The Hunting Dogs

by Jorn Lier Horst

  The man smacked his lips, as though his mouth was dry. ‘Why are you asking that?’

  ‘I’ve been reading through your report. It stays that Haglund had never been in hospital or treated for serious illness. We have photos showing three small scars which he said were from the removal of moles.’

  ‘I can’t recall that the subject ever came up,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘Information about physical health comes from the subject. All the same, it’s peculiar that he didn’t mention it. His father had suffered from cancer, and his illness was a turning point in Haglund’s life. We talked about it a great deal, but he never told me this.’

  ‘Isn’t that rather odd?’

  ‘Yes, but, when all’s said and done, he’s a typical candidate for malignant skin lesions. I remember his skin was extremely pale and, of course, it’s hereditary.’

  Wisting leafed through the other pictures. Haglund also had a scar below his left shoulder blade and another high on his neck.

  ‘Is it important?’ the psychiatrist asked.

  Wisting heard footsteps on the verandah and set the photographs aside. ‘Probably not. I just thought it strange that he should withhold such information when, for example, he was open about his predilection for sadomasochism.’

  Line entered, her boots covered in mud. She pulled them off. Wisting moved his lips in a silent hello.

  ‘That admission came after he was shown the pornographic material you found,’ said the psychiatrist. ‘You must remember that Rudolf Haglund is a complex character. Understanding his motives for sharing his thoughts is hardly simple, far less understanding his actions.’

  ‘He’s not mad?’

  ‘No, but he’s something of a psychological puzzle.’

  Line settled on the settee, opening her laptop and clicking through photos on her camera as she waited for the computer to start. Drawing his conversation to a close, Wisting sat opposite her.

  ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

  ‘One of the forensic psychiatrists who examined Rudolf Haglund. The one who called, concerned that Rudolf Haglund might be involved in Linnea Kaupang’s disappearance.’

  Line slumped back on the settee. ‘My God,’ she groaned. ‘He really must speak to the people working on the case.’

  ‘I’ve told Nils Hammer.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘I sent him a text.’

  ‘A text? When an experienced psychiatrist puts forward the opinion that a previous killer may have abducted another girl?’

  Wisting did not want to say that Nils Hammer was at the top of his list of colleagues who might have planted the DNA evidence.

  ‘Did he answer?’ Line asked.

  ‘He wrote that they would look into it. They had a couple of other interesting leads.’

  He knew the Haglund theory would be at the bottom of the list. When it came to the crunch, it was no more than conjecture.

  ‘They’ll not follow it up,’ Line said. ‘As things stand, they won’t dare go after Rudolf Haglund.’

  Wisting agreed. Further investigation of Rudolf Haglund would require the approval of the prosecuting authorities and, with no more than the suppositions of a retired psychiatrist, Audun Vetti would certainly apply the brakes.

  Line stood up, crossed to the fireplace and placed the last log on the fire. ‘Are you meeting Haglund tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Twelve o’clock at Henden’s office. Then I can feel my way forward. Find out how things stand.’

  She picked up the poker, prodding the log she had added to the embers. ‘We could follow him,’ she said. ‘The meeting gives us our starting point. We can follow him from there.’

  ‘I don’t know …’ Wisting said.

  ‘It’s the only opportunity,’ Line said obstinately. ‘If he’s holding her, it’s the only chance of finding her.’

  ‘That’s a job for the police.’

  ‘Do you think they’ll do that?’ Line asked.

  Following Rudolf Haglund could lead to something, but he did not believe that Nils Hammer would set up an extensive surveillance procedure. The justification was too slight.

  ‘I have another appointment afterwards,’ Wisting said. ‘I have to give a statement to Internal Affairs at two o’clock.’

  ‘We’ll do it without you. He might recognise you anyway.’

  ‘Who are we?’

  ‘I’ll bring someone from work.’

  ‘It’s not just a matter of tagging along,’ Wisting said. ‘Surveillance demands training and practice. It’s a special skill.’

  ‘It’s part of our work too,’ Line reminded him. ‘Following the police to see who they contact in a major case is always interesting. You’ve probably had crime journalists on your tail several times without noticing.’

  ‘You can’t write about this. We agreed on that.’

  ‘I won’t write about the Cecilia case.’ Line pointed to the coffee table piled with notes. ‘But if Rudolf Haglund leads us to Linnea Kaupang, that’s another case entirely.’

  48

  They sat at the table again. ‘Have you spoken to Suzanne?’ Line asked. Wisting shook his head. ‘Don’t you think you should have?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wisting admitted. ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘At Jonas Ravneberg’s.’

  ‘The man who was murdered in Fredrikstad?’

  ‘He grew up on a smallholding out at Manvik. He still owns it.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I wanted to have a look. He moved away the autumn after Cecilia’s murder. The place is deserted, but somebody had been there. There were wheel ruts on the track all the way, and a bunch of red roses on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Perhaps someone looks after the place,’ Wisting said, ‘and when they heard he died, they took flowers. A final goodbye.’

  Line gave him a doubtful look. ‘A car arrived while I was there as well,’ she said, picking up her camera.

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘A guy who just sat in his car. I thought I should check the registration.’

  Wisting looked at the display on the back of the camera. ‘You could have saved yourself the trouble. I know who it is. I spoke to him earlier today: Frank Robekk.’

  ‘The policeman?’

  ‘He quit after the Cecilia case. It all became too much for him. His niece had vanished the same way as Cecilia, one year earlier.’

  ‘What was he doing out at Ravneberg’s?’

  ‘I guess he’s picked up where he left off all those years ago. The question is how he made the connection.’

  A possibility had opened up, like a door slightly ajar. Wisting crossed to the box marked Cecilia case and took out the alphabetical list of names. Under R he found RAVNBERG, Jonas. The name was referred to in document 6.43.

  Ravneberg without an E between ‘Ravn’ and ‘berg’. It could be due to something as simple as a typing error.

  ‘What is it?’ Line asked.

  ‘Jonas Ravneberg is mentioned in the Cecilia case.’

  He located the ring binder marked with a large number 6, the witness statements. Document number forty-three was an interview with Hogne Slettevoll, one of the five members of staff at the furniture store where Rudolf Haglund was a warehouseman. He was a character witness.

  The interview had been conducted by Nils Hammer, the main substance of which was a complaint by a female customer after Haglund offered to assemble a double bed and help her test it. He had also explained that the headboard was suitable for attaching handcuffs. This episode had been almost ten years earlier. Just prior to the interview, a similar incident had taken place when the witness took a complaint about a defective bed base. Haglund had made insinuations about the reason the bed gave way.

  Half a page dealt with Rudolf Haglund’s temperament, how trivial events made him explode with rage: goods not in the right place, delivery notes not completed, packaged items difficult to open.

  Towards the end, Wisting came across
the name Jonas Ravnberg, without an E. He read the paragraph aloud to Line:

  ‘The witness does not socialise with the accused other than in connection with work. He does not know his circle of friends or his hobbies, but is aware that he collects things, for example Matchbox cars. He does not exactly recall how the subject came up, but the witness had a box of these model cars that had belonged to his father and that he wanted to sell. The accused bought three of the cars and had a possible buyer for the others. They arranged a meeting down at the furniture warehouse. This might have been about two or three years previously. The buyer’s name was Jonas Ravnberg. The witness received fifty kroner per car, and the total amount came to 1,150 kroner, which the buyer paid by cheque.’

  ‘Jonas Ravneberg collected model cars,’ Line said, telling Wisting about Elvis Presley’s miniature Cadillac outside his house in Fredrikstad. ‘It must be the same man.’

  Wisting put his head in his hands in an attempt to gather his thoughts. A connection had appeared between Rudolf Haglund and a murder victim who had moved from the town at the same time that Haglund was convicted. The link had seemed insignificant then and he did not know whether it was any more significant now. In the midst of all this, Frank Robekk had turned up.

  Line took hold of the folder of witness statements. ‘Why wasn’t Jonas Ravneberg interviewed at the time?’ she asked.

  Wisting did not have a good answer. Early in the investigation, each new name became a focus for further examination. As the case progressed, peripheral characters became of less interest. By this stage they had more than enough on Rudolf Haglund. From the moment he was arrested, that was all that mattered. Finding enough evidence to convict him.

  49

  At ten o’clock, Line buttered herself a bread roll and asked her father what he wanted to eat.

  ‘Nothing thanks,’ he said, moving to the window. ‘7.4 degrees,’ he reported, after looking at the thermometer. ‘Shall we call it a day?’

  ‘I want to stay a bit longer,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure? You can take the folder home.’

  ‘Everything’s sort of connected. I read something in one place and have to cross check somewhere else. Here is best. You go ahead. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  She knew he did not like to leave her alone, but she had stayed here by herself the previous autumn and both knew she would manage.

  ‘I don’t want you to spend the night here,’ he said. His tone did not leave any room for discussion.

  ‘Okay, I’ll get home before midnight.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll go to see Suzanne at the café.’

  As soon as Wisting was gone, Line turned to the dull, dark window. The darkness seemed impenetrable, as though built in layers. She looked up the online VG newspaper. The most recent article was written by Morten P and Harald Skoglund.

  She had been too preoccupied with her own concerns to pay attention to the rest of the news. She had heard about the missing teenager, but knew little more.

  The last definite sighting of seventeen-year-old Linnea Kaupang had been made by the bus driver on route 01. The girl was in her final year at high school, and on Friday, 2nd October, had been at school until ten past two. Half an hour later, she caught the bus in Torstrand. The route followed the main route 303 through Tjøllingvollen to Sandefjord, and Linnea Kaupang had alighted at ten to three at the Lindhjemveien intersection. No one had seen her since.

  Linnea Kaupang lived with her father about eight hundred metres from the bus stop. Three neighbouring houses were situated between her home and the main road, and only one person, a retired sailor, had been at home. He had often seen her walking home from the bus, but not that day.

  Morten P and Harald had talked to Linnea’s school friends who described her as conscientious and reliable. Nils Hammer had refused to exclude the possibility that the missing girl had been the victim of a crime. She phoned Morten P.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve still got a pain in my backside, but I’m off that story now, at least almost.’

  ‘Almost?’

  She explained how she had followed a thread from the Fredrikstad murder victim’s past, and how it had led to the Cecilia case. ‘I don’t really like it. I’m wondering whether there might be a connection.’

  ‘Coincidences happen all the time. That’s why the word exists.’

  She conceded the point. ‘I’m actually phoning about the Linnea case.’

  ‘Bloody peculiar case,’ Morten P said. ‘Until yesterday evening, the signal from her mobile phone was traced to near the High School in Vestfold.’

  ‘That’s almost at Horten, in the far north of the county.’

  ‘That’s what’s so damn strange.’

  ‘Could it have been left on the bus when she got off? The number 01 route goes through the whole county, all the way to Horten.’

  ‘That’s a possibility, but then it must have got off the bus at Bakkenteigen by itself.’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘Nothing. We have photos of them searching along the main road from Åsgårdstrand to Borre. They won’t make any comment.’

  ‘I have a theory about who might have taken her,’ Line said.

  ‘A theory from the police?’

  ‘No, and it’s possible this will make me sound desperate, but it doesn’t come from me or my father. It comes from a chief consultant psychiatrist.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘He believes Rudolf Haglund may be behind it.’

  She visualised Morton P sitting behind his desk fiddling with a ballpoint pen and wondering how on earth, as gently as possible, he could dismiss her idea. ‘I know it’s far-fetched.’

  Morten P cleared his throat. ‘Something has happened to her,’ he said. ‘I’ve spoken to her friends who don’t believe she has disappeared of her own free will. It’s likely someone has taken her and more than likely he has done something similar before.’

  ‘The psychiatrist believes the spell in prison has built up internal pressures in him,’ Line said.

  ‘Are the police thinking along the same lines?’

  ‘I don’t know what they’re thinking, only that there aren’t sufficient grounds to place him under surveillance.’

  ‘Does anybody know where he is now?’ Morten P was becoming enthusiastic.

  ‘Not right now, but I know where he’ll be tomorrow at twelve o’clock.’

  Morten P laughed, realising she was thinking the same as him. ‘Harald and I can watch from our cars,’ he said. ‘But we need one more, in addition to you.’

  ‘I can arrange that.’

  ‘I have to finish this story; we’ll take this further tomorrow.’

  Line located Tommy Kvanter’s number, it was her turn to surprise him. I need you, she tapped into the phone, and pressed send.

  That done, she called the unknown Fredrikstad number again, the unregistered subscriber who had triggered a chain reaction when he phoned Jonas Ravneberg. It rang for the same length of time, and she was about to disconnect the call when someone answered with a simple Hello? The voice sounded like that of a young man.

  ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Who do you want to speak to?’

  ‘My name is Line Wisting,’ she said. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  The person disconnected. Line swore and called the number again. This time, no one answered, but the phone pinged in a text.

  When and where?

  50

  A yellow ribbon was tied to the railings on the staircase leading to The Golden Peace. A picture of Linnea Kaupang hung on the door. The word Missing was emblazoned above and underneath was a description of her, stating what she had been wearing and where she had last been seen. Wisting could not shake off the notion that he could have made a difference if only he had been on duty. If it hadn’t been for Audun Vetti.

  The little bell pealed above the door as the café fell silent and all the customers turned towa
rds him. Wisting nodded to right and left as he walked to the bar. The pleasant atmosphere he was used to was missing.

  Suzanne smiled from behind the counter. ‘Lovely to see you. Do you want anything?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, nodding towards his usual table. ‘I’ll bring it to you.’

  Wisting hung his jacket over the back of the chair. Suzanne arrived with coffee and a slice of cake. He invited her to sit with him. ‘Still busy?’ he asked.

  ‘Not as many customers as usual, but how are things with you?’

  ‘Line has arrived.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said.

  ‘Did someone phone asking for me?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I had a visit from Rudolf Haglund’s defence lawyer. He said you had told him I was at the cottage.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have done that?’

  ‘Someone else has been there too,’ he said, describing the break-in.

  ‘It would be easier if you answered the phone when people called,’ Suzanne threw a glance at the counter as a customer approached. ‘Then I wouldn’t be bothered all the time.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  Suzanne left to serve the customer from the coffee machine, before coming back to the table.

  ‘I just wanted to know who you had spoken to. There weren’t many people who knew where I was.’

  ‘There have been journalists phoning constantly. I told them you were at the cottage.’

  There was no point in pursuing the subject. Neither of them spoke. Suzanne got to her feet again and walked around the café, collecting empty glasses and dirty plates.

  It astonished him how little she seemed to care. When he needed someone to speak to he felt she was accusing him. The café was perhaps not the right place to talk, but could she not take at least some time out?

  Their relationship had begun suddenly, three years earlier, only two years after Ingrid’s death when Wisting had not even considered finding someone else. As time passed though, he grew to appreciate how well they got on and their relationship came to mean a great deal to him. He felt they had been happy over the past three years, but now Suzanne was preoccupied and distant and he felt she was slipping away.