Trouble In Trondheim E-Book

Mats Vederhus

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Kurt Hammer's life is falling apart. His family has been found murdered, and his personal life is a shambles.

While Kurt tries to leave his past behind and turn a new page, a serial killer is loose in the city of Trondheim, Norway.

The police are clueless, and soon Kurt is called in. But can he rise to the occasion and save the day?

Leseprobe

TROUBLE IN TRONDHEIM

KURT HAMMER BOOK 1

MATS VEDERHUS

CONTENTS

Prologue

OCTOBER 9, 2011

APRIL 27, 2010

JANUARY 26, 2012

SHOT IN SELF-DEFENSE

JANUARY 28, 2012

DEAD LAWYER FOUND AT VÆRNES

JANUARY 29, 2012: MORNING

JANUARY 29, 2012: DAY

CROSS-COUNTRY SKIER FOUND DEAD

JANUARY 30, 2012: MORNING

JANUARY 30, 2012: NIGHT

NO LEADS FOR POLICE

ERIK LARSEN

FEBRUARY 1, 2012

FEBRUARY 2, 2012: MORNING

TERROR IN TRONDHEIM!

FEBRUARY 2, 2012: DAY

FEBRUARY 3, 2012

FEBRUARY 10, 2012

FEBRUARY 12, 2012: MORNING

FEBRUARY 12, 2012: DAY

FEBRUARY 10, 2012

FEBRUARY 13, 2012

FEBRUARY 14, 2012

PERPETRATOR APPREHENDED

MARCH 1, 2012

MARCH 20, 2012

THE DARK SIDE OF PROSTITUTION

APRIL 11, 2012

APRIL 29, 2012

SENTENCE DELIVERED

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Next in the Series

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2016 Mats Vederhus

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Ashley Conner

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.

To:

Sjeik, a friend without words.

Line, a friend with words.

Marte, for inspiration.

PROLOGUE

In that moment, his pose told her there was no going back.

His eyes popped out of his head. They reminded her of ones she’d seen on frogs they were about to dissect in elementary school. Sticking out of his mouth was a swollen tongue. The hue of his skin had turned a sickly green. A tailor-made suit clung stiffly and lifelessly to his body, all its former glory now nothing but a vague memory.

Why did he call me a whore? It wasn’t so much the word, but its associations which brought out her inner devil. Before leaving, she had promised herself that this land would mean a fresh start.

Sighing, she turned, exited the booth, and closed its door behind her. I couldn’t help it. It was his fault. She entered the entrance hall in Værnes airport.

Outside, the rain had settled in. She got in the first taxi she could find.

“Where’re you going?”

“Brothel,” she replied.

Unsettled by the welcome, she still decided this country had potential.

In Aftenbladet’s new premises in the Ferjemanns road number 10, an atmosphere of controlled chaos reigned supreme. Almost all the journalists were on an assignment or worked from home while they waited for the office landscape to be completed. Editor Karlsen found his way to one of the few employees who were present among moving boxes, flat packs from IKEA, printers and laptops that were set up on makeshift surfaces.

“Hammer, you idiot, wake up. A guy was murdered in a toilet booth!”

“Hm, zzz… what?”

Looking down on his most unreliable employee was Editor-in-Chief Karlsen.

“At Værnes, to be precise. I guess I ought to let you sleep on, but there isn’t anyone else around right now.”

“Relax, boss. Hansen and I will take care of this.”

Karlsen sighed. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say. Just don’t drink any more beer.”

“I won’t,” he mumbled, grabbing his tweed coat from his chair, and haplessly put it on over his yellow suit. “Hansen, let’s go. We’re headed for Værnes.”

The young journalist Frank Hansen looked up from his monitor, throwing a sceptic look at the tall figure. Who was it Felicia in Culture had said he looked like? Jeff Bridges! Even with a fedora and a cigarette constantly hanging out of his mouth, there was no mistaking the comparison.

Looks wise, they couldn’t have been more different. Frank Hansen was of medium build, with slightly too much fat around his abdomen. He had short brown hair and blue eyes sitting closely together that appeared to be blinking a lot.

“Fine, but I don’t drink at work, just so you know.”

“That’s only cos you’re still new to the game, Hansen!”

“Relax, Hammer. I know what happened. Everyone knows. It made the national headlines, damn it.”

Hammer snorted and didn’t say anything else until they’d entered one of Aftenbladet’s cars.

“Listen, you little piece of shit. That’s not why I drink, just so we’re clear about that. It’s been two years. I’m past that by now.”

“Okay. If it’d been me, I’d probably taken out early retirement and gone to the Bahamas. I think you’ve handled the situation well. But I still don’t drink at work.”

Hammer leaned into his seat and pulled his fedora down over his forehead as they sped towards Værnes.

OCTOBER 9, 2011

Everything started at Trolla Brug in Trondheim. Outside the old, rundown shipyard stood three trailers with Russian license plates. Each of them had a tail of people throwing bags containing heroin to each other in the rain.

Kurt Hammer stood on one of the trailers, relieved that five hundred kilos of heroin were soon out of the cars. Out of the shipyard walked Padda, a large, bulky bald man looking like a former strongman and a flat face, who made up one-half of the leadership in Trondheim Hells Angels.

“Lars?” Kurt looked questioningly at the bald face planted between two enormous shoulders. “You’re free to go. I’ll take it from here. The guys have done well. The trailers are almost empty.”

“Sure?”

“Unless you want to help us split the shit into bags?”

“No, thanks. I’ll pass on that, at least until tomorrow.”

Kurt threw the bag in his hands to the Russian behind him, before jumping down from the trailer and onto his Triumph Thunderbird. It originated from a police seizure, and this past month had barely seen him outdoors without it.

The drive to Ila took him all of six minutes, and three minutes later in front of the Prinsen hotel, he thought about making a detour to the police station to hand in his pistol and machine gun. But the thought of seeing his fiancé, Marte, and his newly born daughter again made him quickly ditch the idea.

He sped on past the old grey brick building with red details that was Prinsen cinema. When he passed Studentersamfundets red façade, he was bombarded with raindrops the size of golf balls. Finally, outside his flat in Volveveien 11A at Nardo, water and sweat dripped off his entire body. The four-room flat looked like a wooden square, painted white, with a small quadratic shed in front of it which also served as a storage place for garbage containers. Coupled with the first flat was another flat, this one oblong and painted black, also with its own shed in front.

He jumped off the bike and gave it a clap on its seat before walking across the gravel and putting his hand on the doorknob. Closed. Perhaps she was sleeping in?

He found the key under the mat on which he stood before, put it in the keyhole and turning the lock.

“Hello, Marte? I’m home.”

No one answered. Instinctively, he went out the door again and picked up his gun from the bag on the bike. Inside, he could feel a cold breeze emanating from the kitchen. The living room window turned out to have been shattered, but beyond that, he could find no signs of anything out of the ordinary. He couldn’t find any footprints. That should be impossible in this weather. The people who had broken in must have removed their shoes.

With his pistol still in both hands, he entered the bedroom. At once, all doubts about the unknown perpetrator’s identity faded. A stench of blood had spread out in the large, whitewashed room. In the black Fjell double bed from Ikea, Marte lay chained with two handcuffs. Her long, curly tresses wound neatly down past her shoulders. A gaping grimace had melted itself onto her face as a sort of cruel last goodbye. A bullet hole had manifested in her forehead, another in her stomach. The duvet was steeped in blood. He could barely watch the cot in the other side of the room. What was there wasn’t so much the remains of a human being as a cadaver.

He turned on his heel and went back to his bike. Rationally speaking, he should’ve dialed 112. But rational thinking had just gone out the window.

He drove from Nardo to Trolla Brug in a blind, violent rage, with an average speed of eighty kilometers an hour. When he arrived, the trailers were already gone, but he found most of the bikes still parked outside. The last thing he did before going in was to put on the bulletproof vest placed in his bike’s bag. Inside the warehouse stood Padda, Martin, Ramberg, Flisa, and several others. Some were opening bags. Others were splitting the heroin into small Ziplock bags.

If my colleagues had been here, they’d have laughed at the entire operation. How extremely careless.

However, they weren’t there. It was just him and his machine gun. It turned into a real battle. Heroin and blood squirted everywhere, like paint onto the misty grey relief outside.

Half an hour later, it was all finished. Twenty or so bodies were scattered on the grey concrete floor, on wooden tables, and behind boxes. Without a word, he hoisted himself up from a crouching position, went outside, positioned himself on the bike, and drove home.

A few hours later, he turned on the television in Volveveien 11A.

“Trolla Brug has witnessed what looks to be a gang war. Trolla Brug is Hell’s Angels’ headquarters in Trondheim. Seventeen people were murdered and three people severely injured in what the police describe as the worst shootout in the history of Trondheim.”

Kurt Hammer opened another bottle of Jack Daniels and waited for the sirens.

APRIL 27, 2010

There was a disruptive mood across all NRK. Fifteen minutes remained until the news of the day, Dagsnytt,was going to air at 7:00 p.m., and there were rumors that an important visitor was on his way to the newsroom. Jon Gelius was sitting in makeup when Nina Owing entered and sat in the chair next to him.

“Have you heard it,” she whispered, as she had a little rouge applied on her cheeks.

“No, what?”

“You’re aware that Medvedev’s visiting, right?”

Jon nodded. He was, of course, aware that Medvedev was in Oslo to sign an agreement on boundaries in the Barents Sea and Arctic Ocean. It was going to be one of the main stories in the broadcast.

Nina continued to whisper. “I was told by the reception that he might be on his way here.”

“Are you kidding?”

“I know it sounds… far out. Just about far enough that it might be true. What do you think?”

Jon contorted his face in deep folds. “Do you know whether Hans–Wilhelm is on duty?”

“I actually think he is.” She smiled.

About fifteen minutes later, the two were presenting the broadcast in the studio. Just as the main stories had been presented, Jon received a message on the ear from producer Geir.

“Medvedev’s in the reception, with an interpreter. The broadcast will be extended by ten minutes. Russia has just entered Schengen. Amazing scoop!”

Jon was perplexed for a few long seconds.

“Well, I’ve just heard on my ear here that… President Dmitry Medvedev is heading into the studio to talk about… Russia has become a member of Schengen.”

The cameramen and script looked at each other as if they couldn’t believe what they’d just heard. One minute of silence followed.

“Yeah, uh, this is taking some time.” Jon swore under his breath.

Nina tried to save the situation. “Tonight’s main story is that Medvedev came to Oslo to sign an agreement on the borders to the Barents Sea. Let’s take a look at the story.”

Just as the story started running, Medvedev came casually walking into the studio.

“I have an announcement to make.” He stood right next to Jon and Nina.

“Please stand over here.” Jon pointed. “Welcome!”

“Thank you.” Medvedev shook his hand before moving to the place Jon had pointed out.

The cameraman began counting down. “5, 4, 3, 2…”

Jon announced, “Yes, then we have Medvedev in the studio. Mr. President, you said you had an announcement to make?”

He smiled, triumphantly. A winning smile, targeting cameras, and Jon could understand why he was president.

“Yes, today, here in Oslo, I signed an agreement between Norway and my country. But more importantly, yesterday Russia officially became a part of Schengen. This was the result of many months of intense negotiations, and I am pleased to say that Russian citizens can now travel freely without a visa, across the border to Norway. It also means that, for the first time, Norwegians can visit my beautiful city of St. Petersburg without first submitting a visa application. This is great news and I hope it will better the relations between Europe and Russia.”

Nina gasped. “When will this agreement be put into effect?”

“Well, as with all such things, there is a lot of paperwork that needs to be processed, but we are currently looking at the winter of 2011.”

“That’s great! Did you have any other motivation besides promoting tourism?”

“Yes, we are hoping, as I said, to promote our relations with Europe in general, and our trade relations in particular.”

“Are you trying to compete with Norway’s oil and gas exportations,” asked Jon.

Medvedev smiled, bashfully this time. “Well, Russia has traditionally had its own markets, including Ukraine in particular. But that is part of it, yes.”

“Did you discuss this with Jens Stoltenberg?”

“Actually, no. You guys are the first to hear. Jens is such a nice man. There was no need to upset him with such details.”

“Aren’t you afraid he’s going to feel… cheated?”

“Absolutely not! He will find out at the same time as everyone else.”

“Well, we have to move on now,” Jon said. “But thanks for coming here to share this important news.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

Medvedev left his assigned place, and just as Nina was going to present the next story, he came over and kissed her on the cheek before leaving as abruptly as he had arrived. A collective gasp went through the studio as blonde Nina turned red as a tomato.

JANUARY 26, 2012

Olya’s mother died suddenly. After her coffin was lowered into the earth and the families had departed, Olya was left to herself when she got home.

In her heart, she knew he would come home, as he’d done countless times before. When she heard the front door being opened just after midnight, it presented itself as something of a bad dream.

“Olya, are you at home?!”

She lay with her eyes closed and hoped he wouldn’t come into the room. Was the door locked, was the door locked, was the door locked…

“Why don’t you answer, you cheeky little piece of shit?”

She opened one eye and peered out from the edge of her quilt. He reeked of Stolichnaya.

“You’re drunk, Papi. Go and lie down.”

“What, are you talking back to your papi? You fucking whore!”

He tore off her quilt, lifted her up by the scruff and threw her into the wall.

“It’s your fault that she’s dead, you know? She had heart trouble from taking care of you, you ungrateful—”

She gathered what little strength she had and headbutted him. He staggered a bit before falling hard. She ran as fast as she could through the hallway, into the kitchen, and tore up the nearest kitchen drawer. Panic stricken, she grabbed a bread knife. Then she heard him come into the kitchen. With the knife in both hands, she turned to face him, wide-eyed with her body shaking like a leaf. “What are you going to do?” he sneered. “Come and take me.”

Unable to move, she could only remain frozen and watch him approach with unsteady steps on the tattered kitchen rug. Finally, his face was less than a meter from hers.

The next thing that happened should be seen in light of her mother’s bruised and swollen eyes. Anyone who saw her knew, but no one said anything, not even at the funeral. All the years of beating, name-calling, and shit-stirring were discharged at the moment she drove the knife into him.

A few seconds of silence followed before he whispered, “Help me, Olya, help me!”

Her thoughts disappeared back to her mother again. She saw her lying in a pool of her own blood, in the morning, while he slept in in their bedroom. Her beautiful golden hair was sticky and disgusting. Olya had to help her into the bathroom, undress her, shower her, and massage her. All without saying a word.

Silence said more than any of us could have formulated by opening our mouths.

Her five-year-old self went around him. Her twenty-year-old self pulled up the carpet before closing the door behind her.

Among Moscow’s population is whispered a proverb. Man has not felt cold on his body before he has experienced winter in Moscow.

Midway between several meter-high snow banks on either side of Tverskaya Street, Olya was now facing what amounted to miles of shop facades. A few meters beyond the block she lived in, some of them were still open even though it was thirty below. On a stand, she noticed a newspaper front page with a picture of Putin and his wife. At the top read Divorce, in screaming letterheads. She picked up a copy of a paper and went into the little grocery store behind the stand.

“Olga, right?”

She nodded meekly to the bearded giant behind the counter, showed him the newspaper, and left a ruble in front of him.

“Condolences! Greet your papi, from Oleg. He must be absolutely horrified now.”

She smiled, and muttered, “Thank you, I will,” before turning to leave.

Right before she closed the door, she stopped. How had he looked at me, the old pig? She tore off a piece of newsprint and wrote down her address. Then she paused for a few seconds, before adding, thirty minutes. Finally, she went back in, handed him the note, and disappeared again without saying a word.

Back in the apartment, she opened the kitchen window onto the side street, and aimed at a garbage container she had opened. She gathered what strength she had once more, eased her father’s body onto the kitchen counter, and pushed it out the window. The fall from the twenty-second floor was spectacular. If he wasn’t already dead, he was guaranteed to be, as he landed headfirst far below. She let out an involuntary shout of joy as she became filled with relief, because when someone found the now dismembered body below, she would be far away.

Soon, a knock came at the front door. No matter how much it filled her with disgust, she forced herself to down a glass of Stolichnaya before she went to open it. In the hallway, she walked past a mirror. The dark curls she had from her father were bursting in all directions, but there was nothing she could do about it right now. Her verdigris almond eyes were her best feature, so she took a little eyeliner from the dresser and put it on before applying a coat of lipstick to her voluptuous lips. The red matched her hair and eyes.

“You’re one-fourth Spanish,” her mother had said one day, after Olya came home from school.

Somehow, she had always known it.

“My papi was Spanish,” her mother had said, with a smile and winked at her.

She’d never mentioned him before, but it explained the golden color of their skin. The night had been particularly hard, which was probably the reason she had mentioned him then.

“Did he die before I was born?”

“He probably did. He lived in Málaga, you see. My mami brought me here just after I was born. She was homesick but never forgot about papi. Come.” Her mother pulled Olya into their bedroom, then sat on the bed and patted beside her. “Here.” She handed her daughter a faded picture from her wallet.

To the left of her mother stood a man with almond eyes, a nose that was too big for his face, and a charming smile parked in the middle of a forest of a beard. He wore a sailor’s cap, slightly askew.

“He could’ve been my papi,” said Olya.

They smiled at each other for the first time in a long while.

With the image of her grandpa fresh in mind, she went and opened the front door.

Oleg was even larger than she remembered. Before he could open his mouth, she blurted an insane sum. He opened his wallet, gave her cash, and stepped over the threshold.

A few hours later, she stood in one of the counters at Sheremetyevo airport.

“Do you have a ticket to Malaga for nine thousand rubles?”

“Hmm. Not until the end of next month, at least.

Well, you can get to Trondheim, Norway in a few hours, for eight thousand.”