The Hunting Dogs (13 page)

Two questions had been central in the Cecilia case: who had done it, and why?

When they knew, or thought they knew, the answer to
who
, the question
why
had been overshadowed. It had never been answered. It was easy to guess that the
abduction had been sexually motivated, and the murder committed to cover up the original
crime. However, Cecilia had not been sexually abused. She was naked when she was found,
but that was the only aspect to suggest a sexual motive. No semen residue or other
traces of the perpetrator had been discovered on her body.

Forensic science had made tremendous progress in seventeen years. At that time, the
laboratories were almost completely dependent on recovering saliva, blood or semen
in order to isolate DNA. Now, it was sufficient for the perpetrator to be in contact
with an object or person.

The folder of illustrations showed the naked corpse on the autopsy table. The skin
was paler at her bust and crotch as though she had been sunbathing in a bikini. Her
waist and hips were slender, and her pubic hair was fair and trimmed. Her breasts
were small, round and firm with dark nipples. A red graze ran from her waist down
to her pelvic bone, thought by the pathologists to have been sustained when she rolled
down the gravel verge where her body was found. Apart from that, her skin was smooth,
with no birthmarks or scars. She had small hands and feet, fingernails varnished red,
and a border had grown close to her cuticles. Her face was impassive and her complexion
bluish white. Her eyes were half-closed, but there were tiny specks of blood on the
whites, and pupils with grey, glistening splinters that drew him into the picture.
A vacant gaze somewhere between fear and oblivion.

Her nakedness might have been meant to lead the investigators astray. The actual motive
might have been something different, but it was perplexing to imagine what on earth
that might have been – at least, with Rudolf Haglund as the perpetrator.

The judicial observations were included as document number fifty-eight in the red
folder, giving a deeper insight into Haglund’s personality than had the interviews.
The purpose of a psychiatric examination is to determine diminished responsibility,
or otherwise. Examination was dependent on the prisoner being willing to participate
in discussions with two specialists. This made interesting reading, in which his family,
upbringing, schooldays, working life, health and sex life were described from a different
point of view from that of the strictly professional police officer.

Haglund had been born and brought up in Skien, and described his early childhood years
as happy. An only child, his parents had been of mature years when he was born. His
father worked in the postal service, while his mother had a part-time job in a shoe
shop. When he was eight years old, his father contracted stomach cancer that spread
to other organs in his body. He was treated with chemotherapy and lived with the cancer
for five years. However, his illness changed him. He became irritable and angry, and
Rudolf Haglund was on the receiving end of frequent blows. At the same time, his mother
suffered from nervous problems. As far as the boy was concerned, his whole life was
knocked out of kilter. Among other things, he became a bed-wetter, and was alienated
from everyone and everything. He was bullied at school, but was tall and robust for
his age and retaliated. He could also assert himself by violent means in other situations
and was regularly suspended following violence against teachers. Violence directed
at his mother was also mentioned.

He had not managed to cope in theoretical subjects and halfway through his eighth
year of schooling was transferred to a special needs school. After junior high, he
obtained a place at a technical college but felt out of place and dropped out. His
aggressive impulses isolated him, and he was found to be unfit for military service.

His mother committed suicide on his twentieth birthday, leaving him without family
ties. With the money he inherited, he severed his connection to his hometown and moved
to Larvik, where he bought a house in the rural location of Dolven.

Through the employment office, he obtained a position at a furniture warehouse, where
he coped well and, after a probationary period, was offered a permanent post, a post
he still held at the time of his arrest.

Emotionally, he had difficulty distinguishing between feelings of unhappiness, disappointment
and anger. Insignificant things, such as not being able to tie his shoelace, could
rouse his temper. He felt solitary, but not that his existence was empty. He was content
on his own and enjoyed going for long walks in the forests and fields, most especially
going fishing.

A separate paragraph was devoted to his sex life. His sexual debut had taken place
at the age of sixteen, with a girl of the same age, but they had not become a couple.
After he moved to Larvik, he entered a relationship with a woman in the neighbourhood.
She was thirteen years older and the liaison ended when she moved to western Norway.
After this, he had only casual sex with partners found via personal ads in specialist
magazines. He had frankly admitted to being sexually stimulated by sadism and domination
of his sexual partner.

The conclusion of the experts had been that Haglund did not have any symptoms or behavioural
traits indicative of a psychotic condition. The strength of his mental faculties had
not been so simple to establish. His intelligence quotient lay well within the normal
range, but he appeared to have deficiencies in personality development, especially
in his ability to control his aggressive impulses. Despite his intellectual capacity
being insufficiently developed, it was estimated that he was not permanently impaired.
He was considered criminally liable and able to be prosecuted according to the law.

As far as the investigators were concerned, the legal psychiatric declaration was
further confirmation that Rudolf Haglund was Cecilia’s murderer: a man who committed
violent crimes against women.

Wisting checked his mobile phone. The list of unanswered calls had lengthened, but
there were none from either Line or Suzanne. It was nearly ten o’clock, later than
he had anticipated. He left the papers and his own notes lying, but closed the curtains
before pulling on his jacket and going out, locking the door behind him.

The cold air that hit him full force was filled with the raw salt tang of the sea.
Inhaling deeply, he stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the darkness, before
heading along the path to the parking area. The downpour had made the little patch
of grass fronting the cottage quite muddy, and he walked in a sweeping curve to avoid
the worst of the puddles.

When he started the engine, the radio station was in the midst of a news bulletin,
reporting a politician charged with sexual abuse of underage boys. He was about to
switch off when the newsreader announced that the police had reported seventeen-year-old
Linnea Kaupang from Larvik missing. She had been gone since Friday, and they had not
ruled out the possibility that she was the victim of a crime. After providing a short
description, an appeal was made for anyone who had sighted her to contact the police.

Wisting switched off the radio and drove though the silent darkness, deep in thought.
He should have been at the police station so that he could be entirely certain everything
possible was being done to find the missing girl and whoever had probably violated
her.

Alone in her hotel room, Line lay half undressed on her stomach on the wide bed with
her laptop in front of her. The police had confirmed the identity of the murder victim,
clearing the way for her to write about the homicide.

The story had four elements. She used the mysterious break-in to whet the reader’s
interest, following it up with the lawyer’s appointment that was never kept. The third
element was a pen portrait of the dead man, based on her meeting with Torgeir Roxrud
and the final section was of the ‘
this is where the murder victim was
last seen
’ type. She was convinced she had more material than anyone else, but found it difficult
to get the words down on paper. Her thoughts strayed to her father and his astonishing
ability to accept his predicament and view it from the outside. He had seemed so calm
and collected.

There were two ways to clear his name, she reasoned. One was finding who had planted
the cigarette evidence. The other was finding something fresh in the wider Cecilia
case. Both seemed hopeless, at least for one man working on his own.

She decided to visit him the following day, helping him at the same time as following
the leads on Jonas Ravneberg, who had been in a relationship and lived in Larvik before
moving to Fredrikstad. She wrote an email to one of the researchers at the newspaper,
asking if they could locate something from the deeds registry or historic address
data from the National Population Register.

Moving to a sitting position, she made an effort to focus on the story again. The
news editor wanted a whole page spread, which meant 3,500 characters. She had no problem
filling the space. On the contrary, she had to squeeze the maximum information into
the minimum space, making it concise and succinct. She was usually good at that, but
now everything was drifting in all directions.

The detective who had interviewed her about the assault outside Jonas Ravneberg’s
house had asked her to phone if she remembered anything else. She glanced at the model
car. Elvis Presley’s Cadillac. She had stored the number on her mobile. Now she took
it out and called. ‘I thought of something,’ she said, after introducing herself.
‘Something I found outside Jonas Ravneberg’s house.’

‘What was that?’

Line rose from the bed and crossed to the window. ‘A little car. I thought at first
that it was a toy belonging to one of the children in the neighbourhood. But it seems
that it might be a valuable model car, the kind people collect. It’s old and in good
condition.’

‘So?’

‘Do you know if Ravneberg collected such things?’

The investigator hesitated. ‘There are several of them in his living room,’ he said.

‘Have you discovered what the killer took?’

‘Do you have the car in your possession?’

‘Yes. Do you think that’s what he was looking for?’ Line drew the curtains and picked
up the model car.

The man was again hesitant. ‘No,’ he replied.

‘Do you know why he took it with him, then?’

The policeman declined to answer. ‘I’ll come and collect it. Where are you?’

She gave him the name of her hotel.

‘I can be there in half an hour.’

‘Okay, but there’s something else.’

‘Fire away.’

Line flipped the boot of the model car up and down. ‘Have you checked the mail?’ She
made the question as challenging as possible.

‘The mail?’

‘We’re writing in the paper tomorrow that Jonas Ravneberg was last seen in the square
at the entrance to the Old Town. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘There’s a postbox there. Do you think he might have posted something?’

Yet again there was silence at the other end of the line. ‘That would be mere speculation.
I’ll come and collect that model car.’

Line stretched out on the bed once the conversation was over, feeling she had done
well. She had presented her inadvertent removal of a possible piece of evidence and
drawn his attention to the postbox without expressing it as a report. It was probably
too late all the same. The mail was more than likely already uplifted.

Half an hour later she finished her story.

She put on her trousers again and straightened the bed cover, crossing her fingers
that the policeman would turn up soon. She had caught little sleep in the past twenty-four
hours, and had to make an effort to restore her strength.

Slumping in the chair, she flicked through the channels without finding anything of
interest, got to her feet again and pulled the curtains aside. The unremitting rain
formed beads of water on the glass, drawing a veil over the outside world. An ambulance,
blue light flashing, passed on the street below as someone knocked. She picked up
the model car en route to the door. When she opened she quickly took a step back.
It was not the police officer, but Tommy.

She had not set eyes on him for almost three months. They had been together for more
than two years, but last autumn had separated in a mutual understanding that it was
for the best. However, it had been more difficult for her to move on than she had
appreciated. After Tommy, she continually measured all others against him.

He was exactly her type: laidback, intellectual and interested in culture. He was
fearless and radiated the sort of cool craziness that shouted out danger and gallantry,
but his impulsive and inconsiderate side made her feel insecure.

Their chemistry was impossible to ignore. Line had never before experienced such a
strong physical attraction, and it both mesmerised and appalled her. Now here he was
with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted quizzically to one side.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked.

She did not invite him in, but embraced him out in the corridor, revelling in his
body’s closeness.

‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered.

‘I had to know how you were.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘It said in the newspaper that you were in Fredrikstad. There aren’t too many hotels
here.’

She returned his smile, taking several paces back into the room. He followed her,
closing the door behind them. ‘How are you?’ he repeated.

‘‘My head’s a bit chaotic, but I’m fine, really.’

Tommy took hold of both her wrists and stared at her, searchingly. ‘You were attacked
by the killer. Have you talked to anybody about it?’

‘I’m fine,’ she repeated. ‘I’ve spoken to the police and the newspaper. They’ve offered
me crisis intervention and all that stuff, but that’s not my style.’

‘I know,’ he answered, without letting go. ‘What about your father? Have you spoken
to him?’

It struck her that the calm she felt since the attack must have been inherited from
her father, the ability to create a distance from what had happened and not to allow
the emotional response to gain the upper hand.

‘It’s good to see you,’ he said, pulling her towards him.

She could feel the muscles in his chest and one hand found its way up to his neck,
where his soft, dark hair curled over his shirt collar. She twisted it round her fingers.

Pushing her away, he smiled slowly, leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. ‘What
have you got there?’ he asked.

She held up the model car. ‘Piece of evidence.’

There was a knock at the door. One of the staff from the hotel restaurant was standing
outside, holding a tray with fruit, cheese and biscuits, and a bottle of wine. She
wheeled round to face Tommy.

‘Put it down here,’ he said.

As the waiter passed she suddenly realised that she was wide-awake. Tommy took the
bottle of wine and handed over a hundred kroner tip.

They tucked into the food sitting on the bed where she told him about her experience
and what she thought about the accusations against her father. ‘I’m going home tomorrow,’
she added.

‘Would it be all right if I come with you?’

Someone rapped on the door again. ‘I’m actually expecting a visitor.’ He looked at
her in surprise as she picked up the model car and took it with her to the door.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘Quite all right,’ Line said, handing the policeman the car and glancing back into
the room behind her. ‘I wasn’t thinking of sleeping for a while yet anyway.’