The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘He can’t be on his way home,’ Morten P reported. ‘He’s going somewhere else. Driving towards the centre. I’m letting go.’

  Line turned up the volume.

  ‘Following him down to Tollbodgata,’ said Tommy, who was familiar with the small town. ‘Driving slowly past the Hotel Wassillioff.’

  ‘Not too close!’ Line warned.

  ‘He’s parking. I’m driving past.’

  ‘I’m waiting at the Statoil petrol station,’ Harald explained. ‘I can see him from here.’

  Line passed the Sandefjord exit road.

  ‘He’s leaving the car. Looks like he’s carrying something. Walking up the street.’

  ‘What’s he carrying?’

  ‘No idea. It might have been his wallet that he’s put into his inside pocket. He’s going to the right, towards the bank.’

  ‘Verftsgata,’ Tommy said. ‘I can overtake him at the next intersection.’

  ‘I’m out,’ Harald said. ‘Going down slowly.’

  Concentrating on the open conversation, Line dropped her speed. An estate car drove past and indicated to move in front of her. The rear orange and red lights merged, blurring like watercolours on the wet asphalt.

  ‘Who’s got him?’ she asked. ‘Tommy?’

  ‘Negative. Standing at the chemist’s shop.’

  ‘Harald?’

  ‘I’ve gone into Verftsgata after him. Can’t see him.’

  ‘Morten?’

  ‘I’ve just parked my car beside the church. Have we lost him?’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Harald said.

  The scraping background noise caused by the wind disappeared. Instead they heard subdued music and Harald clearing his throat.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ he said. ‘He’s gone into a café. The Golden Peace. He’s sitting at the far end of the place.’

  68

  In her mind’s eye Line could see Rudolf Haglund at her father’s table. She disconnected the open conversation and lifted her mobile phone to call him just as it rang: a foreign number, country code 46, Sweden.

  ‘Line here,’ she said.

  A woman coughed. ‘You said your name was Line Wisting?’ The voice was reedy and hesitant: Maud Svedberg, Jonas Ravneberg’s live-in girlfriend of seventeen years ago. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘We spoke earlier today,’ the woman explained. ‘I have your number from your call.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The woman hesitated before asking warily: ‘Are you related to William Wisting? The policeman?’

  ‘He’s my father. Why do you ask?’

  ‘No … it’s so odd.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Jonas has sent me a package.’

  ‘A package?’

  ‘A large, grey envelope. It must have been in the postbox when we were talking.’

  ‘What’s in it?’

  ‘That’s what’s so odd. There’s another package inside, with your father’s name, and he writes that I must give it to him if anything happens. And, of course, something certainly has.’

  Line felt her hands sweaty as they clamped on the steering wheel. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not much. It looks as if he scribbled it in a hurry. He writes that he’s depending on me and he wants to explain everything. In the meantime I have to look after the package.’

  The contents must be important, Line thought. Something crucial. She made up her mind. ‘I can come and collect it.’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  Line did a mental calculation. She had not been to Ystad before, but knew it was a seaport situated southeast of Malmø. The drive from Oslo to Malmø took about six hours. If she took the ferry across from Horten to Moss instead of driving back via Oslo, she ought to make it in seven. ‘I’ll talk to my father, and then be on my way,’ she said.

  By setting off immediately, she could reach Ystad by midnight, but she needed to change her clothes and was unsure of the ferry times. ‘I can be with you early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I could just send it in the post.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ Line said. ‘I’m on my way.’

  69

  Wisting had a name. He knew who had fabricated the cigarette evidence, but lacked proof that would stand in court. The cigarette Haglund had been given in his cell could be explained as a friendly gesture. There were no grounds for claiming this was exactly the cigarette butt that had been exchanged for evidence item A-3, but for Wisting it was enough. Everything was understandable now, though more demanding and challenging.

  He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and spread out his fingers, his thoughts swirling in a confused effort to find a way forward. Eventually a possibility began to take shape, initially as a tiny, fleeting glimpse, and then as an idea that became clearer. If he could hold things together for long enough there would be one tremendous collapse when he was done.

  He could not wait to reach home. Finn Haber’s number was not stored on his mobile phone, and he had to call Directory Enquiries to reach the retired forensics expert.

  ‘Have you caught the burglar?’ Haber asked.

  The plaster cast still lay in Wisting’s boot. He had almost forgotten the break-in. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I think I know who it is, but I need some help.’

  ‘Okay then, how can I help?’

  ‘Can you find fingerprints on seventeen-year-old papers?’

  ‘Theoretically, but it depends on the paper, how it’s been stored and the print itself.’

  ‘But can you do it?’

  ‘I don’t have the right equipment, so I’ll have to improvise. With the help of moisture, the right temperature and some chemicals, yes, it should be possible. I’ve got what I need. I can do it.’

  ‘Will you do it?’

  ‘Whenever you like.’

  ‘You’ll be hearing from me.’

  He disconnected the call and rang Sigurd Henden. Haglund’s defence lawyer answered in a gruff voice. ‘I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon.’

  ‘I found a name in the old records, but it doesn’t constitute proof.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the custody officer, to see what he can remember?’

  ‘Not yet. What I need is something more tangible. Technical evidence.’

  ‘I don’t think I can help.’

  Wisting stopped for a pedestrian. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘Do you still have the three cigarette butts?’

  ‘Yes. They were returned from the lab in Denmark last week.’

  The pedestrian reached the other side. The tyres on Wisting’s car spun on the wet asphalt as he drove on. ‘Do you have the original container?’

  ‘Of course. They’re each enclosed in a paper envelope, marked with the discovery site, date and time.’

  ‘I need the one marked A-3. You’ve been given permission by the public prosecutor to undertake fresh forensic investigations. Haven’t you?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘I have an expert who can examine the envelope for finger­prints,’ Wisting said.

  ‘Now? After seventeen years?’

  ‘He says he can do it.’

  ‘No one here has touched the envelopes. They are lying together in a box of evidence items and were sent on from here in the same container. I expect they used gloves at the laboratories.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘What do you expect to find? The envelopes are handled by the police in the first place. Your seventeen-year-old fingerprints may well be on them.’

  ‘No chance,’ Wisting said, at the same instant turning into Herman Wildenveys gate. He would soon be home. ‘None of the investigators had any dealings with the crime scene work, but I expect to find the prints of one person who certainly didn’t have anything to do with the crime lab.’

  Henden cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have the envelope sent by courier. You’ll have it sometime this evening.’

  70

  Line’s car was in the driveway. That put
him in a good mood, as he had expected to come home to an empty house. He took the folder of custody records and let himself in. The shower was running.

  ‘Hello?’ Line called as he closed the door.

  ‘Only me,’ he replied, heading for the kitchen. The water in the shower stopped. ‘Coffee?’

  She gave a response he could not hear, but nevertheless set out two cups.

  At the police station, he had an envelope filled with negatives stored in the fireproof safe, copies of irreplaceable photos from Ingrid’s family albums. Having no such secure storage in the house he stood with the folder in his hands, scanning the room. Finally he opened a kitchen drawer and placed it there.

  Line emerged from the bathroom wearing jeans and a bra, with a towel wrapped round her head.

  ‘I made a cup for you too,’ Wisting said.

  ‘I need it. I’ve a few hours in the car ahead of me.’

  ‘Are you going out again?’

  ‘To Sweden.’

  ‘I thought you were following Haglund.’

  ‘We are. He’s sitting inside The Golden Peace.’

  ‘What’s he doing there?’

  ‘Just watching the world go by.’

  Line told him about her confrontation with Rudolf Haglund near the sawmill. ‘I think he may have recognised me from Fredrikstad. I wonder if he was the one who attacked me. If he was the one who killed Jonas Ravneberg. It’s just a feeling. I can’t see what his motive might be, except it must have something to do with the Cecilia case. That’s what links those two. They knew each other at the time she was murdered, and now something has surfaced.’

  Wisting observed her. She had a special talent for piecing together fragments of information and making connections. It was a flair he also discerned in skilled investigators. In the initial stages of an investigation, creative thinking could be more important than knowledge.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, taking a seat beside him. ‘What could the motive be?’

  ‘I’ve always considered there to be eight motives.’

  ‘Eight?’

  ‘Jealousy, revenge, money, lust, thrills, exclusion, and fanaticism. Jealousy and revenge murders are always the easiest to solve, together with murders that have a financial motive. Only seldom do we have murders where the motive is thrill-seeking. As a rule, it’s serial killers who kill for the sake of it, for the thrill it engenders, and fortunately we haven’t had many of them.’

  ‘Was lust the reason Cecilia Linde was murdered?’

  ‘I assume so, though we never found any sign that she had been sexually abused.’

  ‘What do you mean by exclusion? What’s that about?’

  ‘That mostly happens in extremist circles. Either radical religious or political groups, motorbike gangs.’

  ‘And fanaticism?’

  ‘That’s what we call honour killings. When honour and feelings of shame are the motivation.’ Of interest to Wisting was what he could recognise in himself, jealousy, revenge and lust. Fortunately other factors were required to convert them into a murder intent. Most killers he had met were rather stunted and self-centred, and lacked the ability to empathise. Like Rudolf Haglund.

  ‘That was only seven,’ Line said. ‘What’s the eighth?’

  ‘The most difficult of all is when a murder is committed to hide another crime.’

  Line became pensive. Nothing he had said was new, but he could see he had triggered a thought process. Then she seemed to give herself a shake. ‘How did things go for you today? What did Haglund actually tell you?’

  Wisting gave her Rudolf Haglund’s version, but skipped telling her about the name. Instead, he told her all the questions that had been posed by Internal Affairs, and that he had broken off the interview.

  ‘Was that such a good idea?’

  ‘Probably not,’ he said, crossing over to the fridge. It was almost empty, but he took out butter, cheese and a jar of jam. ‘What are you going to do in Sweden, by the way?’

  ‘Running an errand for you,’ she said, glancing at the clock.

  ‘What kind of errand?’

  ‘Collecting a package. I’ve spoken to Jonas Ravneberg’s former girlfriend. She lives in Ystad. He sent her a package and a letter telling her the contents should be delivered to you if anything happened to him.’

  Wisting had never had anything to do with Jonas Ravneberg. They had never met. The only line of contact was through Rudolf Haglund. ‘To me? We ought to alert the police in Fredrikstad.’

  ‘Why should we?’

  ‘They can get the local police to collect the package and examine the contents.’

  ‘And do you think that’ll be faster than me driving down there to collect it?’

  Wisting, knowing the bureaucracy associated with cross-border criminal justice, had to admit she had a point.

  ‘I’m driving down there tonight,’ Line said. ‘I can go to the police in Fredrikstad on the return journey and hand over the parcel. Do you want to come with me? It’s your name on the package.’

  Wisting felt a tingle of curiosity before the practical policeman gained the upper hand. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to attend to here,’ he explained, glancing at the drawer where the folder of custody records lay.

  71

  At the exit road for Torp airport, she turned off the motorway and drove into a filling station, bought a hotdog and two new windscreen wipers. After eating and changing the wipers, she set off for Horten and the ferry. The streetlights were off on some stretches, and moisture glinted on the black road surface. On her left she passed the old prisoner of war camp that had been turned into a prison. Several cars were parked in a layby, bright lights ahead. She dropped her speed as she passed: a police patrol car and a TV2 news van, a uniformed police officer standing in front of a camera.

  It struck her they must have found Linnea Kaupang’s mobile phone. It must have been traced to this vicinity. The police would be holding a televised interview at the discovery site in the hope of prompting witnesses. It would soon be nine o’clock. The news vehicle had satellite antennae on its roof and the interview would probably be included in the main news broadcast.

  Morten P and Harald Skoglund had already covered the story for the newspaper. They were still watching Rudolf Haglund. She reconnected to the conference call and told them what she had seen.

  ‘We’ve reported it,’ Morten P said. ‘But Dagbladet got it first. The police confirmed the find to them this afternoon.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That they beat us to it.’

  ‘I mean for the case. What’s the significance of her phone being found here?’

  ‘The police think it was thrown out of a car; therefore confirmation that Linne Kaupang is the victim of a crime.’

  ‘How’s it going with Haglund?’

  ‘He’s still sitting in The Golden Peace.’

  ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘Drinking coffee and people watching. Harald’s inside as well. Harald?’

  ‘I’m sitting by the door,’ Harald Skoglund said, ‘developing a bellyache.’

  ‘Is he just sitting there?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t think anyone has twigged who he is.’

  Morten P took over: ‘I’ve sent Tommy to check his house. That’s safe as long as we’re watching him here. With us, Tommy?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Tommy said. ‘I’ve gone round the house. All quiet.’

  ‘What plans do you have for the rest of the evening?’ Line asked.

  ‘That entirely depends on what Haglund has in mind,’ Morten P replied. ‘We don’t give up so easily.’

  ‘Keep me in the loop, then.’

  Driving into the Horten tunnel it dawned on her that whoever abducted Linnea Kaupang had probably driven along this same road. Perhaps he too had been bound for Østfold.

  Turning off near the ferry terminal, she drove to the booth and bought a ticket. The queue ahead had already started to move, and she was
quickly waved on board. The ferry trip from Vestfold across to Østfold lasted half an hour, which Line spent reading the online newspapers. The discovery of Linnea Kaupang’s mobile phone was described in them all. She did not find anything new about the murder in Fredrikstad, not even in the two locals.

  It was quarter past ten when she drove ashore at Moss, and raining just as much on this side of the fjord. She entered Maud Svedberg’s address in Ystad into her GPS, and the electronic map told her she should arrive just before four o’clock. She was already tired but decided to drive for as long as possible, and then snatch a few winks of sleep somewhere. At just before half past ten, she drove over the Svinesund Bridge to enter Sweden.

  Half an hour later, her eyes heavy with fatigue, she found a darkened picnic area. She locked the doors, reclined the seat and closed her eyes. The rain beating on the car roof sent her to sleep.

  72

  At midnight Wisting heard the courier’s van arrive in front of the house and had the front door open as the driver dashed through the rain. He handed over a big white envelope and Wisting signed a receipt on a computer screen. In the kitchen, he placed the package on the table and opened it with a sharp knife. It contained another, slightly smaller envelope, already open.

  Wisting emptied the contents on the table: the container for evidence item A-3. He recognised Haber’s signature and cursive handwriting in the headings marked case number, seizure number, location and date. It was a different type of envelope from the evidence bags they used nowadays, but bore no signs of deterioration. Wrapped and stored, it had lain untouched for seventeen years. He pushed the box back into the envelope, placed it in a document folder and headed outside to his car.

  The weather took a turn for the worse at Finn Haber’s old pilot house. The wind howled through the masts and crossbeams. Choppy waves crashed against the jetty, breaking and falling back again, but welcoming light spilled from the windows into the darkness. Wisting reached the entrance porch with salt sea spray soaking his face.