The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  One of the headlines at the end of the first week aroused her curiosity. Desperate search for Cecilia. The article described how police patrols throughout the whole of the Østland region visited farms and smallholdings and that even members of the Emergency Squad were called in. They had searched within a radius of up to seventy kilometres from the location of her last sighting. The picture accompanying the report showed police checking a smallholding at Rønholt in Bamble. Her father’s name was mentioned in one of the final paragraphs. He would not give the reason for the large-scale search.

  In an article two days later, the background was explained. Dagbladet broke the story. VG quoted them, but had obtained additional comments from a police lawyer. Cecilia Linde had somehow smuggled out a tape which described what had happened. Line recollected this as she read, not from the time when it occurred, but from conversations around the table in the Stopp Pressen café-bar when her older colleagues chatted about historical news items. Cecilia Linde, having taken a Walkman with her when she was out running, had recorded descriptions of the perpetrator and where she was held captive.

  Line jumped back and re-read her father’s dismissive comments about what was described as a race against time, realising what had made him so taciturn. He had not wanted the information about the Walkman out. That would have been like telling the kidnapper they had a clue about where he was keeping the victim. If that went into print, they risked him attempting to move her, or worse. The papers had got wind of it anyway.

  She navigated her way forward through the chronological overview. Two days later, Cecilia had been found dead.

  The ancient newspaper articles had eaten up a lot of her time. Glancing at the clock, she realised she would manage neither hotel breakfast nor the purchase of sunglasses before the press conference. She closed her laptop. So much for seventeen years ago. She would spend the rest of the day hunting for details of what had happened last night.

  20

  Wisting concentrated on the document dealing with the cigarette end found at the Gumserød intersection and its analysis at the establishment, then called the Forensics Institute, now renamed the Institute of Public Health, Forensics Division.

  Chief Inspector Finn Haber had led the investigations at the discovery site. Wisting had collaborated with him on several major cases before his retirement on full pension eight years earlier. Responsibility for the inspection of a crime scene was a critical task, involving an overview of all the material collected and the subsequent technical examinations. It required a meticulous person with a particular aptitude for organisation, exactly like Finn Haber.

  The reports of the forensic tests were just as Wisting recalled Haber’s work: thorough and precise. The cigarettes in question had been documented in a photograph of the crossroads with a close up image of each of the three cigarette butts, all of them rollups without filters. One of them had been trampled into the gravel, but the other two appeared to have been extinguished by being pressed between the fingers. They had been allocated individual numbers, A-1, A-2 and A-3. The folder included a sketch showing where each had been found, all within a radius of two metres.

  A separate document recorded details of a reconstruction when a hired Opel Rekord had been parked at the intersection in accordance with the description given by the witness on the tractor. Frank Robekk had acted the part of the man who had been standing with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. The cigarette ends on the gravel were found just around his feet, as if the perpetrator had been waiting there for some time.

  The cigarette had been signed in for safe keeping with the initials ESEK: Crime Lab. A fortnight later, they had been signed out again and sent to the Forensics Institute.

  The request for analysis had followed the standard formula: investigation of the enclosed material with a view to identifying epithelial cells normally found in saliva traces. The results had been reported three weeks later. On the samples tagged A-1 and A-2, no human DNA had been detected. However, on the sample marked A-3, a DNA profile had been established with the sex-typing marker determining male origin.

  The next document was a report ascertaining that the trace sample A-3 was consistent with the reference sample provided by the accused Rudolf Haglund, accompanied by expert testimony in verification, and signed by the head of department.

  All of this was according to normal procedures. If any objection could be made, it would be that the cigarettes had been kept at Finn Haber’s laboratory for two weeks before being sent for analysis, but even that was not out of the ordinary. He shut the folder and replaced it in the box under his desk before crossing to the window where he stood deep in thought, looking out at the downpour. An idea about what might have happened with the DNA samples began to take shape, but he did not dare follow through with that notion.

  As he settled back in his chair, there was a knock at the door and the deputy chief constable entered the room, dressed in a neatly pressed uniform. Closing the door behind him, he sat in the visitor’s seat.

  Audun Vetti had responsibility for prosecuting many of the cases Wisting had investigated, including the Cecilia case. Their working relationship had been stressful. Vetti was rarely open to the viewpoints and contributions of others, and made himself scarce when difficult decisions had to be made. His efforts were directed towards promoting himself. Solving crime had no significance for him beyond furthering his own career. Two years earlier, his methods had paid off when he was appointed deputy chief constable and moved to an office in Tønsberg. For the past few months, he had been acting chief constable, and he had already added an extra star to his epaulettes. He loosened the buttons on his uniform jacket and placed a folder on his lap.

  Wisting leaned back in his chair. ‘The Cecilia case,’ he said.

  Audun Vetti nodded.

  ‘Do you know something more than me?’ Wisting asked.

  ‘It was your case,’ Vetti replied, shaking his head. ‘Your responsibility. The irregularities that occurred are matters you are better placed to know about than I.’

  Wisting did not comment on this disclaimer of liability. ‘I meant, do you know anything more about the background to this petition to the Criminal Cases Review Commission?’

  Audun Vetti unzipped the document folder and produced a set of papers. ‘Sigurd Henden and I studied together. He’s sent me a copy of the petition, obviously to give us time to prepare a defence. Soon, we’ll receive it officially from the Commission seeking a response.’

  ‘What are the grounds?’

  ‘He has had the cigarette ends analysed again,’ Vetti explained, leafing through to one of the last pages before handing Wisting the papers.

  ‘And?’

  ‘They’ve been lying in the deep freeze for seventeen years. The material has deteriorated, but analysis methods have improved. The result is the same.’

  Wisting read the papers. The defence lawyer had arranged for the samples to be analysed again by a neutral, independent laboratory in Stavanger. Two of them had not contained cell material that could be used for a DNA analysis but, for the sample marked A-3, they had established a satisfactory DNA profile with ten-out-of-ten markers.

  ‘I don’t understand?’ Wisting said though, in actual fact, he did.

  ‘Didn’t you consider it rather strange that in two of the samples they could not manage to find human traces, while in the last example they had extraordinary success?’

  ‘A number of factors could account for that.’

  ‘Three cigarette ends,’ Vetti held up three fingers. ‘From the same man in the same place at the same time, under exactly the same circumstances?’

  ‘We don’t know whether the other two belong to Haglund. They could be from someone else, and may have lain there for weeks.’

  Vetti shook his head. ‘You don’t really believe that yourself.’ Wisting silently agreed. ‘Sigurd Henden did what you ought to have done seventeen years ago, William. He had the contents of the cigarette butts analyse
d.’ He waved a finger to indicate that Wisting should leaf further through the papers.

  Wisting skimmed the text. The three cigarette ends were examined at a Danish laboratory specialising in analytic chemistry. For each of the samples, they had listed a percentage composition of the contents. Tar and nicotine were two recognisable ingredients among a variety of chemical compounds.

  ‘Modern cigarettes are hi-tech industrial products for which taste, nicotine content and other factors are determined during production,’ Vetti said. ‘There are different types of tobacco and various processing methods. Snuff, cigarettes and rolling tobacco are all pure natural products to start with. Modern tobaccos have a wide range of additives.’

  Leaning forward, he pointed to the overview on the sheet of paper. ‘Some of the contents here are the remnants of pesticides used in the cultivation of the tobacco plants. Some of the additives are agents to retain moisture, while others are included to adjust the taste.’

  Wisting nodded. He had not read the conclusion of the investigation, but already had a good idea of what it would be.

  ‘The point is …’ Vetti said, ‘that the two cigarette ends without DNA belong to a different brand from the one with DNA. The folk at the lab have even conducted a comparison analysis and can verify that the two cigarette ends that did not yield results are Tiedemann’s Gold Mix number 3, while the decisive cigarette butt was Petterøe’s Blue number 3.’

  Wisting kept his own counsel, remembering that the initial interviews with Rudolf Haglund had been interrupted every time he demanded a cigarette break. He had sat with a pack of tobacco on his knee and rolled up before they climbed the stairs to the roof terrace where he could light up. He still had the same pack of tobacco as at the time of his arrest. When it was finished, he had been forced to scrounge from police officers. In those days, there was no thought of banning cigarettes. There had been nothing but goodwill on the part of the investigators. A cigarette was something that could keep an interview going.

  ‘Someone,’ Vetti said, raising his forefinger and pointing at Wisting. ‘Someone here at the station exchanged sample A-3 for a cigarette smoked during the interviews.’

  Wisting could not argue. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘I haven’t really any choice,’ Vetti replied. ‘You were the leader of the investigation. I don’t know whether you were the one who did it, or if it was a collective initiative. That’s something I have to leave to Internal Affairs to determine.’

  ‘Internal Affairs? Isn’t that premature? If anyone in the investigation team actually did what you’re insinuating, then surely it’s too late to prosecute now?’

  ‘The inability to prosecute does not prevent us from finding out whether there has been a miscarriage of justice.’ Vetti adjusted his tie and took back the papers. ‘I hope you understand that I have no choice but to suspend you?’

  Wisting opened his mouth but had to search for the right words. ‘You think it was me?’

  ‘I don’t think anything, but you were in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘And you were responsible for the prosecution.’

  Audun Vetti’s face flushed bright red. ‘My job was to use the evidence you obtained. I trusted you to do that in an honest fashion.’ Standing up, he produced a fresh sheet of paper from the folder and handed it across.

  Wisting took it and read: Temporary removal from service in accordance with the Civil Servants’ Act §16, followed by his own name.

  ‘You have one hour to pack your personal belongings, and then you must leave the station. I shall inform Police Prosecutor Thiis in the meantime. Hand your ID badge and keys to her.’

  He paused by the door, as though even he realised how brutal his instruction had been. ‘It has to be this way. Until we find out what actually happened seventeen years ago.’

  Wisting watched his superior officer’s retreating back. This is not about what happened, he thought. This is about what we did.

  21

  The press conference was held in a conference room on the second floor of the police station at Gunnar Nilsens gate 25. The venue was no more than half full, and only one TV team had turned up. Line nodded and smiled at her journalist colleagues as she entered.

  Erik Fjeld sat with his camera at the ready near the podium, but there was no time to speak to him or the others. She found a chair by the window and sat carefully. Her entire body felt tender. Outside, she looked down on a cemetery with old gravestones and black, naked trees.

  At ten o’clock a side door opened and three police officers entered, two uniformed and one plainclothes, to take their places behind the table where handwritten placards gave their names and titles. The two in uniform were the chief superintendent and police prosecutor, while the man in civilian clothes was the leader of the investigation.

  The chief superintendent opened the meeting by welcoming everyone and giving a quick summation, before handing over to the prosecutor, who spread a bundle of papers across the table and provided a more detailed account. Line sat with the tip of the pen between her lips. None of what was said was new to the journalists.

  ‘Murder weapon?’ one of them asked, before the meeting had been opened for questions.

  ‘The murder weapon has not been found,’ the prosecutor answered, as though he had just reached that point and not been interrupted.

  ‘Do you know what it was?’

  ‘It is also too early to say anything specific about the cause of death until we receive the preliminary report from Forensics at the Public Health Institute. The crime scene investigators describe a head injury inflicted by a blunt instrument.’

  Erik Fjeld took position behind the speakers to snap the press representatives over their shoulders. He directed his lens at Line who smiled and winked to confirm her approval. He was doing exactly what she had told him to do when she phoned. He shifted to a 125 mm lens and zoomed in to photograph the police documents on the table before resuming his seat.

  ‘The deceased has not yet been identified,’ the prosecutor said, ‘but we have reason to believe the person in question is a forty-eight-year-old man from here in Fredrikstad, and we are linking the murder to a burglary that took place at a residence in W. Blakstads gate yesterday evening at which a VG journalist was assaulted.’

  Line’s cheeks burned.

  ‘Has any trace of the burglar been found?’ someone asked.

  ‘We are still working in the house. A dog patrol followed the scent to the industrial area at Øra, where the trail went cold. We have reason to believe he left there in a vehicle.’

  The prosecutor now handed over to the detective, who related how many witnesses had been interviewed and encouraged members of the public who might have seen or heard something to get in touch. The meeting was opened for questions and a journalist asked how a reporter from VG could discover the identity of the murder victim before the police.

  The prosecutor replied: ‘I don’t know what sources VG has, but in general terms I would advise the media against getting in the way of the police’s work.’

  Laughter broke out.

  Line busied herself with her laptop, opening the email from the girl at the petrol station and clicking an attachment, a still photo from the CCTV camera at the service station. It was the murder victim as he stood at the counter, the colour image sharp and clear. The man’s greying, receding blond hair was neatly parted and rather futilely combed over to camouflage his bald patch. He was fastidiously dressed, with small, close-set eyes and a penetrating gaze.

  Follow-up questions concerned details and clarification of what had already been said. Most knew to keep the best questions until after the press conference. Only the least experienced reporter questioned from his earlier notes, giving the others his information free.

  The next attachment was a picture of the man standing beside the dog tied to a pole outside. It was sitting at his feet staring up at him as he rolled a cigarette from his yellow tobacco pack.

  O
ne of the journalists conjured an arithmetical problem from the time of the death at just before ten o’clock and Line’s attack just prior to midnight. ‘Does that mean the perpetrator had been in the victim’s apartment for more than two hours?’

  ‘That’s speculation,’ the prosecutor responded.

  An arm shot into the air. ‘Was anything stolen?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say.’

  ‘Do you know what he may have been looking for?’

  An unequivocal answer: ‘No.’

  Line opened a third image on her laptop. The man with a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and the dog on all fours.

  ‘Any further questions?’ the chief superintendent asked.

  Line lifted her hand. ‘What happens to his dog?’

  The chief superintendent glanced across at the detective. ‘It has been temporarily installed at Falck’s stray dogs centre,’ he replied, getting to his feet. The press conference was over.

  22

  Suspended. Wisting felt anxiety as he never had before, staring into space with the notification in his hand. The unfamiliar feeling spread from his mind through his body into his limbs.

  Suffocating, confused, nauseous, he rose from his seat and left, switching off the light before closing the door behind him. On the stairwell, he mounted the stairs, past two floors, until he reached the verandah on the third. Seventeen years ago, it had been permissible to smoke in the investigators’ offices and down in the cells, but this was where they had gone when Rudolf Haglund wanted a break from the interviews.

  Two chairs and a table with an overfilled ashtray had taken up one corner. Rudolf Haglund sat with his back to the wall, and Wisting stood beside the railings in case the prisoner chose the quick way out.

  He grasped the same railings firmly and let the cold, wet air help to clear his thoughts.