The Hunting Dogs (27 page)

Line lifted her camera bag from the passenger seat to make room for her father. As
she knew the way to Jonas Ravneberg’s smallholding, they took her car. Wisting sat
with gritted teeth. Jonas Ravneberg had slipped through his net seventeen years earlier.
Cecilia had been held in his cellar for twelve days while they searched in the wrong
places and looked in the wrong direction.

‘Shouldn’t we phone someone?’ Line asked. ‘Police and ambulance? If it’s him, Linnea
Kaupang may have been locked in the cellar for days.’

‘We’ll wait till we get there,’ Wisting replied.

He tried to make it all fit. Jonas Ravneberg was an anonymous figure, but had appeared
peripherally in both the Cecilia and Ellen cases. Now he had been murdered himself,
shortly after Rudolf Haglund was released and could produce evidence that he had been
unfairly convicted. But he could not quite let go of the idea that Haglund had abducted
and killed Cecilia Linde, though two perpetrators was a rare occurrence in crimes
of a sexual nature.

Line dropped her speed and turned onto the dirt track. The car skidded from side to
side until the tyres gained a grip and she accelerated forward. Dense trees obliterated
the faint dusk light. The rutted tracks of another vehicle ran ahead of them.

‘Are your colleagues still watching Haglund?’ Wisting asked.

Line nodded grimly. ‘I spoke to them just before I got home. He hasn’t stepped outside
the house all day and his car is in the car port.’

Line shifted down a gear, shooting out of the ruts and bumping over something solid.
Wisting hung on to his seatbelt as they slithered towards the ditch, but she pulled
at the steering wheel, the wheels spun and the car swerved back in line. The track
narrowed, bushes scraped the sides; they rounded the final bend and the smallholding
appeared in front of them. A car was parked in the yard, with mud splashes round the
wheel arches.

Line took her foot off the accelerator too late. A man standing beside the barn was
caught in their headlights. ‘Frank Robekk,’ Wisting said.

They stepped from the car, leaving the engine running. Robekk raised a hand to shade
his eyes and they saw he was carrying a flashlight. In the other hand he held something
that looked like a gun. ‘Wisting?’

‘What are you doing here, Frank?’

‘There’s something you need to look at.’ What he was carrying was a cordless drill.

‘What are you doing here?’ Wisting repeated.

‘What we should have done seventeen years ago. Searching this place.’ The barn door
was barred and bolted and fresh splinters of wood lay on the ground. Frank pointed
at one of two holes he had drilled, holding his flashlight to the other. ‘Look inside!’

Wisting put his eye to the hole. It was dark inside, and the light from the torch
spread out in a cone shape, striking the rear of a car, three or four metres inside.
Covered in dust, it looked completely grey. The registration plate was missing, but
the light from the torch found the lightning bolt of the circular Opel logo.

‘When I read that someone called Ravneberg had been killed not long after Rudolf Haglund
was released I remembered the name. From the time my niece went missing. Locating
this place was easy, the rest was simply looking.’

‘What is it?’ Line asked.

‘It’s the car,’ Robekk answered. ‘The car he used when he abducted Cecilia Linde.’

Line bent towards the hole to take a look, but Robekk directed the light towards the
shack at the far end of the yard, where the ancient Saab was parked. ‘We blundered
completely,’ he said. ‘The Saab was spotted when Ellen disappeared, but we didn’t
get the significance. We totally fouled up.’

Wisting scanned the yard for something to break open the barn door. ‘I’ve got tools
in my car,’ Robekk said.

He fetched a crowbar from the boot and handed the flashlight to Wisting. The timber,
old and dry, splintered as Robekk dug at the bolt mountings. He threw himself into
twisting and turning so violently that splinters flew in all directions. There was
a crack and the first bolt fell to the ground, then the second. Five minutes later
all the bolts were off. Frank Robekk threw the crowbar aside and pulled open the massive,
double barn door.

Wisting entered behind him. Grains of corn crunched underfoot. Minute particles of
dust danced in the torchlight beam. The stench of straw and manure filled the air.
The barn had a high ceiling, but the space was only wide enough to park a car. Pickaxes,
spades, rakes and other tools were propped along one wall, together with two cartwheels.
On the other side, dry hessian sacks were piled. A ladder led up to the hayloft.

The car was covered with a thick layer of dust, which Wisting was about to wipe away
when he heard a click. A couple of powerful flashes followed and the room was filled
with light. He glanced at Line who was standing just inside the door.

Frank Robekk opened the rear left-hand door of the Opel. A faded air freshener hung
from the mirror. Otherwise everything was clean and tidy. The key was still in the
ignition.

Wisting walked round the vehicle. It was rusty, as the witness on the tractor had
described, the rust exacerbated by the years spent in the barn. Round the wheel arches,
large patches had flaked off, and the bracket holding one of the side mirrors had
disintegrated so much the mirror hung by a thread. He halted in front of the boot
and pressed his thumb against the button. It was resistant and made a scraping noise
as it slid down, clicked, and opened with a little creak.

Frank Robekk raised the lid.

A bundle of clothes lay neatly folded on the black rubber mat. A short-sleeved sweatshirt,
trousers, minuscule white underpants and a grey sports bra, beside a pair of running
shoes with white socks pushed inside. At several places in the cramped space, rust
had eaten cracks in the metalwork that, even seventeen years ago, would have been
large enough to drop a little Walkman through.

Wisting turned and looked through the barn door to the main house resting squarely
on thick cellar walls.

His mobile rang while he was still inside the barn. It was Steinar Kvalsvik, the psychiatrist.
‘You called?’

‘Yes, but it can wait,’ Wisting said, looking through the open barn to the farmhouse
opposite. The light from Line’s car headlamps brought everything into sharp relief.

‘What was it about?’

‘Haglund had an operation for prostate cancer. He was possibly impotent as a consequence.
I think it’s odd it wasn’t mentioned in your report.’

‘I agree. It should have been, but a psychiatric examination is based on case documents
and discussions with the accused. I don’t know why he held those details back, but
it doesn’t change anything. If anything, it’s more likely to support and reinforce
his motive.’

‘How can that be?’

‘Sexual impulses are not located between the legs. Their locus is inside the head.
Moreover, sexual abuse is more often about power than lust.’

Wisting glanced at Line as he listened. She had switched off the ignition, but left
the lights on. Seeing him looking, she raised her camera and preserved his image for
posterity as he ran his hand through his hair. Stepping to the side she took another
photograph, with the rusty Opel in the background.

‘An erection is actually a complicated interaction of hormones, nerve impulses and
muscles in which both physical and psychological factors play a part,’ the psychiatrist
continued. ‘Cancer treatment often impairs the capability but not the desire.’

‘Haglund was a masochist,’ Wisting commented, thinking of the pornographic magazines
they had found at his home.

‘Sexual masochism implies enjoyment of domination, or humiliating or inflicting physical
or psychological pain. In the extreme case of abducting a woman and inflicting all
this on her, well, that could bring about a long-awaited gratification for him.’

Wisting shifted the phone to his other ear. He did not have time for this call now,
but wanted to hear what Steinar Kvalsvik had to say. ‘Do you still believe Haglund
kidnapped Cecilia Linde?’ he asked.

Frank Robekk was making his way to the farmhouse with the crowbar in his hand.

‘I’m even more convinced. Surgery on the prostate might explain not finding any semen
on her. The sphincter muscle on the bladder can be damaged by the procedure. He would
then have what we call a dry orgasm. The semen instead ends up in the bladder and
is later discharged when urinating.’

On the other side of the yard, Frank Robekk started to break open the front door.

‘There’s still something bothering me,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘I have a disturbing
feeling.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s more a thought that won’t let go.’

‘Yes?’ Wisting repeated.

‘It’s about this girl with the yellow bow, Linnea Kaupang. I think he may have taken
her. That he’s holding her somewhere.’

Wisting was already striding across the farmyard, suspicions strengthening as he went.
‘Thanks for phoning,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back.’

Frank Robekk swore as he kicked the door open.

‘The cellar!’ Wisting shouted, pointing to the other end of the house. ‘Not inside
the house. If she’s here, she’ll be in the cellar!’

Robekk lowered the crowbar and walked towards the trapdoor at the end of the house.
The bushes on either side were pressed to the ground, and branches had been broken.
It had been opened recently and set down on either side of the cellar opening. Frank
Robekk jammed the crowbar under the padlock mounting.

Wisting’s phone rang again. This time it was his father. ‘I’m in the middle of something!’

‘I’ve watched the rest of the film,’ Roald Wisting said. ‘At the end a man turns up:
Rudolf Haglund.’

Wisting grasped what his father was saying, but did not have time to fully appreciate
what it meant for him, for the case and for the nightmare he had been drawn into.
How it removed all doubt. ‘You’re certain?’ he asked.

‘I recognised him from the newspaper. It’s him all right.’

Wisting ended the call and waved Line over. ‘Are you sure Tommy and your colleagues
are watching Haglund?’

‘Do you still believe he …’ she began.

‘Phone them. Make sure they don’t let him out of their sight!’

Line took out her mobile as Robekk struggled with the padlock. This entrance was better
secured than the barn door. Wisting rushed back to the barn and returned with a sledgehammer.
His second blow shattered the lock. The hinges squeaked as Robekk lifted one flap
and laid it to one side. The stench of rot and mould rose from the darkness. Somewhere
they heard water dripping. Nothing else.

When Robekk switched on his flashlight, a stone staircase glistened damply beneath
them. Wisting hefted the sledgehammer and took the first step down to a high-ceilinged
room with whitewashed walls. Neither spoke. The walls were speckled with mould and
an icy stillness filled the space like an invisible fog. Empty jam jars, tin cans
and bottles with handwritten labels were arrayed across a table. There was a door
in the middle of the opposite wall. Robekk examined it: locked. Wisting broke it open
with two hammer strokes.

They entered another room. Beside the door Wisting found a switch and the electric
current buzzed before an enormous ceiling lamp came on. This room was smaller than
the first, and curved in a horseshoe shape. Opposite them was a door equipped with
an extra iron mounting and a padlock. Beside the door was a stool and, close to the
ceiling, a peephole. An old-fashioned video camera on a tripod was propped against
the wall.

Handing the sledgehammer to Robekk, Wisting stepped onto the stool and looked inside.

A young, naked woman lay motionless on the floor in a foetal position. The same leather
collar worn by Cecilia in the video footage was fastened round her neck, as though
she were an animal that someone owned. Wisting pressed his forehead against the cold
wall and the foul odour of urine hit him. She twisted her head to look up.

She must have heard us break through the trapdoor, Wisting thought. ‘Linnea!’ he shouted.
She squeezed her eyes shut as Robekk landed a first blow on the door. A shudder coursed
through her body. ‘Linnea,’ Wisting shouted again. ‘It’s over. This is the police.’

Robekk raised the hammer for another strike as Wisting climbed down, punishing himself
for all the minutes wasted, all the hours squandered while Linnea Kaupang had been
imprisoned.

Line arrived, phone in hand. ‘He went into the woods,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Haglund,’ she said. ‘Tommy went to the house to make sure he was there. Haglund went
into the woods behind the house carrying a large lantern.’

Wisting pictured the map in the conference room during the Cecilia case, with increasingly
larger areas shaded where they had searched. Haglund’s house at Dolven could not be
more than a kilometre from here. Practically speaking, he and Ravneberg were neighbours.
‘Did he see Tommy?’

Line shook her head. ‘He’s following.’

There was a final, violent crack as Robekk smashed the door open. ‘She’s in here,’
Wisting said. ‘Send for an ambulance, and phone Nils Hammer. Tell him to bring all
the officers he has and get here without delay.’

Linnea Kaupang staggered to her feet, shielding her breasts with her hand.

Wisting pulled off his jacket and covered her trembling shoulders. Linnea whispered
something and took a few unsteady steps. Robekk put his arm round her and led her
outside but Wisting remained, surveying the room, trying to grasp the scale of the
atrocities that had taken place here. It was smaller than a prison cell. Suddenly
the walls closed in and he could hardly breathe.

At the door he placed one hand on the wall and felt something scratched there. No
telling what kind of tool had been used, perhaps just fingers that had rubbed backwards
and forwards for long enough to form two uneven letters:
C
and
L
, just as Cecilia Linde had initialled the yellow cassette that carried her last words
to the world.

Immediately above were two other letters,
E
and
R
: Ellen Robekk. On the floor lay a little yellow hair slide, used to scratch some
kind of final greeting.
L K
. He closed his eyes.

Line was shouting something from the top of the stairs. All he caught was ‘Haglund’.
He heard steps on the paving stones and then she called out again. ‘He’s here!’