The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘That also has to do with a murder case,’ the man explained, ‘but this one is seventeen years old.’

  ‘The Cecilia case?’

  ‘Yes, we all remember that one. Seventeen years ago, a thirty-year-old man was convicted of kidnapping and murdering Cecilia Linde. Now the case has been referred to the Criminal Cases Review Commission on the basis of complaints that the police planted a vital piece of DNA evidence.’

  He held up the newspaper’s front-page spread. Planted the crucial evidence was emblazoned in bold letters above a picture of Wisting, together with a smaller insert of Cecilia Linde. The camera zoomed in.

  He liked that photo, aware he looked good in it. It had been taken for a television programme he had been persuaded to appear on, speaking about his work as a detective and a case in which the host had been one of the suspects.

  ‘A serious case,’ the presenter concluded, before moving to one of the business papers.

  Wisting was startled when he heard Suzanne’s voice. ‘What’s up now?’

  He turned. She was leaning against the doorframe in her dressing gown.

  ‘I’m just finishing my coffee,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll be off to work.’

  ‘In the case, I mean.’ She nodded in the direction of the TV.

  Wisting wasn’t sure himself. He had no idea how anyone could establish that the cigarette evidence had been planted, or how such a plant was even possible. The crime technicians who had searched the intersection at Gumserød had returned with a box full of evidence bags: empty bottles, chocolate wrappers, plastic beakers, apple cores, everything you might find at a roadside, among them three cigarette ends. Everything had been stored at the crime technology lab until Rudolf Haglund had been captured, and had been sent for analysis in conjunction with a reference sample from the accused. There hadn’t been anything disquieting about the gathering or handling of the evidence. He had been responsible for the investigation, and had not even set eyes on the cigarette butts except in photographs.

  ‘I trust the Commission. They’ll get to the bottom of it all,’ he said. ‘They’ll send us a copy of the application and ask for our comments. Then we’ll have a better idea of what this is all really about.’

  Suzanne moved over to the coffee machine as Wisting turned down the volume on the TV.

  He had always thought of his job as difficult and demanding, but he enjoyed its challenges. At times he had felt he did not have control or an overview, and had often experienced doubt and uncertainty, but he always dealt with things from a conviction of what was right, and had always been able to defend his decisions. At the moment, he could not see what he could have done differently in the Cecilia case.

  ‘They said something about a VG journalist being hurt in association with a murder in Fredrikstad,’ he said.

  Suzanne sat beside him. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘I didn’t catch all of it.’ He grabbed the remote again and switched on the teletext function.

  Accused of faking evidence was the main story. On the line underneath: Murder in Fredrikstad. He tapped in the accompanying number and waited as the TV picture counted its way to the right page.

  A 47-year-old man was found murdered at Kongsten in Fredrikstad around nine o’clock last night. A female journalist from VG was attacked by the presumed killer when she visited the murder victim’s home. Police prosecutor Eskild Hals confirms that the perpetrator had broken into the deceased’s residence but had been interrupted by the journalist who arrived on the scene before the police. It is understood the journalist was not seriously injured.

  ‘Sounds like something Line might have done,’ Suzanne remarked.

  Wisting drained his coffee. The same thought had struck him. Line was capable of discovering the address of an un­identified murder victim before the police. ‘She’s on leave,’ he commented, but had already picked up his mobile phone. He rang her number but there was no response.

  17

  Line let the hot water run in the shower. At the very least, it would relax her body, loosening the tension in her shoulders. She stood in the spray for some considerable time before soaping herself and rinsing off.

  The towel was damp and cold from the quick shower she had taken before going to bed for only four hours’ sleep. She used it to dry her hair as she stood, naked, facing the mirror, tilting her head and studying herself from various angles. She let her hands slide over her torso. Everything looked and felt smooth and firm – arms and legs, breasts and stomach, hips and thighs.

  A large bruise was forming on her right hip. She twisted first left and then right, catching sight of the marks caused by the rake, but not all of them. An idea struck her, and she lifted her mobile phone from the bedside table before standing in front of the mirror once again. The display showed an unanswered call from her father.

  Opening the camera function, she took a picture of her reflection. Only then did she gain a proper overview. A couple of iron tines had punctured her skin, and small scabs formed over the wounds. Apart from that, she had escaped with a row of ten yellowy-blue roses. She put down the phone and leaned into the mirror to study her face. Her left eye was black and swollen but, thankfully, her nose looked absolutely fine.

  The police had announced they would hold a press conference at ten o’clock. She would buy herself a pair of sunglasses and find some fresh clothes. Wrapping herself in a towel, she perched on the windowsill of her hotel room. Higher than the surrounding buildings, she had a view of house roofs down towards a river that seemed too diminutive to be the Glomma. The weather remained the same, wind and rain. She pressed call and her father answered immediately. The background noise told her he was in his car, probably on his way to his office.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll get through it. I’m more concerned about you. You, Thomas and Suzanne, and your grandfather.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘No?’ She tucked her legs underneath herself. ‘You aren’t by any chance in Fredrikstad?’ he asked.

  ‘I am indeed,’ she answered, reading his mind and bursting into disarming laughter.

  The background noise on the phone line subsided, and she guessed that he had pulled up. ‘What happened?’ he asked seriously.

  She told him the whole story, from the time she had left the editorial office in Oslo’s Akersgata until she gave her written statement at the police station.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a press conference at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Are you going on with the story?’

  ‘It’s my story now. I won’t give it up until the police have captured him, if I don’t get hold of him myself.’

  Her father groaned. ‘Line!’

  ‘Okay then, okay.’ It struck her that her father would be in charge of the morning meeting at the police station beginning at eight o’clock, in seven minutes according to the television clock. ‘I have to go now,’ she excused herself so that her father would not have to terminate their conversation. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘Okay, but Line?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I look good in that photo, don’t you think?’

  She understood this was an attempt to stop her worrying.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘There’s something that doesn’t add up,’ he said. ‘I’ll work it out if I can uncover the background to these allegations.’

  ‘You’ll work it out,’ she reassured him, disconnecting the call.

  In the bathroom she let her towel drop to the floor and combed her blonde hair with her fingers.

  She had a toilet bag and a change of clothes in the case she carried in the boot of her car. Putting on a fresh pair of jeans she remembered the toy car, retrieving it from the trousers she had been wearing the previous evening. An American car with every detail and refinement included. She should have given it to the police, she supposed, but had completely for
gotten it. Perhaps the man had dropped it, but that seemed unlikely. She flipped the tiny boot lid up and down before placing it on the desk. She could use it later, an excuse to make contact with the investigating officers.

  She fastened her bra and drew a turtle-necked sweater over her head. Then she lay down on the bed with her laptop by her side. The online newspapers had all written about her encounter with the killer; none had revealed her identity, but her name appeared in the bye-line on the story VG ran about the actual murder, and it would not be difficult to read between the lines.

  Her mobile phone lit up on the window ledge. The call was from Morten P, one of her oldest colleagues in the crime section.

  Crap newspaper we work for. Hope you’re okay, and Wisting senior too. Phone me if you’re up to talking about it.

  They had worked together many times, and she had learned a great deal from him. He had a genuine commitment to his fellow human beings, a trait reflected both in what he wrote and how he treated his colleagues. She invited him for coffee and the whole rotten story once she could manage to sit down again.

  Her own paper was the only news source not to write about the fake evidence in the Cecilia case in their online edition. The other net newspapers quoted from the coverage in their paper edition. She read her father’s brief comment that he had confidence in the Criminal Cases Review Commission, and apart from that there was nothing except what she already knew.

  According to the article, there were two main issues in the petition from Henden, the lawyer. New analyses could prove that the cigarette end containing Rudolf Haglund’s DNA profile had been planted, and they had come up with a witness who had provided an alibi. There was nothing about what types of analysis had been conducted, and Line found it impossible to understand how it could lead to such a conclusion. There was nothing about the identity of the new witness, or the alibi he had given Rudolf Haglund.

  Biting her lower lip, thoughts identical to her father’s ran through Line’s mind. Something did not add up.

  18

  The conference began at eight o’clock, a joint meeting for the officers coming on dayshift to be informed about the previous day’s events and given instructions for the day ahead. Last to arrive, Wisting sat at the head of the conference table. Few met his gaze. Of those present only Nils Hammer had worked in the department at the time of the Cecilia case.

  ‘Before we begin,’ he said. ‘I expect you’ve heard what’s going on in the Cecilia case. I don’t know any more than is being reported. Sigurd Henden, the lawyer, made an approach two months ago, requesting case files and investigation material. They were dispatched from here that same week. Now we wait for the Criminal Cases Review Commission. It’s up to them to decide whether the case should go back to law.’

  One of the younger officers wanted to know what would be required for a retrial.

  ‘New evidence has to be presented or fresh information found, capable of leading to an acquittal. Or one of the detectives working on the case might have done something illegal.’

  As he clarified the situation to his colleagues it dawned on him that the defence lawyer could have a double motive; that the accusations against him would not only figure in the press, but would also lead to an internal investigation. One would follow the other.

  He cleared his throat to show he was finished with that topic, and embarked on a chronological review of the previous day’s operational log, dealing with routine matters: attempted burglary, car theft, stray dogs and drugs misuse.

  When the meeting was over, he descended to the basement and followed the corridor to the door marked Historical Archive. He did not often venture here. When he occasionally required sight of an old case the girls in the criminal cases office usually helped. The fluorescent light tubes on the ceiling buzzed and flickered and the room was bathed in a blinding light.

  Old case notes were stored in a huge sliding cabinet system. In some instances, the standard cardboard archive box was too small, and these cases had been placed in large portable containers stacked on shelves along the wall. There was an empty space on one of the grey shelves. Beside it was a box marked 2735/95 – Cecilia Linde. Copy transcripts, Chief Investigator.

  Lifting the box from the shelf, Wisting caught the slightly musty smell of old paper. At the top lay a blue ring binder marked Tip-offs. He carried it with him along the row of shelves to another cardboard box. 2694/94 – Ellen Robekk, an even greater mystery. Eighteen-year-old Ellen Robekk had vanished into thin air, just like Cecilia, but had never been found.

  Frank Robekk had been her uncle and the case had destroyed his police career. The feeling of inadequacy caused by being unable to help his own family became a wound that would not heal, that eventually became infected. The day they placed Rudolf Haglund in the cells, Frank had taken out the archive box dealing with Ellen’s disappearance, reading the whole case over again, but this time with fresh eyes. Eyes that had seen Rudolf Haglund.

  When he had been through everything that had been written, he started again. And then once more, and yet again. It had done something to him. The man who might have the answer to his niece’s disappearance was within reach, but he could not find a link.

  They had been unable to use Frank on any other investigations after he had started this remorseless reading. He had been unable to pull himself together sufficiently even to carry out simple tasks and, one month later, left the police station for the last time, without finding any suggestion of a connection. Without finding an answer he could give to his brother. Eventually, long-term sick leave was replaced by disability pension.

  Wisting visited him frequently at first, but later there were lengthier and lengthier periods between visits, and at each visit Frank’s decline was more pronounced. The last time had been a year ago.

  His mobile phone began to ring in his pocket as he carried the cardboard box to the upper floors. He did not answer until he had set the old files down in the middle of his desk: four unanswered calls and three voicemail messages from numbers not stored in his contacts list. Journalists, he assumed, who wanted him to comment on the case.

  A couple of pigeons fluttered past his office window. A grey veil of drizzle covered the fjord.

  A fine layer of dust had formed on top of the cardboard box. He ran his hand across the top folder, collecting the dust into a ball he rubbed between two fingers and disposed of in the waste bin.

  The blue ring binders contained details of tip-offs, while the green folders were case documents with individual divisions for witnesses, police reports and criminal technology examinations. A red binder labelled Accused on the spine held the interviews with Rudolf Haglund and all attendant information. In addition, there was a black ring binder containing so-called null and void documents, internal notes that did not accompany the case documents to the public prosecutor’s office and were not included in the copy set forwarded to the defence team.

  Wisting’s notebook from the case also lay inside the cardboard box, pushed down at one side, a bound, hardback book, with his name written in the top right-hand corner. He removed it and placed the box with the remaining documents on the floor before shoving it under the desk and taking his seat.

  At the front of the book was a colour A4 photograph of Cecilia Linde from a publicity campaign for one of her father’s clothes collections, its white border yellowed by time. The word CANES was written across her chest, with Venatici in slightly smaller writing beneath. This image had been used with the missing person bulletin, which had been more effective than any advertising campaign. The entire collection of Venatici sweaters had sold out in the course of that summer, but no further production had followed.

  Wisting leafed through the first few pages, revisiting his thoughts and reflections. Experienced and jotted down hurriedly, they were nevertheless clearly presented. He had spent months on this case, and the ring binders contained thousands of documents he was impatient to delve into again. Something here must form the basis of
the accusations. Something still lay undetected.

  19

  Line had been only twelve years old when Cecilia vanished, but remembered the case well. What she recollected best was that her father was almost never at home that summer and their plans for a holiday in Denmark had come to nothing.

  The search for Cecilia Linde produced 387 hits in VG’s text archive alone. The sheer volume of material made it difficult for her to find her bearings. She arranged the responses in chronological order, starting with the oldest.

  The first news story referred to Cecilia Linde as a young girl who had been reported missing after going out for a run. Her height, build and appearance were described, and the article carried a photograph. The police encouraged members of the public who had seen her to contact them. There was no reason to believe she had been the victim of a crime, but all possibilities were open.

  The next report dealt with the search, continually expanded in terms of manpower and range. The following article contained a plea to everyone present in the area on the afternoon of Saturday 15th July to come forward.

  A recurrent feature of the reports was that she had disappeared without a trace. Eventually the theory that she had been abducted was launched, and the police were questioned about whether they had heard from the kidnappers, or if ransom demands had been received. Line continued to skim. Her father, participating in the daily press conferences, dismissed the idea that extortion was involved.

  A longer story concerned Cecilia in personal terms. The newspaper had spoken to her friends, a former teacher, neighbours. The daughter of one of the country’s most prosperous businessmen, she worked in his fashion empire in the design department, but was also a model.

  The most clear-cut clue the police possessed was a white Opel Rekord that had been parked at a crossroads Cecilia had, in all probability, run past. The driver, around thirty years of age, had been wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, had thick, black hair, a broad face, strong chin and close-set eyes. He was asked to turn himself in, but did not appear to have made contact.