The Hunting Dogs (17 page)

Line had been immersed in the investigation material, but now stood up, crossed to
the fireplace and placed the last log from the firewood basket on the embers.

She was astonished to see how painstakingly the work had been accomplished. How meticulously
the investigation machinery had operated. The documents were organised in such a way
that manoeuvring through the information was straightforward, aided by the alphabetical
list.

A total of 792 interviews were conducted. All the witnesses explained where they had
been, what they had done, described their own appearance and clothing, retold their
stories. Each and every movement was charted, with the most crucial information plotted
on a map. Line unfolded it and carried it to the wall where the pictures of Cecilia
Linde, Rudolf Haglund and the detectives were displayed. She hung it up and stood
back, proud that her father had led this demanding effort.

She continued reading, soon realising that those who came forward had to do so on
their own initiative. Others may have had something to hide. Several had seen a red
car on a side road, a highly polished sports car. One thought it was a Toyota MR2.
Some witnesses had seen the car there previously, though it had no connection to the
nearby cottages. Accounts varied on whether there had been one or two persons inside
the vehicle. The driver was described as tall and dark, but Line could not find him
among the people who had come forward.

She thought she remembered something about a red sports car in the text archive, and
logged on to her computer. The search word produced two results linked to the Cecilia
case. It was obvious that the red car had raised her father’s interest. It had been
mentioned at the press conference.

In an article two days later, there was simply a brief mention that the red sports
car had been ruled out of the case.

Line did not discover the explanation until half an hour had passed. A woman on a
camping holiday with her family at Blokkebukta cove had made contact. She explained
that the car belonged to a married man from Bærum who was staying in a neighbouring
caravan. They had met each other repeatedly in the grove of trees where the car had
been observed for what was described as ‘intimate relations’.

Everyday secrets put spokes in the investigators’ wheels and stole their time.

A motorcyclist dressed in black had halted at a bus stop and entered the woods. The
witness who had seen him thought he was carrying something while another witness had
not noticed that. A methodical search with sniffer dogs had been conducted and a drugs
drop discovered. So, the biker was explained if not identified.

So far, Line had noted three people not included on the chart. A number of witnesses
had seen a man with a camera in various places along the coastal path. It looked as
though he had been on the route Cecilia had chosen for her run. Until now, she had
not found any witnesses who fitted that description. There was also a man in a black
singlet who was mentioned in several accounts and a silver goods van at Gumserød farm
around the time Cecilia had set out.

The flames in the hearth had consumed the last log, and only a bed of embers was left.
She carried the firewood basket outside. Reading so much had made her sluggish, and
it was invigorating to breathe fresh air. A few chinks of light appeared in the cloud
cover above and, for the first time in days, she could make out a hint of blue sky.

In the woodshed she filled the basket and was carrying it out again when a text arrived.
It was from Tommy, wanting to spend more time with her. She replied that she had appreciated
his visit to Fredrikstad but did not know what else to say.

Looking at her phone she remembered the unregistered number that had called Jonas
Ravneberg only a few hours before his death, prompting him to make contact with a
lawyer. She tried it at regular intervals but had never received an answer. Once again
it rang without anyone picking up.

Inside, she placed a couple of logs on the fire and resumed her seat to check the
online newspapers and her emails. An email had come in from one of the researchers
in the fact-checking department. The subject was Jonas Ravneberg: a short list of
key points with no information other than exactly what she had requested.

They had found the house at W. Blakstads gate 78 in Fredrikstad in the deeds registry,
registered to Jonas Ravneberg, as well as a property in Larvik that was simply listed
with a farm registration number and a title number. The historic overview of previous
addresses showed he had lived at the unregistered address for many years before staying
at Minnehallveien 28 in Stavern for about two years. After that, he had moved to
Fredrikstad.

She looked up the address in Minnehallveien and found four mobile subscriptions registered
there. From the names, a family.

She returned a short email of thanks and asked them if anyone else was listed at the
address at the same time as Jonas Ravneberg.

She entered the series of maps on the council’s website to key in the farm and title
numbers. The segment that appeared was in the area known as Manvik. The blue marker
was just beside a river. At a larger scale she homed more closely into the property,
two large buildings and one smaller. A winding road led some considerable distance
to the nearest neighbour.

An aerial photograph of the area revealed an agricultural landscape, with the river
dividing the picture in two. Fields of varying hues made a patchwork of the terrain.
The marker was surrounded by densely growing woodland and a small, barely visible
cluster of houses among the trees. Jonas Ravneberg was still listed as the owner,
though he had moved from Larvik seventeen years earlier.

Line moved to the map view again and clicked out to an overview picture. The property
was situated five kilometres as the crow flies from the spot where Cecilia was last
seen. The distance to the place where her body was found was even shorter.

The smell of the bonfire still hung about his clothes as Wisting aired his jacket
on a hook beside the door, acrid smoke still in his hair.

Darkness was closing in around the cottage.

Line had taken his place on the settee, settled with her laptop in front of her. The
documents lay spread across the table and settee cushions, several of them marked
with yellow post-it notes. On the wall where he had hung three pictures, she had added
a map and a number of extracts from the document folder including the transcript of
Cecilia’s tape message.

‘Have you discovered anything?’ he asked.

‘Nothing decisive, but I can’t get away from the fact that Rudolf Haglund had no injuries.’
She pointed at the photo of the reconstruction. ‘The guy was wearing only a T-shirt,
but Haglund didn’t have as much as a scratch on his arms.’

‘He was arrested a fortnight after the abduction. Scratch marks can heal in that time.’

‘Cecilia must have put up some sort of resistance. When her body was found, she had
only been dead for a few hours, hadn’t she? That was two days before you picked him
up.’

‘She may have been weak and exhausted.’

‘She got food,’ Line said, waving the post mortem report. ‘Her stomach contents are
listed as undigested remains of potatoes, red fish and wheat grains.’

No good explanation. ‘He liked to fish,’ Wisting said. ‘Maybe he served her trout
he had caught himself.’

Line recognised a desperate joke. ‘You had a project focused on her boyfriend,’ she
said.

‘It was in two parts. We were looking into the possibility that Cecilia and Danny
were in cahoots and arranged the kidnapping, or that he did it on his own.’

‘Did you check his background?’

‘Of course.’

‘What did you find?’

‘It’s all in the folder. A few black marks on his credit record and he had been fined
for use and possession of hash. There was also a report of assault, I think.’

‘Other women?’

‘There was a story, almost two years old. A photographer colleague he had been travelling
with right after he met Cecilia. She started in another job immediately afterwards.’

Line picked up the black ring binder and leafed through to a page where she had attached
a yellow note. ‘Tone Berg?’

‘I don’t remember. We spoke to her.’

Line returned the ring binder to its place. ‘Did you know Danny Flom has a son who’ll
turn sixteen in two days’ time?’

Wisting was surprised. ‘He’s been married twice.’ He counted the months in his head.

‘Born fifteen months after Cecilia disappeared, meaning that before six months had
passed, Danny Flom had embarked on a relationship with a new girlfriend and got her
pregnant.’

‘Where did you get that?’

‘Facebook.’

‘Facebook?’

Line regarded him. ‘Don’t you use that in the police?’

‘It wasn’t invented seventeen years ago. The internet had hardly been invented. Anyway,
there’s nothing to suggest he has anything to do with the case. We have Cecilia’s
own account.’

Line turned to the transcript. ‘I’m just pointing out some inconsistencies.’ She removed
the sheet of paper from the wall. ‘Wasn’t that what you called it? Snags you can get
caught up in.’

Wisting let her continue.

‘I haven’t listened to the tape, but what she says seems a bit contrived.’

‘There’s a copy tape in the cassette player,’ Wisting said, indicating the old travel
radio on the shelf underneath the window. ‘Just rewind it slightly.’

Line was unsure whether this was something she really wanted to hear, but she did
as he said, and for one minute and forty-three seconds, Cecilia Linde’s voice filled
the room, eventually breaking into sobs.

‘All the same,’ Line said, stopping the tape. ‘In addition to the factual information
there’s a couple of interesting things. She says he smelled foul. Like smoke, but
also something else. Didn’t you get anywhere with that?’

‘Rudolf Haglund stank,’ Wisting answered. ‘Just as she said. He smelled of smoke,
but also something else. He had some kind of unpleasant body odour.’

‘When she says smoke, does she mean cigarette smoke or smoke from a bonfire?’

‘I’ve always thought of it as cigarette smoke.’

Line nodded. ‘You had already found the cigarette butts on the ground at Grumserød
crossroads when you played the tape.’

Wisting realised that they had been prejudiced.

‘Did Cecilia smoke?’ Line continued.

‘No.’

‘Her boyfriend or parents?’

‘Her father smoked, and her brother. I don’t think Danny did.’

‘So she was used to cigarette smoke?’

‘I don’t think this is leading anywhere,’ Wisting said. ‘If she had meant smoke from
a bonfire, then we could discuss why she didn’t say more specifically that he smelled
of bonfire smoke.’

‘Fine,’ Line said. ‘But what is really interesting is the sentence,
I have seen him before
.’ Wisting agreed. Those five words had tormented him. ‘Do you know if Cecilia and
Rudolf Haglund had ever met?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘but the abduction seemed planned. We know he was waiting for her.
It’s not unlikely they had bumped into each other, or at least seen each other, and
that he planned it on that basis. Perhaps even stalked her.’

Line returned the transcript to the wall and Wisting returned to his seat, understanding
that he had fallen into the same trap as all the investigators on the case. Instead
of probing what might prove the suspect’s innocence, all such information had been
ignored or explained away, a psychological mechanism that made it possible for innocent
people to be convicted.

It was the task of the court to draw conclusions about guilt, but it was difficult
for suspicious investigators to retain an objective viewpoint. Through the investigation
they had cultivated their own convictions and the question of guilt was decided before
the case came before the court.

He still felt sure that Rudolf Haglund was the right man, but he felt himself wavering.
He was not quite as certain as he had been seventeen years earlier.

‘I’m going out for a walk,’ Line said.

‘Now?’ Wisting asked, peering outside. Only the reflection from the fire in the hearth
could be seen on the dark windowpane.

‘Just a short walk.’

Wisting glanced at the time: not long after seven o’clock. ‘Are you coming back here
or going home?’

Line pulled on her jacket. ‘How long were you planning to stay?’

‘A couple of hours at least. Suzanne’s at the café.’

‘Have you spoken to her today?’

He shook his head.

‘You ought to pop in to see her on your way home.’

Wisting looked at her. ‘Maybe I will.’

They stepped out onto the verandah. Pale moonlight shimmered through breaks in the
clouds. She gave him a hug and at that moment his mobile phone rang inside the house.
He waved her off.

He found it in the gap between the seat cushion and the chair back. It must have slid
from his trouser pocket while he was sitting on the chair. As he fumbled to retrieve
it, he touched the keys so that he accepted the call involuntarily, before he had
checked the caller’s identity. ‘Hello?’

The gruff voice at the other end sounded elderly. Wisting moved the phone away from
his face and saw from the display that this was an unknown number. ‘Yes?’

‘This is Steinar Kvalsvik. I’m a senior consultant, now retired, at the psychiatric
department of the Central Hospital in Akershus.’

Wisting knew who the man was. He had been chiefly responsible for the forensic psychiatric
examination of Rudolf Haglund. At the time, they had entered into a number of brief,
professional discussions. He had been employed in more recent cases.

‘It’s about Rudolf Haglund. I don’t have anything to do with it any longer, but I’m
worried.’

‘You know I’m suspended?’

‘Formalities,’ the man snorted. ‘I can’t think of anyone to contact other than you.’

Wisting crossed over to the window, where he saw his own reflection, but could also
make out the sea and a sliver of moonlight. ‘What’s this about?’

‘I have conducted hundreds of psychiatric evaluations over the years, but encountered
very few like Rudolf Haglund.’

‘How’s that?’

‘It may not have emerged very clearly from the paperwork, and it’s difficult to put
into words. Our remit was to decide whether he was criminally sane, and he was, almost
on the border of the calculations. Nevertheless, there was something about him that
I felt was terrifying.’

‘How so?’

‘We used a newly developed method of analysis to judge the risk of future violent
behaviour. The method comprised variables that assessed relevant past, present and
future circumstances. Historic, or constant, factors are allocated equal weight as
the combination of existing clinical and future risk management variables.’

‘What conclusion did you reach?’

‘Rudolf Haglund scored extremely high. He had an early introduction to violence, lacks
empathy, is socially maladjusted, holds negative attitudes, is emotionally unstable
and devoid of self-knowledge.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Often the risk of future violent conduct is weighed against the likelihood of landing
in dangerous situations. For example, if someone is a drug addict with unstable relationships,
the risk factor is increased, but Haglund appeared to be more methodical in his actions.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ll spare you all the jargon,’ the doctor concluded. ‘I haven’t dealt with serial
killers before, but I’m afraid that he might do something similar again, now that
he’s out.’

Wisting watched a dark cloud drift across the moon. ‘Meaning he might abduct someone
and kill again?’

‘Rudolf Haglund is the type to repeat his actions. He has been inside for almost seventeen
years. He is probably extremely vulnerable to the desires that have driven him to
commit murder before.’

‘My God … are you sure about this?’

‘Psychiatry is not an exact science, and I wouldn’t have got in touch if it hadn’t
been for the girl who has disappeared. Linnea Kaupang.’

‘What about his actions in the past? Could he have done something like this before?’

‘The murder of Cecilia Linde was hardly the act of a beginner. He has probably used
extreme violence before.’

Wisting suddenly realised how urgent this was. ‘I’m going to ask the officer in charge
of the Linnea case to contact you. You must tell him everything you’ve told me.’

‘Of course,’ the psychiatrist agreed, ‘but, as a matter of form, this bleak prognosis
presupposes that it really was Rudolf Haglund who killed Cecilia Linde. There are
other confused and dangerous people out there, apart from him.’