‘A lawyer?’ No. The police asked me exactly the same question. I’ve no idea what that could be about.’
‘Do you know why he was in contact with the local paper, the Fredrikstad Blad?’
Torgeir Roxrud leaned back in his chair. ‘You obviously know almost more about Jonas than I do. How did you find out all this?’
Line shot him a disarming smile. ‘We have our methods,’ she replied, aware herself how stupid it sounded.
‘He didn’t get the paper delivered on a couple of days,’ he explained. ‘It was probably a new delivery boy, but it got sorted out after he phoned and spoke to them.’
Nodding, Line glanced through her notes. She had underlined girlfriend and before Fredrikstad. ‘Where did he live previously?’
‘On the other side of the fjord. In Vestfold. Down in Larvik.’
‘Isn’t that where you come from, Line?’ the photographer asked.
Line nodded. The connection sparked her curiosity. ‘Do you know why he moved here to Fredrikstad?’
Torgeir Roxrud coughed. ‘I don’t think he really moved to Fredrikstad,’ he answered. ‘It wasn’t so important where he settled. I think it was more a case of moving away from something.’
30
According to the report Erik Fjeld had photographed on the sly during the press conference, Christianne Grepstad was the police’s only witness in addition to the man who had stumbled on Jonas Ravneberg. She lived in a renovated timber house five hundred metres from the discovery site. She had seen the murder victim and his dog a short time before he was killed.
Line drove past her home and, noticing light in the windows, turned, drove back and parked beside the hedge.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Erik Fjeld asked, reaching for his camera. ‘If not, I can sit here and edit the photos.’
‘Wait here, then,’ Line said. ‘I’m not sure she’ll want to talk to us.’
She jumped from the car and walked through the gate, the paved courtyard slick from all the rain. A Volvo was parked outside the double garage, and a bicycle lay upturned beside the gable wall, wheels in the air.
Line rang the doorbell. Part of the house interior was visible through a window beside the door. It appeared spacious, airy and inviting. A woman approached the entrance, her head tilted slightly for an advance look at the uninvited guest, a toddler trailing in her wake.
‘Hello,’ Line said, showing her press card. ‘My name is Line Wisting and I work for VG. I wondered if I could talk to you about the man who was murdered yesterday.’ The child clung to his mother’s legs. ‘I tried to phone you earlier today. I just wanted to hear what you knew about it.’
The woman nodded as though acknowledging Line’s call. ‘I don’t know much about it,’ she said.
‘Do you have some time?’ I can come back later if it’s not convenient.’
‘It’s fine.’ The woman stood aside to let her enter. ‘My husband’s on a business trip.’
Line was shown into a large kitchen with an open gas fireplace where a realistic-looking mound of imitation coal was burning cheerily. A tray of newly baked buns sat on the kitchen worktop. The enticing aroma hung in the air.
‘We’ve just been baking,’ Christianne Grepstad explained, lifting the child onto a chair. ‘Would you like a taste?’
‘Yes please,’ Line said with a smile.
Christianne Grepstad transferred the buns to a serving plate and laid the table with some plates. She was probably around Line’s age, twenty-eight, maybe slightly younger, but already settled with a husband, child and house.
Increasingly often, she met women of her own age who had advanced further in life than she had done. It did not bother her significantly. She had always thought she would like a family and children sometime in the future. For the present, she enjoyed being free, able to spend her time as she pleased, to work overtime without feeling guilt. Sometimes she felt bad that she had not met a new man since Tommy Kvanter, but the last thing she wanted was to be stuck with a man who was, quite clearly, no good for her. An older female colleague had been in a relationship with a married arts journalist for almost ten years, and Line had promised herself that she would never end up in a relationship with no future.
‘What do you know about the case?’ she asked, shaking off her thoughts.
‘I don’t really know anything, but I think I saw him. Tea?’
‘That would be lovely, but who did you see?’
Christianne Grepstad filled the kettle. ‘The man who died,’ she said, producing a carton of teabags and a sugar bowl. ‘At least I think it was him, out walking his dog. He was wearing waterproofs, just like they said. I thought I should report it. The police asked everyone who had seen him to contact them.’
The child’s chubby fingers grabbed at a plastic cup.
‘Where did you see him?’
The youngster banged the cup on the table before throwing it on the floor and glancing at his mother with coal black eyes.
‘Down in the Old Town,’ she replied, retrieving the cup. ‘I’d been at a café with a couple of friends and spotted him on my way home. He was standing outside the bookshop.’
Line, unfamiliar with the area, asked the woman for more information. She had studied the map on her computer and understood that the area was situated inside the star-shaped ramparts, directly west of the location where Jonas Ravneberg was found. ‘Do you know what time it was?’
‘I know I left the café at half past nine. That’s only a block away.’
The tip-off had been phoned in to the newspaper at ten to ten. At a rough estimate, Jonas Ravneberg had been killed ten to fifteen minutes after Christianne Grepstad had seen him. ‘Was he alone?’
‘Yes,’ the woman answered, pouring boiling water into the cups. ‘It looked as if he was waiting for someone or something.’
Line chose green tea. ‘What made you think that?’
‘I don’t know. He was just, sort of standing there. The police asked the same thing. I’ve thought about it since, but can’t really explain it any other way. I just had a feeling he was about to do something illegal and was waiting for the coast to be clear.’
‘Something illegal? What could that be?’
Christianne Grepstad helped herself to a bun. ‘It was only a feeling I had, but I think he was hiding something.’
‘In what way?’
‘He was standing with his hand inside his rain jacket. Exactly as if he was holding something he didn’t want to get wet.’
Line stirred her tea, picturing Jonas Ravneberg waiting in the rain.
‘Did you meet anyone?’ she asked, drinking her tea. ‘When you walked on?’
The woman considered this before shaking her head.
‘Not that I can think of, but I remember him clearly. I had a bad feeling about him. He seemed to follow me with his eyes. Small, dark eyes. It’s not something I’ve invented now just because I know he’s dead. I thought it then too. I remember I turned round and looked to see if he was following me, but he just stood there watching me.’ The little boy’s cup fell to the floor again. This time it was left lying. ‘He’ll be going to bed soon.’
‘Did the police ask you anything else?’ Line continued. It was always interesting to hear what angle the investigators put on their questions.
‘They asked the same things as you, but I had to tell them what sort of clothes I was wearing, where I had walked, who I’d been with at the café and what other people I’d seen. To map it out, they told me.’
The rain had started again by the time she left, and she scurried across the street with her head bowed. Erik Fjeld glanced at her inquisitively as she sat behind the wheel. ‘Anything new?’
‘Not really,’ Line replied, switching on the GPS. ‘She had seen Jonas Ravneberg and his dog outside a bookshop in the Old Town.’
‘What was he doing there?’
‘Waiting for something or someone.’
Erik Fjeld fell into sil
ence while Line squinted at the tiny map on the display. Once she had her bearings, she drove onto the main road and past a graveyard until a signpost indicated the direction to the Old Town. She followed the instructions and drove through an avenue of old, leafless trees. Shortly afterwards, the asphalt road was replaced by cobblestones glistening in the rain below the streetlights. The uneven surface made the vehicle shudder.
Just inside the ramparts encircling the old fortress, a large open square divided the road in two. Directly ahead was a block of four old timber houses, the largest one containing a small hairdressers’ salon and a Libris bookshop on the ground floor. Line drew up at the kerb. A small, stout woman holding a red umbrella emerged from one side.
‘What are you planning to do?’ Erik Fjeld asked.
‘I’m not sure.’ Line looked back along the road. The ramparts blocked her view, otherwise they could have seen the spot where Jonas Ravneberg had been murdered.
The lady with the brolly glanced inside the car as she passed. Behind her came a younger man, walking with one hand inside his jacket. As he approached he brought out a thick, grey envelope, crossed over to the bookshop entrance and inserted it in a red postbox on the wall.
Line stared at his retreating back. ‘He posted something,’ she said.
‘I saw that,’ Erik Fjeld agreed.
‘I don’t mean him. Jonas Ravneberg. He posted something just before he was killed.’
31
It had grown dark outside without Wisting noticing, a drizzly dusk that was not actually night, but dark nevertheless. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His aim was to find out which police officer could have planted the DNA evidence and, without anything specific to work on, he had decided to read all the case documents afresh. He had to acknowledge he lacked focus.
His own thoughts continually strayed to Rudolf Haglund. Could there be something they had overlooked seventeen years ago? Something he had skated over and neglected to make everything fit? So far he had not found anything pointing towards Rudolf Haglund’s innocence, but neither had he found anything that supported his guilt.
He switched on the wall lamp, and its light showed his face floating indistinctly on the windowpane. His eyes looked back at him with unfamiliar emptiness. He blinked and embarked on a new document, the report of the photo lineup conducted with Karsten Brekke, the witness on the tractor.
Nils Hammer had organised the lineup in accordance with the rules laid down by the Director General of Public Prosecution. The most important of these was that the witness, who was expected to point out the wanted man, was presented with a number of choices and was not to be influenced in any particular direction.
Karsten Brekke had repeated the description he had given of the unknown man beside the white Opel, corresponding closely to Rudolf Haglund. After this, he was shown pictures of twelve men of similar age with the same face shape and hair colour. The photos were laid out on a wall chart, divided into four rows with three pictures in each row. An A4-sized copy of the wall chart was stapled to the report. Rudolf Haglund was number two in the second row, placing him more or less in the middle of the sheet. He was the first person Wisting’s eyes alighted on. That could, of course, be because Wisting was familiar with his face, but could also be because the eyes have a tendency to be drawn towards the centre.
Karsten Brekke had pointed out Haglund and his choice of words was recorded in the report. ‘That’s him. Number five.’ When asked how sure he was, he had replied: ‘As sure as it’s possible to be.’
After the identification there had been a break in the interview before Karsten Brekke had been called in again and shown the same pictures, this time in a different order. On this occasion, Rudolf Haglund was number eleven in the lineup. Karsten Brekke was equally sure.
The next document in the case was an Arrest Warrant, signed and stamped by Audun Vetti.
The photo lineup had been the basis of their case against Haglund, a crucial step and, strictly speaking, a more critical breakthrough than the DNA result. If Karsten Brekke had not recognised Rudolf Haglund, they would not have had the opportunity to collect a reference sample from him for comparison with the analysis result from the cigarette butts.
The photo used was acquired from the police’s own criminal records, taken in connection with the indecent exposure complaints made against him two years before. His appearance was almost unchanged.
Wisting re-read the report. It was difficult for someone who had not been in the same room to judge how far Karsten Brekke might have been influenced in any way. The position of the pictures was random, according to Nils Hammer, and there was no reason to believe that the central placing of the suspect was intentional. Nonetheless, it was a weakness that Nils Hammer had been alone during the process. The guidelines stated that a photo lineup ought to be arranged and conducted by a senior police officer accompanied by at least one assistant.
He laid aside the report, suddenly aware that he was hungry. It dawned on him that he had not eaten all day. He crossed to the kitchen worktop and poured a glass of water. It was eight o’clock and he decided to sit for another hour before going home.
The report of the photo lineup lay open on the settee. Wisting drank half the water before refilling the glass and bringing it back with him. He resumed his seat and held up the wall chart with the photos to the light. The eleven other men were an arbitrary selection who, judging by appearances, had been drawn from the photo records. They were pictured in profile as well as full face. Wisting did not know any of them.
He flicked through to where Hammer described how the lineup had been conducted. No reference was made of bringing to Karsten Brekke’s attention that the wanted man was not necessarily among the twelve photographs. This point was intended to relieve the witness of pressure, and eliminate a possible source of mistaken identification. Hammer might have mentioned it without it being recorded, but it was striking that it had not been included when the report was otherwise so painfully exact with, for example, Karsten Brekke’s statements in quotation marks.
He leafed back to the photos. The sheet was a third of the size of the original wall chart, and moreover it was a black and white copy, making the details difficult to distinguish. All the men had similar features, but it looked as though only Rudolf Haglund had a crooked nose.
Wisting took the sheet with him to the kitchen worktop to study more closely in the harsh light. The men were around the same age and had identically shaped faces, but the position of the eyes and the nose structure were inconsistent, with Rudolf Haglund quite distinctive thanks to the deep depression on his nasal bone. His nose was not flat, like a boxer’s, but looked as if it had been smashed in at one time, which was how Karsten Brekke had described the unknown man at the initial interview.
Wisting riffled back through the papers and re-read the description. A Norwegian man, aged around thirty. About five foot nine, with dark hair and a conspicuous break in his nose. This was the description they had released that had triggered the list project. They had gathered ninety-three tip-offs about men fitting that description. Ninety-two of them had been filtered out, leaving them with Rudolf Haglund.
In advance of the photo lineup, Karsten Brekke had repeated his description of the man. Wisting read it again: about thirty years of age, dark hair, broad face, strong chin and dark, close-set eyes. The description of the nose was left out. This could have been an oversight, but Wisting had difficulty believing that. Such individual characteristics were valuable to investigators. It was this kind of detail that had contributed to Wisting’s conviction that Haglund was the right man.
He could not shake off the suspicion that Nils Hammer might have withheld that detail to make it more difficult for anyone who read the report to notice that the witness’ attention could have been drawn to one person in particular, rather than equally focused on all the pictures.
32
Two questions had been central in the Cecilia case: who had done it, and why?
When they knew, or thought they knew, the answer to who, the question why had been overshadowed. It had never been answered. It was easy to guess that the abduction had been sexually motivated, and the murder committed to cover up the original crime. However, Cecilia had not been sexually abused. She was naked when she was found, but that was the only aspect to suggest a sexual motive. No semen residue or other traces of the perpetrator had been discovered on her body.
Forensic science had made tremendous progress in seventeen years. At that time, the laboratories were almost completely dependent on recovering saliva, blood or semen in order to isolate DNA. Now, it was sufficient for the perpetrator to be in contact with an object or person.
The folder of illustrations showed the naked corpse on the autopsy table. The skin was paler at her bust and crotch as though she had been sunbathing in a bikini. Her waist and hips were slender, and her pubic hair was fair and trimmed. Her breasts were small, round and firm with dark nipples. A red graze ran from her waist down to her pelvic bone, thought by the pathologists to have been sustained when she rolled down the gravel verge where her body was found. Apart from that, her skin was smooth, with no birthmarks or scars. She had small hands and feet, fingernails varnished red, and a border had grown close to her cuticles. Her face was impassive and her complexion bluish white. Her eyes were half-closed, but there were tiny specks of blood on the whites, and pupils with grey, glistening splinters that drew him into the picture. A vacant gaze somewhere between fear and oblivion.
Her nakedness might have been meant to lead the investigators astray. The actual motive might have been something different, but it was perplexing to imagine what on earth that might have been – at least, with Rudolf Haglund as the perpetrator.
The judicial observations were included as document number fifty-eight in the red folder, giving a deeper insight into Haglund’s personality than had the interviews. The purpose of a psychiatric examination is to determine diminished responsibility, or otherwise. Examination was dependent on the prisoner being willing to participate in discussions with two specialists. This made interesting reading, in which his family, upbringing, schooldays, working life, health and sex life were described from a different point of view from that of the strictly professional police officer.
The Hunting Dogs Page 11
