The Hunting Dogs (20 page)

Two people had been set aside for special attention. One was a retired sailor who
lived in the nearest house. He was described as a recluse and alcoholic. Other neighbours
had seen him sitting up late at nights watching pornographic films on TV. He was interviewed
twice and had no alibi for the time frame of Linnea’s disappearance.

Beside the stop where Linnea left the bus, was a shared house for people with mental
illnesses. The residents and staff members were interviewed, many noting that Rolf
Tangen, a former drug addict who had been convicted of rape, had been out that afternoon.
He had returned about half past six in the evening, sweaty and upset. Tangen himself
gave no explanation other than that he had been walking in the woods.

Wisting logged out of the computer and carried the box of documents towards the door.
By his own lights this was not theft, though to authority it certainly would be, and
he would have serious problems if caught. Shouldering the door open tentatively, he
looked out and listened: nothing. He walked towards the garage.

The enormous basement space was in total darkness until the movement sensors switched
on the power. He set the box on the floor beside the bin frame, and returned to the
duty office with the key. From the interference on the police radio, he understood
that both patrol cars were busy investigating a burglar alarm at the
Farris
factory.

In his peripheral vision he caught sight of a movement on the CCTV monitor. Someone
was walking through the empty jail section. The screen switched to the garage and
Nils Hammer on a shortcut used frequently by investigators on their way home. He stopped
at the bin where Wisting had placed the box, to throw something away. The screen switched
again to show the deserted entrance area.

Wisting waited until the screen rolled over all the cameras and returned to the empty
garage. The distance to the bin frame was too far and the image too indistinct to
be sure that the box was still there. He lingered for a few more minutes before going
down to the garage.

The case files were sitting where he left them. He replaced the borrowed card in the
glove compartment of the unmarked police car before picking up the box and tugging
on the gate cord. As it closed behind him, it dawned on him that he had forgotten
the ball.

Wisting got home at seven minutes to two. Suzanne’s car was parked at the top of the
driveway, in front of Line’s Golf, but they must both be in bed by now. He parked
and took the box inside knowing it would be impossible to sleep with all these thoughts
whirling in his head.

The house was silent; he could hear only the sounds he was so used to that they barely
registered: the hum of the heat pump, ticking of the kitchen clock, hissing through
a water pipe, the fridge switching itself off. He set the box on the kitchen table
and skimmed through the introductory reports on Ellen.

Frank Robekk had called the police. As uncle of the missing girl, his brother had
contacted him when they began to worry. She had slept late on the day of her disappearance,
but there was nothing unusual in that, since it was the weekend. Her parents had gone
for a walk in the woods while she was still in bed.

When they returned there was water on the floor of the shower cabinet. Her mother
said that she was wearing a pair of jeans and a plain yellow T-shirt. They thought
she might have gone to her uncle’s farm where she had a horse stabled, but the horse
was still in its stall and it had not been cleaned out.

That day’s interview with Jonas Ravneberg was relatively short. Most of the time was
spent explaining the reason he had been called for interview. A witness had observed
a red Saab 900 parked at the side of the road not far from the turn-off leading to
Ellen Robekk’s house. This witness worked as a salesman at the local Saab dealership,
and checked the number plate to see if it was a car he had sold. He could therefore
remember that it was a car from out of town with the letters ND at the beginning of
the registration number.

His professional knowledge led him to believe it was a car from 1987 or later, as
the model had been given a facelift involving new bumpers and radiator grille that
year. In 1993, the model went out of production, and the police had the names of all
owners of ND-registered red Saab 900s from those years. There were no more than seventy-four
in the entire country. Jonas Ravneberg was one of four in the area, and the first
to be interviewed.

He had an alibi. He had been in Sweden with a girlfriend and visited her family in
Malmø. They had used her car and been away for a week. Accompanying the interview
report was a copy of their ferry tickets. His girlfriend’s name was Maud Torell and
she confirmed the explanation by phone.

The car idea was shelved after the salesman was re-interviewed. He was no longer certain
that the letter combination ND was correct, and could only exclude the possibility
that the car had been registered locally, which would have meant the LS combination.
Nor was he still sure that he had spotted the car on the day Ellen vanished. He was
on holiday at the time and could not quite distinguish one day from another.

Wisting read Jonas Ravneberg’s statement again, noticing that he and Maud Torell were
listed at the same address: Minnehallveien 28 in Stavern. So, she had been more than
a girlfriend. They were living together.

The actual statement was simple and verifiable, but a number of questions had not
been posed. Did anyone else have use of his car? How many sets of car keys did he
possess, and where were they located? The phone interview with his girlfriend seemed
to have been undertaken to dismiss Jonas Ravneberg from the enquiry. Close family
members were never satisfactory alibi witnesses. When they were not even required
to attend a face-to-face interview their testimony was worth little.

The relationship between them must have ended the following year, when Jonas Ravneberg
had moved to Fredrikstad. In the reports about his murder, he had been described as
a man who lived on his own. Wisting replaced the papers in the box. The connection
between Jonas Ravneberg and Rudolf Haglund had existed for seventeen years without
being spotted.

He slumped back in his chair with a sense of being faced with an unfinished work of
art: a landscape already in its frame, the main features in place, the subject sketched
out, but the details missing. For the moment, the outline was so indistinct he could
not imagine how it would look when it was complete.

Suzanne was not asleep. ‘Hello,’ he whispered.

She replied with
Mhmm.

Under the quilt, he lay on his back staring at the ceiling.

‘Do you think it’s worth it?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Your job in the police. No one ever thanks you. You risk your life and health. Wallowing
in other people’s misery. Hundreds of hours of overtime you don’t get paid for, phone
calls at home at all hours. Demands and expectations and now your own boss has laid
a charge against you. Do you think it’s worth it?’

He had no answer. His job involved burdens of many kinds, but he had not chosen it
to have a quiet life. He had trained himself to face resistance and enormous pressure.

Suzanne turned over.

Wisting closed his eyes, but it made no difference in the dark room. The picture of
Linnea Kaupang was imprinted on his retina.

‘It’s my job,’ he said. If he could work on the new missing person case, it would
all be worth it. To kindle hope that she was alive would outweigh everything else.
‘You hung up a yellow ribbon.’

‘The flat above the café is vacant,’ Suzanne said. ‘It’s for sale.’

An unpleasant sensation spread through his body, as though something cold had crept
under the quilt. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘It would be practical,’ she said.

It felt as if Suzanne had raised the stakes, like a poker player who had thrown a
high-value card on the table, but what they had together was no game. ‘You’re talking
about moving out?’

‘I’m down there all the time anyway. And you’re at work most of the time. We have
the same address, but we don’t really live together.’

It’s not fair, he thought. That she should come out with that now.

He had always considered himself independent, but after Ingrid died he had felt an
increasingly powerful anxiety for the people he loved, terrified to lose them. It
would be linked to his work. Too many times he had witnessed meaningless loss.

He had not only bound himself to Suzanne as a person, he had also become dependent
on her as a life partner. Perspiration lay like a cold cloth on his skin. He tried
to say something, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he ran his hand over
her black, wiry hair, struggling to control his breathing. ‘I don’t need any ribbons
outside the door. I need to act. That’s my way of handling things.’

‘I wish I could demand less of you,’ she said, ‘but we are the way we are, both of
us.’

They lay without speaking, and eventually fell asleep. Suzanne’s face turned to the
wall, Wisting on his back.

The first grey light of day had barely filtered into the room when Wisting woke. Suzanne
was still asleep by his side, even more beautiful with her eyelashes resting on her
cheeks. There was something peaceful about her, a gentleness that was easier to discern
when she was asleep.

A muscle twitched under her eye, and her mouth formed a faint smile. He pushed the
quilt carefully aside and stood up. A rich coffee aroma rose to greet him on his way
down the stairs.

Line turned towards him when he entered the room. ‘Have you cleaned it?’ she asked.

He pulled his dressing gown together as he shook his head.

‘You got it for Christmas,’ Line said. ‘You ought to clean it a couple of times a
year.’

He smiled at her and sat down with his coffee as she poured a cup for herself. He
had cleared away the documents and carried the box back to his car before going to
bed.

A bank of clouds had drifted in from the sea, reaching Stavern overnight.

Line opened the fridge. ‘You don’t have much in here.’

Wisting nodded at one of the cupboards. ‘There’s probably crispbread or something.’

She checked the shelves and found half a loaf, took out two slices and placed them
in the toaster. ‘Are you ready to meet him again?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Rudolf Haglund. Are you ready to face him?’

‘I think so.’

‘We’re ready as well.’

‘You’re going to follow him?’

She opened the fridge again and took out butter and a jar of strawberry jam. ‘It’s
worth a try.’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Four cars.’

‘From the newspaper?’

Wisting noticed a tiny twitch at the corner of her left eye. ‘Two of them,’ she answered,
turning towards the toaster.

‘Who’s the fourth?’ The toast slices popped up, and Line transferred them to two plates
before inserting two more slices. ‘Is Tommy coming with you?’

‘Yes.’

Wisting had been thankful when the relationship between his daughter and the Dane,
a former convict, ended. He was not comfortable with Tommy Kvanter still being part
of her life, but did not want to say anything.

‘Where did you go last night? You came home after Suzanne and me.’

If Line were to assist him, she would have to know. ‘I read through the documents
in the Ellen case.’

‘The niece of the policeman with glasses? I thought you didn’t have access to the
station?’

‘Jonas Ravneberg was interviewed in connection with that case,’ Wisting said.

‘Why was that?’

‘He appeared on one of the lists. The day Ellen disappeared, a red Saab 900 was spotted
in the vicinity. Jonas Ravneberg had that kind of car.’

‘It’s still up on his farm, which means he was there when she disappeared.’

Wisting shook his head. ‘He was in Sweden.’

‘How do we know that?’

‘The woman he was living with confirmed it.’

A sceptical expression crossed Line’s face. ‘Do you know her name?’

‘Maud Torell.’

Line repeated the name as though savouring it. ‘We ought to talk to her.’ The slices
popped out of the toaster. She left them and went into the hallway, returning with
her laptop. ‘She was the one he was living with before he moved to Fredrikstad. Do
you know where she lives now?’

Wisting shook his head as she tapped the name into the machine. ‘Maud Torell?’ she
said. ‘Unusual, but I can’t find it.’

‘It’s not certain that she’s still alive. Or she could be married and have changed
her name.’

‘He hasn’t let many people into his life. She’s the person who was closest to him.
She might have received the letter.’

‘The letter?’

Line explained how Jonas Ravneberg had been observed with his dog beside a post box
shortly before he was killed. ‘It’s a shot in the dark, but it might be worth something.’

Wisting crossed to the worktop to fetch himself another slice of toast.

‘When are you setting off?’ she asked.

He glanced at the clock. ‘In an hour.’

The office belonging to law firm Henden, Haller and Brenner was situated in an anonymous
office block in the city centre, immediately behind Stortorvet square. There was no
flamboyant sign on the door, only a doorbell beside the company nameplate. A woman
answered when Wisting rang. He gave his name and the door opened with a buzz.

The office was on the third floor. Inside, the office environment contrasted sharply
with the shabby common areas outside: dark parquet flooring, abstract oil paintings,
and a blonde secretary at reception.

‘Mr Wisting?’ He nodded. ‘I’ll announce your arrival. You can take a seat until Mr.
Henden is ready.’

She accompanied him to an open recess in the corridor where two black leather sofas
were separated by a smoked glass coffee table. A broad-shouldered, bearded man wearing
a leather jacket was seated on one and a stout Pakistani on the other. Wisting sat
beside the man in the leather jacket.

‘Would you like anything?’ she asked. ‘Coffee? Water?’

‘No, thanks.’

Wisting had begun to regret agreeing to this meeting, at least to this meeting place.
He should have asked for a neutral location. His mobile phone emitted a peep, a text
from Line:
Let
me know as soon as the meeting is over. We
need to know what sort of clothes he
’
s wearing
.

Wisting replied
OK.

At five minutes past twelve, a woman in a black suit appeared. ‘Ali Mounzir?’

The overweight Pakistani got to his feet and followed her. Ten minutes later the secretary
who had welcomed Wisting arrived. ‘Sorry for keeping you waiting. Mr. Henden can see
you now.’

He followed her along a corridor until she came to a halt at a frosted glass door.
The light in the conference room was dim. There was a thick carpet on the floor and
the walls were decorated with works of art. Fruit and carafes of water were laid on
a counter along one wall. At the end of the long conference table, Rudolf Haglund
sat with his arms folded. He stared at Wisting with his eyes narrowed and a smile
on his lips.

Henden rose from a seat beside him and approached Wisting to shake his hand.

Rudolf Haglund got to his feet. He was shorter than Wisting remembered, but just as
pale. Haglund held out his hand. Wisting took it, and they nodded briefly to each
other before sitting round the table.

‘Rudolf Haglund is very pleased you agreed to attend this meeting,’ the lawyer said.

Rudolf Haglund nodded.

‘As you know, I had no dealings with the original case and only know it from the documents,
but Haglund has told me that he never found any fault with how you treated him. He
considered you to be honest and upright, and I have already told you he does not believe
you were the one who switched the DNA evidence.’

Rudolf Haglund nodded again.

‘Nevertheless, a major injustice has been done. My office is engaged in correcting
that but, as far as Haglund is concerned, this is not only about justice in his own
case. He also wants the corrupt police officer who planted the false evidence to be
held responsible.’

Wisting remained silent. The press had launched a broadside against him with information
supplied by Henden. If they believed another officer had been behind any switch, there
must have been another reason for them letting him take the blow. Rudolf Haglund had
spent years thinking about his case and Henden, the lawyer, was an excellent tactician.
They must have cooked something up, and he was not happy to be part of it.

‘I assume we have a shared interest in exposing the perpetrator?’ Henden had been
leaning over the table, and now reclined in his chair.

‘Who is it?’ Wisting asked.

The lawyer flung out his hand and invited his client to speak. Haglund’s tiny eyes
narrowed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of telling you that,’ he said.

Wisting sat motionless.

The lawyer could not restrain an exclamation. ‘But, this meeting …’ he almost stammered.

‘You’ll get to know who it was, but I won’t tell you. I’ll simply let you know how
you can find out. The first days after my arrest have seared themselves onto my memory.
The interviews with you and the hours in the cell. For seventeen years, I’ve known
something went wrong, but only when Sigurd had the cigarette butts analysed again
did I realise what I had been subjected to.’

A nerve twitched at the corner of the defence lawyer’s mouth. He was not comfortable
with his client’s use of his first name.

‘I’ve gone over everything that happened hour by hour.’ He closed his eyes as if to
illustrate. ‘I discovered who planted the evidence against me and know exactly how
it was done.’

Wisting moved slightly to signal interest.

‘I lost all conception of time without a watch and without daylight, but it must have
been late in the evening. They had taken out a guy from the next cell who had been
shouting and screaming since he arrived, and I was the only one left. I was almost
asleep when the door into the section opened. I thought it was the custody officer,
but it wasn’t.’

After several deaths in the cells they had introduced manual inspection of the prisoners
every thirty minutes.

‘The cell door opened. The man who stood there put something on the floor. He took
out a pack of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. A packet of Petterøe’s Blue number 3.’

‘The same brand that produced the DNA result,’ the lawyer said.

‘When he finished, he handed me the packet and invited me to roll myself a smoke.
I accepted. He gave me a light, and we stood there nattering. A strange conversation,
as I recall, about nothing in particular, but I thought it was quite pleasant. Having
a fag with someone who wasn’t preoccupied by the case and just wanted to kill a few
minutes. Then I heard the door at the end of the corridor again.

‘It was the custody officer this time, and pay close attention now: the policeman
picked up an ashtray and held it out in front of me and I stubbed out the little I
had left of my cigarette.’

‘The custody officer can confirm this,’ said the lawyer.

‘I doubt whether anyone would remember that,’ Wisting said.

‘I think he’ll remember it but, strictly speaking, it’s not necessary,’ said Haglund.

‘What do you mean?’ the lawyer asked.

‘On the wall outside each cell door there are forms hanging up. The custody officers
had to sign every half hour when they came down to check on us.’

That had been the instruction before the routine supervision of cells had been transferred
to computers.

‘On the same forms, a note was made when we went for interview, when we went for fresh
air, to have a shower, were served food or had a smoke.’

‘This was seventeen years ago,’ the lawyer said.

‘The custody officer was obviously surprised that any other officer on duty was down
in the basement, and through the opening in the door I heard him asking the other
guy to sign the form.’

Wisting leaned forward. It was quite normal for the person who had given the prisoner
a cigarette to sign for that as well.

‘Do these protocols still exist today?’ Haglund asked.

The forms were placed in folders when the prisoner was freed or transferred to jail.
The folders were retained. They had experienced complaints about treatment in security
cells, sometimes years after the case was ended and sentence passed. They would be
somewhere in the historical archives in the basement at the police station. This was
the document that could clear Wisting’s name.