The Hunting Dogs (2 page)

Rain lashed the windowpane, streaming down the glass like rivers, the wind so strong
it had the bare branches of the poplars clawing at the walls of the cafe. William
Wisting sat at a window table, watching as wet autumn leaves were torn from the pavement
and tossed around.

Wisting liked rain without understanding exactly why, but it seemed to help him take
things easier, to relax and slow down a little. Cool jazz, mingling with the downpour,
helped too. He turned towards the counter and the flickering shadows cast along the
walls by the candles. Smiling at him, Suzanne Bjerke turned the music down another
notch.

Three teenagers were huddled round a table at the end of the counter; otherwise they
were alone. Suzanne’s intimate, sophisticated café had become a favourite haunt of
students from the newly established Police College campus.

He turned towards the window again, where the words
The Golden Peace
were emblazoned in a curve of reversed frosted letters:
Gallery and Coffee Bar
. He did not know how long Suzanne had nursed her dream, but one winter evening she
had put down her book to tell him the story of the Hudson River ferryman who, all
his life, had sailed between New York and Jersey, back and forth, forth and back.
Day after day, year after year he sailed until, one day, he made his big decision
to turn the boat round and set out, full speed, for the great ocean he had dreamed
about all his life. The very next day, she took the plunge and bought the café premises.

When she asked him what his own dream was, he had to say that he didn’t know. He liked
his life just as it was. A policeman at heart, he had no wish to be anything else.
His work as a detective gave him a sense of purpose and brought meaning to his life.
He drew the Sunday newspaper towards him and again peered into the night.

Usually he sat further inside the café, where fewer people would notice him, but in
this weather he felt he could sit undisturbed at a window table without passers-by
recognising him and coming inside to engage him in conversation. Since he had reluctantly
taken part in a television talk show, this was happening more frequently.

One of the boys glanced in his direction. Wisting remembered him. At the beginning
of term, he had been invited to deliver a lecture about ethics and morality and the
boy had been sitting in the front row.

The front page of the paper was devoted to slimming advice, warnings of more rain
and intrigues on a TV reality programme. Only seldom did the Sundays contain fresh
news. Canned goods were what his journalist daughter, Line, called the material lying
in the editorial office for days, sometimes weeks, before being published. She had
been a journalist on
Verdens
Gang
for almost five years, had worked in various departments, but was currently on the
crime desk, meaning that her editorial team occasionally covered cases he was working
on.

Wisting managed his double role of detective and father without too much difficulty.
What he disliked was the thought of Line in close proximity to the grisly side of
society. He had been a police officer for thirty-one years, and his work had given
him insight into most kinds of brutality and barbarism, but also many sleepless nights,
something he hoped his daughter would be spared.

He leafed through the pages, skimming the news coverage, not expecting to find anything
Line had written since he knew she was on leave.

Increasingly, he valued their discussions of current news stories. Though it had not
been easy for him to admit, she had altered his views on his role as a police officer.
Her outsider’s perspective had more than once made him reassess his fairly stale opinions
of himself. As recently as his lecture to the students, when he had talked about how
important it was for people’s security and confidence that police officers behaved
with integrity, decency and propriety, he had realised that Line’s points of view
had given him valuable ballast. He had tried to explain to his future colleagues the
importance of these fundamental values in the role of the police within society, that
it demanded impartiality and objectivity, honesty and sincerity, and an endless search
for truth.

When he reached the television schedules on the back pages, the students were at the
door fastening their coats. The tallest made eye contact with Wisting, who smiled
and responded with a nod of recognition.

‘Day off?’ the lad enquired.

‘That’s one of the advantages when you’ve been on the force as long as I have,’ Wisting
replied. ‘Working from eight till four and free every weekend.’

‘Thanks for a great lecture, by the way.’

‘Nice of you to say so.’

The student wanted to say something more, but was interrupted by Wisting’s phone.
It was Line. ‘Hello, Dad. Has anyone from the newspaper phoned you?’

‘No,’ Wisting replied, nodding to the three students as they left. ‘Why? Has something
happened?’

‘I’m in the editorial office now,’ she explained.

‘Aren’t you off duty?’

‘Yes, but I was at the gym and thought I would call in briefly.’ Wisting recognised
much of himself in his daughter, especially her curiosity and desire always to be
at the centre of events. ‘There’s going to be a piece about you in tomorrow’s newspaper,’
Line said, pausing before she continued, ‘but this time you’re the one they’re after.
You’re the one they’re out to get.’

In the following silence Line moved the cursor over the screen where the story, set
and ready for print, her father’s face prominently displayed, was splashed on the
front page. ‘It’s about the Cecilia case,’ she clarified.

‘The Cecilia case?

It was one of the cases her father never discussed, one of the difficult and painful
ones. ‘Cecilia Linde,’ she elaborated, though she knew her father needed no reminder.
It had been one of the most sensational murders of that decade.

‘What about it?’

Line glanced up from the screen as the chief editor moved away from the news desk
and stepped towards the stairs and the floor above. It was time for the evening meeting,
when the final threads of the next day’s paper would be drawn together and a decision
taken about what would make the front page. The Cecilia Linde story filled two pages,
and would provide an obvious headline. Her murder would still sell newspapers, even
after seventeen years.

‘Haglund’s lawyer has sent a petition to the Criminal Cases Review Commission,’ she
explained, once the chief editor had passed. The news editor shuffled a stack of papers
and followed. Line skim-read the report one more time, feeling that it actually posed
more questions than it answered, but appreciating that this story would run to a series,
and not only in her own newspaper. ‘A private detective has been working on the case.’

‘What does that have to do with me?’ From her father’s tone she realised he understood
the seriousness of what was happening. As a young detective, he had led the investigation
and had, since then, become a high-profile policeman, a well-known face who could
be held responsible and used to set the news agenda.

‘They think the evidence was fabricated,’ Line explained.

‘What kind of evidence?’

‘The DNA. They believe it was planted by the police.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘The lawyer has had the samples re-analysed. He believes the cigarette butt on which
the DNA was found had been planted.’

‘That was alleged at the time.’

‘The lawyer thinks they can prove it now, and says that the documentation has been
transferred to the Criminal Cases Review Commission.’

‘I don’t understand how he can prove anything.’

‘They have a new witness as well,’ Line continued. ‘One who can provide Haglund with
an alibi.’

‘Why didn’t this witness come forward at the time?’

‘He says he did,’ Line said, swallowing. ‘He says he phoned in and spoke to you, but
he heard nothing further.’ Her father made no sound. ‘It’s the evening meeting here
now,’ she said, ‘but they’ll soon contact you for comment. You ought to prepare whatever
you’re going to say.’

Wisting’s face took up most of the space on the screen. They had used a press photograph
from the talk show almost a year earlier. The studio setting was easy to recognise
and acted as a kind of subtle emphasis that this was a well-known detective who was
now being accused of breaking the law: a man with slightly rumpled, thick, dark hair,
a strained smile, the wrinkles on his face betraying a lifetime of experience, his
dark eyes gazing steadily into the camera lens.

On television he had emerged not only as the upright, skilled policeman he actually
was, but also as a caring and considerate investigator with a powerful sense of social
justice. Tomorrow’s caption would present him in a different light. His eyes would
be perceived as cold, and the strained smile would seem false.

‘Line?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s not true. None of what they’re saying is true.’

‘I know that, Dad. You don’t need to tell me, but all the same it’s going to appear
in print tomorrow.’

Evening silence had fallen over the editorial offices. Pictures from foreign news
channels drifted across soundless television screens, accompanied by the tapping of
practised fingers racing across keyboards and occasional hushed telephone conversations.

Line was about to log off when the chief editor returned, Joakim Frost, who was only
ever known as ‘Frost’. They said he got the post of chief editor because he was incapable
of understanding the human tragedies behind the headlines. His lack of empathy was
the perfect qualification.

Frost scanned the room with a chilly expression, looking right through her. ‘Apologies,’
he said, taking for granted that she had seen the story. ‘I was going to phone to
let you know, but now you’re here anyway.’

Line nodded. She knew Frost would be the driving force behind the spread but knew
him too well to enter into discussion. She had no desire to listen to his usual lecture
about an independent, free press and, besides, he was hardly interested in counter
arguments. Frost had been in the newspaper game for almost forty years and, in his
eyes, she was still an insignificant rookie.

‘This is a story we can’t afford to ditch,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he saying?’

‘He can tell you himself.’

Frost accepted this. ‘He has the right of reply, of course.’

Line indulged in a wry smile. It was a waste of time furnishing a defence against
accusations splashed across the front page. What’s more, it was a hopeless task, responding
to a story produced by the entire editorial team through a telephone enquiry made
immediately before the newspaper went to press.

‘Listen, Line,’ Frost said. ‘This story engages a great deal more than just our feelings.
It is of general and national interest. I appreciate this is difficult for you but
it’s not easy for me either.’

Line stood up. Frost’s sanctimonious arguments were window-dressing for what actually
was of importance to him: circulation figures. The newspaper’s integrity could be
preserved without placing her father at the centre of sensational headlines, nor did
the story need to be personalised. Criticism could just as easily be directed towards
the police as an organisation, but that would not sell so many newspapers.

‘If you need to take some time, you can have a few days off,’ he said. ‘You can come
back when this is over.’

‘No thanks.’

‘I think it could have turned even uglier if we let others get hold of it.’

Line looked away. Spare me this,’ she said. The thought of her father’s face plastered
across the front of next day’s newspaper made her feel sick.

‘Line!’ The shout came from the news editor, who was standing beside one of the evening
reporters. Ripping a sheet from her notepad, he headed across to them. ‘I know you’re
off duty and it’s probably not convenient, but can you pick up on this?’

Line replied automatically: ‘What is it?’

‘Murder in the Old Town in Fredrikstad. Not confirmed by the police yet, but we’ve
received a tip-off from someone standing beside a blood-soaked corpse.’

Line felt the news fill her with vitality and yet, at the same time, deplete her energy.
This was the kind of story she loved, and at which she excelled. She was expert at
finding sources and exploited them to the maximum, analysing them thoroughly so that
she knew what could and could not be trusted.

Frost’s face broadened into a grin. ‘He’s phoning from the crime scene?’

‘First the police, then us,’ said the news editor.

‘Wrong order, but we can live with that. Who can take photographs?’

‘We’ll have a freelancer there in ten minutes, but need a reporter.’

Joakim Frost turned to face Line. ‘One way or another I think you should head off,’
he said.

Line observed his retreating back, realising it would be much more comfortable for
him and the others if she were to spend the next few days in Østfold County instead
of here in the office.

The news editor handed her the sheet of paper with the name and phone number of the
informant. ‘There might be something in that,’ he said, dropping his voice as he continued:
‘We won’t be setting the front page for another four hours.’

The journalist phoned Wisting just before ten o’clock. Wisting caught only that he
was from
Verdens Gang
. ‘We’re writing about the Cecilia case tomorrow. The lawyer, Sigurd Henden, has lodged
a petition at the Criminal Cases Review Commission.’

‘I see.’

‘We’d like your comment on being accused of faking the evidence that got Rudolf Haglund
convicted.’

Wisting replied in a steady voice: ‘What was your name?’

The journalist hesitated, giving Wisting a suspicion that his indistinct introduction
had been deliberate. ‘Eskild Berg.’

This must be an ordinary news reporter and not one of the crime reporters he usually
spoke to when anything cropped up. He thought he had seen the name in print, but could
not recall ever talking to him.

‘What’s your comment on the allegations that you falsified evidence?’ the journalist
repeated.

Wisting maintained his composure. ‘It’s difficult to comment when I don’t know the
allegations.’

‘Henden claims he can prove that Rudolf Haglund was convicted on the basis of fabricated
evidence.’

‘I don’t know about anything of that nature.’

‘You were in charge of the investigation?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But is it true? Was the evidence faked?’ The journalist was hardly expecting to receive
confirmation, but obviously aimed to provoke a reaction.

‘I don’t know the background to Henden’s assertions,’ Wisting said, so slowly the
journalist had time to jot it down. ‘I know absolutely nothing about any irregularities
whatsoever having taken place in the course of the investigation.’

‘Apparently there’s a witness who wasn’t given the opportunity to make a statement.
A witness who wanted to testify on behalf of Haglund.’

‘That’s also something I know nothing about, but in that case I’m sure the Commission
will give a full account of the circumstances.’

‘Don’t you think these are shocking allegations made against you as the person responsible,
and in charge of the investigation?’ The reporter was obviously attempting to goad
him into voicing personal opinions.

‘You can quote me on what I’ve just said,’ Wisting responded. ‘I don’t wish to say
anything else tonight.’

The journalist tried once or twice more before Wisting put down the phone, knowing
full well that his version was not the most compelling. He had a good understanding
of the role of the press as guard dog. It was their task to criticise politicians,
people in positions of power, and public agencies. They had to seek out justice and
expose fraud and injustice, but now it felt as though injustice was riding roughshod
over him.

He stared meditatively at his reflection in the rain battered window and saw the face
of a stranger.

He knew Henden, the lawyer, from a number of cases. He had not been Haglund’s defence
counsel seventeen years earlier, but nowadays he was an established, high profile
solicitor with one of the country’s largest and most reputable law firms. Added to
this he had been both Under Secretary and a personal adviser in the Ministry of Justice.
Whenever Wisting encountered him, he had behaved in a methodical, scrupulous manner,
normally holding winning cards when initiating contact with the media, unconcerned
with playing to the gallery.

Wisting had been aware that Henden was working on the case when, a couple of months
earlier, the lawyer had asked for the case documentation. Occasionally journalists,
private detectives or solicitors asked the police to open their archives, but it was
very rare that this led to anything.

Sigurd Henden was not the type to write letters or petitions simply to please his
clients. He must have discovered something that could be used to reopen the old homicide
case. Wisting just did not understand what it could be, and that made him feel uneasy.

Suzanne crossed to the door where she turned the lock and reversed the sign, ensuring
the information that they were closed was now facing out. Then she began to extinguish
the candles. ‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked, starting to unload the dishwasher.

Wisting opened his mouth to tell her about Cecilia Linde, but, having no idea where
to start, shut it again.