Finally, he had announced a press conference to be held at the police station at eight o’clock that same evening. This meant that the news editors had three hours to reflect. It was St John’s Eve and several papers would have only a skeleton staff, but he knew that the press release would set off a landslide. Teams of reporters from Oslo and the news departments of the various television companies were in all likelihood already starting to pack their cars.
Wisting rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. They would not have a single quiet moment after this.
Audun Vetti had asked that his name be listed as both sender and contact person for the press. Telephone numbers for his mobile and office were also given. It was stipulated that information beyond what was stated in the press release would not be released before the press conference. The Assistant Police Chief’s telephone would not remain silent. Wisting was glad that he could avoid answering endless repeats of the same questions, but knew that the most experienced journalists would manage to reach him too.
He reached over for the half-empty coffee cup, gulped the cold liquid and pulled the bundle of case files towards him. It was time to set the ball rolling.
He decided to start with Camilla Thaulow at Stavern nursing home and leafed through the files for her telephone number. She had known two of the missing men well. Described as an especially caring nurse she often took time to have long conversations with her patients. Nevertheless, she had not been interviewed.
He tried to phone her twice in order to make an appointment, without success. Keying in her number once more he was transferred to voicemail but did not leave a request to get in touch.
He felt the beginnings of a headache inside his temple that he knew would soon spread and explode inside his skull. Taking out the glasses he was not good at remembering to wear he turned towards his computer screen. It could be that Camilla Thaulow had taken a new phone number in the months that had passed since the investigation. Perhaps she had a home phone too, without it being listed in the case files.
His computer opened at the last thing he had been doing, looking up the keywords low testosterone level on the internet. Most of the answers contained the same information that he had received from his doctor the day before, and focused on problems with lack of potency, listlessness and depression. Some of the search results had also included the word tumour and led him to the home page of Kreftforeningen, the national cancer organisation.
He hurriedly clicked it away and looked up Camilla Thaulow in the telephone directory. She lived in Markaveien in Langangen, but had no phone numbers listed other than the one he had already rung.
He clicked further into the net pages of the local newspaper, saved in his favourites section. The press release was already doing its work. The Internet Editor had chosen INVESTIGATING MURDER as the headline. Wisting managed to discover that the newspaper had been in touch with Assistant Chief of Police Audun Vetti, who had confirmed that a murder investigation was under way.
His mobile phone rang. The circus had begun.
Line stretched her arms in the air and yawned, details from the old newspaper reports still running through her head. She had worked with great concentration on the cuttings and made a plan for meeting the police murderer Ken Ronny Hauge. Feeling hungry, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost two hours had gone by. Her father should be home by now.
She opened the refrigerator and noted that he had done his shopping with her in mind. There were new sandwich toppings, cheese, two slices of beef, and a carton of milk. Her father did not drink milk. She had almost stopped as well, but he still thought that she needed a glass every morning and always bought some in when he knew she was coming.
She took a couple of tomatoes from the drawer at the bottom back to the computer. Fresh juice ran out of the corners of her mouth when she bit into them. She sucked it in, dried her mouth with the back of her hand and chewed some more while clicking into Verdens Gang on the net. She remained sitting with her mouth half-open as she read the headline: MURDER ALARM SOUNDED IN STAVERN. On the next line, in slightly smaller type, it stated: Body parts wash ashore on the beaches.
She put the half-eaten tomato aside and scrolled down through the text, but had not managed to read all of it before the telephone rang. It was Morten Pludowski from the news section. They had worked together on several criminal cases, but had not spoken since Line had been transferred to the features department.
‘Have you read about it?’ he asked, without introducing himself.
‘I’m reading it now.’
‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘No more than what it says on the net newspaper.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’ She hesitated before adding: ‘In Larvik.’
‘Wonderful. I’m on my way down.’
‘But I’m working on something completely different,’ Line protested. ‘I have appointments that I can’t change. I can’t take part in this. I don’t want to either. It will make things difficult with Dad.’
‘That’s ok. We’re coming with a team. I just want you to be aware that if you get to know anything I hope you’ll phone me.’
‘Of course. Goes without saying.’
‘And I’d like to have a cup of coffee with you when I arrive down there.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I miss you.’
Line didn’t know if it was true or flattery, but realised that she missed Morten P. as well. He had been working on crime stories for over twenty years, but from day one had never had any problem about taking Line with him to accidents and crime scenes. They had good chemistry, and she had learned a great deal from him.
‘I miss you too,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps we can try for lunch tomorrow?’
‘I’ll phone you if I’m free.’ Someone was shouting in the background. ‘Now I have to go. Speak later.’
‘Good luck!’
The connection was cut, and Line remained sitting with a tingling feeling in her stomach. She would give a lot to take part in the case, but did not have any wish to cover a murder investigation that her father was leading. She had done that only once, and it had been too exhausting for her to want it to happen again. She fiddled with the phone for a while, and then keyed in his number.
‘Yes?’ answered Wisting abruptly, not bothering to check the display for who was calling.
‘Hello, Dad. It’s me.’
Some quick thoughts raced through Wisting’s head. They had not actually made any arrangement, but he had prepared dinner and was looking forward to meeting her later. ‘Line,’ he said, smiling. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home. I arrived a couple of hours ago.’
‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I should have phoned you …’
‘I’ve seen the headlines,’ Line interrupted. ‘No need to think about me.’
‘There’s some food in the fridge …’
‘I’ll manage. Is everything ok with you?’
‘Oh yes, of course, we’ll manage all right as well,’ he confirmed, without entirely believing it. ‘You won’t be working on this?’
‘No, I’m in another department now, you know.’
It went a bit quiet.
‘Have you let Buster in?’ Wisting enquired, changing the subject. He had taken over the black male cat from Line almost three years previously. Buster had grown big and round, and never ventured very far from home.
‘No, I haven’t seen him.’
‘He’ll come if you call him,’ Wisting said. ‘What will you do this evening?’
‘I haven’t thought about it yet. Perhaps I’ll phone some girlfriends but most will probably be busy. They have husbands and children. Maybe I’ll go for a drive to the beaches.’
Wisting’s office door opened. Audun Vetti entered, together with the Chief Superintendent. ‘Sounds like a good idea.’ He waved to the Assistant Chief of Police to invite him to sit in the visitor’s chair. ‘I’ve got people in the office now,’ he went on
. ‘We’ll talk this evening.’
Vetti sat down, but the Chief Superintendent went to the window and stared out. Wisting concluded the telephone conversation.
‘They want pictures,’ the Assistant Chief of Police said.
‘Pictures?’
‘Of the shoes.’
Of course, thought Wisting. Of course they want pictures. He did not say anything, but closed his eyes, reflecting. He had discussed the use of pictures in the newspapers many times with Line, and understood how important they were to the press. The police also might have an interest in ensuring that a case received a higher profile in the news. Dramatic photographs led to increased attention, and a greater possibility that someone out there who held information would make contact.
This case would be at the top of the news regardless, and he was doubtful about publicising anything sensational. At the same time, it was of interest to the investigation. They still did not know who the severed feet belonged to and by making pictures of the shoes public they might prompt a response. And there were pictures in Mortensen’s folders of illustrations in which human material was not visible.
‘We must have something more to show than we have already described in the press release,’ Vetti argued.
‘I’ll arrange something,’ Wisting promised. ‘And I’ll make a summary of what we know about shoe sizes, manufacture, and so forth.’
The telephone on his desk rang again. He did not recognise the number and waited until Vetti had moved to the door before he lifted the receiver. The Chief Superintendent remained by the window.
‘Wait!’ Wisting said into the phone before laying his hand over the receiver and glancing enquiringly at him.
The Chief Superintendent waited until Vetti had left the office, then turned to face him. ‘I’d like you to show up at the press conference,’ he requested. Wisting never felt comfortable in meetings with a massive press corps, but could not find an argument against his attending. His body language expressed his reluctance. ‘We need someone there that people depend on.’ He threw a glance towards the open door. ‘Someone they feel confident can find a way out of all this.’
Wisting knitted his brows.
‘That is you, William, as you have demonstrated before. You have the necessary personal authority.’ He stepped towards the door. ‘Eight o’clock,’ he said with a nod and went out.
Wisting looked after him, and then returned his attention to the telephone. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ll make it brief,’ the man who had been waiting at the other end began. ‘I’m calling from the crime watch section in Grenland.’ He cleared his throat and introduced himself: ‘Kvastmo, Vetle Kvastmo. I understand that you’ve got a lot to deal with just now, but that’s why I’m phoning.’
‘Well then?’
‘It probably doesn’t have any connection, but we received a report about a missing person this morning.’
‘Well then?’ Wisting repeated.
We’re talking about a lady from Langangen who didn’t come home last night. The point is that she works at the care home for the elderly where two men in your case have been reported missing. She did not turn up for the evening shift yesterday either.’
Wisting felt a nerve in his temple start to vibrate, anticipating what was coming. ‘Her name?’ he asked.
‘Thaulow. Her name is Camilla Thaulow.’
CHAPTER 11
Wisting sat in the front passenger seat of the police car and leafed through the papers he had received by fax, a short report that had been recorded at 09.23 hours earlier that day. The woman who had been reported missing was the same person that he had tried repeatedly to contact by telephone.
Camilla Thaulow was 58 years of age and lived with her mother in Langangen, a small village of over 500 inhabitants, on the Telemark side, and right on the county border. It seemed that she had left home about two o’clock the previous afternoon to work the afternoon shift at Stavern nursing home. Her mother had gone to bed early and did not discover until the next day that her daughter’s bed had not been slept in. She had called her mobile but received no answer. After that she phoned the home for the elderly to learn that her daughter had not turned up for work. Later, the mother had asked advice from a friend and agreed that she should phone the police.
The new missing person case could, of course, simply be an accident. She could have driven off the road and be lying in a ditch, out of sight of the traffic. The old road through Tvedalen and on towards Stavern was winding and narrow, and in a few places there was no safety barrier. However, they were already working on three similar disappearances and, statistically speaking, it was like coming up with a royal flush several times in a row. Wisting did not believe that this disappearance was simply another coincidence in a series, and was anxious to start investigating.
Langangen lay only a quarter of an hour’s drive from the police station, but Wisting had not been to the little place for years. Like most people, he drove past at top speed on the motorway bridge that ran between the hillsides.
Torunn Borg was driving, and he was pleased to have her as she had a special empathy with relatives. If it was not established in the course of a few hours that Camilla Thaulow had skipped her job and stayed overnight at a friend’s house or that she was the victim of an accident, her 84-year-old mother might not only play a central role in the investigation but also be a media focus. Wisting knew from experience what a great strain that could be for the family of the missing person, and old people often had less strength to resist. Anxiety and insecurity, anger and displacement were common reactions, and it could become more difficult to extract important information. At such times the role of the police also entailed providing care and support.
‘Number 23,’ Torunn Borg said aloud, stopping the car close to a white picket fence that enclosed a large but simple garden.
The house was half hidden behind a couple of tall elms, and the shadow from the treetops made the white walls dark grey. The iron gate squeaked and there was a crunching sound as they strolled along the gravel path. Somewhere far off, children were laughing.
A thin lady with her hair pulled back in a tight, grey bun peeked out from behind the window curtains before they reached the door. Wisting knocked and heard her move slowly on the inside before a key was turned. A little, wrinkled face appeared at the crack in the door, with small eyes that lay in deep hollows.
‘Yes?’
A seam of wrinkles appeared around her narrow lips. Wisting could actually hear that her mouth was dry, she had such difficulty speaking.
In a raised voice he explained who they were and gave the old woman a grateful nod as she waved them in. She was hunchbacked and supported herself with difficulty on the furniture as she led with small steps into a light and spacious living room with a view over the fjord.
‘Coffee?’ she asked, supporting herself on the backrest of a chair.
Wisting declined and sat beside the coffee table. The furniture in the house was old and faded, but smelled clean and pleasant. Torunn Borg took out a notebook and sat in a chair beside him.
‘We have some questions for you about Camilla,’ he said. ‘Won’t you sit down?’
The woman’s blue, bloodless lips trembled as she sat painfully down. ‘My body is full of aches and pains,’ she explained. ‘I’m not young any longer, but there’s nothing wrong with my head all the same.’
Wisting smiled.
‘She’s gone,’ the old woman continued. ‘That’s something I’m not muddled about.’
‘She’s gone,’ Wisting agreed. ‘We’ll try to find her.’
The old woman mumbled her thanks, smoothing the pleats in her skirt.
‘When did you last talk to her?’
‘Yesterday,’ the woman sighed. ‘She was going to work.’
‘When did she leave?’
‘Just before two o’clock.’ She cleared her throat. ‘She doesn’t usually leave before about half past three. The evening shift doesn�
��t start until four, but there was something she wanted to do. We like to eat together before she leaves, but yesterday we only managed a cup of coffee.’
Wisting glanced over at Torunn Borg. Any irregularity in the daily routine was important to understand. ‘What was it she wanted to do?’
The old woman closed her eyes for a short time, thinking carefully. ‘She usually tells me everything,’ she said, opening her eyes again. ‘But not about men.’
Wisting wanted to ask a question, but stayed silent, waiting for her to continue at her own pace.
‘Five years ago she had a beau,’ the old lady went on. ‘Then she became secretive. Didn’t say where she was going or what she was doing. But I didn’t think it would happen again. She was burned.’
‘How was that?’
‘I don’t know what happened. She loaned him money that never came back. That was all he was after. Money.’ She moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘She was burned,’ she repeated. ‘Swindled.’
‘How much money?’
The old woman swallowed. ‘She never talked about it, but I think it was everything she had.’
Torunn Borg straightened herself up in the chair. ‘Do you know his name?’ she enquired.
‘Gunnar Moland, I think. I have it written down somewhere. He said he was a medical intern, but that wasn’t true.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘But that was long ago. She has got over it.’
‘Did she have a new man?’
The old woman looked down at her lap and she clasped her wrinkled hands. ‘Who knows,’ was her mumbled response. ‘She used to have a pen pal, but what she has now I don’t know.’
‘Pen pal?’
Dregs (2011) Page 5