‘Age progression software?’ Espen Mortensen suggested. ‘A data-manipulated image could show us what Robert Godwin looks like today.’
‘We have people working on that,’ Donald Baker said. ‘These programs are no more than qualified guesswork, but it might be useful.’
Benjamin Fjeld raised his hand again. ‘Didn’t he use chloroform on his victims? If he’s using the same method here, he must have access to it somehow, but sales here are strictly regulated.’
‘That’s right,’ Donald Baker said. ‘A relatively large wastage rate was recorded at the Chemistry Institute at the university.’
‘What is chloroform actually used for?’ Hammer asked. ‘Apart from anaesthetising people in the movies?’
‘The chemical industry,’ Mortensen said. ‘It’s a solvent.’
Torunn Borg nodded, noting it as another parameter against which to check the lists of names.
‘What will we say if the press ask what we’re working on?’ Christine Thiis asked.
‘Good question,’ Leif Malm said. ‘When this gets out it’s going to explode in the media like nothing we’ve encountered before. CNN will be standing outside reporting live.’
Wisting passed the question over to Nils Hammer who had a background in the Drugs Squad and experience of using untraditional methods and measures.
‘As little as possible,’ Hammer said. ‘If they get close, we’ll let them believe we’re working on a narcotics case and searching for a drugs drop. The journalists usually take a low profile in those circumstances. No one wants to wreck an ongoing drugs enquiry.’
‘How will we manage that?’
‘The easiest way is to transfer all queries to the Drugs Squad and let them say we do not wish to comment on an ongoing enquiry.’
‘Good plan,’ Wisting said, and wound the meeting down.
Donald Baker stayed behind in the conference room after the others left. He stood up and crossed to the window. Outside, morning light glittered on the snow. ‘I hope everyone understands the importance of keeping this whole operation secret,’ he said. ‘Robert Godwin is here somewhere, and we have to just circle round him until we can close in, but if it leaks that we’re on his trail he’ll slip through our fingers again.’
He turned to face Wisting. ‘Every alternate year he needs a fresh victim. He’s sixty-one years old now, so he has perhaps fifteen or twenty years of life left. That means eight to ten more victims if we don’t catch him.’
42
Line’s phone rang as she parked outside the church. It was Knut A. Sandersen, Chief News Editor in her contacts list. ‘I’m on my way into church for the funeral,’ she said.
‘Who’s dead?’
‘Viggo Hansen, the man in the chair in front of the TV. Remember?’
‘Yes, how’s the story going?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I know what he was watching when he died.’ She heard the sound of the coffee machine in the background and visualised the news editor with his mobile tucked between chin and shoulder.
‘Hope it was a talk-show or something like that,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll be invited into the studio.’
‘He was watching the Discovery Channel.’
‘Alone at home, discovering the world from his armchair, that’s a great angle for portraying a lonely person.’
‘He was watching a programme about famous FBI cases,’ Line said.
‘How do you know that he was watching precisely that programme?’
‘He had planned his television viewing and asterisked it in a TV magazine that was lying open on the coffee table showing the listings for Thursday 11th August. Later that evening he had highlighted a programme about elk in Alaska on NRK2, but the television was still on the Discovery Channel when he was found.’
‘What photographs do you have?’
‘I’ve pictures of the empty house, but some of the police crime scene photos can also be used in print.’
‘What about a portrait photo?’
‘The most recent I’ve seen of Viggo Hansen is a class photograph from 1964.’
‘That won’t do.’
‘I think it could work,’ she insisted. ‘It says something about how little people bothered about him. That nobody took a single photograph of him for the last forty-seven years of his life.’
The news editor agreed she had a point. ‘Do you need much more time until you’re done? I may need you for another story.’
Line leaned over the steering wheel and peered at the flags hanging at half mast on either side of the churchyard gate. ‘What kind of story?’
‘Last Friday another body was found down there, in a felling area outside the town.’
‘I saw that,’ Line said.
‘I’ve put Morten P and Harald Skoglund onto it, but they may need you as well. For your local knowledge.’
‘What makes you think there’s a story there?’
‘We’ve had a tip-off that DNA samples have been sent to Interpol.’
Line’s curiosity was aroused. ‘That’s only natural if they think he might be a foreigner.’
‘I think there’s more to it,’ Sandersen said. ‘They called in a pathologist on overtime and performed an autopsy on the body as early as Saturday. Normally they leave them over the weekend. They employed extra staff at the lab as well. Our man over there says they were told to put everything else on the back burner.’
‘What are the police saying?’
‘We haven’t asked; we’re doing a scoping exercise first. But a technical team at Kripos is apparently on standby, ready to travel down to Larvik.’
‘Where did you get that from?’
‘Police sources.’
Line smiled to herself. Police sources did not necessarily mean any more than that one of the crime scene technicians had mentioned at home that he would be away for a few days, and his wife had dropped it into conversation with a friend who had passed it on. However, regardless, it was an interesting snippet of information, and she understood why Sandersen was interested.
The other end had gone quiet. She could hear the news editor drinking and swallowing. ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked, when she did not say any more.
‘I’ve been preoccupied,’ Line said.
‘But is there anything to suggest something’s afoot?’
‘Wouldn’t it be best for Morten P to make direct contact with the police? If they can’t give an answer, then that’s an answer in itself.’
‘Yes, yes, we’re making the usual approaches. I just wondered if you had heard anything.’
‘I see.’
‘Keep your feelers out, then, and phone me if you pick up anything. Before we go to print, I need to know who the dead man is. That should give us some juicy headlines.’
43
Snow-laden trees overhung both sides of the narrow track.
Concentrating hard, Wisting gripped the steering wheel as the unmarked car lurched forward, wheels spinning as it climbed the last incline before the track flattened out. Ahead, he could see the van that brought crew and equipment to where the landslip blocked the route.
‘We can’t go any farther,’ he said to Donald Baker, switching off the ignition.
Before getting out he put on gloves and hat. Baker’s thermal suit, borrowed from the Emergency Squad store, was a couple of sizes too small. The surrounding forest provided some shelter from the wind, but the freezing air burned their nostrils.
‘It’s cold,’ the American said. There was no real need for them to be out in this wintry landscape, but the FBI agent was made of the same stuff as Wisting and was keen to orientate himself in the field. The sense of following tangible clues made them both feel they were gaining ground.
The men had been wearing snowshoes to drag heavy sleds piled with equipment. Following their trail, they sank to their knees in snow, boots filling in an instant, the snow melting and soaking their feet. When they arrived at the burned-down barn Wisting was wet with perspi
ration and barely noticed the cold.
What was left of the building reared like a dark wall above the snow. The tumbledown farmhouse seemed to be frozen into the landscape, desolate and chill, its windows thick with frost and impossible to see through.
‘A perfect place for him,’ Donald Baker said.
The Emergency Squad had already erected a tent, and cleared the well to expose a circular paved area with an old-fashioned hand-pump hanging at one side. A paving stone lay in the centre of the well lid, sufficiently large and heavy to prevent children from lifting it. One of the officers tipped it aside and inserted the edge of a spade under the wooden cover. It was frozen fast to the stones, and in the end he broke off one of the planks.
Wisting’s phone buzzed. Removing his right glove, he fished it from his pocket and saw it was an unknown number, not stored in his contacts list. ‘This is Morten P from VG,’ the man at the other end said.
‘You’re speaking to William Wisting,’ he said, his breath a white plume in the cold air. He felt his heart sink.
‘I’m calling about an incident last Friday,’ the journalist said. ‘A man who was found dead in a felling area where people cut Christmas trees. Are you familiar with the case?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he been identified?’
It was too cold to stand still. Wisting shifted from one foot to the other to keep his blood moving. ‘We don’t have a definite identification,’ he said, ‘but we do have an inkling.’
‘Has an autopsy been carried out?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the weekend?’
Wisting sensed the contrivance in the question. Experienced journalists knew the forensics service was not normally available at weekends, and that they did not conduct post-mortem examinations outwith normal hours. ‘Yes,’ was all he said.
‘Has the cause of death been established?’
‘The body showed signs of having lain outside for a long time,’ Wisting avoided the question. ‘Probably since the summer.’
‘But did you find a cause of death?’
The man with the spade had managed to loosen more pieces of wood from the well cover. Two of the Emergency Squad officers were preparing ropes and carabiner hooks. Soon they would be able to lower themselves down. ‘Cause of death has not been established,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That the pathologist has not drawn his final conclusions.’
‘What steps are you taking to investigate the case?’
The last wooden planks were removed from the well. Donald Baker and several of the others peered down into the depths.
‘We’re keeping all options open,’ Wisting said. ‘But that doesn’t mean this is a story deserving of major headlines. Probably it was nothing more than an accident.’
The journalist did not give up so easily. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘The investigation will have to discover that.’
‘Does that mean you’re working on the theory that he died where he was found?’
Wisting swallowed noisily, hoping this could not be heard at the other end of the line. ‘If not, it would be a clear case of murder.’
‘But it’s not?’
Nils Hammer emerged from the tent with a powerful flashlight, switched on the beam and trained it on the bottom of the well.
‘I have to go now,’ Wisting said, hearing how abrupt he sounded. ‘Can you call me back in a couple of hours?’
‘In a couple of hours,’ the journalist confirmed.
Wisting stored the number as Morten P, VG and returned his phone to his pocket. He trudged across to the well and leaned over the edge. It was deeper than he had thought, perhaps a depth of six or seven metres. Frozen water lay like a black mirror at the bottom.
44
The massive church door closed heavily behind her.
Although Line had been delayed by the news editor’s phone call, she was early for the service. The man from the funeral directors, however, was already present. He smiled sympathetically, handing her a programme. Line returned his smile as she accepted it. The reverse side said Thank you for coming.
‘Is it all right if I take photographs?’ she asked.
He used his hand to indicate the empty church, the white coffin placed in front of the altar. On either side, flickering candles in huge three-armed candlesticks cast shadows on the whitewashed walls.
Line took a couple of photos. Her wreath was displayed at the end of the coffin, a simple bouquet of red roses lying on the casket lid. Apart from that, there were no more flowers. She chose a camera angle on which the message from the neighbours was not prominent.
When her mother died she thought a great deal about how death is always cloaked in funeral rituals: the Late Departed, as if the person has just gone to another place, Rest in Peace, as if death is nothing but a protracted, longed-for sleep in soft bedding. Afterwards, she had written an article for the weekend magazine, including an interview with a linguistics researcher about how language conceals the true meaning of death. How we try to soften the brutal fact of its finality.
Still no others had arrived. She sat on a pew in the third row on the right-hand side. Feeble rays of winter sun seeped through the stained glass window above the altar, particles of dust dancing in the air. The organist began to play a subdued prelude which she recognised as a psalm, though she did not remember the words.
The door opened and she heard footsteps behind her until they stopped as someone sat down. Being so far forward meant she could not see those who arrived later. She stood again and walked back up the aisle. It was Eivind Aske, the painter. She greeted him with a nod and took a seat in the second row from the back.
It was seven minutes to eleven. She had already done a lot today, even if it had not all borne fruit. She had gone into the nearest food retailers and spoken to the staff, but none of them recalled Viggo Hansen. At least, they could not say anything for certain without seeing a photograph. The same applied in the hairdressing salon. They had a number of older male clients, but no one knew who Viggo Hansen was.
The locksmith had given her the name and phone number of Roger Nicolaysen, who had fitted two new locks to Viggo Hansen’s door, and who may well have been the last person to talk to him. He had not answered her call before the funeral.
The last thing she had done before leaving was look at her emails. The fact-checking department had located a Frank Iversen who was one year older than Viggo Hansen. He had lived in Stavern and later moved to Langesund. Now he was listed as having emigrated to Denmark, but they had succeeded in finding an address and phone number for him there.
The church bell began to toll. At the same time, the door opened and Line heard more, lighter, footfalls on the smooth floor.
The woman who walked past was short and had blond hair in a thick plait. She placed a long-stemmed red rose on the coffin lid, turned and walked back to the third row of pews and sat down where Line had been previously. She would be about the same age as Viggo Hansen, around sixty. Her face was narrow and anaemic.
Irene of the Christmas cards, Line guessed, and decided to talk to her after the service.
When the bell stopped ringing a clergyman emerged from the sacristy, stood beside the coffin and made a deep bow to the congregation before taking his seat.
The organist began again, and the man from the funeral directors sat in the pew directly across from Line and began to sing: ‘Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide.’
Line opened her programme leaflet and joined in. ‘When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, o abide with me.’
Towards the end of the hymn the clergyman stood and approached the unadorned pulpit. ‘We are gathered here today to bid farewell to Viggo Hansen,’ he said. ‘Together we will give him into Our Lord’s keeping. We do not have many words to say in memory of him. We are gathered in silence.’
Line bowed her h
ead as he led the opening prayer, followed by another psalm, ‘What a friend we have in Jesus,’ before clearing his throat and embarking on the eulogy.
‘Winter has made its mark on the natural world,’ he said. ‘As if it is hiding what was once there. I would like to share some thoughts about this as we take our leave of Viggo Hansen.’
His gaze wandered among the few people present, from Line to the woman who had brought the single rose, to the man from the funeral directors, then to Eivind Aske and back to Line.
‘I did not know Viggo Hansen,’ he continued. ‘I cannot say anything meaningful about what sort of person he was, who he was, what he dreamed about, what he laughed or cried at. However, there is something liberating about remembering the dead as participants in the march of history. Everyone has a place in the book of life. No one has lived in vain.’
Continuing the speech he had discussed with Line he stood stock still as he spoke, clutching both sides of the pulpit as if afraid he would fall.
‘There is comfort and redemption in God’s remembrance of us all,’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘By God we are remembered for all eternity. Not even the least one of us will perish.’ He lowered his gaze and whispered softly, ‘Amen.’
A black wrought iron chest containing a spade and fresh soil sat on the floor beside the coffin. He took up the spade and filled it.
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,’ he declaimed, sprinkling the coffin lid with earth and bringing the ceremony to a close. The church bell tolled three times and he walked up the aisle, followed closely by the man from the funeral directors. Line got to her feet but waited until the woman from the third row had passed before following the little procession.
Usually the coffin was carried out to a waiting car, but there were insufficient people. There was no one to carry it, and so it was left. It was to be incinerated on Friday, and Line had asked permission to come to the crematorium and take one last photograph.
The Caveman Page 16