‘A caveman,’ Wisting said, nodding. ‘Does that mean that if we identify this body from the well, we’ll have found Robert Godwin?’
‘How is it actually possible,’ Hammer asked, ‘for nobody to notice that someone takes another person’s place? Does anyone so anonymous really exist?’
‘It’s possible,’ Wisting said, thinking of Viggo Hansen. He was far from being the only person who lived such an isolated life, with no job or close relatives, no friends or social contact with neighbours. With nobody ever paying him a visit.
‘The list I’ve been working on is now down to forty-six names,’ Torunn Borg said, placing her hand on a stack of computer printouts. ‘None of them is recorded in the Passport Register, but I’m working on obtaining access to the Driving Licence Register. It will soon be time for us to start knocking on doors.’
‘Is there anyone on that list of forty-six who might be able to get hold of chloroform?’ Mortensen asked.
‘Not as far as we know,’ Torunn Borg said. ‘Most of the men on this list are unemployed.’
Christine Thiis put down the photograph of the skull with the spider’s web fracture. ‘Can we find out who this is?’
‘Identification is usually a matter of confirming a theory,’ Wisting said. ‘Depending on who was reported missing within a particular time frame, we can seek confirmation through dental records and DNA, or distinguishing marks such as tattoos, scars and birthmarks. If, that is, the body is intact. Here, at present, we have nothing to go on.’
‘We have the fracture on the arm,’ Mortensen said. ‘The man from the well had a break on his left lower arm.’
‘Where to begin?’ Hammer asked. ‘Given that he broke his arm at some point during his adult life, we would have to trace all arm fractures between 1970 and 1990. I don’t think the hospital has a readily accessible overview, even if we actually got permission to examine their data.’
Wisting agreed. ‘Let’s leave it in the meantime,’ he said.
‘How’s the family history research going?’ Christine Thiis asked. ‘Have we found any descendants of Robert Godwin’s great-great-grandparents?
‘It’s not so simple,’ replied Torunn Borg, who had been tasked with this aspect of the investigation, ‘but I’m expecting some answers before tomorrow’s out.’
‘Wasn’t his name Gustavsen, the guy who immigrated to America?’ Hammer asked, drawing Torunn Borg’s lists of names towards him. ‘Is there not a single one of these lonely souls with the surname Gustavsen?’
‘No Gustav, and no Gustavsen,’ Torunn Borg said. ‘The surname disappears in the generation that succeeded him.’
The informal meeting came to a close. Wisting returned to his office, where he took out the provisional autopsy report on Bob Crabb. In some of the accompanying photographs, his hair had been shaved off, the skin at the back of his scalp folded to one side and the wound washed clean, showing the same fracture pattern on this skull as on the cranium hoisted from the bottom of the well.
Deciding to take a step back, think through the case and let all the details filter through his consciousness, he put the documents aside. Usually he was searching for something they might have overlooked when he let his thoughts drift like this. Now he was looking for something to propel the case forward.
The most confusing aspect was the hair held in Bob Crabb’s clenched fist. It ran counter to everything in this case, but nevertheless there had to be a link. The explanation would be both logical and natural, but at that very moment he could not think of it.
He had been immersed in thought for half an hour when his mobile phone rang. Morten P, VG. At first he decided not to respond, but eventually pressed the answer button.
‘Any news in the case?’ the journalist asked.
‘What case?’
‘The body among the Christmas trees. Has he been identified?’
‘No.’
‘What’s taking you so long?’
‘That’s something you’d really need to ask the forensic scientists.’
‘I’ve tried. They’re saying nothing.’
‘That’s good to hear.’
‘Is there really nothing new?’
‘Strictly speaking, nothing at all.’
Wisting could hear the journalist leafing through papers at the other end. ‘We’ve received a tip-off that we’re talking about an American called Bob Crabb. Apparently, he rented an apartment in Stavern last summer and left his belongings there.’
Else Britt Gusland must have alerted the newspaper.
‘Can you confirm that?’ the journalist asked.
‘We’re aware of his stay in Norway.’
‘What was he doing here?’
‘As far as we know, he was doing family history research,’ Wisting said, resorting to Bob Crabb’s own cover story. ‘His forefathers immigrated to America at the end of the nineteenth century.’
‘Had he any family on the farm where he was found?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was he not reported missing by his family at home in the States?’
‘He had no family.’
‘Anything more about cause of death?’
‘Still too early to say.’
The journalist asked a few more questions, twisting the ones he had already asked, but Wisting managed to emerge without telling any direct lies or revealing anything that might create headlines. He had just ended the call when the phone rang again. Leif Malm, Kripos.
‘The Swedes have come up with five names,’ Malm said. ‘In Strömstad, Uddevalla, Trollhätten, and two in Gothenburg. They’ve already linked the cases. One of the investigators at the Swedish National Bureau of Investigation is on his way to Norway.’
63
Line showered and chose an outfit appropriate for the bar in the Farris Bad Hotel, actually a dress she had intended to wear on Christmas Eve. Before she dressed, she sat at the computer in bra and pants, uploading new photographs from her camera and printing the picture of the four boys who had prevented the fire at Reimes prawn factory in 1967.
She called up the old tax lists she had used when she embarked on this story, naming everyone in the local authority area of the same age as Viggo Hansen. She could not find anyone called Cato Tangen. On the internet, she found several people with that name, but no one whose age matched the man lounging over the handlebars of the old moped.
Her father had still not arrived home by the time she left, leaving a note for him on the kitchen table to say she might be late.
She had no expectations of the meeting, other than that it would be uncomplicated. There was something attractive about going out with a man she was not going to bump into in the canteen the next day or encounter in a coffee bar the following week. Now and again she missed being in a long-term relationship, and the stability and security of that. However, at present it was delightful to escape any serious entanglement, and equally delightful to be embarking on a non-committing adventure.
She had not had very many boyfriends, her longest relationship being with Tommy Kvanter. One of the things she had fallen for had been his energy. Never at rest, he had tremendous strength and charisma. When his enthusiasm was directed at her, as it had been in the beginning, it had felt absolutely marvellous, jolting her out of her trivial everyday problems. After a few months though, Tommy started to focus on things other than her, spending his weekends white-water rafting, mountain climbing and in other extreme sports. He lived so completely in the moment, and extreme sports demanded such concentration that it was impossible to think about the past or the future. And that was the way he preferred it.
She left early, intending to revisit Odd Werner Ellefsen in Torstrand before heading for the hotel. He was at the back of his parked car in front of the open garage door as she drew to a halt, lifting two carrier bags, advertising a department store on the other side of the Swedish border, from the boot of his vehicle.
‘Hello again,’ Line said, ‘been on a shop
ping trip?’
‘In Sweden,’ he answered, setting down the shopping bags and slamming the boot lid.
It dawned on Line that she was not really dressed for an outdoor conversation. ‘I have a photo I’d like you to look at,’ she said. Odd Werner Ellefsen cocked his head. ‘I’m trying to find Cato Tangen.’ She showed him the picture from the fire at the prawn factory.
‘Can’t help you,’ he answered, pulling down the garage door.
‘You don’t know where he lives now?’
He nodded at the picture in Line’s hand. ‘That’s a long time ago,’ he said, picking up his shopping bags. ‘It’s chilly,’ he said.
Line watched his retreating back as he closed the door behind him; she returned to her car, started the engine and adjusted the heater to direct hot air on her feet.
At quarter to nine she parked in the long-stay car park close to the hotel, feeling slightly too early, although she had not arranged a specific time to meet the American. Sitting with the engine running she looked out Annie Nyhus’ phone number. Remembering the prawn factory and Frank Iversen as she did, she must have a good recollection of the fifties and sixties.
The old woman answered after two rings and Line introduced herself. ‘Can I help you with something?’ she asked politely.
‘I’m trying to find somebody called Cato Tangen. I’ve come across an old photograph of him with Viggo Hansen at the time of the fire at the prawn factory in 1967.’
‘But, my dear, Cato Tangen is dead. He died in a motorbike accident in the summer of 1968.’
Line picked up the picture lying on the front passenger seat, thinking it strange that Odd Werner Ellefsen had not known that. ‘There’s another boy in the photograph. Do you know someone called Odd Werner Ellefsen from that time?’
‘The Ellefsen boy, yes. Nora and Peter took him in some time in the mid-fifties. They both worked at the match factory in Agnes, and didn’t have any children of their own.’
‘He was a foster child?’
‘Yes, his mother died a few months after he was born. His father was Peter’s brother. Sigurd, he was called, a well digger, but he drank himself out of a job and the child. He couldn’t take responsibility, so Nora and Peter took Odd Werner for their own. He was a peculiar child, in every way, but of course he hadn’t had the best start in life. He was the one who set fire to the prawn factory, though it never came out at the time.’
‘He was the one?’
‘German Ole got the blame, but it wasn’t him. There wasn’t much damage done, but a lot of people had their own thoughts when Odd Werner’s father, Sigurd, burned to death in his house four years later.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nobody really knows. He lived in one of the workers’ houses at Agnes, and one night it caught fire and he was killed. That was in 1971. Odd Werner was twenty-one at the time. He hadn’t had any further contact with his father after he’d been given away, until the evening before the fire. The neighbours heard them quarrelling.’
Line put the picture of the four boys down. Maybe not so strange, she thought, that Odd Werner Ellefsen had been so uncommunicative, if he was the one who had started the fire at the prawn factory. ‘Are Nora and Peter still living?’
‘No, that was tragic as well. Peter drowned while out ice fishing the same year as his brother burned to death. Nora took ill and died the following summer.’
‘So Odd Werner was left on his own?’
‘By that time he was grown up, but I don’t think he’s ever had a girlfriend or anything. At least not while he was living here in Stavern. Later, he moved to Larvik but, as I said, he was a peculiar lad.’
Thanking her for the information, Line switched off the ignition and walked to the ticket machine. She inserted thirty kroner, enough to park until 00.53. Instead of pressing the button to print the ticket, she dashed back to her car and returned with all the coins stashed on the mid-console. Once she fed them all in she had permission to park until 09.55.
64
John Bantam stood up when she entered, took her hand and gazed intently into her eyes before leaning forward to give her a hug, leaving a faint masculine scent of after-shave in his wake. ‘Eaten yet?’
Line shook her head. She was actually feeling quite hungry.
The head waiter found them a window table and John Bantam held out a chair for her and waited until she was settled before sitting down himself. Line could not remember the last time she had been out with someone who did that. He opened the menu. ‘I’m so glad you agreed to come,’ he said. ‘It’s pleasant to spend time on something other than work.’
‘What work do you do?’ she asked.
‘I’m an analyst’,
‘What do you analyse?’
‘Information. I work mainly on gathering knowledge and information for public authorities, and trying to look at things in context.’ He smiled. ‘But now I have some time off.’
Line returned his smile, not wanting to discuss her work either. That would be the empty chitchat of a first date, like talking about the weather.
He recommended she order baked halibut for starters and duck for her main course. ‘You’re not driving?’ he asked, looking at the wine menu. She shook her head.
‘Good,’ he said, and ordered a bottle of white wine from Argentina. ‘That has travelled almost as far as I have.’
He talked entertainingly about everything from music and films to American politics, with amusing anecdotes about people he had met and places he had been. After their main course he ordered chocolate mousse for them both and another bottle of wine. Two hours later they were in his room on the top floor with windows overlooking the sea. Outside, it was a cold moonlit night and she could make out the contours of an uneven line far out on the horizon where dark clouds were gathering.
‘The weather’s going to change,’ he said. ‘It’s getting milder.’
A note of hesitation had entered his voice, as if he felt less self-confident in this situation, but he approached her and laid his head in the crook of her neck. She put her arms around him, pulling him even closer. He pushed her away and gazed at her for a few moments, with moonlight shining in his eyes. ‘I’ll get us something else to drink.’
It was unnecessary, but she did not protest and paid a visit to the bathroom while she waited. She took out her phone and sent a quick message to her father. Caught up in something. Coming home tomorrow. She did not have to let him know, but liked to do so when staying under his roof. She knew he would worry if she didn’t, and he obviously had enough worries.
65
Wisting’s mobile phone signalled as he drove into the courtyard in front of the house. He switched off the ignition and fumbled to see who had called. It was a message from Line saying she would not be home until tomorrow. He replied OK before opening the car door and stepping into the completely silent neighbourhood. A full moon shone in a sky strewn with stars and snow-laden trees cast pale shadows.
Letting himself into the empty house, he hung up his jacket, took off his shoes and made for the kitchen. In the fridge he searched for something to stave off his hunger without having to do any cooking. He decided on a wheat bran yogurt and an apple.
In the bathroom he undressed, brushed his teeth, and appraised his naked body in the mirror, momentarily pulling in his stomach to see if he could detect traces of his younger and more athletic self. With a sigh, he switched off the light and crept upstairs to bed. He was almost asleep when the phone rang: Morten P, VG.
‘Sorry for calling so late,’ the journalist said.
Wisting grunted a response.
‘We’re going to press in an hour and something’s cropped up that I wanted to run past you. We’ve been in touch with the police in Minneapolis, where Bob Crabb came from. They confirm he’s the man who’s been found, and that they’ve searched his apartment following a request from the Norwegian police.’
‘I see.’
‘What’s behind all this, Wist
ing? Our information suggests that this case has been given top priority from every quarter: our local police, Kripos, Interpol and the police at 3rd Precinct in Minneapolis but, according to what we’ve discovered, this Bob Crabb is just a retired university lecturer from Minnesota.’
‘Professor,’ Wisting corrected him, pleased that the journalist had not yet learned about the FBI.
‘An enormous operation has been initiated. I could understand if he was a high-ranking government official or something along those lines, even a Hollywood star, but a pensioner on holiday in Norway?’
Wisting’s thought processes were sluggish. He had been on the receiving end of many such phone calls from journalists, confronting him with information the police would prefer to hold back for tactical reasons. He was used to improvising, parrying questions with off-the-cuff remarks so rounded at the edges they were bordering on lies, but now his brain was dead and he could not utter a word.
‘After the coverage in today’s paper, we’ve come into contact with a high school teacher called Endre Jacobsen. He and his son were the ones who found the body when they went to fetch a Christmas tree. He’s quite certain that the body was pushed under the branches, that the dead man could not have lain down like that by himself or had any kind of accident.’
‘I see,’ Wisting said again.
‘I appreciate you can’t say much, but can you confirm whether you’re treating this as murder, or not?’
Wisting cleared his throat to give the journalist the standard response: they were keeping all possibilities open, but then his brain began to function. The reporter had been in touch with the American police. No matter what, they were going to print a follow-up to today’s story. He had an opportunity to steer the information.
‘We’ve instigated a murder investigation,’ he confirmed, thinking this might be something to drive the enquiry forward. All they knew about Bob Crabb’s stay in Norway was what they had learned from the woman who had let her apartment to him. They needed more. Somewhere or other was a point of contact between the American professor and Robert Godwin.
The Caveman Page 22