Free Closed for Winter by Jørn Lier Horst

‘It should have been with you several hours ago.’
    ‘I’m quite sure.’
    Wisting performed a quick mental calculation. The body had been collected just before five o’clock that morning. Mortensen had been in the police station preparing folders of illustrations and writing a preliminary report to accompany its transfer to Forensics. The plan had been to begin the post mortem at nine o’clock. ‘Let me check this out,’ he said, sitting down at his desk.
    ‘Okay. We’ll have a cup of coffee while we’re waiting.’
    Wisting put his own cup aside as he replaced the receiver, and then dialled Espen Mortensen’s number. He replied abruptly at the other end, as though concentrating deeply on something or other. ‘Forensics is waiting for the body,’ Wisting explained.
    He heard Espen Mortensen changing the phone receiver from one hand to the other. ‘What did you say?’
    ‘The body hasn’t arrived.’
    ‘Have you spoken to the undertakers? They came to collect the documents about six o’clock.’
    ‘Which undertaking company?’
    ‘Memento. The driver was a new man. They should have got there by eight. There’s hardly any traffic on a Saturday morning, of course. Do you want me to phone them?’
    ‘I can do that.’ Wisting was familiar with the company, as he had used them for Ingrid’s funeral. ‘Is there any news from the crime scene examination?’
    ‘Not really. There were good footprints in the blood in the hallway, when I managed to illuminate the floorboards properly. I’ve checked them against those of the neighbour and they aren’t his shoes. He hadn’t gone very far inside, so they must be from the killer. The pattern on the sole is so clear that the type of shoe can probably be traced. It will all eventually come to you in a folder with photographs and a written report.’
    Wisting was listening with only half an ear while he tracked down the telephone number of the undertaking company. Having drawn his conversation with Mortenson to a close, he dialled the emergency number listed in Yellow Pages. The funeral director introduced himself by announcing the company name.
    Wisting recognised the calm, earnest voice of Ingvar Arnesen, the third generation proprietor of the business. ‘Your car hasn’t arrived,’ he explained. He had to repeat the message so that Arnesen understood what he meant.
    ‘I don’t understand that.’ Some of the composure in Ingvar Arnesen’s voice had vanished. ‘Ottar left just before six o’clock. He should have arrived long ago. Have you checked whether there have been any road accidents or anything of that nature?’
    ‘No, I haven’t,’ Wisting admitted. ‘But maybe you could phone him?’
    ‘Yes, wait. I can do that from the other telephone.’ Wisting heard him keying in the number at the other end, followed by the voice on an automatic answer phone. ‘No,’ Arnesen stated. ‘Might there have been a road accident?’
    ‘I’ll find out. What’s his name, other than Ottar?’
    ‘Ottar Mold. He hasn’t worked for me for very long. To be quite honest, I’m not sure if I’ll keep him on after his probationary period.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘There have been a number of things. He’s newly separated, and has been off work a lot in connection with that. That’s okay in itself, but he doesn’t always give notice, and we can’t do with that in this line of business. People rely on us.’
    ‘Could he have done that now, do you think? Gone home to his ex-wife instead of driving to Oslo?’
    ‘I don’t really think so, but I can ring her and find out if she’s heard from him.’
    ‘Great. Do you have the vehicle registration number?’ Wisting waited while Ingvar Arnesen leafed through papers before reading out the registration number.
    ‘It’s a black Voyager,’ he added.
    ‘With a cross on the roof?’ Wisting asked.
    ‘A cross on the roof and the company logo on the side. It shouldn’t be too difficult to spot.’
    Wisting called