‘There’s one outgoing call,’ he reported. ‘To Hannah Krogh.’
Stiller’s jaw dropped, but he refrained from saying anything.
‘The call was disconnected as soon as she answered,’ Wisting continued. ‘She only managed to give her name.’
‘She and Joachim Krogh live in Heistad, don’t they?’ Stiller asked.
‘He looked up the phone number and address on the Internet,’ Wisting told him.
‘He’s there now.’
‘How far away are you?’
‘Three or four minutes.’
‘Do you need back-up?’
‘It depends what he’s doing. What do you think?’
There was silence at the other end.
‘Maybe he has something to tell them,’ Stiller suggested.
‘In the middle of the night?’
‘That doesn’t matter so much if what he has to say is important.’ Stiller needed the map for directions. ‘Get into your car,’ he said, ‘and come here!’
He broke off contact and accessed the map again. The red dot was at a standstill on the same spot. Stiller found a spur road that led into the neighbourhood. Three minutes later he parked his car three hundred metres away and turned off the ignition. According to the map, only a grove of trees separated him from Martin Haugen. He adjusted the level of detail on the map and saw a dotted line through the trees. A footpath.
He stepped out of the car, familiarized himself with his surroundings, and found his way to the well-trodden path. Darkness closed in around him as he walked between the trees but after a while he could distinguish light from the houses on the other side.
Haugen’s pickup was parked with its front wheels off the road and its bonnet facing an enormous property with a paved courtyard, a wrought-iron fence and a gate. The house itself was two-storeyed, with bay windows, high gables and dark panorama windows. There was no one to be seen. No sign of life.
From where he stood, he could not see inside the pickup. He would have to go back into the woods again and try to look at it from further along the road.
When he had emerged to take up a different position, he could see someone sitting behind the wheel. Martin Haugen’s face was faintly illuminated by the nearby streetlamp. He sat motionless, with his eyes trained on the Krogh family’s house. It was 2.41 and he had been sitting there for nine minutes.
Stiller lingered in the darkness, waiting, though he did not quite know what he was waiting for. After five minutes he withdrew into the trees and called Wisting.
‘He’s sitting in his pickup outside the Krogh house,’ he told him.
‘I see,’ Wisting replied, sounding preoccupied.
Stiller explained where his colleague could leave his car and how to find his way through the woods.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Wisting said.
Stiller switched off the sound on his mobile phone and tucked it into his pocket so that he would feel the vibration if anyone rang. Then he crept out on to the road again. Martin Haugen was still sitting in the same place. The distance between them was forty metres.
A light came on in a house further along the street. Haugen shifted position slightly; enough for Stiller to know he was awake.
Two minutes later the light was switched off and directly afterwards a rustle behind him signalled Wisting’s arrival.
‘He’s just been sitting there,’ Stiller whispered, checking his watch. ‘Nearly half an hour has gone by.’
Wisting produced a small pair of binoculars and raised them to his eyes without saying a word.
Stiller leaned against a tree trunk.
Twenty minutes passed without anything happening. Stiller looked at his watch again. ‘Almost an hour now,’ he said.
At that moment the pickup door opened and Martin Haugen climbed out. He stood beside his vehicle with his face turned to the house.
‘What do we do if he goes in?’ Stiller whispered.
Wisting did not answer.
Martin Haugen crossed the street and stood in the lamplight in front of the gate. Suddenly he turned on his heel and returned to his pickup, jumped inside and started the engine. Stiller and Wisting hunkered down until the vehicle had driven off.
They rushed back through the trees and returned to their cars. They stood, following Haugen’s movements, until he swung on to the E18, on his way home again.
‘I think he’s on the brink,’ Stiller said, turning to face Wisting. ‘I think he wanted to tell them what he did with Nadia.’
Wisting remained silent, but Stiller could see he was thinking along the same lines.
‘I think he just needs a little push,’ Stiller went on. ‘And you’re the one to give it to him.’
48
‘He just sat there?’ Hammer asked.
Wisting pulled up a chair to the conference table and gave him an exhausted look over his coffee cup. ‘For almost an hour,’ he said.
‘Then it’ll probably be early to bed for you tonight,’ Hammer joked.
Adrian Stiller stood beside the worktop, spooning white powder from a packet into a glass of water. ‘Where is he now?’ he asked, glancing from Hammer in the direction of the comms surveillance room.
‘At work.’
‘We have to take his pickup, by the way,’ Wisting said. ‘The track up to the cabin is too rough. He’s coming to collect me at four o’clock.’
Stiller stirred the glass with a fork before downing the cloudy drink with a grimace on his face. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll also give you two recorders to cover Saturday. They both normally have sufficient talking time and battery life, but you must have a back-up.’
Christine Thiis sat listening to them. ‘Shouldn’t we have arranged some kind of physical protection for you?’ she asked, with a fleeting look at Wisting. ‘You’re going to be entirely on your own with him.’
‘I have been lots of times before,’ Wisting commented.
‘But not tasked with trying to force something out of him,’ Christine Thiis pointed out.
‘The police helicopter’s half an hour away,’ Stiller said. ‘Make sure you’ve got plenty of juice in your mobile phone so you can send a message if anything untoward happens.’ He headed to his briefcase at the door and crouched over it. ‘I have something for you,’ he said, producing a bottle of cognac. ‘Have a good trip.’
Wisting took it from him; it was a bottle of Hennessy.
‘Does Haugen drink cognac?’ Christine Thiis asked.
‘It’s his favourite brand,’ Hammer said. ‘He has a half-empty bottle at home.’
‘Anyway, he’s sure to want to taste this one,’ Stiller said. ‘It’s a limited edition and cost nearly four thousand kroner. You’ll have to make up a story about receiving it as a gift or something.’
‘When will you be home again?’ Hammer asked.
Wisting shrugged. ‘We haven’t made any fixed arrangement,’ he answered. ‘Around four on Sunday, I expect.’
‘Forty-eight hours,’ Stiller said. ‘A lot can happen in forty-eight hours.’
49
Amalie was stretched out on her tummy in the playpen, captivated by a rattle. From time to time she shook it energetically, before stopping to scrutinize it carefully once again.
Line sat on the settee, reading the first instalment published on the Internet. The news desk had used the digitally manipulated image of Nadia Krogh as clickbait. Her article was unchanged, but the photo had been incorporated into an info box detailing what Nadia Krogh might look like now. The picture was credited to the police and TV2.
The entire feature on TV2 irritated her. She thought Stiller must have been behind it all, just as he had arranged for the publication of her story. TV2 could have put their oar in next week and the programme would have been helped along by the newspaper coverage. Readers would have been drawn to watch the TV input.
She found his name in her contacts list and called him. Anyway, she was keen to find out if the programme ha
d led to any tip-offs.
The number rang out with no one answering.
She sent a text message instead, referring to Crime Scene Norway and asking if there had been any new developments in the case. This was what she would have to concentrate on from now on. The series of articles and the podcast would have to elicit something new and somehow lead to an answer about what had happened to Nadia Krogh.
50
The post was distributed at the police station at half past nine. Wisting went to the photocopy room and emptied his pigeonhole of the usual bundle of new documents about current criminal cases, various circulars and letters that had been returned. Within the bundle he also found a large envelope from the Criminal Justice Social Work Service. He laid everything else aside and opened it. It contained a letter for Inger Lise Ness with information about where and when she should arrive to serve her prison sentence. In addition, there was an information booklet with practical details about what she could and could not bring with her, rules about visits, phone time, academic and leisure opportunities, and various programmes available in prison.
He took the envelope and went down to his car. It looked as if the weather forecast had been correct. It had stopped raining, the wind had turned and the clouds had scattered. He could even see patches of blue sky.
Visiting Martin Haugen’s former wife had been an impulse, and now it seemed a pretty crazy idea. He did not know what he hoped to achieve, and would have to play things by ear. But that was what this entire case was like, anyway: because there was little of substance, it was a matter of finding the right buttons to push.
The name was on a plate above the doorbell: Inger Lise Ness. No other name beside it.
He could not hear anything from inside when he pressed the doorbell. He waited for a moment and tried again, but concluded that the bell was out of order and rapped his knuckles on the door.
Something was shouted from inside. Wisting was unsure whether it was come in, and went on waiting. Immediately afterwards Inger Lise Ness appeared at the door. She was eight years older than Martin Haugen, and the age difference now seemed even greater. Her hair had turned grey since the last time Wisting had seen her, and it looked as if all the air had gone out of her somehow. Her face was wrinkled and there were bags under her eyes.
‘I’m from the police,’ Wisting told her.
‘I know who you are,’ the woman replied.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked.
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’ve got some papers for you,’ Wisting explained. ‘A prison summons.’
Inger Lise Ness sighed loudly as she ushered him in. They sat in the kitchen. Wisting told her where and when to turn up and asked her to sign a tear-off strip from the summons.
‘Can’t I bring my knitting?’ she asked, studying the information brochure.
‘Not if it’s not on the list,’ Wisting said.
‘Three outdoor jackets,’ Inger Lise Ness read out. ‘Why would I need three outdoor jackets in jail?’
With a shrug, Wisting tucked the signed part of the summons into his folder.
‘And a prayer mat,’ she went on. ‘I can bring a prayer mat, but I can’t bring my knitting.’
Wisting got to his feet, unsure of how to steer the conversation towards the real purpose of his visit. ‘Do you see anything of Martin Haugen these days?’ he asked.
Inger Lise Ness seemed taken aback by the question, even though Martin was one of the few things they had in common.
‘Why would I?’ she asked, putting down the brochure. ‘I’m finished with all that. It was a long time ago.’
‘She’s never been found,’ Wisting commented.
‘That doesn’t really bother me,’ she answered, touching a hand to her wrinkled neck.
Wisting struggled to interpret the expression on her face, but all he could make out was some sort of amazement at how the old case had suddenly become the topic of conversation.
‘We’re considering reopening the investigation,’ Wisting told her. ‘Going through the whole case and talking to everyone again.’
Inger Lise Ness did not utter a word.
‘I think someone knows something that hasn’t come out yet,’ Wisting went on.
Once again he tried to see if what he had said might have provoked some kind of reaction in the woman facing him, but found nothing.
‘Don’t come to me,’ she warned him.
‘You said at the time we didn’t know what he was really like,’ Wisting continued.
‘Who?’
‘Martin Haugen. You said in an interview that we didn’t know what he was really like.’
Inger Lise Ness had stood up and was beginning to make for the door, as if eager to get rid of her visitor. ‘That could well be,’ she said.
Wisting followed her to the front door. ‘What is he like?’ he asked. ‘Really?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘It’s just one of those things you say. It was a long time ago, and I no longer know him. Don’t have any interest in him either.’
Wisting tried one more throw of the dice. ‘But you knew him then?’
‘I’m finished with him,’ Inger Lise Ness said. ‘It took a long time and cost me more than it should have, but it’s all over between me and Martin Haugen.’
He got no further than that and thanked her for her time, even though he still had no idea what he had actually hoped to achieve by this visit.
51
His rucksack, made of green nylon fabric, was about thirty years old and he recalled how expensive it had seemed when they had paid for it. That had been when Thomas and Line were little and they had spent Sundays on hiking trips, into the forest, up the mountain or along the coastal path. Now it was hanging in the storeroom, unused since the last time he had accompanied Martin Haugen to his cabin, five or six years ago. The sleeping bag and fishing gear had been stowed in the same place, and he ferreted them all out.
Martin Haugen’s cabin was primitive, with no running water or electricity. Water had to be fetched from a stream, and food had to be heated on a cast-iron woodstove. Everything was demanding, but relaxing at the same time. You forgot all about time and gained some distance from whatever otherwise occupied your thoughts. However, this trip would be totally different and was going to demand a great deal of him.
He would mostly wear the same clothes all weekend but packed two pairs of thick socks, two pairs of underpants, a warm sweater, a pair of jogging trousers and two extra T-shirts. The only opportunity to wash would be in a bowl with warm water from a kettle.
He changed into a pair of hiking trousers and attached a knife to his belt, put on a long-sleeved singlet and chose a checked woollen shirt with two breast pockets. Before he put it on he brought out the bugging equipment and sat at the kitchen table to fasten some Velcro inside his shirt pocket. After some reflection, he attached some to the inside of each jacket sleeve as well.
Thomas came down from his room upstairs. ‘When are you leaving?’ he asked.
‘I’m getting picked up at four o’clock,’ Wisting said. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m heading off on Saturday afternoon,’ he replied. ‘Line’s going to interview the guy who was Nadia Krogh’s boyfriend tomorrow. I’m going to take care of Amalie.’
‘It’s been great having you at home,’ Wisting said. ‘Both for me and for Line.’
Thomas made no comment on that. ‘She’s a bit stressed out at the moment,’ he said. ‘She got another parking fine.’
‘The first one’s lying over there,’ Wisting told him, indicating the kitchen shelf where he usually left his own bills.
‘She’s probably already paid it,’ Thomas said. He crossed to the shelf and took out the yellow plastic strip. ‘I’ll take it down to her anyway,’ he added.
As Thomas disappeared out of the door Wisting headed for the bathroom to find his toiletry bag. Before he stuffed it into his rucksack he brought out his travel shaver and a small bottl
e of shampoo. Unnecessary to carry more than the essentials, he thought, and it occurred to him that he ought to take some matches. He found two boxes and slid them into the side pocket of his rucksack.
Last of all, he packed the bottle of cognac from Adrian Stiller, tucking it between his sleeping bag and his thick sweater to protect it.
He stood staring vacantly at the packed rucksack. Something had triggered a thought process, something to do with Katharina Haugen, but the specifics eluded him. Like the next line in an old song, it was almost there, but not quite. He thought through everything he had done in the course of the day in an effort to conjure up whatever had seized hold of his thoughts, leading them on to a trajectory he had been unable to see through to the end.
At last his train of thought began to make connections and it came to him. Not like a sudden revelation, more of a slow dawning; a realization of what had gone through Katharina Haugen’s head in those final days before she went missing.
He took a few paces towards the bedroom to consult the old documents in the wardrobe before it struck him that they were no longer there. Instead he took out his phone and rang Nils Hammer.
‘I need some help,’ he said, without further explanation. ‘Could you go into Stiller’s office and locate document 04.11 from the Katharina case files, scan pages six and seven and send them to me?’
‘Document 04.11?’ Hammer repeated.
Wisting knew the numbers of the main documents by heart. ‘It’s a folder of photographs,’ he explained, looking at the time. It was quarter to four. ‘I need it right away.’
He then phoned the Criminal Justice Social Work Service, but received no answer. The staff must have gone home for the day. Instead he called Directory Enquiries and was transferred to the women’s prison in Sandefjord.
Introducing himself, he explained he had a rather unusual question and emphasized the urgency of the matter. ‘An information booklet has been produced for people convicted of crime and waiting to serve their prison sentence,’ he said. ‘Do you have access to one of those?’
The Katharina Code Page 21