Haglund had been born and brought up in Skien, and described his early childhood years as happy. An only child, his parents had been of mature years when he was born. His father worked in the postal service, while his mother had a part-time job in a shoe shop. When he was eight years old, his father contracted stomach cancer that spread to other organs in his body. He was treated with chemotherapy and lived with the cancer for five years. However, his illness changed him. He became irritable and angry, and Rudolf Haglund was on the receiving end of frequent blows. At the same time, his mother suffered from nervous problems. As far as the boy was concerned, his whole life was knocked out of kilter. Among other things, he became a bed-wetter, and was alienated from everyone and everything. He was bullied at school, but was tall and robust for his age and retaliated. He could also assert himself by violent means in other situations and was regularly suspended following violence against teachers. Violence directed at his mother was also mentioned.
He had not managed to cope in theoretical subjects and halfway through his eighth year of schooling was transferred to a special needs school. After junior high, he obtained a place at a technical college but felt out of place and dropped out. His aggressive impulses isolated him, and he was found to be unfit for military service.
His mother committed suicide on his twentieth birthday, leaving him without family ties. With the money he inherited, he severed his connection to his hometown and moved to Larvik, where he bought a house in the rural location of Dolven.
Through the employment office, he obtained a position at a furniture warehouse, where he coped well and, after a probationary period, was offered a permanent post, a post he still held at the time of his arrest.
Emotionally, he had difficulty distinguishing between feelings of unhappiness, disappointment and anger. Insignificant things, such as not being able to tie his shoelace, could rouse his temper. He felt solitary, but not that his existence was empty. He was content on his own and enjoyed going for long walks in the forests and fields, most especially going fishing.
A separate paragraph was devoted to his sex life. His sexual debut had taken place at the age of sixteen, with a girl of the same age, but they had not become a couple. After he moved to Larvik, he entered a relationship with a woman in the neighbourhood. She was thirteen years older and the liaison ended when she moved to western Norway. After this, he had only casual sex with partners found via personal ads in specialist magazines. He had frankly admitted to being sexually stimulated by sadism and domination of his sexual partner.
The conclusion of the experts had been that Haglund did not have any symptoms or behavioural traits indicative of a psychotic condition. The strength of his mental faculties had not been so simple to establish. His intelligence quotient lay well within the normal range, but he appeared to have deficiencies in personality development, especially in his ability to control his aggressive impulses. Despite his intellectual capacity being insufficiently developed, it was estimated that he was not permanently impaired. He was considered criminally liable and able to be prosecuted according to the law.
As far as the investigators were concerned, the legal psychiatric declaration was further confirmation that Rudolf Haglund was Cecilia’s murderer: a man who committed violent crimes against women.
Wisting checked his mobile phone. The list of unanswered calls had lengthened, but there were none from either Line or Suzanne. It was nearly ten o’clock, later than he had anticipated. He left the papers and his own notes lying, but closed the curtains before pulling on his jacket and going out, locking the door behind him.
The cold air that hit him full force was filled with the raw salt tang of the sea. Inhaling deeply, he stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, before heading along the path to the parking area. The downpour had made the little patch of grass fronting the cottage quite muddy, and he walked in a sweeping curve to avoid the worst of the puddles.
When he started the engine, the radio station was in the midst of a news bulletin, reporting a politician charged with sexual abuse of underage boys. He was about to switch off when the newsreader announced that the police had reported seventeen-year-old Linnea Kaupang from Larvik missing. She had been gone since Friday, and they had not ruled out the possibility that she was the victim of a crime. After providing a short description, an appeal was made for anyone who had sighted her to contact the police.
Wisting switched off the radio and drove though the silent darkness, deep in thought. He should have been at the police station so that he could be entirely certain everything possible was being done to find the missing girl and whoever had probably violated her.
33
Alone in her hotel room, Line lay half undressed on her stomach on the wide bed with her laptop in front of her. The police had confirmed the identity of the murder victim, clearing the way for her to write about the homicide.
The story had four elements. She used the mysterious break-in to whet the reader’s interest, following it up with the lawyer’s appointment that was never kept. The third element was a pen portrait of the dead man, based on her meeting with Torgeir Roxrud and the final section was of the ‘this is where the murder victim was last seen’ type. She was convinced she had more material than anyone else, but found it difficult to get the words down on paper. Her thoughts strayed to her father and his astonishing ability to accept his predicament and view it from the outside. He had seemed so calm and collected.
There were two ways to clear his name, she reasoned. One was finding who had planted the cigarette evidence. The other was finding something fresh in the wider Cecilia case. Both seemed hopeless, at least for one man working on his own.
She decided to visit him the following day, helping him at the same time as following the leads on Jonas Ravneberg, who had been in a relationship and lived in Larvik before moving to Fredrikstad. She wrote an email to one of the researchers at the newspaper, asking if they could locate something from the deeds registry or historic address data from the National Population Register.
Moving to a sitting position, she made an effort to focus on the story again. The news editor wanted a whole page spread, which meant 3,500 characters. She had no problem filling the space. On the contrary, she had to squeeze the maximum information into the minimum space, making it concise and succinct. She was usually good at that, but now everything was drifting in all directions.
The detective who had interviewed her about the assault outside Jonas Ravneberg’s house had asked her to phone if she remembered anything else. She glanced at the model car. Elvis Presley’s Cadillac. She had stored the number on her mobile. Now she took it out and called. ‘I thought of something,’ she said, after introducing herself. ‘Something I found outside Jonas Ravneberg’s house.’
‘What was that?’
Line rose from the bed and crossed to the window. ‘A little car. I thought at first that it was a toy belonging to one of the children in the neighbourhood. But it seems that it might be a valuable model car, the kind people collect. It’s old and in good condition.’
‘So?’
‘Do you know if Ravneberg collected such things?’
The investigator hesitated. ‘There are several of them in his living room,’ he said.
‘Have you discovered what the killer took?’
‘Do you have the car in your possession?’
‘Yes. Do you think that’s what he was looking for?’ Line drew the curtains and picked up the model car.
The man was again hesitant. ‘No,’ he replied.
‘Do you know why he took it with him, then?’
The policeman declined to answer. ‘I’ll come and collect it. Where are you?’
She gave him the name of her hotel.
‘I can be there in half an hour.’
‘Okay, but there’s something else.’
‘Fire away.’
Line flipped the boot of the model car up and down. ‘Have you checked the mail?’
She made the question as challenging as possible.
‘The mail?’
‘We’re writing in the paper tomorrow that Jonas Ravneberg was last seen in the square at the entrance to the Old Town. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a postbox there. Do you think he might have posted something?’
Yet again there was silence at the other end of the line. ‘That would be mere speculation. I’ll come and collect that model car.’
Line stretched out on the bed once the conversation was over, feeling she had done well. She had presented her inadvertent removal of a possible piece of evidence and drawn his attention to the postbox without expressing it as a report. It was probably too late all the same. The mail was more than likely already uplifted.
Half an hour later she finished her story.
She put on her trousers again and straightened the bed cover, crossing her fingers that the policeman would turn up soon. She had caught little sleep in the past twenty-four hours, and had to make an effort to restore her strength.
Slumping in the chair, she flicked through the channels without finding anything of interest, got to her feet again and pulled the curtains aside. The unremitting rain formed beads of water on the glass, drawing a veil over the outside world. An ambulance, blue light flashing, passed on the street below as someone knocked. She picked up the model car en route to the door. When she opened she quickly took a step back. It was not the police officer, but Tommy.
She had not set eyes on him for almost three months. They had been together for more than two years, but last autumn had separated in a mutual understanding that it was for the best. However, it had been more difficult for her to move on than she had appreciated. After Tommy, she continually measured all others against him.
He was exactly her type: laidback, intellectual and interested in culture. He was fearless and radiated the sort of cool craziness that shouted out danger and gallantry, but his impulsive and inconsiderate side made her feel insecure.
Their chemistry was impossible to ignore. Line had never before experienced such a strong physical attraction, and it both mesmerised and appalled her. Now here he was with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted quizzically to one side.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
She did not invite him in, but embraced him out in the corridor, revelling in his body’s closeness.
‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered.
‘I had to know how you were.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘It said in the newspaper that you were in Fredrikstad. There aren’t too many hotels here.’
She returned his smile, taking several paces back into the room. He followed her, closing the door behind them. ‘How are you?’ he repeated.
‘‘My head’s a bit chaotic, but I’m fine, really.’
Tommy took hold of both her wrists and stared at her, searchingly. ‘You were attacked by the killer. Have you talked to anybody about it?’
‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve spoken to the police and the newspaper. They’ve offered me crisis intervention and all that stuff, but that’s not my style.’
‘I know,’ he answered, without letting go. ‘What about your father? Have you spoken to him?’
It struck her that the calm she felt since the attack must have been inherited from her father, the ability to create a distance from what had happened and not to allow the emotional response to gain the upper hand.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, pulling her towards him.
She could feel the muscles in his chest and one hand found its way up to his neck, where his soft, dark hair curled over his shirt collar. She twisted it round her fingers.
Pushing her away, he smiled slowly, leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘What have you got there?’ he asked.
She held up the model car. ‘Piece of evidence.’
There was a knock at the door. One of the staff from the hotel restaurant was standing outside, holding a tray with fruit, cheese and biscuits, and a bottle of wine. She wheeled round to face Tommy.
‘Put it down here,’ he said.
As the waiter passed she suddenly realised that she was wide-awake. Tommy took the bottle of wine and handed over a hundred kroner tip.
They tucked into the food sitting on the bed where she told him about her experience and what she thought about the accusations against her father. ‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ she added.
‘Would it be all right if I come with you?’
Someone rapped on the door again. ‘I’m actually expecting a visitor.’ He looked at her in surprise as she picked up the model car and took it with her to the door.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘Quite all right,’ Line said, handing the policeman the car and glancing back into the room behind her. ‘I wasn’t thinking of sleeping for a while yet anyway.’
34
William Wisting moved from sleep into full wakefulness. He ran his hand through his tangled hair, but his first coherent thought was of Linnea Kaupang and whether the night had brought any news of the girl with the yellow bow in her hair. He could not shake off the thought that, had he been on duty, he could have made a positive contribution.
He turned towards Suzanne, studying her sleeping face and speculating whether she understood that he could not have done what he was accused of. She had entered his life three years earlier, filling an immense void. He and Ingrid had known each other since primary school and shared nearly forty good years. He was confident she would have stood by him, and hoped Suzanne would too.
He followed his usual morning routine: showered, dressed, fetched the newspaper and sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Today, however, he left the TV switched off. The front page of the local paper was devoted to his suspension. He read the story, conceding that it was factually correct, including the information that William Wisting had not been available for comment.
The newspaper covered the latest disappearance as well, including a portrait of Linnea Kaupang, describing the search conducted by volunteers in a wooded area close to where she lived. Several of her school friends had taken part, and they had tied yellow ribbons, like the one Linnea had worn in her hair in the photograph, to their jackets.
He folded the newspaper, but sat thinking about how it was about to happen again. Yet another disappearance rocking the local community. Ellen Robekk, Cecilia Linde and now Linnea Kaupang. In those days, seventeen and eighteen years earlier, he had spent almost every waking hour searching for Ellen and Cecilia. He prepared to leave. Ingrid would have had an equally restless night and been downstairs by now.
He decided to let Suzanne sleep, scribbling a note to let her know that he had gone to the cottage. Leaving the house allowed him to retain part of his routine, although it felt strange heading out towards the coast instead of towards the town.
He tried to think what he might have done differently in the Cecilia case. The only thing that struck him was that he should have kept a closer eye on the critical tasks in the investigation. Instead, he had relied on his colleagues: in his experience, the best results did not come from micro-management.
The surrounding landscape vanished in a dusty grey, swirling mist. As he drove to the cluster of cottages, he spotted a roe deer at the edge of the track, its head raised and ears pricked. As though frozen in time, it followed him with big, brown eyes, before dashing between the trees.
As he parked, he regretted not bringing any food, but decided to purchase something in the course of the day. He planned to visit Finn Haber, who had been responsible for the forensic procedures at the time of Cecilia’s disappearance.
He slipped and almost fell on the muddy path. With the air so raw and damp, he should probably light a fire at the cottage.
The key was sticky in the lock. As he forced it round he thought about buying something to grease it. There were other things to do: putty the ol
d windows, maybe replace them, renew the fascia boards, and change a couple of broken roof tiles. He actually had time to do that now, and it was what Ingrid would have suggested. It would do him good to disengage completely.
The case documents piled on the coffee table attracted his immediate attention. He flung his jacket onto a chair in his haste to sit down. His notepad was still lying open at the last page. He drew it towards him, glancing through what he had written. For anyone other than himself, it appeared no more than an intricate mind map, key words and ideas that had struck him as he read. Names either underlined or circled, connected with arrows and lines, but nothing of real substance.
The red folder was slightly farther away than the others. He pushed it into line with his forefinger, noticing the yellow post-it note marking how far he had progressed. Something was amiss. It was intuition, pure and simple, more fundamental than the senses of smell and sight, and it made his flesh crawl. Someone had been here.
He could not say what made him so certain. It was simply an uncomfortable feeling that things were not as they had been when he left them. He crossed to the door and tried the lock. From the inside, the knob turned easily, but the key on the outside turned only with difficulty.
Outside, he let his eyes roam. Deserted rocky shoreline and empty grassy slopes. The sea was steel grey, and he could only just discern the farthest islands in the dank mist. A seagull took flight from one of the mooring posts on the jetty, screeches like mocking laughter.
On the floor of the timber verandah, he could see not only his own damp footprints, but also several lumps of clay that he had not brought with him. He moved to the top of the broad staircase. The ground below was waterlogged, with small puddles scattered across the patch of grass. From where he stood, he could see two prints in the mud with a different sole pattern from his own. He padded out to the side of the path and hunkered down. The prints showed a waffle pattern crossed by rough zigzagging lines. From the mid-point, the impression narrowed towards the heel. A heavy boot print, only a few hours old. He found his own prints from the previous evening. The weather had spoiled them more.
The Hunting Dogs Page 12
