Wisting smiled.
‘As a rule, it’s hilarious because the person who’s frightened dashes off and runs for a door or something to try to escape, but sometimes the guy who’s scared automatically pulls out a fist and throws a punch. Their brain has reacted differently. Nine out of ten automatically choose to run away, but one in ten reacts by resorting to violence.’
Wisting did not believe this had anything to do with an inherited disposition to counterattack; he believed it was a reflex reaction guided by learned behavioural patterns. Some had been brought up with violence and confrontation and had learned this was the most common type of reaction.
‘That’s why there are provisions in criminal law for self-defence and the principle of necessity,’ he replied, instead of arguing against Martin. ‘You can’t be punished for something you’ve done to defend yourself or to ward off an attack. You can kill in order to avoid being killed yourself.’
The crow on the other side of the lake launched an attack for the third time.
‘Have you encountered that?’ Martin asked. ‘Someone who’s gone free on the grounds of self-defence?’
‘It has happened,’ Wisting replied, and went on to tell him about a woman who had hit her husband on the head with a hammer while he lay on top of her, trying to strangle her.
‘But do you think human instincts exist so we can’t be held accountable for our own actions?’ Martin asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Wisting lied. He did not believe people were governed by their instincts. ‘I think that’s what happens when someone says that everything went black for them. There comes a point when you can no longer control yourself or know what you’re doing.’
‘Have you come across that as well?’
Wisting nodded. ‘In a legal sense, it is known as involuntary lack of capacity, or being unconscious at the time of the act,’ he told Martin, glancing down at his jacket sleeve, where he knew the recorder was running. He was balancing on an ethical tightrope regarding how far he could go to manipulate a confession from Martin. The responses he gave were deliberately misleading. Instincts did not impair consciousness, and he had never heard of a defence built on anything of the kind. Actions that ended up in the courts were often driven by urges and desires some people found difficult to control, but not just by instincts.
Martin grabbed another stick and began to lift the packets of fish out of the embers. ‘What type of person are you?’ he asked.
A light breeze blew bonfire smoke towards Wisting. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, turning away from the wind.
‘Do you flee, or do you go on the attack?’
The smoke from the bonfire stung Wisting’s eyes. ‘I don’t know,’ he answered honestly. ‘If someone leapt out of a rubbish bin to scare me, I think I would jump out of the way, but I don’t know what’s actually deep-seated within me. I’ve never been in a situation where I’ve been put to the test.’
The smoke drifted away again and he was able to look Martin Haugen in the eye. ‘Have you?’ he asked.
Martin Haugen leaned forward slightly, as if about to say something. Then his eyes slid away, past Wisting.
‘You’ve got a bite!’ he said, pointing at the lake, where Wisting’s float had submerged.
67
Adrian Stiller drove past William Wisting’s house and parked in the street outside Line’s. He knew the way. He had been here before. The first night he had been in town and unable to sleep, he had driven around and stopped in this precise spot. From where he was parked, he could see into Line’s kitchen, and up to her father’s house.
On that occasion his visit had not served any purpose but was simply a matter of wanting to be one step ahead and being keen to get to know both Wisting and his daughter as best he could.
This time he sat behind the wheel with his eyes closed to compose himself. His thoughts drifted to the roses the man from the roads authority had talked about and the bouquet on the chest of drawers in the hallway of Martin Haugen’s home. How simple explanations could often be when you eventually came across them. Katharina had bought the roses for Nadia.
He had no idea how Line had stumbled upon Martin Haugen, but he had to assure himself that her knowledge did not have the potential to destroy the case.
His mobile phone caused him to open his eyes again. He was unsure how long he had been sitting behind the steering wheel. He had not fallen into a deep sleep but the short nap had sharpened his senses.
Nils Hammer was at the other end when he answered. ‘I’ve got hold of a cadaver dog,’ he said.
‘Great stuff,’ Stiller replied, stepping out of the car. A face looked down at him from Wisting’s kitchen window: probably his son, who was home for a few days. ‘Send it to South-Trøndelag,’ he requested.
‘Trøndelag?’ Hammer queried.
‘To Malvik,’ Stiller specified. ‘Wasn’t that where the road collapsed last week?’
Hammer was silent. Stiller realized he was trying to figure it out.
‘There’s a pattern here,’ he went on. ‘I know Martin Haugen has an alibi for his wife’s disappearance, but if he buried Nadia at the roadside here, then he could also have got rid of his wife’s body in the same way while working up there. I don’t know how he managed it, but there’s a reason for Haugen driving up there last week and then telling lies about it. I want the landslip area searched.’
68
Her father must have run out of power for his mobile phone. She had tried to call him several times, with no response.
The way Adrian Stiller had reacted when she mentioned Martin Haugen’s name on the phone had provided all the confirmation she needed. In the course of the past hour she had grown even more certain she was on to something. She had found a map on the Internet. The road Martin Haugen had been involved in constructing was situated only a few hundred metres from the location of the party Nadia had attended before she went missing.
She would wait until after Adrian Stiller had contacted her before sharing her thoughts with Daniel Leanger and the others at VG, but she was convinced Martin Haugen was the man at the centre of the new investigation. In her own head she pictured Nadia lying buried somewhere deep beneath the durable asphalt referred to in the newspaper, and she was not keen on the idea of her father being alone with him. Her anxiety transferred to Amalie, who was fretting and restless.
She had never really liked Martin Haugen, although she could not put her finger on why. Even though she had only met him a few times, it was as if she could scent something, something negative. She could not understand why her father had maintained a relationship with him after the case went cold.
The thought that Martin Haugen’s wife had also disappeared was starting to simmer at the back of her mind when she heard a car door slam outside. She went to the bedroom window and peered out. It was Adrian Stiller. He was talking on a mobile phone and gesticulating with his free hand. She had thought he was in Oslo. He had promised to phone back, and the fact he was now standing outside her house made her anxious.
Returning to the living room, she picked up the recorder and switched it on in time to catch the doorbell ring.
Stiller appeared weary, almost exhausted, standing there on the steps. His complexion was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes, and his lips were cracked and dry.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asked.
Stiller’s eyes fell on the recorder in her hand. ‘I was in the neighbourhood,’ he replied, following her into the living room.
They sat on opposite sides of the coffee table. Line put down the recorder and lifted Amalie up beside her on the settee. ‘Is it about Martin Haugen?’ she asked. ‘Is he the kidnapper?’
‘What makes you think that?’ Stiller queried.
There was something disarming about his question, something that made her feel self-conscious.
‘Is he your suspect?’ she asked again, rather than explaining why she had arrived at this conclusion. ‘He’s a friend of Dad’s.
They’re on a fishing trip together this weekend.’
‘Switch off the recorder,’ Stiller said.
Line did as he requested.
‘I’m working with your father on this,’ Stiller continued. ‘It’s an unusual case, and the fishing trip is part of the investigation.’
Although Line did not quite understand, it seemed that Adrian Stiller had no intention of elaborating.
‘But you believe Martin Haugen kidnapped and killed Nadia Krogh?’ Line asked.
‘We’re going to dig for her body tonight,’ Stiller said.
‘Tonight? Where?’
‘Not far from where she disappeared,’ Stiller explained. ‘We’re going to close the E18.’
‘Are you going to dig up the whole E18?’
Stiller shook his head. ‘We’ve a good idea where she is buried,’ he told her. ‘We have a map.’
‘A map?’ Line repeated.
Adrian Stiller looked again at the recorder and refrained from responding. ‘I’d like you to come with us tonight, when we dig her up,’ he said instead.
69
They pulled in the nets at twilight. It was cold once the sun had gone down, and Wisting’s fingers grew numb from picking fish out of the sodden nets.
The result was thirty-seven Arctic char, four trout and six perch, between the two nets they had set out.
They rinsed, washed and dried them on land, and filleted the largest fish.
For supper they would eat the steaks they had brought. The fish were dry-cured in order to take them home. Following Martin’s instructions, Wisting spread some fish on the base of a bucket before scattering coarse salt and some sugar over them. Layer by layer, they filled the bucket and finally pressed down the lid.
Wisting attended to the steaks, and it was almost ten o’clock by the time the sizeable chunks of meat were in the frying pan.
He used a fork to poke and prod the meat, and looked across at Martin, who sat immersed in his thoughts, cradling a can of beer in his lap as he stared into the flames. He was softening up, Wisting thought. Their conversations had broken down the barriers. He just had to be led the last part of the way; even though he had everything to lose by talking about his crimes, it must also be difficult for him to be alone with his secrets.
Tiny pinpricks of blood began to seep from the steaks, and he used the fork to turn them over.
He glanced across at Martin again, keen to know what the man was thinking. Everyone had a need to share their innermost thoughts with someone. For ordinary folk, this was a case of talking about problems at work, in their marriage or about an illness. For a murderer, it was a matter of being willing to talk about things that would lead to many years in prison. Moving close to another person on that basis depended on finding the right emotional connection and building a bridge.
Martin leaned back in his chair, folded his hands over his beer can and looked up at him. ‘Have you always suspected me?’ he asked.
70
Line looked in on Amalie and found her fast asleep. Thomas sat with the remote control in front of the TV. ‘Thanks,’ she said, yet again. He had postponed his journey home to look after Amalie.
‘No problem,’ he assured her.
‘She’ll probably sleep all night,’ Line said.
She had packed the equipment she required in a large bag: laptop, camera, recorder and a pair of binoculars, in addition to a pen and some paper. Thomas stood up, lifted the bag and followed her out to the car.
‘Good luck!’ he said, beaming, while he stowed her belongings on the rear seat.
‘Thanks,’ she said, and clambered in.
He closed the car door behind her and stood waiting. In the mirror, she noticed him turn and head inside just as she drove round the corner.
Adrian Stiller told her not to make any further attempts to phone her father. She had no idea what was going on at Martin Haugen’s cabin, but Stiller reassured her they were in regular contact with him and that Haugen knew nothing of what was going on.
She wondered how involved her father had been in the Krogh kidnapping investigation when she told him she would be writing about it for the newspaper. His reaction had at least implied that he was unaware of the planned cooperation between VG and Kripos.
They had set up a conference call – Daniel Leanger, Sandersen (the news editor), and herself – to discuss the situation. According to their timetable, the next article and podcast would come out in less than a week, and they had intended to cover the story for a period of six weeks. Now everything would have to be accelerated. She had already written a news item stating that the police had embarked on a search for Nadia Krogh’s body and that the E18 was closed while the search was in progress. This would be published online as soon as she had a photograph of the roadblock and the diversion.
Daniel was also driving down from Oslo, but would not arrive for another couple of hours. She would be the only journalist on the scene when news of the police operation broke.
There was no sign of the roadblock as she approached the Porsgrunn exit road. She turned off and into a petrol station while traffic continued as usual along the E18. Two vehicles from the roads authority were parked on the forecourt. One had a trailer with a massive arrangement of lights and a sign for diverting traffic. In addition, there was a patrol car from the local police station with a female police officer behind the wheel. Line stepped out and walked across to her.
The policewoman rolled down her window.
‘Hi,’ Line said, introducing herself. ‘I’ve arranged with Adrian Stiller of Kripos to be here when you close the E18.’
The woman behind the wheel nodded in confirmation. ‘Then you should tag along with us now,’ she said, indicating a man in working clothes who was emerging from the petrol station with a beaker of coffee in his hand. ‘We’re setting off in a second or two.’
Line sat in her car again and joined the end of the little convoy as it began to move. Flashing orange warning lights illuminated the darkness. The roads crew efficiently set up the roadblock vehicle and directed traffic to a diverted route.
On the policewoman’s instructions, Line drove past and parked her car at the verge before grabbing her camera and jumping out.
Oncoming traffic ceased, signalling that traffic had also been stopped at the other end. The police car drove forward and parked across the carriageway to make certain the road was also physically blocked. Line walked partway along the road to open up some distance between her and the roadblock.
This would be a striking image, with the harsh orange light against the dark background.
The policewoman emerged from the patrol car and exchanged a few words with the man from the Roads Directorate.
Lifting her camera again, Line made every effort to ensure the reflective strips on the uniform did not spoil the composition.
While she clicked through the photos she had taken, two lorries arrived, one with an excavator on the cargo bed. Two police patrol cars followed behind them. When the policewoman got into her car and reversed to the side to allow them to pass, Line took a series of photographs. As soon as the excavator had gone by, she chose three and sent them straight to the news desk from her camera as she hurried back to her own vehicle.
She had been on maternity leave for almost eighteen months and during that time had not worked as a journalist, apart from one or two freelance assignments. Now she was conscious of how much she had missed it. She had missed being on the scene, in the midst of unfolding events.
71
A thud came from the wood stove as one of the logs inside tumbled and fell. Martin Haugen rose from his chair, opened the stove door and removed the potatoes baking inside before inserting another log.
Wisting realized he had suspected Martin Haugen from day one. The suspicion had always been at the back of his mind and had never faded through twenty-four years, even though Martin had been almost seven hundred kilometres away when Katharina disappeared.
‘I
’d be lying if I said no,’ Wisting replied. ‘It’s a textbook example. The answer most often lies with some close relation or other.’
Martin sat down again. ‘But you never said anything?’ he queried.
‘You must have known that you were investigated,’ Wisting said. ‘That we charted your movements and confirmed you were in Malvik when she went missing?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Martin said. ‘But we’ve never spoken about it.’
Wisting prodded the meat in the pan. The steaks would soon be ready. ‘Should we have talked about it?’ he asked.
‘What would you have done if you’d found out it was me?’
Wisting was searching for the right answer.
‘You’re one of the few friends I have,’ Martin went on, as Wisting pondered what to say. ‘Would you have thrown me in prison?’
‘I would have given you the number of a good lawyer,’ Wisting replied, feigning concentration on the steaks. ‘And made sure you received a fair trial.’
He would have to resist the urge to check whether the recorder was in place in his shirt pocket. Nevertheless, he would not be able to see whether it was switched on. He would simply have to trust the technology.
‘Who is the best lawyer?’ Martin asked.
‘That depends,’ Wisting said, pulling the frying pan slightly off the heat.
‘What does it depend on?’
‘Whether you confessed, cooperated and wanted the case to go through the justice system as quietly and smoothly as possible, or whether you denied the charge and wanted to turn it all into a circus.’
Martin brought out two plates. ‘So you wouldn’t have let me get away with it?’ he asked.
‘I would have made sure everything was done properly,’ Wisting responded, turning the meat one last time.
‘Previously, of course, there was a statute of limitations for murder,’ Martin said, sitting down again. ‘After twenty-five years a perpetrator could walk free.’
The Katharina Code Page 29
