The Hunting Dogs (28 page)

Wisting raced after Line, down towards the river and, in the sweep of her flashlight
beam, saw two men fighting, rolling on the ground. ‘Tommy!’ Line shouted.

It was impossible to tell which was which. One freed himself and tried to stand. The
other hurled himself at his legs. The first shook one leg free and kicked out. There
was a cry of pain. Line’s flashlight found the face of the standing man, Haglund.
He wriggled free and darted into the forest.

Wisting grabbed the flashlight and sprinted after, along a path and behind a turf
house, pushing bushes aside, jumping over tussocks and tree roots, scratching himself
on fir needles and twigs, paying no attention, tumbling over and scrambling to his
feet again, dashing on. ‘Haglund!’ he shouted, but all he heard was boots on muddy
ground and the sound of the river.

The path snaked through the forest until it reached a ford where the river broadened
and was not so deep. Haglund had waded halfway across, the rushing waters reaching
almost to his knees. He hauled himself onto a boulder, rose unsteadily to his feet
and looked back.

‘Haglund!’ Wisting yelled again, but Rudolf Haglund jumped down to wade further across.
Wisting stepped into the river to follow. Ahead of him, Haglund lost his balance,
floundered in the water, struggled to his feet again, and staggered on with his arms
wide.

The immense flow made the going treacherous. Wisting felt the icy water push against
his legs as he picked his way forward over uneven stones that moved when he stepped
on them.

Haglund had almost reached the other riverbank when he fell. Waving his arms in the
air but finding nothing to hold, his back arched and he dropped backwards into deeper
water.

Wisting retreated onto the riverbank and ran the flashlight downriver until he spotted
Haglund’s head bobbing in the water. He kept the torch beam on him steadily, watched
him struggle to the other side and climb ashore. As he stood up the bank edge, earth
and sand, gave way under his feet, collapsing and subsiding into the water. Haglund
lunged at the branches of a tree but could not grab hold, fell backwards into the
river and cracked his head on a boulder. His body was swept, face down, turning with
the river’s swirling movements.

Wisting ran along the bank, holding one arm up to brush aside twigs and branches while
trying not to lose sight of Haglund until the current carried him back to Wisting’s
side of the river.

Wisting threw the flashlight away and waded out until the river suddenly deepened
and the stony bed disappeared from under his feet. He made a few powerful swimming
strokes to reach Haglund while the current carried them both downstream. He trod water
and pulled upwards to keep his head above the surface, but the current tugged at his
clothes and kept dragging him down. He caught hold of Haglund and managed to turn
him face up, placing his left arm under his chin to keep his face above water.

Swimming with one arm, his mouth filled with water every time he breathed in but they
were both being dragged under. He kicked out with his feet and felt the riverbed,
managed somehow to grip the stony surface and hauled Rudolf Haglund with him into
the shallows. Gasping for air, he heaved the weighty body onto the bank.

The current had carried them back to the grassy slope below the smallholding. Wisting
collapsed onto his hands and knees, coughing and panting. Others dragged Haglund further
onto the grass. He heard Line declare that Haglund was breathing and stood up. Sirens
sounded in the distance.

Rudolf Haglund lay in the back of the ambulance with two uniformed officers attending.
He stared at Wisting with those tiny black eyes of his and, when their eyes met, every
feature of his face twisted. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something,
but nothing came out.

Wisting pushed the door shut and watched the ambulance roll slowly down the narrow
farm track. It was a strange feeling, as it always was when cases built up over a
long period of time reached an abrupt, long-awaited resolution. It brought a kind
of unburdening, and the investigators needed time to themselves before they could
move on. He would not have that with this case, not yet.

A blanket had been placed round his shoulders but still he shivered as he stood motionless,
watching what was going on around him, now automatically: floodlights switched on,
crime scene examiners putting on white, sterile overalls, overshoes, gloves and hats;
others huddled in small groups, deep in discussion, as portable radios crackled into
life and crime scene tape was unfurled.

Frank Robekk stood inside the barrier, occasionally stopping a policeman to ask something
or give advice.

Line stood beside Tommy and her two newspaper colleagues. The elder of the two spoke
into a mobile phone while gesticulating wildly with his arms. Line was using her camera,
but already had the photographs for next day’s newspaper.

Nils Hammer approached. ‘They’ve taken her to hospital in Tønsberg,’ he said. ‘Her
father’s been alerted. He’s on his way there too.’

Wisting nodded.

‘Physically, she’s unharmed. He hadn’t done anything to her, just watched.’

Wisting nodded again. ‘I know who planted the DNA evidence,’ he said, staring straight
ahead as he spoke. ‘How the cigarette butts were switched.’

Hammer gave him a penetrating look.

‘I can prove who did it.’

‘How …’

‘When I was suspended, I took a copy of the Cecilia case documents with me. I’ve been
working at the cottage, re-examining everything to do with Rudolf Haglund.’

‘Who was it?’ Nils Hammer asked.

‘I need some further documentation,’ Wisting said, ‘and just a couple of days to draw
everything together.’

Hammer’s phone rang. He responded with a number of brief instructions and turned to
face Wisting again. ‘I’ll need a statement. Can you come with me to the station?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Vetti won’t like that. He’s already arranged a press conference.’

‘I’m going home for a hot bath. Then I’ll sleep. It’s a long time since I had a good
night’s sleep.’

Wisting took a quick shower and put on the same dark clothing he had used when he
entered the police station. Before leaving again he searched through the cardboard
boxes containing Ingrid’s belongings in the garage storeroom. He found what he wanted
and drove away.

Switching on the radio, he listened to the news. The newsreader described recent events
as ‘a dramatic development in the case of the missing Larvik girl’. Rudolf Haglund
had been taken into custody, charged with the abduction of Linnea Kaupang, who had
been found alive. An interview with Audun Vetti followed. The reporter pointed to
the similarities with the Cecilia case.

‘What about the accusations Haglund was convicted on the basis of fabricated evidence?’
he asked Audun Vetti.

‘Regardless of the question of guilt, the Bureau for the Investigation of Police Affairs
is investigating the possibility of punishable offences with regard to the presentation
of evidence in the Cecilia Linde case,’ Vetti said. ‘Today’s arrest has no impact
on that.’

He passed the exit road leading to the cottage at Værvågen and took the next side
road. Less used than his usual route, water splashed out onto the verges as he drove
over puddles and mud. Trees clung tightly together on both sides, and an occasional
branch scraped the car roof or struck the side panels like a clenched fist. Finally
the track ended at a little plateau above smooth coastal rocks.

He stepped from the car and looked at the familiar coastline silhouetted against the
sea. The air tasted of salt and waves broke against the skerries. He trod carefully
over the slippery hillside, using his flashlight to pick his way to the coastal path
where he could follow the blue marks eastward to the Wisting family cottage. A faint
light from the exterior wall cast shadows on the lawn. He could hear the thumping
noise of waves against a fishing boat not far off.

The cottage was cold and dark, but he did not switch on the light or heating. He groped
his way forward to the armchair beside the front window and sat under a blanket. Out
in the bay he could make out the boat he had heard, under the dim illumination of
a masthead light. He drew the curtains, but left a gap to see through. It was a matter
of waiting.

After three hours he began to wonder if nothing was going to happen. Perhaps Nils
Hammer had not passed on the information. He rubbed his face and reached for yet another
blanket from the settee and, suddenly, was wide-awake. A sharp light pierced the night,
shining across the rocky coastline before vanishing. Wisting pressed his forehead
against the windowpane. A car was approaching. The front headlights swept over the
wild roses as it pulled up. The lights were switched off and a door slammed.

By the pale moonlight Wisting could see that the man walking along his path had chosen
to wear dark clothing, a woollen hat pulled well down, and his jacket lapels up around
his ears. As he stepped into the light from the outdoor lamp, he glanced back so Wisting
could not see his face. A couple of heavy thumps on the door, and then another. ‘Hello?’

Wisting remained still and silent as the man moved across the verandah. The floor
timbers creaked. His silhouette was outlined on the curtains. He stood at the window
and, cupping his face in his hands, peered inside. Wisting pressed himself against
the back of the chair, but knew the angle was too oblique for him to be seen. The
man’s breath condensed on the glass before he returned to the door.

Wisting braced himself, listening to the sound of metal scraping hesitantly against
metal. The lock rattled, the door swung open and the man slipped inside like a shadow,
heading purposefully for the light switch. He took only two steps towards the table
where the Cecilia documents were scattered before seeing Wisting.

The colour drained from Audun Vetti’s bony face and his lips tightened.

‘I don’t have it here,’ Wisting said, standing up.

‘I tried to knock ��’

‘The evidence isn’t here, but I can prove you were the one who made the switch. You
even signed for it, when you were down in the cells and took a cigarette end from
Haglund.’

‘You’re mistaken,’ Vetti said sharply. ‘I wanted to get him to talk, make an informal
arrangement about the sentencing, so he knew what he was up against.’

‘You took the remains of his cigarette to Finn Haber’s lab and swapped it for the
contents of the evidence bag.’

‘You’re fantasising, Wisting. Making up a story to shift the blame onto someone else.
No one will believe you. I was never anywhere near those cigarette butts, neither
when they were found nor later.’

Wisting took a step forward. ‘Are you saying you’ve never seen the central piece of
evidence?’

‘As far as I was concerned, they were simply letters and numbers in a report. Points
on a list of evidence. I came here because I was worried about you and wanted to know
how you were. I hadn’t expected to be greeted by such accusations.’

‘Was that why you broke in?’

‘You’d forgotten to lock the door, and obviously heard me knocking.’

‘I think you came to find out what proof I had against you.’

Vetti moved towards the door. ‘I have nothing to prove. I never touched the evidence.’

Wisting took another step towards him. ‘Why are your fingerprints on the evidence
bags then?’

Vetti stopped in his tracks, his Adam’s apple wobbling up and down in his sinewy throat.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘It’s not …’ he protested. ‘Those bags
are seventeen years old. It’s not possible.’

‘Not only possible, it’s been done.’

Audun Vetti’s eyes changed; a black glimmer appeared. ‘He was guilty, regardless.
You could see it too, in those tiny rat eyes of his. But you couldn’t get him to admit
it, and we risked him getting back out into society again.’ He held up a trembling
forefinger. ‘Okay, I did what had to be done, but you can never prove it. There’s
plenty of ways to explain the fingerprints. I’ll say I was in the lab going through
the evidence. Picked them out, one by one. That was part of my job.’

‘You just told me you had never touched the evidence bags,’ Wisting said. ‘That you’d
never even seen them.’

Audun Vetti snorted. ‘Who’ll believe your version? Internal Affairs have already charged
you.’

Wisting moved to the window and jerked the curtains aside. The moonlight was brighter
now, and he could see Finn Haber’s fishing boat at the jetty. The old skipper jumped
nimbly ashore.

A faint sound from the shelf below the window was just audible, the hiss of a cassette
tape running. Wisting followed Vetti’s gaze to the depressed
play
and
record
buttons on the old portable radio.

‘Listen. Soon I’ll be officially appointed chief constable. I can resolve this. Get
it to work to the advantage of us both.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘We needed to have a secure case,’ Vetti continued. ‘The media were hounding me. It
was for the best for all of us. No one was damaged by it and Haglund got what he deserved.’

The timbers creaked on the verandah outside. ‘You were the one who killed her,’ Wisting
said. Finn Haber entered and stood with his arms crossed. ‘You killed Cecilia Linde,’
he repeated. ‘When you told Gjermund Hulkvist of
Dagbladet
about the cassette tape you delivered her death sentence.’

Pressing
stop
, he ejected the cassette and tucked it into his breast pocket.

Vetti staggered backwards, swaying like a tree about to fall. From his eyes, he knew
he was going down.

When Nils Hammer placed a large mug of coffee in front of him, Wisting saw how the
days of responsibility for Linnea’s disappearance had taken their toll. He was pale
and exhausted, and his eyes were bleary and fixed, greyer than usual.

‘I thought Vetti was supposed to be here,’ Hammer said.

Wisting could not muster the energy to answer. Christine Thiis, the assistant chief
of police, appeared in the doorway with a sheaf of papers.

‘Have you seen Vetti?’ Hammer asked.

She sat down. ‘He’s ill.’

‘Ill?’ Hammer repeated. ‘He seemed perfectly well yesterday.’

Christine Thiis shrugged, not seeming to know any more about Vetti’s absence. She
said, handing a sheet of paper to Wisting: ‘Your suspension is lifted.’

‘That’s good,’ Hammer said. ‘Rudolf Haglund is asking for you.’

‘Is he all right?’ Christine Thiis asked.

‘He’s in a custody cell. The patrol car collected him from the hospital an hour ago.’

‘Will he talk?’

‘To Wisting,’ Hammer replied.

The assistant chief of police looked at Wisting. ‘Will you do that?’

Wisting had talked to many people who had committed serious crimes. Getting close
to them, encouraging them to open up, had given him insight and understanding. Once,
he had struggled to get through to a man suspected of car theft. He had asked for
advice from an older colleague who told him it was impossible to teach how to elicit
a confession; you had to find your own way.

Wisting had found his own way: easy, quiet and patient. He could listen without letting
his emotions get in the way, put himself in the other person’s shoes and demonstrate
empathy. In time he had learned that, deep inside, all human beings are afraid of
being alone. Afraid of loneliness, everyone craved a hearing.

Haglund held his secrets inside for seventeen years. No one was born to carry such
a burden and he too must long to share his innermost thoughts. Even if it put him
inside again, the need to be heard would overwhelm even that.

Wisting got to his feet. If Haglund would talk only to him, he should listen. Not
for Haglund’s sake, but for the people he had wounded. The people who needed to know
what happened to their loved ones.

Four hours later he completed the interview and entered a silent conference room.
The entire department had gathered. ‘Done?’ Nils Hammer asked.

Wisting pushed the interview report across to Christine Thiis.

He had persuaded Haglund to tell the whole story from the time he met Jonas Ravneberg
while fishing and the two men developed a kind of reticent, tacit friendship. The
interview concluded when he confessed to killing Ravneberg and breaking into his house
to search for the video tape, ending up in a brawl with Line as he fled.

‘He was practically living at Ravneberg’s farm the summer Cecilia went missing,’ Wisting
said. ‘Secluded and out of the way, it was exactly what he needed. Also, he had it
to himself since Ravneberg stayed mostly at his girlfriend’s house. He repaired the
roof, did joinery work in the barn and undertook the kind of tasks Ravneberg couldn’t
do for himself. He fished in the river, used the smokehouse and looked after a few
pigs.’

‘And kept Cecilia Linde captive in the cellar,’ Hammer said.

‘During Ravneberg’s few visits, which were at specific times, he gagged her and drove
her about until he could shut her in again. That was when she smuggled out the Walkman.
When his car was highlighted in the media, he hid it in the barn. His intention was
to get rid of it permanently but he was arrested first.’

‘But Ravneberg must have found it. Why did he never say anything?’

‘He discovered the car, the clothes and the video camera, and even the initials of
the two girls on the cellar wall, and he got scared. Haglund had used his cellar.
The year before, it was his car Haglund used when he snatched Ellen Robekk. He guessed,
and eventually knew, that Haglund was going to be convicted, at least for the Cecilia
case. He chose the solution he had always chosen. He left the car there and fled from
his problems.’

‘What happened?’

‘Haglund knew the cigarette butts found by the police couldn’t be his. He had smoked
at the Gumserød crossroads while he waited for Cecilia, but he hadn’t thrown away
his cigarette. When the case was reopened, there was only one thing standing between
him and a million kroner compensation claim: the video film. He tried to persuade
Ravneberg to hand it over. We know how that ended.’

‘That’s it,’ he said, getting to his feet, but he could tell they wanted more. ‘Everything
is in these papers. All the details.’

Hammer accompanied him to the door. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Which one of us did
it? Who planted the false evidence?’

The silence following his question was almost combustible, every eye was on him, and
the name he gave was as devastating as a bomb blast. He left the conference room,
closing the door behind him, and drove home without really feeling anything, neither
satisfaction nor anger.

The paved courtyard in front of his home was scattered with twigs and rotten leaves.
No one was waiting inside now that Suzanne was on her way out of his life. Again he
would have to face going to bed alone and getting up alone in the mornings. Solitary
meals. Why in the world should it be so difficult to share his life with another person?
Was there no room for more than the police?

He stood for a few moments in front of the empty house, thinking about all he had
endured. Not only his break with Suzanne, but also how it felt to be investigated
himself. It had been degrading for him and those around him, but it had been instructive
too. Its lessons would be with him the next time he sat on the safe side of the table
in the interview room.

He skirted round the car, opened the boot and took out a football. With slightly more
force than intended, he threw it over the hedge.