She must have heard us break through the trapdoor, Wisting thought. ‘Linnea!’ he shouted. She squeezed her eyes shut as Robekk landed a first blow on the door. A shudder coursed through her body. ‘Linnea,’ Wisting shouted again. ‘It’s over. This is the police.’
Robekk raised the hammer for another strike as Wisting climbed down, punishing himself for all the minutes wasted, all the hours squandered while Linnea Kaupang had been imprisoned.
Line arrived, phone in hand. ‘He went into the woods,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Haglund,’ she said. ‘Tommy went to the house to make sure he was there. Haglund went into the woods behind the house carrying a large lantern.’
Wisting pictured the map in the conference room during the Cecilia case, with increasingly larger areas shaded where they had searched. Haglund’s house at Dolven could not be more than a kilometre from here. Practically speaking, he and Ravneberg were neighbours. ‘Did he see Tommy?’
Line shook her head. ‘He’s following.’
There was a final, violent crack as Robekk smashed the door open. ‘She’s in here,’ Wisting said. ‘Send for an ambulance, and phone Nils Hammer. Tell him to bring all the officers he has and get here without delay.’
Linnea Kaupang staggered to her feet, shielding her breasts with her hand.
Wisting pulled off his jacket and covered her trembling shoulders. Linnea whispered something and took a few unsteady steps. Robekk put his arm round her and led her outside but Wisting remained, surveying the room, trying to grasp the scale of the atrocities that had taken place here. It was smaller than a prison cell. Suddenly the walls closed in and he could hardly breathe.
At the door he placed one hand on the wall and felt something scratched there. No telling what kind of tool had been used, perhaps just fingers that had rubbed backwards and forwards for long enough to form two uneven letters: C and L, just as Cecilia Linde had initialled the yellow cassette that carried her last words to the world.
Immediately above were two other letters, E and R: Ellen Robekk. On the floor lay a little yellow hair slide, used to scratch some kind of final greeting. L K. He closed his eyes.
Line was shouting something from the top of the stairs. All he caught was ‘Haglund’. He heard steps on the paving stones and then she called out again. ‘He’s here!’
79
Wisting raced after Line, down towards the river and, in the sweep of her flashlight beam, saw two men fighting, rolling on the ground. ‘Tommy!’ Line shouted.
It was impossible to tell which was which. One freed himself and tried to stand. The other hurled himself at his legs. The first shook one leg free and kicked out. There was a cry of pain. Line’s flashlight found the face of the standing man, Haglund. He wriggled free and darted into the forest.
Wisting grabbed the flashlight and sprinted after, along a path and behind a turf house, pushing bushes aside, jumping over tussocks and tree roots, scratching himself on fir needles and twigs, paying no attention, tumbling over and scrambling to his feet again, dashing on. ‘Haglund!’ he shouted, but all he heard was boots on muddy ground and the sound of the river.
The path snaked through the forest until it reached a ford where the river broadened and was not so deep. Haglund had waded halfway across, the rushing waters reaching almost to his knees. He hauled himself onto a boulder, rose unsteadily to his feet and looked back.
‘Haglund!’ Wisting yelled again, but Rudolf Haglund jumped down to wade further across. Wisting stepped into the river to follow. Ahead of him, Haglund lost his balance, floundered in the water, struggled to his feet again, and staggered on with his arms wide.
The immense flow made the going treacherous. Wisting felt the icy water push against his legs as he picked his way forward over uneven stones that moved when he stepped on them.
Haglund had almost reached the other riverbank when he fell. Waving his arms in the air but finding nothing to hold, his back arched and he dropped backwards into deeper water.
Wisting retreated onto the riverbank and ran the flashlight downriver until he spotted Haglund’s head bobbing in the water. He kept the torch beam on him steadily, watched him struggle to the other side and climb ashore. As he stood up the bank edge, earth and sand, gave way under his feet, collapsing and subsiding into the water. Haglund lunged at the branches of a tree but could not grab hold, fell backwards into the river and cracked his head on a boulder. His body was swept, face down, turning with the river’s swirling movements.
Wisting ran along the bank, holding one arm up to brush aside twigs and branches while trying not to lose sight of Haglund until the current carried him back to Wisting’s side of the river.
Wisting threw the flashlight away and waded out until the river suddenly deepened and the stony bed disappeared from under his feet. He made a few powerful swimming strokes to reach Haglund while the current carried them both downstream. He trod water and pulled upwards to keep his head above the surface, but the current tugged at his clothes and kept dragging him down. He caught hold of Haglund and managed to turn him face up, placing his left arm under his chin to keep his face above water.
Swimming with one arm, his mouth filled with water every time he breathed in but they were both being dragged under. He kicked out with his feet and felt the riverbed, managed somehow to grip the stony surface and hauled Rudolf Haglund with him into the shallows. Gasping for air, he heaved the weighty body onto the bank.
The current had carried them back to the grassy slope below the smallholding. Wisting collapsed onto his hands and knees, coughing and panting. Others dragged Haglund further onto the grass. He heard Line declare that Haglund was breathing and stood up. Sirens sounded in the distance.
80
Rudolf Haglund lay in the back of the ambulance with two uniformed officers attending. He stared at Wisting with those tiny black eyes of his and, when their eyes met, every feature of his face twisted. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.
Wisting pushed the door shut and watched the ambulance roll slowly down the narrow farm track. It was a strange feeling, as it always was when cases built up over a long period of time reached an abrupt, long-awaited resolution. It brought a kind of unburdening, and the investigators needed time to themselves before they could move on. He would not have that with this case, not yet.
A blanket had been placed round his shoulders but still he shivered as he stood motionless, watching what was going on around him, now automatically: floodlights switched on, crime scene examiners putting on white, sterile overalls, overshoes, gloves and hats; others huddled in small groups, deep in discussion, as portable radios crackled into life and crime scene tape was unfurled.
Frank Robekk stood inside the barrier, occasionally stopping a policeman to ask something or give advice.
Line stood beside Tommy and her two newspaper colleagues. The elder of the two spoke into a mobile phone while gesticulating wildly with his arms. Line was using her camera, but already had the photographs for next day’s newspaper.
Nils Hammer approached. ‘They’ve taken her to hospital in Tønsberg,’ he said. ‘Her father’s been alerted. He’s on his way there too.’
Wisting nodded.
‘Physically, she’s unharmed. He hadn’t done anything to her, just watched.’
Wisting nodded again. ‘I know who planted the DNA evidence,’ he said, staring straight ahead as he spoke. ‘How the cigarette butts were switched.’
Hammer gave him a penetrating look.
‘I can prove who did it.’
‘How …’
‘When I was suspended, I took a copy of the Cecilia case documents with me. I’ve been working at the cottage, re-examining everything to do with Rudolf Haglund.’
‘Who was it?’ Nils Hammer asked.
‘I need some further documentation,’ Wisting said, ‘and just a couple of days to draw everything together.’
Hamm
er’s phone rang. He responded with a number of brief instructions and turned to face Wisting again. ‘I’ll need a statement. Can you come with me to the station?’
‘Not tonight.’
‘Vetti won’t like that. He’s already arranged a press conference.’
‘I’m going home for a hot bath. Then I’ll sleep. It’s a long time since I had a good night’s sleep.’
Wisting took a quick shower and put on the same dark clothing he had used when he entered the police station. Before leaving again he searched through the cardboard boxes containing Ingrid’s belongings in the garage storeroom. He found what he wanted and drove away.
Switching on the radio, he listened to the news. The newsreader described recent events as ‘a dramatic development in the case of the missing Larvik girl’. Rudolf Haglund had been taken into custody, charged with the abduction of Linnea Kaupang, who had been found alive. An interview with Audun Vetti followed. The reporter pointed to the similarities with the Cecilia case.
‘What about the accusations Haglund was convicted on the basis of fabricated evidence?’ he asked Audun Vetti.
‘Regardless of the question of guilt, the Bureau for the Investigation of Police Affairs is investigating the possibility of punishable offences with regard to the presentation of evidence in the Cecilia Linde case,’ Vetti said. ‘Today’s arrest has no impact on that.’
He passed the exit road leading to the cottage at Værvågen and took the next side road. Less used than his usual route, water splashed out onto the verges as he drove over puddles and mud. Trees clung tightly together on both sides, and an occasional branch scraped the car roof or struck the side panels like a clenched fist. Finally the track ended at a little plateau above smooth coastal rocks.
He stepped from the car and looked at the familiar coastline silhouetted against the sea. The air tasted of salt and waves broke against the skerries. He trod carefully over the slippery hillside, using his flashlight to pick his way to the coastal path where he could follow the blue marks eastward to the Wisting family cottage. A faint light from the exterior wall cast shadows on the lawn. He could hear the thumping noise of waves against a fishing boat not far off.
The cottage was cold and dark, but he did not switch on the light or heating. He groped his way forward to the armchair beside the front window and sat under a blanket. Out in the bay he could make out the boat he had heard, under the dim illumination of a masthead light. He drew the curtains, but left a gap to see through. It was a matter of waiting.
After three hours he began to wonder if nothing was going to happen. Perhaps Nils Hammer had not passed on the information. He rubbed his face and reached for yet another blanket from the settee and, suddenly, was wide-awake. A sharp light pierced the night, shining across the rocky coastline before vanishing. Wisting pressed his forehead against the windowpane. A car was approaching. The front headlights swept over the wild roses as it pulled up. The lights were switched off and a door slammed.
81
By the pale moonlight Wisting could see that the man walking along his path had chosen to wear dark clothing, a woollen hat pulled well down, and his jacket lapels up around his ears. As he stepped into the light from the outdoor lamp, he glanced back so Wisting could not see his face. A couple of heavy thumps on the door, and then another. ‘Hello?’
Wisting remained still and silent as the man moved across the verandah. The floor timbers creaked. His silhouette was outlined on the curtains. He stood at the window and, cupping his face in his hands, peered inside. Wisting pressed himself against the back of the chair, but knew the angle was too oblique for him to be seen. The man’s breath condensed on the glass before he returned to the door.
Wisting braced himself, listening to the sound of metal scraping hesitantly against metal. The lock rattled, the door swung open and the man slipped inside like a shadow, heading purposefully for the light switch. He took only two steps towards the table where the Cecilia documents were scattered before seeing Wisting.
The colour drained from Audun Vetti’s bony face and his lips tightened.
‘I don’t have it here,’ Wisting said, standing up.
‘I tried to knock ��’
‘The evidence isn’t here, but I can prove you were the one who made the switch. You even signed for it, when you were down in the cells and took a cigarette end from Haglund.’
‘You’re mistaken,’ Vetti said sharply. ‘I wanted to get him to talk, make an informal arrangement about the sentencing, so he knew what he was up against.’
‘You took the remains of his cigarette to Finn Haber’s lab and swapped it for the contents of the evidence bag.’
‘You’re fantasising, Wisting. Making up a story to shift the blame onto someone else. No one will believe you. I was never anywhere near those cigarette butts, neither when they were found nor later.’
Wisting took a step forward. ‘Are you saying you’ve never seen the central piece of evidence?’
‘As far as I was concerned, they were simply letters and numbers in a report. Points on a list of evidence. I came here because I was worried about you and wanted to know how you were. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by such accusations.’
‘Was that why you broke in?’
‘You’d forgotten to lock the door, and obviously heard me knocking.’
‘I think you came to find out what proof I had against you.’
Vetti moved towards the door. ‘I have nothing to prove. I never touched the evidence.’
Wisting took another step towards him. ‘Why are your fingerprints on the evidence bags then?’
Vetti stopped in his tracks, his Adam’s apple wobbling up and down in his sinewy throat. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s not …’ he protested. ‘Those bags are seventeen years old. It’s not possible.’
‘Not only possible, it’s been done.’
Audun Vetti’s eyes changed; a black glimmer appeared. ‘He was guilty, regardless. You could see it too, in those tiny rat eyes of his. But you couldn’t get him to admit it, and we risked him getting back out into society again.’ He held up a trembling forefinger. ‘Okay, I did what had to be done, but you can never prove it. There’s plenty of ways to explain the fingerprints. I’ll say I was in the lab going through the evidence. Picked them out, one by one. That was part of my job.’
‘You just told me you had never touched the evidence bags,’ Wisting said. ‘That you’d never even seen them.’
Audun Vetti snorted. ‘Who’ll believe your version? Internal Affairs have already charged you.’
Wisting moved to the window and jerked the curtains aside. The moonlight was brighter now, and he could see Finn Haber’s fishing boat at the jetty. The old skipper jumped nimbly ashore.
A faint sound from the shelf below the window was just audible, the hiss of a cassette tape running. Wisting followed Vetti’s gaze to the depressed play and record buttons on the old portable radio.
‘Listen. Soon I’ll be officially appointed chief constable. I can resolve this. Get it to work to the advantage of us both.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We needed to have a secure case,’ Vetti continued. ‘The media were hounding me. It was for the best for all of us. No one was damaged by it and Haglund got what he deserved.’
The timbers creaked on the verandah outside. ‘You were the one who killed her,’ Wisting said. Finn Haber entered and stood with his arms crossed. ‘You killed Cecilia Linde,’ he repeated. ‘When you told Gjermund Hulkvist of Dagbladet about the cassette tape you delivered her death sentence.’
Pressing stop, he ejected the cassette and tucked it into his breast pocket.
Vetti staggered backwards, swaying like a tree about to fall. From his eyes, he knew he was going down.
82
When Nils Hammer placed a large mug of coffee in front of him, Wisting saw how the days of responsibility for Linnea’s disappearance had taken their toll. He was pale and exh
austed, and his eyes were bleary and fixed, greyer than usual.
‘I thought Vetti was supposed to be here,’ Hammer said.
Wisting could not muster the energy to answer. Christine Thiis, the assistant chief of police, appeared in the doorway with a sheaf of papers.
‘Have you seen Vetti?’ Hammer asked.
She sat down. ‘He’s ill.’
‘Ill?’ Hammer repeated. ‘He seemed perfectly well yesterday.’
Christine Thiis shrugged, not seeming to know any more about Vetti’s absence. She said, handing a sheet of paper to Wisting: ‘Your suspension is lifted.’
‘That’s good,’ Hammer said. ‘Rudolf Haglund is asking for you.’
‘Is he all right?’ Christine Thiis asked.
‘He’s in a custody cell. The patrol car collected him from the hospital an hour ago.’
‘Will he talk?’
‘To Wisting,’ Hammer replied.
The assistant chief of police looked at Wisting. ‘Will you do that?’
Wisting had talked to many people who had committed serious crimes. Getting close to them, encouraging them to open up, had given him insight and understanding. Once, he had struggled to get through to a man suspected of car theft. He had asked for advice from an older colleague who told him it was impossible to teach how to elicit a confession; you had to find your own way.
Wisting had found his own way: easy, quiet and patient. He could listen without letting his emotions get in the way, put himself in the other person’s shoes and demonstrate empathy. In time he had learned that, deep inside, all human beings are afraid of being alone. Afraid of loneliness, everyone craved a hearing.
Haglund held his secrets inside for seventeen years. No one was born to carry such a burden and he too must long to share his innermost thoughts. Even if it put him inside again, the need to be heard would overwhelm even that.
Wisting got to his feet. If Haglund would talk only to him, he should listen. Not for Haglund’s sake, but for the people he had wounded. The people who needed to know what happened to their loved ones.
The Hunting Dogs Page 26