisting fetched two stools from the kitchen.

‘She is Algirdas’ mother,’ Mikulskis explained. ‘Her son has not been home for more than a week. He is in Norway, working.’

‘Does she know when he’ll be back?’ Wisting asked.

The policeman asked again but the woman shook her head determinedly. ‘She believes he is still working in Norway. He was to be there for three months. He has been there before, and is a good carpenter.’

‘Tell her about the ferry tickets,’ Martin Ahlberg suggested.

Wisting again found the conversation impossible to follow.

‘She thinks he would have come home if he returned on the ferry. She washes his clothes and prepares his food. Otherwise he’s not at home much.’ The woman continued speaking as she rocked back and forth, rubbing her hands together. ‘She can’t understand what he has done wrong in Norway. He’s a good boy, and she doesn’t understand what the Norwegian police are doing here.’ The woman rattled on, with the policeman translating. ‘She’s worried about him. He usually phones home a couple of times a week, but she hasn’t heard from him since he called to say he had arrived in Norway.’

Martin Ahlberg stood up. ‘Ask her where she got that huge television set.’

The policeman looked bewildered. Wisting raised his hand and told him to let it be. ‘We’re finished here,’ he said.

Antoni Mikulskis was clearly in agreement. He rounded off the conversation with what Wisting assumed was encouragement to persuade her son to make contact with the police.

‘Now we must eat,’ the Chief of CID declared when they returned to their vehicle. ‘I know of a restaurant not far from here where they make excellent
kugelis
. We can eat and discuss our strategy,’ he said.

‘Potato pudding,’ Martin Ahlberg elucidated.

That didn’t sound too good, but Wisting had started to feel the first pangs of hunger.