The Hunting Dogs (12 page)

According to the report Erik Fjeld had photographed on the sly during the press conference,
Christianne Grepstad was the police’s only witness in addition to the man who had
stumbled on Jonas Ravneberg. She lived in a renovated timber house five hundred metres
from the discovery site. She had seen the murder victim and his dog a short time before
he was killed.

Line drove past her home and, noticing light in the windows, turned, drove back and
parked beside the hedge.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Erik Fjeld asked, reaching for his camera. ‘If
not, I can sit here and edit the photos.’

‘Wait here, then,’ Line said. ‘I’m not sure she’ll want to talk to us.’

She jumped from the car and walked through the gate, the paved courtyard slick from
all the rain. A Volvo was parked outside the double garage, and a bicycle lay upturned
beside the gable wall, wheels in the air.

Line rang the doorbell. Part of the house interior was visible through a window beside
the door. It appeared spacious, airy and inviting. A woman approached the entrance,
her head tilted slightly for an advance look at the uninvited guest, a toddler trailing
in her wake.

‘Hello,’ Line said, showing her press card. ‘My name is Line Wisting and I work for
VG
. I wondered if I could talk to you about the man who was murdered yesterday.’ The
child clung to his mother’s legs. ‘I tried to phone you earlier today. I just wanted
to hear what you knew about it.’

The woman nodded as though acknowledging Line’s call. ‘I don’t know much about it,’
she said.

‘Do you have some time?’ I can come back later if it’s not convenient.’

‘It’s fine.’ The woman stood aside to let her enter. ‘My husband’s on a business trip.’

Line was shown into a large kitchen with an open gas fireplace where a realistic-looking
mound of imitation coal was burning cheerily. A tray of newly baked buns sat on the
kitchen worktop. The enticing aroma hung in the air.

‘We’ve just been baking,’ Christianne Grepstad explained, lifting the child onto a
chair. ‘Would you like a taste?’

‘Yes please,’ Line said with a smile.

Christianne Grepstad transferred the buns to a serving plate and laid the table with
some plates. She was probably around Line’s age, twenty-eight, maybe slightly younger,
but already settled with a husband, child and house.

Increasingly often, she met women of her own age who had advanced further in life
than she had done. It did not bother her significantly. She had always thought she
would like a family and children sometime in the future. For the present, she enjoyed
being free, able to spend her time as she pleased, to work overtime without feeling
guilt. Sometimes she felt bad that she had not met a new man since Tommy Kvanter,
but the last thing she wanted was to be stuck with a man who was, quite clearly, no
good for her. An older female colleague had been in a relationship with a married
arts journalist for almost ten years, and Line had promised herself that she would
never end up in a relationship with no future.

‘What do you know about the case?’ she asked, shaking off her thoughts.

‘I don’t really know anything, but I think I saw him. Tea?’

‘That would be lovely, but who did you see?’

Christianne Grepstad filled the kettle. ‘The man who died,’ she said, producing a
carton of teabags and a sugar bowl. ‘At least I think it was him, out walking his
dog. He was wearing waterproofs, just like they said. I thought I should report it.
The police asked everyone who had seen him to contact them.’

The child’s chubby fingers grabbed at a plastic cup.

‘Where did you see him?’

The youngster banged the cup on the table before throwing it on the floor and glancing
at his mother with coal black eyes.

‘Down in the Old Town,’ she replied, retrieving the cup. ‘I’d been at a café with
a couple of friends and spotted him on my way home. He was standing outside the bookshop.’

Line, unfamiliar with the area, asked the woman for more information. She had studied
the map on her computer and understood that the area was situated inside the star-shaped
ramparts, directly west of the location where Jonas Ravneberg was found. ‘Do you know
what time it was?’

‘I know I left the café at half past nine. That’s only a block away.’

The tip-off had been phoned in to the newspaper at ten to ten. At a rough estimate,
Jonas Ravneberg had been killed ten to fifteen minutes after Christianne Grepstad
had seen him. ‘Was he alone?’

‘Yes,’ the woman answered, pouring boiling water into the cups. ‘It looked as if he
was waiting for someone or something.’

Line chose green tea. ‘What made you think that?’

‘I don’t know. He was just, sort of standing there. The police asked the same thing.
I’ve thought about it since, but can’t really explain it any other way. I just had
a feeling he was about to do something illegal and was waiting for the coast to be
clear.’

‘Something illegal? What could that be?’

Christianne Grepstad helped herself to a bun. ‘It was only a feeling I had, but I
think he was hiding something.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was standing with his hand inside his rain jacket. Exactly as if he was holding
something he didn’t want to get wet.’

Line stirred her tea, picturing Jonas Ravneberg waiting in the rain.

‘Did you meet anyone?’ she asked, drinking her tea. ‘When you walked on?’

The woman considered this before shaking her head.

‘Not that I can think of, but I remember him clearly. I had a bad feeling about him.
He seemed to follow me with his eyes. Small, dark eyes. It’s not something I’ve invented
now just because I know he’s dead. I thought it then too. I remember I turned round
and looked to see if he was following me, but he just stood there watching me.’ The
little boy’s cup fell to the floor again. This time it was left lying. ‘He’ll be going
to bed soon.’

‘Did the police ask you anything else?’ Line continued. It was always interesting
to hear what angle the investigators put on their questions.

‘They asked the same things as you, but I had to tell them what sort of clothes I
was wearing, where I had walked, who I’d been with at the café and what other people
I’d seen. To map it out, they told me.’

The rain had started again by the time she left, and she scurried across the street
with her head bowed. Erik Fjeld glanced at her inquisitively as she sat behind the
wheel. ‘Anything new?’

‘Not really,’ Line replied, switching on the GPS. ‘She had seen Jonas Ravneberg and
his dog outside a bookshop in the Old Town.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘Waiting for something or someone.’

Erik Fjeld fell into silence while Line squinted at the tiny map on the display. Once
she had her bearings, she drove onto the main road and past a graveyard until a signpost
indicated the direction to the Old Town. She followed the instructions and drove through
an avenue of old, leafless trees. Shortly afterwards, the asphalt road was replaced
by cobblestones glistening in the rain below the streetlights. The uneven surface
made the vehicle shudder.

Just inside the ramparts encircling the old fortress, a large open square divided
the road in two. Directly ahead was a block of four old timber houses, the largest
one containing a small hairdressers’ salon and a
Libris
bookshop on the ground floor. Line drew up at the kerb. A small, stout woman holding
a red umbrella emerged from one side.

‘What are you planning to do?’ Erik Fjeld asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Line looked back along the road. The ramparts blocked her view, otherwise
they could have seen the spot where Jonas Ravneberg had been murdered.

The lady with the brolly glanced inside the car as she passed. Behind her came a younger
man, walking with one hand inside his jacket. As he approached he brought out a thick,
grey envelope, crossed over to the bookshop entrance and inserted it in a red postbox
on the wall.

Line stared at his retreating back. ‘He posted something,’ she said.

‘I saw that,’ Erik Fjeld agreed.

‘I don’t mean him. Jonas Ravneberg. He posted something just before he was killed.’

It had grown dark outside without Wisting noticing, a drizzly dusk that was not actually
night, but dark nevertheless. Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes and pinched
the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. His aim was to find out which
police officer could have planted the DNA evidence and, without anything specific
to work on, he had decided to read all the case documents afresh. He had to acknowledge
he lacked focus.

His own thoughts continually strayed to Rudolf Haglund. Could there be something they
had overlooked seventeen years ago? Something he had skated over and neglected to
make everything fit? So far he had not found anything pointing towards Rudolf Haglund’s
innocence, but neither had he found anything that supported his guilt.

He switched on the wall lamp, and its light showed his face floating indistinctly
on the windowpane. His eyes looked back at him with unfamiliar emptiness. He blinked
and embarked on a new document, the report of the photo lineup conducted with Karsten
Brekke, the witness on the tractor.

Nils Hammer had organised the lineup in accordance with the rules laid down by the
Director General of Public Prosecution. The most important of these was that the witness,
who was expected to point out the wanted man, was presented with a number of choices
and was not to be influenced in any particular direction.

Karsten Brekke had repeated the description he had given of the unknown man beside
the white Opel, corresponding closely to Rudolf Haglund. After this, he was shown
pictures of twelve men of similar age with the same face shape and hair colour. The
photos were laid out on a wall chart, divided into four rows with three pictures in
each row. An A4-sized copy of the wall chart was stapled to the report. Rudolf Haglund
was number two in the second row, placing him more or less in the middle of the sheet.
He was the first person Wisting’s eyes alighted on. That could, of course, be because
Wisting was familiar with his face, but could also be because the eyes have a tendency
to be drawn towards the centre.

Karsten Brekke had pointed out Haglund and his choice of words was recorded in the
report. ‘
That
’
s him. Number five
.
’ When asked how sure he was, he had replied: ‘
As sure as it
’
s possible to be.
’

After the identification there had been a break in the interview before Karsten Brekke
had been called in again and shown the same pictures, this time in a different order.
On this occasion, Rudolf Haglund was number eleven in the lineup. Karsten Brekke was
equally sure.

The next document in the case was an
Arrest Warrant
, signed and stamped by Audun Vetti.

The photo lineup had been the basis of their case against Haglund, a crucial step
and, strictly speaking, a more critical breakthrough than the DNA result. If Karsten
Brekke had not recognised Rudolf Haglund, they would not have had the opportunity
to collect a reference sample from him for comparison with the analysis result from
the cigarette butts.

The photo used was acquired from the police’s own criminal records, taken in connection
with the indecent exposure complaints made against him two years before. His appearance
was almost unchanged.

Wisting re-read the report. It was difficult for someone who had not been in the same
room to judge how far Karsten Brekke might have been influenced in any way. The position
of the pictures was random, according to Nils Hammer, and there was no reason to believe
that the central placing of the suspect was intentional. Nonetheless, it was a weakness
that Nils Hammer had been alone during the process. The guidelines stated that a photo
lineup ought to be arranged and conducted by a senior police officer accompanied by
at least one assistant.

He laid aside the report, suddenly aware that he was hungry. It dawned on him that
he had not eaten all day. He crossed to the kitchen worktop and poured a glass of
water. It was eight o’clock and he decided to sit for another hour before going home.

The report of the photo lineup lay open on the settee. Wisting drank half the water
before refilling the glass and bringing it back with him. He resumed his seat and
held up the wall chart with the photos to the light. The eleven other men were an
arbitrary selection who, judging by appearances, had been drawn from the photo records.
They were pictured in profile as well as full face. Wisting did not know any of them.

He flicked through to where Hammer described how the lineup had been conducted. No
reference was made of bringing to Karsten Brekke’s attention that the wanted man was
not necessarily among the twelve photographs. This point was intended to relieve the
witness of pressure, and eliminate a possible source of mistaken identification.
Hammer might have mentioned it without it being recorded, but it was striking that
it had not been included when the report was otherwise so painfully exact with, for
example, Karsten Brekke’s statements in quotation marks.

He leafed back to the photos. The sheet was a third of the size of the original wall
chart, and moreover it was a black and white copy, making the details difficult to
distinguish. All the men had similar features, but it looked as though only Rudolf
Haglund had a crooked nose.

Wisting took the sheet with him to the kitchen worktop to study more closely in the
harsh light. The men were around the same age and had identically shaped faces, but
the position of the eyes and the nose structure were inconsistent, with Rudolf Haglund
quite distinctive thanks to the deep depression on his nasal bone. His nose was not
flat, like a boxer’s, but looked as if it had been smashed in at one time, which was
how Karsten Brekke had described the unknown man at the initial interview.

Wisting riffled back through the papers and re-read the description. A Norwegian man,
aged around thirty. About five foot nine, with dark hair and a conspicuous break in
his nose. This was the description they had released that had triggered the list project.
They had gathered ninety-three tip-offs about men fitting that description. Ninety-two
of them had been filtered out, leaving them with Rudolf Haglund.

In advance of the photo lineup, Karsten Brekke had repeated his description of the
man. Wisting read it again: about thirty years of age, dark hair, broad face, strong
chin and dark, close-set eyes. The description of the nose was left out. This could
have been an oversight, but Wisting had difficulty believing that. Such individual
characteristics were valuable to investigators. It was this kind of detail that had
contributed to Wisting’s conviction that Haglund was the right man.

He could not shake off the suspicion that Nils Hammer might have withheld that detail
to make it more difficult for anyone who read the report to notice that the witness’
attention could have been drawn to one person in particular, rather than equally focused
on all the pictures.