The Hunting Dogs (25 page)

At the exit road for Torp airport, she turned off the motorway and drove into a filling
station, bought a hotdog and two new windscreen wipers. After eating and changing
the wipers, she set off for Horten and the ferry. The streetlights were off on some
stretches, and moisture glinted on the black road surface. On her left she passed
the old prisoner of war camp that had been turned into a prison. Several cars were
parked in a layby, bright lights ahead. She dropped her speed as she passed: a police
patrol car and a TV2 news van, a uniformed police officer standing in front of a camera.

It struck her they must have found Linnea Kaupang’s mobile phone. It must have been
traced to this vicinity. The police would be holding a televised interview at the
discovery site in the hope of prompting witnesses. It would soon be nine o’clock.
The news vehicle had satellite antennae on its roof and the interview would probably
be included in the main news broadcast.

Morten P and Harald Skoglund had already covered the story for the newspaper. They
were still watching Rudolf Haglund. She reconnected to the conference call and told
them what she had seen.

‘We’ve reported it,’ Morten P said. ‘But
Dagbladet
got it first. The police confirmed the find to them this afternoon.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘That they beat us to it.’

‘I mean for the case. What’s the significance of her phone being found here?’

‘The police think it was thrown out of a car; therefore confirmation that Linne Kaupang
is the victim of a crime.’

‘How’s it going with Haglund?’

‘He’s still sitting in
The Golden Peace
.’

‘What’s he up to?’

‘Drinking coffee and people watching. Harald’s inside as well. Harald?’

‘I’m sitting by the door,’ Harald Skoglund said, ‘developing a bellyache.’

‘Is he just sitting there?’

‘Yes, I don’t think anyone has twigged who he is.’

Morten P took over: ‘I’ve sent Tommy to check his house. That’s safe as long as we’re
watching him here. With us, Tommy?’

‘I’m here,’ Tommy said. ‘I’ve gone round the house. All quiet.’

‘What plans do you have for the rest of the evening?’ Line asked.

‘That entirely depends on what Haglund has in mind,’ Morten P replied. ‘We don’t give
up so easily.’

‘Keep me in the loop, then.’

Driving into the Horten tunnel it dawned on her that whoever abducted Linnea Kaupang
had probably driven along this same road. Perhaps he too had been bound for Østfold.

Turning off near the ferry terminal, she drove to the booth and bought a ticket. The
queue ahead had already started to move, and she was quickly waved on board. The ferry
trip from Vestfold across to Østfold lasted half an hour, which Line spent reading
the online newspapers. The discovery of Linnea Kaupang’s mobile phone was described
in them all. She did not find anything new about the murder in Fredrikstad, not even
in the two locals.

It was quarter past ten when she drove ashore at Moss, and raining just as much on
this side of the fjord. She entered Maud Svedberg’s address in Ystad into her GPS,
and the electronic map told her she should arrive just before four o’clock. She was
already tired but decided to drive for as long as possible, and then snatch a few
winks of sleep somewhere. At just before half past ten, she drove over the Svinesund
Bridge to enter Sweden.

Half an hour later, her eyes heavy with fatigue, she found a darkened picnic area.
She locked the doors, reclined the seat and closed her eyes. The rain beating on the
car roof sent her to sleep.

At midnight Wisting heard the courier’s van arrive in front of the house and had the
front door open as the driver dashed through the rain. He handed over a big white
envelope and Wisting signed a receipt on a computer screen. In the kitchen, he placed
the package on the table and opened it with a sharp knife. It contained another, slightly
smaller envelope, already open.

Wisting emptied the contents on the table: the container for evidence item A-3. He
recognised Haber’s signature and cursive handwriting in the headings marked case number,
seizure number, location and date. It was a different type of envelope from the evidence
bags they used nowadays, but bore no signs of deterioration. Wrapped and stored, it
had lain untouched for seventeen years. He pushed the box back into the envelope,
placed it in a document folder and headed outside to his car.

The weather took a turn for the worse at Finn Haber’s old pilot house. The wind howled
through the masts and crossbeams. Choppy waves crashed against the jetty, breaking
and falling back again, but welcoming light spilled from the windows into the darkness.
Wisting reached the entrance porch with salt sea spray soaking his face.

Finn Haber led the way into the kitchen, unrolled a sheet of paper on the table and
prepared his equipment. Wisting had envisaged fingerprint powder and brushes, but
all that was laid out was a clear plastic box with a lid, a magnifying glass, a camera
and a brown glass jar with a cork stopper. Taking the padded envelope from the document
folder, he placed it on the table. ‘How will you tackle this?’

‘Using iodine crystals,’ Haber replied. He shook the brown glass jar. ‘It’s the oldest
method and still the best. When the crystals are heated, they convert to vapour without
undergoing a liquid phase. The vapour combines with amino acids from the fatty residues
in the fingerprint.’

‘Might it destroy the prints or the paper?’

‘Iodine doesn’t produce a permanent result. After a few hours, the prints are no longer
visible, though they are still present. The iodine doesn’t wash away the fatty oils
or proteins from the surface, as silver nitrate does. If we don’t succeed with iodine,
we can try other methods.’

Wisting did not understand a great deal of what Haber said, but he spoke with conviction
based on experience.

Haber drew on a pair of rubber gloves and, carefully removing the seventeen-year-old
evidence container from its envelope, placed it on the grey paper. ‘It’s my envelope,
to be sure,’ he said.

He took a photograph before picking up the glass jar and removing the stopper, releasing
an odour reminiscent of chlorine. Haber shook three or four tiny brown nuggets into
the plastic box and put the jar aside. He placed the envelope marked A-3 in the box
and replaced the lid. At the kitchen worktop he inserted the plug in the sink and
filled the basin with warm water. ‘It only takes a couple of minutes.’

He put the plastic box into the water and let it float.

Through the clear plastic Wisting could see the entire process, watching as several
round fingerprints appeared, like a photograph in a chemical bath in a darkroom. He
glanced across at Haber.

‘It’s almost magical,’ Haber said, lifting the plastic box out of the water. ‘The
invisible becomes visible.’

He opened the lid and picked up the brown envelope. The prints had a lilac sheen;
some were more distinct than others, and some overlapped. He laid the envelope on
the grey paper and picked up the camera.

‘These are from more than one person,’ he said, taking a picture. ‘There are both
loop and whorl patterns.’

Wisting peered over his shoulder.

‘The loops may be mine,’ Haber said, examining his own finger. ‘Those are the very
faintest prints, but there are several others. This has turned out better than I hoped.’
He took several more pictures. ‘This is just half the job. To establish whose they
are, we need something to compare.’

Wisting produced the document folder from the kitchen table and pulled out his notepad.
Between the hardback covers he had inserted a sheet of paper, almost like a bookmark.
He laid it open on the table.

Haber leaned over, peering at the letter. Then he adjusted his glasses and took a
step back. ‘Are you serious?’ he asked.

Wisting nodded and looked down at the letter advising him of his own suspension.

‘He’s the chief constable now,’ Haber said.

‘Acting chief constable,’ Wisting corrected.

Wakened by her own shivering, Line started the engine to activate the heater. The
dashboard clock showed she had slept for almost three hours. At some time during the
night the rain had stopped, and a cloud of mist had formed around the car. She checked
her phone. Morten P had texted two hours earlier: ‘H has gone home. We’re standing
our ground.’

Her satnav told her she would reach Ystad at 06.47, too early to ring Maud Svedberg’s
doorbell, but giving Line time for breakfast.

She drove on through the night, wondering whether she should call Morten P. If Haglund
had gone to ground for the night, they were probably taking it in turns to sleep,
and she didn’t want to risk waking him. She would receive a message if anything occurred.
Instead she found a Swedish music channel to help her stay awake.

Although she stopped at a petrol station to use the toilet and buy a soft drink, it
was only 06.34 when she arrived in Ystad.

Deviating from the satnav’s directions, she continued until she reached a small harbour
and from there drove around the little town. A paperboy stood in front of a yellow
painted stone house with roses round the door; otherwise the streets were deserted.
In the town centre she found a bakery cafeteria with its lights on and a sign that
said it would open at seven o’clock. To kill the time Line toured the surrounding
streets. It was an attractive town with small, pretty market squares.

When the cafeteria opened, she ordered two sandwiches, a bottle of Ramlösa mineral
water and a coffee, found an open wifi network and read the online papers on her mobile
phone as she ate. Her father was on the pages of
Dagbladet
, framed by a doorway, glancing over his shoulder.
Terminated interview
, said the headline. The well-known, experienced head of investigations risked a prison
sentence after the revelation that crucial DNA evidence had been planted. A senior
officer in the Bureau for the Investigation of Police Affairs confirmed that William
Wisting left before the meeting was over, and explained that the case was not time-barred.
Legislators regarded the fabrication of evidence as seriously as murder. The guilty
party risked twenty-one years imprisonment.

A knot of tension twisted in her chest.

The story concluded with an advertisement for the paper edition and a lengthy interview
with Rudolf Haglund on how it felt to be robbed of one’s life.

A colossal white ferry arrived at the quayside just as dawn broke. In the car again
she re-activated the GPS, which led her through the network of cobbled streets to
Lilla Norregatan.

Maud Svedberg lived in a whitewashed, half-timbered house with a pitched, tiled roof.
The street was so narrow there was no room to park. She turned into the next side
street and found a parking space outside a church before returning on foot.

The woman who had cohabited with Jonas Ravneberg in Norway seventeen years earlier
looked just as Line had imagined. Small and slim, her facial features were quite prominent,
giving the impression that her head was too large for her body. Her eyes were pale
and round, and she had a slightly timid expression. She gave a tentative smile when
Line introduced herself, holding out a hand with long, slender fingers.

‘I hope I’m not too early,’ Line said.

‘I’m an early riser.’ Maud Svedberg ushered her into the house. They sat at a circular
table in the living room. Maud Svedberg put her feet up on a stool. ‘I slept badly
last night,’ she said. ‘This business with Jonas is worrying me.’ She looked older
than her fifty years.

‘How did the two of you meet?’ Line asked.

‘It was years ago,’ Maud replied, without elaborating.

Line told her about the murder and what she had found out about Jonas Ravneberg.

‘He was always so anxious and uncertain,’ Maud said. ‘That was why he had a disability
pension. He was nervous in company. Couldn’t manage to work. We were quite alike in
that way, but something happened that last summer. Something made it impossible to
live with him.’

‘What was it?’

‘He closed himself off. Never talked about anything, and became angry if I asked.’

‘Do you know why he changed?’

‘No. We lived together, but he had his own life. He inherited the farm from his parents
and spent days on end there without me hearing anything from him. In the end we just
drifted apart.’ She sat with her hands folded on her lap. ‘He took his clothes and
moved to the farm. To his model cars and all the other stuff he collected.’

‘Do you remember the Cecilia case?’ Line asked.

‘She vanished that last summer we were together.’

‘Did Jonas ever talk about the case?’

‘He didn’t talk about anything.’

‘But he knew the man who was convicted of killing her, didn’t he?’

Maud Svedberg reclined against the chair back, her head moving thoughtfully from side
to side.

‘Rudolf Haglund,’ Line said.

‘No …’

Line tilted her head to one side. ‘Are you sure?’

Maud rose to her feet. ‘We lived together for nearly two years,’ she said, ‘but I
never really got to know him. He never introduced me to anybody, and never talked
about friends, although I knew he had some. He occasionally used the phone, but didn’t
want me to hear.’

She crossed the room as she spoke and, opening a drawer in a bureau, withdrew a brown
envelope and returned to place it on the table in front of Line. ‘That’s it,’ she
said.

Line lifted the package. It weighed next to nothing. The contents were rectangular
with sharp corners, like a small hard box. ‘Can I see what he wrote?’

Maud returned to the bureau, took out a sheet of white paper and handed it to Line.
The script was sloping, apparently written in haste. It said no more than what Maud
Svedberg had already explained: that he thought of her and would like to come to Sweden
so that they could meet, and in the meantime she should look after the package. There
was a great deal he wanted to say, but it would have to wait. If anything should happen
to him, she should make sure the package was delivered to Chief Inspector William
Wisting in Larvik.

Line handed the letter back.

‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Maud asked.

Line had intended to wait until she was outside in the car, but Maud Svedberg was
equally curious about the contents, so she ought to open the package before she left.
She tore the paper at one end and upended it over her lap. A video cassette slid out.