The Hunting Dogs (19 page)

At ten o’clock, Line buttered herself a bread roll and asked her father what he wanted
to eat.

‘Nothing thanks,’ he said, moving to the window. ‘7.4 degrees,’ he reported, after
looking at the thermometer. ‘Shall we call it a day?’

‘I want to stay a bit longer,’ she said.

‘Are you sure? You can take the folder home.’

‘Everything’s sort of connected. I read something in one place and have to cross check
somewhere else. Here is best. You go ahead. I’ll be fine on my own.’

She knew he did not like to leave her alone, but she had stayed here by herself the
previous autumn and both knew she would manage.

‘I don’t want you to spend the night here,’ he said. His tone did not leave any room
for discussion.

‘Okay, I’ll get home before midnight.’

‘Fine. I’ll go to see Suzanne at the café.’

As soon as Wisting was gone, Line turned to the dull, dark window. The darkness seemed
impenetrable, as though built in layers. She looked up the online
VG
newspaper. The most recent article was written by Morten P and Harald Skoglund.

She had been too preoccupied with her own concerns to pay attention to the rest of
the news. She had heard about the missing teenager, but knew little more.

The last definite sighting of seventeen-year-old Linnea Kaupang had been made by the
bus driver on route 01. The girl was in her final year at high school, and on Friday,
2nd October, had been at school until ten past two. Half an hour later, she caught
the bus in Torstrand. The route followed the main route 303 through Tjøllingvollen
to Sandefjord, and Linnea Kaupang had alighted at ten to three at the Lindhjemveien
intersection. No one had seen her since.

Linnea Kaupang lived with her father about eight hundred metres from the bus stop.
Three neighbouring houses were situated between her home and the main road, and only
one person, a retired sailor, had been at home. He had often seen her walking home
from the bus, but not that day.

Morten P and Harald had talked to Linnea’s school friends who described her as conscientious
and reliable. Nils Hammer had refused to exclude the possibility that the missing
girl had been the victim of a crime. She phoned Morten P.

‘How’re you doing?’ he asked.

‘I’ve still got a pain in my backside, but I’m off that story now, at least almost.’

‘Almost?’

She explained how she had followed a thread from the Fredrikstad murder victim’s past,
and how it had led to the Cecilia case. ‘I don’t really like it. I’m wondering whether
there might be a connection.’

‘Coincidences happen all the time. That’s why the word exists.’

She conceded the point. ‘I’m actually phoning about the Linnea case.’

‘Bloody peculiar case,’ Morten P said. ‘Until yesterday evening, the signal from her
mobile phone was traced to near the High School in Vestfold.’

‘That’s almost at Horten, in the far north of the county.’

‘That’s what’s so damn strange.’

‘Could it have been left on the bus when she got off? The number 01 route goes through
the whole county, all the way to Horten.’

‘That’s a possibility, but then it must have got off the bus at Bakkenteigen by itself.’

‘What do the police say?’

‘Nothing. We have photos of them searching along the main road from Åsgårdstrand to
Borre. They won’t make any comment.’

‘I have a theory about who might have taken her,’ Line said.

‘A theory from the police?’

‘No, and it’s possible this will make me sound desperate, but it doesn’t come from
me or my father. It comes from a chief consultant psychiatrist.’

‘Interesting.’

‘He believes Rudolf Haglund may be behind it.’

She visualised Morton P sitting behind his desk fiddling with a ballpoint pen and
wondering how on earth, as gently as possible, he could dismiss her idea. ‘I know
it’s far-fetched.’

Morten P cleared his throat. ‘Something has happened to her,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken
to her friends who don’t believe she has disappeared of her own free will. It’s likely
someone has taken her and more than likely he has done something similar before.’

‘The psychiatrist believes the spell in prison has built up internal pressures in
him,’ Line said.

‘Are the police thinking along the same lines?’

‘I don’t know what they’re thinking, only that there aren’t sufficient grounds to
place him under surveillance.’

‘Does anybody know where he is now?’ Morten P was becoming enthusiastic.

‘Not right now, but I know where he’ll be tomorrow at twelve o’clock.’

Morten P laughed, realising she was thinking the same as him. ‘Harald and I can watch
from our cars,’ he said. ‘But we need one more, in addition to you.’

‘I can arrange that.’

‘I have to finish this story; we’ll take this further tomorrow.’

Line located Tommy Kvanter’s number, it was her turn to surprise him.
I
need you
, she tapped into the phone, and pressed
send
.

That done, she called the unknown Fredrikstad number again, the unregistered subscriber
who had triggered a chain reaction when he phoned Jonas Ravneberg. It rang for the
same length of time, and she was about to disconnect the call when someone answered
with a simple
Hello?
The voice sounded like that of a young man.

‘Who am I speaking to?’

‘Who do you want to speak to?’

‘My name is Line Wisting,’ she said. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

The person disconnected. Line swore and called the number again. This time, no one
answered, but the phone pinged in a text.

When and where?

A yellow ribbon was tied to the railings on the staircase leading to
The Golden Peace
. A picture of Linnea Kaupang hung on the door. The word
Missing
was emblazoned above and underneath was a description of her, stating what she had
been wearing and where she had last been seen. Wisting could not shake off the notion
that he could have made a difference if only he had been on duty. If it hadn’t been
for Audun Vetti.

The little bell pealed above the door as the café fell silent and all the customers
turned towards him. Wisting nodded to right and left as he walked to the bar. The
pleasant atmosphere he was used to was missing.

Suzanne smiled from behind the counter. ‘Lovely to see you. Do you want anything?’

‘Coffee, please.’

‘Sit down,’ she said, nodding towards his usual table. ‘I’ll bring it to you.’

Wisting hung his jacket over the back of the chair. Suzanne arrived with coffee and
a slice of cake. He invited her to sit with him. ‘Still busy?’ he asked.

‘Not as many customers as usual, but how are things with you?’

‘Line has arrived.’

‘That’s nice,’ she said.

‘Did someone phone asking for me?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I had a visit from Rudolf Haglund’s defence lawyer. He said you had told him I was
at the cottage.’

‘Shouldn’t I have done that?’

‘Someone else has been there too,’ he said, describing the break-in.

‘It would be easier if you answered the phone when people called,’ Suzanne threw a
glance at the counter as a customer approached. ‘Then I wouldn’t be bothered all the
time.’

‘You’re right,’ he said.

Suzanne left to serve the customer from the coffee machine, before coming back to
the table.

‘I just wanted to know who you had spoken to. There weren’t many people who knew where
I was.’

‘There have been journalists phoning constantly. I told them you were at the cottage.’

There was no point in pursuing the subject. Neither of them spoke. Suzanne got to
her feet again and walked around the café, collecting empty glasses and dirty plates.

It astonished him how little she seemed to care. When he needed someone to speak to
he felt she was accusing him. The café was perhaps not the right place to talk, but
could she not take at least some time out?

Their relationship had begun suddenly, three years earlier, only two years after Ingrid’s
death when Wisting had not even considered finding someone else. As time passed though,
he grew to appreciate how well they got on and their relationship came to mean a great
deal to him. He felt they had been happy over the past three years, but now Suzanne
was preoccupied and distant and he felt she was slipping away.

He understood her need to feel secure. She had experienced a lot, and assurance was
important to her. It was important to him too, but he probably defined it differently.
For him it was not so much physical presence. He was used to being on his own. It
was everything to do with not having to weigh his words too carefully, secure in the
knowledge that the other person would construe everything for the best. With a feeling
of closeness, even if the other person was at work, or in another country, as he and
Ingrid had achieved.

She had been employed as an aid worker with NORAD and, although he had missed her
at times, they never lost that feeling of closeness. With Suzanne it was more difficult
when they both worked such long hours. He watched her manoeuvring between the tables,
thinking there was something different in her eyes. Something slightly cold and suspicious,
maybe even frightened. They had become strangers.

It was visible now, he thought, even though it had been present for a while. A distance
had opened between them. At the beginning he had sat up waiting at night, but more
often these nights he went to bed before she came home – and was away before she wakened
in the morning. He had to come here to spend time with her.

He sat for a while longer, finishing his coffee, before getting to his feet, picking
up his jacket and making his exit.

The house in Herman Wildenveys gate lay empty and silent. Wisting parked among yellow
autumn leaves in the courtyard. When Suzanne had moved in, she had filled the space
left by Ingrid. Scared she would erase all traces, he had kept her slightly at a distance
but soon realised that he had missed having someone to come home to.

So, perhaps Suzanne had felt like a replacement. He slammed the car door behind him.

Line was not home; which suited, he thought. From his bedroom wardrobe he took a black
cap, a pair of leather gloves, a black polo-neck sweater, and dark jeans.

After changing his clothes, he posed in front of the mirror. He was unshaven and red-eyed,
but the outfit was right, even if he couldn’t look himself in the eye. The plan had
taken shape after his first call from the forensic psychiatrist, prompting the notion
that whoever abducted Cecilia had also taken Ellen Robekk.

One of the older detectives had responsibility for the Ellen enquiry, and Wisting
had never been given a complete overview. When Cecilia vanished the following year,
Frank Robekk took it on himself to go through it all again. He would have been thorough
and painstaking, but now Wisting needed to check it all himself, and that meant he
had to get into the historical archives at the station without a key or admittance
card.

Letting himself out, he pressed himself against the hedge bordering his neighbour’s
garden, where there was a trampoline in the centre of the extensive lawn. A tricycle
lay toppled beside a children’s playhouse, and a skipping rope lay where it had been
thrown. He found what he was looking for in the rose bed, a football, took it to his
car and reversed out of the courtyard to head for the station. He had driven this
same route almost every day for thirty years, and could probably do so with his eyes
closed.

He turned off at the old fire station and drove to the car park at Bøkkerfjellet.
From this vantage point, he had a clear view of the fifty metres along Linneagate
to the vehicle and staff entries. It was 23.04. The night shift had just come on and
the evening shift was probably in the locker room.

Three minutes later, one of the oldest members of the uniform branch trundled out,
pushing a bicycle. He stopped to put on his helmet and cycled off. The door opened
again, and two men and a woman emerged. Wisting knew them all. Three cars drove out
in turn from the car park in the back yard, none choosing his direction. When the
lights had gone, he stepped out of the car, carrying the football.

The building next door was what was left of the Brynje hosiery factory, demolished
to make way for the new police station. Wisting crept beside its old brick walls to
a winter grit container. The back yard was dark, the only light from a streetlamp
above the parking area. Through a crack between the container and the wall he had
a clear view to the vehicle gate but could not, himself, be seen.

The entire police station seemed to be asleep. His own office was in darkness but
a light shone in Nils Hammer’s. Nothing else suggested work was being done on the
Linnea Kaupang case. From experience he knew that, by now, there would not be much
more for the investigators to do. Four days had passed; most of the witnesses had
been interviewed and the relevant places searched. Without anything more specific
all they could do was wait.

The sky was filled with stars. He found the Plough, with
Canes Venatici
in pursuit. The Hunting Dogs. The air felt very cold and damp.

The new group would spend half an hour or so preparing for their shift, the senior
officer running through the list of assignments, going over what had happened since
they were last in. They updated themselves on planned and expected events, produced
lists of stolen vehicles and wanted persons and checked over their equipment. Soon
they would drive out from the basement garage and the gate would remain open behind
them for about fifteen seconds.

A star fell through the darkness, leaving behind a slim, milky white trail. Looking
up at the stars was like looking backwards in time. For all he knew, the hunting dogs
could have died up there, disappeared from the heavens long ago.

Not until almost an hour later did the gate begin to clatter, sliding up as a patrol
car rolled out. Wisting recognised the driver: Frank Kvastmo, one of the oldest and
most experienced officers in the uniformed branch. At his side sat a student from
the Police College, meaning there was at least one more officer still inside the station.
The car stopped with its engine idling, waiting for the gate to begin its downward
slide before setting out.

With the car gone and the gate about one and a half metres from the ground, Wisting
threw the ball. It landed close to the opening, bounced on the asphalt and broke the
optical beam installed to prevent crushing injuries. The gate stopped with a judder,
slid up again and the ball rolled inside to stop in front of the washing bay. Wisting,
head down, ran inside, where the strong ceiling light made him screw up his eyes.

The air was raw and damp, and the white walls spotted with black patches of mould.
A CCTV camera was mounted on the ceiling. The last time they had made use of the video
film was three years earlier when someone had placed a suspicious suitcase in front
of the main entrance. The video footage was of such poor quality it had been difficult
to identify the man who left it. They had talked about installing new CCTV equipment,
but still had not found enough money. There were ten cameras in total at the police
station. Wisting knew where they were located and that it would be difficult to avoid
them all. This was a risk he had to take. If no one suspected a break-in the recording
would be erased in seven days.

Two doors in the garage led into the station, one through the cells, no longer in
use after the establishment of a central jail at the police station in Tønsberg. The
other was the main door to the stairwell. Both were locked and he did not have a keycard
although the code was in his head. His footsteps echoed off the concrete walls as
he approached the locked main door, the sound hollow and cold.

The lock made a buzzing sound and the colour on the card reader changed from red to
green. He crouched behind one of the unmarked police cars.

A uniformed officer shouldered his way out, carrying a large bag of equipment. A student
followed. The door clicked shut behind them and they stepped across to the nearest
police car, placed their bags on the rear seat and rummaged through the boot. Assured
they had all they required, the student sat behind the wheel and eased the vehicle
towards the gate. He lowered the side window and tugged at a cord hanging from the
roof. The gate slid open and they drove into the night.

Wisting waited until the gate was fully closed again before he stood up. He stared
at the stairwell door. Expecting it to be closed, he had worked out a plan. There
were spare cards that could be used by staff who had forgotten their own, visiting
investigators from out of town or workmen needing access. Sometimes these cards were
left in the police cars.

Inside the nearest car he searched through the centre console, behind the sun visor,
and in the glove compartment without finding anything other than a petrol card and
an empty snuffbox. He was luckier in the next, where a card lay beside the logbook
in the glove compartment. He took it to the door, drew the card through the reader
and keyed in the code. The green diode flashed as the lock buzzed and Wisting stepped
through.

The historical archive where the Ellen case was stored was located at the end of the
corridor and locked with a cylinder lock, but he knew the duty officer kept a master
key in his office on the floor above. He climbed the stairs, emerging into the public
area, and let himself into the duty officer’s office with his borrowed admittance
card.

Pictures from the CCTV rolled across the screen of a dusty monitor. He had been alone
in the station during the late night hours many times before, but this time he felt
like a stranger: worse, like an outsider.

The master key hung in the cupboard where the performance and contingency plans were
stored in suspended files. He almost dropped it when a gruff voice from the radio
broke the silence.

‘
Fox 3-0 answering.
’

‘
Drive along main road 40
to Bjerke. Report of someone driving off the road. Single
vehicle off the road. No passengers reported injured.
’

‘
Message
received.
’

Wisting returned to the basement, walked along the corridor to the historical archives
and was soon inside. The fluorescent tubes on the ceiling made a humming noise, blinked,
and went on.

The box of documents from the Ellen investigation was sitting in the same place. He
lifted it down and carried it to a separate area of the archive. Intended as a workroom
it actually stored Christmas decorations, old orderly books, driving licence papers,
enforcement books and journals, all waiting until they were old enough to be destroyed
or transferred to the Regional State Archive.

He placed the box on the desk and looked at the contents. There were fewer documents
than in the Cecilia Linde case, because they had never found a crime scene, a body
or a suspect. The case consisted almost exclusively of witness statements given by
people who knew Ellen Robekk or who were around Kleppaker when she disappeared.

Seventeen-year-old Ellen Robekk had vanished on a Sunday. She was still in bed when
her parents came to her bedroom at twelve noon to say they were going for a walk in
the woods. When they returned, she was gone.

Wisting left the details of the disappearance lying and took out the list of people,
running his eyes over the names. He recalled some, but others were unfamiliar. Almost
halfway down one of the sheets he spotted a name with an asterisk beside it.
RAVNEBERG, Jonas.
He was the subject of two documents. In one, he was interviewed as a witness; the
other was a special report from one of the detectives.

He placed the printout on top of the box and lifted it, but put it back down again.
There was a computer on the worktable. Wisting pushed the mouse across the tabletop,
and the login image appeared on the screen.

He glanced from the computer screen to the box and back again. Then he abruptly made
a decision and keyed in his own user name and password. He had obviously not been
removed from data access, since he soon gained entry, and regretted it at once since
it would be possible to trace when and where he had logged in. But there was no reason
for anyone to check his data log unless they became suspicious.

He had seventeen unread emails, the majority group emails, and he did not bother reading
those. Instead he clicked into the database for investigation of criminal cases and
looked up the name Linnea Kaupang. The name appeared as the victim in case 11828923
–
Missing
woman under 18 years of age.

The documents were listed in chronological order. Wisting opened the document that
had begun the enquiry. Linnea Kaupang was reported missing by her father on Saturday
at quarter to one in the afternoon. By then, she had been missing for almost twenty-four
hours.

The missing girl’s mother had died twelve years earlier, and her father had sole responsibility
for his daughter. He had explained that she had not been at home when he came back
from work on Friday. During the course of the evening, he had contacted her classmates
and other acquaintances but no one had known where she was. She had not gone missing
before and was not depressed or in any kind of dispute with her father.

The three final pieces of information were enough for the police to begin working
on the case. The assumption could reasonably be made that something had happened to
her, rather than leaving the matter in abeyance as with other runaway teenagers.

Two classmates said that Linnea had boarded the service bus between Larvik and Sandefjord.
The driver was interviewed. He remembered her and was certain he had let her off at
Snippen.

Wisting skipped over the search reports and instead read one summarising the door
to door questioning in the neighbourhood. This strengthened the picture of Linnea
Kaupang as a sociable, cheerful and positive girl, but no one had seen her.

The report concerning the trace on Linnea Kaupang’s mobile phone surprised Wisting.
The last phone call was logged three hours before she disappeared. She had phoned
a friend about schoolwork. The phone had been located in an area of coverage that
included the Thor Heyerdahl High School. What was unusual was that when the phone
was traced in real time, it was located in an area near Bakkenteigen between Horten
and Tønsberg.

It was impossible to trace the route of travel to that point. On Monday evening, the
signal had disappeared when the phone’s battery ran out. The investigators had thought
as Wisting had, that it had been thrown from a car. Searches were conducted along
the ditches bordering route 19 and, at the turn off leading to Berg Prison, they had
found Linnea’s Sony Ericsson Xperia. The discovery provided no further answers, and
the enquiry remained open.

As far as he knew, the discovery of the mobile phone had not been mentioned in the
media. He could not understand why. If he had been in charge he would have gone public,
hoping for fresh information to be presented. So far the disappearance remained a
local case, but if residents of the Horten area learned this it would lead to further
tip-offs and observations.

A sudden noise startled Wisting out of his thoughts. A fire door slammed shut somewhere
in the building, echoing through the basement. He listened but, as he heard nothing
further, turned back to the computer.