The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  2

  In the following silence Line moved the cursor over the screen where the story, set and ready for print, her father’s face prominently displayed, was splashed on the front page. ‘It’s about the Cecilia case,’ she clarified.

  ‘The Cecilia case?

  It was one of the cases her father never discussed, one of the difficult and painful ones. ‘Cecilia Linde,’ she elaborated, though she knew her father needed no reminder. It had been one of the most sensational murders of that decade.

  ‘What about it?’

  Line glanced up from the screen as the chief editor moved away from the news desk and stepped towards the stairs and the floor above. It was time for the evening meeting, when the final threads of the next day’s paper would be drawn together and a decision taken about what would make the front page. The Cecilia Linde story filled two pages, and would provide an obvious headline. Her murder would still sell newspapers, even after seventeen years.

  ‘Haglund’s lawyer has sent a petition to the Criminal Cases Review Commission,’ she explained, once the chief editor had passed. The news editor shuffled a stack of papers and followed. Line skim-read the report one more time, feeling that it actually posed more questions than it answered, but appreciating that this story would run to a series, and not only in her own newspaper. ‘A private detective has been working on the case.’

  ‘What does that have to do with me?’ From her father’s tone she realised he understood the seriousness of what was happening. As a young detective, he had led the investigation and had, since then, become a high-profile policeman, a well-known face who could be held responsible and used to set the news agenda.

  ‘They think the evidence was fabricated,’ Line explained.

  ‘What kind of evidence?’

  ‘The DNA. They believe it was planted by the police.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘The lawyer has had the samples re-analysed. He believes the cigarette butt on which the DNA was found had been planted.’

  ‘That was alleged at the time.’

  ‘The lawyer thinks they can prove it now, and says that the documentation has been transferred to the Criminal Cases Review Commission.’

  ‘I don’t understand how he can prove anything.’

  ‘They have a new witness as well,’ Line continued. ‘One who can provide Haglund with an alibi.’

  ‘Why didn’t this witness come forward at the time?’

  ‘He says he did,’ Line said, swallowing. ‘He says he phoned in and spoke to you, but he heard nothing further.’ Her father made no sound. ‘It’s the evening meeting here now,’ she said, ‘but they’ll soon contact you for comment. You ought to prepare whatever you’re going to say.’

  Wisting’s face took up most of the space on the screen. They had used a press photograph from the talk show almost a year earlier. The studio setting was easy to recognise and acted as a kind of subtle emphasis that this was a well-known detective who was now being accused of breaking the law: a man with slightly rumpled, thick, dark hair, a strained smile, the wrinkles on his face betraying a lifetime of experience, his dark eyes gazing steadily into the camera lens.

  On television he had emerged not only as the upright, skilled policeman he actually was, but also as a caring and considerate investigator with a powerful sense of social justice. Tomorrow’s caption would present him in a different light. His eyes would be perceived as cold, and the strained smile would seem false.

  ‘Line?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s not true. None of what they’re saying is true.’

  ‘I know that, Dad. You don’t need to tell me, but all the same it’s going to appear in print tomorrow.’

  3

  Evening silence had fallen over the editorial offices. Pictures from foreign news channels drifted across soundless television screens, accompanied by the tapping of practised fingers racing across keyboards and occasional hushed telephone conversations.

  Line was about to log off when the chief editor returned, Joakim Frost, who was only ever known as ‘Frost’. They said he got the post of chief editor because he was incapable of understanding the human tragedies behind the headlines. His lack of empathy was the perfect qualification.

  Frost scanned the room with a chilly expression, looking right through her. ‘Apologies,’ he said, taking for granted that she had seen the story. ‘I was going to phone to let you know, but now you’re here anyway.’

  Line nodded. She knew Frost would be the driving force behind the spread but knew him too well to enter into discussion. She had no desire to listen to his usual lecture about an independent, free press and, besides, he was hardly interested in counter arguments. Frost had been in the newspaper game for almost forty years and, in his eyes, she was still an insignificant rookie.

  ‘This is a story we can’t afford to ditch,’ he said. ‘Have you spoken to your father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He can tell you himself.’

  Frost accepted this. ‘He has the right of reply, of course.’

  Line indulged in a wry smile. It was a waste of time furnishing a defence against accusations splashed across the front page. What’s more, it was a hopeless task, responding to a story produced by the entire editorial team through a telephone enquiry made immediately before the newspaper went to press.

  ‘Listen, Line,’ Frost said. ‘This story engages a great deal more than just our feelings. It is of general and national interest. I appreciate this is difficult for you but it’s not easy for me either.’

  Line stood up. Frost’s sanctimonious arguments were window-dressing for what actually was of importance to him: circulation figures. The newspaper’s integrity could be preserved without placing her father at the centre of sensational headlines, nor did the story need to be personalised. Criticism could just as easily be directed towards the police as an organisation, but that would not sell so many newspapers.

  ‘If you need to take some time, you can have a few days off,’ he said. ‘You can come back when this is over.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘I think it could have turned even uglier if we let others get hold of it.’

  Line looked away. Spare me this,’ she said. The thought of her father’s face plastered across the front of next day’s newspaper made her feel sick.

  ‘Line!’ The shout came from the news editor, who was standing beside one of the evening reporters. Ripping a sheet from her notepad, he headed across to them. ‘I know you’re off duty and it’s probably not convenient, but can you pick up on this?’

  Line replied automatically: ‘What is it?’

  ‘Murder in the Old Town in Fredrikstad. Not confirmed by the police yet, but we’ve received a tip-off from someone standing beside a blood-soaked corpse.’

  Line felt the news fill her with vitality and yet, at the same time, deplete her energy. This was the kind of story she loved, and at which she excelled. She was expert at finding sources and exploited them to the maximum, analysing them thoroughly so that she knew what could and could not be trusted.

  Frost’s face broadened into a grin. ‘He’s phoning from the crime scene?’

  ‘First the police, then us,’ said the news editor.

  ‘Wrong order, but we can live with that. Who can take photographs?’

  ‘We’ll have a freelancer there in ten minutes, but need a reporter.’

  Joakim Frost turned to face Line. ‘One way or another I think you should head off,’ he said.

  Line observed his retreating back, realising it would be much more comfortable for him and the others if she were to spend the next few days in Østfold County instead of here in the office.

  The news editor handed her the sheet of paper with the name and phone number of the informant. ‘There might be something in that,’ he said, dropping his voice as he continued: ‘We won’t be setting the front page for another four hours.’


  4

  The journalist phoned Wisting just before ten o’clock. Wisting caught only that he was from Verdens Gang. ‘We’re writing about the Cecilia case tomorrow. The lawyer, Sigurd Henden, has lodged a petition at the Criminal Cases Review Commission.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We’d like your comment on being accused of faking the evidence that got Rudolf Haglund convicted.’

  Wisting replied in a steady voice: ‘What was your name?’

  The journalist hesitated, giving Wisting a suspicion that his indistinct introduction had been deliberate. ‘Eskild Berg.’

  This must be an ordinary news reporter and not one of the crime reporters he usually spoke to when anything cropped up. He thought he had seen the name in print, but could not recall ever talking to him.

  ‘What’s your comment on the allegations that you falsified evidence?’ the journalist repeated.

  Wisting maintained his composure. ‘It’s difficult to comment when I don’t know the allegations.’

  ‘Henden claims he can prove that Rudolf Haglund was convicted on the basis of fabricated evidence.’

  ‘I don’t know about anything of that nature.’

  ‘You were in charge of the investigation?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘But is it true? Was the evidence faked?’ The journalist was hardly expecting to receive confirmation, but obviously aimed to provoke a reaction.

  ‘I don’t know the background to Henden’s assertions,’ Wisting said, so slowly the journalist had time to jot it down. ‘I know absolutely nothing about any irregularities whatsoever having taken place in the course of the investigation.’

  ‘Apparently there’s a witness who wasn’t given the opportunity to make a statement. A witness who wanted to testify on behalf of Haglund.’

  ‘That’s also something I know nothing about, but in that case I’m sure the Commission will give a full account of the circumstances.’

  ‘Don’t you think these are shocking allegations made against you as the person responsible, and in charge of the investigation?’ The reporter was obviously attempting to goad him into voicing personal opinions.

  ‘You can quote me on what I’ve just said,’ Wisting responded. ‘I don’t wish to say anything else tonight.’

  The journalist tried once or twice more before Wisting put down the phone, knowing full well that his version was not the most compelling. He had a good understanding of the role of the press as guard dog. It was their task to criticise politicians, people in positions of power, and public agencies. They had to seek out justice and expose fraud and injustice, but now it felt as though injustice was riding roughshod over him.

  He stared meditatively at his reflection in the rain battered window and saw the face of a stranger.

  He knew Henden, the lawyer, from a number of cases. He had not been Haglund’s defence counsel seventeen years earlier, but nowadays he was an established, high profile solicitor with one of the country’s largest and most reputable law firms. Added to this he had been both Under Secretary and a personal adviser in the Ministry of Justice. Whenever Wisting encountered him, he had behaved in a methodical, scrupulous manner, normally holding winning cards when initiating contact with the media, unconcerned with playing to the gallery.

  Wisting had been aware that Henden was working on the case when, a couple of months earlier, the lawyer had asked for the case documentation. Occasionally journalists, private detectives or solicitors asked the police to open their archives, but it was very rare that this led to anything.

  Sigurd Henden was not the type to write letters or petitions simply to please his clients. He must have discovered something that could be used to reopen the old homicide case. Wisting just did not understand what it could be, and that made him feel uneasy.

  Suzanne crossed to the door where she turned the lock and reversed the sign, ensuring the information that they were closed was now facing out. Then she began to extinguish the candles. ‘Are you going to help me?’ she asked, starting to unload the dishwasher.

  Wisting opened his mouth to tell her about Cecilia Linde, but, having no idea where to start, shut it again.

  5

  Rain hammered against Line’s car windscreen as she drove, torrents of water pouring down the glass. For the initial few kilometres along the motorway, her thoughts were fixed on her father. She felt helpless, as though she had somehow been disloyal.

  Glancing at the news editor’s note on the passenger seat beside her, other thoughts took shape. She had no chance of stopping the story about her father being published, but she might manage to push it off the front page. It depended entirely on what she was able to make of this death, since the first hours of a murder case were just as important for journalists as for the police.

  Pressing harder on the accelerator, she fished out her mobile phone and keyed in the number of the photographer on the scene. Erik Fjeld was a short, plump, red-haired man with thick glasses. They had worked together on a couple of previous stories.

  ‘What do you know?’ she asked, getting straight to the point.

  ‘They’ve cordoned off a fairly large area now,’ he explained, ‘but when I arrived there was hardly anyone here.’

  ‘Do we know who’s been murdered?’

  ‘No, I don’t think the police know either.’

  Line glanced at the time. Her deadline was quarter past one, just over three hours. She had delivered front-page news in less time before, but it depended more on the story than on her. Murder cases hit the headlines less and less frequently. Their news value declined when the online editions could report so much more speedily, so there had to be something really special about the story, as well as a guaranteed unique angle.

  ‘It’s a man?’ she asked, staring past the windscreen wipers.

  ‘Aged about fifty.’

  It sounded like the kind of case it would be difficult to do much with. Young women produced bigger headlines. The odds of it being some celebrity or other were not good, either. Off the top of her head, she could think of only two well-known people who came from Fredrikstad, Roald Amundsen and the film director Harald Zwart. Amundsen had been dead for almost a century, and Zwart probably no longer even lived in Norway. ‘Do you have an address or car registration?’

  ‘Sorry. Where he’s lying, there are no cars or houses.’

  ‘Is there much of a press presence?’

  ‘Just the locals from Demokraten and Fredriksstad Blad, and a photographer who usually supplies Scanpix.’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘I was here early, got close up and snapped a series that’s reasonably good. They’ve placed a blanket over the body. His dog is beside him, craning his neck. Fantastic lighting with that glow from the blue lights. Police tape and uniforms in the background.’

  ‘Dog?’

  ‘Yes, he must have been out walking when he was attacked.’

  The information lifted Line’s spirits. There were lots of dog lovers out there. ‘What kind of dog?’

  ‘Some kind of long-haired variety, a bit like Labbetuss on children’s television. Remember him? Only not quite as large.’

  Line smiled, remembering Labbetuss. ‘Save the dog pictures until I get there,’ she said, ‘but send over the others. They need something more than readers’ photographs for the online edition.’

  ‘They’ll probably want photographs of the mutt,’ the photographer objected. ‘They’re really good.’

  ‘Wait with them,’ Line repeated. If the best pictures were already on the internet the value of her own work would plummet.

  Breaking off the conversation, she checked the rear-view mirror and looked into her own blue eyes. She was wearing no makeup and had not fixed her hair since her visit to the workplace gym. It felt as though everything around her had been turned upside down in the past hour. She hadn’t had any plans for the evening other than finding a good film and stretching out on the settee and now was slightly over
the speed limit on route E6, on her way to Østfold and a murder scene.

  She changed lane after passing the exit for Vinterbro and picked up the slip of paper with the informant’s number. She ought to arrange an interview, but there was no time for that. She called while driving, and the number rang for ages. The man was obviously affected, his voice trembling as he spoke.

  Leaning forward, Line placed the paper in the centre of the wheel and steered with her lower arm as she jotted down key points. His story contained nothing new. He had been on his way home when he came across the dead man. ‘The blood was still gushing out of him,’ he explained. ‘But there was nothing I could do. His face was completely smashed.’ Line was disgusted, but blood gushing out was something that would look good in italicised quotes, and would help to bring the story closer to the front page. The way someone was killed was always interesting. ‘Was he battered to death?’ she asked, to make sure.

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Do you know what was used to hit him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There wasn’t anything on the ground? A weapon of any kind?’

  ‘No … I would’ve noticed if there had been a baseball bat or anything. It could’ve been a stone or something.’

  ‘You must have arrived right after it happened,’ she suggested, thinking of the fresh blood. ‘Did you see anyone?’

  The man considered this. ‘I was the only one there. Me and the dead man. And his dog.’

  Line felt conflicting emotions as she wrapped the conversation. She was searching for bloody, bestial details in the hope that they would push her father’s case off the front page. To meet her own needs, she had a sort of desire that the maximum possible suffering had been meted out to another human being.