He finished their conversation to answer an incoming call from Torunn Borg.
‘Odd Werner Ellefsen,’ she said, as if reading from a text and stopping at a colon. ‘He grew up in the home of an uncle and aunt who died when he was in his early twenties. After that he had no family, and there’s never been anyone else registered at his address.’
‘No girlfriend, then,’ Wisting said.
‘In the nineties he worked for a while at one of the Jotun paint factories. He’s been on disability pension since 1998.’
‘Solvents,’ Wisting said, interrupting. ‘Do you know if they used chloroform in the factory?’ If Odd Werner Ellefsen had previously had access to the chemical it would support Wisting’s suspicions.
‘We can find out.’
‘What else have you come up with?’
‘He drives a silver Toyota Camry, 1998 model.’
‘Criminal record?’
‘A spot fine from Customs last summer. Import of four litres of liquor from Sweden; apart from that, nothing.’
‘Sweden?’ Wisting said. ‘When last summer?’
He heard Torunn Borg thumbing through papers. ‘19th July.’
‘Kikki Lindén went missing from Trollhättan on 18th. Who is leading the surveillance operation?’
‘Nils Hammer.’
Wisting ended the call to Torunn Borg and phoned Hammer. ‘What can you tell me?’ he asked.
‘He’s not at home,’ Hammer answered. ‘He’s probably out driving. The garage is empty. Judging from the tracks in the driveway, he drove out almost immediately after it began to snow.’
‘Do you have a secure surveillance post?’
‘We have a car at each end of the street, and we’re inside the house directly opposite. One of our undercover detectives is on the Parent Council with the woman who lives there. She’s cooking waffles for them now.’
‘Can she tell you anything about him?’
‘They don’t have any contact with him. They’ve never seen people there, but they did see Line visiting. At least, it must have been her. Aged about thirty and driving a grey Golf; first visit was Monday. She went inside the house then, and came back again yesterday evening.’
‘Yesterday evening?’
‘Yes. Have you spoken to her about this?’
Wisting shook his head, as if Hammer could see him. ‘Ring me as soon as you catch sight of him,’ he said. Then he phoned Leif Malm again.
‘This is Wisting,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘How quickly can you trace her phone?’
74
Line’s hands were still tied together behind her back and the rope was chafing her wrists. She twisted round and felt her way to the putty knife, grabbed it and wriggled over the broken seat back, pulling herself forward on her elbows, and pushing with her legs until she could reach far enough into the car to raise her head and look outside. Snow was everywhere, partly like a smooth white carpet and partly accumulated in deep drifts.
The car was parked at the entrance to an avenue of mature birch trees with a red house at the far end. The track leading to it had not been cleared and there were footprints in the snow, although no one was to be seen. The car must have become stuck on its way to the house.
Placing the putty knife on the rope round her wrists, she began to rub, grinding backwards and forwards, feeling it digging into the strands until suddenly it slipped from her fingers. She managed to catch it before it fell to the floor, but had to waste time feeling her way back to the notch she had already made.
Her body was tense and her breath whistled in her nostrils. As she put more pressure on the putty knife, it felt as though she was rubbing more skin than rope, and only the tape across her mouth prevented her from screaming out loud. Pain and despair brought tears to her eyes but she continued to work away, keeping her mind on what she would do when she was free. She glanced at the ignition, but there was no key. The surrounding area appeared to be deserted, as if they were somewhere in the countryside. Flight was her only option, but the snow would make her easy to follow.
The rope suddenly broke.
Pulling the tape from her mouth, she filled her lungs in deep gulps and rubbed at her wrists before pulling up her feet and picking at the knot with one corner of the knife. Eventually it loosened enough for her to tug the ends of the rope apart. Creeping forward in the car, she raised her head and peered outside at a desolate wilderness.
Tentatively, she opened the car door. The air was bitterly cold with a faint salty tang. She must be somewhere along the coast, she thought.
Her foot sank into the snow as she stepped out, standing for a moment before leaning into the car to pick up the putty knife. Crouching beside the rear wheel she pressed the corner of the knife into the tyre until she could hear the whistling sound of air seeping out. Then she moved in a stooped position around the car, puncturing each of the tyres in turn, until she started walking.
The dress she had chosen the previous evening was thin and only thigh-length. Her high boots protected her a little, but above them she wore only fine nylon tights, already torn in several places. As the distance between her and the car increased, she broke into a run, though she could see nothing but white winter landscape all around.
75
Wisting drove to the police station. In the changing room toilets, he splashed his face with cold water, drying with a paper towel, staring at himself in the mirror, observing himself as others saw him. His expression was calm and serious, even as a wave of anxiety swept through him. The situation made his head spin and he felt sick. When his mobile phone rang, he hooked it out of his pocket. It was Line’s journalist colleague, Morten P.
‘Yes?’ he said breathlessly.
‘Do you have any comment?’
‘To what?’
‘To the photo I sent you?’
‘What photo?’
‘I just sent it to your mobile.’
Wisting removed the phone from his ear to peer at the display. He had received one message without hearing the bleep, while the water was running in the basin. He opened it and looked at the image. Even on the tiny screen, he could see the white body bags, one being lifted into a car, two lying on the ground. Quite involuntarily, he gasped for breath.
‘The news desk is preparing a headline saying that several bodies have been brought out. Will you confirm that?’
‘I don’t have any comment,’ Wisting said, heading for the stairs. ‘Not at present.’
Morten P began to argue, but Wisting broke off the conversation.
A photographer must have sneaked behind the crime scene tape and soon the whole case would explode. The photo must have triggered furious activity at the VG news desk. They would be reading about this for weeks.
The communications adviser emerged from Christine Thiis’ office with red blotches on his throat and face. ‘It’s out,’ he said before Wisting reached him. ‘VG has photos of body bags at the discovery site.’
‘I know,’ Wisting replied. It had only been a question of time; nevertheless, they were ill-prepared.
‘We have to compose a press release,’ the communications adviser said, notepad in hand. ‘We can’t hold back any longer.’
Wisting turned on his heel and made for his own office, calling out for Benjamin Fjeld. The communications adviser followed him in. ‘We’ve waited too long already,’ he said.
Benjamin Fjeld appeared in the doorway behind him. Wisting rooted around in the papers on his desk to find the list of ten missing women. ‘Get in touch with the responsible investigators,’ he said. ‘Fill them in on the case and ask them to contact the families. The parents have to be told that we may have found their daughters before they see any media reports.’
Christine Thiis appeared at the door, nodding approvingly. Benjamin Fjeld took the list and left as Wisting turned to face the communications adviser.
‘This is what you write,’ he said. ‘The police have conducted further investigations in the area
where sixty-seven-year-old American citizen Bob Crabb was found murdered on Friday 9th December. Discoveries have been made at the site and further information will be given at a press conference . . .’ He glanced at his watch: almost half past two. Things were moving quickly. ‘. . . at 18.00,’ he suggested, looking at Christine Thiis, who again nodded. ‘Media enquiries prior to that will not be answered.’
The communications adviser noted all this and left the office without another word. Wisting sat down.
‘I’ll need to have you there,’ Christine Thiis said.
‘We’ll have to sit like prize exhibits, all of us,’ Wisting said. ‘Are you going to speak to Donald Baker?’
She nodded and, turning to go, bumped into Espen Mortensen at the door.
‘Anything new?’ Wisting asked.
‘By the time I left, we had found eight bodies,’ he said, ‘and we haven’t reached the bottom yet. There could be more.’ He stood in front of the map with the ten faces. ‘I understand that Odd Werner Ellefsen may be the man we’re looking for. Have you spoken to Line?’
Shaking his head, Wisting tried hard to seem unconcerned. ‘I can’t get hold of her,’ he said, taking a portable police radio from his desk drawer and turning to the channel used by the undercover detectives.
‘Do we have any idea of where he is?’ Mortensen asked.
‘The tyre tracks from the garage are covered in snow,’ Wisting said. ‘That means he left his home sometime this morning. He could have travelled a considerable distance by now.’
‘How long have you been thinking about this business of the wig? That the strands of hair in Bob Crabb’s hand could be from a toupee?’
‘It struck me at the moment I said it. Could that be true from a purely technical viewpoint?’
‘Absolutely.’
The radio made a crackling sound: ‘A man is approaching on foot,’ one of the undercover detectives reported. ‘Passing the intersection at Huitfeldts gate.’
Wisting increased the volume. The detectives in the house opposite Ellefsen’s responded: ‘Continuing along Bugges gate,’ and added: ‘Rapid footsteps, looking over his shoulder.’
Wisting grabbed the radio and barked his name. ‘Is it him?’ he asked, understanding that the suspect would have been named if they had recognised him.
‘The problem is that we don’t know what he looks like,’ the detective reported back. ‘There aren’t any photographs of him.’
‘Don’t we have a description?’
‘Aged sixty, about five foot ten in height, normal build, according to the neighbour,’ Hammer intervened. ‘Grey beard, bristly dark blond hair.’
‘The height and build could fit,’ the undercover detective said. ‘Age too, judging by his gait, but he’s walking with his head hidden between the lapels of his jacket.’
‘Are you sure his car isn’t in the garage?’
‘Yes.’
The radio went quiet until Hammer reported they could see him approach. Odd Werner Ellefsen’s house was second-last in the street that ended at a fenced industrial area. The farther along the street the man walked, the greater the chance it could be him.
‘Fox 0-5,’ he said, calling the officer in charge of the Emergency Squad. ‘Do you have anyone present to stop him before he enters the house?’
‘Negative. We’ve packed our equipment and are driving through the gate now.’
Wisting crossed to the window to see the Emergency Squad vehicle leaving.
‘It is him,’ Hammer said. ‘He’s letting himself into the house now.’
Wisting felt too restless to remain in an office. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked, picking up the police radio transmitter.
Mortensen shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here and get the fingerprint exam ready,’ he said. ‘If you bring him in, it’ll take only a few minutes to find out whether he’s the man he purports to be.’
76
Wisting parked behind the vehicle used by his undercover colleagues, his stomach knotted with anxiety about Line, his mouth dry and his hands sticky with sweat.
Donald Baker leaned forward in the passenger seat, staring at the house at the end of the street. The Emergency Squad officers had observation posts on all sides.
‘Where did he keep them?’ Wisting asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘In some of the reports, it says that the first women were kept alive for up to seventy-two hours before they were killed. Where did he hold them?’
‘He may have used a workman’s hut on the outer edge of his uncle’s apple farm. It was searched several years afterwards. No technical evidence was found, but it was conspicuously well cleaned.’
‘3-0 Alpha in position,’ came across on the police radio. ‘All the curtains are drawn.’
‘Received,’ the officer in charge answered. ‘Wait.’
The passenger door of the car in front opened and the officer in charge emerged, skirted round them and sat behind Wisting. ‘What’s our plan?’ he asked.
‘I’ll go and ring the doorbell,’ Wisting said.
‘I expect that could be called a plan, of sorts. Listen, I have ten armed men here.’
‘We don’t have legal grounds for an arrest,’ Wisting said. ‘We don’t even know if he’s the man we’re after. If we’re going to check him out, the simplest way is to make the least possible fuss.’
The officer leaned back. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It’s your show, but you can’t go in alone.’
‘I’ll take Hammer with me.’
‘Then I’ll inform the crew.’
Five minutes later, Wisting stood on the doorstep with Nils Hammer, rapping his knuckles on the rickety window on the front door. A shadow appeared behind the glass and a sallow-complexioned man opened.
‘Mr. Godwin?’ Wisting asked.
The man looked bewildered. His beard obscured most of his face, but Wisting saw no similarity with the more than twenty-year-old wanted poster of Robert Godwin. His hair looked real, bushy and uneven, as if he cut it himself.
‘Mr. Robert Godwin?’ Wisting made another attempt.
‘Ellefsen,’ said the man in the doorway. ‘You’ve made a mistake. My name is Ellefsen. Odd Werner Ellefsen.’
He tried to shut the door, but Wisting held it open. ‘I’m from the police,’ he said, giving his name. ‘Where’s your car?’
‘My car?’
‘Where is it?’
‘At the Viking garage. I drove off the road. They towed it in.’
‘Listen,’ Hammer said. ‘We’re working on a case and need your fingerprints to exclude you from the enquiry.’
‘Okay then.’
Odd Werner Ellefsen looked like a man who was not used to expressing his opinions, who preferred to defer to others. If a serial killer was hiding here, there were two possible reactions to be anticipated: attack or flight. He must have anticipated this day, and passivity was hardly likely. However, if his past was going to catch up with him, he would not have reckoned it would arrive in the form of a middle-aged, plain-clothes policeman.
‘We’d like you to come with us to the station,’ Wisting said, implying no choice.
‘Now?’
‘It won’t take long.’
Odd Werner Ellefsen took an outdoor jacket from a peg. He was brimming with questions, but unused to asking them.
‘A journalist visited you,’ Wisting said in the car. ‘What did she want?’
‘To talk about the old days.’
‘Such as what?’
‘People I don’t know any longer.’
‘Who would that be?’
‘Viggo Hansen. And Cato Tangen. They’re both dead. Nothing to talk about. Nothing to write about.’
‘She visited you more than once?’
‘Came back yesterday.’
‘Why was that?’
‘The same stuff.’
The car stopped for children carrying their sledges across the street.
‘Bob Crabb?’
Wisting asked when they were moving again. ‘Is that a name you know?’
‘There was something about him in the paper.’
They drove the rest of the distance to the police station in silence and handed Odd Werner Ellefsen to Espen Mortensen who was ready with the fingerprint reader. Returning to his office, Wisting passed Torunn Borg’s door. She put down the phone and glanced up at him.
‘They don’t use chloroform at the Jotun factory,’ she said.
‘I think we have the wrong man anyway.’ Wisting leaned on the door frame. ‘We’ve brought him in but the man with Mortensen just now has probably never been violent.’
‘The business of the chloroform doesn’t necessarily tell us much; it’s really only a movie cliché. There are other anaesthetising chemicals he could have used, almost any kind of solvent. If you breathe in the gases from thinners or turpentine, for example, you risk knocking yourself out. Teenagers sniff glue and lighter gas just for fun.’
‘Thinners and turpentine, who uses them?’
‘Painters, for instance. They use them to mix their paints and to clean their brushes and other tools.’
‘Anything else of interest?’
‘The family history trail doesn’t seem to have taken us anywhere.’
‘It must surely lead somewhere?’
‘The folk at the National Archives have managed to find a living third-cousin of Robert Godwin. He stays in Denmark. They have a common great-great-grandfather.’
Leif Malm appeared further down the corridor, tossing his head in the direction of the office door. Wisting held up a hand to Torunn Borg. He would hear the rest later. He followed Leif Malm into his own office and sat down.
‘The phone trace gave us nothing,’ Malm said. ‘The last activity was late last night. At that time, the mobile was located in the Farris Bad Hotel. Apparently it ran out of battery power overnight.’
‘So the last location was the hotel?’
‘We’ve watched the film from the CCTV cameras there. She left the hotel at 09.33 this morning.’
‘Is there anything more you can do?’ Wisting asked.
‘We have done more. Her computer has not been connected to the internet today. Neither has she checked her email, not from her computer, her mobile phone or any borrowed equipment. She normally checks frequently but the last time was last night at quarter past nine.’
The Caveman Page 26