The Hunting Dogs (24 page)

Line crouched forward, straining to see as the wiper scraped across the windscreen.
She had never met Rudolf Haglund before, but he had obviously recognised her. How
did he know who she was? He might have seen pictures of her in
VG
, or may have looked into her father’s private life, but it struck her there was something
familiar about him too. Had they met before? It might have been Rudolf Haglund who
had come storming out of Jonas Ravneberg’s house in Fredrikstad.

The idea grew more likely the longer she thought about it. He was in Ravneberg’s limited
circle of acquaintances and had committed murder before, but why would he kill Jonas
Ravneberg? Was it something from the past? Something he had nursed through the years
inside?

She went down a gear and overtook a lorry, just as she remembered Erik Fjeld’s CCTV
images from the railway station in Fredrikstad. She braked and turned into a layby.
The lorry she had just overtaken flashed its lights and sent a deluge of water over
her as it passed. On the car speaker, she heard that the others were approaching Larvik,
in close pursuit of Haglund’s silver Passat.

She opened her mobile phone emails, downloaded the unread messages, and opened Erik
Fjeld’s. The first attachment showed an empty phone box. The next photo was of a video
screen, the telephone kiosk from the previous photograph. A man was standing apparently
using the phone. He was dressed in black, but nothing more was visible. In the next
two photographs he was heading away from the phone box. A possible resemblance to
Rudolf Haglund nurtured her theory, but it was impossible to conclude anything definite.

She turned onto the road again and hung on the tail of another lorry.

The Cecilia case created a link between Haglund and Ravneberg, a connection between
the present and the past, but she could not grasp what meaning the old murder case
actually held for the new. She thought about asking her father’s opinion. He should
be finished at Internal Affairs, and she was anxious to hear how the meeting with
Haglund had gone. What she herself had on Haglund in the Fredrikstad case was so insubstantial
though, that she wanted to keep it to herself. She postponed the call.

Tommy reported that Haglund had turned off the E18 and was heading towards Larvik.

Line decided to drive home to the house in Stavern for a hot bath. She had only a
shower in her flat in Oslo, and missed sinking into a bathtub filled with perfumed
bubbles.

‘
Towards Stavern,
’ Tommy corrected.

Vexed that she could no longer take part in the surveillance, she began to question
its value. If Haglund had abducted Linnea Kaupang it was unlikely he would travel
to Oslo for meetings and newspaper interviews. Less likely that he would journey to
the other side of the Oslo fjord to kill a man. She gripped the steering wheel. If
he had not already rid himself of her.

‘
He can
’
t be on his way home,
’ Morten P reported. ‘
He
’
s going somewhere else. Driving towards the centre. I
’
m letting go.
’

Line turned up the volume.

‘
Following
him down to Tollbodgata,
’ said Tommy, who was familiar with the small town. ‘
Driving slowly past the Hotel
Wassillioff.
’

‘Not too close!’ Line warned.

‘
He
’
s
parking. I
’
m driving past.
’

‘
I
’
m waiting at
the Statoil petrol station,
’ Harald explained. ‘
I can see
him from here.
’

Line passed the Sandefjord exit road.

‘
He
’
s leaving the car. Looks like he
’
s carrying
something. Walking up the street.
’

‘What’s he carrying?’

‘
No idea. It might have been his wallet that
he
’
s put into his inside pocket. He
’
s going
to the right, towards the bank.
’

‘
Verftsgata,
’ Tommy said. ‘
I can overtake him at the next intersection.
’

‘
I
’
m out,
’ Harald said. ‘
Going down slowly
.
’

Concentrating on the open conversation, Line dropped her speed. An estate car drove
past and indicated to move in front of her. The rear orange and red lights merged,
blurring like watercolours on the wet asphalt.

‘Who’s got him?’ she asked. ‘Tommy?’

‘
Negative. Standing at the
chemist
’
s shop.
’

‘Harald?’

‘
I
’
ve gone into
Verftsgata after him. Can
’
t see him.
’

‘Morten?’

‘
I
’
ve just parked my car beside the church. Have
we lost him?
’

‘
Hold on a minute,
’ Harald said.

The scraping background noise caused by the wind disappeared. Instead they heard subdued
music and Harald clearing his throat.

‘
I
’
ve got him,
’ he said. ‘
He
’
s
gone into a café. The Golden Peace. He
’
s
sitting at the far end of the place.
’

In her mind’s eye Line could see Rudolf Haglund at her father’s table. She disconnected
the open conversation and lifted her mobile phone to call him just as it rang: a foreign
number, country code 46, Sweden.

‘Line here,’ she said.

A woman coughed. ‘You said your name was Line Wisting?’ The voice was reedy and hesitant:
Maud Svedberg, Jonas Ravneberg’s live-in girlfriend of seventeen years ago. ‘Yes,
that’s right.’

‘We spoke earlier today,’ the woman explained. ‘I have your number from your call.’

‘That’s right.’

The woman hesitated before asking warily: ‘Are you related to William Wisting? The
policeman?’

‘He’s my father. Why do you ask?’

‘No … it’s so odd.’

‘What is?’

‘Jonas has sent me a package.’

‘A package?’

‘A large, grey envelope. It must have been in the postbox when we were talking.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘That’s what’s so odd. There’s another package inside, with your father’s name, and
he writes that I must give it to him if anything happens. And, of course, something
certainly has.’

Line felt her hands sweaty as they clamped on the steering wheel. ‘Anything else?’

‘Not much. It looks as if he scribbled it in a hurry. He writes that he’s depending
on me and he wants to explain everything. In the meantime I have to look after the
package.’

The contents must be important, Line thought. Something crucial. She made up her mind.
‘I can come and collect it.’

‘I don’t know …’

Line did a mental calculation. She had not been to Ystad before, but knew it was a
seaport situated southeast of Malmø. The drive from Oslo to Malmø took about six hours.
If she took the ferry across from Horten to Moss instead of driving back via Oslo,
she ought to make it in seven. ‘I’ll talk to my father, and then be on my way,’ she
said.

By setting off immediately, she could reach Ystad by midnight, but she needed to change
her clothes and was unsure of the ferry times. ‘I can be with you early tomorrow morning.’

‘I could just send it in the post.’

‘No, not at all,’ Line said. ‘I’m on my way.’

Wisting had a name. He knew who had fabricated the cigarette evidence, but lacked
proof that would stand in court. The cigarette Haglund had been given in his cell
could be explained as a friendly gesture. There were no grounds for claiming this
was exactly the cigarette butt that had been exchanged for evidence item A-3, but
for Wisting it was enough. Everything was understandable now, though more demanding
and challenging.

He gripped the steering wheel with both hands and spread out his fingers, his thoughts
swirling in a confused effort to find a way forward. Eventually a possibility began
to take shape, initially as a tiny, fleeting glimpse, and then as an idea that became
clearer. If he could hold things together for long enough there would be one tremendous
collapse when he was done.

He could not wait to reach home. Finn Haber’s number was not stored on his mobile
phone, and he had to call Directory Enquiries to reach the retired forensics expert.

‘Have you caught the burglar?’ Haber asked.

The plaster cast still lay in Wisting’s boot. He had almost forgotten the break-in.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I think I know who it is, but I need some help.’

‘Okay then, how can I help?’

‘Can you find fingerprints on seventeen-year-old papers?’

‘Theoretically, but it depends on the paper, how it’s been stored and the print itself.’

‘But can you do it?’

‘I don’t have the right equipment, so I’ll have to improvise. With the help of moisture,
the right temperature and some chemicals, yes, it should be possible. I’ve got what
I need. I can do it.’

‘
Will
you do it?’

‘Whenever you like.’

‘You’ll be hearing from me.’

He disconnected the call and rang Sigurd Henden. Haglund’s defence lawyer answered
in a gruff voice. ‘I hadn’t expected to hear from you so soon.’

‘I found a name in the old records, but it doesn’t constitute proof.’

‘Have you spoken to the custody officer, to see what he can remember?’

‘Not yet. What I need is something more tangible. Technical evidence.’

‘I don’t think I can help.’

Wisting stopped for a pedestrian. ‘That depends,’ he said. ‘Do you still have the
three cigarette butts?’

‘Yes. They were returned from the lab in Denmark last week.’

The pedestrian reached the other side. The tyres on Wisting’s car spun on the wet
asphalt as he drove on. ‘Do you have the original container?’

‘Of course. They’re each enclosed in a paper envelope, marked with the discovery site,
date and time.’

‘I need the one marked A-3. You’ve been given permission by the public prosecutor
to undertake fresh forensic investigations. Haven’t you?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘I have an expert who can examine the envelope for fingerprints,’ Wisting said.

‘Now? After seventeen years?’

‘He says he can do it.’

‘No one here has touched the envelopes. They are lying together in a box of evidence
items and were sent on from here in the same container. I expect they used gloves
at the laboratories.’

‘That’s fine.’

‘What do you expect to find? The envelopes are handled by the police in the first
place. Your seventeen-year-old fingerprints may well be on them.’

‘No chance,’ Wisting said, at the same instant turning into Herman Wildenveys gate.
He would soon be home. ‘None of the investigators had any dealings with the crime
scene work, but I expect to find the prints of one person who certainly didn’t have
anything to do with the crime lab.’

Henden cleared his throat. ‘I’ll have the envelope sent by courier. You’ll have it
sometime this evening.’

Line’s car was in the driveway. That put him in a good mood, as he had expected to
come home to an empty house. He took the folder of custody records and let himself
in. The shower was running.

‘Hello?’ Line called as he closed the door.

‘Only me,’ he replied, heading for the kitchen. The water in the shower stopped. ‘Coffee?’

She gave a response he could not hear, but nevertheless set out two cups.

At the police station, he had an envelope filled with negatives stored in the fireproof
safe, copies of irreplaceable photos from Ingrid’s family albums. Having no such secure
storage in the house he stood with the folder in his hands, scanning the room. Finally
he opened a kitchen drawer and placed it there.

Line emerged from the bathroom wearing jeans and a bra, with a towel wrapped round
her head.

‘I made a cup for you too,’ Wisting said.

‘I need it. I’ve a few hours in the car ahead of me.’

‘Are you going out again?’

‘To Sweden.’

‘I thought you were following Haglund.’

‘We are. He’s sitting inside
The Golden Peace
.’

‘What’s he doing there?’

‘Just watching the world go by.’

Line told him about her confrontation with Rudolf Haglund near the sawmill. ‘I think
he may have recognised me from Fredrikstad. I wonder if he was the one who attacked
me. If he was the one who killed Jonas Ravneberg. It’s just a feeling. I can’t see
what his motive might be, except it must have something to do with the Cecilia case.
That’s what links those two. They knew each other at the time she was murdered, and
now something has surfaced.’

Wisting observed her. She had a special talent for piecing together fragments of information
and making connections. It was a flair he also discerned in skilled investigators.
In the initial stages of an investigation, creative thinking could be more important
than knowledge.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, taking a seat beside him. ‘What could the motive be?’

‘I’ve always considered there to be eight motives.’

‘Eight?’

‘Jealousy, revenge, money, lust, thrills, exclusion, and fanaticism. Jealousy and
revenge murders are always the easiest to solve, together with murders that have a
financial motive. Only seldom do we have murders where the motive is thrill-seeking.
As a rule, it’s serial killers who kill for the sake of it, for the thrill it engenders,
and fortunately we haven’t had many of them.’

‘Was lust the reason Cecilia Linde was murdered?’

‘I assume so, though we never found any sign that she had been sexually abused.’

‘What do you mean by exclusion? What’s that about?’

‘That mostly happens in extremist circles. Either radical religious or political groups,
motorbike gangs.’

‘And fanaticism?’

‘That’s what we call honour killings. When honour and feelings of shame are the motivation.’
Of interest to Wisting was what he could recognise in himself, jealousy, revenge and
lust. Fortunately other factors were required to convert them into a murder intent.
Most killers he had met were rather stunted and self-centred, and lacked the ability
to empathise. Like Rudolf Haglund.

‘That was only seven,’ Line said. ‘What’s the eighth?’

‘The most difficult of all is when a murder is committed to hide another crime.’

Line became pensive. Nothing he had said was new, but he could see he had triggered
a thought process. Then she seemed to give herself a shake. ‘How did things go for
you today? What did Haglund actually tell you?’

Wisting gave her Rudolf Haglund’s version, but skipped telling her about the name.
Instead, he told her all the questions that had been posed by Internal Affairs, and
that he had broken off the interview.

‘Was that such a good idea?’

‘Probably not,’ he said, crossing over to the fridge. It was almost empty, but he
took out butter, cheese and a jar of jam. ‘What are you going to do in Sweden, by
the way?’

‘Running an errand for you,’ she said, glancing at the clock.

‘What kind of errand?’

‘Collecting a package. I’ve spoken to Jonas Ravneberg’s former girlfriend. She lives
in Ystad. He sent her a package and a letter telling her the contents should be delivered
to you if anything happened to him.’

Wisting had never had anything to do with Jonas Ravneberg. They had never met. The
only line of contact was through Rudolf Haglund. ‘To me? We ought to alert the police
in Fredrikstad.’

‘Why should we?’

‘They can get the local police to collect the package and examine the contents.’

‘And do you think that’ll be faster than me driving down there to collect it?’

Wisting, knowing the bureaucracy associated with cross-border criminal justice, had
to admit she had a point.

‘I’m driving down there tonight,’ Line said. ‘I can go to the police in Fredrikstad
on the return journey and hand over the parcel. Do you want to come with me? It’s
your name on the package.’

Wisting felt a tingle of curiosity before the practical policeman gained the upper
hand. ‘I’ve got a couple of things to attend to here,’ he explained, glancing at the
drawer where the folder of custody records lay.