Wisting smiled at her.
‘By chance?’ he asked.
‘It seems to be, anyhow.’
CHAPTER 34
Wisting sat beneath the outdoor wall light, placing the package wrapped in grey paper on his lap. It was one of those rare evenings with no chill in the air, which was soft and soothing.
He tore off the paper and threw it down at his side, glanced at the formal dispatch communication from the police in Sondre Buskerud prior to leafing through the yellowing documents.
The file of criminal proceedings against Ken Ronny Hauge was not thick. He estimated that he would take a couple of hours to read through the papers concerning the case.
The file was organised with contents lists of the police reports, witnesses, technical investigations and a separate list of documents for everything connected with the defendant.
He began with the report that had been written by the first patrol to arrive on the scene where Constable Edgar Bisjord was found shot dead on that September night in 1991. It did not contain much more than cold factual information about time and place: who had raised the alarm about the discovery and how the crime scene had been secured.
The reports from the crime technicians at Kripos, the national criminal investigation department, were more interesting and revealed how the investigators had got on the track of the perpetrator within a few hours.
The introductory report was divided into three parts. It described the victim, the police car and the surrounding area. The crime scene investigation gave a good impression of what had happened. There was a description of two sets of tyre tracks leading on to a side road. One set belonged to the police car, and the other was from an unknown vehicle that had turned at the end of the road and left behind deep marks on the gravel after accelerating out again.
Edgar Bisjord must have come across a suspicious car, indicated for it to stop, and then followed it along the short side road until it came to a halt. Subsequently, the young policeman had got out of the police car and approached the vehicle.
It was something that all policemen on patrol do countless times while on duty. Vehicle registration document and driver’s licence were checked. A missing backlight or speed was commented on before the driver was sent on his way, sometimes with a fine or a checklist.
However, on the night of 23rd September in 1991, it had developed into something completely different from a routine inspection. A weapon was pulled out and seconds later, the policeman was lying dead on the ground.
Wisting leafed through the folder of illustrations. The uniform cap was lying one metre away from his dead colleague. The coloured pictures of the policeman lying on his back made an impression. The blood had spread into the grey, dry gravel underneath him. His eyes were wide open and fixed in what looked like panic. Round his mouth there were thick crusts of congealed mucus and froth.
He closed the folder of photographs and went back to the text. The most important find that the crime scene investigators came up with was on the passenger seat of the police car. Edgar Bisjord had written down a car number on a writing pad: LS10424. A yellow Opel Ascona registered to Ken Ronny Hauge from Helgeroa. As a final duty, Edgar Bisjord had jotted down the number of the car he was stopping.
Ken Ronny Hauge was arrested at 7.45 pm, less than twenty-four hours after the murder. The police in Larvik assisted in the arrest and Wisting recognised the names of some of his retired colleagues.
A moth was dancing round the light above him, casting flickering shadows on the pages of the report. Wisting made a note of some keywords on the notepad lying on the armrest and leafed through the pages.
The crucial piece of evidence was the residue that was taken from Ken Ronny Hauge’s hands. Tiny percussion cap particles indicated that he had handled a weapon during the hours leading up to his arrest.
Ballistic tests on the bullets established that Edgar Bisjord had been killed with a Colt M1914. The murder weapon was never found, but from the investigation material it appeared that the accused’s grandfather, Christian Hauge, was listed in the weapons register as possessing a similar weapon that had been reported missing several years earlier. At the trial it was concluded that Ken Ronny Hauge had stolen it from his grandfather at some earlier time.
The evidence was actually overwhelming. The amazing thing about the case was that Ken Ronny Hauge never offered any kind of admission. At the trial he had declared himself not guilty but did not come out with any explanation about what he had done or not done on that fateful night.
Wisting grew thoughtful. He had never known a case that had been so open and shut, but in which the perpetrator nevertheless chose not to explain himself, if for no other reason than to come out with his own version of events, or to co-operate in exchange for a lighter sentence. It only happened in cases in which the truth was worse than the facts the police had already presented.
Buster came creeping through the open verandah door. He had eaten well and was full of scraps; he sat down in front of Wisting and started licking his paws.
‘Will you sit there much longer?’ Line asked from the doorway.
Wisting glanced at the clock. It was already past midnight.
‘No,’ he said, packing up the case files. ‘I’ll stop now. What about you?’
‘I’m going out for a drive, just to think about something else.’
Wisting got up and followed her into the house. She threw on a jacket, kissed him on the cheek, and disappeared outside.
Thoughts about what had really happened at Eikeren that time eighteen years previously accompanied him into the bathroom and while he got himself ready for bed. Ken Ronny Hauge had fired a shot to escape, but he found nothing in the case files about why he had done it. The only logical explanation was that he had been in possession of something in the car that he had to hide. Could his silence indicate that he was not alone? That he had an accomplice he wanted to protect?
Wisting read through his notes one more time before putting them on the bedside table, switching off the light and turning to face the wall.
Dawn was breaking when he fell asleep.
CHAPTER 35
Erling Tunberg was ten years old. He had spent every single summer in the caravan at Lydhusstranda beach together with his parents and sister, who was four years older.
He had wakened early, before everyone else in the entire place, and he knew why. It was Sunday, and today Even would arrive.
It had always been like that. Even came down one week later than he did. It was a long week in which he just waited and thought about all the things they would do together, swimming, diving, cycle trips, crab fishing, late nights. His mother called them summer friends.
It was just as though there were only the two of them. They met other boys too, but it wasn’t the same.
He lay for a long time, listening to the unfamiliar silence. Usually there were lots of sounds outside, footsteps on the road, people talking round a table or a radio that was left switched on.
After ten minutes he got up. The others were still sleeping. He put on his tracksuit trousers and a T-shirt, took a packet of biscuits with him, and went out under the awning.
He looked out through the plastic window as he chewed on a biscuit.
The sun had scarcely risen - the first rays came projecting across the Naver fjord. He stuck his feet into a pair of sandals, zipped up his jumper and went out. The grass was wet with morning dew. A slight breeze touched his skin. A car passed up on the road. Apart from the sound of the waves it was completely silent.
He walked to the shore, right down to the water, and took a few quick steps backwards before the waves erased his footprints again. He liked waves. They kind of belonged with everything that had to do with the sea. At home in Gjovik they had Lake Mjosa, but that was not the same. There was so much to look at here. Stones and shells in different colours and sizes. A bird’s feather. He bent down, picked up a stone and wiped the grains of sand off it. A variety of patterns em
erged. It was rubbed completely smooth and round by the movements of the water. He skimmed it across the surface and saw how it shot high up in the air in a curve before being swallowed by the waiting sea.
He lifted up a stick that had been washed ashore, using it as a walking stick when he clambered up the hill that separated Lydhusstranda from the beach known as Fristranda. Teenagers gathered here in the evenings. They sat round a bonfire, sang songs and drank beer without disturbing anyone. During the daytime there were hardly ever any people. The green grassy hills and the gradual slope down to the sea were full of large stone blocks, and the bottom of the sea was covered in shells and seaweed. His father had told him that it was the Germans who had strewn the cove with the stones during the war to prevent the English from landing there.
Erling squinted up at the sun that was glittering on the water, screwing up his eyes so that he could see better. Something was lying down there between the stones, a couple of metres from land. An object lay jostling with the pebbles to the rhythm of the rushing waves.
He crawled down from the hillside and came closer. It was a black bin-bag filled with - something or other. The waves pulled at it, but couldn’t manage to bring it further in.
A man with a white Labrador appeared on the path at the other end of the beach. The dog was running free, jumping at the water. The owner called to it when he noticed Erling, but the dog did not obey. It came right over to greet him
Erling hunkered down and clapped it on the head. The dog wriggled away, stood with its nose towards the water, and gave a couple of penetrating barks. His ears lay flat while its tail went down and wagged stiffly. Erling took a couple of steps away.
The man approached them, scolded the dog and fastened the lead onto its collar. ‘It won’t do any harm,’ he smiled, pulling the dog towards him.
Erling didn’t say anything, but stood watching until they disappeared into the woods at the back of the beach area.
He could see that the side of the bin-bag was torn and that something wrapped in a white plastic bag was inside it.
He kicked his sandals off, pulled his trousers up to his knees and began to wade out. The water was cool. The round stones at the bottom made it painful to walk and he held his arms out at each side to keep his balance. He knew that it most probably was rubbish that somebody had thrown overboard from a boat, but it could just as easily be something else. He had heard of smugglers who dropped drugs from boats. Even if it was only rubbish, the bag couldn’t be left lying in the water. He should drag it out and put it in the container over at the shop.
He poked the stick tentatively into the tear on the bag. It came into contact with something soft. He bent down and folded the plastic to one side. There were four bags tied together in there. He lifted one of them out and placed it on a flat stone. The knot was tight, and he couldn’t manage to untie it. Instead he got hold of it with both hands and tore up the bag. The sight caused him to take an automatic step back. The first thing he thought was that he had to show this to Even.
CHAPTER 36
William Wisting and Nils Hammer stood behind Espen Mortensen, each with a cup of coffee, gazing at his computer screen.
‘The mini submarine took to the water an hour ago,’ Mortensen explained. ‘They had a bit of a problem with the cable winch, but now they’re on the move.’
The floodlight from the mini submarine cast its light far ahead. Visibility would be about ten metres. The video pictures had a blue-green tinge to them, but they were good and clear.
The bottom of the sea was surprisingly flat, a grey carpet of fine-grained sludge. Several colonies of stem-like coral protruded from the soft seabed, resembling feathers standing waving with the movement of the water. The currents had created furrows in the underwater landscape, and in some places the seabed was pierced by a variety of bottom-dwelling creatures to form small dimples and holes.
A couple of fish swam past without showing any apparent interest in the large vessel that had invaded their realm, their blank, black eyes searching for food. The floodlights made their slender bodies shine as though they were oiled with a silvery lustre before they suddenly took off and disappeared.
The display on the lower edge of the computer screen showed the time as 08.35, that the mini submarine was moving forward at a speed of 1.8 knots, and that it was at a depth of 364 metres. Other figures gave the current amplification factor and the position.
‘Can they use the sonar?’ Hammer enquired.
‘Yes, but they can’t locate a corpse or smaller objects with it.’
Wisting drank from his cup. He was impressed by the technology and the possibilities it opened up, but he was sceptical as to whether they would manage to find anything even with this advanced equipment. No matter what, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
He brought his cup with him back to his office, took out the container from the health-food shop and picked out two capsules that he gulped down with his coffee. The herbal tablets actually were making him feel a bit better.
A pile of new reports and interview records had been placed on his desk. The one on the top had been written by Torunn Borg and was a summary of interviews she had conducted with the staff at Stavern nursing home. The conclusion was that none of Camilla Thaulow’s colleagues could shed any light on her disappearance, or steer them towards the fate of the two missing residents.
Camilla Thaulow was described as a shy and reserved woman whom it took a while to get to know, and even those who had worked with her for a long time knew little about who she really was.
Torunn Borg appeared at the door to sum up what he had already realised from his reading. There was nothing new.
She sat in the chair facing him, smoothing her hair back from her forehead with a resigned movement. Her brown eyes were tired and had dark circles round them.
‘I’ve been thinking about something,’ she said by way of commentary on the fruitless work she had carried out. ‘Perhaps we should have talked with the patients instead? I’ve a feeling that she almost talked more to them than to her colleagues.’
Wisting had to admit that he hadn’t thought of that, but she was of course correct. They needed to go round all the residents as well.
‘Aren’t many of them senile?’ he asked.
‘They have a protected wing for those with senile dementia, but Camilla Thaulow didn’t work there.’
‘How many people are we talking about?’
‘Fifteen, so it’ll take time to talk to them. They are old people, you know.’
‘Can you take someone along with you?’
She got up.
‘Who should I take?’
Wisting shook his head. Torunn Borg smiled back at him.
‘I’ll drive over there and make a start this morning,’ she said. ‘They’re sure to be up early.’
She went to the door, but stopped and turned to face him.
‘I didn’t put it in the report, but I asked them a little about Christian Hauge too.’
‘Yes?’
‘It was one of the nurses who expressed it well: there was a bond between them.’
‘Otto Saga, Torkel Lauritzen and Christian Hauge,’ Wisting suggested.
Torunn Borg took a couple of steps back into the room.
‘But then something happened. They were in the habit of eating together and sitting together in the common room, discussing things far into the evenings, but Hauge withdrew from that. Isolated himself, in a way.’
‘Do they know why?’
Torunn Borg shrugged her shoulders.
‘No, but I think it might have something to do with the grandson.’
‘The police murderer?’
‘It started after he was released. He visited a few times. I think his grandfather was ashamed.’
She turned and disappeared out of the room before Wisting had a chance to enquire more closely about what she meant.
He spent an hour reading through the remainder of the re
ports. Most of them were concerned with tips about possible sightings of Camilla Thaulow and her car. Those pieces of information that seemed interesting at the outset were checked out, without leading to anything.
Then he made up his mind. It was a sidetrack, but he couldn’t get round it. He got up from his seat, went down to the basement and took out a service vehicle.
The gate at the end of the dusty gravel track was open. Wisting drove through, up a final hump and down a hill.
Ken Ronny Hauge lived in an old skipper’s house beside the water. The place was situated on the inside of a cove where it was less windy. A bare-chested man stood bent over the bonnet of an old American car, but glanced up when Wisting swung into the yard. A dog ran barking towards him from the barn before running back to lie in front of his master’s feet.
Wisting slammed the car door shut and approached the man.
‘This is the first time,’ Ken Ronny Hauge said, greeting him with an outstretched hand.
‘What is?’ Wisting asked, shaking his hand.
‘That I’ve had a visit from the police.’ He reached out for a white T-shirt and put it on. ‘I had expected to be pestered long before now.’
‘I hadn’t thought to pester you,’ Wisting said, attempting a disarming smile.
‘I know who you are,’ the other man smiled back, directing Wisting to a seat in front of the main house. ‘Your daughter was here on Friday, but that’s probably not why you’ve come.’
Wisting shook his head. He didn’t have any questions ready and had to feel his way forward.
‘We’re conducting an investigation,’ he commenced.
‘I’ve noticed that,’ the other man said, nodding in the direction of the previous day’s newspapers on the table. ‘But hadn’t expected to be part of it.’
‘And you’re not, but your grandfather has a peripheral role.’
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