Just as he was about to step down again he spotted something behind one of the curtains, a small, wireless video camera with the lens directed straight at the garden behind the house. If anyone sat watching somewhere, Wisting’s face would have filled the screen at that very moment.
He bumped against the garden table as he took a step back. These days, they increasingly found that video recordings accompanied reports of burglaries or vandalism. The tiny cameras were of high quality and technology had made it possible to sit anywhere in the world and watch via the Internet. When Katharina had vanished twenty-four years ago, they had collected CCTV tapes from petrol stations and other places with surveillance installed. But the recordings were grainy and it was difficult to recognize anyone. These videotapes were still stored with the case documents, but he had no idea whether they still had equipment to play them nowadays.
He walked to the next window, a room furnished as a guest room but originally intended as a child’s bedroom, as Wisting had learned. Now it was used to store cardboard boxes. A few chairs were upturned on a table and a bundle of clothes was draped over the handlebars of an exercise bike. He saw a computer with a screen, wireless mouse and a keyboard on a writing desk, and a number of model cars displayed on shelves along the wall.
The room next to this was the bedroom, with only one single quilt on the double bed. It was thrown aside, and the pillow was topsy-turvy. Apart from the fact that one person slept alone in this room, there was nothing more to read from it.
He skirted round the house and discovered another surveillance camera. In the bathroom window, fixed quite high on the wall, the camera was directed at the area in front of the entrance.
The rain increased in intensity, and he thought he heard the sound of thunder in the distance. He tried to recall what the weather forecast had predicted.
The cat darted up the steps again. Wisting strode across to the outhouse on the other side of the yard, not much more than a tool shed with room for a snow-blower, a lawnmower and a pile of logs.
Rainwater cascaded from the corrugated-metal roof as he tried the door handle, but it was locked. Peering in through a side window, he caught sight of an axe on a chopping block but found it difficult to peer into the dark corners.
A layer of condensation had formed on the windscreen when he returned to the car and started the engine. Turning the heating up, he drove down the track.
On the other side of the intersection, Steinar Vassvik’s garage door was drawn up and he stood beside a hefty motorbike with a screwdriver in his hand, gazing across at him.
Wisting drove across the road and got out of the car, leaving the engine idling as he hurried into the garage, seeking shelter from the rain.
Steinar Vassvik greeted him with a nod. A powerful work lamp on the ceiling threw light on his coarse features. Since they last met he had sustained a cut under his left eye that had turned into a crimson scar.
‘I was up at Martin Haugen’s,’ Wisting explained. ‘He’s not at home.’
Steinar Vassvik put down the screwdriver and grabbed a rag from the bench.
‘Have you seen anything of him?’ Wisting asked.
Vassvik shook his head and wiped his hands on the rag. Wisting glanced behind him, towards the sign that forbade entry.
‘Have you seen anyone else there?’ he added.
‘There’s rarely anyone hereabouts,’ Vassvik replied.
‘When did you last see Martin Haugen?’
Steinar Vassvik shrugged. ‘He drives out at half past seven most mornings.’
‘Did he do that today?’
‘Not that I noticed.’
‘When does he usually come home?’
Steinar Vassvik glanced at the time, and Wisting did the same. It was twenty to five.
‘Before four,’ Vassvik answered.
Wisting nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, turning back to his car. ‘Thanks anyway.’
Steinar Vassvik took a couple of steps after him. ‘Has something happened?’ he asked.
Wisting shook his head. ‘I’d just expected him to be at home today.’
Steinar Vassvik nodded. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Maybe he’s at his cabin.’
‘Maybe so,’ Wisting replied.
Hovering for a moment to see whether Steinar Vassvik would add anything further, he thanked him again and dashed through the rain towards his car.
5
He did not ring Line’s doorbell but let himself in and instead rapped on the connecting door between the porch and the hallway.
Line popped her head out of the kitchen and waved him in. ‘You’re drenched,’ she said.
Wisting took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair.
‘It’s raining,’ he said, a smile on his lips, without any further explanation. ‘How’s Amalie doing?’
‘Fine. She’s sleeping.’ Line stood up and moved to the cooker. ‘Would you like some soup?’ she asked. ‘Cauliflower?’
‘Yes, please.’
Line switched on the hotplate. ‘It’s just from a packet,’ she told him.
Sitting down, Wisting pointed at the computer on the table. ‘What are you working on?’
‘The usual,’ Line answered. ‘Family history.’
She brought out a loaf, cut two slices and buttered them generously.
‘Could you check something for me?’ Wisting asked.
‘What’s that?’
‘Whether Martin Haugen is on Facebook.’
Line resumed her seat at the kitchen table. ‘Haven’t you been to his house?’
‘He wasn’t at home,’ Wisting told her. ‘I thought there might be something on Facebook about him being away.’
Line’s fingers raced across the keyboard. ‘Doesn’t look as if he’s on Facebook,’ she said. ‘Can’t you phone him?’
‘I’ve tried.’
As steam rose from the pan on the hotplate, Line got to her feet and removed it from the heat. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, ladling out a bowl of soup for him. ‘Has he gone missing?’
‘He’s just not at home,’ Wisting clarified, with a smile.
‘Can’t you track his phone or something?’ Line suggested.
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ Wisting told her. ‘There are formalities to go through. And his family would have to report him missing first.’
‘Have you spoken to any of his family?’
Wisting took his first spoonful and shook his head. ‘His mother died a few years ago,’ he explained. ‘He has an aunt and a few uncles in Porsgrunn, but I don’t think he has much contact with them.’
‘What about his work?’
‘I can speak to them tomorrow,’ Wisting said. ‘If he’s not back by then.’
He lingered at the table after finishing his soup but headed home before Amalie woke.
When he entered his empty house he wondered how long it would take for anyone to initiate an official search for him if he ever went missing. Line was the person closest to him, but she was used to him being away for several days in a row for work. And he wasn’t always good at telling her where he was going and when she could expect him back. However, at work they would be puzzled if he wasn’t at his desk in the morning without making contact to tell them he was ill.
In the living room he stood gazing at the cardboard box with the case files. Elling Kverme had been the officer in charge of the investigation. Fifteen years older than Wisting, he had been an experienced detective. He was retired now, but Wisting ran into him occasionally, and he always brought up the Katharina case, describing it as the greatest conundrum in his entire police career.
One of the challenges had been the delayed start to the investigation. Katharina had probably been gone for more than twenty-four hours before Martin Haugen had reported her missing. After that, it took some time for them to organize the police work and switch from searching for a missing person to investigating a possible crime. The first twenty-four hours after a crime w
as committed were crucial – that was when they had the best opportunity to map out the appropriate way forward. After that, details slipped the minds of witnesses and facts began to blur. Now, all he had were ring binders with twenty-four-year-old information.
He took out the file marked Steinar Vassvik and settled down to read.
Two days after Katharina disappeared Steinar Vassvik reported to prison to serve his three-year sentence for grievous bodily harm. Late one Saturday night, after a heavy drinking session, he had ended up in an argument in the town and had attacked another man. This was his fourth conviction for drink-related misdemeanours, but this time the crime was more serious. The man he had assaulted had lain in a coma for three weeks and been left with eyesight problems and chronic headaches.
Wisting had spoken to him in prison. He turned to the old witness statement. His aim in questioning Vassvik had been threefold: firstly, to check up on Martin Haugen’s account of the phone calls; secondly, to probe Vassvik’s knowledge of Katharina and her activities during her last few days; and finally, to chart Vassvik’s own movements around the time Katharina Haugen went missing.
Steinar Vassvik described his relationship with Katharina as a normal neighbourly one. They were on speaking terms, and usually exchanged a few pleasantries whenever they met. He spoke more often to Katharina than to Martin, but the reason for this was that Martin was living away from home on a construction site. Also, he and Katharina shared an interest in motorbikes. That was usually what they chatted about.
The last time he had seen Katharina was on Sunday 8 October when she had called in to see him with some books. This was the first time she had been inside his house. They had made an arrangement the day before, when Katharina had been out on her motorbike and stopped at Steinar Vassvik’s house on her way home. This was her last bike ride before she intended to store the vehicle away for the season, and they had talked about important maintenance issues prior to winter storage. He gave some advice and offered to help her with this.
She brought the bike to him later that day, after having washed it thoroughly. In the course of their conversation Steinar Vassvik had told her he was going to jail. It was no secret – Katharina knew he had been inside before and that he had been convicted again. Steinar Vassvik had sold his car and was preparing to store his motorbike for the next three years. That was how the arrangement concerning the books had come about. Katharina thought he would need something to read while he was behind bars. The next day, when she arrived to collect her motorbike, she had brought a carrier bag filled with books, and Steinar Vassvik had chosen five of them.
Wisting put down the ring binder and picked up the photographs of the house. On the coffee table in Katharina’s home lay the books that Steinar had apparently rejected – Mengele Zoo, The Alchemist and White Niggers.
It was easy to dream up a scenario in which Steinar Vassvik was responsible for Katharina’s disappearance. Sporadic contact with his neighbour’s wife had developed over a period of time: they had interests in common, and she was friendly and obliging. She paid him attention and was considerate. Steinar Vassvik had little experience with women. He had lived at home with his mother until he was over thirty. When his mother had inherited the house in Kleiver from her sister he took it over and moved in around the same time as Martin and Katharina Haugen bought the house nearby. His few relationships with women had been chance meetings in pubs. It was easy to imagine that he might have incorrectly interpreted the signals from Katharina Haugen. He was known to have a temper when he drank and this had already landed him in prison on three separate occasions. Something could have gone seriously wrong during his meeting with Katharina.
On days three, four and five of the investigation the police had concentrated their attention on Steinar Vassvik, searching for something specific to support their suspicions, such as mistakes and discrepancies in his statement or in withheld information. The problem was that he was extremely taciturn. Nevertheless, they had discovered a disparity in his account. In connection with the search on the first day, an officer from the uniformed branch had gone from door to door in the scattered settlement and asked whether anyone had seen Katharina. Steinar Vassvik claimed that she had called in at his house with some books around four o’clock on the Sunday. When Wisting interrogated him in prison, five days later, he claimed that it had been seven o’clock, a difference of three hours. The difference between daylight and darkness.
If it had not been for Steinar Vassvik already being in prison, they would have considered charging him with perjury for derailing the investigation. This would have given them permission to search his house for traces of Katharina.
As things turned out, they were able to gain access anyway. A routine urine sample provided by Steinar Vassvik when he turned up to serve his prison sentence gave a positive result for THC. He had been smoking hash, and that allowed the police scope for some creativity. A charge was drawn up to give them legal access to search the house for narcotics. What they did find was eleven of Katharina’s fingerprints – two on the back of a kitchen chair, three on a chest of drawers in the hallway and two on the inside of the front door. In addition, they found four prints in the garage, of which two were on Steinar Vassvik’s motorbike. She had been there, just as Steinar Vassvik had said, but there was nothing to suggest his house was a crime scene.
Wisting flicked through the ring binder. Steinar Vassvik had no alibi for most of the day Katharina Haugen disappeared. He had been working as a driver on one of the council’s refuse-collection trucks but had been forced to give up his job because of his imminent prison sentence. He had spent the week prior to the start of his sentence on practical business, and on Tuesday 10 October he had visited several clothing outlets in Nordbyen shopping centre to buy some clothes. The centre was brand new and boasted the latest CCTV equipment. They had clocked Steinar Vassvik in at 14.25 and followed him round the shops until he left the centre at 15.53.
The photos in the ring binder were black and white. Steinar Vassvik wore a pair of jeans, a thick sweater and heavy boots. He had thrown out all these clothes, together with most of the contents of his wardrobe. He told them this was for no other reason than that they were old and worn. Most of the investigators found this odd, but it did not give them reason to hold him on any specific grounds.
Wisting continued to browse through the pages, reading the statements given by colleagues and friends from the motorbike fraternity, but he found it difficult to concentrate. In the end he laid aside the ring binder and keyed in Martin Haugen’s number. This time he was diverted immediately to his voicemail without it ringing first. He sat for a few moments, conscious of escalating anxiety. Ever since the first time he had visited Martin Haugen’s house that day, he had been aware of something in the air, a fraught feeling he could not quite put into words.
6
Although unsure what to do, he felt he had to take some action. Abruptly, he rose and went out into the hallway, grabbed his jacket and clambered into his car.
The trip to the police station was faster in the evening since there was less traffic and the rain had abated.
From the car park he noticed a light in Christine Thiis’s office; otherwise, that entire floor was in darkness. The police prosecutor had either forgotten to switch off her light, or else she was working late.
He let himself in and ascended the stairs to the criminal-investigation department. Christine Thiis was on her way from the photocopy room with a sheaf of papers.
‘Hello!’ she said, beaming with surprise when she caught sight of him. ‘Has something happened?’
Wisting shook his head. ‘I just had to check a few things,’ he said. It still felt premature to say anything about Martin Haugen.
‘There’s coffee in my office,’ Christine Thiis told him as she walked on.
Wisting let himself into his own office and logged on to his computer. What was it he actually believed? That Martin Haugen had disappeared in the same wa
y his wife had done twenty-four years earlier? Before he allowed himself to jump to any conclusions he needed to examine all the possibilities.
When his computer was ready he logged into the intelligence system. It was used to check all the registers and databases which the police had access to, meaning that one search would find out if Martin Haugen had been mentioned anywhere on the system.
He keyed in his date of birth and ID number and obtained a limited number of hits, the most recent two years old and concerning a speeding fine. What he had half hoped to find was an entry by another police district about an accident or that he had been admitted to hospital. This would have explained everything.
He tried another search on only the name. Individuals were not always entered in the operation logs with all their personal details. This search produced a copious number of results, but they all seemed to refer to occasions when the police had been in contact with Martin Haugen about his work in the roads department – loose objects on roads, trees that had blown down and animals that had been knocked over. The last report was three weeks old and referred to a landslide of earth and stones on Highway 40.
Maybe that was why he was not at home, Wisting speculated. The downpour of the past week had caused a number of roads to collapse. Maybe he quite simply had a lot to do at work.
Since the traffic-management switchboard was manned twenty-four hours a day, he lifted the receiver and dialled a direct number which was restricted to police and other public services.
A woman answered and Wisting introduced himself.
‘I’m trying to get hold of Martin Haugen,’ he explained, listening to the immediate sound of tapping on a keyboard.
‘I can try to transfer you to his mobile phone,’ the woman offered.
‘I have his mobile number, thanks, but I can’t get through,’ Wisting replied. ‘Have you any information about where he might be?’
The Katharina Code Page 4
