The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Is he dead?’

  Line described what had happened. ‘You lived together, didn’t you?’

  ‘That was years ago.’ Maud Svedberg spoke so softly that Line had to concentrate to hear properly. ‘I’m living a different life now. I moved back to Sweden and got married.’

  ‘When did your relationship come to an end?’

  ‘It was so many years ago.’

  ‘He moved to Fredrikstad,’ Line said. ‘Was there any particular reason?’

  ‘He had problems with his nerves. You work for a newspaper?’

  ‘Verdens Gang,’ Line confirmed. ‘I’m keen to find out who he was.’

  ‘I don’t want you to write about us.’

  ‘I don’t need to. I just want to speak to someone who knew him well. It doesn’t seem as though many did.’

  ‘That was what our problem was. He kept more and more to himself. He didn’t share his thoughts, or anything else, with me. Eventually there was no need to share a house either, and he moved away.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from him?’

  ‘I had my fiftieth birthday last summer. I am … was … two years older than him. He didn’t write much but he sent me a letter. Didn’t say anything about himself, just a few lines about the time we spent together.’

  ‘Have you received anything in the post during the past few days?’

  ‘No. He wrote his address on the back of the envelope, and I sent him a postcard from Spain when I was there in September. I thanked him for his letter and wished him well in life.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason for anyone to kill him?’

  Maud Svedberg did not have time to respond.

  ‘Movement,’ Morten P announced on the other line. ‘Haglund coming out. Walking towards Akersgata.’

  ‘I’ve got another phone call,’ Line said. ‘Can I phone you back later?’

  Maud Svedberg’s voice was almost inaudible as she thanked Line for calling.

  61

  Wisting gave his statement for over an hour, without a break, as objectively as possible. He named everyone who worked on the Cecilia case and explained how responsibility was divided. Terje Nordbo listened patiently, but without making many specific notes. He would already have read through the records, and Wisting’s summary would be familiar.

  Regarded objectively, Wisting’s handling of the case had been flawless. Starting with a report about a missing girl, he had steered it through numerous witness statements to a discovery site and an arrest. When he finished, Nordbo homed in on his evaluations, reflections and feelings about the case. He discussed the interpretation of theories, procedures and instructions and, suddenly, it felt as if nothing was straightforward any longer.

  ‘Why were you selected to lead the investigation?’

  ‘I was assigned by the chief superintendent, so that question really ought to be asked of him.’

  ‘We’ll do that, but have you given it any thought?’

  Wisting was used to accepting the responsibility allocated to him without question. ‘I was there, and I had the qualifications.’

  ‘Didn’t it bother you?’

  Wisting shook his head. Nordbo pointed to the recorder. Nodding and shaking of the head were not good enough. ‘Had you been in charge of such a major investigation before?’ he asked.

  ‘The Cecilia case grew into the most serious case I had ever led,’ Wisting said, ‘but when I was called in she was still only a missing person.’

  ‘Only?’

  ‘From the beginning it was obvious that Cecilia Linde had not vanished of her own accord. Most likely she had met with some kind of accident; parts of her route were hilly and bordered the sea. Just the same, I allowed for a worst case scenario.’

  ‘Worst case scenario?’

  ‘That she might have been the victim of criminal activity.’

  ‘What guidelines did your superior officers give you?’

  ‘Guidelines? I’m not sure I understand the question.’

  ‘Did they tell you they were satisfied with the job you were doing?’

  ‘I didn’t get the impression of anything otherwise. There was continual questioning about allocation of resources, of course, but there was never any criticism of the work.’

  ‘What were their expectations?’

  It was not usual for the chief constable to tell him what his expectations were. They had the same goal: to solve the crime and bring the criminal to justice. ‘Results. Naturally, they expected results.’

  ‘How did that become obvious during the investigation?’

  ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Did someone in particular become impatient when results did not appear?’

  ‘Everybody was impatient,’ Wisting said, ‘but most of us were used to that. We’re experienced and knew it could take time to build a case.’

  ‘What about the media?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Weren’t they impatient?’

  ‘As ever, they made demands about making a breakthrough and posed questions about progress.’

  ‘What was your reaction to that?’

  ‘Two reactions. Firstly, answering questions all the time inhibits progress. Secondly, media interest provokes tip-offs and information from the public.’

  ‘Was it stressful?’

  ‘Of course, but handling the media is part of our job.’

  ‘I imagine the public clamour became enormous.’

  ‘Was that a question?’

  ‘Let me word it differently. How did it affect the investigation when you had nothing new to say?’

  ‘My responsibility was to lead the tactical investigation and I concentrated on that. The police prosecutor at that time, Audun Vetti, dealt with the press.’

  ‘You attended the press conferences?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did it feel to sit through them without fresh information?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that. The case made progress. There were daily developments, if no real breakthrough.’

  Wisting studied the investigator across the desk as he leafed through his papers. Nordbo had homed in on something that was not only central to the case, but that had produced catastrophic consequences. While they were searching for Cecilia Linde, it had emerged that the police were in possession of the cassette. The day Audun Vetti confirmed this to the media, her body was dumped in a ditch.

  If there was anything he could be criticised for it was that he had not succeeded in keeping the information about the cassette and the massive search quiet. The perpetrator had no choice but to get rid of her when it became common knowledge. Wisting avoided the subject.

  ‘How did this lack of a breakthrough affect you personally?’

  ‘That wasn’t something I thought about or focused on.’

  ‘Did it weigh you down?’

  ‘That’s quite an accurate description.’

  ‘How did your family respond to the case?’

  ‘I didn’t say much to them.’

  The investigator riffled through his notes. ‘You have a pair of twins? Line and Thomas. How old were they at the time?’

  ‘Just turned twelve.’

  ‘Were they aware of what was going on?’

  ‘Ingrid, my wife, spoke to them about it. I was seldom home before their bedtime.’

  Eyes cast down, Wisting remembered how he had unloaded his thoughts on Ingrid and gone to bed with his head as clear as possible.

  ‘Was it something you missed?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The time away from your family. Did you miss them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How was your marriage?’

  Wisting stared through the window. The rain washed over it, distorting the world outside. He understood that Terje Nordbo was shaping a motive, viewing Wisting’s responsibility as an insupportable burden, trying to substantiate Internal Affairs’ theory that he had planted false evidence to escape the p
ressures. ‘I don’t think my marriage is relevant to the case,’ he said.

  ‘I think it is.’

  Their silence filled the room.

  Terje Nordbo reclined in his high-backed chair and waited. Wisting had done the same many times. It was often effective; sitting in silence could become so oppressive that the suspect just opened his mouth and kept going. He looked at the window again, and a tiny rivulet of water as it ran down the glass. The contrived pause made him realise how much the interview was stressing him, that Nordbo was determined to provoke an emotional reaction or slip of the tongue.

  Perhaps it was his own fault, he thought. Maybe he had unwittingly let it happen because of the lack of a breakthrough. Perhaps his ineffectiveness had forced someone else to take matters into his own hands.

  Terje Nordbo broke the silence. ‘How many interviews did you conduct with Rudolf Haglund?’

  Wisting knew the answer, but understood where the investigator was going. He had persuaded Wisting to describe a case that had become almost stuck and that had weighed him down as leader of the investigation. This provided motive; now he wanted to know whether Wisting had also had the opportunity.

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Why did you interview him personally? Did you consider delegating?’

  Wisting’s mobile phone rang. Nordbo was obviously annoyed, but adopted an indulgent manner. It was Bjørg Karin from the criminal proceedings office. ‘I need to take this,’ he said, already on his way out.

  62

  Rudolf Haglund left the restaurant in Rådhusgata at 15.43 hours. He strolled into Tollbugata and down to Børsen, the Oslo Stock Exchange, past another block and into a multi­storey car park. Soon afterwards he drove out in a silver Passat. Unknown to him, he was now in the middle of an invisible net.

  En route southwards along the E18 highway, with Morten P five car lengths ahead. The other three were behind, but constantly changing position so their headlights alternated in his rear view mirror.

  Haglund drove at or just above the speed limit, tyres hissing on the wet asphalt. Line was first of those behind. At Liertoppen, he suddenly reduced speed and other traffic overtook. Line warned the others that she was about to go past him and they fell further back. She drove past with her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Having overtaken, she cast a glance in the mirror, through condensation and rain on her rear window, to note the position of his headlamps.

  Staying in the left lane she passed Morten P. Now there were two cars in front and two behind, leaving them vulnerable if he took an exit lane.

  ‘He���s speeding up again,’ Tommy said.

  ‘I’ll fall back,’ Morten P replied.

  In the mirror, Line watched the others manoeuvre.

  ‘Here he comes,’ Morten P said. ‘I’ll position myself at the rear.’

  Haglund continued in a southerly direction. The motorway bridge above the town of Drammen was congested with cars. In the heavy rain, they appeared as lights floating into the distance.

  At the industrial area of Kobbervikdalen, Line’s other mobile phone rang. She had to put it to her ear since the open line shared with the others monopolised her hands-free kit. It was Erik Fjeld.

  ‘It took a bit longer than I said, but I have a picture of that phone box of yours.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Line said. She had dropped her speed to take the call and saw in her rear view mirror that Haglund was edging out. ‘Hold on!’

  She asked for someone else to take over at the front as the silver car went past, followed by Tommy, herself becoming the security car at the back and muted the hands-free device so that she could hear what the others were saying but they could not hear her. Haglund’s vehicle disappeared from her sight.

  ‘What about the CCTV surveillance?’ she asked, shifting the phone to her other ear.

  ‘They’ve been bothered by a lot of vandalism, so they installed a CCTV system before the summer.’

  ‘Do they still have the recording?’

  ‘That was why it took so long. The police were there yesterday. It had been handed to them.’

  Line gave an exclamation of annoyance, even though it was, in a way, reassuring that the police in Fredrikstad had beaten her to it.

  ‘It’s digital,’ Erik Fjeld explained. ‘They were only given a copy. The actual recording is still here at the railway station.’

  A gust of wind caught the car, and she gripped the steering wheel with both hands. A sheet of rain swept across the road. ‘Can you get us a copy?’

  ‘The staff here wouldn’t do that, since the police are already involved, but I was allowed to watch the recording.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was left on my own and managed to take a few photo­graphs of the screen. I can send them to you, but they’re not very helpful. The telephone kiosk is at the edge. All that can be seen is a man dressed in dark clothes with his back turned.’

  ‘Does he appear in any other camera angles?’

  ‘No, only in the one image.’

  ‘Can you see if he arrives in a car?’

  ‘All that can be seen is a dark shadow.’

  ‘Okay, then. All the same, that’s good work. Send me what you have. I’ll find out what the police have discovered.’

  As they approached the toll station on the E18 near Sande, Harald reported that Haglund was driving to the manual payment booth. Line slowed to avoid getting ahead of him when she drove through the subscription payment lane.

  When she was through the toll station she called the police in Fredrikstad. She considered making a call to the news editor first, to be sure no one else was working on the story, but dropped the idea. The murder case no longer featured in the headlines and would not appear again until an arrest or some other major development happened. She was put through to the police prosecutor who had attended the press conference.

  ‘You picked up a video from the railway station,’ she said, careful not to reveal how much she knew.

  ‘Routine,’ the policeman answered tersely, obviously tired of journalists.

  Line changed direction: ‘Have you identified the man who phoned Jonas Ravneberg from that location?’

  Silence: the information that the police had collected the video recording could have been obtained from an employee at the railway station who had tipped off the newspaper, but telephone data was more difficult. The most likely explanation for the policeman was that another officer had leaked it.

  ‘We can put an appeal in the newspaper,’ Line offered, in an effort to coax more details from him.

  ‘I’ll have to come back to you on that one,’ he said.

  ‘Does that mean you know who made the call?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  Line moved the phone to her other ear. ‘You can see a connection?’

  ‘Can I come back to you?’

  ‘He’s turning off from the motorway at Kopstadkrysset,’ Harald said.

  ‘What did you say?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘Can I call you back?’ Line broke off and switched on the multi-user connection.

  ‘I’m overtaking,’ Tommy reported. ‘Taking the next exit.’

  ‘Who’s following him?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m the first car,’ Harald replied, ‘but too close. I’ll have to lose him at the next exit.’

  ‘I’m behind,’ Morten P said. ‘I’ll take over.’

  Line moved her car into the exit lane and glanced at the red ring binder on the passenger seat. They were now in Horten. She could not recall reading anything about Rudolf Haglund having any connection with the little rural community. It was still almost an hour’s drive from Larvik and his home.

  ‘He’s driving inland,’ Harald said. ‘I’m letting go.’

  ‘Got him!’ Morten P said, but then broke off: ‘No! He’s pulling into a bus stop. I’m driving past. Hold back, Line!’

  It was too late. Line had already turned off and was on the secondary road. She spotted the silve
r Passat several hundred metres ahead on a straight stretch. As there was nowhere she could turn, she was forced to overtake. She accelerated to make sure she passed at the maximum possible speed, so that Haglund would not notice what she was driving.

  Morten P took command, ordering Harald to keep his head down beside the E18, but to be ready in case Haglund turned and drove back. Line was directed into the nearest side road to take up an observation post.

  Tommy took the first exit from the E18 to return towards them, continuing for another couple of kilometres to the front position.

  They loitered for almost quarter of an hour until the silver Passat drove past the side road where Line was positioned. ‘He’s on his way,’ she said, and set off. The others all acknowledged.

  Haglund drove inland. There was little traffic, making him difficult to follow. He maintained a normal speed, and Line was able to remain as lead car for several kilometres. The landscape was monotonous, with huge, flat fields, and buildings became increasingly sparse, only a few solitary farms. They drove past a small lake before the road began to climb. When it flattened again, Haglund braked in the middle of the open countryside and turned onto a gravel track.

  ‘He’s turning off,’ Line said, passing the side road and pulling over.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Harald asked.

  Line thought quickly. If they followed him along the narrow gravel track they risked discovery. On the other hand, what was the point? Seventeen years earlier, the concluding stages of the investigation had failed to find Cecilia Linde. They were now located within an hour’s radius of where she had been abducted.

  ‘I’m going to follow him,’ Line said, reversing. ‘The rest of you stay where you are and keep the line open.’

  The others stopped talking. The gravel crunched underneath her tyres as Line turned onto the narrow track.

  ‘Be careful,’ Tommy implored.

  63

  Wisting took his phone and closed the door. ‘Did you find them?’ he asked, picking his way down the corridor.

  ‘I think so,’ Bjørg Karin said. ‘They were in a box with old copies of the Police Times. What do you want me to do with them?’