The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  ‘Duty lawyer Anders Refsti,’ said a voice.

  Line introduced herself and explained where she worked. ‘I’m calling about the man who was murdered yesterday, Jonas Ravneberg. I understand he contacted you only a few hours earlier.’ She heard the lawyer leafing through some papers. It seemed the enquiry came as a surprise, and it astonished her that the police had not already contacted him. ‘Is that correct?’ she asked. ‘Did he phone you?’

  ‘I have the name recorded here, yes.’

  ‘So you spoke to him?’

  ‘Has it been confirmed? That he’s the man who was murdered?’

  ‘Not officially.’

  ‘Well, at least that explains why he didn’t turn up for our appointment today.’

  ‘You arranged to meet?’

  ‘He phoned yesterday afternoon,’ the lawyer said. ‘I don’t usually make any Monday appointments. I work as a publicly appointed defence counsel in criminal cases, and Mondays are usually taken up with custody hearings, but he said it was important. We arranged for him to come at half past eight, but he didn’t turn up. Now I understand why, of course.’

  ‘What did he want to talk about?’

  ‘He didn’t say, just that it was important.’

  ‘He must have said something, surely?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know if I can repeat it. Old dregs, I think he said. That there were some old dregs that had come to the surface, and he didn’t know how he should react.’

  Line twisted her pen between her fingers. ‘No more than that?’

  He hesitated, but sounded positive when he replied: ‘No.’

  Line let the pen slide across her notepad. ‘Is it okay if I write that you confirm he sought legal advice a short time before the murder, but that you can’t reveal the subject matter?’

  Anders Refsti took some time before agreeing. Line had already noted the wording when he acceded to her request. She thanked him for his time and set to work on the remaining phone calls. She wanted to conduct some internet searches first though.

  Astrid Sollibakke from Gressvik was the most frequent caller. Four conversations in total. On the map, Gressvik looked to be a village that had grown into Fredrikstad, only separated by a tributary of the River Glomma. Her name produced several more results than Line had expected, so she restricted her search to Norwegian pages only. That produced eight hits, five from the same website, Fredrikstad Collectors’ Club. One of these led to a page where the club’s committee members were listed, showing Astrid Sollibakke as the treasurer. The other four results led to a collectors’ forum where she had been looking for porcelain plates and vintage apothecary bottles, and wanted to sell decorated metal canisters and model cars.

  One result was in the tax lists and the final two were in each of the local newspapers, Demokraten and the Fredrikstad Blad, where they reported on an Antique and Collectors’ Fair held in the Rolvsøy hall. Her name appeared in the text underneath a picture of two women in front of a table decked with various items. One was slightly older and taller than the other. Treasurer Astrid Sollibakke was the younger of the two, and the other was vice-chair Mona Husby. Line leafed through her notes. Mona Husby was the other woman on the telephone list. Both were members of the same association. Perhaps Jonas Ravneberg had been a collector as well.

  She made a search for Torgeir Roxrud, obtaining a result in the tax lists, but that did not really tell her anything.

  It would soon be three o’clock. She sucked on her pen as she considered how to spend the rest of the day. Her father would stop work in an hour’s time. She would phone him to hear how his day had gone, but first she would try to make an appointment with one of Jonas Ravneberg’s three telephone contacts. As she was most curious about Torgeir Roxrud, she began by tapping in his number. A husky voice answered. Line introduced herself and was greeted by a paroxysm of coughing. ‘It’s about Jonas Ravneberg.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to the police,’ the man said. ‘I couldn’t help them, and don’t think I’ll be able to help you either.’

  Line drummed the pen on the notepad, pleased to hear the investigators were not entirely on the back foot. ‘I believe you can, though,’ she said. ‘I just need to talk to someone who knew him.’

  ‘Nobody knew Jonas. No one got close to him. I never understood what tormented him, but there was certainly something.’

  Line moved the phone to her other ear. ‘Can we meet?’ she asked, glancing at the time. ‘In an hour?’

  28

  Torgeir Roxrud was exactly the interview subject she needed. Someone acquainted with the murder victim and with the ability to express himself. Forthright and plainspoken, it had not been difficult to persuade him. She called Erik Fjeld, arranging to meet at the hotel to drive together to the man’s home.

  The next name on the notepad was Christianne Grepstad, the woman who, according to the list of documents belonging to the chief investigator, had been interviewed as a witness. As expected, the name was so unusual it only appeared once in the phone book. The number rang without any answer. Line made a note of the address so that she could call round after her meeting with Roxrud.

  Before she left, she checked the online newspapers. The main spread was a body blow, a photo of her father accompanied by the headline Chief Inspector Suspended. A nasty gnawing feeling spread through her and, though she had no desire to read further, she forced herself to do so.

  Acting Chief Constable Audun Vetti confirmed that experienced CID leader William Wisting had been withdrawn from duty following accusations about falsified evidence in the Cecilia case. The case had been transferred to the Norwegian Bureau for the Investigation of Police Affairs. Wisting had not been available for comment.

  Her father answered at once. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  Her father cleared his throat, as he did when he wanted to play for time. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It says here that you’re suspended.’

  ‘That happens automatically. As soon as they suspect I’ve falsified evidence, they are required to remove me from my post.’

  ‘How can they think anything of the sort?’

  ‘I’ve seen the new analyses, and it’s not a question of whether evidence was interfered with, but who did it.’

  ‘Why on earth do they suspect you?’

  ‘I had responsibility for the case then, and have to carry the can now.’

  Line shook her head. ‘What about the new witness? The guy who can provide Haglund with an alibi? Do you know any more about that?’

  ‘No, but I expect it will come out soon. Sigurd Henden is probably planning to keep the case on the boil by gradually leaking information.’

  Line nodded. That was a well-known media strategy. It was not necessary to give the journalist more than just the right amount to create the headlines and, preferably, let details emerge in subsequent coverage. ‘What are you doing now?’ she asked.

  ‘Trying to get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘How are you going about that?’

  Her father cleared his throat again. ‘I popped down to the archive room before I left work.’

  ‘Are you working on the case?’

  ‘I’m trying to look at it with a fresh pair of eyes.’

  Line got to her feet and crossed to the window. ‘Do you think he was innocent?’

  ‘I haven’t found anything to convince me of the opposite.’

  Line peered at the notes from the case she was working on. Suddenly they seemed unimportant. ‘I can come and help you,’ she said. It would not present any problem. She could break off and take sick leave. No one would blame her. ‘It could be useful for me as well. Instructive about police methods.’

  ‘Let me think about it,’ her father said. ‘How are things with you? Are you still working on the Fredrikstad case?’

  ‘I’m staying here for a day or two.’

  ‘Has anyone been arrested?’

  Line realised he had not been following the
news, and could understand why. ‘No, and I think it may take a while longer. Where are you, anyway?’

  ‘At the cottage.’

  She perched on the windowsill and drew her legs up underneath her. Seeing in her mind’s eye the red cabin by the coast, she longed to hear the sound of the rolling waves and screeching gulls. ‘Are you sure I shouldn’t come down there?’

  ‘I’ll manage. But you’re always welcome.’

  Line had already made up her mind. She would finish off what she had to do and request a few days off.

  ‘Who was murdered?’ her father asked.

  ‘It’s most likely a man called Jonas Ravneberg. Quite an anonymous guy. No family or job. I’m going out now to talk to someone who knew him, so we’ll have the story ready when the name is released.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘I’m taking the photographer with me,’ Line reassured him, understanding her father’s concern. There was an unknown murderer out there, and the likelihood was strong that he would be found within the victim’s social circle.

  29

  Erik Fjeld helped himself to coffee from the machine in the reception area. Line filled a cardboard cup for herself and was ready to go. After crossing the River Glomma, she followed the GPS instructions, travelling in an easterly direction. Soon they were surrounded by fields with black ploughed furrows and yellow corn stubble.

  Fifteen minutes later, a large lake appeared on the right side of the road, and shortly afterwards, the GPS told her to take the next exit. A narrow gravel track snaked its way through the rocky, undulating landscape.

  ‘How do you want to play it?’ the photographer asked.

  ‘Close-up. Private and personal, to reflect how well he knew the murder victim.’ Torgeir Roxrud had said his dead friend was weighed down by something. Something that tormented him. ‘And dark,’ she added. ‘Dark and shadowy.’

  The track ended at a low, brown-stained house with window frames that had once been white, and green roofing felt, surrounded on all sides by rain-soaked spruce trees. The rusty gutters were speckled with moss and hung from the eaves at one side. An ancient breakdown lorry, piles of old car tyres and a wooden pallet with a car engine and spare parts, all littered the yard.

  Line swung the car round to avoid a large puddle and parked in front of a makeshift carport with a ragged plastic cover, blown to tatters by the wind. ‘‘Dark and shadowy shouldn’t be a problem,’ Erik said.

  They stepped out of the car. The cold air that greeted them was raw and smelled of mud and rotting leaves. Line crossed the yard to knock at the front door. No reply. She tried again, a bit harder, but there was still no response.

  Flowery curtains hung at either side of the nearest window. She placed a chair against the wall and perched on tiptoe to look inside at a kitchen equipped with only the barest of essentials: cupboards, worktops, cooker and fridge. A folded newspaper lay on the table beside a coffee mug. She rapped on the glass, calling out the name of the man who lived there. There was still no sign of life.

  She clambered down again and turned to face the photographer. Behind him, a huge black dog came bounding out from a forest path. It stopped in the clearing and stood looking at them from a distance of twenty paces, ears cocked, tail down and head lowered. Line stood still, merely glancing towards the car. Erik Fjeld wheeled, looked in the same direction, and took a couple of tentative backward steps.

  The dog did not take its eyes off them. Neither uttered a word and almost a minute passed before they heard a shrill whistle. The dog wagged its tail and approached them with a friendly expression. A man emerged from the woods behind it, wearing a black jacket, baggy trousers and a broad-brimmed hat. Erik Fjeld took a photo of him.

  ‘Well, there you are,’ the man said, reaching out as he approached. The dog sniffed Line first, licking her hand, before moving on to greet the photographer. Torgeir Roxrud tied it at the corner of the house. ‘Come on in,’ he said.

  In the living room he invited them to sit on the settee before removing his rain jacket and draping it over an armchair. The room looked more like a workshop than a sitting room: not much space, cardboard boxes stacked along the walls, most of the furniture used to store tools and car parts. ‘Can I offer you anything?’ he asked. ‘Coffee?’

  Both shook their heads. ‘I don’t know how well you were acquainted with Jonas Ravneberg,’ Line said. ‘But I’d like to offer my condolences.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Torgeir Roxrud replied, sitting down. ‘But as I said on the phone, I don’t really think there was anyone who knew him well.’

  ‘How did you meet him?’

  He sat up straight, his chest gurgling as he breathed. ‘Through Max.’ He cast a glance through the window at the dog.

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ Erik Fjeld remarked. ‘Is it a sheepdog?’

  ‘Yes, a Dutch Sheepdog. Every Friday I take him with me to Kongsten for a walk. We were fed up with the forests and liked to combine that with a shopping trip. We met each other when Max was a puppy; so enthusiastic and wanting to say hello to everyone. Tiedemann is a year older, but patient and playful.’ He made a fist and coughed into it. ‘So it was the dogs that introduced each other first, and then we started chatting.’

  ‘What was Jonas Ravneberg like?’

  ‘He was pleasant. Unassuming. No nonsense. He was lonely, of course. No friends or family. Just Tiedemann. What’s become of the dog, by the way?’

  ‘He’s been taken to Falck’s. They’ll probably find a home for him. What did he talk about?’

  ‘He had difficulty holding a conversation,’ Roxrud said, lifting a spanner from the table beside him. ‘He never asked about anything. I had to drag words out of him. But he could have a temper. Didn’t want anyone to bother him. I think it was nerves. He was anxious in case anyone bothered him.’

  He got to his feet and crossed to the window to look out at the dog. Erik Fjeld raised his camera and took another photo.

  ‘He told me once about his father. It was between Christmas and New Year two years ago. I asked him to come here on Christmas Eve, but he didn’t want to, though he came on Boxing Day and stayed over. We had a meal and went for a walk with the dogs up to the summit of Vetatoppen. We had a drink or two as the evening drew on, and he told me that his father had fallen down the cellar stairs, sustained a head injury and died. That was when he was little. And then he talked about his cars.’

  ‘Cars?’

  ‘He collected model cars. Classic American cars. He was keen on them. And Elvis. He liked Elvis.’

  ‘The King,’ Erik Fjeld commented.

  Torgeir Roxrud headed for a cupboard at the other end of the room. ‘I’m a collector myself,’ he said, pulling out a folder. ‘Old banknotes and stamps. Would you like to see my collection?’

  Line returned his smile and accepted his offer. That would make a good photograph. Torgeir Roxrud and their common interest in collecting. ‘Was he a member of the Collectors’ Club?’ she asked him to confirm once the stamp folder was in front of her.

  ‘Yes, I was the one who persuaded him to go,’ Roxrud answered, leafing through the album. ‘I thought it would benefit him. Get him out to mix with people. Make new friends.’

  He had found what he was looking for and pointed his finger at a stamp with a value of thirty øre, printed in red. Erik Fjeld adjusted his lens and snapped a couple of photographs.

  ‘This is the jewel,’ Roxrud explained, but had to break off when he was overcome by a fit of coughing. His face turned red and his bulky body was gripped with violent shaking. ‘An upside-down thirty øre’s,’ he continued, once he regained his breath. ‘In 1906, there was a shortage of stamps, and a quantity of the old seven shilling sort was overstamped with 30 øre. Altogether 450,000 stamps were changed, and there are still a few thousand in circulation. They are worth twenty to thirty kroner each, but one of the sheets was placed upside down as it was overprinted, and those examples are worth a thousand times more.’

  Line pe
ered at a scrap of paper where the number thirty was placed upside down.

  ‘Do you mean that this is worth thirty thousand kroner?’ Erik Fjeld asked, taking a photo of the album.

  Torgeir Roxrud nodded.

  ‘How much might a model car be worth?’ Line asked.

  Torgeir Roxrud shrugged as he closed the album and carried it back to its rightful place. ‘They’re sold at the fairs for several hundreds. You can’t compare that with stamps, which are a form of currency to start with, and you can build up and catalogue your collection in quite a different way from all other collectors’ items.’

  ‘Did Jonas Ravneberg have any rare examples?’

  Torgeir Roxrud resumed his seat. ‘Well, he had Elvis’ cars, I suppose.’

  ‘Elvis’ cars?’

  ‘Cadillacs. Elvis had at least a hundred of them, and Jonas had models of most of them.’

  ‘Were they worth much?’

  ‘I think he could have sold each of them for at least a thousand kroner, if he had come into contact with the right buyer. He had more than a hundred of them, you see, so it would amount to a lot of money.’

  ‘Did he keep in touch with any of the other members of the Collectors’ Club?’

  ‘Only at meetings.’

  Line riffled through her notes. ‘What about Astrid Solli­bakke or Mona Husby?’

  ‘Astrid is on the nomination committee. She phoned me last week and asked me to take Mona’s place on the committee. I said no thanks, but suggested that she might ask Jonas. I can’t think that Jonas has had any contact with them other than that, but I know he had a girlfriend once.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘I can’t remember the name. They lived together, long ago. Before he moved here to Fredrikstad.’

  Line dropped the subject and continued with her line of questioning. ‘Did he ever mention that he needed a lawyer?’