Dregs (21 page)

Even turned to his mother: ‘Can I go for a swim?’

She laughed, knowing it would be impossible to suggest anything else, and took his bathing trunks from a bag. Even disappeared into the caravan and changed.

The slight hesitation and uncertainty after not seeing each other for nearly a year, was suddenly gone. They bounded towards the waves and ran out, the water splashing around them, going under as soon as it was knee-deep. They swam below the water until their eyes were tingling and they had to come up for air. Then they dived under again and swam out to the raft that was anchored out at the deepest point. They heaved themselves up onto the deck, lay down on their backs and caught their breath. A couple of older boys plunged in, and so they were alone.

‘There’s something I have to show you,’ Erling said.

Even sat up.

‘What is it?’

‘I can’t tell you. I’m not really sure what it is exactly. You’ll need to see it for yourself. Something I found this morning.’

‘What is it?’ Even repeated, getting up.

‘I’ve hidden it up by the stone wall.’

Even turned round and peered towards the land. In the woods behind Fristranda beach, an old stone wall wound its way, dividing the properties from one other. A few summers previously, Erling’s father had told them a story about Gjest Baardsen, who had broken in to the Manor House in Larvik almost 200 years before and stolen silverware, pocket watches, gold and silver jewellery, powder flasks, knives and several hundred
speciedaler
coins from the county. He had hidden the stolen goods beneath the stones in the wall before he was arrested. When he fled, he had gone to Arendal, without taking time to bring the booty with him. The valuable objects must still lie some place or other among the moss-grown stone walls. That summer Even and Erling had turned every single stone, but the only thing they had found was a squirrel’s lair and a bag of old porno magazines that were lying hidden in a cavity. A cavity big enough to hold Gjest Baardsen’s booty, except that others had found it before them.

‘Anything valuable?’ Even asked tentatively.

Erling just smiled slyly before getting up, diving in and swimming towards land.

They each put a towel over their shoulders, put on their sandals and walked over to Fristranda.

The path along one side of the stone wall was quiet and speckled with sunlight that reached through the branches. Some large oak trees had found fertile soil between the stones and sprung up. Twisted tree roots were protruding and intertwining like a knotted net.

After fifty metres, they reached an open area where an enormous old rose briar covered the stones. They clambered over to the other side of the wall and walked a few more metres before Erling began to remove some.

‘Where did you find it?’ Even asked.

‘On the beach,’ Erling replied, lifting away the last stone.

Even leaned forward and peered into the secret cavity. A black bin-bag was lying there. Erling let him lift it out. It smelled a bit, like the mounds of slippery, rotten seaweed that had been lying a long time on the foreshore.

Even found the opening and pulled out one of the white plastic bags inside. He glanced over at Erling before untying the knot and peeping in, but it took some time for him to realise what it was he was looking at.

It was money. Heaps of money.

He picked out one of the banknotes and studied it. It was still damp after lying in the water. He had not seen banknotes like these before. It was green and strangely designed, almost completely square. He turned it over. On one side there was a picture of a man with thick, white hair and sideburns. On the reverse there was a picture of someone working in a field.
Norges Bank
was written on both sides.
Femti kroner
- fifty kroner.

‘Money,’ was all he said.

‘They’re old,’ Erling explained, pointing to the date.
1952
.

‘How much is there?’ Even pulled out the other bags. ‘Have you counted them?’

‘There’s 250,000 in that one.’ Erling nodded to the bag Even had opened. ‘There must be more than a million altogether.’

Even opened a bag and peeped inside.

‘Are there only 50-kroner notes?’ he asked.

Erling nodded.

‘But they’re not all so old.’

He picked up a banknote from one of the other bags. This one had a picture of a man with a big, thick beard.
Noregs Bank
, it said, in
nynorsk
, the New Norwegian language.
Femti kroner
.

‘Where do they come from?’ Even asked in wonder.

Erling shrugged his shoulders. He had been wondering the same thing all day.

CHAPTER 39

Wisting’s reading had given him a different impression of Oddmund and Marie Lauritzen than he had of the younger brother who had married Otto Saga’s daughter. While the brother and his wife lived in a deprived housing co-operative, Oddmund and Marie Lauritzen lived in an area west of Stavern where the houses were surrounded by high railings and large gardens. Oddmund Lauritzen worked in the council administration, while Marie was the manager of a children’s nursery they owned in partnership.

The address belonged to a quiet side street with large properties where old fruit trees afforded shade from the afternoon sun. A wrought iron gate on to the street stood open, and a gravel path led to an entrance with white pillars. A newly clipped royal poodle greeted him with a piercing bark, and stood pawing at the door until it was opened.

Wisting saw the family resemblance, but Oddmund Lauritzen was taller and heavier built than his younger brother. His face was long and sharp with blue-grey eyes, his hair thick and grey. He greeted him with a nod and led him through the house and out to a paved terrace at the back where Marie Lauritzen was sitting at a garden table.

‘There isn’t any news,’ Wisting hastened to say.

Oddmund Lauritzen pulled a chair over to the table and invited Wisting to sit down.

‘We were wondering a little about what was happening,’ Marie Lauritzen said carefully.

‘I’m afraid I don’t have any answers,’ Wisting explained. ‘I had hoped that you could tell me something that would shed new light on the investigation.’

The married couple sat silent for a short time before the husband started to speak: ‘There is one thing,’ he began. ‘I haven’t yet told to my brother.’

Wisting nodded for the other man to continue.

‘I don’t know if it’ll make you any wiser, but it’s something you ought to know. Perhaps it’ll be useful when you look at it in connection with something else.’

Wisting straightened up. He had experienced this before, with people sitting on important information, reluctant to go to the police with what they knew, exactly because they didn’t understand its importance.

‘I’ve just finished the first week of my holidays,’ Oddmund Lauritzen expanded, ‘and have had some time to go through some of my father’s papers. All of his post is forwarded to me, and I look after all the practical details. We agreed on that, Mathias and I.’

‘Mathias isn’t so smart with paperwork,’ Marie Lauritzen said.

‘There will of course be a distribution of the estate from all this, but that takes time,’ her husband went on. ‘As long as he’s just missing, we can’t have the estate wound up. Only after a year can we go to the district court and have him declared dead.’

Wisting nodded. It was called a ‘presumption of death judgement’.

‘Father was always meticulous with his papers. I do his income tax returns, and know what he has by way of income and assets and all that. I haven’t bothered to look in his folder of receipts, but thought I should go through it now to make everything easier later.’

‘It was Mathias who asked you to do it,’ his wife reminded him. ‘He wanted to know how much there was in the estate.’

‘That’s right,’ the man agreed, nodding. ‘I knew from the tax assessment that he was left with a lot when he sold the house and moved into the nursing home. There could be a few hundred thousand for each of us.’

‘You have to get to the point,’ his wife said.

‘Yes, it concerns his bank statement for August last year. The statement shows a cash deposit of 2.4 million.’

Wisting tried to gather his thoughts.

‘2.4 million?’ he reiterated.

Oddmund Lauritzen nodded.

‘Altogether. There are seven deposits in seven different banks in Oslo. Wednesday 27th August. Paid in over the counter.’

‘In Oslo? Do you know where the money comes from?’

‘No, and it has gone again.’

Wisting sat back in the chair, as though he needed space to take in this new information.

‘Two days later, he goes round to banks in Sandefjord and Tonsberg and takes the money out again.’

‘Somebody must have driven him around,’ Marie Lauritzen said.

‘Do you have the bank statement?’ Wisting asked.

Oddmund Lauritzen got up and returned with two sheets of paper. Wisting studied the summary of the large sums that in the course of a few days had gone in and out of Torkel Lauritzen’s account. He had seen it before, how money could be the motive for the most gruesome crimes people could commit against one other. He stared at the numbers and thought that he could sense it. The case was finding its bearings.

CHAPTER 40

Most things were about money, Wisting thought.
Follow the money
, that was what the anonymous source had said to the Washington Post journalist when the Watergate scandal was on the go in 1972 and Nixon had to resign as president.

Money always left a trail.
Follow the money
had become a basic rule for all investigations after the Al Capone case in the 1930s. The American authorities never managed to catch the infamous Mafia boss for the murders he had in all probability committed. Instead it was an accountant who had him imprisoned for tax evasion.

He wondered why this financial evidence had not turned up before. It was purely routine to check the movements within bank accounts when people were reported missing, but this, of course, concerned movements after the person had disappeared. Nevertheless, they had work to do when the banks opened in the morning.

He was hungry and lifted a strawberry from one of the punnets he had bought earlier in the day. He put it in his mouth and felt the sweet flavour spread. He ate one more berry before swinging into a petrol station to buy a hot-dog and a carton of cream. He put it on the floor beside the berries and drove home to Suzanne.

There had always been a kind of conflict between work and family when Ingrid was alive, especially when the children were little. He had a bad conscience when he couldn’t manage to get everything done in his working day and his wife and children had to take second place.

His relationship with Suzanne was completely non-committal. The little they had talked about the future, contained a common understanding that neither of them had any need to make long-term plans. They were both busy with their own lives and were willing to give each other space for that. At the same time, he understood that she wanted them to spend more time together. He wanted that, too, but his work held him back. It gave him a sense of uneasiness and the old feeling of bad conscience.

She was not at home. Her little red car was in the driveway, but she didn’t open the door when he rang the bell. He walked round the house to the terrace, but it too was empty. He approached the large windows, put his hand up to the glass and peered inside without really knowing what it was he was looking for. Then he carried the strawberries and cream back to the car.

It was actually for the best. Dropping in on her in this way felt like a duty. He refrained from phoning her and instead drove to the police station. He could try to call in again when he finished work.

Torunn Borg drove into the basement garage in front of him. She got out of the car before him, and stood waiting by the door to the stairwell.

‘Finished with the old folk?’ he asked.

Torunn Borg nodded.

‘I don’t think anything came of it.’

‘Think?’

‘There was no one who knew anything, but there’s one of them who perhaps knows more than he was willing to say to me.’

‘Oh?’

‘Alf Storeggen.’

‘The lawyer?’

‘He’s lived there for two and a half years,’ Torunn Borg explained while Wisting opened up the metal door at the foot of the stairs. It divided the basement of the police station, where the cells were situated, from the rest of the building. ‘He has Parkinson’s.’

Alf Storeggen’s name had been listed for many years as the first of several partners in one of the town’s largest firms of solicitors. He had conducted a number of criminal cases, but was first and foremost a commercial lawyer. He was highly respected and had a string of directorships in companies and organisations.

‘I don’t know if he was just making himself look important or if he really knows something,’ Torunn Borg continued. ‘But he had to think through a problem first, then he would possibly contact you.’

‘Me?’

‘He wanted to talk to the boss. The person who had responsibility.’

Wisting didn’t believe that Alf Storeggen had any need to make himself look important. The lawyer had a long professional life behind him. His file of clients must be large and would probably contain many secrets.

‘What about you?’ Torunn enquired. ‘Has your day been productive?’

He smiled at her.

‘I have found a money trail,’ he explained. ‘We can talk about it with the others.’

They found Nils Hammer in Espen Mortensen’s spacious office, sitting with his feet on the desk eating peanuts from a bag while he watched the underwater pictures beamed from the archipelago and a depth of more than 300 metres. Mortensen was sitting in front of his computer writing a report.

‘Seen anything?’ Wisting asked, nodding towards the living images. A grey, carpeted landscape spread out across the screen.

‘A helluva lot of empty bottles,’ Hammer explained, pointing at the screen where the neck of a bottle was sticking out of the sludge. ‘We could get rich if we picked them all up.’