Dregs (24 page)

Wisting cleared his throat and spoke up.

‘We have to assume that this investigation concerns five murders,’ he said, putting into words what had not been expressed before. ‘We are faced with no suspect, no clear motive and no specific clues.’

What he said in his short summary was cold, harsh and frightening. They were hardly the words that Audun Vetti would choose for the press conference.

‘We have to take the five victims as our starting point,’ he continued, ‘and look for a common reference. Some point of intersection where there is something that affects every one of them. What have we got?’ he challenged.

‘The secret alert force,’ Espen Mortensen replied.

‘That only applies to the three men. Moreover, there were other members of that. Why is Carsten Meyer not also among the victims?’

‘Maybe he’s the culprit?’ someone suggested.

Nobody laughed or came up with other suggestions. Wisting noticed that Nils Hammer was not present. He was usually good at coming up with new ideas.

‘Where’s Nils?’ he asked.

‘At the bank,’ Torunn replied.

He nodded. The money was a clue. What Nils Hammer discovered about the large financial transactions might be important.

‘The murderer is himself a kind of intersection point,’ Espen Mortensen felt. ‘It must of course be possible to make an analysis that leads to some common denominator. To draw up a chart of absolutely all the people in the circle surrounding the victims.’

Wisting agreed. That was a task that they had actually made some progress with. Through interviews with families and other associates they had eventually gathered important information about the victims. The information would have to be at some point subject to more systematic examination, but what they already had was by no means exhaustive.

‘We don’t know whether such a common denominator exists, do we?’ Torunn Borg objected. ‘Although obviously there must be a connection among the three men, the two women might be more accidental victims.’

‘In what way accidental?’

‘They may have seen something they shouldn’t have seen. They might have been killed in order to cover up the original crime.’

Wisting got up, walked over to the window and opened the curtains, screwing up his eyes in the strong sunlight.

‘What is it that we haven’t done?’ he asked. ‘What have we not checked? Is there something we haven’t seen? Something we could do differently? Is there something we are overlooking?’

He turned to face the people sitting round the table and their expressionless faces. No one could answer, so he declared the meeting closed.

CHAPTER 45

Among the notifications on his phone were two unanswered calls from Suzanne and one from Line - neither of them had left any message.

He called Suzanne first.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

‘At your house,’ she replied. ‘I couldn’t find a key, so I stayed here.’

‘Sorry,’ Wisting said. ‘There’s a spare key in the top drawer of the chest of drawers in the hallway.’

‘That’s fine. I found a book on your shelf and have been relaxing out on the terrace. Will you be calling in at home?’

‘I won’t manage, and I think it’ll be a long day.’

‘Yes, I heard them talking on the news about finding a corpse with a foot missing.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Then I’ll go home, but you’re welcome to drop by if it isn’t too late.’

‘Maybe I’ll do that. I’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Perhaps I’ll see you on the TV?’

‘On the TV?’

‘They said that you were holding a press conference at three o’clock.’

Wisting glanced at the clock. There were two hours to go.

‘It’s not certain that I’ll be there,’ he explained. ‘Then I think there’ll be more of a chance that you’ll see me this evening.’

He tried to phone Line as well, but she didn’t reply. He sat down behind the desk, examining his stray thoughts, but everything seemed just as unclear and confusing.

Nils Hammer entered the office without knocking and put a bundle of papers on the table before sitting on the visitor’s chair and pulling his snuffbox out of his trouser pocket.

‘They’re saying on the radio that we’ve found a dead body that’s missing a foot?’ he remarked, pinching a portion of snuff into the palm of his hand.

‘Sverre Lund,’ Wisting confirmed. ‘Forensics need a day or two to confirm.’

Hammer placed the snuff under his lip, brushed his hands clean and pulled the papers towards him.

‘Almost three million,’ he said, withdrawing a printout. ‘During the week before Sverre Lund disappeared, 2,950,000 kroner were paid into his account. He took them out the day before he went missing. The same applies to Otto Saga - in his case, 2.5 million. In and out in the course of a few days.’

Wisting leaned back while Nils Hammer explained how cash deposits were made over the counter in banks in Drammen, Asker and Sandvika, and how the money was withdrawn from local banks after a few days.

‘Nearly eight million in total.’

‘What about Hanne Richter and Camilla Thaulow?’ Wisting asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘One of the staff at
Nordea
bank in Sandefjord remembered that Torkel Lauritzen had been there.’ Hammer leafed through his notes. ‘He was going to buy a car for his son in Sandefjord. He had asked him about his son, but Lauritzen had difficulty understanding. He had left his hearing aid at home.’

‘Lauritzen didn’t use a hearing aid.’

‘None of his sons live in Sandefjord either. Otto Saga gave the same explanation when he withdrew money in Skien. It made it plausible that the money was not being withdrawn at his own bank in his hometown, since the money was to go to a son who lived in the town. When the assistant began to ask awkward questions, it was convenient to avoid them by blaming his hearing.’

‘Can we be certain that they, themselves, withdrew the money?’

Hammer nodded as he flicked through the papers.

‘Several of the banks have taken a copy of the identification. The signature and everything else matches.’

‘Were they alone?’

‘None of the staff can say otherwise.’

Wisting bit his lower lip and gazed out the window. ‘Where did the money come from?’

‘I’m going to Oslo early tomorrow. I thought I would go round the banks where the deposits were made. Perhaps someone will remember something.’

Espen Mortensen’s voice crackled on the loudspeaker: ‘Can you come in here for a moment? There’s something on the screen you need to see.’

‘The screen?’

‘From the underwater search. I’ve got the chief diver on the phone. They’ve made a find.’

Wisting got up from his chair.

‘Whereabouts?’ he asked.

‘Come in and have a look.’

Nils Hammer was first out the door. Wisting followed him along the corridor and into the crime technician’s large office. The venetian blinds were pulled halfway down to block the sunshine and the ceiling light switched off. The only illumination in the room came from the screen of the freestanding computer with the underwater images.

The grey seabed was bathed in light from the powerful lamps on the mini submarine. The barrel and most of the stock of a pistol were protruding from the sludge.

The weapon still appeared shiny in the harsh light.

‘It can’t have lain there for long,’ Mortensen said, taking the words out of Wisting’s mouth. ‘There’s no sign of corrosion.’

Wisting nodded his agreement instead of saying anything. The gun was lying down in a small depression, as though it had formed a little crater when it hit the dregs on the bottom of the sea. The text on the screen stated that they were at a depth of 354 metres.

‘It looks like a Colt,’ Nils Hammer commented, turning his head to the side. ‘Can you get a closer picture?’

Espen Mortensen relayed the question via the telephone. On the screen, the sludge on the bottom swirled up as the mini submarine accelerated. A grappling arm became visible at the lower edge of the picture. The mechanical fingers opened into a claw, grasped the weapon and lifted it smoothly. The pistol was raised from the sea floor, but slipped out of its grip and disappeared out of the picture.

The camera was adjusted, and the weapon once again became visible on the grey seabed. A glossy fish glided by, meandering from side to side before disappearing, like a dying light.

The grappling claw opened again halfway. No one in the room spoke while the operator on board the submersible was working. The hook on the claw locked on to the trigger guard with a sure grip and lifted the gun up to the camera. They could see scratches or other signs of wear and tear.
11.25 m/m AUT.PISTOL M/1914 No
was stamped along the barrel.

‘A Colt,’ Mortensen agreed, taking a screen printout. ‘1914 model. That could be the murder weapon.’

‘But it doesn’t have a weapon number.’ Nils Hammer put his finger on the screen where the weapon number would normally be engraved at the end of the pistol slide. ‘It doesn’t look as though it’s been rubbed off either, it’s just smooth.’

Wisting leaned towards the screen.

‘Perhaps we’ll be able to find it on the tube of the barrel or the slider when we get it up.’

‘The person who got rid of it never expected it to be found,’ Hammer remarked. ‘The most sensible thing would of course have been to take it apart. All weapons have a history that allows them to be traced.’

Wisting nodded. Weapons were like fingerprints; no two were completely alike. He had read countless reports from ballistics experts and weapons technicians over the years. He knew that a weapon such as this one had a firing pin stamp, slider, striker and receiver that all left individual marks on the cartridge case in that fraction of a second when the weapon was fired.

He picked up the colour printout of the find that had been made at 354 metres’ depth, his thoughts returning to the same thing.

In the police murder of 1991, the analysis of the spent cartridges left behind at the crime scene had led the investigators to believe that the murder weapon was a Colt M1914, but they had never found the actual weapon.

‘They’re asking if we want it taken up immediately,’ Mortensen communicated, with the telephone to his ear.

‘Let’s get it up,’ Wisting requested. ‘The site of the find has to be the starting point for a new search of that sector.’

Mortensen passed on the request. Wisting’s eyes moved back to the computer monitor, where the grappling claw was disappearing from the picture as the mini submarine prepared to ascend.

CHAPTER 46

Eight minutes before the start of the press conference Wisting stood in the cloakroom, wearing his uniform. He fastened the ready-knotted tie and looked at himself in the mirror. His complexion was pale and sallow, and his eyes seemed dull. He definitely needed a holiday and a bit of sun, and he should really phone the doctor.

It would have to be later.

The uniform made him look younger, but otherwise his features resembled many of the old missing men. He was 51, but it seemed that age was taking him by the scruff of the neck and forcing him to his knees.

The press conference was to be held in the canteen on the second floor. Tables had been cleared and extra chairs brought from the conference rooms, but not enough for everyone. The photographers were sitting on the floor and leaning against the walls.

Vetti was the first to enter the crowded room. Wisting took a deep breath, let the Chief Superintendent follow next, and was last to reach the narrow conference table. The Assistant Chief of Police pulled out the middle chair and sat down.

Wisting counted eight microphones with logos from the familiar news media.

He didn’t feel comfortable at meetings with the press. It was like wandering about in a minefield, the whole time balancing on the edge of what information would be tactically correct to give out and what might damage the investigation, and what might be offensive to the relatives. At the same time, it also had to do with preserving the reputation and respect of the government service. A press conference was a forum in which it was not possible to check quotations. There would be no opportunity to change or retract statements, and it was all too easy to make a wrong move.

In many ways he saw the media as an entitled participant, although they sometimes made him feel more like a public relations officer than a policeman. The task of the media was to pose critical questions and he, as leader of the investigation, had to put up with the spotlight.

Seen from the police point of view the press conference was a practical arrangement. The need to issue information to the public was met, and the journalists were all treated in the same way. At the same time, it gave the police an opportunity to focus on what they felt might prompt tip-offs. The thinking was also that this kind of common meeting with the press would put a damper on media pressure. Endless questions about whether there was anything new in the case could have a disturbing effect on the investigation. Still, none of the journalists regarded the press conference as an important source of information, and in its way it conflicted with the journalists’ requirement for exclusivity. Information was like oxygen to them. A press conference was like kindling an open fire. The case would burst into flames. He knew that, once the lights in the room were extinguished, the mobile phones would start to ring.

A TV reporter at the back of the room was talking to camera, introducing a direct broadcast. How many eyes were on them? The Justice Minister and the Secretary of State were probably standing together in front of a television in the government offices, the National Police Commissioner and her staff would be watching from her office. The Mayor, colleagues throughout the country, old Carsten Meyer in his chair in Kongsberg, would all be watching. He had also to take into consideration that the murderer would also be watching.

Vetti took a folded sheet of paper from his inside pocket and began with a formal introduction. Thereafter, he gave as concise and unqualified an account as possible, from the events of the past few days to the discovery of the corpse that morning, which was the main reason for summoning the press.