The Hunting Dogs (15 page)

Line was overcome by a strange but increasingly familiar feeling of contentment tinged
with regret. Regret because every hour and night she spent with Tommy made it more
difficult to move on with her life. Contentment because she craved and longed for
intimacy. They were among the last guests at breakfast.

Tommy helped himself from the breakfast table for a second time. Line picked up a
copy of
VG
. The main spread described a new low carbohydrate diet, but at the top of the front
page was a headline about the Cecilia case:
The Witness who was
never Heard.

She leafed further through the paper. Her own story was just as she had envisaged.
They had used the photo of the dog again, as a kind of reminder. Then there was a
picture of the row of houses where Jonas Ravneberg had lived, with police crime scene
tape stretched round the white picket fence. Both images complemented the headline
about a mysterious break-in where nothing seemed to have been stolen. The article
was shorter than she had reckoned, but that was fine. She had placed the most significant
information first.

Tommy resumed his seat at the table as Line was confronted by a photo of her father.
The newspaper had obviously not let him off the hook.

Another picture was of the reconstruction at the crossroads beside Gumserød farm,
with a white car in the centre of the photograph. A man was leaning against the boot
while several investigators huddled in discussion. Line recognised the skinny crime
scene technician and several other police officers, now retired. The main photo was
of the witness whose testimony had not been heard: Aksel Presthus, a tall man in his
fifties with dark brown, curly hair. He wore an Icelandic sweater and a black cotton
scarf round his neck.

Like Rudolf Haglund, Aksel Presthus liked to go fishing. Every weekend, he tried fishing
waters, recording his catches in a special diary, which he had retained and showed
to the
VG
photographer. On Saturday 15th July, he had written
Damtjenn
, 20.45 hours: Trout 132 grams. 21.15 hours: Trout 94 grams
. 21.35 hours: Trout 168 grams.

Damtjenn was the fishing lake where Rudolf Haglund claimed to be on the weekend Cecilia
was abducted. The witness recalled seeing people on the other side of the lake. He
had arrived at the lake relatively late in the evening, and it had taken almost an
hour for him to catch his first fish. He had left his car parked behind a rather old
white Opel Rekord, and when he had returned the next day, the other vehicle was gone.

Aksel Presthus had followed the Cecilia story in the newspapers, and when he read
about Rudolf Haglund’s alibi, realised he ought to talk to the police. When he phoned
the central switchboard he had been transferred to describe what he had seen. The
person in charge of the enquiry thanked him for the information and promised to call
back if his observations were of interest to the case. He heard nothing more.

Haglund’s defence lawyer said he had sifted through all the investigation material
without finding any mention of Aksel Presthus. The police, therefore, had been selective
in their use of information.

Chief Inspector William Wisting had not been available for comment, but Deputy Chief
Constable Audun Vetti said that the case had been referred to the Bureau for the Investigation
of Police Affairs, and that the investigation leader had been suspended.

She put down the newspaper.

‘What are your plans?’ Tommy asked.

‘I’m going to follow up some information in the murder case.’

‘What sort of information?’

‘About Jonas Ravneberg. He lived in Larvik before he moved here to Fredrikstad.’

Tommy speared the last piece of bacon with his fork. ‘Are you going home?’

Line glanced down at the newspaper photo of her father. ‘Yes, I’m going home,’ she
said.

When they turned off the main road, Haber took out his pack of tobacco and rolled
a cigarette. Another larger and heavier vehicle had left deep wheel ruts on the muddy
track, which was shared by approximately fifteen cottages. Farther along, it divided
in two, but the wheel ruts led to the right, the track leading to Wisting’s cottage.

The car tossed from side to side as it lurched forward, tyres spinning up the last
incline before the track sloped down to the parking area, where an unfamiliar car
was parked, an expensive Mercedes with splashes of mud along the side panels. The
driver was standing on the verandah outside the cottage.

‘Other visitors?’ Haber speculated.

‘Uninvited,’ Wisting said. He parked the car.

The man at the cottage stood facing them, wearing an ankle-length coat and with a
document folder in his hands. He was too distant to be recognised.

Haber placed the cigarette he had rolled in his mouth and lit up. ‘I’ll follow you,’
he said.

Wisting trudged along the path, recognising the waiting man before he had reached
halfway. Sigurd Henden, the lawyer. Rudolf Haglund’s new defence counsel gave him
a nod, but did not offer his hand.

Wisting nodded in return. ‘We probably shouldn’t talk to each other,’ he said.

‘Probably not.’ The light drizzle had coated the lawyer’s dark grey hair with a film
of moisture. ‘I’m sorry about the consequences all this has had for you personally,’
he said.

Wisting turned to stand at the lawyer’s side, with his face towards the sea. A cargo
ship was heading west. ‘How did you find your way here?’ he asked, glancing at the
plastic basin on the path.

‘Your partner told me.’

Wisting looked at him in surprise. ‘Suzanne?’

‘Apologies. I tried to phone you, but when you didn’t answer, I tried a roundabout
route. She said you were here.’

‘When did you speak to her?’

‘Yesterday evening. I wouldn’t have called her if it wasn’t important.’

The nearest trees swayed, raindrops sprinkling from the branches in a sudden gust
of wind. Brown leaves were tossed along the ground at the front of the cottage. Suzanne
had not mentioned it.

Ingrid would never have given out that information. Though not exactly risky it was
unnecessary all the same. Sigurd Henden was a professional participant in current
events, but who else might Suzanne have spoken to? Ingrid would have limited herself
to taking a message and passing it on. He ran his hand across his rain-soaked face.
Haber had left the car and walked over to the birch thicket, where it seemed he was
breaking off a few twigs. ‘What’s so important?’ he asked.

Sigurd Henden cleared his throat noisily. ‘He doesn’t believe it was you.’

Wisting turned round to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Rudolf Haglund. He doesn’t believe you were the one who planted the DNA evidence.’

Wisting fixed his eyes on a seagull flapping its wings to catch the air currents.
What Rudolf Haglund believed was of no significance. The defence lawyer had not come
all the way out here to tell him that. There must be something more. ‘What do you
both want?’ he asked.

‘Justice.’

‘That makes three of us, but for your information I still believe he did it. That
your client abducted and murdered Cecilia Linde.’

The lawyer ignored that. ‘He knows who it was,’ he said.

The seagull broke off its gliding motion, launching itself into a breakneck dive towards
the surface of the sea. Wisting opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again.
‘Knows who did what?’

‘Who planted the DNA evidence.’

‘Who was it then?’

‘I don’t know. He didn’t want to tell me.’

‘How can he know?’

The defence lawyer shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’

Stepping forward, Wisting raised his hand to pull his jacket more snugly round his
neck. ‘So what do you want right now?’ he repeated.

‘He wants to meet you. He wants to give you what you need to clear your name.’

Settling behind the steering wheel, the lawyer switched on the ignition before lowering
the electric side window to offer a newspaper. ‘Take this.’

Wisting approached the vehicle and took the paper.

‘Read that,’ the lawyer continued, pointing his finger at a headline on the front
page:
The Witness who was
never Heard.
‘I don’t think it was you. Not then either.’

Wisting watched the car disappear over the brow of the hill. It felt as if he had
been left behind, and wondered at what he had agreed to. When Rudolf Haglund had been
led from the courtroom seventeen years earlier, he had hoped never to clap eyes on
him again. Now he had agreed to a meeting tomorrow, twelve o’clock, at Henden’s office
in Oslo.

Haber approached him, blowing a cloud of cigarette smoke after the enormous Mercedes.
‘What did he want?’ he asked.

‘I don’t really know.’

Haber regarded him through narrowed eyes, before pressing his cigarette between thumb
and forefinger and lobbing it away. ‘Shall we make a start?’

Wisting opened the car boot. Haber lifted out the equipment and walked off in the
direction of the plastic basin. ‘I need some water and a container to mix the plaster
in.’

Wisting fetched a bucket and a large jug of water. When he returned, Haber was shaking
an aerosol can of hair lacquer.

‘Lift off the plastic basin,’ Haber said. ‘Hold it above the print so the rain doesn’t
touch it.’

Haber produced a leather strap he drew around the footprint like a kind of casting
frame, crouched down and sprayed the impression with lacquer. He angled the aerosol
from a distance, not to damage minute details in the print. He did this twice. When
the print was fully prepared, he mixed the plaster.

‘I assume you’re not planning to report the burglary,’ he said.

Wisting shook his head.

Haber poured the thin, white liquid carefully into the mould, placing fresh birch
twigs in a criss-cross pattern, for reinforcement, before pouring in the rest. ‘ ‘Now,
it has to be left for an hour. Coffee?’

Wisting invited Haber inside. He found a half-empty glass jar of instant coffee and
a packet of biscuits in the kitchen cupboard, took out both and put a kettle of water
on to boil.

Finn Haber unfolded the newspaper on the kitchen table. ‘There are pictures of us
both.’

Wisting leaned over and saw the inset photo of himself. Haber was in an archive photo
at Gumserød crossroads, during the reconstruction, gesticulating among a group of
detectives. Nearly all of them were present, except Wisting. Kai Skodde, Magne Berger,
Thore Akre, Ola Kiste, Vidar Bronebakk and Svein Teigen. Frank Robekk was in white
T-shirt and jeans like the perpetrator, but with his own thick glasses. He was leaning
against the boot of the white Opel, rolling a cigarette.

‘This doesn’t give him an alibi,’ Finn Haber asserted, placing his finger on the picture
of the witness whose statement had not been recorded. ‘He saw the white Opel around
eight o’clock in the evening when Cecilia had been missing for almost six hours.’

A pair of icy blue eyes stared out of a rough-hewn, weather-beaten face. His hair
was curly and dishevelled.

‘What kind of person abducts a young girl, locks her up and goes off fishing?’

“A person such as Rudolf Haglund,’ Haber said.

Wisting removed the kettle from the hob. ‘That’s not the point, though,’ he said.
‘He was never interviewed. His tip-off was never followed up.’

Haber read on in silence.

‘He doesn’t say he spoke to you,’ Haber continued, taking the cup Wisting handed to
him. ‘He’s quoted as saying he asked to speak to the person in charge of the case.’

‘I was in charge.’

‘Did you speak to him, then?’

Wisting shook his head.

‘I would have remembered that.’

‘Not only remembered, you would have brought him into the interview room. All tip-offs
were directed to Frank Robekk’s office, the only use we could put him to.’

Wisting nodded. Frank Robekk had dropped out almost entirely, but had been taking
care of tip-offs received by phone. All enquiries directed to the central switchboard
were transferred to his office. Even if callers had asked to speak to the person in
charge, they would have been connected in the first instance to the tip-off reception
centre that also filtered requests aimed at the investigation leader.

‘He didn’t even manage that,’ Haber groaned. ‘There was always something odd about
Robekk.’

‘He was a competent police officer.’

‘Until he went crazy, but there was always something odd about him.’

Wisting had known Frank Robekk as a strong-willed and stubborn investigator, a determined
tactician with a strategy for everything he did. Right up until everything unravelled.
However, there may have been something else about him, on a different plane from the
professional interests he and Wisting shared.

‘I remember wondering if he was homosexual,’ Haber said. ‘He never had a girlfriend
and never took part in any social events. Never a beer on a Friday or a trip into
town.’

Wisting looked at Frank’s picture with fresh eyes. He ran his gaze over the other
policemen before returning to Robekk. He would go and speak to him.

The plaster cast was perfect, and Finn Haber smiled for the first time that day. He
brushed the white print clean, revealing an identical copy of the bootprint on the
path. ‘It looks little used,’ he said. ‘No signs of wear. A clean, intact sole. It
might be difficult to link it to a particular boot.’

Wisting still did not know how to use the cast, but hoped to connect someone to the
break-in.

‘The earth here is saline,’ Haber said, turning to face the sea. ‘If you find the
man who’s been here, you should take samples from his boots. A comparative analysis
would be supporting evidence.’

Wrapping the plaster cast in a rag, Wisting placed it in the boot. Haber brought the
spray can of hair lacquer and the bag containing the rest of the plaster, and they
both sat in the car. ‘Is he on your list?’ Haber asked when they were halfway back
to the pilot station.

‘Who?’

‘Frank Robekk.’

‘He’s on the list of people I want to talk to, yes.’

No more was said until Wisting stopped his car in front of the garage at the end of
the track. ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

Haber opened the car door, but remained seated. ‘I’ve something for you.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Something that might be of interest. You should really come in.’

Wisting followed him down to the main building, where Haber set his boots on the cellar
trapdoor as before. Wisting kept his on. They entered the workroom where Haber had
stored the plaster.

‘Over there,’ Haber said, pointing to a tall cupboard at the far end of the room.

Wisting advanced a few steps. Behind him, Haber replaced the equipment he had used
for the plaster cast. ‘I saw you had copies of all the other material in the Cecilia
case out at your cottage.’

He opened the cupboard. The contents looked no different from what sat on the shelves
all around. Ring binders, books and journal folders, a number of shallow, but broad,
cardboard boxes located on the two top shelves. Haber lifted one down and carried
it across to the desk. ‘I don’t have any use for it,’ he said.

‘What is it?’

‘Surplus photographs from the Cecilia case.’

He opened the box and Wisting peered inside. Several hundred photos had been placed
edge-to-edge, in three rows, separated by dividers marked with date and location.

‘They should have been shredded when I left,’ Haber said ‘but I couldn’t bring myself
to do it. It’s as if my whole life is in these boxes. Everything I’ve been involved
in is documented. I even considered writing a book and using the photos as illustrations,
but nothing came of it.’

Wisting let his fingers run across the rows of pictures, drawing out a random selection
from the section marked
Clinical Examination 30/7
, pictures of Rudolf Haglund in an examination room at the hospital to record wounds
possibly inflicted by Cecilia Linde. Scratches, bites or suchlike. The examination
had been fruitless. Perhaps that was why Wisting had not seen the pictures before,
but only read the doctor’s report.

Rudolf Haglund stood with his upper torso bare. He was pale, but appeared muscular
and sinewy. His face had the same blank expression Wisting recalled. The other photos
were close-ups of hands, arms and other body parts.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, pointing at a photo of an old scar on Haglund’s inner thigh.

‘An operation scar. He had three from having a number of moles removed. They were
cancerous.’

This was news to Wisting. He could not remember hearing that Rudolf Haglund had suffered
from cancer, but the scar seemed old, and health status information was not something
normally included in the investigation of a crime.

In what were probably test photographs to measure the light, the two investigators
who accompanied Rudolf Haglund to the examination appeared in the picture: Nils Hammer
and Frank Robekk. The flash was reflected on one of Robekk’s glasses, and Wisting
thought he could see in his eyes the emptiness that eventually stopped him. Nils Hammer
was different, almost triumphant, his eyes shone like a well-trained hunting dog delivering
its prey.

‘Take them with you, if you think you can use them,’ said Haber.