Cabin

Book : The Cold Case Quartet

by Jørn Lier Horst

Genres: Noir

Synopsis

Fans of Jo Nesbø and Stieg Larsson will be captivated by this thrilling and atmospheric second novel in the Cold Case Quartet, from award-winning Nordic crime writer Jørn Lier Horst.

Fifteen years ago, Simon Meier walked out of his house and was never seen again.

With no leads, the case quickly ran cold. Until now.

Because one day ago, politician Bernard Clausen died. And in his cabin on the Norwegian coast, police make a shocking discovery.

Boxes of bank notes, worth millions of dollars. Collecting dust.

Chief Inspector William Wisting thinks it could link to Meier’s disappearance.

But solving both cases will mean working with an old adversary, and delving into a dark underworld—which leads closer to home than he could have imagined…

Release date: January 13, 2026

Publisher: Scribner Canada

Print pages: 416

Sample

Chapter 1

1
It was three minutes to ten on the morning of Monday 18 August.

William Wisting was shown into the vast office, different from how he had imagined it would be. He had pictured imposing furnishings of leather and mahogany, but the room was decorated in a simple, practical style. A desk, stacked high with documents, dominated the space. The armrests on the chair behind it were worn and family photographs of varying sizes surrounded the computer monitor.

The woman who had greeted him in the outer office followed him in and set out cups, glasses and a water jug and coffee pot on a table beside a small seating area.

Wisting gazed out of the window as he waited for her to finish. The sun was already high in the sky and Karl Johans gate, Oslo’s main street, was filling up rapidly.

The secretary clutched the empty tray to her chest as she nodded, smiled and left the room.

Less than two hours had passed since he had received the request to come here. He had never met the Director General of Public Prosecution before. Although he had once heard him give a presentation on quality in investigation work at a seminar, he had never spoken to him or been introduced.

Johan Olav Lyngh, a big man with grey hair and a square jaw, stood waiting. His wrinkles and ice-blue eyes gave the impression of obduracy.

“Let’s sit down,” he said, gesturing with his hand.

Wisting took a seat on the settee next to the table.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The Director General poured out two cups. His hand trembled a little, not a sign of apprehension or disquiet, but a consequence of his advanced age. Johan Olav Lyngh was ten years older than Wisting and had held the office of highest-ranking prosecutor for twenty-one years. At a time when all the familiar structures in the police force were in a state of flux, it felt as if Lyngh represented something safe and enduring—someone who did not change course despite advice from consultants keen to run public sector operations in accordance with business sector principles.

“Thanks for making yourself available,” he said, “at such short notice.”

Wisting nodded as he lifted his coffee cup. He knew nothing about why he was here but understood that the impending conversation would contain extremely sensitive information.

The Director General filled a glass with water and took a gulp, as if he needed to clear his throat.

“As you probably know, Bernhard Clausen died at the weekend,” he began.

Wisting felt a knot of anxiety and foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Bernhard Clausen was a retired politician, a former Member of Parliament for the Labour Party who had held ministerial posts in a number of governments. On Friday he had been taken unwell at a restaurant in Stavern. He had been transported to hospital by ambulance but the next day the Party office had announced his death at the age of sixty-eight.

“It was reported that he’d had a heart attack,” Wisting commented. “Is there reason to believe otherwise?”

The Director General moved his head from side to side.

“He suffered another heart attack at the hospital,” he explained. “There will be a post-mortem later today, but there’s nothing to suggest anything other than death from natural causes.”

Wisting remained seated with the coffee cup in his hand while he waited for Lyngh to continue.

“The Party Secretary contacted me last night,” the Director General went on. “He was at the hospital when Clausen died.”

Lyngh was referring to Walter Krom, head of Party organization.

“After the death of Clausen’s son in an accident, there was no close family left. Krom was listed as next of kin. He took charge of the belongings Clausen had with him when he was taken to hospital, including the key to his summer cabin in Stavern.”

Wisting knew where the cabin was situated. When Clausen was Foreign Minister, security measures for it had been included in police planning commitments. It was located at the edge of the cluster of cabins near Hummerbakken, and strictly speaking was closer to Helgeroa than Stavern.

“He took a trip down to the cabin yesterday, mainly to check that the windows were closed and the doors locked, but also with the idea that some sensitive Party documents might be lying around in there. Even though he was retired, Clausen was a member of an advisory group involved with the Party leadership.”

Wisting edged further forward in his seat.

“What did he find?” he asked.

“It’s a large, fairly old cabin,” the Director General added, as if he needed time to come to the point. “His father-in-law built it in the fifties, and when Clausen joined the family, he helped to construct an extension. Did you know he originally worked as a structural carpenter and iron fitter before he went into politics full-time?”

Wisting nodded. Bernhard Clausen belonged to the old guard of the Party and was one of the few central figures in the Labour Party with a background as an industrial worker. Trade union activity was what had sparked his interest in politics.

“The cabin was extended with a view to accommodating a large family, children and grandchildren. Six bedrooms in total.”

The Director General smoothed out a crease on his grey suit trousers.

“One of the rooms was locked,” he continued. “Krom let himself in. It was one of the smallest rooms, with only bunk beds. Cardboard boxes were stacked up on the beds – I don’t know how many. Walter Krom examined some of them and found that they were filled with money. Banknotes.”

Wisting sat bolt upright. Throughout this conversation his thoughts had strayed in many directions, but he had not expected this.

“Cardboard boxes full of cash?” he repeated. “What are we talking about here? How much?”

“Foreign currency,” the Director General explained. “Euros and dollars. Approximately 5 million of each.”

Wisting’s mouth dropped open, but he had to search for words.

“Ten million kroner?”

The Director General shook his head.

“If all the boxes contain similar amounts of cash, there might be as much as 5 million euros and 5 million dollars,” he corrected him.

Wisting struggled to calculate the total sum. It had to be in the region of around 80 million kroner.

“Where did it come from?” he asked.

The Director General spread his arms and took on an expression suggesting this was a mystery.

“That’s why I asked you to meet me,” he answered. “I want you to find out.”

The room fell silent. Wisting let his eyes wander to the window and settle on Oslo Cathedral in the distance.

“You know the area well,” the Director General added. “The cabin lies within your police district, and what’s more, you’re more than cut out for it. This has to be a confidential investigation. Bernhard Clausen served four years as Norway’s Foreign Minister and has been a major player in our Defence Committee. National interests may well be in jeopardy.”

Wisting considered what this meant. Decisions on Norway’s relationship with foreign powers had been in Clausen’s hands.

“I’ve asked your Chief of Police to release you from all other duties, without telling him what you are to work on,” the Director General said as he got to his feet. “You will have full access to our resources and the laboratories at the National Criminal Investigation Service, Kripos, in Oslo will give your inquiries top priority.”

He crossed to the desk and picked up a large envelope.

“Where’s the money now?” Wisting asked.

“Still in the cabin,” the Director General replied, handing him the envelope.

Wisting could feel that the contents included a bunch of keys.

“I want you to form a small team of well-qualified personnel to deal with this,” the Director General, still on his feet, told him. “Krom has informed Georg Himle, the Prime Minister when Clausen was in government. Apart from that, no one knows about this. That’s how it has to stay.”

Wisting stood up, realizing that the meeting was coming to an end.

“The cabin is equipped with an alarm. A new code has been generated, both for the cabin and his house. You have it there,” the Director General explained, pointing at the envelope. “I suggest the first thing you do is take care of the money.”