The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  His professional knowledge led him to believe it was a car from 1987 or later, as the model had been given a facelift involving new bumpers and radiator grille that year. In 1993, the model went out of production, and the police had the names of all owners of ND-registered red Saab 900s from those years. There were no more than seventy-four in the entire country. Jonas Ravneberg was one of four in the area, and the first to be interviewed.

  He had an alibi. He had been in Sweden with a girlfriend and visited her family in Malmø. They had used her car and been away for a week. Accompanying the interview report was a copy of their ferry tickets. His girlfriend’s name was Maud Torell and she confirmed the explanation by phone.

  The car idea was shelved after the salesman was re-interviewed. He was no longer certain that the letter combination ND was correct, and could only exclude the possibility that the car had been registered locally, which would have meant the LS combination. Nor was he still sure that he had spotted the car on the day Ellen vanished. He was on holiday at the time and could not quite distinguish one day from another.

  Wisting read Jonas Ravneberg’s statement again, noticing that he and Maud Torell were listed at the same address: Minnehallveien 28 in Stavern. So, she had been more than a girlfriend. They were living together.

  The actual statement was simple and verifiable, but a number of questions had not been posed. Did anyone else have use of his car? How many sets of car keys did he possess, and where were they located? The phone interview with his girlfriend seemed to have been undertaken to dismiss Jonas Ravneberg from the enquiry. Close family members were never satisfactory alibi witnesses. When they were not even required to attend a face-to-face interview their testimony was worth little.

  The relationship between them must have ended the following year, when Jonas Ravneberg had moved to Fredrikstad. In the reports about his murder, he had been described as a man who lived on his own. Wisting replaced the papers in the box. The connection between Jonas Ravneberg and Rudolf Haglund had existed for seventeen years without being spotted.

  He slumped back in his chair with a sense of being faced with an unfinished work of art: a landscape already in its frame, the main features in place, the subject sketched out, but the details missing. For the moment, the outline was so indistinct he could not imagine how it would look when it was complete.

  53

  Suzanne was not asleep. ‘Hello,’ he whispered.

  She replied with Mhmm.

  Under the quilt, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

  ‘Do you think it’s worth it?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your job in the police. No one ever thanks you. You risk your life and health. Wallowing in other people’s misery. Hundreds of hours of overtime you don’t get paid for, phone calls at home at all hours. Demands and expectations and now your own boss has laid a charge against you. Do you think it’s worth it?’

  He had no answer. His job involved burdens of many kinds, but he had not chosen it to have a quiet life. He had trained himself to face resistance and enormous pressure.

  Suzanne turned over.

  Wisting closed his eyes, but it made no difference in the dark room. The picture of Linnea Kaupang was imprinted on his retina.

  ‘It’s my job,’ he said. If he could work on the new missing person case, it would all be worth it. To kindle hope that she was alive would outweigh everything else. ‘You hung up a yellow ribbon.’

  ‘The flat above the café is vacant,’ Suzanne said. ‘It’s for sale.’

  An unpleasant sensation spread through his body, as though something cold had crept under the quilt. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘It would be practical,’ she said.

  It felt as if Suzanne had raised the stakes, like a poker player who had thrown a high-value card on the table, but what they had together was no game. ‘You’re talking about moving out?’

  ‘I’m down there all the time anyway. And you’re at work most of the time. We have the same address, but we don’t really live together.’

  It’s not fair, he thought. That she should come out with that now.

  He had always considered himself independent, but after Ingrid died he had felt an increasingly powerful anxiety for the people he loved, terrified to lose them. It would be linked to his work. Too many times he had witnessed meaningless loss.

  He had not only bound himself to Suzanne as a person, he had also become dependent on her as a life partner. Perspiration lay like a cold cloth on his skin. He tried to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he ran his hand over her black, wiry hair, struggling to control his breathing. ‘I don’t need any ribbons outside the door. I need to act. That’s my way of handling things.’

  ‘I wish I could demand less of you,’ she said, ‘but we are the way we are, both of us.’

  They lay without speaking, and eventually fell asleep. Suzanne’s face turned to the wall, Wisting on his back.

  54

  The first grey light of day had barely filtered into the room when Wisting woke. Suzanne was still asleep by his side, even more beautiful with her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. There was something peaceful about her, a gentleness that was easier to discern when she was asleep.

  A muscle twitched under her eye, and her mouth formed a faint smile. He pushed the quilt carefully aside and stood up. A rich coffee aroma rose to greet him on his way down the stairs.

  Line turned towards him when he entered the room. ‘Have you cleaned it?’ she asked.

  He pulled his dressing gown together as he shook his head.

  ‘You got it for Christmas,’ Line said. ‘You ought to clean it a couple of times a year.’

  He smiled at her and sat down with his coffee as she poured a cup for herself. He had cleared away the documents and carried the box back to his car before going to bed.

  A bank of clouds had drifted in from the sea, reaching Stavern overnight.

  Line opened the fridge. ‘You don’t have much in here.’

  Wisting nodded at one of the cupboards. ‘There’s probably crispbread or something.’

  She checked the shelves and found half a loaf, took out two slices and placed them in the toaster. ‘Are you ready to meet him again?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Rudolf Haglund. Are you ready to face him?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘We’re ready as well.’

  ‘You’re going to follow him?’

  She opened the fridge again and took out butter and a jar of strawberry jam. ‘It’s worth a try.’

  ‘How many of you are there?’

  ‘Four cars.’

  ‘From the newspaper?’

  Wisting noticed a tiny twitch at the corner of her left eye. ‘Two of them,’ she answered, turning towards the toaster.

  ‘Who’s the fourth?’ The toast slices popped up, and Line transferred them to two plates before inserting two more slices. ‘Is Tommy coming with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Wisting had been thankful when the relationship between his daughter and the Dane, a former convict, ended. He was not comfortable with Tommy Kvanter still being part of her life, but did not want to say anything.

  ‘Where did you go last night? You came home after Suzanne and me.’

  If Line were to assist him, she would have to know. ‘I read through the documents in the Ellen case.’

  ‘The niece of the policeman with glasses? I thought you didn’t have access to the station?’

  ‘Jonas Ravneberg was interviewed in connection with that case,’ Wisting said.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘He appeared on one of the lists. The day Ellen disappeared, a red Saab 900 was spotted in the vicinity. Jonas Ravneberg had that kind of car.’

  ‘It’s still up on his farm, which means he was there when she disappeared.’

  Wisting shook his head. ‘He was in Sweden.’

  ‘How do we know that?’
/>   ‘The woman he was living with confirmed it.’

  A sceptical expression crossed Line’s face. ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘Maud Torell.’

  Line repeated the name as though savouring it. ‘We ought to talk to her.’ The slices popped out of the toaster. She left them and went into the hallway, returning with her laptop. ‘She was the one he was living with before he moved to Fredrikstad. Do you know where she lives now?’

  Wisting shook his head as she tapped the name into the machine. ‘Maud Torell?’ she said. ‘Unusual, but I can’t find it.’

  ‘It’s not certain that she’s still alive. Or she could be married and have changed her name.’

  ‘He hasn’t let many people into his life. She’s the person who was closest to him. She might have received the letter.’

  ‘The letter?’

  Line explained how Jonas Ravneberg had been observed with his dog beside a post box shortly before he was killed. ‘It’s a shot in the dark, but it might be worth something.’

  Wisting crossed to the worktop to fetch himself another slice of toast.

  ‘When are you setting off?’ she asked.

  He glanced at the clock. ‘In an hour.’

  55

  The office belonging to law firm Henden, Haller and Brenner was situated in an anonymous office block in the city centre, immediately behind Stortorvet square. There was no flamboyant sign on the door, only a doorbell beside the company nameplate. A woman answered when Wisting rang. He gave his name and the door opened with a buzz.

  The office was on the third floor. Inside, the office environment contrasted sharply with the shabby common areas outside: dark parquet flooring, abstract oil paintings, and a blonde secretary at reception.

  ‘Mr Wisting?’ He nodded. ‘I’ll announce your arrival. You can take a seat until Mr. Henden is ready.’

  She accompanied him to an open recess in the corridor where two black leather sofas were separated by a smoked glass coffee table. A broad-shouldered, bearded man wearing a leather jacket was seated on one and a stout Pakistani on the other. Wisting sat beside the man in the leather jacket.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ she asked. ‘Coffee? Water?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Wisting had begun to regret agreeing to this meeting, at least to this meeting place. He should have asked for a neutral location. His mobile phone emitted a peep, a text from Line: Let me know as soon as the meeting is over. We need to know what sort of clothes he’s wearing.

  Wisting replied OK.

  At five minutes past twelve, a woman in a black suit appeared. ‘Ali Mounzir?’

  The overweight Pakistani got to his feet and followed her. Ten minutes later the secretary who had welcomed Wisting arrived. ‘Sorry for keeping you waiting. Mr. Henden can see you now.’

  He followed her along a corridor until she came to a halt at a frosted glass door. The light in the conference room was dim. There was a thick carpet on the floor and the walls were decorated with works of art. Fruit and carafes of water were laid on a counter along one wall. At the end of the long conference table, Rudolf Haglund sat with his arms folded. He stared at Wisting with his eyes narrowed and a smile on his lips.

  Henden rose from a seat beside him and approached Wisting to shake his hand.

  Rudolf Haglund got to his feet. He was shorter than Wisting remembered, but just as pale. Haglund held out his hand. Wisting took it, and they nodded briefly to each other before sitting round the table.

  ‘Rudolf Haglund is very pleased you agreed to attend this meeting,’ the lawyer said.

  Rudolf Haglund nodded.

  ‘As you know, I had no dealings with the original case and only know it from the documents, but Haglund has told me that he never found any fault with how you treated him. He considered you to be honest and upright, and I have already told you he does not believe you were the one who switched the DNA evidence.’

  Rudolf Haglund nodded again.

  ‘Nevertheless, a major injustice has been done. My office is engaged in correcting that but, as far as Haglund is concerned, this is not only about justice in his own case. He also wants the corrupt police officer who planted the false evidence to be held responsible.’

  Wisting remained silent. The press had launched a broadside against him with information supplied by Henden. If they believed another officer had been behind any switch, there must have been another reason for them letting him take the blow. Rudolf Haglund had spent years thinking about his case and Henden, the lawyer, was an excellent tactician. They must have cooked something up, and he was not happy to be part of it.

  ‘I assume we have a shared interest in exposing the per­petrator?’ Henden had been leaning over the table, and now reclined in his chair.

  ‘Who is it?’ Wisting asked.

  The lawyer flung out his hand and invited his client to speak. Haglund’s tiny eyes narrowed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of telling you that,’ he said.

  Wisting sat motionless.

  The lawyer could not restrain an exclamation. ‘But, this meeting …’ he almost stammered.

  ‘You’ll get to know who it was, but I won’t tell you. I’ll simply let you know how you can find out. The first days after my arrest have seared themselves onto my memory. The interviews with you and the hours in the cell. For seventeen years, I’ve known something went wrong, but only when Sigurd had the cigarette butts analysed again did I realise what I had been subjected to.’

  A nerve twitched at the corner of the defence lawyer’s mouth. He was not comfortable with his client’s use of his first name.

  ‘I’ve gone over everything that happened hour by hour.’ He closed his eyes as if to illustrate. ‘I discovered who planted the evidence against me and know exactly how it was done.’

  Wisting moved slightly to signal interest.

  ‘I lost all conception of time without a watch and without daylight, but it must have been late in the evening. They had taken out a guy from the next cell who had been shouting and screaming since he arrived, and I was the only one left. I was almost asleep when the door into the section opened. I thought it was the custody officer, but it wasn’t.’

  After several deaths in the cells they had introduced manual inspection of the prisoners every thirty minutes.

  ‘The cell door opened. The man who stood there put something on the floor. He took out a pack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. A packet of Petterøe’s Blue number 3.’

  ‘The same brand that produced the DNA result,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘When he finished, he handed me the packet and invited me to roll myself a smoke. I accepted. He gave me a light, and we stood there nattering. A strange conversation, as I recall, about nothing in particular, but I thought it was quite pleasant. Having a fag with someone who wasn’t preoccupied by the case and just wanted to kill a few minutes. Then I heard the door at the end of the corridor again.

  ‘It was the custody officer this time, and pay close attention now: the policeman picked up an ashtray and held it out in front of me and I stubbed out the little I had left of my cigarette.’

  ‘The custody officer can confirm this,’ said the lawyer.

  ‘I doubt whether anyone would remember that,’ Wisting said.

  ‘I think he’ll remember it but, strictly speaking, it’s not necessary,’ said Haglund.

  ‘What do you mean?’ the lawyer asked.

  ‘On the wall outside each cell door there are forms hanging up. The custody officers had to sign every half hour when they came down to check on us.’

  That had been the instruction before the routine supervision of cells had been transferred to computers.

  ‘On the same forms, a note was made when we went for interview, when we went for fresh air, to have a shower, were served food or had a smoke.’

  ‘This was seventeen years ago,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘The custody officer was obviously surprised that any other officer on duty was down in th
e basement, and through the opening in the door I heard him asking the other guy to sign the form.’

  Wisting leaned forward. It was quite normal for the person who had given the prisoner a cigarette to sign for that as well.

  ‘Do these protocols still exist today?’ Haglund asked.

  The forms were placed in folders when the prisoner was freed or transferred to jail. The folders were retained. They had experienced complaints about treatment in security cells, sometimes years after the case was ended and sentence passed. They would be somewhere in the historical archives in the basement at the police station. This was the document that could clear Wisting’s name.

  56

  The text message from her father arrived at quarter to one. Short, dark hair. Pale complexion. Blue shirt with grey V-neck sweater. Dark blue jeans. Brown boots. Unknown type of outdoor jacket.

  Thirty seconds later Wisting appeared through the door. He knew they were near and must have recognised Line’s car parked farther along the street. Turning up his jacket lapels, he put his hands in his pockets and walked in the opposite direction with head bowed.

  Line forwarded the text to Tommy and her two colleagues from the newspaper before opening the conference call facility. She said their names one by one and the others gave their positions. Only she could see the lawyer’s office. Morten P thought there was a back door and was covering that. Tommy and Harald from VG were covering the intersecting streets. Wisting had the conference number and access code, and she had shown him how it worked. He could connect directly if he wished.

  For conference purposes she used a phone borrowed from the VG offices, and wondered whether she should call him on her mobile to find how the meeting had gone. Instead, she applied herself to the task in hand. Line had been on surveillance operations before, and knew how much concentration they demanded.