Dregs (3 page)

His conclusion was that the investigation had been, to put it mildly, somewhat lacking. Several of the staff at the care home with a central role in the men’s lives had not been interviewed at all. Most of the work was superficial. No searching questions had been posed. No trace of conflict among the missing men or the people around them had been discovered. No disagreements. No enemies or hostility. No family secrets had been uncovered.

The material gathered was like a smooth surface, but Wisting knew that somewhere underneath there was darkness. It was always there, as it was everywhere. It was just a matter of scraping thoroughly.

There was another knock on the door. Assistant Chief of Police Audun Vetti opened without waiting for an answer. ‘A briefing?’ he demanded, sitting on the visitor’s chair.

Wisting leaned his forearms on the desktop and looked at the man in charge of prosecution services. Audun Vetti wore a newly pressed uniform with stars and hard edges on the shoulders, a signal that he held final authority. He reminded Wisting of the proud teapot in Hans Christian Andersen’s fairytale. Self-centred and arrogant, it felt more important than the cups and saucers in the rest of the tea service because it had both a handle and a spout.

Audun Vetti was not the ideal team player. Little inclined to collaborative working or listening to the suggestions of others, he left when difficult decisions had to be made. He had flawed personal insight and was driven by his ambition to climb to the top of the career ladder. At the moment he had an application in for the vacant post of Deputy Chief Constable, and would need a case with a media profile, preferably with a speedy resolution.

Wisting didn’t quite remember how the story of the teapot ended, but thought that it had something to do with broken shards of crockery. ‘This is what we know,’ he said wearily. ‘Three old men have been missing without trace for nine months. Two, who were related, lived at Stavern nursing home.’ He paused and brought out the envelope with the pictures of the severed feet, spreading them in front of the Assistant Chief of Police before continuing: ‘This week we have found two feet, from two different people.’

Vetti picked up one of the pictures and peered at it. ‘Do we have a murder case?’

Wisting looked around as though he were afraid that someone was listening, sighed heavily and said, ‘Between you and me and these four walls, without a shadow of a doubt.’

CHAPTER 4

Line let her eye wander round the room once more. The small kitchen was equipped only with the basic essentials: cupboard, worktops, cooker and fridge. Two high windows looked out to the backyard. Pots of basil, oregano and lemon balm were growing on a herb rack on the windowsill, covering half of the window and the most of the view.

The man on the other side of the table had killed someone fifteen years before, but displayed no signs of guilt or remorse. He leaned backwards in his seat, with a gentle expression round his mouth. Clean-cut, he was well dressed and his hair was carefully groomed. His eyes were thoughtful, and he was breathing steadily. All the same, there was a kind of uneasiness in the room that made her feel uncomfortable, wondering if the whole interview project was a mistake.

The idea, to have conversations with six murderers, five men and one woman who had served almost 100 years altogether in prison, was a good one. She wanted them to talk about all those years of incarceration, the feeling of how time had run slowly past them. Of how each day had been a lost day, and gave them less time for the rest of their lives.

The journalistic angle was to show what punishment had done to them and whether they had become better or worse people. It would place a question mark beside how effective the use of prison as punishment actually is. In a time when the growth of criminality demanded more police with expanded powers, and shocking individual crimes were splashed all over the media, it was easy to call for more severe punishments. It was difficult for people who had not sat in prison to understand what it means to be deprived of your freedom year on year. Punishment was understood by society to be a necessary evil; but Line saw a paradox in this, when it also held the view that helping people in difficult situations, easing their pain and lessening their suffering, was fundamentally right.

Through this project she would question whether severe punishment had a purpose, by showing what happened to people who spent years behind walls. Her hypothesis was that a moderate level of punishment, a milder use of coercion by the state, could contribute to a more humane society.

The article had to be submitted to the weekend magazine by late summer. She had been allocated eight pages and two weeks to travel and conduct the interviews, and the number of pages could be increased if she produced good pictures. Since she was going to work on the project during her holidays as well, she would have five weeks in total. She had set her sights on having the article on the front page.

Henning Mork was the first interview subject. The file of research material comprised mainly newspaper reports from the days in May 1994, when he had strangled to death a thirteen-year-old boy, Kristian Storas, who was his neighbour. Several of the articles described him as a child murderer. The case had aroused loathing throughout the country.

Henning Mork had turned twenty six two days before he committed murder, the same age as Line was now. Today he was forty one years old. At the time he had been newly married, his wife was eight months’ pregnant and he had a new job in a company that produced powder coatings. His whole future was in front of him. In secret though, he had started a relationship with a childhood sweetheart who had moved into the same street. The newspaper cuttings revealed that while Henning Mork’s wife had been at the maternity clinic the murder victim had discovered him and his lover
in flagrante
in the double bed at the house.

Line had been nervous in advance, but had not expected their meeting to be quite so distasteful. The piercing quality in his dark eyes, and the way he knit his brows and scrutinised her, scared her, quite simply. She could see that he was dangerous, that deep within him there was something dark and unpredictable.

This impression was in sharp contrast with his willingness to participate as an interview subject. He kept to the topic and gave supplementary answers. He was open and honest about life behind walls and the road from prison back into society. He talked about his life of isolation, and did not hide how bitter he was. Now she wanted to go deeper, closer to him.

‘What are your thoughts about what you did?’ she asked.

Henning Mork looked at her with his dark eyes, his right hand tightening round the glass in front of him. Line lifted her own glass and drank, as though to take the edge off the question.

‘It was a moment’s impulsive action,’ he answered, clearing his throat. ‘It was all over before I could think. For that they took fifteen years of my life.’

‘You think the punishment was too severe?’

He drank slowly, staring at her, before putting down the glass. ‘I should never have been convicted.’

Line hesitated. ‘What do you mean? You
did
commit the murder?’

‘I killed him,’ Henning Mork nodded. ‘The judge thought that was wrong of me. I disagree.’

Line squirmed in the uncomfortable silence that followed. ‘I don’t understand …’ she began. ‘Do you mean that it was right of you …’ Afraid that a direct reminder of what he had done would be provocative she refrained from completing the sentence.

‘Whether a murder is right or wrong depends on the consequences for those involved,’ Henning Mork elaborated. ‘If the consequences, taken together, are good, then the murder is morally justifiable. If the consequences, taken together, are bad, then it’s wrong.’

Line frowned. She didn’t hide the fact that she had difficulty in following his train of thought.

‘Think of a situation in which you could save two people by killing one person. Would it be right or wrong to kill?’

Line admitted to herself that she had not thought about this question thoroughly enough to give an answer. Instead she came back with an objection: ‘But of course that was not the case …’

‘What about avoiding great suffering?’ Henning Mork interrupted. ‘Would it not be right to kill one person in order to save many others from long-lasting agony? Wouldn’t the sum total of the consequences justify the murder?’

Line did not answer.

‘Or think about a healthy person being killed so that his organs could save the lives of other people who need a heart, liver, and kidneys in order to survive. It isn’t impossible that such a murder could lead to a better world with several happy lives, rather than a world in which those who need organs have to die instead. Isn’t the killing of the healthy person then morally right?’

‘Kristian Storas was thirteen years old,’ Line reminded him, feeling provoked.

‘He was a pain in the neck,’ Henning Mork said dismissively. ‘The other children in the street were afraid of him. He bullied them. Beat them up and stole from them, forced the younger children to eat worms and beetles. He sneaked into neighbouring houses and stole money. That was how he ended up at our place. If I hadn’t stopped him, nobody knows what kind of person he would have become, but the prognosis wasn’t good. His mother had already given up on him.’

Henning Mork leaned forward over the table, excited, his eyes gleaming triumphantly, as though he was convinced that, by killing a child, he had freed the world of a true sadist.

‘But all the same …’ Line continued.

‘Wait!’ Henning Mork held up his hand. ‘The problem isn’t resolved. Exactly nine months after I was convicted, the boy’s mother gave birth to a girl. A new child to replace the boy I took from her. She would never have been born, if it hadn’t been for me. What about her life? She’s 14 years old now. You might well have seen her. She was in one of those talent shows on TV. Played and sang music she had composed herself. Beautiful and clever, neither she nor her mother would have experienced that if her brother hadn’t been killed.’

Line did not know what books of philosophy the man in front of her had read while he was inside, but he had an unpleasant viewpoint on life and death. She nodded, as if in agreement, and started to gather her belongings.

‘As a journalist, you ought to adopt an impartial attitude,’ Henning Mork went on. ‘If you’re to be successful with these interviews, you’ll have to try to stop seeing events from the murderer’s perspective, from the victim’s perspective, or from anyone’s perspective at all. You must consider all interests to be equally valid and look at the case from the perspective of eternity.’

Line shook her head, but let her reporter’s notebook lie. Henning Mork’s thoughts and opinions were going to make it easier for the project to hit the front page. It was going to raise the whole profile.

‘I don’t understand how you can defend killing a child in order to hide your infidelity,’ she said quietly.

‘Do you understand why the opponents of abortion in the USA think that it’s right to kill the doctors who carry them out? Or why Muslim philosophers are against suicide, but nevertheless consider that people should sacrifice their lives in a holy war? In some countries it’s legal to help the old and sick to end their lives, but in other countries you’re punished for doing the same thing. Certain societies allow the head of the family to kill family members who have offended unspoken rules of conduct, while others reject that. Some individuals allow the killing and eating of animals, whereas others profess vegetarianism. Some permit the killing of enemies in battle, while others are against that too.’

Line nodded acknowledgement. People did uphold one morality in one area and a completely different one in another. Her facial expression, however, left no doubt about what she felt about using the double standards of the world to support your own actions.

‘What about your father?’ enquired Henning Mork abruptly. ‘Chief Inspector William Wisting.’

Line straightened up. She was obviously not the only one who had made preliminary enquiries. ‘What about him?’

‘Is he not also a killer?’

A sudden feeling of nastiness made her feel sick. She stood up to indicate that the interview was over.

Seven years earlier a murder case on which her father was working had ended in armed action. A man who had bestially tortured and murdered a pensioner created a hostage situation in which her father had shot and killed him. SEFO’s investigation had absolved Wisting of all blame.

Line had always felt that she could talk to her father about everything, but this case had never been a topic. It was not a secret, but they had never discussed it. She didn’t think that he had talked to anyone about it, not even her mother.

Henning Mork was grinning at her. ‘A life is obviously not sacred if you can kill to save your own and go free.’

CHAPTER 5

The elm trees encircling the terrace stirred only slightly in the afternoon breeze. Sounds from the town floated up to them, muted at this distance. Suzanne had set the table outside. ‘What did the doctor say?’ she asked.

Wisting chewed slowly, postponing the discussion for a while longer.

‘Hm?’ she prompted.

Recently he had felt listless, tired and devoid of energy. He experienced mood swings, and became irritable without any good reason. He had problems concentrating, had lost interest in his work and lacked sufficient initiative even to consult the doctor. It had been Suzanne who finally made the appointment for him.

‘The menopause,’ he answered briefly and helped himself once again to the salad with pasta and ham.

Suzanne’s eyes opened wide. ‘The menopause,’ she repeated, grinning.

‘The doctor wasn’t sure, but thought it could be that. It happens to men too. Apparently we produce less testosterone as we grow old.’

She spiked a piece of tomato and winked at him. ‘I haven’t noticed anything like that.’

Wisting returned her smile. ‘In any case, it wasn’t diabetes.’