The Hunting Dogs (5 page)

The shadow had a human shape. Line took a step back just as the front door at W. Blakstads
gate 78 was thrown against her face, sending her tumbling down the steps, warm blood
running from her nose. Her mobile phone slid across the paving stones.

The figure in the doorway stormed out, tripped on her legs and fell across her. Dressed
entirely in black, he had a balaclava pulled over his head. Line grabbed one of his
legs and held on as he desperately tried to shake her off, pummelling her with clenched
fists. Line wriggled and turned so that the blows fell on her back. He hauled himself
upright, dragging her with him along the path, hampered. She looked up and saw him
grab a garden rake that was propped against the gable wall. He swung it over his head
and brought it down on her, the prongs striking her on the thigh and buttocks. She
screamed in pain and let go. Flinging the rake at her, he ran through the gate.

Line stumbled to her feet, watching him run towards the old fortifications and vanish
into the darkness. Drawing herself into a crouch, she rested her arms on her knees,
her heart hammering in her chest and the taste of blood in her mouth. On the ground
in front of her something reflected the faint streetlight, a blue toy car with a black
roof, about the same size as a matchbox, a model with moveable parts. She closed the
open boot lid with her index finger and placed it in her pocket before wiping the
blood from her lips with the back of her hand. A number of single-track, rational
thoughts took shape.

VG journalist assaulted by
presumed killer.

That was a story. A major story. If it didn’t belong on the front page, all the same,
they could not really print her father’s story in the same edition. That would be
a peculiar form of double exposure. Frost would be forced to drop his headline, perhaps
for long enough.

Her mobile phone lay on the path, and she saw by the timer that her call to the police
was still active. ‘Hello?’ she said. Police sirens were sounding in the distance.

‘Are you there?’ the man asked. ‘What happened?’

‘He was here,’ Line said, beginning to shake.

‘Who?’

‘The murderer.’

At the same time, it dawned on her how dangerous the situation had actually been.
The man who attacked her had killed another person only hours before. She glanced
at the time: 23.55. Eight minutes till deadline.

Wisting checked the time on the clock above the counter: five to twelve. He did not
know what the following day had in store, only that he needed to be well rested. On
the other hand, going to bed was not such a great idea when his thoughts would keep
him awake.

Suzanne was tired, but not uninterested, as she sometimes was when he was talking
about his work.

‘The perpetrator’s name was Rudolf Haglund,’ he said. ‘He got the maximum sentence,
twenty-one years.’

‘Did he not confess?’

Wisting shook his head.

‘Is he still in jail?’

‘He was released on parole six months’ ago and wants the case reopened.’

‘On what basis?’

‘He claims that the evidence against him was false, fabricated by the police.
VG
is going to cover it tomorrow,’ Wisting said, and went on to tell her about Line’s
phone call.

Suzanne leaned back in her chair, cradling her glass in her lap. ‘How was he caught?
Didn’t you have DNA?’

Wisting took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. ‘Cecilia Linde was
naked when she was found.’

‘Had she been abused?’

‘No signs of that nature.’

‘How did she die?’

‘Smothered, most probably by pressing a pillow over her face. She had acute lacerations
in her mouth and eyes and fractures of the small bones in her neck. The first tip-off
came in about Rudolf Haglund on the day that Cecilia was found. We had put out an
alert based on the description given by Karsten Brekke, the guy on the tractor. We
were looking for a Norwegian man, aged around thirty, about five foot nine tall, dark
hair and with a conspicuous break in his nose, and were inundated with ninety-three
names. Thirty-two of those owned a white car, and fourteen lived locally. Three of
them were already known to the police.’

‘What previous convictions did he have?’

‘Indecent exposure. He’d been fined a year or two earlier. In addition, there were
a couple of cases that hadn’t been pursued, in which he was suspected of voyeurism.
The other two were family men who had been convicted of theft and embezzlement. Rudolf
Haglund lived on his own, had never been married and had no children. His social circle
was very limited. He worked at a furniture warehouse. A loner was how people spoke
of him.’

‘But it wasn’t it a sexually motivated murder?’

Wisting shrugged his shoulders. ‘What purpose could there be for keeping a young woman
prisoner for days on end, if it wasn’t sexually motivated?’

‘Financial blackmail?’ Suzanne suggested. ‘Her father was wealthy.’

‘No demand for money ever arrived. That was what we were expecting. We connected a
listening device to the telephone, monitored post boxes, placed surveillance on the
summer house and their private residence. Nothing arrived.’

‘What caught him out in the end?’

‘The day after we publicised the sighting of the man and car at the intersection beside
Gumserød farm, he reported his car stolen, but it was some time before we discovered
that.’

‘Why?’

‘He reported it to the police in Telemark district. He said his car had been parked
in Bjørkedalen, just on the other side of the district boundary. It was only when
we received the tip-off and began to investigate that we found out.’

‘Did you find the car?’

‘Never. It was an old white Opel Rekord. The same type that had been spotted near
Gumserød farm. Most stolen cars are found fairly quickly, if we’re not talking about
the expensive vehicles that are smuggled out of the country. This one wasn’t.’

‘Do you think he got rid of it to dispose of evidence?’

‘Yes. The point is that he went to the police and reported it stolen on Wednesday
19th July. He had parked it beside an old load of timber on the afternoon of Friday
14th and had taken a rucksack, fishing rod and tent with him into the woods. When
he returned on the Sunday, it was gone.’

‘Why hadn’t he reported it missing immediately?’

‘He had to get home first, and claimed that he had walked all the way.’

‘Walked?’

‘He lived at Dolven, a distance not more than twenty kilometres, even less if you
go through the forest. When he arrived home, he heard the news about the girl’s disappearance
and didn’t want to bother the police. After a couple of days, he took the train to
Porsgrunn and reported it there. After all, it had been in their police district that
the vehicle had been stolen.’

‘You believe he was lying?’

‘Not one of the ten-man jury believed him.’

‘But what proof did you have?’

‘The grounds for his arrest were slim,’ Wisting admitted. ‘An old man who lived beside
the level crossing in Bjørkedalen was in the habit of walking his dog in the place
where Haglund told us he had parked. He couldn’t remember seeing any white car. That
meant we could charge Haglund with giving false information. When the man on the tractor
also recognised him in a photo lineup, we had enough to remand him.’

‘You were sure it was him?’

Wisting’s dead certainty had diminished with the passage of time, but he had been
certain then, even prior to the positive results from the DNA examination of the cigarette
butts. There was something unmistakably evil in those tiny, unfathomable, dark eyes.
Also, he had a smell about him, exactly as Cecilia said on the tape. Foul cigarette
smoke, yes, along with something else.

‘There were aspects that pointed
against
it being Haglund,’ he said. ‘Cecilia said in the recording that she lay in the boot
of the car for an hour before it stopped. The trip from the crime scene to Haglund’s
home takes fifteen to twenty minutes, but of course he didn’t necessarily drive straight
there. Again, Cecilia could have been mistaken about the length of time. But the most
important objection was that he didn’t have a cellar. Cecilia said that she was held
captive in a cellar with white walls, a powerful light and a slit in the wall. There
was nothing like that at Haglund’s house. However, the sum total persuaded us that
he had transported her to a different place, some other building.’

‘Did you find any such place?’

‘No. That was a loophole in the investigation, but it paled into insignificance once
the analysis results came in. We found Rudolf Haglund’s DNA profile in the saliva
on one of the cigarette ends that the killer had discarded while waiting at the Gumserød
intersection.’

Lifting his glass, he stared at the contents, recalling how great their relief had
been when that telephone message arrived. There had been tremendous urgency to clear
up the case. For every day that the media demanded fresh leads, progress and a breakthrough,
and every day they were unable to provide satisfactory answers, accusations of inefficiency,
negligence and incompetence grew more intense. These allegations came not only from
the press, but also from politicians. It had been liberating when the DNA result arrived
from the Forensics Institute, proving not only that Rudolf Haglund was the right man,
but also that the police tactics had been justified.

However, Haglund’s lawyer was now maintaining he could prove the DNA evidence was
faked. The clock above the counter showed past midnight. In only a few hours he would
have to confront the allegations.

Line explained everything that had happened, but the man at the police switchboard
continued to pose questions, repeating what she had said and asking again about details
she had already given.

‘I��ve got another call,’ she said at length, putting him on hold as she keyed in
Erik Fjeld’s number. ‘You have to come,’ she told him. ‘W. Blakstads gate 78. The
killer has just been here.’

‘But …’

‘He attacked me. I need photos.’

‘Are you okay?’

‘Just come,’ she said.

As she disconnected the call, the first police dog van arrived. She searched through
her contacts for the news editor’s direct number. He replied with a brusque question:
‘Any news?’

‘I have a story,’ she said, wiping blood from her face. ‘The murderer attacked me
with an iron rake.’

She heard his chair scrape across the floor. ‘What’s that?’ Line explained while watching
a police dog handler open the tailgate of his van. A black German Shepherd leaped
out. ‘Are you hurt?’

‘A slight nosebleed, and a few scratches,’ Line played down her injuries as a patrol
car pulled up. The driver headed straight for her. ‘Line Wisting?’

‘Give me fifteen minutes, and you’ll have something in writing,’ Line said into her
mobile. ‘Erik Fjeld is on his way with his camera, so pictures even sooner.’

‘You can’t write a report about yourself!’

‘I’ll write down what took place, and you can use that material in your own report.’

The police dog gave a couple of loud barks, but sat still as the dog handler approached
her. ‘Are you the one who phoned?’

‘I’ll phone you back when I have something written,’ Line said, wrapping her conversation
with the news editor. ‘Ten minutes.’

‘Which way did he go?’ the dog handler asked.

Line pointed in the direction of the gravel where her car was parked. ‘He disappeared
towards the fortress.’

‘
Direction of the fortress at Kongsten,
’ the dog handler said down his radio transmitter. He set off until the dog halted
with its snout in the air. It circled around before tugging at its lead and setting
out again, this time leading its handler. Two police officers, each armed with a machine
gun, accompanied.

‘What happened?’ the remaining officer asked.

Line repeated what she had explained by phone, aware she was losing precious time.
More police arrived, surrounding the area with red and white crime scene tape. Curious
neighbours were already huddled in small groups when a man with a camera forced his
way through. Erik Fjeld had arrived.

‘How did you find your way here?’ the police officer asked Line.

She told him what had happened at the Falck depot, taking a few steps to one side
so that the light from the street lamp fell directly on her face. The police officer
interrogating her, the crime scene tape and the terraced house would all be included
in the picture. Seeing Erik Fjeld change the lens for a close-up, she ran her hand
quickly through her hair. These photographs would haunt her future as a journalist,
but without them she had no story.

‘Didn’t you think to contact us before coming here?’

Line heard the sarcasm in his voice. She could have responded by asking whether anyone
in the police had thought of finding the dog owner, but let it drop. She did not have
time. ‘I need to report to my editor,’ she said, turning in the direction of her car.

The policeman blocked her path. ‘What did he look like?’

‘I explained all that on the phone.’

‘And now you have to explain it again to me.’

Line sighed. ‘I don’t know. He was sort of bundled up.’

‘Bundled up?’

‘All in black. Trousers, sweater, shoes, gloves and balaclava. He had even taped the
gap between his sweater and gloves, and his trousers were firmly taped to his socks.’

How well planned everything must have been, both the murder and the break-in. She
had read about robbers who kitted themselves out like that in order to avoid being
trapped by DNA evidence from hairs or skin particles.

‘I really need to go now,’ she said, stepping aside.

‘Just wait. Our technicians need to take a look at you.’

‘Why on earth?’

‘Biological traces. He attacked you. You are, in actual fact, a crime scene.’

Line gave a deep sigh. She had already composed her report in her head, and was eager
to get the words down before they slipped her mind. ‘I don’t think you’ll find anything.
He was well bundled up, as I said. Anyway, you have a much larger crime scene in there.’
She pointed towards the house.

‘This is routine,’ the policeman replied. ‘We’re taking you in.’

‘In?’

‘To the police station. We need a formal interview.’

‘But I’ve already explained myself twice!’

‘They have to write it down.’

Line shook her head. ‘That’ll have to be later. I’m working just now.’

‘So are we,’ the police officer brushed her protestations aside. ‘We’re working on
finding a killer.’

‘At least let me take my laptop from my car,’ Line pleaded.

The police officer’s head moved as though to refuse her, but changed his mind when
he looked into her determined eyes.