The Hunting Dogs (14 page)

William Wisting moved from sleep into full wakefulness. He ran his hand through his
tangled hair, but his first coherent thought was of Linnea Kaupang and whether the
night had brought any news of the girl with the yellow bow in her hair. He could not
shake off the thought that, had he been on duty, he could have made a positive contribution.

He turned towards Suzanne, studying her sleeping face and speculating whether she
understood that he could not have done what he was accused of. She had entered his
life three years earlier, filling an immense void. He and Ingrid had known each other
since primary school and shared nearly forty good years. He was confident she would
have stood by him, and hoped Suzanne would too.

He followed his usual morning routine: showered, dressed, fetched the newspaper and
sat at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Today, however, he left the TV switched
off. The front page of the local paper was devoted to his suspension. He read the
story, conceding that it was factually correct, including the information that William
Wisting had not been available for comment.

The newspaper covered the latest disappearance as well, including a portrait of Linnea
Kaupang, describing the search conducted by volunteers in a wooded area close to where
she lived. Several of her school friends had taken part, and they had tied yellow
ribbons, like the one Linnea had worn in her hair in the photograph, to their jackets.

He folded the newspaper, but sat thinking about how it was about to happen again.
Yet another disappearance rocking the local community. Ellen Robekk, Cecilia Linde
and now Linnea Kaupang. In those days, seventeen and eighteen years earlier, he had
spent almost every waking hour searching for Ellen and Cecilia. He prepared to leave.
Ingrid would have had an equally restless night and been downstairs by now.

He decided to let Suzanne sleep, scribbling a note to let her know that he had gone
to the cottage. Leaving the house allowed him to retain part of his routine, although
it felt strange heading out towards the coast instead of towards the town.

He tried to think what he might have done differently in the Cecilia case. The only
thing that struck him was that he should have kept a closer eye on the critical tasks
in the investigation. Instead, he had relied on his colleagues: in his experience,
the best results did not come from micro-management.

The surrounding landscape vanished in a dusty grey, swirling mist. As he drove to
the cluster of cottages, he spotted a roe deer at the edge of the track, its head
raised and ears pricked. As though frozen in time, it followed him with big, brown
eyes, before dashing between the trees.

As he parked, he regretted not bringing any food, but decided to purchase something
in the course of the day. He planned to visit Finn Haber, who had been responsible
for the forensic procedures at the time of Cecilia’s disappearance.

He slipped and almost fell on the muddy path. With the air so raw and damp, he should
probably light a fire at the cottage.

The key was sticky in the lock. As he forced it round he thought about buying something
to grease it. There were other things to do: putty the old windows, maybe replace
them, renew the fascia boards, and change a couple of broken roof tiles. He actually
had time to do that now, and it was what Ingrid would have suggested. It would do
him good to disengage completely.

The case documents piled on the coffee table attracted his immediate attention. He
flung his jacket onto a chair in his haste to sit down. His notepad was still lying
open at the last page. He drew it towards him, glancing through what he had written.
For anyone other than himself, it appeared no more than an intricate mind map, key
words and ideas that had struck him as he read. Names either underlined or circled,
connected with arrows and lines, but nothing of real substance.

The red folder was slightly farther away than the others. He pushed it into line with
his forefinger, noticing the yellow post-it note marking how far he had progressed.
Something was amiss. It was intuition, pure and simple, more fundamental than the
senses of smell and sight, and it made his flesh crawl. Someone had been here.

He could not say what made him so certain. It was simply an uncomfortable feeling
that things were not as they had been when he left them. He crossed to the door and
tried the lock. From the inside, the knob turned easily, but the key on the outside
turned only with difficulty.

Outside, he let his eyes roam. Deserted rocky shoreline and empty grassy slopes. The
sea was steel grey, and he could only just discern the farthest islands in the dank
mist. A seagull took flight from one of the mooring posts on the jetty, screeches
like mocking laughter.

On the floor of the timber verandah, he could see not only his own damp footprints,
but also several lumps of clay that he had not brought with him. He moved to the top
of the broad staircase. The ground below was waterlogged, with small puddles scattered
across the patch of grass. From where he stood, he could see two prints in the mud
with a different sole pattern from his own. He padded out to the side of the path
and hunkered down. The prints showed a waffle pattern crossed by rough zigzagging
lines. From the mid-point, the impression narrowed towards the heel. A heavy boot
print, only a few hours old. He found his own prints from the previous evening. The
weather had spoiled them more.

He followed the prints to see if any were more distinct than others, and found one
at the side of a muddy puddle. He could make out a circle in front of the heel, with
something inside it. Squinting, he wondered if it could be the shoe size, but decided
it was probably the letter A. This was a print that could identify the brand of boot.
The length could also indicate the size.

He used his mobile phone to take photos from various angles. They were not very good,
but it was easy to see the pattern.

The deep blast of a ship’s foghorn sounded from sea, followed by a feebler response
from another vessel.

Back at the cottage, he lingered in the doorway. Now he could also distinguish a number
of dried mud stains on the floor inside. He scanned the room to ascertain whether
anything had been removed, pausing at the table where the case documents lay. They
were numbered and arranged according to a particular system. Anything missing would
be easily identified, but he felt reasonably certain that nothing had been stolen.
He was probably the focus of interest. Someone had been here to find out what he was
up to.

Not many people knew he was here, or what he was doing. He had told Suzanne and Line,
and mentioned it in a text message to Nils Hammer. He trusted all three, but only
one of them was a genuine candidate. Within the police station, rumours about where
he was and what he was doing had very likely spread like ripples in water. Hammer
was not the only one who knew about the cottage. The thought that pushed itself to
the front, regardless, was that one of his own colleagues had been here.

Instinctively, he began to pursue other theories. Several people might like to take
a look at his cards. He had made himself unavailable to the press and everyone else.
The cottage was no secret; he had even allowed himself to be interviewed here by a
free newspaper. If anyone wanted to find him, this was a logical place to call.

Crossing to the table, he leafed haphazardly through a folder. Whoever knew the truth
about Cecilia Linde’s killer would obviously also be interested in what he was doing.

That someone was peeking at his cards ignited a fresh spark in him, the hope of finding
new answers in the old investigation material. He had to go through it with a fine
tooth comb, scrutinise every single item and search for something out of the ordinary.
Not now though.

Setting aside the papers, he stepped over to the kitchen drawers and rummaged for
a ruler to measure the boot prints on the path, but could not find one. Instead he
brought a plastic basin to cover the print, protecting it as best he could from the
weather, with a stone on top to hold it in place. He stood mutely with his face towards
the sea, struggling to keep paranoid thoughts at bay. He could not shake off the idea
someone wished him harm.

Another long drawn out, mournful wail from a ship’s foghorn broke the silence.

Finn Haber lived in an old pilot station in Nevlunghavn, one of the furthermost outposts
overlooking the Skagerrak. The final stretch of track down to the weather-beaten location
was narrow and winding, in some parts cresting over the shiny surfaces of rocky hills.
The former crime scene technician had always been fond of the sea and fishing. When
he retired, he had settled as close as possible.

Wisting parked where the track ended, in front of a detached garage, and stepped from
his car. A squall had blown up, sweeping the mist out to sea. The dark surface of
the water was broken by white horses, and invigorating sea spray crashed against the
pebbles. Below the white-painted house lay a jetty and boathouse. A fishing boat rocked
at its moorings. The boathouse door opened and suddenly Haber stood in the doorway,
gazing at him, dressed in a chunky woollen sweater and a shiny brimmed cap. He looked
older, his grey hair thinner, the features on his narrow face even sharper. They shook
hands.

‘Coffee?’

‘Sounds good.’

Haber led the way to the house with lumbering, toiling steps. He pulled off his Wellington
boots and set them aside on the cellar trapdoor beside the staircase before venturing
inside. Wisting was about to do the same, but was stopped. ‘Keep them on,’ Haber insisted,
hanging his peaked cap in the porch.

Finn Haber lived on his own, but the house possessed the same order and tidiness that
had been the hallmark of his work. The kitchen was kitted out with linoleum, Formica
and pine cupboards. A small television sat on the worktop, the news on but the sound
turned off. Linnea Kaupang’s face filled the screen. People in her neighbourhood had
tied yellow ribbons in front of their homes as a sign of sympathy. Scenes from the
organised search followed, then the symbol for the sports news.

‘You never get used to it,’ Haber said, switching off.

‘What’s that?’

‘Not being part of it. I’ve been retired for eight years, but long to be back every
time I see pictures of a crime scene. Just to be sure nothing is overlooked.’

He filled the coffeepot with water as Wisting took a seat at the table in front of
the window, directly opposite what was obviously Haber’s place, since a coffee cup
sat on the table beside the daily paper and an empty ashtray.

‘We caught the right man that time,’ Haber said, setting the coffeepot on the stove.
‘Rudolf Haglund killed Cecilia Linde.’

Wisting would have liked to be equally certain. ‘I think so too, but I would like
us to be able to prove it beyond all reasonable doubt.’

He explained to Haber about the new analyses of the three cigarette butts from Gumserød
crossroads. The old crime scene technician listened without interrupting. By the time
Wisting finished the water was boiling. Haber took the pot from the hotplate, measuring
out five spoonfuls of ground coffee from a tin and produced a cup for Wisting.

He stood with his back to the worktop while he waited for the coffee to brew.

‘So the third butt was exchanged for one from a cigarette smoked during the interviews?’

‘Petterøe’s Blue number 3.’

‘Have you drawn up a list?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean! A list of everyone who worked on the case.’

‘I have a list,’ Wisting admitted.

‘Divided into smokers and non-smokers?’

‘I’ve no idea who smoked or didn’t smoke. Far less who smoked Petterøe’s. What’s more,
that doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the case. Anyone at all could have
picked up a cigarette butt after him.’

Haber carried the coffeepot over to the table. ‘You have to start somewhere,’ he said,
pouring. ‘Do you have it with you?’

‘The names are in my head.’

Haber replaced the coffeepot on the stove and sat down. ‘You can begin with me,’ he
said, drawing the curtain to one side and lifting a packet of tobacco that lay on
the windowsill. Petterøe’s Blue number 3.

‘I think Kai Skodde smoked the same brand, and Magne Berger. Thore Akre and Ola Kiste
as well. He scrounged off me now and again. Håkon Mørk smoked a pipe, Eivind Larsen
had his cigarillos. Vidar Bronebakk used Eventyrblanding tobacco, Svein Teigen always
smoked ready-rolled cigarettes with filter tips, and Frank Robekk preferred Tiedemann’s
Gold. He smoked Tiedemann’s Gold and sucked Fisherman’s Friend lozenges.’

Finn Haber opened his tobacco pack as he spoke and spread some tobacco on the fine
paper. ‘Good people, all of them,’ he went on, rolling the cigarette.

‘How were the cigarette butts stored?’ Wisting asked.

Haber licked the paper. ‘In the refrigerator.’

‘Weren’t the evidence bags sealed?’

‘Not while they lay there. They weren’t sealed until they were put in the mail, when
the request for laboratory examination was written and sent to Forensics. In principle,
anyone at all could have come in and swapped the cigarette ends.’

Wisting corrected him. ‘Only one of us.’

Finn Haber fell silent. He placed his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, produced
his lighter from the window ledge and lit up. His gaze slid out to the restless sea.
A sound reached them, like a door banging in the wind.

Wisting lifted his cup to taste the coffee. ‘I’ve had a break-in,’ he said. ‘At my
cottage.’

‘Is that where you’re staying?’

Wisting took out his mobile phone. ‘Someone’s showing an interest in what I’ve found.’
He showed him the photograph of the boot print.

Haber took a deep drag of his cigarette before pinching it between thumb and forefinger
and setting it down on the edge of the ashtray. He took the phone and produced a pair
of glasses from his breast pocket. ‘One of us.’

‘Maybe.’

Haber shook his head. ‘No. This is one of us. I’ve seen this footprint before.’

Wisting leaned forward across the table. Haber was holding the phone so they could
both inspect the image. ‘Many times before.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Various crime scenes.’ His finger tapped the screen. ‘This is an Alfa M77 field boot.
Issued by the Police Supply Service.’

Wisting slumped back. He owned a pair of those boots himself, inside his locker in
the police station basement.

‘Did you find any distinctive marks?’

Wisting understood what he meant. Distinctive wear marks or an accidental tear in
the sole from a sharp stone to distinguish it from every other boot of the same brand
and size. ‘I didn’t study the print so closely. I just covered it.’

Haber returned the phone. ‘Do you have plaster and equipment for making a cast?’

‘No.’

Haber stood up. ‘I’ll see what I’ve got.’

Crossing to the door, he gestured for Wisting to follow. They snaked along a narrow
corridor and passed the living room doorway. The broad wooden floor planks creaked.
Haber halted in front of the farthest door, where he opened up and entered a workroom
with tall bookshelves crammed with books, ring binders and archive files. An old large-screen
computer sat on a broad work table in front of the window.

Haber approached a cupboard behind the door. Two shelves inside were full of forensic
equipment, jars of fingerprint powder in different colours and tools for plastic casts.
Moving a few cartons aside, he removed a white bag with blue writing.

‘Do you know how to do it?’

‘I haven’t done it since Police College.’

The old forensics technician scrutinised him. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he decided.

‘You don’t have to …’

‘We’ll go now,’ Haber closed the cupboard door. ‘Before the print is spoiled by the
rain.’

He stowed the equipment he had gathered in a carrier bag and crossed to the door.
Wisting followed mutely. On the stairs outside, Haber handed him the bag as he pulled
on his boots. ‘I can take the blame,’ he said, locking the door.

Wisting did not understand what he meant.

‘It was my fault,’ Haber said, taking back the bag of equipment. ‘I shouldn’t have
left the evidence lying unsealed. It should have been sent in immediately. I can take
the blame. Say I was the one who swapped the third cigarette end.’

Wisting opened his mouth to say something, but merely stood transfixed, staring at
the old man.

‘I’ve nothing to lose by it. No family to consider. It will bring the whole case into
the open. You still have a number of working years left. You can do a great deal of
good. You can find this other girl. Linnea Kaupang.’

‘That’s not how it works,’ Wisting said. ‘Not for me, at least. Two wrongs don’t make
a right.’

Haber tugged his jacket more snugly round his neck before hunching his shoulders and
heading for the car.

Wisting was left gazing at his retreating back, unsure whether the retired policeman
had meant what he said, or if the offer he had made was said to test him, a tactical
move. Letting Haber take the responsibility would be just as wrong as switching the
DNA evidence at that time, a fraud, a deception.

The old forensics technician turned round and looked at him. Wisting took a first
step to follow, unsure whether he really knew the man ahead of him.