‘I’m not really a fan of these TV programmes,’ Wisting said, and saw that Martin was nodding in agreement.
This was not actually true. Although he did not watch the programme often, he did like it. The format gave viewers insight into how the police worked and had been shown to make a helpful contribution to solving crimes, but he was keen to demonstrate that he was on the same side as Martin Haugen. This would be important for the weekend they were about to spend together.
‘It’s cynical and speculative,’ he added, taking another slurp of coffee.
Martin Haugen released the chair back and crossed his arms. His breathing had become laboured.
‘It’s entertainment,’ Wisting continued. ‘I don’t think that sort of thing should be made into entertainment.’
As Martin Haugen turned towards him, Wisting thought he could detect something in his eyes, something tugging and twisting inside him. Then it was gone.
‘So, will I pick you up at four o’clock tomorrow?’ Haugen asked.
Line slouched forward in her chair in front of the TV, following every single word Adrian Stiller said. He was in heavy make-up, perhaps an ineffective attempt to conceal the slightly tired expression on his face.
Until now, nothing had emerged that she had not already included in her article. On the contrary, the run-through on TV was simple and superficial. VG readers would receive a great deal more.
‘So, can you countenance the possibility of Nadia Krogh still being alive?’ the presenter asked.
Stiller nodded, as if this question had been pre-arranged.
‘We’re going to great lengths to look into that,’ he said. ‘It’s precisely why we’ve obtained expert assistance to create a virtual portrait of how Nadia Krogh might look today.’
Line opened her mouth to object. Adrian Stiller had not mentioned anything about this.
The presenter turned to face the camera. ‘And now we can exclusively show the police’s depiction of how Nadia Krogh might look today,’ he said, before a pencil sketch expanded to fill the entire TV screen.
Line put her face in her hands and groaned. At the same time, the screen split into two: the left half showed a youthful picture of Nadia Krogh while on the right the speculative present-day image was projected.
‘Tell us how you’ve gone about creating this sketch,’ the presenter requested.
Adrian Stiller began to explain, but Line was no longer listening. In the hours ahead, prior to her own article being printed, the ‘then’ and ‘now’ pictures of Nadia would have spread to all the major online newspapers. The impact of her story would be completely lost.
Martin Haugen was on his way back to the kitchen, leaving the TV set switched on. The crime experts were now discussing their opinions of the old kidnapping case.
‘Or should we try to leave a bit earlier?’ Martin asked, seemingly entirely unaffected by the TV programme.
‘Four o’clock is fine,’ Wisting said, following him from the living room.
As his phone began to ring, he picked it up and saw it said Line on the display. This must be something important, he thought, since it was not part of the plan for Hammer to call.
He stood in the doorway, some distance from Martin, to ensure he could not hear Nils Hammer’s gruff tones.
When he answered he was taken aback to hear Line’s voice. ‘Are you at home?’ she asked.
‘I’m on my way home,’ he replied, crossing to the kitchen worktop, where he put down his empty cup. ‘I’ve just dropped in at Martin Haugen’s. Why do you ask?’
‘I wondered if you’d been watching TV,’ she said. ‘About the Krogh kidnapping.’
‘We saw it here,’ Wisting confirmed. ‘Was it a disappointment for you?’
‘I’d envisaged having exclusive rights to the Krogh story,’ Line answered. ‘That would have brought us more readers, and listeners. This has let some of the air out of the tyres, you might say.’
‘Don’t you think it might do the opposite?’ Wisting asked. ‘That there will be greater interest, and readers will want to find out more?’
‘Maybe,’ Line responded. ‘I just think it was very devious of that Kripos guy, Stiller. He’s known about this the whole time but hasn’t said a word. Instead, he let us believe we’d have exclusive rights to the story. It’s exactly as if he’s planning something.’
‘What have your editors said?’ Wisting asked, to avoid commenting.
‘I’ve tried to phone Frost, but I can’t get hold of him. I’ll try again. Will you drop in to see me afterwards?’
‘I will do,’ Wisting promised.
Martin Haugen had sat down again.
‘It was Line,’ Wisting told him, returning his phone to his pocket.
‘I caught that,’ Martin said, smiling.
Wisting remained on his feet. ‘She was pretty upset,’ he explained. ‘That’s how it goes with journalists. They want to be first off the blocks with everything. Now she’s been beaten before she’s even started.’
‘How is she doing, apart from that?’ Martin asked him.
‘Reasonably well,’ Wisting said. ‘She’s working freelance now. It’s a tough market and increasingly badly paid.’
‘I haven’t seen her for a long time,’ Martin remarked.
Wisting glanced at the kitchen drawer where he knew the thank-you card from her confirmation lay. He was on the point of suggesting Martin Haugen should call in some day so that he could meet Amalie but found he could not bring himself to say it.
‘Thomas has been home this past week,’ he said instead. ‘He’s been babysitting Amalie while Line’s been working on this story.’
He headed for the door and Martin stood up to see him out. ‘You must give them my regards,’ he said.
‘I’ll do that,’ Wisting said, though he was well aware he would do nothing of the kind.
Martin hovered in the doorway as Wisting crossed the yard to his car. ‘See you tomorrow, then, four o’clock sharp,’ he called after him.
45
The bulb was gone in the streetlamp outside Line’s house. He would have to report it to the council in the morning.
Parking beside the fence, he removed the recorder from his breast pocket, switched it off and put it on the central console. He left the car and walked to the front door, which was unlocked, so he opened it without ringing the doorbell. Thomas was still here. His shoes were on the floor. Wisting flipped off his own and tapped lightly on the doorframe leading into the hallway before stepping inside.
Thomas had the remote control in his hand and Line sat with the laptop on her knee. She looked up and waved him in.
‘Have you spoken to anyone?’ Wisting asked.
‘Yes, I have,’ Line answered. ‘There’s no crisis.’
Thomas rolled his eyes. ‘It was full-blown crisis here not so long ago,’ he commented.
‘I just don’t like to be taken for a fool,’ Line said. ‘He could have shown his hand.’
‘Police work’s not a game of cards where you show your hand,’ Wisting told her, as he sat down. ‘That probably applies to journalists too.’
‘Apparently, we’re related to him,’ Thomas broke in. ‘Line’s found some great-great character from Mysen whose name is Stiller.’
‘If he has any more tricks up his sleeve, I’m going to hit back,’ Line said.
‘How can you do that?’
‘I’ll write that they have a suspect.’
Wisting’s eyes were drawn towards the TV.
‘Have they?’ Thomas asked, straightening up in his chair.
‘He told me the first time I met him, and confirmed it when I interviewed him,’ Line said.
‘Who is it?’ Thomas demanded.
‘Well, he didn’t tell me that, but he said we’d be the first to know.’
Onscreen, two doctors were discussing a rare illness. Wisting pretended to be engrossed in what they were saying.
Thomas turned to face him. ‘Do you belie
ve they have a suspect, or did he just say it for effect?’ he asked.
Wisting got to his feet. He had no wish to cover for Adrian Stiller. ‘If he says so, then they probably have,’ he replied, moving towards the door. ‘But I don’t think you should write about it.’
‘Are you leaving already?’ Line asked.
Thomas had also stood up. ‘I’m off too,’ he said.
‘I’m not going straight home,’ Wisting explained. ‘I have to call in at work again.’
‘Has something happened?’ Line asked inquisitively.
He gazed at her, searching for a suitable response. ‘If there has, then you’ll be the first to know about it,’ he said, with a grin.
Nils Hammer stood at the staff entrance in the police station’s back yard, opening the door as Wisting parked. He waited and ushered Wisting through ahead of him.
‘What do you think of Stiller?’ he asked.
‘He seems determined,’ Wisting replied. ‘A real go-getter.’
‘I spoke to a colleague who worked with him in the Emergency Squad a few years ago,’ Hammer said. ‘He said much the same thing. Determined and results-orientated, but his methods occasionally leave something to be desired.’
They stood waiting for the lift. ‘In what way?’ Wisting asked.
Hammer waited until the doors had closed behind them. ‘They were driving in an unmarked vehicle with a video system on the E18, measuring average speeds,’ Hammer explained. ‘One day he placed a red L plate on the rear of the police car so no one would be suspicious. You know yourself how everybody pulls out and overtakes any car with a learner driver.’
‘Untraditional and creative,’ Wisting said.
‘And totally against the regulations,’ Hammer added. ‘There were a few more incidents too, where he pushed up the speed of other drivers and invited them to take part in a race. He applied to another section before an internal inquiry could be held.’
The lift doors slid open, revealing the corridor in the criminal-investigation department shrouded in darkness, with only a rectangle of light spilling out from the office Stiller used. He popped his head round the door when he heard footsteps in the passageway. Wisting noticed he wasn’t wearing his tie.
‘Did you see the programme?’ Stiller asked.
‘It all went according to plan,’ Wisting confirmed.
‘How did Haugen react?’ Stiller pressed him.
‘A bit difficult to make out,’ Wisting said. ‘But he did seem uncomfortable.’
‘In what way?’
‘It stunned him, somehow. He stood still, watching, and then he pulled himself together.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if it was that difficult to make out,’ Stiller said. ‘Shall we go up to the comms room?’
Wisting agreed and moved off. ‘But it doesn’t need to mean anything,’ he said. ‘From an objective point of view, it could simply be a natural reaction. The feature could have reminded him of when Katharina disappeared.’
Stiller took out a pack of Fisherman’s Friend lozenges. ‘You don’t honestly believe that?’ he said, smiling, as he held out the packet to Wisting. ‘Do you have the recording?’
Wisting took a lozenge, fished out the little recorder from his shirt pocket and handed it to Stiller.
Stiller offered the pack to Hammer but he shook his head and took out his snuffbox instead. ‘Did you get any tip-offs?’ Hammer asked.
‘Loads,’ Stiller answered. ‘Releasing such a drawing at peak broadcasting time opens the floodgates for a stream of tip-offs. People have seen her everywhere.’
‘Anything of interest?’ Hammer again asked.
Stiller shook his head. ‘Nothing that useful.’
Wisting wondered whether he should mention Line’s reaction to the TV programme but dropped the idea. Although he appreciated Stiller’s creativity, he did not like the way the man was manipulating his daughter.
Hammer swiped his pass, keyed in the code and held the door open for the others. The hum of computer fans and a loud electronic whine filled the cramped surveillance room. Wisting and Stiller remained on their feet while Hammer sat down and activated the screens.
‘No phone conversations or text messages,’ he reported. ‘But he’s been active on the Internet.’
The log of Martin Haugen’s Internet traffic in the past few hours filled the screen: row after row of various online addresses. It was obvious he had searched for two keywords: Nadia Krogh.
Clenching his fist, Stiller pummelled it triumphantly on the chair back. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Now we’re making headway!’
46
The hotel room was in darkness. Adrian Stiller sat wearing earphones in front of the window, listening to the audio file of the meeting between Wisting and Haugen. A freighter was entering the fjord, its high prow turning slowly into the container harbour.
This was the second time he had listened to the conversation between the two. Occasionally, Wisting’s shirt scraped against the microphone, which meant that the recording had to be filtered, but one part was clearer than all the rest. Their conversation about Wisting’s daughter. Martin Haugen asked how Line was getting on. It sounded like a genuine question, not just a polite remark. Wisting told him how difficult it was to succeed as a freelance. Maybe he could make use of it somehow. Line had worked hard on the Krogh story and had been upset when it was trounced before publication. He could let Wisting play on his daughter’s setback and allow sympathy to become a factor.
It was past one o’clock. He considered whether to change his clothes and go down to the hotel gym, run for an hour or so on the treadmill and then take a bath afterwards. Maybe that would help him sleep.
He stood up and glanced at his computer. He had read countless articles about sleep disturbance, but many of these contradicted one another. Some called insomnia a symptom, while others called it an illness. There was myriad advice on what to do but, as far as Stiller could understand from the articles, researchers were not even certain what insomnia really was.
He knew he should stop playing the amateur researcher and instead seek professional help, but that was difficult. Doctors demanded answers to so many questions. Anyway, he was able to manage. He was managing fine. At least he was no longer plagued by nightmares.
He went into the bathroom, flicked on the light and blinked at the mirror. Who belonged to this face staring back at him? Who possessed those disreputable features? With a furrowed forehead, he stood dwelling on how his life had not always been this.
47
Adrian Stiller was unaware that he was lying with his eyes open until a faint bluish glow lit up his hotel room. He twisted his head round towards the bedside table. His phone had not sounded an alert, but there was a message on the screen. The bed creaked as he turned on his side and picked it up. It was a warning from the tracker on Martin Haugen’s pickup: the vehicle was on the move.
Stiller swung his legs off the bed. A few taps on the keyboard took him into the program. He took several seconds to find his bearings on the little patch of map. The red dot had left Kleiverveien.
He sat following it until it moved out on to the E18, where it headed west.
Four minutes later, Stiller was seated in his own car. Martin Haugen was 14.7 kilometres ahead of him, en route to Porsgrunn. There was a possibility this might lead him to Nadia Krogh’s body, but it could also be that Haugen had simply been called out in connection with his work.
He did not really believe the latter.
He checked the dashboard clock before calling Wisting. It had just turned 2 a.m.
Wisting answered at once.
‘Haugen’s out driving,’ Stiller told him, dispensing with an introduction. ‘He’s on his way to Porsgrunn.’
‘Where are you?’ Wisting demanded.
‘I’m a few kilometres behind him.’
‘Do you need support?’
‘It depends what he’s up to.’
‘I’ll drive to the police station,�
� Wisting told him. ‘I’ll read the comms info and see if there’s anything to tell us his intentions.’
‘Great stuff,’ Stiller said, in appreciation. ‘I can’t keep track of him while I’m speaking on the phone.’
‘Okay,’ Wisting said at the other end. ‘I’ll contact you when I’ve got something.’
The call was disconnected and the map reappeared on the display. The distance between him and Haugen had decreased to 13.8 kilometres.
The motorway was almost deserted at this time of night. Encountering only the occasional lorry, he kept his speed high. The distance between him and Martin Haugen diminished, but it was unlikely he would catch up with him.
With a glance in his rear-view mirror, he changed lane and overtook an articulated truck. When he was 11.3 kilometres ahead, Haugen passed the exit road for Porsgrunn and continued driving westwards. Stiller stepped on the accelerator. The road was wet with rain, but the weather was fine and visibility good. The powerful engine on his car thrummed continuously. The on-board computer showed that he could drive 326 kilometres before his petrol tank was empty. He did not expect them to be driving much further.
He looked alternately at the dashboard clock and the figures indicating the distance between him and Martin Haugen’s vehicle. If they both maintained the same speed, he would catch up with him in a little less than twelve minutes.
All of a sudden the red dot turned off the motorway. The distance declined more rapidly, probably because of the lower speed limit where Martin Haugen was now driving.
Stiller was not familiar with this neck of the woods. He picked up his mobile phone from the passenger seat beside him, dropped his speed somewhat and drove with one hand on the steering wheel as he checked the map. It looked as if Haugen was on his way to a village called Heistad. He recognized the place name as the neighbourhood where Nadia Krogh had lived.
Six minutes later Stiller took the same turn-off. The red dot had stopped at what appeared to be a residential area. The map disappeared from the display when Wisting phoned.
The Katharina Code Page 20
