He followed the prints to see if any were more distinct than others, and found one at the side of a muddy puddle. He could make out a circle in front of the heel, with something inside it. Squinting, he wondered if it could be the shoe size, but decided it was probably the letter A. This was a print that could identify the brand of boot. The length could also indicate the size.
He used his mobile phone to take photos from various angles. They were not very good, but it was easy to see the pattern.
The deep blast of a ship’s foghorn sounded from sea, followed by a feebler response from another vessel.
Back at the cottage, he lingered in the doorway. Now he could also distinguish a number of dried mud stains on the floor inside. He scanned the room to ascertain whether anything had been removed, pausing at the table where the case documents lay. They were numbered and arranged according to a particular system. Anything missing would be easily identified, but he felt reasonably certain that nothing had been stolen. He was probably the focus of interest. Someone had been here to find out what he was up to.
Not many people knew he was here, or what he was doing. He had told Suzanne and Line, and mentioned it in a text message to Nils Hammer. He trusted all three, but only one of them was a genuine candidate. Within the police station, rumours about where he was and what he was doing had very likely spread like ripples in water. Hammer was not the only one who knew about the cottage. The thought that pushed itself to the front, regardless, was that one of his own colleagues had been here.
Instinctively, he began to pursue other theories. Several people might like to take a look at his cards. He had made himself unavailable to the press and everyone else. The cottage was no secret; he had even allowed himself to be interviewed here by a free newspaper. If anyone wanted to find him, this was a logical place to call.
Crossing to the table, he leafed haphazardly through a folder. Whoever knew the truth about Cecilia Linde’s killer would obviously also be interested in what he was doing.
That someone was peeking at his cards ignited a fresh spark in him, the hope of finding new answers in the old investigation material. He had to go through it with a fine tooth comb, scrutinise every single item and search for something out of the ordinary. Not now though.
Setting aside the papers, he stepped over to the kitchen drawers and rummaged for a ruler to measure the boot prints on the path, but could not find one. Instead he brought a plastic basin to cover the print, protecting it as best he could from the weather, with a stone on top to hold it in place. He stood mutely with his face towards the sea, struggling to keep paranoid thoughts at bay. He could not shake off the idea someone wished him harm.
Another long drawn out, mournful wail from a ship’s foghorn broke the silence.
35
Finn Haber lived in an old pilot station in Nevlunghavn, one of the furthermost outposts overlooking the Skagerrak. The final stretch of track down to the weather-beaten location was narrow and winding, in some parts cresting over the shiny surfaces of rocky hills. The former crime scene technician had always been fond of the sea and fishing. When he retired, he had settled as close as possible.
Wisting parked where the track ended, in front of a detached garage, and stepped from his car. A squall had blown up, sweeping the mist out to sea. The dark surface of the water was broken by white horses, and invigorating sea spray crashed against the pebbles. Below the white-painted house lay a jetty and boathouse. A fishing boat rocked at its moorings. The boathouse door opened and suddenly Haber stood in the doorway, gazing at him, dressed in a chunky woollen sweater and a shiny brimmed cap. He looked older, his grey hair thinner, the features on his narrow face even sharper. They shook hands.
‘Coffee?’
‘Sounds good.’
Haber led the way to the house with lumbering, toiling steps. He pulled off his Wellington boots and set them aside on the cellar trapdoor beside the staircase before venturing inside. Wisting was about to do the same, but was stopped. ‘Keep them on,’ Haber insisted, hanging his peaked cap in the porch.
Finn Haber lived on his own, but the house possessed the same order and tidiness that had been the hallmark of his work. The kitchen was kitted out with linoleum, Formica and pine cupboards. A small television sat on the worktop, the news on but the sound turned off. Linnea Kaupang’s face filled the screen. People in her neighbourhood had tied yellow ribbons in front of their homes as a sign of sympathy. Scenes from the organised search followed, then the symbol for the sports news.
‘You never get used to it,’ Haber said, switching off.
‘What’s that?’
‘Not being part of it. I’ve been retired for eight years, but long to be back every time I see pictures of a crime scene. Just to be sure nothing is overlooked.’
He filled the coffeepot with water as Wisting took a seat at the table in front of the window, directly opposite what was obviously Haber’s place, since a coffee cup sat on the table beside the daily paper and an empty ashtray.
‘We caught the right man that time,’ Haber said, setting the coffeepot on the stove. ‘Rudolf Haglund killed Cecilia Linde.’
Wisting would have liked to be equally certain. ‘I think so too, but I would like us to be able to prove it beyond all reasonable doubt.’
He explained to Haber about the new analyses of the three cigarette butts from Gumserød crossroads. The old crime scene technician listened without interrupting. By the time Wisting finished the water was boiling. Haber took the pot from the hotplate, measuring out five spoonfuls of ground coffee from a tin and produced a cup for Wisting.
He stood with his back to the worktop while he waited for the coffee to brew.
‘So the third butt was exchanged for one from a cigarette smoked during the interviews?’
‘Petterøe’s Blue number 3.’
‘Have you drawn up a list?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean! A list of everyone who worked on the case.’
‘I have a list,’ Wisting admitted.
‘Divided into smokers and non-smokers?’
‘I’ve no idea who smoked or didn’t smoke. Far less who smoked Petterøe’s. What’s more, that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the case. Anyone at all could have picked up a cigarette butt after him.’
Haber carried the coffeepot over to the table. ‘You have to start somewhere,’ he said, pouring. ‘Do you have it with you?’
‘The names are in my head.’
Haber replaced the coffeepot on the stove and sat down. ‘You can begin with me,’ he said, drawing the curtain to one side and lifting a packet of tobacco that lay on the windowsill. Petterøe’s Blue number 3.
‘I think Kai Skodde smoked the same brand, and Magne Berger. Thore Akre and Ola Kiste as well. He scrounged off me now and again. Håkon Mørk smoked a pipe, Eivind Larsen had his cigarillos. Vidar Bronebakk used Eventyrblanding tobacco, Svein Teigen always smoked ready-rolled cigarettes with filter tips, and Frank Robekk preferred Tiedemann’s Gold. He smoked Tiedemann’s Gold and sucked Fisherman’s Friend lozenges.’
Finn Haber opened his tobacco pack as he spoke and spread some tobacco on the fine paper. ‘Good people, all of them,’ he went on, rolling the cigarette.
‘How were the cigarette butts stored?’ Wisting asked.
Haber licked the paper. ‘In the refrigerator.’
‘Weren’t the evidence bags sealed?’
‘Not while they lay there. They weren’t sealed until they were put in the mail, when the request for laboratory examination was written and sent to Forensics. In principle, anyone at all could have come in and swapped the cigarette ends.’
Wisting corrected him. ‘Only one of us.’
Finn Haber fell silent. He placed his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, produced his lighter from the window ledge and lit up. His gaze slid out to the restless sea. A sound reached them, like a door banging in the wind.
Wisting lifted hi
s cup to taste the coffee. ‘I’ve had a break-in,’ he said. ‘At my cottage.’
‘Is that where you’re staying?’
Wisting took out his mobile phone. ‘Someone’s showing an interest in what I’ve found.’ He showed him the photograph of the boot print.
Haber took a deep drag of his cigarette before pinching it between thumb and forefinger and setting it down on the edge of the ashtray. He took the phone and produced a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. ‘One of us.’
‘Maybe.’
Haber shook his head. ‘No. This is one of us. I’ve seen this footprint before.’
Wisting leaned forward across the table. Haber was holding the phone so they could both inspect the image. ‘Many times before.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Various crime scenes.’ His finger tapped the screen. ‘This is an Alfa M77 field boot. Issued by the Police Supply Service.’
Wisting slumped back. He owned a pair of those boots himself, inside his locker in the police station basement.
‘Did you find any distinctive marks?’
Wisting understood what he meant. Distinctive wear marks or an accidental tear in the sole from a sharp stone to distinguish it from every other boot of the same brand and size. ‘I didn’t study the print so closely. I just covered it.’
Haber returned the phone. ‘Do you have plaster and equipment for making a cast?’
‘No.’
Haber stood up. ‘I’ll see what I’ve got.’
Crossing to the door, he gestured for Wisting to follow. They snaked along a narrow corridor and passed the living room doorway. The broad wooden floor planks creaked. Haber halted in front of the farthest door, where he opened up and entered a workroom with tall bookshelves crammed with books, ring binders and archive files. An old large-screen computer sat on a broad work table in front of the window.
Haber approached a cupboard behind the door. Two shelves inside were full of forensic equipment, jars of fingerprint powder in different colours and tools for plastic casts. Moving a few cartons aside, he removed a white bag with blue writing.
‘Do you know how to do it?’
‘I haven’t done it since Police College.’
The old forensics technician scrutinised him. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he decided.
‘You don’t have to …’
‘We’ll go now,’ Haber closed the cupboard door. ‘Before the print is spoiled by the rain.’
He stowed the equipment he had gathered in a carrier bag and crossed to the door. Wisting followed mutely. On the stairs outside, Haber handed him the bag as he pulled on his boots. ‘I can take the blame,’ he said, locking the door.
Wisting did not understand what he meant.
‘It was my fault,’ Haber said, taking back the bag of equipment. ‘I shouldn’t have left the evidence lying unsealed. It should have been sent in immediately. I can take the blame. Say I was the one who swapped the third cigarette end.’
Wisting opened his mouth to say something, but merely stood transfixed, staring at the old man.
‘I’ve nothing to lose by it. No family to consider. It will bring the whole case into the open. You still have a number of working years left. You can do a great deal of good. You can find this other girl. Linnea Kaupang.’
‘That’s not how it works,’ Wisting said. ‘Not for me, at least. Two wrongs don’t make a right.’
Haber tugged his jacket more snugly round his neck before hunching his shoulders and heading for the car.
Wisting was left gazing at his retreating back, unsure whether the retired policeman had meant what he said, or if the offer he had made was said to test him, a tactical move. Letting Haber take the responsibility would be just as wrong as switching the DNA evidence at that time, a fraud, a deception.
The old forensics technician turned round and looked at him. Wisting took a first step to follow, unsure whether he really knew the man ahead of him.
36
Line was overcome by a strange but increasingly familiar feeling of contentment tinged with regret. Regret because every hour and night she spent with Tommy made it more difficult to move on with her life. Contentment because she craved and longed for intimacy. They were among the last guests at breakfast.
Tommy helped himself from the breakfast table for a second time. Line picked up a copy of VG. The main spread described a new low carbohydrate diet, but at the top of the front page was a headline about the Cecilia case: The Witness who was never Heard.
She leafed further through the paper. Her own story was just as she had envisaged. They had used the photo of the dog again, as a kind of reminder. Then there was a picture of the row of houses where Jonas Ravneberg had lived, with police crime scene tape stretched round the white picket fence. Both images complemented the headline about a mysterious break-in where nothing seemed to have been stolen. The article was shorter than she had reckoned, but that was fine. She had placed the most significant information first.
Tommy resumed his seat at the table as Line was confronted by a photo of her father. The newspaper had obviously not let him off the hook.
Another picture was of the reconstruction at the crossroads beside Gumserød farm, with a white car in the centre of the photograph. A man was leaning against the boot while several investigators huddled in discussion. Line recognised the skinny crime scene technician and several other police officers, now retired. The main photo was of the witness whose testimony had not been heard: Aksel Presthus, a tall man in his fifties with dark brown, curly hair. He wore an Icelandic sweater and a black cotton scarf round his neck.
Like Rudolf Haglund, Aksel Presthus liked to go fishing. Every weekend, he tried fishing waters, recording his catches in a special diary, which he had retained and showed to the VG photographer. On Saturday 15th July, he had written Damtjenn, 20.45 hours: Trout 132 grams. 21.15 hours: Trout 94 grams. 21.35 hours: Trout 168 grams.
Damtjenn was the fishing lake where Rudolf Haglund claimed to be on the weekend Cecilia was abducted. The witness recalled seeing people on the other side of the lake. He had arrived at the lake relatively late in the evening, and it had taken almost an hour for him to catch his first fish. He had left his car parked behind a rather old white Opel Rekord, and when he had returned the next day, the other vehicle was gone.
Aksel Presthus had followed the Cecilia story in the newspapers, and when he read about Rudolf Haglund’s alibi, realised he ought to talk to the police. When he phoned the central switchboard he had been transferred to describe what he had seen. The person in charge of the enquiry thanked him for the information and promised to call back if his observations were of interest to the case. He heard nothing more.
Haglund’s defence lawyer said he had sifted through all the investigation material without finding any mention of Aksel Presthus. The police, therefore, had been selective in their use of information.
Chief Inspector William Wisting had not been available for comment, but Deputy Chief Constable Audun Vetti said that the case had been referred to the Bureau for the Investigation of Police Affairs, and that the investigation leader had been suspended.
She put down the newspaper.
‘What are your plans?’ Tommy asked.
‘I’m going to follow up some information in the murder case.’
‘What sort of information?’
‘About Jonas Ravneberg. He lived in Larvik before he moved here to Fredrikstad.’
Tommy speared the last piece of bacon with his fork. ‘Are you going home?’
Line glanced down at the newspaper photo of her father. ‘Yes, I’m going home,’ she said.
37
When they turned off the main road, Haber took out his pack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Another larger and heavier vehicle had left deep wheel ruts on the muddy track, which was shared by approximately fifteen cottages. Farther along, it divided in two, but the wheel ruts led to the right, the track leading to Wisting’s cottage.
The car tossed from side to side as it lurched forward, tyres spinning up the last incline before the track sloped down to the parking area, where an unfamiliar car was parked, an expensive Mercedes with splashes of mud along the side panels. The driver was standing on the verandah outside the cottage.
‘Other visitors?’ Haber speculated.
‘Uninvited,’ Wisting said. He parked the car.
The man at the cottage stood facing them, wearing an ankle-length coat and with a document folder in his hands. He was too distant to be recognised.
Haber placed the cigarette he had rolled in his mouth and lit up. ‘I’ll follow you,’ he said.
Wisting trudged along the path, recognising the waiting man before he had reached halfway. Sigurd Henden, the lawyer. Rudolf Haglund’s new defence counsel gave him a nod, but did not offer his hand.
Wisting nodded in return. ‘We probably shouldn’t talk to each other,’ he said.
‘Probably not.’ The light drizzle had coated the lawyer’s dark grey hair with a film of moisture. ‘I’m sorry about the consequences all this has had for you personally,’ he said.
Wisting turned to stand at the lawyer’s side, with his face towards the sea. A cargo ship was heading west. ‘How did you find your way here?’ he asked, glancing at the plastic basin on the path.
‘Your partner told me.’
Wisting looked at him in surprise. ‘Suzanne?’
‘Apologies. I tried to phone you, but when you didn’t answer, I tried a roundabout route. She said you were here.’
The Hunting Dogs Page 13
