The Caveman

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Could it be,’ she went on, ‘that the remains actually belong to Robert Godwin and the strands of hair are from an assault victim who got away? The scenario ends with her killing him, and instead of reporting it to the police she hides the body.’

  ‘I was wondering that too,’ said Wisting.

  ‘When can we have an answer?’ Benjamin Fjeld asked.

  ‘Hopefully, when the FBI arrive tomorrow,’ Mortensen replied. ‘The comparison of the DNA profiles is proceeding over there.’

  Wisting still found the whole thing bewildering. There was too much missing information.

  The remainder of the meeting was spent covering old ground. When they finished it was dark outside. Wisting scanned the faces of his colleagues around the table. There wasn’t much more he could do other than send them home, since they had to be rested and ready to confront what lay ahead.

  27

  Line put the pizza box on the overcrowded desk in her mother’s study, opened the lid and helped herself. While she ate, she jiggled the memory card out of her camera, inserted it in her laptop and transferred the pictures to the folder entitled Viggo Hansen. Eating as she looked through the images, she deleted those she had no use for.

  She had persuaded Eivind Aske to pose for a photograph, remembering how difficult it had been the last time when he had been keen for his art to be highlighted, rather than him as a person. He had kept himself fit and hardly changed in the eight years that had passed. His hairstyle was identical, dark and wavy, and seemed thicker than in his old school photograph. She might almost suspect that he wore a toupee. His reluctance to let her take a photo was rather strange. His complexion was tanned and taut across his cheekbones, as if he had undergone plastic surgery, and he really seemed extremely vain.

  Among the items she had brought from home was the portable colour printer she used on long trips. She connected it and chose the few pictures she wanted in hard copy. Once they appeared in the paper tray she pinned them to the cork board her mother had used for children’s drawings, invitations and other domestic business.

  She created a timeline of Viggo Hansen’s life on the pinboard. On the far left she wrote the date he had been born on a yellow post-it note. She had photographed the pictures in the album she had found in his house, and now printed and placed them in chronological order together with the class photograph borrowed from Eivind Aske.

  She added the dates when the family had moved into Herman Wildenveys gate, when his father died in 1969, and when his mother passed away five years later. That was the year before his first Christmas card from Frank. The last had arrived in 1988. In the following year something must have happened to stop Frank sending them. She took another post-it note and wrote the year 1989 beside a question mark.

  She picked up another pizza slice and stared at the pinboard as she ate. Giving structure to the material provided a sense of being on top of the assignment. Alphabetical order, dates in chronological order, papers in ring binders, facts and documents, almost how a detective would do it.

  She sat at the desk. The person Viggo Hansen had been closest to during his schooldays was a boy called Odd Werner Ellefsen. There was indeed an Odd Werner Ellefsen in the list she had extracted of taxpayers born in the same year as Viggo Hansen, but she could not locate an address or phone number. He was not listed in the phone directory either, and an internet search yielded nothing.

  She sent an email to one of the researchers in the newspaper’s fact-checking department who could obtain information from the Population Register.

  Next, she opened Word. She wanted to start writing. In her head she had an outline, but she did not bother about that now, as she wanted to express her feelings and thoughts from the day. The words were difficult to find and the sentences tricky to compose, but she managed to formulate a few paragraphs about an unassuming life and a person who had not left any traces. Someone forgotten by everyone.

  Half an hour later the door opened downstairs and she heard the familiar sound of her father dropping his keys into the bowl on the hallway table. ‘Hello?’ he shouted.

  She answered, closed the lid of the pizza box and carried what was left downstairs.

  ‘I brought home some pizza,’ he said.

  ‘Snap.’ Line placed her box beside his.

  Wisting took a bottle of beer from the fridge and held it up to her invitingly.

  She shook her head and sat at the table. ‘Long day?’

  Wisting nodded before opening the bottle. ‘I read the report of the break-in at Viggo Hansen’s,’ he said, helping himself to a slice of pizza. ‘It didn’t look as if anything was stolen.’

  ‘I went in afterwards,’ Line told him. ‘It didn’t look as though anything had been touched, but there probably weren’t any valuables to attract a thief.’

  ‘What else did you do today?’

  Line related her conversation with Greta Tisler and her subsequent visit to Eivind Aske’s studio. ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘Have you discovered any more about that dead man?’

  ‘Not really, but I checked Viggo Hansen’s father in the criminal records.’ He used his pizza slice to point to a buff envelope on the kitchen worktop. ‘It was true. He had been in prison.’

  ‘What was the reason?’

  Wisting wiped the greasy crumbs from his fingers before opening the envelope. ‘Aggravated theft,’ he said, withdrawing a sheet of paper. ‘This is an extract from the records.’ There were only a few lines at the top of the sheet. ‘He was convicted in Bergen City Court on 9th September 1960 for breaking paragraph 258 of the Criminal Code and sentenced to prison for three years and ten months.’

  ‘Viggo Hansen was ten years old,’ Line calculated. In her mind’s eye, she placed the prison sentence in the timeline on the workroom wall. ‘He was in jail until his son was fourteen.’

  ‘That’s a harsh punishment,’ Wisting said, stowing the rest of the pizza slices in the fridge.

  ‘What did he steal?’

  ‘You’ll have to get hold of the court judgment to find that out. This is just an extract from the records.’

  ‘Where can I get hold of it?’

  ‘It should be listed in the National Archives in Bergen.’

  The timbers on the terrace outside creaked in the cold. Line leaned back in her chair, aware that the unanswered questions fed her thoughts, certain she would have a sleepless night.

  28

  The time was 06.45, and the thermometer registered minus seventeen degrees Celsius. Through the darkness, Wisting could make out the contours of the motionless trees outside his window. There was no wind.

  He had put on the turtle-necked sweater Line had given him for Christmas a number of years ago, but wondered about something more formal. The FBI would probably turn up in suits.

  He had coffee and a slice of cold pizza for breakfast before heading for the bathroom where he scrutinised his reflection as he brushed his teeth: broad face with a sprinkling of grey in his hair, puffy eyes staring back at him. The lines around his mouth and furrows at his nose were sharper than before. The thought that he was growing old pricked him.

  He kept the sweater and put on hat and gloves, buttoning his padded jacket before he left the house. The car started first time but he had to scrape the windscreen, the cold stinging his cheeks and nose. As he reversed from the driveway, he stole a glance at Viggo Hansen’s house before setting off for the police station.

  This was the first time he had been unable to share his thoughts about an ongoing investigation with Line. He had always been mindful of his duty of confidentiality, but that had never prevented them from discussing current issues. What he was working on now, however, was a case of such dimensions that he could not expect her to refrain from passing it to her colleagues. If Robert Godwin was still alive and living somewhere in Norway, a leak to the press could impact badly on their enquiry. It would prompt a huge number of tip-offs, but it would also warn the killer. If he had lived here as a peac
eful resident for more than twenty years it was not a risk he could take.

  At 07.45 he hung his jacket behind his door and placed his hat and gloves on top of the shelf behind his chair.

  The night had not led to any new developments, fresh reports or information. Wisting spent the morning making preparations. The FBI had a reputation for running roughshod over local police in the USA, exactly like Kripos in Norway. It was nevertheless the locals’ case, and although they were the ones who had taken the initiative for the meeting, Wisting intended to remain in charge.

  He re-read all the documentation from the Americans but did not discover much he did not already know, although he managed to pick up some new American expressions.

  Afterwards, he prepared for the meeting by producing a chronological list on which he recorded the development of their own case point by point and how he envisaged the way forward. These preparations were beneficial in other ways, giving him a more holistic overview as well as a reminder of what they had and what they lacked in the case.

  Wisting was continually surprised and impressed by what could be deduced from even the tiniest scrap of material found at a crime scene. Forensic evidence had become increasingly important to an investigation and of major significance for the outcome of a case. However, clues were one thing, it was something else to interpret them correctly. The strands of a woman’s hair disturbed him.

  In all the deaths he had investigated, he had only once worked on a case with a female murderer. There were a few of these in criminal history but, as a rule, they were the desperate actions of desperate people. He was not convinced they were looking for a woman of that type, but neither could he hit upon any other logical explanation for the six strands of female hair.

  He marshalled his thoughts along a timeline that started in 1983 when Robert Godwin killed his first victim and extended to the discovery of the dead body in the trees three days ago. The distance between all known points was enormous and the information they had was full of holes.

  Three faint knocks on his office door and Christine Thiis poked her head inside. ‘They’re here now,’ she said. ‘The FBI.’

  When he got to his feet, his seat had a damp patch where his back had been.

  29

  The room was bathed in silvery morning light. Line lay in bed, studying the pattern on the wallpaper, recalling something that had struck her as she fell asleep. Too tired to get up and write it down she had hugged it close in her dreams.

  It had come while she wondered what to wear for Viggo Hansen’s funeral, who would come to the church, and whether she should buy flowers. Perhaps she should take the initiative and organise a collection among the neighbours for a funeral wreath. These thoughts had led her to think about the clergyman who would deliver the eulogy. Her last thought before falling asleep had been that she ought to speak to him.

  An hour later she was sitting in the church office. Jarle Lunden had both baptised and confirmed her, and had officiated at her mother’s funeral. Now he was a grey-haired man with heavy eyelids, though he retained the same gentle smile. He asked how she was these days and how her father was keeping.

  ‘I often see your name in the newspaper,’ he said. ‘It’s been exciting following your career.’

  Line smiled.

  ‘That’s what’s fascinating about a long professional life in the same place,’ he said. ‘Seeing what direction the lives of the people you’ve met have taken. I’ve baptised infants who’ve grown up to be famous politicians, actors and renowned artists, but also children who’ve become drug addicts, bank robbers and murderers. I’ve confirmed girls who’ve become some of the best handball players in the world, boys who’ve turned into famous authors, and I’ve married couples who later came to hate each other so much that one ended up killing the other.’

  Line was tempted to ask what decided the eventual course of such lives, accident or fate, or God’s will, but let it drop. Instead she told him about the article she was working on and how she was trying to familiarise herself with Viggo Hansen’s background.

  ‘I only met him once,’ the clergyman said.

  ‘When was that?’

  Jarle Lunden shifted in his seat, making it creak slightly. ‘Forty-two years ago, when his father died. I probably wouldn’t remember if it hadn’t been my first funeral service. Since then, I’ve officiated at more than a thousand, and Viggo Hansen will be one of the very last. I’m retiring at New Year.’

  He shifted position again. ‘It was a difficult task for a young, newly ordained clergyman. Fortunately, the ceremony was attended by only the closest relatives.’

  Line took out her notebook and leafed to a blank page. ‘What was so difficult about it?’

  ‘It’s always difficult when people take their own lives, and this was the first time I had to deal with the relatives.’

  ‘Viggo Hansen’s father committed suicide?’

  Jarle Lunden nodded. ‘I was called to the house after they cut him down. Viggo Hansen was a young man, eighteen or nineteen at that time. He sat at the kitchen table, not moving a muscle, and I don’t know if he heard a word I said. His mother was pacing the room, talking the entire time.’

  ‘He hanged himself?’

  ‘In the basement.’

  Line pictured the chilly basement. The ceiling was so low she had been forced to crouch to avoid the rafters. She could not imagine how anyone could hang himself there.

  ‘Why did he do that?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t leave a letter, but I remember the mother blamed her son. It’s your fault, she said. Over and over again.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know. She said so many things, she was out of her mind with grief. In situations like that, it’s natural to try to find someone to blame, but her own son . . . it was painful to hear a mother say something like that.’

  ‘Did the police investigate?’

  ‘The police were there when I arrived. They were the ones who cut the body down. I’ve no idea what they did about the actual incident.’

  Line jotted a note to ask her father to find the old case in the archives. ‘Do you think anyone will come to the funeral tomorrow?’

  Jarle Lunden shook his head. ‘He had no family, and no work colleagues or friends. Maybe some of the neighbours will come or someone who knew him from their schooldays.’ The clergyman clasped his hands on the desk. ‘I have to admit his loneliness distresses me. It’s awful to think that it took four months from when he died until anyone bothered about him. That’s perhaps the greatest loneliness of all, not even to exist in anyone else’s thoughts.’

  Line noted the sentence. The quote, prominent in italic print, would enhance her story. ‘What were you thinking of saying in your eulogy?’

  ‘I had in mind to use the words of a Chinese poet as my starting point,’ he said, producing a sheet of paper covered in notes. ‘It says that a person has not lived in vain if he has heard birdsong in spring, grasshoppers in summer, insects in autumn, and the sound of falling snow in winter.’

  Line canted her head as she glanced out the window, where a cold mist enveloped the streets. ‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Can I use it?’

  ‘Of course. You can have the whole speech after the funeral tomorrow. Perhaps you’ll find something more. God’s word contains a great deal of comfort for the lonely. Most powerful of all are Jesus’ own.’ He held up his working notes and read aloud, ‘‘My God, my God,’ Jesus cried out in a loud voice. ‘Why have you forsaken me?’’ He put down the sheet of paper. ‘It tells us how Jesus has experienced being alone and abandoned.’

  Line scribbled some notes, mainly to be polite, not thinking she would make any reference to the Bible. She thanked him for meeting her as she got to her feet.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ Jarle Lunden said, accompanying her to the door. ‘A woman phoned last Friday and asked when the funeral was.’

  ‘A woman?’

  �
��I didn’t speak to her myself. Our secretary took the call, but she came to see me afterwards. Mostly to tell me there would be at least one person attending the funeral.’

  ‘Do you know her name?’

  ‘No, I asked that too. I would have liked to speak to people who knew Viggo Hansen to get some input for the eulogy, but her name hadn’t been recorded.’

  ‘Who could it have been?’

  The clergyman shrugged as he held the door open. ‘Maybe we’ll get the answer to that tomorrow.’

  30

  A platter laden with buttered bread rolls and a variety of toppings, bottles of mineral water, a pot of coffee and cups were all laid out on the table in the conference room.

  Christine Thiis must have had arranged this, Wisting thought, easing out one of the roast beef rolls and rearranging the others to make it impossible to detect that someone had already helped himself.

  He ate as he skimmed his notes one last time, underlining the most important points and circling individual key words, so that he could refer to them more easily.

  His own team filled the seats on one side of the table: Christine Thiis, Espen Mortensen, Nils Hammer and Torunn Borg. Mortensen would report the technical results and project the images. Nils Hammer and Torunn Borg were mainly included to even up the numbers.

  Wisting moved from the top of the table when their guests arrived, Christine Thiis opening the door, stepping aside as she ushered them in. A round of introductions and handshakes followed.

  One of the FBI agents was a woman called Maggie Griffin, aged about forty, formally dressed in a black suit, with cropped dark hair and a firm handshake. One of her colleagues, Donald Baker, about ten years older, was a man with deep, solemn creases at either side of his mouth, whilst her other colleague, John Bantam, from Minneapolis, was several years younger. Slim and muscular with short black hair, he introduced himself as an analyst.