The Hunting Dogs (3 page)

Rain hammered against Line’s car windscreen as she drove, torrents of water pouring
down the glass. For the initial few kilometres along the motorway, her thoughts were
fixed on her father. She felt helpless, as though she had somehow been disloyal.

Glancing at the news editor’s note on the passenger seat beside her, other thoughts
took shape. She had no chance of stopping the story about her father being published,
but she might manage to push it off the front page. It depended entirely on what she
was able to make of this death, since the first hours of a murder case were just as
important for journalists as for the police.

Pressing harder on the accelerator, she fished out her mobile phone and keyed in the
number of the photographer on the scene. Erik Fjeld was a short, plump, red-haired
man with thick glasses. They had worked together on a couple of previous stories.

‘What do you know?’ she asked, getting straight to the point.

‘They’ve cordoned off a fairly large area now,’ he explained, ‘but when I arrived
there was hardly anyone here.’

‘Do we know who’s been murdered?’

‘No, I don’t think the police know either.’

Line glanced at the time. Her deadline was quarter past one, just over three hours.
She had delivered front-page news in less time before, but it depended more on the
story than on her. Murder cases hit the headlines less and less frequently. Their
news value declined when the online editions could report so much more speedily, so
there had to be something really special about the story, as well as a guaranteed
unique angle.

‘It’s a man?’ she asked, staring past the windscreen wipers.

‘Aged about fifty.’

It sounded like the kind of case it would be difficult to do much with. Young women
produced bigger headlines. The odds of it being some celebrity or other were not good,
either. Off the top of her head, she could think of only two well-known people who
came from Fredrikstad, Roald Amundsen and the film director Harald Zwart. Amundsen
had been dead for almost a century, and Zwart probably no longer even lived in Norway.
‘Do you have an address or car registration?’

‘Sorry. Where he’s lying, there are no cars or houses.’

‘Is there much of a press presence?’

‘Just the locals from
Demokraten
and
Fredriksstad Blad
, and a photographer who usually supplies
Scanpix
.’

‘What do you have?’

‘I was here early, got close up and snapped a series that’s reasonably good. They’ve
placed a blanket over the body. His dog is beside him, craning his neck. Fantastic
lighting with that glow from the blue lights. Police tape and uniforms in the background.’

‘Dog?’

‘Yes, he must have been out walking when he was attacked.’

The information lifted Line’s spirits. There were lots of dog lovers out there. ‘What
kind of dog?’

‘Some kind of long-haired variety, a bit like
Labbetuss
on children’s television. Remember him? Only not quite as large.’

Line smiled, remembering
Labbetuss
. ‘Save the dog pictures until I get there,’ she said, ‘but send over the others.
They need something more than readers’ photographs for the online edition.’

‘They’ll probably want photographs of the mutt,’ the photographer objected. ‘They’re
really good.’

‘Wait with them,’ Line repeated. If the best pictures were already on the internet
the value of her own work would plummet.

Breaking off the conversation, she checked the rear-view mirror and looked into her
own blue eyes. She was wearing no makeup and had not fixed her hair since her visit
to the workplace gym. It felt as though everything around her had been turned upside
down in the past hour. She hadn’t had any plans for the evening other than finding
a good film and stretching out on the settee and now was slightly over the speed limit
on route E6, on her way to Østfold and a murder scene.

She changed lane after passing the exit for Vinterbro and picked up the slip of paper
with the informant’s number. She ought to arrange an interview, but there was no time
for that. She called while driving, and the number rang for ages. The man was obviously
affected, his voice trembling as he spoke.

Leaning forward, Line placed the paper in the centre of the wheel and steered with
her lower arm as she jotted down key points. His story contained nothing new. He had
been on his way home when he came across the dead man. ‘The blood was still gushing
out of him,’ he explained. ‘But there was nothing I could do. His face was completely
smashed.’ Line was disgusted, but blood gushing out was something that would look
good in italicised quotes, and would help to bring the story closer to the front page.
The way someone was killed was always interesting. ‘Was he battered to death?’ she
asked, to make sure.

‘Yes, yes.’

‘Do you know what was used to hit him?’

‘No.’

‘There wasn’t anything on the ground? A weapon of any kind?’

‘No … I would’ve noticed if there had been a baseball bat or anything. It could’ve
been a stone or something.’

‘You must have arrived right after it happened,’ she suggested, thinking of the fresh
blood. ‘Did you see anyone?’

The man considered this. ‘I was the only one there. Me and the dead man. And his dog.’

Line felt conflicting emotions as she wrapped the conversation. She was searching
for bloody, bestial details in the hope that they would push her father’s case off
the front page. To meet her own needs, she had a sort of desire that the maximum possible
suffering had been meted out to another human being.

A lorry unleashed a spray of water ahead of her. She waited until she had overtaken
it before tapping in the number for Directory Enquiries.

Usually, when she was on the road, her colleagues in Editorial provided a kind of
back-up service, a team that kept her informed about what the online media was reporting,
checking on their own initiative but, at the moment, she did not want to speak to
anyone inside the building.

A woman’s sleepy voice asked how she could be of assistance. Line asked her to find
the number for a petrol station in the Old Town of Fredrikstad. Rumours about what
was happening in a small town had a tendency to spread fast, and she knew from past
experience that late-opening petrol stations were places where most topics were discussed.
She was transferred to the Statoil Østsiden station.

Line introduced herself. ‘I work for
VG
and am on my way down to write about the murder in Heibergs gate,’ she explained,
checking the street name on the slip of paper. ‘Have you heard about it?’

She could hear the girl turning the chewing gum in her mouth before replying. ‘Yes,
there have been a few people talking about it.’

‘Has anybody said who it is?’

‘No.’

‘It’s apparently a man out walking his dog.’

‘There’s plenty of people who go for walks there, you know, along the moats at the
fortress.’

‘He has a long-haired dog,’ Line ventured. ‘Looks like
Labbetuss
. Maybe he has been in the petrol station?’

‘
Labbetuss?
’

Line did not bother to explain. ‘The man who’s been killed is about forty to fifty
years old,’ she added instead.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen him. Not today at least, but I can ask around.’

‘Great. Can you take a note of my number and phone me if you hear anything? We pay
for useful information.’ Remuneration for tip-offs was not something she normally
mentioned, but it could be a decisive factor in persuading people to phone back.

‘That’s okay,’ the girl replied. ‘Is it the number on the display here?’ Line rattled
off her number to make sure it was correct and repeated the request for her to phone.
‘Strange weather to go out for a walk,’ the girl commented. ‘The rain’s lashing down.
It’s been doing that all evening.’

Line agreed with the girl, but did not think to consider it further. Her next call
was to the Taxi Centre. The man at the switchboard spoke in a broad, slightly nasal
but charming dialect. He could not help, but connected her to a car located in Torsnesveien,
in the vicinity of the crime scene.

‘Have you heard anything about who it might be?’ she asked once she had introduced
herself.

The driver seemed eager, but could not provide any useful information. ‘A lot of foreigners
hang out there at night,’ he explained. ‘One of our drivers was robbed and threatened
with a knife at Gudeberg this summer.’

‘I think I read about that,’ Line said, without actually recalling the story.

The taxi-driver promised to make inquiries. Line gave him her phone number and assured
him that useable tip-offs would be rewarded. The clock on the dashboard read 22.19.
For the time being, she had nothing to go on, and there were fewer than three hours
to deadline.

By the time she drove over the arched bridge separating Fredrikstad town centre from
the Old Town, her deadline was closer by another half hour. The GPS fastened to the
windscreen guided her to Heibergs gate where, on both sides, villas were enclosed
by white picket fences. The street was closed off at the entrance to a sports ground
by a police patrol car, parked at an angle, and crime scene tape fluttering and twisting
in the breeze. Several cars were parked close by, and a small group of people sheltered
beneath an umbrella.

Driving into the pavilion car park, Line pulled up and peered into the freezing, scudding
rain, absorbing her first impressions. Two strategically placed floodlights shone
on the crime scene. A sizeable tent was pitched above the walkway and cycle path,
running parallel to the barricaded stretch of road. Crime scene technicians in white
sterile overalls walked to and fro, placing all potential evidence in plastic bags
while two men in raincoats with the
NRK
TV station logo on the back were packing their equipment into a white delivery van.
Line rummaged through her bag for a rain jacket, struggling to wriggle into it before
clambering out to the wind and weather.

One of the other drivers flashed his lights. Line jogged over to find Erik Fjeld behind
the steering wheel, and launched herself into the passenger seat. The mat was littered
with empty bottles, hot dog wrappers, and other rubbish that rustled underfoot. ‘Any
news?’ she asked.

‘Nice to see you again too,’ he said. He had endured a long wait.

‘Can I see the photos?’ she asked.

Turning his camera to display mode, Erik Fjeld showed her a better image than she
had feared: the dead man covered by a pale blue blanket, only a pair of Wellington
boots protruding, his dog sitting beside his head, wet, tousled coat glistening, its
head tilted and a dejected, bewildered expression. She could almost hear it howl.
It was a poignant photograph, and the black asphalt in the foreground could provide
a perfect space for a caption and text.

‘Where’s the dog now?’ she asked, wiping condensation from the car window with her
hand.

‘A Falck vehicle came to collect it.’

‘From Falck, did you say?’

‘They round up the abandoned dogs in this town. I think everyone was pleased when
they took it away. It was awful to listen to.’

Line opened the car door again to activate the interior light. ‘Where did they take
it?’

‘The dog?’

‘Yes. Where is it now?’

‘At their depot, I expect. In Tomteveien near Lisleby.’ Line was out of the car before
he finished speaking. ‘Where are you going?’

‘To have a look at the dog.’

‘Do you want me with you?’

She shook her head. ‘Wait here. They’ll carry the body out soon. We should have photos
of that. I’ll call if I need you.’

Slamming the car door, she hurried back to her own vehicle and keyed
Tomteveien
into the satnav. The address, located on the opposite bank of the River Glomma, was
directly outside the town centre. Eleven minutes away, according to the gadget. She
got there in nine and a half.

A breakdown lorry was idling outside the massive building when she arrived, the driver
coiling and storing a cargo strap. He glanced up as Line parked beside him. She stepped
out and flashed a smile. ‘Is this where stray dogs are brought?’ she asked, ruffling
her already dishevelled hair.

‘Have you lost one?’ he asked, tugging off his work gloves.

‘I wondered if I could see the dog you just collected from Heibergs gate.’

The driver looked at her in the powerful light of the building’s wall lamps, from
the top of her blonde hair to the tips of her toes. On the return journey, his eyes
lingered. ‘The dog belonging to the guy who was murdered?’

Line told him who she was, where she worked and what she did. Experience told her
he would either hold journalists in contempt or be one of those who read the paper
avidly with a steaming coffee in his hand.

‘Do you want to come in with me and say hello to it?’ he asked, nodding behind him
at the garage.

Line followed him into a hall with rows of bicycles suspended from the ceiling.

‘Lost property,’ he explained. ‘Drillo’s in here.’ He pointed towards a door at the
opposite end of the premises.

‘Drillo?’

‘That’s what we call him,’ the man confirmed. ‘It’s exactly the same kind of dog as
Drillo’s.’

It dawned on Line that he was right. The coach of the national football team owned
a longhaired dog, just like the one she had seen in the photograph. He came from Fredrikstad
too, if she remembered correctly. The town could claim another celebrity. Ahead of
her, the man pushed open the door leading to the next room. Dimly lit, it comprised
four cubicles with bars and wire mesh doors. The dog in the first cage was a heavily
built Schaefer with a grey snout and vacant eyes whose head slid back down onto its
paws as they passed.

Drillo was in the last cage. The dog’s sombre gaze seemed to look right through them
as Line approached and placed the flat of her hand on the wire mesh.

‘Do you want to go inside?’ the driver asked. Without waiting for an answer, he withdrew
the bolt that held the mesh door closed.

Line entered and the dog sat down, watching her carefully. ‘Hi, there,’ she said,
scratching under the dog’s chin before examining under its ears. ‘Do you know if it’s
been chipped?’ she asked the driver.

‘I don’t think anyone’s got as far as thinking about that yet, but we’ve got the gizmo
to do that somewhere here.’

Before Line became a crime reporter she wrote an article about the ID marking of dogs.
There were two methods: a tattoo inside the ear, or a microchip injected by a vet
on the left side of the neck or just above the left shoulder. This electronic chip
contained a registration number searchable on the internet.

‘Here it is!’ The driver hauled out an apparatus that resembled a barcode reader in
a shop. When he moved the reader up and down the dog’s neck a fifteen-digit number
appeared on the display.
578097016663510.