The Caveman (3 page)

Line had grown up only three houses from where Viggo Hansen had been found dead. She remembered him well, but there had always been something about him. All the children had been afraid of him, although with no particular reason. They seldom saw him in daylight, but he was often out at night and her mother had always told her to be home before Viggo Hansen went out if she was late in the evenings. She and Thomas had sometimes watched him from the window, just after midnight, hunched, his black coat slightly too large, always on the opposite side of the road from the streetlights. Rumour had it that his mother was in an asylum, and that his father had been in prison, but Line did not know if this was just gossip.

She looked forward to getting to grips with the assignment. Even before she had been given Sandersen’s approval, she had created a folder on her computer, entitled
Viggo Hansen
.

Working on features was a totally different journalistic process from her usual work, with regard to ideas and the collection of material, as well as analysis and dissemination of information. It was a completely different method of approaching reality.

For news stories she used a direct style of writing in language that was simple and functional. In a features article, on the other hand, language had a totally different purpose. She was freer to experiment and, although she was not writing poetry, she could sit and polish her sentences for hours on end. She might also spend a great deal of time on the structure of a story, creating narrative thrust and giving texture and richness to the characters. Features allowed her to go into more depth and set her own imprint on the story. At the same time, it was fascinating to reflect on important social topics through the fates of individuals, descriptions of their lives and those significant details that threw special light on the telling of a greater story.

In addition, she felt her magazine work was appreciated more, both by readers and management. Even when she received praise from Sandersen and the news editors, it could not stand comparison with the enthusiastic feedback given by the editor of the weekend supplement, whose memos were usually accompanied by a smiley face and a row of exclamation marks. She had not yet written a feature without receiving letters from readers afterwards. Often by email, but also handwritten and sent by mail to
VG
with her name as the addressee. She replied to them all.

Line had written in-depth interviews, conveying the outlook and opinions of other human beings. Admittedly, they had been living people, but the principle was the same. It was important to find out who the people she encountered actually were. At the moment, the Viggo Hansen folder did not contain much. Only a newspaper cutting when the man had been found, but it had not provoked much reaction, no reader contributions critical of care for the elderly or the health service. The story had not been picked up by the agencies or any of the major newspapers.

She had worked with the journalist who had written the report, Garm Søbakken, when she had been a temp on the local paper. The story would probably have spread to other media outlets if he had detailed information, but the short news item simply stated that the man had lived alone and lain dead for some considerable time.

Garm explained that the police always instigated an investigation as a matter of routine when anyone died unexpectedly and it was impossible to determine a cause of death. Otherwise, it seemed as if his attention had been diverted by the police opinion that no crime had been committed. In the same newspaper, he also reported on the congested housing market for the town’s student population and contributed a follow-up story about a violent incident. Almost certainly he had a great deal on his plate.

What had primarily aroused Line’s interest was that Viggo Hansen had lived in her own neighbourhood. She had seen his name on the mailbox as she walked to and from school, had stolen apples from his garden and sold raffle tickets to him at his door, but had only a vague memory of what he looked like. A short man with a shock of hair and a strong jawline.

It was her father who had told her he was dead, mentioning it in passing one evening on the phone. She had asked the questions her colleague in the local paper had not posed, and learned details that would have transformed the death into a provocative news story: that Viggo Hansen had actually been sitting dead in a chair in front of his television since the summer, the TV still switched on when the police forced entry.

She had also learned from her father how the death was not discovered earlier. Viggo Hansen had led a solitary life. He had no family, no work colleagues nor friends, did not subscribe to any newspaper and received almost no mail. There had been regular movement in his bank account, his pension arriving regularly and most of his bills paid by direct debit. He had been a person who did not exist for the people around him, one who was not noticed though he lived in the midst of other people.

It dawned on her that she could not write a story that only dealt with the external circumstances, with his isolation and solitary life, but that she had to write about who Viggo Hansen really was. If no one knew him while he was alive, then people would get to know him now. Embarking on such a project was like peering through a keyhole, she thought. She could see only one part of the room, but was aware of infinitely more.

She decided to stay at home, at her father’s house, while she worked on the story, in case she needed more information from him. Viggo Hansen had been eight years older than Wisting, but he might know of someone who knew him. What’s more, he could probably tell her if there was any truth in the rumours that his mother had been admitted to a psychiatric hospital and his father had been in prison.

Opening a new document, she selected a letter template with the
VG
logo. If she were to make any headway, she also needed to access formal information held by the police. As a caption, she settled upon
Request for access to documents in a criminal case.
She had written similar letters before and would ask one of the chief editors to sign. She glanced at the title and deleted the words
in a criminal case
.

She described the idea for the article and argued that the newspaper would produce a report with the aim of drawing attention to the steadily increasing lack of community and humanity in modern society. To round it off she also asked for permission to enter Viggo Hansen’s house. The police would probably redirect her to the local authority which had formal responsibility to administer the estate in such circumstances, but it would be easier to gain permission from them if the police did not raise any objections.

She leaned back in her chair and clasped her arms behind her head. Snow was falling thickly outside the windows, almost half a metre since she left for work. Sandersen had probably already told one of the news journalists to produce a story about the chaos caused by the snow. She dialled her father’s number to tell him she wanted to stay with him for a few days. There was no answer. She peered up at the clock. It was quarter past nine. He had most likely fallen asleep on the settee.

Wisting stood at the conference room window on the first floor of the police station. The streetlamps shaped pale circles on the snow, and it struck him that the town seemed more congenial when wrapped in a white blanket.

Nils Hammer was first to arrive. Without a word, he sat in his usual spot at the top corner of the long table, grabbing a plastic cup and reaching with his big fist for the coffee pot. Hammer was a fearless investigator who could be relied upon, honest and hard-working, stoical and good-natured. Sometimes he could instigate heated discussions at the lunch table. The least politically correct officer in the station, Wisting suspected he derived a certain pleasure from goading his colleagues.

The others turned up at the same time. Torunn Borg, Christine Thiis and Benjamin Fjeld. There was no one else. Only a few years before, the report of a serious crime such as murder, aggravated robbery, actual bodily harm or the discovery of a dead body, as now, would lead the police to muster more than ten detectives in a team. Nowadays it was difficult to gather more than a handful around the conference table.

Benjamin Fjeld was the youngest and least experienced of the group. Blond and blue-eyed, with close-cropped hair, he retained the fit, lithe body of a newly-qualified police officer. Enthusiastic and knowledgeable, he possessed an enormous capacity for hard work as well as a good eye for detail. Previously on placement in the department, he had now become one of the permanent investigators.

Torunn Borg’s length of experience as a detective was equal to his own. She was the most methodical of the group, and had a particular talent for thinking logically and systematically in a succession of precise deductions. In this way she frequently caught links and connections that were crucial to the outcome of a case.

Christine Thiis was a lawyer who had been appointed to the station just over a year before, but Wisting had already learned to appreciate her qualities as a reflective person with excellent judgement. Perhaps she had greater insight into psychology and the knowledge of human beings than investigative tactics, but that made her a competent police prosecutor in her own way.

Wisting took his seat at the head of the table, placing a blank notepad before him. ‘Thanks for attending such a late meeting,’ he said. ‘We don’t know yet what we’re faced with, but it’s important to make a start all the same.’

‘What do we know, actually?’ Hammer asked, biting the rim of his plastic beaker.

Wisting unfolded a map and leaned across the table to point out the discovery site. His finger followed the road at Brunlanesveien across towards Helgeroa. Beside the lake at Hallevannet he located the turn-off to a pale green shaded area. Taking hold of a ballpoint pen he drew a cross at the discovery site.

‘From the shoes and clothing, it looks like we’re talking about a man,’ he said. ‘He’s been lying there since the summer.’

‘We don’t have any missing person to fit that time scale?’ Christine Thiis asked.

Wisting shook his head.

‘During the summer months we have about 40,000 tourists here,’ Hammer reminded them. ‘Maybe we should widen our search through the records.’

‘That’s been done.’ Torunn Borg withdrew a print-out from a bundle of papers in front of her. ‘There’s not much to make us any wiser. Two German tourists disappeared during a fishing trip in Western Norway in the middle of July, but only one body was recovered, and a Dutch tourist on a walking holiday is still listed as missing on the Hardangervidda.’

Wisting glanced at the clock. ‘Mortensen’s expected at any moment from the discovery site,’ he said, writing
ID
on the notepad. Identity was the most important information they required now. ‘Perhaps we’ll find out more when he gets here.’

‘How’s the boy who found him?’ Christine Thiis asked.

‘His father’s obviously resourceful. High school teacher, or something like that. In any case, he didn’t want professional help. We’ll just have to hope for the best.’

‘Are the media involved?’ Hammer asked.

Christine Thiis nodded. She was responsible for the prosecution of crimes, and media enquiries were directed to her in the first instance. ‘As long as we’re not sure a crime has been committed they’ll keep a low profile. There’s a lot to suggest that we may be dealing with a suicide.’

Hammer agreed. ‘We’ve seen it before. Someone takes a bottle of pills and ventures out into the woods.’

The others nodded.

‘Besides, it’s a strange place to hide a body,’ Benjamin Fjeld suggested, pulling the map towards him. The distance from the cross Wisting had marked to the farm buildings was only a few hundred metres. ‘He wasn’t concealed in any way, really, and would have been found sooner or later.’

‘Who lives on the farm?’ Christine Thiis asked.

Wisting consulted his notes. ‘Per and Supattra Halle.’

‘Supattra?’

‘She’s from Thailand. She’s the one who looks after the Christmas trees.’

Hammer rolled his eyes.

‘The patrolmen have spoken to them, but they didn’t really have anything to contribute,’ Wisting said. ‘They’ll come here tomorrow to give formal statements, but couldn’t think of anything from last summer.’

‘What about the post-mortem?’

‘Tomorrow morning. If we’re lucky, the new videolink will work and allow us to follow it from here.’

Hammer stretched for the coffee pot. ‘It’s odd that we don’t have him listed in missing persons. Surely someone should have missed him?’

Wisting picked up a plastic cup without making any comment. He had seen this before. People who were invisible to everyone else did exist and it did not fit that anyone would want to kill them.

He had left his mobile phone in his office: one missed call from Line, and two from Espen Mortensen. The young crime scene technician had also sent him a text, saying that the body had been removed, and that he had found something on the corpse. He would call in at the police station before ten o’clock.

That was half an hour away. Wisting was tempted to phone and ask what it was about. Maybe they had found a pill container when they lifted the dead body, or perhaps they had discovered a wallet with ID.

He would phone Line later. She would often call during a quiet spell in the office to ask how he was and what he was doing, but he preferred not to explain. The discovery of the body had not been disclosed yet in the media, and that suited just fine as they had no explanations to offer.

He yawned, blaming the snowy weather for making him feel tired. Large fluffy flakes were tumbling down outside the window.

At 10.10 Espen Mortensen appeared in the office. Working outdoors had freshened his face and his hair was sprinkled with melting snowflakes. With a camera slung over his shoulder, he held a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a little cardboard box in the other.

‘They’ve taken the body away,’ he said as he sat down. ‘The post-mortem will take place tomorrow morning.’ He set the cardboard box down on the desk. ‘We went through his pockets before he was taken away.’

‘What did you find? A wallet?’ Wisting asked.

Mortensen shook his head.

‘Keys?’ Wisting had past experience of security keys leading them to an address.

The crime scene technician opened the lid of the small box and lifted out a clear plastic bag that he placed on the desktop. Wisting leaned forward. Inside the evidence bag was a similar transparent bag containing a crumpled sheet of glossy paper, a leaflet. On the front was a picture of a boat with huge white sails, with the title
Elida
in capital letters.
Sailing for Jesus
.

Wisting carefully picked up the plastic bag. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘
Welcome to the harbour for worship with Elida!’
he read in Swedish on the back.
‘We offer live music and life stories direct from the ship’s deck.’

‘It’s a flyer from a Swedish religious sect,’ Mortensen explained. ‘They describe
Elida
as a floating church, and they travel round the world in it to proclaim the word of Jesus.’

‘Have you leafed through it?’

‘Internet. They were on a summer tour of Norway in August. Stavern was their first stop. They were berthed here on the ninth and tenth of August before travelling onwards to Stavanger.’

Wisting did not believe that the dead man was a member of the crew on this sailing church. A missing person report about a Swedish citizen would have been registered in the Norwegian records, regardless, if he had disappeared from a foreign vessel while tied up in a Norwegian harbour.

He put down the evidence bag and flicked four months back on his desk calendar. Past the days when he had been suspended from the police force, searching for a solution to a seventeen-year-old missing person case, back to the late summer days of August when he had still been with Suzanne. He had been at work, but had not had many appointments. In the space at the foot for notes, on Wednesday 10th August, he had written
Summer Concert
, and remembered that he and Suzanne had attended a jazz concert at Bøkeskogen. That was four months ago and, in the course of those four months, he had become a single man again. For all that time, the unknown man had been lying underneath a fir tree beside Halle farmhouse.

Of course, the leaflet gave them a fixed reference point in a time frame. The man had most probably acquired it sometime after 9th August when the boat had docked in Stavern. This was the first tangible evidence they had, in reality a major step forward in the investigation. He picked up the bag again and studied the contents more closely. The inner plastic wrapper was reminiscent of the evidence bags they used themselves, though faded and bearing signs of being exposed to wind and weather.

‘It was in the inside pocket of his jacket,’ Mortensen explained.

Wisting wanted to be certain he understood correctly. ‘You mean the brochure from
Elida
was in a plastic bag in the inside pocket of his jacket?’ he asked.

Mortensen nodded. ‘Don’t ask me why. But that gives us good prospects of finding fingerprints on it.’

Wisting sat with the bag in front of him for a few minutes longer. The question of why the dead man had taken such good care of the leaflet was taking root inside him, but he kept his reflections to himself. ‘Anything else?’ he asked, pushing the plastic bag aside.

Espen Mortensen had put his camera on the floor beside his chair. Now, retrieving it, he placed it on his lap. ‘It’s a little early to say what meaning this might have, but I have some photographs.’

He adjusted a few settings, grasped the camera lens and turned the back of the camera with the display screen to face Wisting.

The man had been rolled over and was now lying on his back. Most of the skin and tissue had been torn from his face. Where the mouth, nose and eyes had been were now only empty holes, but parts of his left cheek and ear that had been lying on the ground, were intact.

Unrecognisable, Wisting thought, but unmistakably the remains of a human being.

Mortensen continued through the sequence of images, stopping at a close-up of the dead man’s right hand. It had been lying under his chest and was relatively well preserved, although not in such good condition that they could take fingerprints. The remnants of skin were leathery and shrivelled around the pale fragments of bone. No rings or wristwatch, Wisting noted. His nails were gone, and the black fingers clenched, as if the hand had stiffened into a grasp around something he would not let go even in death.

Wisting leaned further forward and squinted at the little display screen. Something was poking out from the curled fingers. He glanced at Mortensen, seeking confirmation.

‘Here,’ his colleague nodded. It was even more distinct in the next photograph: wisps of blond hair caught in his fist.

Wisting leaned back in his chair, aware that the crime scene technician’s interpretation was similar to his own. The dead man had been involved in a fight, a fight to the death. The man depicted here had lost, but not without showing his killer some resistance.