Back at his desk Wisting gazed at the slim case folder. Viggo Hansen had no family, no friends nor any other relatives. He had departed this life in just as lonely a fashion as he had lived.
He was inclined to push the folder into the bundle for filing, but something unknown held him back. Neither experience nor intuition suggested anything other than that the case should be regarded as closed. The most important task for the investigators had been to establish the identity of the dead man. There were no family members available for DNA comparison, but reference samples from a toothbrush and a comb were consistent and the test results established that the dead body was DNA identical with the man who had lived in the house: Viggo Hansen, aged sixty-one.
Forensics had been surprised at how well preserved the corpse was. A combination of low humidity, low temperature and an almost hermetic seal on the room in which all the doors, windows and air ducts had been shut, ensured that Viggo Hansen had slowly but surely dried into a mummy instead of rotting and disintegrating. All the same, it had been impossible to ascertain a cause of death, and on his death certificate it stated simply mors subita. Sudden death.
The computer beeped and a red square appeared signalling an express message from the central switchboard. Five words: Body found at Halle farmhouse.
He placed the Hansen file at the top of the bundle of cases ready for filing.
2
The editorial office was silent; moist snow clung to the windowpanes, muffling the outside world. The interior was already hung with Christmas decorations, its television monitors, soundlessly displaying images from international news channels, decorated with silver tinsel garlands and red baubles. The VG logo, adorned with white angels and colourful lights, blinked along the partition walls dividing the work stations.
The man in charge of the News section was Knut A. Sandersen, and his office was equipped with glass walls so Line could see him clutching his mobile phone between shoulder and ear as he worked. He had become a Dad again two and a half months earlier and should really have gone home long ago. It was approaching seven o’clock and he had worked his third hour of overtime.
Ending his conversation, Sandersen took a swig of coffee and threw his head back. Someone had hung a bunch of mistletoe on the ceiling light fitting. Line was on the point of entering to make a pitch when the phone rang, and again Sandersen was tied up.
She lifted her cup and fell into thoughts of Christmas, wondering how she would celebrate the occasion. She had not spoken to her father yet, but expected it would be the two of them and grandfather at home in Stavern, but perhaps her twin, Thomas, would come too. He was a helicopter pilot in 330 Squadron and had not had time off at Christmas since their mother died, a memory that prompted an unwelcome prick of sorrow.
Five and a half years had passed. In the beginning, the hopeless longing had been difficult to bear and there had been mornings when she was reluctant to get up. Sometimes she had burst into tears in the middle of meetings, and she continually worried about how her father would manage on his own. Now the sense of loss was duller, less despairing, but she knew it was not by chance that she worked such long hours. She had come to depend on that feeling of focus and concentration when she was involved in a story.
The news editor finished talking, but took another call before she could stir herself. Knut A. Sandersen’s temples had acquired a number of grey hairs over the years since Line embarked on her first post on the newspaper. Her proposal was outside her usual sphere of interest, but they had enough spare capacity to allow her a few days on the weekend magazine.
Rising from his seat, Sandersen bumped his head on the mistletoe which Line suspected he had hung himself. He continued his phone conversation en route to the coffee machine but had concluded by the time he returned with a fistful of ginger biscuits and a mug brimful with coffee. Behind his desk, he stretched out and she knew she had to be quick. She would have no more than three sentences to sell her idea.
She picked up her coffee and went in to see him. Sandersen’s eyes swept over the mistletoe.
‘I want to write about Viggo Hansen,’ she said.
‘Never heard of him,’ Sandersen replied, sorting papers into bundles. ‘What’s he been up to?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Murdered?’
She shook her head. ‘He was dead in front of his TV for four months before anyone found him.’
‘Extremely dead, then.’
‘I want to write about how such a thing can happen,’ Line said. ‘How it’s possible to be so lonely and forgotten that it takes four months before anyone makes the chance discovery that you are dead. I think it could be a good story to print over Christmas. We’ve just been hailed by the UN as the best country in the world to live in but, in research into citizens’ experience of happiness, Norway is in 112th place. Some country in the Pacific Ocean topped the list, a little island community where people have time for one another and take care of their fellow human beings.’
Sandersen seemed to like the idea. The story would suit the mix of material at the festive season, a counterweight to Christmas joy, slimming advice and reports about exchanging Christmas gifts. Nevertheless, he looked thoughtful.
‘We really must write about something other than the weather,’ she said, nodding at that day’s edition with its front page announcement: Siberian Cold Front Approaching.
It gradually dawned on Line that the worried furrows on his forehead had nothing to do with her story as such. There were twenty-five staff members working on the weekend magazine on the floor above, and they should be capable of filling it themselves. Sandersen had nothing to gain by releasing a journalist. On the contrary, they would be one person short for their own work.
‘I need three or four days,’ she said, knowing that she would take more than that. ‘His funeral is on Tuesday.’
‘What was he watching?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘What TV programme was he watching when he died?’
‘No idea,’ Line answered, ‘but you can read about it in the paper.’
Sandersen nodded. ‘It’s a deal. I’ll offer them the story and say they can borrow you for three days.’
‘Three days,’ she confirmed, leaning forward and kissing him on the cheek.
3
An approaching snow plough swirled up a cloud of white powder. Wisting slowed until he was able to make out the road ahead again. A patrol car and an officer with snow frosting the brim of his cap were positioned on the turn-off to the farm. A sign announced the words Cut Your Own Christmas Tree in huge red letters.
He nodded to the policeman as he drove along the farm track. In the distance he saw car headlights and people busily working in an open area.
The body had been found in a felling patch of fir trees. The first patrol had reported that it had been lying for a long time. Wisting knew what that meant, how little would be left after time and nature had done their work. He turned into the parking space and stepped out of the car, suddenly realising how inadequately dressed he was.
Two uniformed officers stood at the entrance to the felling area. A sign stated that a real fir tree cost 380 kroner, and the price for an ordinary Norwegian Christmas tree was 220 kroner. ‘Do we know anything more?’ he asked.
The older of the two officers shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘No,’ he replied, blowing a frosty mist into his hands. ‘Mortensen is working in there,’ he nodded in the direction of the forest, ‘but I don’t think there’s much to work on. From the clothes and shoes it seems to be male, but it’s impossible to say for certain.’
Wisting peered along the row of Christmas trees. Fifty metres away, a spotlight had been set up and Mortensen, the crime scene technician, was stooped over something. ‘Who found him?’
‘An eight-year-old boy, here with his father to cut down a Christmas tree. The corpse is lying under the branches, close to the tree trunk, as though he’d been pushed as far unde
rneath as possible.’
The other policeman took over. ‘They kicked away the snow to make room for the axe, and didn’t realise what it was at first.’
Wisting nodded, envisaging the newspaper headlines: Boy (8) finds dead man under Christmas tree. ‘Where are they now?’ he asked. ‘The father and son?’
‘We’ve sent them home.’
Thanking them, Wisting trudged forward, snow crunching under the soles of his feet.
Mortensen, wet snowflakes covering his hair, stood up and said hello with a nod of the head.
Wisting observed the body from a distance of one metre, crouching to look under the fir branches at a curled back, clad in a discoloured, frozen-stiff blazer, light-coloured trousers and a pair of brown leather lace-up shoes with flat soles. A few tufts of hair were still evident on the back of the head. Marks on the neck made by birds or small rodents showed where they had feasted themselves. ‘What do you think?’ he asked, getting to his feet.
Espen Mortensen shrugged. ‘We’ll have to move him and let the forensics team take a look. Then we’ll set up a tent and get a roof over the discovery site while we remove the snow. There might be evidence lying here.’
‘The whole shooting match? You don’t think this might simply be a death from natural causes?’
Mortensen shook his head. ‘If we’d been in some remote place with no one in the vicinity, it could be that he’d lain down to shelter, but it’s only fifty metres to the farm track, and a few hundred to the nearest buildings.’
Wisting hunkered down again. Mortensen was right. They couldn’t be dealing with an accident either. Suicide was a possibility. Perhaps they would find an empty pill container underneath the branches, beside the body. That would make the case more straightforward, but something told him they would not find anything of the kind. ‘How long do you think he’s been lying here?’
‘Since the summer.’ Surprised by the answer, Wisting waited for an explanation. ‘His clothing,’ Mortensen said. ‘He’s wearing summer clothes.’
Wisting straightened up again and took a step back. ‘We don’t have anyone listed,’ he said. ‘No missing persons.’
4
Line had grown up only three houses from where Viggo Hansen had been found dead. She remembered him well, but there had always been something about him. All the children had been afraid of him, although with no particular reason. They seldom saw him in daylight, but he was often out at night and her mother had always told her to be home before Viggo Hansen went out if she was late in the evenings. She and Thomas had sometimes watched him from the window, just after midnight, hunched, his black coat slightly too large, always on the opposite side of the road from the streetlights. Rumour had it that his mother was in an asylum, and that his father had been in prison, but Line did not know if this was just gossip.
She looked forward to getting to grips with the assignment. Even before she had been given Sandersen’s approval, she had created a folder on her computer, entitled Viggo Hansen.
Working on features was a totally different journalistic process from her usual work, with regard to ideas and the collection of material, as well as analysis and dissemination of information. It was a completely different method of approaching reality.
For news stories she used a direct style of writing in language that was simple and functional. In a features article, on the other hand, language had a totally different purpose. She was freer to experiment and, although she was not writing poetry, she could sit and polish her sentences for hours on end. She might also spend a great deal of time on the structure of a story, creating narrative thrust and giving texture and richness to the characters. Features allowed her to go into more depth and set her own imprint on the story. At the same time, it was fascinating to reflect on important social topics through the fates of individuals, descriptions of their lives and those significant details that threw special light on the telling of a greater story.
In addition, she felt her magazine work was appreciated more, both by readers and management. Even when she received praise from Sandersen and the news editors, it could not stand comparison with the enthusiastic feedback given by the editor of the weekend supplement, whose memos were usually accompanied by a smiley face and a row of exclamation marks. She had not yet written a feature without receiving letters from readers afterwards. Often by email, but also handwritten and sent by mail to VG with her name as the addressee. She replied to them all.
Line had written in-depth interviews, conveying the outlook and opinions of other human beings. Admittedly, they had been living people, but the principle was the same. It was important to find out who the people she encountered actually were. At the moment, the Viggo Hansen folder did not contain much. Only a newspaper cutting when the man had been found, but it had not provoked much reaction, no reader contributions critical of care for the elderly or the health service. The story had not been picked up by the agencies or any of the major newspapers.
She had worked with the journalist who had written the report, Garm Søbakken, when she had been a temp on the local paper. The story would probably have spread to other media outlets if he had detailed information, but the short news item simply stated that the man had lived alone and lain dead for some considerable time.
Garm explained that the police always instigated an investigation as a matter of routine when anyone died unexpectedly and it was impossible to determine a cause of death. Otherwise, it seemed as if his attention had been diverted by the police opinion that no crime had been committed. In the same newspaper, he also reported on the congested housing market for the town’s student population and contributed a follow-up story about a violent incident. Almost certainly he had a great deal on his plate.
What had primarily aroused Line’s interest was that Viggo Hansen had lived in her own neighbourhood. She had seen his name on the mailbox as she walked to and from school, had stolen apples from his garden and sold raffle tickets to him at his door, but had only a vague memory of what he looked like. A short man with a shock of hair and a strong jawline.
It was her father who had told her he was dead, mentioning it in passing one evening on the phone. She had asked the questions her colleague in the local paper had not posed, and learned details that would have transformed the death into a provocative news story: that Viggo Hansen had actually been sitting dead in a chair in front of his television since the summer, the TV still switched on when the police forced entry.
She had also learned from her father how the death was not discovered earlier. Viggo Hansen had led a solitary life. He had no family, no work colleagues nor friends, did not subscribe to any newspaper and received almost no mail. There had been regular movement in his bank account, his pension arriving regularly and most of his bills paid by direct debit. He had been a person who did not exist for the people around him, one who was not noticed though he lived in the midst of other people.
It dawned on her that she could not write a story that only dealt with the external circumstances, with his isolation and solitary life, but that she had to write about who Viggo Hansen really was. If no one knew him while he was alive, then people would get to know him now. Embarking on such a project was like peering through a keyhole, she thought. She could see only one part of the room, but was aware of infinitely more.
She decided to stay at home, at her father’s house, while she worked on the story, in case she needed more information from him. Viggo Hansen had been eight years older than Wisting, but he might know of someone who knew him. What’s more, he could probably tell her if there was any truth in the rumours that his mother had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital and his father had been in prison.
Opening a new document, she selected a letter template with the VG logo. If she were to make any headway, she also needed to access formal information held by the police. As a caption, she settled upon Request for access to documents in a criminal case. She had written similar letters before and would ask one o
f the chief editors to sign. She glanced at the title and deleted the words in a criminal case.
She described the idea for the article and argued that the newspaper would produce a report with the aim of drawing attention to the steadily increasing lack of community and humanity in modern society. To round it off she also asked for permission to enter Viggo Hansen’s house. The police would probably redirect her to the local authority which had formal responsibility to administer the estate in such circumstances, but it would be easier to gain permission from them if the police did not raise any objections.
She leaned back in her chair and clasped her arms behind her head. Snow was falling thickly outside the windows, almost half a metre since she left for work. Sandersen had probably already told one of the news journalists to produce a story about the chaos caused by the snow. She dialled her father’s number to tell him she wanted to stay with him for a few days. There was no answer. She peered up at the clock. It was quarter past nine. He had most likely fallen asleep on the settee.
5
Wisting stood at the conference room window on the first floor of the police station. The streetlamps shaped pale circles on the snow, and it struck him that the town seemed more congenial when wrapped in a white blanket.
Nils Hammer was first to arrive. Without a word, he sat in his usual spot at the top corner of the long table, grabbing a plastic cup and reaching with his big fist for the coffee pot. Hammer was a fearless investigator who could be relied upon, honest and hard-working, stoical and good-natured. Sometimes he could instigate heated discussions at the lunch table. The least politically correct officer in the station, Wisting suspected he derived a certain pleasure from goading his colleagues.
The Caveman Page 2
