The Hunting Dogs (4 page)

‘Leave it,’ Wisting said. Suzanne was about to snuff out the last candle. She looked
at him in puzzlement. ‘Sit down for a moment,’ he said. Suzanne looked at him uncomprehendingly,
but she sat down.

The flinty grey specks around the pupils of her walnut-brown eyes captured the light
like quartz crystals. Wisting had to pull himself together before sitting opposite.

Wisting felt she was sailing away from him. After she opened the café it was as if
she had become a different woman. For one thing, they were hardly ever together. The
café had become the most important thing in her life, demanding six days a week for
twelve or fourteen hours every day. She had invested most of her money after selling
her own house and moving in with Wisting, but time was the most important investment.
She employed some casual staff, but undertook most of the work herself, including
cleaning and accounts.

When she first moved in she had filled the void Ingrid left when she died, but now
that emptiness had returned. He stretched his hands across the table and entwined
his fingers with hers, uncertain where to begin. The Cecilia case was still capable
of giving him sleepless nights, but he rarely talked about it. ‘Seventeen years ago,
a girl called Cecilia Linde disappeared,’ he said.

‘I remember,’ Suzanne interrupted. She looked around the deserted café; impatient,
it seemed. ‘I had just moved here. She was Johannes Linde’s daughter.’

Wisting nodded. Johannes Linde had become famous when he founded his own fashion label
in the mid-eighties. Every second teenager sported a baggy
Canes
sweater at that time, and Cecilia had posed as a photographic model.

‘They had a country house out at Rugland,’ Wisting continued, ‘where they stayed every
summer. Johannes and his wife, and their children Cecilia and Casper. Cecilia was
only twenty. On the afternoon of Saturday 15th July, she vanished.’

The candlelight flickered restlessly and a slender trail of wax flowed down the candlestick
to form a solidified puddle on the tablecloth. Suzanne’s gaze did not waver.

‘She went for a run directly after two o’clock,’ Wisting said. ‘Just before seven
her father reported her missing. We had a heat wave that summer, but Cecilia ran almost
every day. She took fairly lengthy routes, but never a fixed circuit; there was a
labyrinth of walking trails and gravel tracks that she liked to explore. She could
be away for a couple of hours at a time, which made the search more difficult. The
family thought she had sprained her ankle or fallen and hurt herself. Remember, this
was before everyone had mobile phones.

‘The family scoured the paths closest to home and, when they didn’t find her, alerted
the police. I was the first in the investigation team to meet them, and finding her
became my mission.’

He closed his eyes momentarily. Seventeen years ago, he had worked closely with Frank
Robekk. One year younger than Wisting, he had graduated from Police College after
him. They had collaborated constructively, but something happened during the Cecilia
case and Robekk withdrew. Neither Wisting nor any of the others had criticised. They
knew what weighed him down and that Cecilia’s disappearance must have been a source
of personal agony.

‘We searched long into the evening and through the night. More and more volunteers
arrived: dog handlers, civil defence forces, Red Cross, Scout groups, people from
neighbouring houses, and all sorts. When daylight broke, a helicopter was deployed.
Sometimes Cecilia had rounded off her run with a dip in the sea, so the search area
was extended to include the water.’

‘You found her a fortnight later.’

‘Twelve days. She had been dumped in a ditch beside the woods at Askeskogen but, long
before then, we realised that she had met with foul play.’

‘How was that?’

Wisting withdrew his fingers from Suzanne’s. ‘No one just disappears like that.’ He
cleared his throat. ‘Lots of people had spotted her. As the news spread, witnesses
came forward. Hikers, summer cottage residents, children and farmers. First of all,
she had run in a westerly direction, down to the beach at Nalumstranda. Then she followed
the coastal path east and up towards Gumserød farm where all the leads came to an
end.’

Wisting pictured the map that had hung on the wall in his office, covered in red dots
marking the sighting locations, remembering drawing a line through them, almost like
a join-the-dots puzzle in a children’s book, to follow her fateful run.

‘On Tuesday morning, three days after she disappeared, a man called Karsten Brekke
turned up at the police station. He had read about the Cecilia case in the newspapers,
just like everyone else. They used the photo for the
Canes
sweater advertisement when they reported her missing on the front pages.’

‘Had he seen her?’

‘No, but he saw someone who could be the murderer. Driving a tractor along the main
road leading to Stavern, at the intersection where the Gumserød farm track reaches
the Helgeroa road, he spotted a rusty white Opel Rekord with its boot open and a man
pacing on the gravel track.’

Wisting could still remember the description: white T-shirt and blue jeans; dark hair
thick at the sides; broad face with a strong chin; eyes close set; forehead furrowed
as if something was worrying him. Two simple details were of greatest significance.
His nose looked as though it had been broken at some time, and a cigarette was hanging
from the corner of his mouth. Sitting on the seat of the tractor, Karsten Brekke had
plenty of time to study the stranger.

Wisting had sent the crime scene technicians to comb the intersection and among the
items they brought back in evidence bags had been three cigarette butts.

‘Something else was found as well,’ Suzanne said. ‘A cassette player, or something
like that?’

‘Her Walkman,’ Wisting nodded, thinking about how greatly times had changed. At that
time, people played cassette tapes. ‘We collected that the same afternoon. Cecilia
always listened to music while she was running, as had been mentioned in the newspapers.
Two little girls found it in the ditch beside the 302 road, near to the Fritzøe house
driveway.’

‘That’s almost the opposite side of town.’

‘Not quite the opposite side, but not a logical position considering the route of
her run and the Cigarette Man.’

‘The Cigarette Man?’

‘That’s what the newspapers named him. Of course, we called him that as well.’ Wisting
ran his hand over the table surface. ‘But, enough of that. There was no doubt it was
Cecilia’s Walkman.’ It had contained a yellow AGFA recordable tape. 90 minutes. ‘She
had written her initials on it.
CL
, and the name of the programme she had recorded from the radio.
Poprush
.’

Wisting noticed that Suzanne was restless in her seat and guessed she must remember
the next part of the story. The newspapers had been full of it. ‘The crime scene technicians
still didn’t have much to go on. They examined the Walkman for fingerprints, but only
found Cecilia’s own. The cassette player lay on my desk for three days before it dawned
on me that I should play the tape.’

The men’s overalls were pungent with oil and metal and all were as eager as Line to
discover the identity of the dog’s owner. She glanced at the time: 23.27, and gave
herself an hour to gather information before contacting the news desk. By then she
would have barely half an hour to write the story.

One of the younger men knew how to log onto an internet page listing domestic pets
with ID chips. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Have you got the number?’ He used one finger to type
in the digits as Line read it out. Seconds later the answer appeared.

Jonas Ravneberg

W. Blakstads gate 78

1630 Gamle Fredrikstad

There was nothing familiar about the name. Line jotted the address down before glancing
again at her watch, twenty-seven minutes gone. ‘Do any of you know who he is?’ she
asked. As the men shook their heads, her hopes of hijacking the headlines sank.

Outside again, she held her jacket above her head and raced towards the car. Soaked
to the skin she flung herself behind the steering wheel, turned the ignition and keyed
W. Blakstads gate 78
into the GPS. While the device searched for satellite coverage, she googled
Jonas Ravneberg.
The only results were in the tax lists: no property; modest income.

W. Blakstads gate was located thirteen minutes away, a stone’s throw from where the
body had been found. She called Directory Enquiries while driving. Was there a wife,
children, a live-in partner?

‘Can’t find anyone listed at W. Blakstads gate 78 in Fredrikstad,’ the operator said.

‘What about Jonas Ravneberg?’

‘No Jonas Ravneberg.’

Line disconnected and located Erik Fjeld’s number among her recent calls.

‘Erik here.’

‘Have you heard of a Jonas Ravneberg?’

Erik repeated the name and paused before answering, as though keen to be of assistance.
‘No … Entirely unfamiliar. Who is it?’

‘The dog owner.’

‘The murder victim?’

‘Very likely. He lives in W. Blakstads gate.’

‘That’s close by. Are you going there?’

‘I’m on my way now.’ The windscreen wipers toiled against the rain. Line crouched
forward, peering at the blurred road ahead, anxious to know if the police had discovered
the name and address. ‘What’s happening at your end, Erik?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. Do you still want me to wait for the hearse?’

‘Yes. I’ll phone you if I need any photos.’

As she wound up their conversation, a text message arrived from the news editor.
When will you have the story?
This was followed by,
Have booked a room for you
at the Quality Hotel in Nygata.
She had not thought of a response when he sent another message:
Everything okay
with you?

An hour. Approx.,
she replied, before adding another message:
Can you check out a Jonas Ravneberg? Family,
job
…

The route recommended by the GPS was still blocked by the police crime scene technicians.
She backed onto the main road and drove the roundabout route to W. Blakstads. A row
of white clad terraced houses lined one side of the road and an expanse of open ground
stretched out to a moat running parallel with the road. Between the bare branches
of the trees Line could look across to the lights at the crime scene she had just
left. Number 78 was last in the row; no one from the police was here. That could mean
either that she was on the wrong track, or she was ahead of the game.

She turned on a gravel area at the end of the road. Above her, on a hillside plateau,
an ancient fortress was silhouetted against the night sky.

The terraced house was two-storeyed, and all the windows were lit, even the tiny ones
in the basement. It seemed well maintained and tidy, with its own frame around the
rubbish bins. A red Mazda was parked directly across the road. Line watched for any
sign of movement as she drove slowly past, memorising the registration number. She
texted it to the Vehicle Licensing Agency and the reply arrived as she returned to
the patch of gravel and parked:
Jonas Ravneberg.

She sat for a few minutes. Through one window, most of a landscape painting was visible
on the living room wall; through another, parts of the kitchen. The simple wrought
iron gate in the fence fronting the house swayed to and fro in the wind and the house
appeared totally deserted.

As she opened the car door, a response arrived from the news editor.
Unmarried. No children. Parents
deceased. In receipt of Social Security. Nothing in the text
or photo archives. Murder victim?

Unconfirmed
, she replied, before leaving the car. The rain was now a fine drizzle, but the temperature
had dropped. A blast of wind swept through the black, bare trees. Line shivered. The
victim having no relatives simplified the story but, at the same time, she felt even
more inquisitive about him. He seemed fairly insignificant. At the moment, the homicide
appeared to be a random occurrence, the result of an unprovoked attack, which could
provide a useful angle. It crossed her mind that she needed to do three things before
she started to write: take a quick look at the house, confirm the victim’s identity,
and talk to the neighbours.

A sign with the words
I
’
m on guard here
and the picture of a dog was attached to the gatepost but she entered anyway, stepping
on paving slabs so uneven they were difficult to walk on. She halted at the foot of
the steps. The light from the exterior lamp cast only a faint glimmer over the entrance.
All the same, the signs of forced entry were obvious.

Rooted on the bottom step, she took out her mobile phone, called the police and introduced
herself. ‘Have you identified the dead man yet?’ she asked.

‘I can’t comment on that.’

Line looked around before climbing the stairs to the front door. ‘Wasn’t he carrying
a wallet or anything like that to show who he is?’

‘Didn’t you hear what I said? We don’t have any comment on that.’

‘I think I know who he is.’ Silence fell. ‘Jonas Ravneberg, aged forty-eight. Lives
at W. Blakstads gate 78.’

‘Does that mean you’re at that address now?’

‘Yes, but someone’s beaten me to it …’

She stopped in mid-sentence as a shadow flitted across the textured glass panel on
the front door.

Suzanne slipped behind the serving counter. Producing a half-filled bottle of wine,
she took down a glass and glanced enquiringly at Wisting. When he nodded she took
down another glass.

The dark red wine sparkled as it poured in the candlelight. Wisting cradled his glass
with both hands and remembered how he had pressed the play button on Cecilia Linde’s
Walkman, hearing it crackle as the tape stretched.

‘It began in the middle of a song,’ he said. Seal’s
Kiss from a Rose
was in the Top Ten at the time. He still sometimes heard it on the radio and that
gruff, velvety voice always took him back. ‘Then the music was cut off and Cecilia’s
voice was speaking,’

Shutting his eyes, he remembered the raw despair in her voice although, at the same
time, she sounded resourceful and clear-headed. He and Frank Robekk listened together.
After that, Frank grew increasingly withdrawn.

‘She said her name, where she lived, who her parents were and what day it was,’ Wisting
went on. ‘Monday 17th July.’

‘Monday?’ Suzanne asked. ‘Didn’t she disappear on Saturday?’

‘When she was found on the twelfth day, she had only been dead a few hours.’

Suzanne nodded: ‘Held prisoner.’

‘He may have moved her around several locations, but Cecilia somehow found a way to
deliver her message.’

‘What did she say?’

Wisting recalled it almost word for word. Methodically and seriously, she had explained
what had happened.

‘
On Saturday 15th
July a man kidnapped me while I was out running.
It took place at the crossroads beside Gumserød farm.
He had an old white car. I
’
m lying inside
its boot right now. It all happened so fast. I
didn
’
t manage to get a good look at him,
but he had a foul smell, of smoke, though something
else as well. I
’
ve seen him before. He was
wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. Dark hair. Small
dark eyes and bushy black eyebrows. A crooked nose.
’

Wisting pushed the wine glass back and forth between his hands without drinking. The
deliberation in Cecilia’s whispered voice had made the recording seem staged, almost
as though she was reading from a script. Only towards the end did she break into sobs,
before the recording ended, just as abruptly as it had started. An enthusiastic presenter
shouted,
Hey hey
hey!
and
Balalaika!
before introducing the next record.

‘Was that all?’

‘No. The recording lasted for one minute and forty-three seconds. You can’t say very
much in that time. She said the vehicle had driven around for an hour or so before
stopping, but that she had been left lying in the boot for several hours. When the
man finally opened it again, they were inside a cavernous, gloomy garage. His flashlight
blinded her and he forced her to pull a hood over her head. Then he ordered her out
of the garage, across a farmyard and into a cellar. She stayed there for two days
before she was taken out in the car again. She could see his feet through an opening
in the hood and believed she was on a farm.’

‘How did she manage to record the message?’

‘Her Walkman was in the boot and she took her chance to make the statement. We don’t
know where he was taking her or how she managed to drop the Walkman.’

‘Had he done anything to her, down there in the cellar?’

‘He only stared at her.’

‘Stared?’

‘The cellar she was in had white walls and a powerful light on the ceiling. There
was a narrow peephole high on the wall, and he stood there looking at her.’

The candle flame flickered before the wick drowned in liquid wax. Blue smoke drifted
erratically towards the ceiling. What kept Wisting awake at nights was not just the
idea of what Cecilia Linde had endured in the course of those twelve days, but also
the thought of the other girl, Ellen. The one who had disappeared the year before.