The Caveman

by Jorn Lier Horst

  Below the shelf unit on the living room wall were four low cupboards. She opened one, smiling to find a leather-covered photograph album. At the very front were faded pictures pasted in of the couple whose wedding photograph she had studied in the bedroom. They looked like holiday snaps. Then a child who must be Viggo Hansen appeared, sitting on his father’s knee. Photos from Christmas Day and a birthday party followed. Line counted seven adults round a table. A picture of a little boy with a school satchel was dated 23rd August 1957. Beside the final photograph, someone had written Summer 1962. Viggo Hansen was pictured sitting on a jetty, legs dangling from the edge. The last ten pages were empty.

  Line flicked back to the beginning and looked through the photographs one more time. She would be able to use some, but would need more recent ones as well. It struck her that no one was smiling. They all looked so serious, there was some kind of absence of joy. Even in the photo of Viggo Hansen in front of a cake with five miniature candles, his mouth was clamped shut and his expression sombre. She closed the thick binders.

  A document folder lay beside the photograph album. Insurance certificates, receipts, tax returns and bank statements. Viggo Hansen was in receipt of a disability pension and his taxable income amounted to just over 200,000 kroner. She was taken aback to see that he had assets worth almost three million, 2.5 of which was deposited in a bank account.

  Also among his papers, she found a yellowed invitation to a class reunion on the occasion of the fortieth anniversary of their graduation from Stavern Junior High School in 1964. The celebration was to be held on Saturday 15th May 2004. She took a photograph of the invitation instead of copying the name and phone number of the organising committee’s chairperson.

  One of the receipts attracted her attention, from a locksmith who had mounted a double set of locks on the front door on Monday 1st August. She took a photo of the receipt which showed that the locksmith’s name was R. Nicolaysen. He might have been the last person to speak to Viggo Hansen before his death.

  The next cupboard was bare; the other two contained glasses and crockery.

  Replacing the album and papers, Line straightened up and looked again at the two empty chairs. On the table between them and the television console she spotted the TV magazine, just as it had been depicted in the police documents.

  Line leafed through it, finding it easy to deduce his television habits. He had circled the broadcast times for various reality series, nature programmes and documentaries, among them a programme about the FBI which was also asterisked.

  Line took out her camera yet again to photograph the TV listings. There was something subtle about the motif. It illustrated how Viggo Hansen had sat at home alone, but nevertheless still observed life in the outside world.

  After spending an hour or so rummaging through drawers and cupboards, she found something of interest in the bedroom chest of drawers: a shoebox full of Christmas cards.

  Settling into the clean armchair, she looked through them. A total of twenty, but only two senders. One set written in large, sloping letters, signed Frank, while the other sender, Irene, had more elegant handwriting. The oldest was postmarked 1975, the year after his mother had died.

  Dear Viggo – I know you’re going through a difficult time. The first holiday on your own, without your parents, can be painful and difficult. Nevertheless, I hope you have a happy Christmas and wish you all the best for the New Year ahead. Your friend, Frank.

  The Christmas card designs changed in keeping with the times. The oldest was glossy with a traditional picture of two elves ringing a storehouse bell while the farmer’s wife arrived with a dish of porridge. The most recent showed a portly Father Christmas with a bottle of cola in one hand. Dated Christmas 1988, it conveyed no more than a wish for a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. In the lower right corner only one word: Frank. No longer your friend.

  As the friendship with Frank seemed to wane, Irene took over. She had sent Christmas cards in the period from 1990 to 1995. In the first one, she wrote that she had enjoyed getting to know him and she hoped they could meet up in the New Year.

  So there had been a woman in his life, Line thought, as she browsed through the next five cards. The last one ended, See you in the summer.

  Line studied the postmarks. On the cards from Frank it was impossible to read where the sender lived, apart from one that appeared to have been mailed from Langesund. Two of the cards from Irene had been posted in Horten. She noted the names of these two people who had once been part of Viggo Hansen’s life. They had meant so much to him that he had kept their Christmas cards, but had obviously not done enough to sustain their friendships. Years had gone by since they had been in touch. She would find them.

  24

  Wisting closed his office door and sat behind his desk, knowing a myriad tasks had to be put in order. He had delegated responsibility for contacting the USA to Torunn Borg, who was also to investigate possible names Robert Godwin might be hiding behind. Benjamin Fjeld was assigned the search for local history societies and others who might be able to identify the places in Bob Crabb’s photos. It was meticulous work and far from certain to produce results, but the only way to proceed.

  Logging into the data system, he tracked the break-in reported at the apartment Bob Crabb had rented in Stavern. The case had been opened on Sunday 21st August and dropped six weeks later due to lack of information. There were only two papers in the case file: a report completed by the police officers who had responded to the call and a document with photos from the crime scene.

  The report contained information about time and place as well as a description of the modus operandi. In the section for itemising evidence obtained at the scene they had written Nothing. The same applied to the list of stolen goods.

  The pictures illustrated the report’s verbal description. Someone had used a crowbar, or similar, forcing it between door and frame to create a gap wide enough to wrench the door open.

  Wisting returned to the text. It seemed there had been two students staying in the flat and they had moved in only five days earlier. Easily saleable items such as a PlayStation, laptop computer and a few bottles of spirits had not been touched. The owner thought a previous lodger by the name of Bob Crabb might have broken in. He had rented the flat as holiday accommodation for four weeks and, as he had not moved out at the agreed time, the landlady had taken possession of his belongings.

  He closed down the on-screen information and moved to the window. Smoke rose from the chimneys of countless roofs and a delicate film of freezing mist had settled over the fjord.

  Staring at the white snow produced a hypnotic effect that drew out all his concentration. He could not foresee when the breakthrough in this case would come, but in all the cases he had ever worked on, hope of success had been greater than fear of failure, and that was how he felt now.

  Torunn Borg knocked and entered without waiting for a response. ‘The FBI are coming,’ she said.

  ‘To Norway?’

  ‘Three special agents are already on their way. Two from the main office in Washington and one from the local office in Minneapolis. They land at Gardermoen early tomorrow and want to meet us at twelve.’

  Wisting took a deep breath. If it leaked out that FBI special agents were in the country to bring in a wanted serial killer, they would not have a moment’s peace.

  ‘Leif Malm from the intelligence section at Kripos and an inspector from the international joint operations section will arrive with them.’

  ‘Leif Malm,’ Wisting repeated, remembering an earlier case. ‘I thought he was with the Oslo force?’

  ‘Well, he’s working at Kripos now.’

  ‘What about Bob Crabb’s house in Minneapolis? Have they taken any action on that?’

  Torunn Borg settled into one of the vacant chairs and leafed through her notes. ‘I have direct contact with a Detective Inspector Bruce Jensen of the 3rd Precinct. It’s half past eight in the morning over there. They’ll get
it done by the end of the day.’

  ‘Jensen?’

  ‘Probably a Norwegian-American. Actually, I’ve relatives over there myself, near Lake Superior.’

  ‘Are you in touch with them?’

  ‘No, but I think we have a great-great-grandfather in common or something like that.’

  Espen Mortensen joined them, papers in hand, pulled up a chair and sat down. ‘We’re looking for a woman,’ he said.

  Wisting and Torunn Borg exchanged a look.

  ‘The strands of hair in the dead body’s hand come from a woman.’

  25

  Line started the car, revving the engine and leaving it idling while she scraped ice from the windscreen. Her fingers were frozen, and it dawned on her that she had left her gloves in Viggo Hansen’s hallway. She would leave them until later, as she was already late for her appointment with Eivind Aske.

  She drove east along the main road to Helgeroa, through a winter landscape devoid of colour, undulating white fields with snow-laden trees stretching out to a pallid sky.

  Eivind Aske lived on a smallholding near Hummerbakken, where the barn had been converted into a combined gallery and studio. Beside the road, a sign on stakes above the snow had his name written in bold letters. Underneath, a smaller sign declared that the gallery was closed. Gusts of wind swung it back and forth.

  Line turned off the main road and drove into the extensive farmyard. The windows of the main house were dark, but light shone from his workroom in the barn. Eivind Aske appeared at the door and waved her over.

  Line slung her bag over her shoulder as she approached him. Out on the main road, a bus rumbling past on its way to Nevlunghavn disappeared in a cloud of snow. ‘So good of you to make the time,’ she said, tramping snow from her feet on the steps.

  Inside was warm and cosy. Detailed pencil drawings of people and animals were displayed on the walls. In the centre of the room stood a tilted drawing board with a sketch of a boy carrying a pair of skis over his shoulder. A variety of pencils, charcoal sticks and chalks was scattered across a work table.

  They crossed to a sofa unit at the far end of the spacious room. Eivind Aske had cut out the newspaper article Line had written about him when she worked for the local paper and hung it in a frame above the sofa together with reviews of exhibitions and other events. Line leaned forward to re-read the text. Parts of it were printed in question and answer format.

  Q - ‘Have you always liked drawing?’

  A - ‘Always. From before the time I started school, but it was only as an adult that I appreciated I had to make more of it. I travelled abroad and studied image communication and graphic techniques. Five years later, I came home again, bought an old smallholding and realised my dream of being an artist.’

  The accompanying fact box told her he was born in 1950, was unmarried and had set up more than fifty separate exhibitions in Norway, Denmark, Sweden and France. His works had been purchased by art associations, municipal collections, regional administrations and companies such as Statoil and Telenor.

  ‘Viggo Hansen, yes,’ Eivind Aske said as he sat down. ‘It’s a long time ago. I had completely forgotten the boy but, after you phoned, I started to do some thinking.’

  Line sat opposite him.

  ‘I looked out an old class photograph,’ Aske continued, sliding out a black and white photograph from a buff envelope. ‘This is from our primary seven class in 1964.’ He handed the group photo to Line. The pupils were arranged in four rows, boys and girls in home-knitted sweaters and cardigans. Most of the girls had woollen skirts. The boys had short haircuts. Under the photo, the names of all the children were listed.

  ‘There were twenty-eight of us in the class. Viggo Hansen is standing on the far left in the second row.’

  He put his finger underneath the face of a puny little boy with skinny arms and legs and a blank expression.

  ‘And that’s me,’ Eivind Aske said. He was smiling broadly in the front row.

  Line glanced from the picture to the man facing her. He had changed a great deal during the years that had gone by, and she had difficulty recognising his features, perhaps with the exception of the smile. ‘Could I borrow this?’ she asked. She could scan it and use the picture in her article.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Line studied the other faces, halting at a grown man in a suit and tie. Number one in the back row. Arne Lorentzen, she read. ‘Was that your teacher?’

  ‘Lorentzen, yes,’ Eivind Aske rose to his feet. ‘He’s dead now.’

  He went over to a small kitchen worktop and returned with a coffee pot and two cups. ‘Coffee?’

  Line accepted with thanks. ‘Viggo Hansen had one of your pictures on the wall in his home,’ she said, as he poured.

  A fleeting jolt passed through Eivind Aske. The stream of coffee jerked to the outside of the cup and onto the tabletop. ‘Apologies,’ he said, putting down the pot and rushing to fetch a cloth.

  ‘Boy Fishing,’ Line added.

  Aske wiped the table. ‘That’s an old one. Three hundred prints were made.’

  ‘What do you think of that? That he had one of your pictures, I mean?’

  Eivind Aske responded with a shrug. ‘Lots of people have it, I’m sure.’

  ‘Don’t you think he may have been proud to know you? That he had gone to school with a well-known artist?’

  ‘The person you really should speak to is Odd Werner Ellefsen,’ Aske said, changing the subject. ‘They hung out together.’

  ‘Is he in the class photograph?’

  ‘They’re standing beside each other.’

  The boy next to Viggo Hansen was heavier built, his features more distinct, and he had a tentative smile on his lips.

  ‘They were neighbours, I think. They lived beside Larviksveien, beside the pea canning factory.’

  Line did not quite know where he meant.

  ‘Where the Meny supermarket is today. I lived on the other side of town and didn’t have anything to do with them, apart from being in the same class. I don’t think either of them had an easy upbringing. Perhaps that’s why they found each other.’

  ‘Does Odd Werner Ellefsen still live in Stavern?’

  ‘No, I think he stays in Larvik.’

  Line reached for the coffee cup. ‘Have you ever had any class reunions or anything of that nature, in more recent times?’

  Eivind Aske shook his head. ‘Not that I’ve gone to, anyway. An invitation came for one a few years back, but I was abroad then.’

  Line took out her press notebook. ‘Do you recall any incidents from your schooldays that Viggo was involved in?’

  Eivind Aske shook his head again. ‘No, he was fairly anonymous. He probably was his entire life. Someone who doesn’t want to get in the way of other people. He never said much, barely answered when the teacher asked him anything. I can’t remember him telling us anything about himself. He had a sort of secret life.’

  ‘What kind of secrets?’

  ‘Well, that’s what they were, secrets,’ Aske said with a smile.

  ‘Did you know his family?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘There was a rumour his father had been in jail,’ Line said.

  ‘That’s more than I can remember. If there’d been any truth in that, I think we children would have talked about it.’

  Line lifted the class photograph again. ‘Was there anyone called Frank in your class?’ she asked.

  ‘Frank? No.’

  ‘Do you know anyone called Frank?’ Someone Viggo Hansen might have kept in touch with?’

  ‘Off the top of my head I can’t think of anybody at all called Frank.’

  ‘What about Irene?’

  ‘No, not that name either.’

  They sat for another half hour before Line stood up. She had tried to get him to remember more, an everyday story from their schooldays or some particular episode, but there was nothing more. The visit had not been a complete waste of time, however.
She had obtained a class photo and a new name on her notepad. Odd Werner Ellefsen.

  The snow crunched under her shoes as she returned to the car. A bluish-black winter darkness had fallen as they spoke and it had become even colder. Line drew her jacket collar more snugly round her neck.

  26

  The investigators assembled in the conference room.

  Wisting asked Espen Mortensen to describe the results of the forensic tests. Mortensen switched on the projector and began with his conclusion. ‘The hairs come from a female.’

  An image of the dead man’s clenched hand appeared on the screen, a few blond hairs protruding between the fingers. The next photo was taken during the post-mortem when the hand was opened, showing the strands of hair stuck with crusted blood.

  ‘That’s the victim’s blood,’ Mortensen said, ‘but the hairs actually come from a woman.’ eHe picked up the forensics report. ‘The hairs do not contain sufficient material for a full DNA profile, but mitochondrial DNA was found, and the sex-typing markers show they come from a female.’

  ‘Might the tests have been contaminated in some way?’ Hammer asked. ‘Cross-contamination from one of the women working in the lab, perhaps?’

  ‘Each of the six hairs was tested separately, and they all produced the same result.’

  ‘How do you explain that?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘The way I see it, there’s only one explanation,’ Mortensen said as he handed across the report. ‘The victim has been in hand-to-hand combat with a woman.’

  ‘And the woman won,’ Hammer said wryly.

  Wisting glanced doubtfully at the report. So much jargon, so many abbreviations. ‘Does the analysis tell us anything more?’

  ‘The woman’s of European origin.’

  ‘That’s something,’ Hammer said. ‘Already we are down to only 350 million suspects.’

  ‘Do we know any more about who this man is?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  ‘Until now we had every reason to believe he was a missing American called Bob Crabb,’ Wisting replied. ‘Now we’re not so sure.’