Another car came jolting down the road, Espen Mortensen in the crime scene vehicle. Wisting glanced again at the branches. There could be some crucial traces on them. Every time someone takes a grip of an object he leaves behind small, invisible skin cells. The introduction of new DNA legislation the previous autumn had given the police wider powers to obtain reference samples from suspects, and to record convicted criminals in the DNA register. It had been explained how everyone loses a certain number of skin cells each day and how, in the course of a month, we each renew our entire epidermis. Human debris is worth its weight in gold to the police.
They waited half an hour for the divers’ car, and another half hour for Mortensen to finish his work along the edge of the lake. A tow truck reversed along the forest track, and the recovery crew got the winch ready.
Wisting followed the air bubbles from the two divers across the water until they stopped six or seven metres from the edge. The beams from their powerful lights were thrown backwards and forwards underneath the water until, several minutes later, one of the divers broke the surface, pushed his mask onto his forehead and pulled out his mouthpiece.
‘It’s about two or three metres out,’ he shouted, moving towards land. ‘It’s starting to get buried in the mud. It’s difficult to see, but it doesn’t look as though there’s anyone inside.’
Hammer pulled the straw from the side of his mouth. ‘Empty?’
The diver had reached land and was stretching for the towing hook the man from the recovery vehicle was holding out. ‘Looks like it.’ He pulled at the cable so that it loosened. ‘But you’ll soon be able to see for yourselves,’ he said, disappearing beneath the water again.
Two minutes later he was back and gave the signal to go. The cable straightened slowly as the tow began its pull and the rear end of a red Ford Fiesta rose from the water.
‘That’s it,’ Wisting confirmed, reading the registration number out loud.
When the car was at last dragged onto dry land dirty, brown water streamed out of the driver’s door, which was hanging from its hinges. Wisting and Mortensen approached from their different sides and looked in. It was empty.
Hammer picked up a work glove that one of the men from the recovery vehicle had dropped. He put it on and opened the car boot, looked down into the small luggage compartment and shook his head. ‘Empty,’ he stated, closing the lid again.
‘Perhaps she’s still lying in the lake?’ Mortensen suggested.
Wisting turned towards the water, nodding. ‘Do you have search equipment?’ he asked the diver who was wading ashore. ‘Dredgers and hooks?’
‘They’re in the car.’
‘How long will it take to cover it all?’
The diver turned round and studied the lake. It was about forty metres from one end to the other, a bit narrower across.
‘A rough search shouldn’t take more than two or three hours.’
‘Good. I want it done before midnight.’
CHAPTER 18
Line let herself into Tommy Kvanter’s flat in the centre of town while he was preparing dinner. A light whirring from the kitchen fan and the sound of pots and pans combined in the hallway with blues, rock music and a tempting smell of spices and hot food. She took off her shoes, calling to him. He didn’t hear, and she had to go all the way into the kitchen before he saw her. His face lit up with a broad smile.
He was standing wearing a black apron with the request Kiss the Cook written across the chest. She acceded with a quick peck on his cheek, but Tommy held her tight, pulled her towards him and found her lips. Pressing her against the kitchen worktop he ran his fingers through her hair. She breathed in his scent, thinking how good it was to have his strong arms around her.
‘Good to see you,’ he whispered into her ear. His voice and breath tickled so that she involuntarily tried to wriggle out of his grip. He held on to her with one hand, while pushing the saucepans off the hotplates on the cooker with the other. The apron and their clothes were left lying on the kitchen floor.
Wisting put his glass on the patio table. Daylight was disappearing. The evening was warm and without a breath of air; grasshoppers were chirping and night swarms played in the candlelight. Suzanne smiled across the table, and could see that he was much more concerned about his work than their surroundings.
The trees at the far edge of the garden had grown close together and blocked some of the view over the town and the fjord, but between the spreading branches he could see the continuous stream of car headlights and house lights being switched on. He picked at the salad.
The case would be a topic of conversation in many of the houses and he wondered what people’s thoughts and opinions were. The public required more and more of the police, demanded answers and were quick to point the finger. Police work was exposed by modern media as never before, and they were more vulnerable when mistakes were made. Scrutinised closely by both press and public they were pushed into a greater focus on quality and ethics. Nor could they risk a situation where the population harboured mistrust of them. Confidence in the police was closely connected to the authority they needed to carry out their work, and they had to take seriously the fact that respect no longer went along automatically with the uniform.
His mobile phone lay on the table in front of him, its display showing that just over two and a half hours had passed since he left the dark lake among the trees near Tveidalskrysset. The divers would still be at work in the water. Floodlights and generators had been set up. Mortensen was probably still going about in his white overalls and overshoes, gloves and cap. Dog patrols would be searching through the woods for some clue or another that would take them further. He had to concentrate hard to think about anything else.
He stuck his fork into a lobster tail and put it into his mouth, chewing well and smiling back at Suzanne to let her know what he thought about the food, leftovers from the day before. ‘Sorry that I’m such bad company,’ he said. ‘There’s just so much going on at the moment.’
He had expected her to be understanding and brush away his apologies. ‘I bought some dietary supplements for you,’ she said instead. ‘Something called Enaxin.’
Wisting nodded, although he was not really interested. They were certainly creative when it came to thinking up names for their products.
Suzanne reached for the wine bottle. ‘Are you sure you won’t have any?’
‘Yes, it’s okay,’ Wisting confirmed, drinking from his glass of Farris mineral water.
Suzanne poured some for herself. ‘You can stay overnight,’ she suggested, flirting.
Wisting hesitated. Tired and worn out, he had no desire.
Line drew invisible circles with her index finger on Tommy’s naked chest. The skin surrounding the hard nipples was completely smooth. Making love was like going on a voyage of discovery with him; each time she discovered some new aspect of them both. It was also a bit frightening, as if she never really got to know him properly and was afraid there might be a dark side that she would not like.
‘What was it like to be in prison?’ she asked suddenly.
He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Why are you wondering about that?’
She pulled the duvet over her to cover her bare breasts. ‘Tomorrow I’m going to interview someone who spent sixteen years in prison.’
‘What did he do wrong?’
‘He killed a policeman.’
Tommy sat bolt upright. ‘Why are you going to interview him? That must surely be old news.’
‘It’s for an article I’m writing for the weekend magazine,’ Line said. ‘I’m going to profile six murderers. Get them to talk about what the sentence did to them and what their lives are like now.’
Tommy got up and remained standing in the nude, looking down at her seriously. ‘Do you think up these interviews for yourself, or is it the editorial team that gives them to you?’
‘It was my own idea.’
He laughed. ‘You are strange,’ he
said, and leaned over to kiss her before vanishing into the kitchen.
Line smiled after him and stayed in bed a while longer before going to the bathroom. She had a quick shower, dried herself and went naked to him. Tommy had heated up the cooker again and laid her clothes on a chair, pretending to watch her surreptitiously while she dressed. Taking out two glasses he uncorked a bottle of wine, filled hers and took his own to the cooker. Line sat at the table. He stirred one of the pots, turned to her and drank from his glass.
‘It was bloody awful,’ he said. ‘Lonely and isolated, with no chance to keep in touch with family or friends. You’ve got only a gang of key-rattlers around you, who decide all the time what you can or can’t do. Your life is put on hold, you don’t have a life of your own any longer and even your inmost thoughts and feelings are controlled by others.’ He took another drink. ‘I was in with the roughest, but you can’t get me to believe they didn’t snivel in their cells at night like the rest of us.’
Line sat holding her glass in her hand. ‘All the same, you ended up in jail a second time?’
Tommy sighed heavily. ‘It was crazy. I promised myself, the first time I got out, that I would never go in there again. Never in my life, but it didn’t work out that way.’
She looked at him for a long time. ‘Perhaps you can comfort yourself with the knowledge that you’re not the only one. Eight out of ten who are released end up back in prison. And that’s exactly what is a bit of a paradox, given that the intention is that prisoners should come out as better and more law-abiding people.’
Tommy gave her a serious look. ‘No, it brings out the worst in you. I became unbelievably unravelled inside. When I got out the second time, I practically couldn’t relate to other people. I became anxious about going out the door.’
‘That’s precisely what I want to shed light on. What being inside does to people, and whether it serves any purpose - beyond keeping them off the streets for a while. It costs a huge amount of money. One prisoner costs society 2,000 kroner a day - that’s over 700,000 kroner a year. You could get a lot of rehabilitation for that money.’
‘That’s my girl.’ He smiled warmly and turned back to the pots, gave them a stir and turned to face her again. ‘I’ll never go back there, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
She got up and placed her hand on his shoulder. She was about to say something about how fond she had become of him, but he beat her to it: ‘Dinner’s ready!’
She had not checked to see what he was preparing, but now leaned across to the cooker. Chicken breasts were simmering in a cream sauce in the frying pan, and stewed mushrooms with onion and bacon in the pot beside it.
‘There’s salad in the fridge,’ he said. She took it out and carried it through to the living room where Tommy had already set the table.
‘What have the other criminals done?’ he asked when they sat down.
‘No, we don’t need to talk about work now,’ was Line’s opinion. ‘Let’s relax.’
‘I’m serious,’ Tommy said. ‘Who have they killed?’
Line was not sure if he was really interested, or if he was asking because it absorbed her so. ‘I’ve interviewed someone who murdered a thirteen-year-old boy, and on Saturday …’
‘What did he get for that?’ Tommy interrupted.
‘Eighteen years, and served fifteen of them. On Saturday I’m going to talk to someone who first served eleven years for killing his girlfriend …’
‘So a policeman’s life is worth more than that of a thirteen-year-old boy?’ Tommy broke in once more.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The one who killed the policeman was inside for sixteen years, but the one who murdered the young boy served fifteen years. And for his girlfriend the third one got only eleven years?’
‘Each case is dealt with individually when it comes to measuring the length of sentence.’
Tommy became thoughtful. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘Now we’ll relax and enjoy ourselves.’
CHAPTER 19
Wisting went home to Herman Wildenveysgate and stayed the night. Later he regretted it. The dawn was breaking when he finally fell asleep. Staggering out of bed when the alarm sounded, he got through his regular morning rituals and to the office, still not feeling fully awake.
They held a short morning meeting, surveying the previous day. The divers had finished searching the lake around midnight. It had been more than empty, without even the usual empty bottles and wrecked bicycles. The only thing that caused a certain degree of interest was an animal carcass they thought was a roe deer that had died at the waterside and slid down into the depths.
Wisting made a list of what he intended to do that day. The first thing would be to go out to Stavern nursing home: it had been on his notepad for a while, and he wanted to make the trip that morning to ensure that nothing else got in the way.
At twelve o’clock he had an appointment with the psychiatrist. He had told Nils Hammer, who had looked at him sceptically until he realised that it was Hanne Richter’s psychiatrist he was talking about. He also considered initiating new interviews with the family members of the missing men, but doubted that he would be able to make a start on that today. In this particular phase of the investigation it was usual for unexpected things to happen, and it was difficult to hold to plans for an entire working day.
He signed out a service vehicle and went down to the garage. Camilla Thaulow’s red Fiesta was in the inspection area. Espen Mortensen stood there, noting something on a writing pad. ‘Found anything?’ he asked.
The crime scene technician pointed to a transparent bag containing a multi-coloured scarf with a checked pattern. ‘That’s about all. The water has washed away all traces.’
‘It matches her mother’s description,’ Wisting nodded, picking up the evidence bag. ‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing really. The keys are in the ignition, the gearstick in first. It was driven into the water at a relatively high speed.’ He pointed towards the car with his ballpoint pen. ‘No rigging of the pedals. The driver’s door was open, of course, so a piece of wood across the accelerator pedal could have fallen out, but it’s also possible that the driver sat behind the wheel, then crawled out and swam to land.’
‘Risky.’
‘Not really. You have to keep your nerve, but it would’ve been the surest way to get the car out into the water.’
‘Not exactly a job for a lady.’
‘Do you think she might have staged it herself?’ Mortensen asked.
Wisting shrugged. The idea had just fallen from his lips, a thought that had not been fully fleshed out. ‘It’s a possibility. This case is so incomprehensible I don’t know what to think.’
Mortensen told him that a report would be ready for him that afternoon. He asked him to continue and left.
The sun quickly warmed the cramped saloon car. Wisting adjusted the ventilators on the air conditioning so they were blowing directly at him, and looked thoughtfully through the windscreen. It was covered in the flattened remains of dead insects.
The fjord was milky-blue and calm. Today the beaches and rocky shores would fill up once more with volunteers searching for dead bodies.
Stavern nursing home was a two-storied brown-stained building with a flat roof and extensions coming off at various angles. It was an option for elderly people who, for health reasons, could no longer live at home. Wisting had visited the place one Christmas almost twenty years before, when Line sang in a children’s gospel choir in the foyer. An old building, it looked well maintained, but rather like a barracks. It was not a place he would choose to spend his old age. The staff had received good references in all the interviews and that was probably the deciding factor for residents to thrive.
Inga Svendsen, the departmental manager, greeted him, offering him coffee in her cramped, basement office. Folders, books and ring binders filled the shelves along the wall and the day’s newspapers lay open on the desk. Wisting
sat on the only visitor’s chair. She glanced inquisitively over at him, but at the same time appeared resigned. Wisting thought he recognised that look. It was holiday time, the place was certain to be understaffed and would be unbearably warm.
‘Can we talk about Camilla Thaulow first of all?’ he enquired.
‘She works in my department,’ Inga Svendsen confirmed. ‘This disappearance is very unlike her. She’s conscientious and has hardly ever been off sick.’ She gestured towards the computer screen. ‘She took a few days off when her mother had a hip operation two years ago, and since then hasn’t missed a single day.’
‘So, where can she be?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody here knows.’ She cleared away the newspapers in which the discovery of the red Fiesta was reported. ‘But I understand that it’s now a criminal investigation? This too.’
She was thinking of the missing men. Wisting avoided a reply by putting the cup to his lips. ‘What did her work involve?’ he asked.
‘She was a care worker, participating in occupational therapy and rehabilitation initiatives, helping the residents with practical assistance and taking care of daily tasks. Personal hygiene, morning and evening care and feeding for those who need help.’
‘Was there anyone here she had more contact with than others?’
‘Those who worked permanently on the same shift, of course,’ the departmental manager nodded, rattling off a few names. ‘She was well liked by everyone, both staff and patients.’
Wisting posed a few different questions in the hope of discovering some possible trigger for her disappearance, or something that could be connected to the two other disappearances, but made no progress. Nor did he find out anything more about Otto Saga and Torkel Lauritzen.
‘Torkel had almost become too healthy to stay here,’ she explained. ‘He didn’t have the same need for care and support as when he was admitted. The nursing home was not the right place for Otto either. He had more of a social disability and should have been in a dementia wing.’
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