The Caveman (4 page)

Waking slowly, Line listened to the muted sounds of traffic on the street outside. She threw aside the quilt and swung her legs out of bed, and pulled on a pair of thick socks before padding sleepily across the cold floor to the kitchen. Goose pimples dotted her winter-pale complexion.

She crossed her left arm over her breasts when she approached the window to see how much snow had fallen overnight. The blizzard must have stopped several hours after she had gone to bed, but the snowfall had probably reached a depth of over half a metre. She could only just make out her car at the kerbside; the snow ploughs had made a good job of packing the snow around it. One of the smaller machines was busy clearing the pavement, and a man with a dog stepped aside to let it pass. Condensation formed on the windowpane where she stood gazing at its flashing roof light.

Grey clouds hung low in the sky, and the thermometer registered minus one degree Celsius. That meant the snow would be wet and heavy. She switched on the coffee machine, hoping one of the neighbours who had parked in front or behind her would drive away first. There was no need to shower until she had cleared the snow from her car, so she made do with pulling on a chunky sweater. It really belonged to Tommy, left behind when he had moved out more than a year earlier. They had met up after that, so she had actually had several opportunities to return the sweater, but something held her back. Although it had been ages since he had worn it, she could still smell him on it. If she missed him too much, she put on the sweater - better than phoning him, which merely prolonged the intensity of her emotions, and she had made up her mind: Tommy Kvanter was not a man to share her life with. She wanted a man she could depend on, someone responsible and safe to establish a family with. Tommy was none of those things. He was happy-go-lucky and attractive, and she knew he was not good for her. So this sweater would suffice, until something else cropped up, and she could get rid of it for good.

The coffee machine rumbled softly. She brought a full mug to the kitchen table and sat with her hands cupped around it against the chill air inside her flat. She flipped the lid of her laptop to check the front page of the online edition.
More snow expected
was the headline story. She could not be bothered reading it and perused her emails instead.

A reply had arrived from a researcher in the fact-checking department. They had retrieved information from the National Population Register confirming what her father had told her, that Viggo Hansen had no family.

Born in Stavern in February 1950, he had lived in Herman Wildeneys gate since the house was built in 1964. His father was listed as having died in 1969, and his mother had passed away when Viggo Hansen was twenty-four years of age. No other residents were registered at the address, and there was no information about where he had lived for the first fourteen years of his life. Line knew that older personal information was not stored electronically, and she would have to search through the paper archives if she wanted to discover facts not listed in the digital files. Since Viggo Hansen had been born in Stavern, there was reason to believe he had lived in that area all his life.

In her experience, living sources were best. One of the last things she had done the previous evening was to save the results of a search she had undertaken in the tax records, enquiring about people resident in Stavern who had been born in the same year as Viggo Hansen. That had produced fifty-six hits. Twenty-eight women and twenty-six men, of whom he was one. Several other familiar names appeared on the list, people she knew were still living in Stavern and who might be able to tell her about him. One of them was an artist she had interviewed in connection with an exhibition at the time she had been working on the local newspaper. In addition, there was a lawyer called Realfsen and a woman who had been a teacher.

The artist’s name was Eivind Aske. She googled his web page. An illustrator, painter and graphic artist, he had his own gallery, studio and printworks in Stavern. She recognised the drawings that appeared on screen, mostly portraits of children drawn with dark-coloured pencils. The expression was soft and sensitive.

Both his phone number and email address were provided at the foot of the page. She dialled the number and introduced herself, explaining that she had interviewed him a number of years earlier, but that she was now working at the
Verdens Gang
national newspaper. Eivind Aske assured her he remembered the interview, and wondered how he could be of assistance.

‘I’d hoped to ask you some questions about Viggo Hansen,’ she said.

‘Who?’

‘Viggo Hansen,’ Line repeated. ‘He’s dead now, but you were the same age and I wondered whether you had maybe gone to school together?’

Silence fell as her interviewee considered this. Line wondered whether she would remember everyone from her own class at school. There had been more than twenty pupils in the same class for the nine years of primary and junior high school. If she were asked to produce a list of names, there would probably be some she had forgotten, but she would be able to call them to mind if she heard their names. At least most of them.

‘Viggo Hansen,’ the man said, as if tasting the name. ‘Yes, I do remember him. A puny little boy. He was often ill, I think. At least, he was absent a great deal. That’s really all I remember.’

‘All the same, could I drop by this afternoon?’

‘I won’t be home this afternoon and evening, but you can come tomorrow, sometime after four o’clock.’

‘Can we say four o’clock?’

‘Four o’clock it is,’ Eivind Aske confirmed. ‘You’ve been here before, so you know the way.’

Line drew the conversation to a close. One appointment would suffice in the meantime. She would like to garner some names from Eivind Aske, of people who might have known Viggo Hansen better than he, rather than waste time on appointments that may not turn out to be very productive.

Taking out a blank sheet of paper, she sketched the part of the street where she used to live. It sloped down from the old reservoir, curving round at the bottom where it met Tyrihansveien and ran back parallel again on the north side. She had not thought about it before, but these two streets formed an oval horseshoe shape. The houses on either side had extensive grounds bordering open space.

She located her father’s house as Herman Wildenveys gate number 7, and drew in Viggo Hansen’s house, number 4, down on the bend on the opposite side of the street. She then pinpointed the other houses, writing in the names of the occupants and adding arrows and dashes to indicate where people had moved in or out.

I should begin at the closest point, she thought, with his nearest neighbours, and then extend the circle outwards.

The next-door neighbour was Greta Tisler at number 2. She was a widow with no children. Silje and Steinar Brunvall had grown up in the house directly opposite. Steinar had been in her class, while Silje was three years younger. Their parents were called Tor and Marianne. She thought she recalled something about Steinar having taken over the house, and looked him up in the telephone directory, discovering that he lived there with someone by the name of Ida. She could not find anything regarding his parents.

It would be strange to meet Steinar again. They had been childhood sweethearts, mostly because he had been the only boy of the same age in the street, and he was the first she had kissed and the first to touch her breasts. That had happened on the hillside beside the main road, before she had started wearing a bra, in a tree house with barely room for two people. Lying close to each other, it was almost by accident that their lips had brushed together. He had placed his hand on her breast, outside her clothing, and then thrust it underneath, eventually pulling up her sweater so that he could look at them. At the age of twelve or thirteen, she had no idea what might have happened if his sister had not arrived.

Her thoughts wandered in another direction. Where had Viggo Hansen been that day? Had he ever touched a girl or a woman like that? It was difficult to imagine a person going through life without sharing it with anyone in any way whatsoever. She poured the rest of the coffee down her throat before carrying her mobile phone to the window. One of the neighbours was busy clearing snow from the car in front of hers. Tapping in her father’s number, she placed the palm of her hand on the cold glass and waited.

‘Hello,’ he answered. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting.’

Line turned round, supporting the small of her back against the window ledge, and peered at her notes spread over the kitchen table. ‘I’m just phoning to let you know I’m taking a trip down today. I’ll be staying at home for a few days.’

‘Oh? Why’s that?’

‘Doesn’t it suit?’

‘Of course it suits. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to see you until Christmas.’

‘I’m going to write about Viggo Hansen.’

‘For
VG
? Why on earth?’

‘Did you know him?’

‘We were on nodding terms.’

‘Yes, but what do you know about him?’

Her father was quiet for a few moments, before repeating, ‘I’m on my way to a meeting.’

‘I don’t believe anyone really knew him. That’s why I’m going to write about him, and how it’s possible to be entirely alone throughout your life.’

She heard only silence as her father thought about this. He seemed to be contemplating her point. ‘That could be an interesting story,’ he said, ‘but isn’t it slightly close to home?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He was our neighbour, wasn’t he? You were one of the people who were here but didn’t get to know him.’

Line crossed to the kitchen table. She had thought about this, understanding that she herself was one of the reasons for Viggo Hansen’s loneliness. It would present a challenge when she came to balance the material, but she saw nothing wrong with that. It would be almost like working on the local paper again, when you knew, or knew of, most people you were writing about.

‘I’ve sent a request to Christine Thiis for access to the case notes from the time when he was found,’ she said. ‘Can you ask whether she’s received it? I can send a copy to you as well.’

‘It’s not a criminal case,’ her father objected. She could hear his footsteps as he spoke.

‘I know that. I’m just trying to find out who he was. Will you speak to her?’

‘I’ll do that, but now I can’t talk any longer. See you tonight, then.’

Wisting entered the conference room and placed his phone on the table. He had forgotten about Viggo Hansen. The case file, containing photographs he would prefer that Line did not see, was still lying in his office. However, he knew his daughter and was well aware she would not give up until she had her hands on the folder.

Espen Mortensen was already at work in the conference room, connecting the videolink to the autopsy room at the Institute of Public Health in Oslo.

Wisting gazed absentmindedly at the test card image on the screen. He could not let go of Viggo Hansen. He often pondered such trivial coincidences. The unidentified body and Viggo Hansen had both been lying for the same length of time, without anyone having missed them. There was no apparent connection, but a habitual suspicion meant he was unable to drop the notion.

Nils Hammer came in and sat in his usual place, complaining how much he hated snow, and slipped a sachet of snuff under his lip.

Christine Thiis was last to arrive, carrying a sheaf of papers that she set down on the table before her. ‘It’s out,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘I’ve spoken to the local paper.’

‘That’s fine,’ Wisting remarked. ‘We’re going to need information from the public.’

‘What did you tell them?’ Hammer asked.

‘Not much,’ Christine Thiis replied. ‘After all, we don’t know very much. A dead body has been found in the woods beside Halle farmhouse. It’s been lying for a long time, and we can’t say anything about age or sex with any certainty. They’re of a similar mind to us, that it’s probably a personal tragedy.’

Wisting nodded. The newspaper would probably keep a low profile, as they had done with Viggo Hansen’s death.

‘A good idea to talk to them just now,’ Hammer remarked, pointing to the large flat screen. ‘In an hour or so, we’ll probably know a great deal more.’

‘They’ll soon be hassling me again.’

Images of the autopsy room were now filling the large screen, with the harsh ceiling light reflecting off the white wall tiles and sterile metal worktops. Wisting joined them at the table.

This was a type of television broadcast he had not been able to get completely used to. He associated television with entertainment, so it was a bizarre experience to sit watching pathologists cutting into a human body as a live broadcast. However, it was a practical form of communication, two-way with respect to sound, but with the picture travelling only one way. Previously, they had been at the mercy of a
resumé
in a phone call and a brief report via fax. The new arrangement allowed them to pose questions directly to the pathologist and receive immediate answers.

Three people were present at the autopsy: a forensics expert and an assistant, each wearing green overalls as well as facemasks, gloves and yellow plastic aprons, and a crime scene technician from
Kripos
, the national criminal investigation section, in the usual white coverall. According to their papers, the
Kripos
officer’s name was Jon Berge. Wisting was familiar with the name from countless reports, but had never seen him before.

A fourth man entered the room trundling a body-shaped bundle wrapped in white plastic. They heard his footsteps echo in the room as he pushed the trolley into place.

‘Are you ready?’ Jon Berge from
Kripos
asked, peering up at the camera.

‘Ready,’ Wisting said.

The assistant rolled out a table on which they could see surgical instruments and empty test-tubes with labels attached. The pathologist unzipped the body bag and folded it to one side, removing some stained sheets before exposing the damaged body to the bright artificial light. Wisting saw how everyone in the autopsy room reacted to the smell that must be overwhelming now that the frozen body had started to thaw.

A transparent plastic bag was drawn over the dead man’s right arm, on which the hand had stiffened in a grip around some strands of hair. At several points on the clothing, Mortensen had affixed broad, clear tape to secure possible traces of the perpetrator: hair, fibres, skin, sweat, blood and tears.

The pathologist dictated time and place into a recorder and announced the names of everyone present.

‘The unidentified body arrived at the Forensics Division of the Institute of Public Health wearing a brown blazer, shirt, pale trousers and brown leather shoes,’ he said. ‘A more detailed description of the clothing is being left to the police crime scene technician.’

Jon Berge took an overview picture.

‘The body is far advanced in decomposition, but has not reached the final stage of putrefaction. The remains of the epidermis are brownish-black, and numerous pin-sized, crater-shaped lesions can be detected that may be assumed to derive from attacks by ants and beetles. Wounds caused by larger animals can also be seen in the form of centimetre-long, irregular lesions on the bare areas of connective tissue, such as the ankle and neck. Incursions by fly larvae seem to have been restricted. The left arm is stretched out and lying along the body. The right arm is at an angle from the elbow joint and is resting on the chest. The hand is clenched and looks to be holding something.’

The camera flash shed its white light on the body before the pathologist continued with the external description. He then removed the plastic cover around the right hand and straightened out the thumb and forefinger.

‘Potential hair fibres found in the right hand,’ he dictated, ensuring that photos were taken before unfolding the remaining three fingers. ‘The palm of the hand is stained with a brownish-black coating. Possibly a surface crusting of blood. A total of six hairs are firmly attached to the crust.’

One by one, the hairs were removed with tweezers and placed in a test-tube. Subsequently, samples were taken of what was probably blood, before the hand was rinsed clean. No injuries were found on it.

‘We’ll continue,’ the pathologist declared, inviting the assistant to remove the shoes.

He coaxed them off and handed them to the
Kripos
investigator. ‘Wolverine,’ he read from the sole of the shoe. ‘Size 11.5.’

‘Not a European measurement, then,’ Christine Thiis said.

Espen Mortensen keyed the company name into the computer to initiate a search. ‘A shoe factory with headquarters in Michigan, USA. They’re sold worldwide.’

On screen, they had removed the jacket from the body. The police officer tried to read a label at the collar.

Mortensen leafed through his notes. ‘Brioni. I’ve checked it. An Italian label.’

Jon Berge nodded in confirmation as he placed the jacket in a paper bag.

The trouser legs were then cut open and carefully peeled back. Black encrustations of skin and tissue came next, and thread-like remains of musculature were revealed.

‘Men’s underwear,’ the policeman in the autopsy room announced, prior to examining the pale trousers. ‘John Henry Men’s Dress Pants.’

Espen Mortensen’s computer screen filled with results from various online stockists. ‘Only foreign pages. Shopko, Find&Save and eBay.’

The arms of the shirt were cut off in the same way as the trousers.

Wisting peered at the remains on the metal table. The ribcage was protruding from the chest, and the blackish-brown skin was broken and covered in open sores. Most probably these were due to depredations by rats. The clothing had been intact, and there was nothing to suggest external injuries caused by violence in the form of stab or gunshot wounds.

The
Kripos
investigator let his fingers slide along the shirt collar, searching for a label. ‘There’s some discolouration here,’ he said. ‘Darker than the other stains. I can’t make out the brand.’ He turned to face the camera. ‘It could be blood.’

The pathologist picked up a ruler and drew the adjustable arm of the lamp towards the head. ‘It’s difficult to say,’ he muttered before dictating: ‘Possible fracture of the left temple. An area of the skull bone, measuring 3.5 centimetres in diameter, is exposed. Remnants of corpse wax are visible along the edges of the wound.’

Jon Berge took photographs on the pathologist’s instructions. ‘Could be consistent with an injury caused by a blunt weapon. Extremely provisional conclusion.’

Wisting noted what was said, mostly from habit. He would receive a preliminary report before the end of the day with descriptions and comments on all the injuries. The work in the autopsy room continued. The underpants were cut and removed from the body.

The pathologist raised the recorder to his mouth again: ‘The external sex organs are like leaves,’ he stated, describing the folds of skin in the dead man’s groin. ‘Most probably male, dried out. The chest and abdomen have collapsed, parts of the skeleton can be seen clearly and, as far as I can make out, have no inflicted injuries.’

Christine Thiis stood up, her face drained of colour. ‘I’m going to my office,’ she said. ‘Let me have a summary afterwards.’

Wisting’s eyes followed her to the door before returning to the images on the screen. The pathologist continued with routine aspects of his work before the body was hosed down with cold water.

‘We’re obviously dealing with a corpse of some age,’ he said, peering up at the camera. ‘It’s relatively well preserved, considering it’s been lying outdoors, but it’s impossible to give an exact time of death.’

‘Four months?’ Wisting suggested.

‘Well, there’s nothing to suggest otherwise. The average temperature has been low since the end of September. The first undoubted night frosts came to Eastern Norway in October; so, yes. He may well have been there from the middle of August. It was a fairly cool summer as well.’

‘’He’s been kept dry and relatively dark too,’ Wisting said, recalling how, in the Scouts, they had learned to light a fire in pouring rain, without help from lighter fuel or paper. The secret lay underneath the fir trees, at the foot of the trunk, where rain and damp never penetrated, and dry branches could always be found. ‘That would explain why the body’s in such good condition, even after four months.’

‘I understood you didn’t have anyone missing from that time?’ the
Kripos
investigator said.

Wisting shook his head to confirm, but then it dawned on him that the people on screen could not see him. ‘At least not locally,’ he said. ‘And nobody from the rest of the country who might possibly have ended up here in our neck of the woods.’

‘We’re moving to X-rays now,’ the pathologist explained. ‘Then we’ll take weights and measurements before we cut him up. Perhaps that will be of help to you. I’ll get the forensic odontologist to take an impression of his teeth as well. Provisionally, I can’t say more than that it’s a fully-grown male.’

Wisting expressed his thanks and the screen went dark.