Cnut - Night Prowler

By Stig Larssen

A psychotic serial killer is unleashing indiscriminate death among the elderly, using a unique and diabolically dangerous device. The old people are apparently dying of influenza and the deaths are accepted by the medics as from natural causes. Sheriff Cnut and his team are fighting a losing battle against a powerful, informed enemy. As the death toll rises, Cnut is shocked to the core to find that the killer is a highly disturbed figure from his own hidden past. Constant, electrifying action leads to a terrifying climax, where the Sheriff's own life hangs by a mere thread.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TONY NASH
• Release date: Nov 7, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393133995

Stig Larssen

Stig Larssen is the Norwegian pen name of Tony Nash – acclaimed author of over thirty detective, historical and war novels, who began his career as a navigator in the Royal Air Force, later re-training at Bletchley Park to become an electronic spy, intercepting Russian and East German agent transmissions, during which time he studied many languages and achieved a BA Honours Degree from London University. Diverse occupations followed: Head of Modern Languages in a large comprehensive school, ocean yacht skipper, deep sea fisher, fly tyer, antique dealer, bespoke furniture maker, restorer and French polisher, professional deer stalker and creative writer.

Book preview

The motive-hunting of a motiveless malignity – how awful it is

Shakespeare – Iago

Copyright © Tony Nash July 2018

This is a work of pure fiction, and any similarity between any character in it and any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. Where actual places, buildings and locations are named, they are used fictionally.

All rights reserved.

Other works by this author:

THE TONY DYCE/NORFOLK THRILLERS:

Murder on Tiptoes

Murder by Proxy

Murder on the Back Burner

Murder on the Chess Board

Murder on the High ‘C’

Bled and Breakfast

THE JOHN HUNTER THRILLERS:

Carve Up

Single to Infinity

The Most Unkindest Cut

The Iago Factor

Blockbuster

Bloodlines

Beyond Another Curtain

HISTORICAL/WWI NOVELS:

A Handful of Destiny

A Handful of Salt

A Handful of Courage

WWII EPIC:

No Tears For Tomorrow

THE HARRY PAGE THRILLERS:

Tripled Exposure

Unseemly Exposure

So Dark, The Spiral

THE NORWEGIAN SERIES

CNUT – The Isiaih Prophesies

CNUT – Paid in Spades

CNUT – The Sin Debt

CNUT – They Tumble Headlong

CNUT -  Nemesis

CNUT – Past Present

CNUT – Cry Wolf

CNUT -  Mind Games

CNUT -  When The Pie Was Opened

LOOT – (A Viking tale)

OTHER NOVELS:

The Last Laugh

The Sinister Side of the Moon

Hell and High Water

The Thursday Syndrome

ESPIONAGE:

‘Y’ OH ‘Y;

CHAPTER ONE

With the practised patience of the hunter he stood motionless as a statue behind a low bush, watching the building to be sure that no lights came on anywhere, betraying wakeful activity, before leaving his cover just before two o’clock and moving as silently as a stalking cat over to the main doors, where he tapped in the entry code: 1814.

He smiled at the stupidity of the number – such an obvious choice. Security? What a laugh. Inge would be asleep, he knew, providing no one had disturbed her by wanting something. Some of the night staff duty carers were a problem, staying awake throughout their duty hours and by doing so making his task impossible, but Inge had major credit card problems and had taken on a day job as well as her work at the care home. She always put her head down as soon as she could and slept until her alarm wakened her at five, unless disturbed from her slumbers by one of the residents using an emergency caller.

He held the door as it closed, ensuring that the suck of air it made would be silenced, and then stood perfectly still, listening. All was quiet. Good. He climbed slowly and carefully up the three flights of stairs to the top floor, paused to listen again on the top stair, then eased quietly in his trainers up to the doorway of the office, peering in before he passed to see Inge’s body slumped over the desk, her steady breathing clearly audible.

He moved on along the corridor, entering one patient’s room after another, staying just the few moments necessary to carry out his designs, then on to the next. Once finished on that level, he checked that Inge had not moved, then descended the stairs to the second floor and visited all the rooms, before repeating his actions on the ground floor and leaving the building as silently as he had entered it.

He would have been more than unhappy to know that in one room, ex-special forces sergeant Mats Andersson, wide awake, as he always was during the dark hours of the night when the demons came, had heard the door opening and kept very still, his eyes mere slits, but observing everything. He saw the figure clearly, the face covered with what looked like a gas mask, and saw what the intruder did, no more than half a metre above his head. It made no sense, but Mats had lived through enough tense, life-threatening situations to know that if you were threatened by superior forces you had to bide your time and wait for an opportunity to strike back. He would wait and make a report to his superiors in the morning. Always prepared for remedial action Mats held his breath until the door had closed behind the figure again, then pulled the covers up tight above his head. If it were a gas attack precautions were essential. He stayed that way for several minutes, then slid out from under the covers, holding his breath again, and crossed to the window as quickly as his badly damaged legs would allow. He opened the window wide and drew deep breaths, standing there for over a quarter of an hour, letting the fresh air into the room before pulling a chair up near the window, wrapping a blanket around his body, and sitting down to await the dawn.

Inge came in with a cup of tea at six forty-five and immediately began to berate him for being out of bed and having the window open, but finally she smiled as she told him, You’ll catch your death, you silly old soldier. Mats was one of her favourite patients, two clowns short of a circus though he might be.

Mats began to tell her about the intruder, and she pretended to listen, but had heard so many outrageous stories about his nocturnal visitors that her mind did not even attempt to accept what he said as real; the poor old boy’s dementia had been getting much worse recently, with reality being mixed indiscriminately with memory and imagination.

Yes, Mats, she said, I know all about it. One of the staff goes into the rooms to make sure everyone is all right during the night. Come on; let’s get you back into bed.

Mats was suddenly unsure; had he seen someone, or had he been dreaming? And if it were a member of staff, why were they wearing a gas mask? Things had been getting very hazy lately, and it was true that he had been having strange daydreams. He had always accepted orders without question, and Inge was next in the chain of command, so it must be all right. An inherently polite man, he said, Thank you, let her lead him back to the bed and settle him in with the cup in his hand. When she left he drank most of the tea, placed the cup carefully on the top of the bedside cupboard and turned over to begin his sleep. It was light, and the demons would be gone until the darkness returned.

CHAPTER TWO

The solitary figure moved indecisively along the gravel path that ran beside the outer trees of Ullevålskog. It was a glorious morning, after four days of heavy rain, with wall-to-wall sunshine and just the merest hint of a breeze from the southwest, a day for feeling that all is right with the world, but Eva Strom’s frown deepened with every step. A petite but well formed, attractive brunette, with shoulder-length wavy hair, she had laughing brown eyes that were not laughing now. For weeks she had wondered if she might be becoming paranoid, but Marit Halvorson’s death the day before had finally convinced her. Marit had been the healthiest resident in the home, and, at sixty-eight, the youngest. Larger than life-size, her booming laugh could be heard all round the building. Four days ago she had been in perfectly good health, laughing and joking with the others at breakfast and lunch. Now she was dead, after only two days of ‘flu symptoms and headaches - just like the others who had died. They all seemed to be suffering from what Eva was sure was meningitis, but the doctor had been adamant: there was no meningitis; all five had died from influenza, cases closed. Admittedly, apart from Marit, they had all been fragile and suffering from one thing and another, but Eva had noticed that it was only the patients who were being treated with steroids, and the man who was HIV-positive who died. There were others with the same ‘flu symptoms, but they all got better. Almost all of them had complained of headaches and bright light worrying them, and three of stiff necks. Several had vomited. Most telling of all, those who died had died very quickly, much sooner than one would have expected from influenza. Angry after being disregarded by the doctor, she had told just one other person of her suspicions about the deaths of her patients, and now she was sure that she had made a grave mistake. At the time it had seemed the right thing to do, but with hindsight it had been foolish in the extreme. It was almost unthinkable, but nurses, doctors and carers had been known to kill patients. If she was right, it had to be someone on the staff behind the deaths, and her confidant was one of the staff. Well, she would remedy that immediately. She stopped walking, her head to one side, considering for a moment or two whether to telephone the police there and then, but decided that it would be more logical to return to town and go straight to the police station. Half an hour would not make any difference, and they would want a complete written statement anyway.

Bim, her Springer spaniel, had gone off hunting rabbits somewhere in the wood, and she called him, just once, before the hollow-jacketed, expanding bullet slammed into her breast, hit a rib, flattened, tore out half her heart and left a three centimetre exit wound in her back. Its flight took it another two hundred metres, before it hit a low branch, where it lodged.

Almost three hours later, Karl Karlsson, a local solicitor, decided to take the path, rather than his normal route through the wood, because of the damp underfoot. His three-year-old German shepherd, Magi, trotted along beside him. Hearing something odd he stopped to listen, and could hear low howls coming from somewhere near. He quickened his steps, soon passing the point where a corner of the wood jutted out into the field, and saw, a hundred metres or so away, a Springer pawing at what looked like a body in the tall grass, stopping every few seconds to howl.

Karl began to run, full of anxiety, imagining that the Springer’s owner must have had a seizure of some sort and needed urgent help, Magi running beside him.

He came to an abrupt stop five metres away from the body, and called Magi to heel.

Eva had fallen on her back, and it was clear that she had been shot in the chest: blood that had frothed up from her damaged lungs had stained the blouse around the bullet hole. Her red quilted jacket had fallen open as she fell.

Karl took the cell phone from his shirt pocket and dialled the emergency services.

The telephone operator who took his call and details immediately informed Inspector Sigurd Kvindstrom, senior inspector in charge of the day shift. He strode down the corridor to Sheriff Cnut’s office.

Cnut, working on the interminable paper work that nowadays bugged every member of the police force, looked up. One glance at Kvindstrom had him asking, That bad, Sigurd?

Either a very tragic accident or murder, boss. He gave him the details.

Cnut nodded, That does sound more like an accident. We haven’t had a deliberate shooting for quite a while, but we’ll have to treat it as such, at least initially. I’ll tell Viv. Inform the SOCOs and make up a team. Hopefully the bullet will still be in the body, but if not, it’ll have to be found, and that could be a real problem.

He hurried down to the forensic pathology lab, where Viv Blenke was working on a slide.

She looked up and smiled, started to greet him and stopped, seeing his expression.

We have a death from shooting, if you could bring your bits and pieces. Is Alex next door?

She nodded.

He gave her the map coordinates and added, I’ll see you there. You’ll need to bring the meat wagon, as well as Alex and the team.

The location was eighteen kilometres from police headquarters, and Cnut, using an unmarked white Volkswagen Passat, instead of his own beloved old Volvo, arrived first.

There were two cars parked on the roadside when he arrived, one possibly that of the victim. He took both registration numbers and sent them in for a check. Within seconds, the results came back. The BMW was registered to Karl Karlsson and the green Peugeot 206 to an Eva Strom, with an address in Bergen.  He noted the name and the telephone number listed with the agency, hoping that the details were indeed those of the dead woman, then hurried along the path until he came to the dog-leg in the path, where Karl Karlsson, whom he knew from earlier court appearances, was waiting for him, holding a lead to which was attached a young liver and white Springer spaniel. A German shepherd sat quietly next to the solicitor.

Karlsson greeted him with, Good morning, Cnut. A bad business.

He shook Karlsson’s outstretched hand, It certainly is, Karl. Inspector Kvindstrom will be here in a few minutes. He’ll have someone take your statement. Just before he does, do you know the deceased?

Know her? No, Cnut. I’ve seen her from a distance several times, but as I usually go through the middle of the wood, and she uses this outside path, I don’t usually come close to her. I did happen to see her close up one day about three weeks ago. She was leaving as I arrived, and she bid me a Good Afternoon, to which I replied in the same vein. She is...was quite attractive, and her dog is a lovely specimen. I put him on Magi’s lead, so he wouldn’t wander off. He was desperately worried about his mistress. What do you think I should do with him?

We would normally take him to the animal shelter... Cnut hesitated for a moment before suggesting, unless you could you take him home with you, at least for today, and I’ll let you know if we find out who should have him?

Karlsson nodded, Absolutely. One extra canine mouth to feed is no problem at all.

Good. That settles that, then. Ah, here come the troops.

Viv  and her gay chief assistant, Alex Blund, were at the head of the police contingent, followed by Ari Blank and his forensics team. Cnut waited for them to reach him and walked along with them to where the body lay.

Viv and Ari conferred. Forensics would normally do their thing before pathology took over, but it was obvious that in this case the shooter had been nowhere near the victim, and the scene of crime would hold no clues to his or her identity.

Ari decided to allow Viv to proceed with her ritual, after he had taken the required series of photographs of the crime scene.

Large blowflies were buzzing around and landing on the wound. The rest of them stayed back while Viv approached carefully, extending tape measure in hand, and waved the flies away. Alex had his pad and pen in hand, waiting for Viv’s commentary:

Female, late twenties - early thirties, who was apparently in good health; bullet entry wound approximately fifteen centimetres from left armpit, She felt through the blouse for the woman’s navel, and twenty-two centimetres approximately from the navel. There are no powder burns. The shot was fired from some distance away, so Locard’s Principle will not apply. I am turning the body...eugh. Exit wound approximately three point two centimetres in diameter, the centre twelve centimetres from the left armpit, twenty-six centimetres from the bottom of the earlobe. The bullet used was of the expanding type used for hunting, and almost certainly fired from a rifle. She backed away, careful to place her feet in the same places she had used on her approach to the body.

All yours, Cnut, she told him, but I doubt you’ll find anything of any use nearby. It’s obvious that the shot came from a distance, and the only cover I can see is that small copse.

There were just eight or nine trees, with bushes beneath them, on the hill in the near distance, about four hundred metres away. Cnut nodded to Inspector Kvindstrom, Check it out, Sigurd. I think Viv may well be right. If so, it begins to look as if it might have been deliberate. I don’t think she could have been mistaken for a deer, unless the shooter expected to see one wearing a red bomber jacket.

Kvindstrom turned to speak to the detective next to him, Sergeant Jon Jonsson, who had accompanied Cnut to every crime scene that didn’t require the presence of a woman officer since Ilse had been posted to Stavanger. A metre-ninety of solid muscle and, as one of his colleagues had once described him, big, black and beautiful, referring to his sunny disposition rather than his looks, Jon Jonsson was, at the age of thirty-six, a magnificent specimen of manhood, who had only recently retired from boxing, after being beaten almost to death with an iron bar by the brother of a man he’d beaten fair and square in a boxing bout.  He still kept up his rigorous training regime, though not intending to go back into the ring. He had a tremendous regard for Cnut, and played the bad cop, while Cnut played the good.

Most people, at first sight of Jonsson, thought that with his deep ebony skin, shining as if it had been newly oiled, he had to come from central Africa, and expected his speech to be guttural and heavily foreign accented, but he’d been born in Kirkenes. His mother died in childbirth, and he was brought up by a loving Sami family and spoke only Sami until middle school. He and Cnut made a terrific team, though Cnut missed Ilse terribly.

You take Bjørn and Souter and start looking for that bullet. Let’s assume that the shot came from the middle of that small copse. It’ll be like looking for the proverbial grain of sand on a hundred metre long stretch of beach, particularly if it was not stopped by something, but we have to look, and since it will have flattened after its passage through the woman’s body, it will have a larger surface area, which should make it somewhat easier to find.

Ach, min bestemors rompe. Ingen sjanse.

Kvindstrom laughed; he had never got over hearing pure Sami dialect referring to his granny’s arse coming from his coloured colleague.

He began walking across the field towards the copse, as Viv Blenke organised the removal of the body, having carefully marked the position in which it had lain.

He stopped at the edge of the trees and peered in. He could clearly see where the undergrowth had recently been disturbed and called the scene of crime officers, asking them to cover this area when they’d finished what little they had to do below.

He walked around the edge of the wood to the far side, checking all the while to see where the shooter had approached the copse. At the very far side there were clear signs in the long, damp grass that someone had recently walked through, but instead of footsteps there was just a half-metre wide path of grass turned down, heading away from the trees.

Faen! Kvindstrom swore. He dialled Cnut’s cell and told him, It’s definitely premeditated murder, boss. The perp deliberately obliterated his footprints as he left. I’m going to follow to see where he came from.

He could see Cnut sending the SOCOs up the field as he turned away.

There was a hedge about a hundred metres ahead of him, with a stile set in it. It was too much to hope that the