Closed for Winter (21 page)

An older woman smiled at them as they left the restaurant, extending a grubby hand. Wisting dropped her some loose change and she bowed gratefully. At the next corner, they encountered more beggars. Children sitting on their mothers’ laps shouting
Prasom! Prasom!
with pleading eyes. Wisting had to walk past, his pockets empty. Farther along, a blind man sat in front of a Gucci store. The tin cup placed beside him contained next to nothing. At the wall of the building behind, another beggar lay sleeping off a vodka binge.

Returning to their hotel in silence, Wisting declined the offer of a glass or two in the bar. He ascended directly to his room where he kicked off his shoes, hung his jacket over a chair, and stretched out on the bed. He had a feeling that the case was heading for a catastrophic finale. One alternative he wanted to raise with Leif Malm before tomorrow’s meeting was that they should arrest Rudi Muller on the basis of what they already knew. It would be a gamble, not least on the security of the informant.

The most important work undertaken by the police was the prevention and obstruction of crime. By doing so, they saved the public from criminal activities and the criminals from long sentences.

They had no proof that Rudi Muller was involved in murder. Again though, an arrest might produce fresh evidence. It was like throwing a stone into the water. In some of the spreading rings, information might surface, but they had no guarantee of success and there was a risk that Muller would go free.

Placing his hands behind his head, it struck him he had not spoken to Suzanne that day. He dialled her number.

‘We had such fabulous weather here today,’ she told him. ‘I went for a long walk after work.’

‘You haven’t been out to see Line at the cottage?’

‘I phoned her, but she was out shopping.’

‘How was she?’

‘Tommy had been there.’

‘Why on earth …’

He heard Suzanne take a deep breath, pausing before she answered. ‘He spent the night.’

Stunned into silence, Wisting rubbed his eyes. ‘Are they back together?’

‘He arrived late last night after getting soaked in the rain. She let him stay until the morning.’

‘What did he want?’

‘To talk. It’s probably not easy for either of them. I said I would go out to see her tomorrow. I’m quite excited to see what the place looks like.’

The conversation changed to a different tack, with Suzanne telling him about the tradesmen at her home who would soon be finished and about a strategy meeting she had attended at her work, before asking how his day had been. Wisting told her about all the poverty he had witnessed, and about all the people who survived with no hope for the future.

‘That’s probably what makes them come here to commit burglary,’ Suzanne remarked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s probably their opportunity to realise their dreams of a better life.’

Wisting did not reply. She was probably right, he had to agree. Her thoughts echoed his own. ‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked. It was just past eleven o’clock, ten in Norway.

‘There’s a film just starting on TV2. I thought I’d watch it before going to bed.’

Wisting took hold of the remote control. ‘We have nothing but Finnish and Swedish channels.’

‘Finnish TV drama is good,’ Suzanne chuckled. They said good night and disconnected the call.

On the television screen, Wisting read:
You have 1 message
. He clicked
OK
on the interactive menu and received a message telling him there was a letter for him at reception.

At the desk he gave his room number and received a brown envelope addressed to
Mr. Wisting
. He turned it over in his hand, but there was no indication of the sender. ‘When did this arrive?’ he asked.

The receptionist did not know exactly. ‘Maybe three hours ago.’

‘Who delivered it?’

‘It came by taxi.’

He opened the envelope as he headed towards the lift. The contents were a short message written in clumsy handwriting.

Talk about Darius Plater.

Come to number 1 Birut˙es gatv˙e

Midnight. Alone.

Please.

Wisting looked over the hotel lobby with the letter in his hand. Subdued voices were buzzing in different languages. A woman in a knee-length black dress, sitting on her own in the bar, glanced at him without making eye contact. No one was watching.

The only possibility he saw was that his attacker, the man he had pursued through the sales booths at the Gariunai market earlier that day, had spoken to the taxi driver who had driven them to the hotel. He could have obtained his name from the internet. It was a small world these days. It would not be strange if they had made an effort to follow the news coverage of the case they were part of. He was featured in the majority of Norwegian media sources with his name and photograph. A few keystrokes would get them an automatic translation into Lithuanian.

He asked for a map. The woman found a tourist brochure and folded out the centre. She placed a cross approximately in the middle, explaining that this was the hotel where he was staying. ‘Where are you going?’

Wisting peered down at the note he had in his hand. ‘Birut˙es gatv˙e.’

She repeated the street name with the correct pronunciation and moved her pen to the east side of the city, pointing along the bank of the river. Thanking her, Wisting folded the map. The clock on the wall behind her showed 23.26. It looked as though the trip to Birut˙es gatv˙e would take no more than ten minutes by taxi.

The elevator returned him to the third floor, where he paused outside Martin Ahlberg’s door and raised his hand to knock, before lowering it again and letting himself into his own room.

When the clock showed half past eleven, he put on his outdoor clothes and went downstairs. Before leaving his hotel room, he unfolded the note with the message about the meeting place and appointed time, and left it in the middle of the desk.

Four taxis were parked outside the hotel. The driver in the first peered optimistically up at him. Drawing his jacket around himself he crossed the street, strolling for half a block before flagging down a taxi that happened to drive past.

Settling himself into the back seat, he gave the driver a note with the address. The man smiled and nodded, chattering away in his own language before setting off. Complex rhythms from some Slavic band of musicians drifted from the music system. Outside the car windows, darkened shops and warehouses with deserted car parks slipped past.

The journey ended at the perimeter fence of a football pitch. The driver pointed and posed a question. When Wisting could not answer, he drove in front of a darkened clubhouse and pointed at the meter. Wisting paid and stepped into a bitter wind that blasted from the river, carrying a rotten stench.

When the taxi disappeared, he stood alone in the empty square, surrounded by nothing but the glow of lights from the city on the opposite riverbank. A solitary lamp in a streetlight high above him cast a sparse glimmer on the grey asphalt and the peeling paint on the wall of the building behind him. A notice board was plastered with torn scraps of paper on which the word
futbolas
was repeated. Football was a language everyone understood.

He glanced at his watch: three minutes to twelve.

When his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he stepped a few paces from the circle of light and caught sight of a delivery van in a narrow alleyway between two warehouse buildings almost sixty metres away. Its lights were out and its engine switched off. In front of the bonnet, he could see the glow of a cigarette.

‘Mister Wisting?’ a voice behind him asked.

He wheeled to face the man who had attacked him almost a week earlier. His square face was unkempt, with a beard and some kind of rash around his mouth. He wore a navy blue sports jacket that was too tight across the shoulders, and both hands were thrust into his side pockets. ‘Mister Wisting from Norway?’

‘Mister Muravjev.’

The lights on the delivery van were turned on and the vehicle rolled towards them. The driver jumped out and threw down his cigarette butt. Skirting around the van, he pushed open the side door.

Muravjev’s hand curled around an object in his right jacket pocket, and he made a sign that Wisting should put his hands in the air. The driver patted his hands over his body, appropriating his mobile phone, wallet and passport. Wisting protested vehemently.

‘English not good,’ Muravjev said, but managed to explain that Wisting would have everything returned after they had talked. He gestured with his head towards the van. Wisting hesitated, but entered. Maravjev followed and pushed the door closed behind them.

There was a strong smell of grease, motor oil and rubber. A lamp on the wall near the driver’s cabin helped him find a wheel arch to sit on.

They drove in silence, Wisting trying to concentrate on the route, memorising right and left turns, braking and acceleration, but quickly losing his bearings. At one point the tyre noise changed and it seemed that they were crossing a bridge.

After almost twenty minutes the vehicle came to a halt, the ignition was switched off and a door opened. A garage door was already drawn up beside them. A piercing light flooded the van interior, and he recognised the driver as one of the four members of the Paneriai Quartet. Algirdas Skvernelis.

Wisting stepped from the van. Swallowing, he wiped the sweat from his upper lip and tried not to show his fear.

They were in a disused warehouse. The air was cold and raw, but smelled of straw and hay. They were probably in the countryside.

Muravjev approached a steel door. The noise echoed in the immense space when he shoved the large bolts to one side, and fragments of rust fell onto the floor. They followed a maze of corridors and stairs before arriving in a cramped, brightly lit room with fluorescent lights on the ceiling. It was furnished as a sort of living room, with a worn out three-piece suite, a few broken chairs and a small table in front of a television set. Along the wall were rows of old wardrobes. The stink of sweat stung his nostrils.

A door opened at the back of the room, and a burly man with a thick neck, flat nose and tiny eyes entered, leaving the door open behind him. Wisting recognised him from Ahlberg’s photographs as the third man in the group. Closing the door behind him, he came across, shaking hands and introducing himself. Teodor Milosz spoke good English and invited Wisting to sit.

‘I’m sorry about all this,’ he said, sitting opposite, but this situation we’ve landed in is making us feel insecure and unsafe.’

‘I understand,’ Wisting said. His nervousness had increased from the moment he arrived at the deserted sports ground.

‘What has brought you to Vilnius?’

Wisting concentrated on his breathing. Calming down allowed him to think more clearly. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Darius Plater.’

Silence fell in the room. Somewhere in the building a fan hummed. ‘Tell us how he died,’ Teodor Milosz said.

‘We found him in a boat. He had been shot twice in the stomach. We believe he was fleeing from something and hid on board. He died of blood loss.’

‘Do you know who did it?’

‘We don’t know who or why.’

Muravjev interrupted in Lithuanian. Teodor Milosz exchanged a few words with him before addressing Wisting again. ‘Why have you come here? What do you want from us?’

‘You were there when he died. I want to know what happened.’

Teodor Milosz translated. Muravjev gestured with his arms as he spoke. ‘What will happen to us?’ Teodor Milosz interpreted once more.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are we to be punished?’

‘You are suspected of several instances of aggravated burglary from cottages in the area, but that’s not why I’m here. That’s not what this case is concerned with. It’s about justice for Darius.’

This answer was translated and a fresh exchange of opinions followed.

‘What are the Norwegian police intending to do about the theft cases?’

‘I can’t provide you with any kind of amnesty. If you come back to Norway, you risk being punished.’

Muravjev rose to his feet, placing both hands on his head. His voice was full of bewilderment as he spoke.

Teodor Milosz relayed: ‘Will we have to go to Norway if there is a trial?’

‘Yes you will, but I’m sure the state prosecutor will be kindly disposed if you contribute towards the solving of this case.’

Muravjev’s voice was raised now. ‘But we don’t know anything!’

‘You know more than we do. You were there when it happened. I need someone who can speak for Darius.’

The three men held a discussion in their own language until, finally, Muravjev shook his head and sat down. Teodor Milosz rested his forearms on his knees, leaning forward in his chair. ‘I will tell you,’ he said.

One of the filthy fluorescent light tubes on the ceiling flickered and hummed faintly before going out. Teodor Milosz’ face fell into shadow. ‘It’s true that we stole from the cottages,’ he began. ‘We had been into six of them and were on our way to the last when we realised we were not alone in the woods.’

He straightened up before continuing. ‘It was dark, with only a little light on the outside of the cottage wall. We sat among the trees, perhaps twenty metres away, and waited to be sure that there was nobody there. Besides, we were not entirely sure whether to break into that one. The cottage was old and looked as though it wasn’t occupied.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘We heard him before we saw him. He was careless and clumsy, breaking branches from the trees, even though he was walking along the path. When he approached the cottage, we saw that he was wearing a hood, and that he was carrying a bag.’

Teodor Milosz used his hands to indicate the size of the bag. ‘He looked around before placing it on a box on the verandah. The kind of box lots of people have for storing the cushions they use with their outdoor furniture.’

Wisting nodded that he understood, although Milosz’ English pronunciation was poor.

‘We lay totally silent for ten minutes,’ the Lithuanian continued, his voice lowered. ‘Then Darius crept forward on his own. He opened the lid of the box, lifted out the bag and opened it.’ The dusty light tube above him blinked a couple of times before coming to life again, giving his face sharp shadows and hollow cheeks. “
Piniga!”
he shouted up to us. “Money!”’

The two other Lithuanians in the room exchanged glances, as though the story brought back bad memories.

‘He held up a whole fistful,’ Milosz said, demonstrating with his hand. ‘Then he stuffed it back and hoisted the bag over his shoulder.’

Wisting leaned back. The account was so obvious he ought to have thought of it himself. The Lithuanians had been on a thieving foray in the cottages and by chance had stumbled on Rudi Muller’s showdown with the cocaine dealers. The cushion box was probably a prearranged delivery location.

‘Then everything happened so fast, and in the dark,’ Teodor Milosz said. ‘Two masked men came running from the woods, shouting. Darius ran the other way, towards the sea.’

Rudi Muller and Trond Holmberg had been lying hidden in the woods, waiting for the bag to be exchanged for cocaine.

‘We ran after them, but everything was in darkness. We had flashlights, of course, but they were of little use. They only lit up a small area in front of us, and after that you see even less than before. Also, it gives away your position.’ Teodor Milosz brushed aside his digression with a hand gesture. ‘Valdas ran first,’ he said, nodding towards the man who had ambushed Wisting. ‘Algirdas and I were right behind, but Algirdas tripped and fell, and Valdas disappeared into the darkness ahead of us.’

Valdas Muravjev made a remark that was not translated. Teodor Milosz stood up and took a few paces backwards and forwards across the floor before resuming. ‘Then we heard shots,’ he said. ‘Many shots.’

‘Did Darius have a gun?’

Milosz stared at Wisting without responding.

‘The one you stole from one of the cottages at Tjøme two days before,’ Wisting said. ‘We’ve found it. It was in the boat with Darius.’

Teodor Milosz nodded wearily. ‘It was Darius who found it. It was lying in the drawer of a bedside table, but he wasn’t the only one who fired. The shots went back and forth, just ahead of us.’ He waved his arms about to demonstrate how there had been an exchange of gunfire. ‘Algirdas and I sought cover away from the path. We were not armed, so there was nothing we could do.’

Valdas Muravjev interrupted the conversation once more. Wisting’s attacker obviously found it easier to understand what was said in English than to speak the language himself.

‘Valdas thought he saw Darius in front of him on the path,’ Teodor Milosz translated.

‘A man with a bag,’ Muravjev clarified. His wide-open eyes gave his features a confused, desperate expression.

Sitting down again, Milosz held up his hand, as if to say that he would tell the story at his own speed. ‘Valdas crouched beside the path and came forward to meet him when the man was directly facing him, but it was not Darius. It was another man.’

Muravjev made another attempt: ‘There was a fight. I was strongest, but the man ran into the forest. I did not follow him.’

‘One of the men who chased Darius?’

Muravjev shook his head furiously. ‘It was not either of them. He was wearing different clothes, and did not have a hood over his face.’

The details of this account could be woven into the existing information. The man on the path was probably the narcotics courier who was carrying ten kilos of cocaine.

‘I was the one who had the keys for the van,’ Teodor Milosz continued. ‘Algirdas and I went back. We thought that both Darius and Valdas might have done the same, and we were in a hurry to drive away, but they weren’t there.’

‘Was there any other vehicle there?’

The Lithuanian nodded. ‘In a space a little further away, another car was parked. A Golf, I think.’ He turned to Algirdas and asked him. The other man nodded. ‘Yes, it was a black Volkswagen Golf.’

Wisting swallowed. That was Line’s car.

‘Darius’ phone was lying in the van, so we couldn’t call him,’ Teodor Milosz said. ‘But we spoke to Valdas. He said he would continue to search for Darius, and we should wait for them in the van on the main road.’

Muravjev made several more comments that were not translated.

‘We had been waiting a long time, maybe an hour or so, when a police car arrived. We had to leave. The idea was that Valdas would hide in the woods and wait until we had emptied the van and could come back for him.’

Muravjev interjected several sentences in his mother tongue.

‘He came up to the main road and waited beside a tree,’ Milosz translated. ‘But then more police cars turned up, this time with dogs and a helicopter. He couldn’t wait any longer.’

Muravjev fixed his gaze on Wisting. ‘I am sorry. I took your car.’

Wisting brushed this aside. Teodor Milosz’ story was coming to its end.

‘We have an agreement,’ Milosz explained. ‘If anything happens and we get separated, we have to phone and leave a message. All Darius had to do was get hold of a phone and call us.’ He lowered his eyes. ‘He never did.’

Wisting stretched out. The pieces had fallen into place, but there were still many unanswered questions. ‘Where is the bag of money?’

‘No idea,’ Teodor Milosz replied. ‘We thought perhaps you had found it when you found Darius.’

Wisting shook his head.

Algirdas spoke for the first time. ‘Who is the dead man in the cottage?’ Teodor Milosz translated.

‘A Norwegian,’ Wisting replied.

‘Do you think Darius shot him?’

Wisting had to reflect for a moment before answering. It was likely that Darius Plater had shot and injured Trond Holmberg, and also that it was Holmberg and Muller who had inflicted the fatal gunshot wounds on Darius Plater before fleeing from the scene. If it was Rudi Muller there with Trond Holmberg.

‘It’s too early to come to a conclusion,’ he said, without mentioning that the man in the cottage had probably died not from gunshot wounds, as had been reported, but from a blow to the head.

‘Where are the items you stole from the cottages?’ he asked.

Milosz threw out his arms expressively. ‘You were at the market, weren’t you?’ he answered. ‘Most of it has been sold.’

‘Most of it?’

Teodor Milosz got to his feet and stepped across to one of the metal cupboards lining the wall. Opening it, he waved Wisting over.

A portable computer sat on a shelf beside a DVD player. Underneath were a couple of car stereos, and a number of MP3 players and mobile phones. At the bottom of the cupboard lay several candlesticks and other
bric-a
-brac
. Light fell diagonally onto the shelves, and was reflected on coloured glass.

Wisting hunkered down and picked out a pendant-shaped glass object about the size and shape of a fist. The light played on it as he held it up. The transitions of the different colours were almost imperceptible, changing according to the direction and intensity of the light. The colours and luminescence brought the glass to life, and it was easy to imagine it as a dewdrop filled with dreams, thoughts and hopes. ‘I know the owner of this,’ he said.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Milosz nodded. ‘It was Darius who wanted it, even though it’s not worth much. At least, not here in Lithuania.’ He shut the cupboard door. ‘We waited another day for him to phone, but then we read on the internet that a dead man had been found in a boat. We thought it must be Darius and came home.’

Wisting tucked the glass droplet into his pocket. ‘I’m grateful for all you have told me,’ he said, ‘but we must formalise it through an interview at the police station.’

‘There is someone else here who wants to meet you,’ Teodor Milosz interrupted him.

The Lithuanian strode to the door through which he had entered. ‘Wait here,’ he said.