The Caveman (14 page)

Hard-packed snow made the roads treacherous and slow. Impatient to get on, Line phoned directory enquiries as the queue of cars crawled slowly forward. The woman who answered also took her time, but eventually found an Ole Linge living at Brunlanesveien 550. Line asked for the number to be relayed as a text message and made the call. A man with a soft voice answered as she was about to hang up.

‘Is that Ole Linge?’ she asked.

‘Who is this?’

Line introduced herself. ‘I’m calling with regard to Viggo Hansen. You know he’s dead?’

‘I saw the announcement.’

‘I’m writing a story about his life for
VG
and I’m looking for people who knew him and can tell me about him.’

There was silence at the other end, and Line thought for a moment that the connection had been severed.

‘About his life?’ Ole Linge asked.

‘Actually about what it’s like being on your own; going through life without having anyone to share it with. To that end, I’m keen to talk to people who knew him.’

‘I see.’

‘Are you going to his funeral tomorrow?’

‘I don’t go out much.’

‘Would it suit for me to come to see you tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Why do that?’

‘To talk about Viggo Hansen. I’m trying to find out what he was like.’

Again there was silence at the other end. An impatient motorist moved out and overtook two cars before squeezing back into the queue again.

‘What time exactly?’ Ole Linge asked.

‘Three o’clock?’

He repeated the time as if he had to ensure it would not interfere with another appointment. ‘Yes, that would be okay.’

They ended their conversation and Line was left thinking that the man Ole Linge’s life was as lonely as Viggo Hansen’s had been.

The traffic came to a standstill in Storgata, stopped by a tractor clearing huge piles of snow, with the town lying like an amphitheatre on Line’s left. She looked up at the police station, just able to make out the top floors where her father’s office was located.

She thought about the coil of frayed rope down in Viggo Hansen’s basement and could not believe it was the same rope his father had used to hang himself in 1969. Taking out her mobile phone she keyed in Wisting’s number. Possibly there was a report in the police archives. The traffic moved forward again while the number rang out.

She turned right into Bugges gate, past the old soft drinks factory, and drove almost to the end where the residential street ended at a fenced-off industrial area. A modest, square house, it was smaller than the other houses in the street and surrounded by a tall picket fence.

Line parked in the street and stepped into cold dry air, filled with the tang of the sea, which stung her nostrils when she inhaled. Nothing was marked on the mailbox, neither name nor house number, but the house was obviously occupied. The area in front of the garage had been cleared of snow, as well as a passageway to the front door.

The elderly man who opened it stood in the doorway, looking at her. Pale and sallow, he looked as if he seldom ventured into the fresh air, and a greyish beard concealed his shirt collar. His hair was spiky in an uneven, cropped haircut, as if he had cut it himself.

‘Are you Odd Werner Ellefsen?’ The old man nodded. ‘We have an acquaintance in common. Viggo Hansen was a neighbour of mine.’ He did not seem to understand. ‘You were in the same class at Stavern school. His funeral is tomorrow.’

A glimmer of understanding appeared in the man’s eyes, and he nodded tentatively.

‘I wondered if I could have a few words with you?’ Line said, moving her bag to her other shoulder.

‘What about?’

‘About Viggo. Maybe I could come inside?’ She crossed her arms close to her chest as if to show that it was too cold to stand around. Ellefsen cast a fleeting glance into the hallway behind him and gave a quick nod that she could come in, leading her into a tidy kitchen where everything had its place. It was clean and neat, with a small Christmas decoration in the centre of the table where they sat facing each other. The old man did not offer her anything.

Line told him about her job at
VG
and explained that the article she intended to write was the reason for her visit. ‘You knew him,’ she rounded off.

‘I didn’t know him,’ the man said.

‘But you went to school together?’

‘That was years ago.’

He answered in short sentences and stared down at the tabletop.

‘When did you see him last?’

Odd Werner Ellefsen shrugged. ‘Don’t remember.’ His voice was so faint it barely reached across the table.

‘Are you in touch with the others from that time? Frank Iversen or Ole Linge?’

He shook his head.

‘When did you move away from Stavern?’

‘A long time ago.’

There was something simple about him, so much so that she doubted whether he entirely understood her questions. She took out her camera and searched through the images for the class photograph.

‘That’s you,’ she said, pointing at the young boy standing next to Viggo Hansen.

Leaning forward to peer at the tiny screen, Odd Werner Ellefsen nodded in agreement. ‘Me, yes,’ he said.

‘Do you remember when that photograph was taken?’

He responded by turning his head to one side and back again.

Line posed a few more questions, but he continued to answer in monosyllables. Nothing that he said contributed to her picture of Viggo Hansen.

She snapped her notebook shut without writing many key words, but perhaps with an improved appreciation of why the two boys had found each other. Both of them shy and reserved, perhaps it had not been so much that they were friends as that they were both outsiders.

Towards the end of the meeting, formality between the local investigators and FBI agents broke down, conversation flowed more smoothly, and it became easier to find the right words in English.

‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Nils Hammer said. ‘Why did he choose to come to Norway? There are countries where the regulations are less stringent and the weather is better.’

‘I would think he feels at home here,’ John Bantam said. He looked through the window at the frozen landscape. ‘This reminds me of the weather at home in Minneapolis. Winters are cold with a lot of snow, but the summers can be warm and pleasant. What’s more, I think the people who live here are like the people in Minnesota. They keep their doors closed and their curtains drawn. They hide their feelings and keep their secrets.’

Before Wisting drew the meeting to a close, they agreed to meet again three hours later for an update.

Torunn Borg had arranged office accommodation for the visitors and showed them where they could sit and work. Wisting returned to his own office where he checked his mobile phone and saw that he had an unanswered call from Line. He phoned her back. ‘Are you driving?’

‘I’ve been to Torstrand to speak to someone who went to school with Viggo Hansen,’ she said.

‘Made any progress?’

‘Some, but I don’t know how much I can use. Did you know that Viggo Hansen’s father hanged himself in the basement of their home?’

Wisting, taken aback, had to admit he did not.

‘It was Jarle Lunden who told me.’

‘The clergyman? Have you spoken to him?’

‘He was around when it happened. The police had been there too. Do you think you might have a case file on it?’

‘When was it?’

‘1969.’

‘Case files older than twenty-five years that we were not duty bound to archive were shredded in 1995 when we moved into the new station, but I’ll take a look. I know some were kept. Old duty records, for example.’

‘Brilliant. When will you be home tonight?’

‘I don’t know yet, but it’ll be late. What are you planning to do now?’

‘I’m going back to Viggo Hansen’s house. I want to check a few details.’

‘What sort of details?’

‘Just something I overlooked. Something I didn’t think of the last time I was there.’ She did not allow him to quiz her any further. ‘Also, there’s a room in the basement you didn’t examine when he was found dead. A storeroom hidden behind some shelves.’

‘What was inside it?’

‘I don’t know. It’s locked.’

Wisting smiled wryly. ‘And that held you back?’

‘For the moment, yes.’

‘Let me know about it, then, if there’s anything the police have overlooked.’

‘By the way, I visited Grandad today. He was asking after you.’

‘How was he?’

‘Fine, he helped me get in touch with someone who knew Viggo Hansen before the family moved to Herman Wildenveys gate, an old woman who told me Viggo’s father was convicted of robbery.’

‘Robbery? The extract from the criminal records said aggravated theft.’

‘It might have been just a rumour. I’ve sent an email enquiry to the National Archives in Bergen, but haven’t received an answer yet.’

They rounded off their conversation and he went to see Bjørg Karin at the criminal proceedings office. She not only had responsibility for recording and archiving, but also the special gift of knowing where everything was: documents in cases under investigation, court records, charges or fines. He brought a sheet of paper on which he had written the date of Gustav Hansen’s death. If any papers on the suicide remained in the archives, that date would make it easy to locate the case file.

Back in his office, he found Torunn Borg had forwarded an email with the lists from the Population Register. 2,127 men in the local authority area fulfilled the search criteria. Robert Godwin was now sixty-one, but they had conducted a search of plus or minus three years. If Godwin was resident in the area under a false identity he might be masquerading as a person actually two or three years older or younger.

They needed more people, Wisting thought. Even with ten staff it would take several weeks to check every single person on the list. Names could be sorted alphabetically by name and address or chronologically by age. There was also a column for those registered as immigrants or incomers after Robert Godwin had fled from the USA. That list comprised only 123 names. Here was their beginning, but even that would be an enormous task.

At 17.00, they assembled in the conference room again. Special agent Donald Baker requested permission to speak. ‘We’ve completed our investigations at Bob Crabb’s home,’ he said in a deep voice, ‘and spoken to people who knew him and what he was working on. We haven’t found any direct connection between him and Robert Godwin. Both taught at the university in the eighties, but in different faculties. Professor Crabb, however, was one of Lynn Adams’ lecturers.’

‘The first victim,’ Torunn Borg said.

Donald Baker nodded. ‘She went missing in 1983. Six months later she was found in a drainage tank. It was not until six years later, when Godwin was wanted by the police, we succeeded in linking him to her homicide. Her remains were stowed in a canvas sack of the type used on his family’s apple farm.’

‘The homicide tormented Professor Crabb,’ John Bantam continued. ‘In 1989 yet another of his students was attacked, but she managed to flee her assailant. She identified Robert Godwin and DNA tests identified him as the Interstate Strangler.’

‘This upset Professor Crabb deeply,’ Donald Baker said. ‘Robert Godwin was posted wanted, but he had already disappeared. A reward of one million dollars was offered, which was when Bob Crabb began his own investigation.’

He nodded for Maggie Griffin to pick up the thread.

‘Professor Crabb told his neighbours that he was going to search for relatives in Norway,’ she said. ‘Probably a cover story. He told his university colleagues that Robert Godwin might have fled to Scandinavia since he was fascinated by his Norwegian forebears, had studied the language and led a programme of Nordic studies.’

‘Hang on a minute!’ Wisting said. ‘Are you telling us that Godwin is of Norwegian extraction, from this area?’

‘Twenty per cent of the white population in Minnesota is of Norwegian origin,’ John Bantam said. ‘My great-great-great-grandfather came from Kristiansand.’

‘You say he studied the language,’ Nils Hammer said. ‘Does that mean he speaks Norwegian?’

Maggie Griffin exchanged a look with Donald Baker. They both seemed embarrassed that this information had only come to light more than twenty years after Robert Godwin had disappeared.

‘He has a Ph.D. in Scandinavian languages.’

‘Where did his ancestors come from?’ Wisting asked.

Maggie Griffin leafed through the papers and produced a printout she pushed across the table. ‘That’s his great-great-grandfather.’

Wisting read with interest. Factory worker Niels Gustavsen from the parish of Brunlanæs Berg had travelled to New York on the steamship
Norge
on 26th April 1889.

‘The pictures,’ Wisting spoke in Norwegian, looking at his colleagues. ‘The old farm buildings that Bob Crabb photographed. That could be the place Godwin’s ancestors came from. That could be how to track him down.’

The three Americans looked quizzically at him, and Wisting informed them about the pictures they had found on Crabb’s camera. Espen Mortensen switched on the projector and called them up.

The FBI agents looked at one another.

‘Go back,’ Donald Baker said, loosening his tie.

Espen Mortensen did as he was asked. The picture of the burned-down barn filled the screen, with weeds and shrubs forcing their way through the ruins.

Donald Baker glanced across at his two colleagues. It was obvious they spotted something in the picture that Wisting’s team had not. ‘Where is this?’ he asked. The pitch of his deep voice had dropped.

‘We don’t know,’ Wisting admitted. ‘It strikes me now that this might be the place where Godwin’s forefathers lived. We intend to show them to local historians in an attempt to discover its whereabouts.’

Donald Baker licked his lips. ‘There’s something else we haven’t discussed,’ he said, looking up at the screen again. ‘We’re going to need a list of girls who’ve gone missing.’

It was dark on Line’s next visit to Viggo Hansen’s house. Feeling uncomfortable, she switched on the lights as she moved from room to room. At the living room doorway, she stood listening intently. Not a sound, she decided, before crossing to the TV to examine the two armchairs.

The chair on the left had the dark, damp stains from the corpse, but otherwise was not at all worn. The chair on the right, on the other hand, showed distinct signs of wear on the seat cushions and armrests, and a decorative cushion was flattened against the back. Surely, this was where he usually sat.

The floor told its own story. Between the well-used armchair and the coffee table lay a trail of breadcrumbs and other food. On the floor covering itself a darker patch ran between the chair and the kitchen door, grime trodden in from all the times Viggo Hansen had walked there and back.

In the middle of the kitchen she scanned the cramped space. Apart from a cup on the table, it was clean and tidy. She was on the point of returning to the living room when a detail caught her eye. The coffee machine was half-full of water. She opened the lid of the filter holder to find dry coffee.

It had been made ready, she thought, which is what her mother had done when expecting guests. She would fill the container with water and put coffee in the filter so she had only to switch it on when they arrived.

Had Viggo Hansen been expecting a visitor? If so, who? And why had he asked a locksmith to fit a double lock on his front door? Had he been afraid of intruders?

She had the police documents in her shoulder bag. Sitting at the kitchen table, she looked for the autopsy report and spread it out. There was nothing to support the theory that Viggo Hansen had been killed, but neither did it eliminate the idea. The conclusion was clear: no cause of death could be established because the deterioration of the body was too advanced.

She felt an urge to phone her father, but refrained. Her imagination was running away with her. The armchair and a prepared coffee machine were not proof of anything.

In the living room she stared at her reflection in the windowpanes before turning to survey this room in the same way she had the kitchen. Nothing captured her interest. There was nothing she had not seen before, yet she felt a powerful sensation that she had overlooked something. The feeling forced her to go through the house again, room by room, until, in the end, she stood at the top of the basement stairs, a chilly draught swirling around her ankles.

The idea of going down did not appeal, but she was desperate to see what lay behind the locked door. There was a key cupboard in the outer hallway, perhaps the storeroom key would be in there. In the porch she flipped open the little door. Four empty hooks but, even if she managed to locate the right key, she had no guarantee it would open the padlock since it was rusty and coated in verdigris.

Remembering a toolbox down below, she descended into the basement, thinking of opening the padlock with a hammer blow. She would buy a new padlock and hang the key in the cupboard. No hammer was evident in the toolbox, so she rummaged to find a spanner that would do the same job.

A thought struck her. Where were Viggo Hansen’s other keys? His house keys? The keys for the two new locks on his front door? The police had drilled through them to force entry. Afterwards, they had fitted a new lock, but she had never seen or read anything of the two original keys.

She put down the spanner and returned to the kitchen to sit at the table with the documents still spread out. The report detailing the items removed from the house listed mostly belongings for use in identification, including a toothbrush and comb forwarded for DNA analysis. No keys.

She flicked to the forensics report. One of the first points was a description of the clothes Viggo Hansen had been wearing: a pair of jeans, T-shirt, underpants and socks, a wristwatch removed from the body’s left arm, and three kroner coins found in his right trouser pocket, but no keys.

At home, Line usually put her keys in the drawer of a bureau in the hallway. She got to her feet and headed for the entrance. One of the sideboard drawers was a typical junk receptacle. Searching among ballpoint pens, receipts, instructions and other bits and pieces, she did not find any keys. Nor were there any in the pockets of the jackets hanging from the coat hooks.

It crossed her mind that she had seen a pair of trousers hanging over a chair in the bedroom, so she went there and searched through the pockets, but they too were empty. She hunted through the kitchen drawers, in the clothes hanging in the wardrobe and bundled in the laundry basket, and every other conceivable place without coming across a single key. Only one explanation remained. The keys had been removed from the house: either by the police, who had neglected to list them in their report, or by someone else who had locked the door and left Viggo Hansen dead in the chair in front of the television.