Closed for Winter (14 page)

Espen Mortensen placed a photograph on the desk in front of Wisting. It showed a slight, naked male body on the dissecting table. The missing eyes showed it to be the dead man Line found. Now the clothes had been removed and the body washed clean, it was not difficult to see what had been the cause of death. Two dark holes at the lower edge of his skinny ribcage indicated where the bullets had pierced his body.

‘We know who he is,’ Mortensen said. Lifting the photograph, Wisting waited to hear the name. ‘Darius Plater.’

‘East European?’

Mortensen leafed through his papers and read aloud. ‘He comes from Vilnius in Lithuania. Twenty-three years old. Car mechanic.’

‘How did we find that out?’

‘Fingerprints. He was arrested for theft in a marina in Østfold last summer and registered in our records. Served thirty days’ imprisonment in Halden Prison and was deported afterwards. Obviously he came back.’

Wisting replaced the photo. Crime committed by criminals from Eastern Europe had increased since the enlargement of the EU, mainly theft, but more frequently their lawbreaking also involved other types of serious crime, and the threshold for exercising violence was lowering. ‘I can’t quite get it to fit,’ he said. ‘This man’s an itinerant burglar, but what took place was a drugs deal.’

‘The Lithuanians are big in narcotics,’ Mortensen reminded him. ‘It could have been a combined job. Drugs in, stolen goods out. We’ve seen that before.’

‘That was amphetamines,’ Wisting said. ‘Cocaine comes from South America, via Spain and Portugal, sometimes via West Africa. Not from the east.’

‘It fits with the information from Oslo intelligence that one of the men who arrived by boat from Denmark is missing.’

Wisting picked up the photo again. ‘Did the pathologist find any bullets?’

‘That’s where it starts to get interesting. They’ve found two bullets, of different diameters.’

‘Do you mean he was shot by two different guns?’

Mortensen handed him the report. ‘That’s what the numbers indicate. 10.4 millimetre and an ordinary 9 millimetre.’

‘How big was the revolver we found beside him?’

‘That’s a much smaller weapon, a 22 calibre. The serial number’s been filed off. We may be able to retrieve it but, before we place it in an acid bath, we must make some test shots to see what kind of marks are made by the firing pin and ejector.’

Wisting cast his mind back. ‘Nine millimetre corresponds with the cartridge cases that were found on the path?’

‘10.4 millimetre corresponds with 41 calibre. It could be from a revolver that doesn’t discharge empty cartridges.’

Wisting looked at the photograph again. If they were right, something had happened in the darkness last Friday that turned the perpetrator into a victim.

‘Two shooters,’ Mortensen concluded.

‘Or one shooter with two guns. Do we have any information on Darius Plater?’

Mortensen leafed through the pages again. ‘Not much. He was stopped with several others travelling in a delivery van outside Grimstad this summer. Plater was driving, and only his name was entered. The van was searched. There were a lot of tools onboard, but nothing that allowed the police patrolmen to arrest them.’

‘Have you been in touch with
Grenseløs?’

‘No, I thought you would do that.’

Wisting nodded. The flood of mobile thieves from Eastern Europe had become so overwhelming that the police district had established its own investigative group. The project had been given the name Grenseløs – without boundaries – for obvious reasons. The group comprised dedicated investigators who conducted enquiries directed at specific individuals across the boundaries of police districts.

Their innovative work had brought excellent results. Some of this success was due to a fairly informal cooperation with police in a number of East European countries. The group possessed skills that might be invaluable in the murder enquiry, but there was a long way to go.

Wisting sat deep in thought. These developments brought forebodings of a level of criminality he had rarely encountered: totally pragmatic, unscrupulous and cynical. We’re falling short here, he mused. We need to redraw the map when the landscape changes.

The leader of the
Grenseløs
section was Martin Ahlberg, a bald man with a small beard, whose big dark eyes stared across the conference table at Wisting. He held a folder in his hand. ‘I was expecting you to phone earlier,’ he said. ‘Serial thefts from holiday cottages are the pattern of activity we’ve come to expect.’

Wisting thanked Ahlberg before introducing him to Christine Thiis, Espen Mortensen and Nils Hammer. ‘We have information that points in a different direction from Eastern Europe,’ he explained, giving a brief presentation of the information they had received from the Oslo Police.

‘Are you certain that cocaine is involved?’ Ahlberg asked. Wisting admitted that they only had the whistle-blower’s word.

‘I have a hard time entertaining the idea that Lithuanians are involved in trafficking cocaine,’ Ahlberg said. ‘On the other hand, most of the amphetamines on the market in Norway come from illegal laboratories in Eastern Europe, and Lithuania has assumed the role of main supplier. Poland is still the most important country of origin, but most of the people who are arrested come from Lithuania.’

Martin Ahlberg helped himself to coffee from the thermos flask on the table but continued to speak with authority.

‘Increasingly the drugs are transported by ferry across the Baltic Sea, but the most established route goes from Lithuania and Poland up through Germany and Denmark, across the Øresund Bridge and through Sweden to Norway. One place in Northern Europe is a point of intersection for cocaine coming up from Spain. The Lithuanians are prominent operators in the narcotics market and could have taken over the final stage. You must remember that we’re talking about well-organised criminal gangs. They know how to make use of economies of scale the same as any other organisation.’

‘What do you know about Darius Plater?’ Wisting asked.

‘Quite a lot.’ Martin Ahlberg opened his folder and produced a photocopy of a Lithuanian passport. It was the slightly built man from the rowing boat. His name was printed in capital letters.

‘Darius Plater belongs to a group of thieves from the outskirts of Vilnius. They’ve been in Norway at least six times in the past three years. Last year he was captured in Østfold together with this man.’ Ahlberg placed a copy of another passport on the table. The man in this photograph was called Teodor Milosz. He was a powerfully built man with a bull neck, flat nose and tiny eyes. ‘They had prepared five large outboard motors for collection out at Hvaler. They were sentenced to thirty days each, and were deported after they’d served their sentences. They’ve been back twice since then.’

Wisting nodded.

‘You must remember that the thefts vary according to the season,’ Ahlberg said. ‘The summer is high season for stealing large outboard motors. The autumn is the time for burglary from cottages closed for winter. Winter and spring it’s houses and vehicles.’

‘When did they last come to Norway?’

Martin Ahlberg produced a bundle of papers, but did not reply immediately. ‘This is organised crime,’ he repeated. ‘The men behind this are former army officers and soldiers and they fear nothing, neither punishment nor prison conditions. They are a greater danger to society than most people imagine.’

Wisting glanced at the photograph of Darius Plater. The slim man was listed as a car mechanic. The picture contrasted starkly with the description provided by the section leader from
Grenseløs
, but he resisted pointing that out.

‘Darius Plater and Teodor Milosz belong to a group we have christened the Paneriai Quartet,’ Ahlberg said, ‘four men from the same suburb of Vilnius, about ten kilometres south-west of the centre.’

‘Have you been there?’

‘We were invited by the consul in the spring. The local authority has a joint project on education, health, culture and industrial development that has been extended to incorporate cooperation in the fight against crime.’ He paused while he drank his coffee. ‘The thieves’ market is located in Paneriai. You can buy anything there.’

‘Who else is part of the quartet?’ Hammer asked.

Martin Ahlberg gave two names with practised pronunciation and placed two more passport photos on the table. The sight of one of the men provoked a tingling sensation in Wisting’s chest.

‘That’s him,’ Wisting said, pulling the photograph towards him. ‘That’s the man who stole my car.’

‘Are you sure?’

Wisting had only caught a glimpse of his assailant, but he was sure. He recognised the coarse facial features and deep-set eyes.

‘Valdas Muravjev,’ Ahlberg said. ‘He’s the oldest. Sentenced for robbery and violence in his home country.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘He’s at home in Lithuania.’ Ahlberg lifted a printout marked DFDS Seaways. ‘The entire quartet arrived by ferry in Karlshamn in Southern Sweden on the 18th September. They were driving a VW Transporter. Three returned by ferry at six o’clock yesterday evening.’

‘What do you suggest we do now?’

‘What is absolutely crystal clear,’ Ahlberg replied, ‘is that you have a case in which a Lithuanian citizen was shot and killed. The Lithuanian authorities must, of course, be informed. At some point too, the nearest relatives must be informed and an arrangement has to be made to transport the dead man home. At the same time, we know who he was with when he was killed. We could send over a legal request letter and have them interviewed, but if I were you, I’d travel over and do it myself.’

Wisting had reasoned similarly. Returning the photo of his assailant across the conference table, he leaned forward. ‘Can you order tickets for us?’

At 17.07 Thomas Rønningen parked his black Audi S5 in the square outside the police station, seven minutes late for his appointment.

Wisting stood at the window watching him. His car was newly washed and he could see from a distance how the raindrops formed beads on the bonnet before sliding off. At the top of the windscreen was the outline of the subscription chip from the toll company.

Slamming the car door behind him, Rønningen threw a glance up at the façade of the police station building. He waved a greeting as their eyes met and he jogged through the rain to the entrance.

Two minutes later he was sitting in Wisting’s office. He put down his mobile phone and car keys on the edge of the desk and used his hand to wipe the rain from his shoulders.

‘Nice car,’ Wisting said.

‘I’m happy with it.’

‘Is it yours?’

‘Yes, why do you ask?’

‘No, I was thinking it might be a company car or a car used by several people.’

Rønningen continued to smile, but now it seemed indulgent rather than sincere. ‘It’s a kind of company car, but I don’t let anybody else behind the wheel.’

‘So you’re the only person who drives it?’

A slight grimace crossed Rønningen’s face. His smile vanished.

The TV star was about to become of less interest, Wisting thought. The clues were pointing in every direction other than his, but there was something he was hiding and now he was about to be trapped by his own falsehood.

‘It’s possible somebody else has used it,’ Rønningen said.

‘Who would that be?’

‘It’s so long ago that I can’t remember.’ His irritated voice was very different from the tones he employed on TV. ‘But I’m sure you haven’t asked me to come here to talk about my car?’

‘Yes indeed, I have,’ Wisting said, ‘because it was here in Larvik on Friday.’

‘It hasn’t got anything to do with the case,’ Rønningen said.

‘It has everything to do with the case. You no longer have an alibi. On the contrary, it puts you in the vicinity of the crime scene, and the fact that you have lied about it places you in an extremely bad light.’

‘It’s not as you think,’ Rønningen stuttered. ‘Am I suspected of something?’

‘We can charge you with making a false statement,’ Wisting informed him calmly, producing the printouts from the toll company. He placed them in front of him and pointed to the column showing the time and name of the car owner:
20.17, Thomas Rønningen.

Despite years of research into how body language can expose liars, no one hundred percent certain method existed to distinguish between falsehoods and truth. In Wisting’s experience, liars did not have shifty eyes, their bodies were not more restless, and they did not touch their noses or clear their throats more often than people who were telling the truth. The only thing that could expose them was proof, such as the printouts. For Rønningen there was no way out.

Although the physical signs of telling a lie could not be interpreted with certainty, the body’s resignation, as a signal that the lie had been uncovered, was easier to discern.

Rønningen subsided into his chair, shaking his head. ‘I can explain,’ he said.

Wisting had heard those three words from many others sitting in that same chair. He did not say anything, but waited for Rønningen to continue.

‘I was in Larvik, but I wasn’t at the cottage.’

‘What were you doing here?’

Thomas Ronningen stood up and stepped over to the window before turning around and returning to his seat. ‘Her name is Iselin Archer,’ he said, remaining on his feet.

Wisting knew the name. She was a young painter who had received more attention for her marriage to Johannes Archer, a much older property investor and multimillionaire with a high media profile, than for her artistic endeavours. The ill-matched pair lived in Nevlunghavn where they had renovated the disused prawn factory into a combined residence and studio, where Iselin Archer regularly held private viewings and other functions duly reported in newspapers and magazines.

‘She’s been a guest on your programme,’ Wisting recalled.

Thomas Rønningen nodded. ‘Twice. That was how it began. I phoned her from the cottage the day after the first programme, to ask if she was happy with it. Johannes wasn’t at home and she was alone in that vast house. He hadn’t even seen it. When she heard I was sitting on my own in my cottage nearby, she invited me to her house for lunch. She served champagne and strawberries, and I stayed with her until the following day.’

Wisting listened vigilantly. When respect for the truth had been broken or impaired, everything became doubtful, but the story about how a relationship developed sounded convincing. Thomas Rønningen spoke with sensitivity and commitment once he started, somehow relaxed after admitting the secret relationship.

‘We usually met at the cottage,’ he said. ‘But Johannes was away on business, so we were at Iselin’s for the entire weekend. I daren’t think about what might have happened otherwise.’

Wisting sat in silence for a while before asking: ‘Where is Johannes Archer?’

‘In France,’ Rønningen replied. ‘He’s looking at some vineyards.’

‘Do you think he suspected you were meeting at your cottage?’

‘I think he suspected Iselin, but not that it was me she was meeting.’

‘Does he know where your cottage is?’

‘He’s been there. Iselin was a guest on the final programme of the spring season. Johannes was present in the studio. I don’t know how it came about, but I invited them both to a shellfish party.’

‘Is he on his own in France?’

‘As far as I know. Why do you ask?’

Wisting shook his head without answering. An absurd thought was forming in his mind, but he dropped it. ‘I need to talk to her,’ he said.

Rønningen nodded. ‘She’s prepared for that. All the same, I hope this part of the investigation won’t become public.’

Wisting made no promises. As the case now stood, they had to determine the people about whom they had no grounds for suspicion, and he was not yet sure that Thomas Rønningen could be struck from the list.

He rose and accompanied the TV host as he left. The rain had increased in intensity and was now falling in torrents. Wisting remained standing under the roof as Thomas Rønningen dashed, neck bowed, towards his car, a liar making his way to his incriminating evidence.