The Caveman (26 page)

Wisting tapped in Torunn Borg’s number on his way downstairs. The snow he had brought in on his shoes had melted and lay in soggy puddles on the hallway floor. ‘Odd Werner Ellefsen, has anyone been to his door?’

‘Let me check.’

Outside, it had stopped snowing. Wisting closed and locked the front door behind him.

‘Why do you want to know?’ she asked. He explained how he had discovered a specific intersection between Line’s story and the material they had gathered. He could hear Torunn Borg riffling through papers while she listened.

‘There’s a connection here,’ he concluded.

‘He lives in Torstrand. We were there at 13.45 but he wasn’t at home.’

‘Do we have a photo of him?’

‘No.’

‘Do we still have people out and about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Put surveillance on his address,’ Wisting said, ‘and find out as much as you can about him.’

He clambered into the car before calling Nils Hammer and explaining how the people in these two cases were like links in a chain. Bob Crabb was connected to Viggo Hansen and Viggo Hansen was connected to Odd Werner Ellefsen.

‘He’s one of the few remaining men on Torunn’s list of possible cavemen,’ he said, manoeuvring the car out of the courtyard. ‘We’re putting a watch on him, but I want you to call in the officers from the Emergency Squad and prepare them for action.’

Hammer gave a brief confirmatory response and closed without asking any more questions.

On the dual carriageway Wisting stepped up his speed. He was in a legal borderland and would have to think how to present this to Christine Thiis before he phoned. She would have to make the decision about whether Odd Werner Ellefsen could be arrested and his house searched.

The criminal code demanded what was called
reasonable grounds for suspicion
that a crime had been committed. There had to be a balance of probability that Odd Werner Ellefsen was the person they were looking for but, so far, all they had learned could as easily be a fluke, a coincidence. He was working on his own gut feeling, knowing that only hard facts and evidence counted in a court of law, but it was often this same intuition that led to a breakthrough. He keyed in her number and detailed the facts.

‘We need more than that,’ she said.

‘We’re working on it. We’ve set up a surveillance operation and are gathering intelligence.’

Too late, he discovered he was driving too fast when he turned into a bend. He stamped on the brakes, the ABS system kicked in, and the pedal vibrated under his foot. The car skidded on the slippery road surface, swerving sideways, on the verge of spinning right round. A billowing cloud of snow obscured his view until he turned the steering wheel in the opposite direction. The tyres gripped the road at last and he regained control.

‘Tell me as soon as you have anything,’ Christine Thiis said. ‘This is too flimsy for an arrest. You can bring him in for questioning and take his fingerprints if he agrees, but no more than that.’

He had not expected more, and it was important to keep her continually updated so that she could make a rapid decision when the decisive pieces fell into place.

He passed the
Farris Bad
Hotel on his route into town. An imposing, magnificent ice palace on the shore, the building was shrouded in snow with light streaming from all the windows.

Line had not been in a long-term relationship for more than a year. He knew very little about the life she led in Oslo, but was astonished to hear that she had spent the night in a hotel room with someone who could only be regarded as a stranger.

He called Leif Malm’s number. ‘Any news?’

‘She’s not at the hotel. The room was cleaned about 12.30. She must have left before that.’

‘Okay, but do you think we could keep this information about the hotel room between ourselves?’

‘That was why Donald Baker came to me. None of your immediate colleagues knows about it.’

‘Thanks.’

There was silence at Malm’s end. Finally she asked, ‘Should we set something in motion? Run a trace on her phone, something like that?’

‘Not yet. I’ve a feeling I know where she might be.’

He rounded off the conversation and turned into the
Statoil
petrol station in Torstrand. Odd Werner Ellefsen’s house was located only a few blocks away. He looked through his telephone contacts until he came to
Morten P, VG
. The journalist answered immediately. Wisting glanced at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. ‘This is William Wisting,’ he said.

‘I see that. Your name comes up on the display.’

‘Are you still in Larvik?’ Wisting asked, peering up at the sky. It had brightened a little. Soon the editors of the major newspapers would have helicopters in the air.

‘I’m at Halle. Do you have any news?’

‘I was wondering whether my daughter was with you,’ Wisting said. ‘Line.’

‘No, why do you ask?’

‘I can’t get hold of her.’

‘I’ve actually been trying to contact her myself. I think she must have run out of battery or something.’

‘Thanks anyway.’

‘Wisting,’ the journalist said, holding him on the line, ‘while I’m talking to you. What is actually going on here? You’ve cordoned off a large area of forest and there’s a lot of officers working in there. Cars are driving in and out all the time, and it’s totally impossible to find out anything.’

‘There’ll be a press conference sometime this evening.’

‘Has there been a development, then?’

‘I can give you the direct number for our press liaison officer.’

‘I’ve spoken to him, but he isn’t telling us anything we don’t already know. You’ve always been so open and honest. Tell me something about what is going on.’

‘Sorry,’ Wisting said. ‘I have another call now.’

He finished their conversation to answer an incoming call from Torunn Borg.

‘Odd Werner Ellefsen,’ she said, as if reading from a text and stopping at a colon. ‘He grew up in the home of an uncle and aunt who died when he was in his early twenties. After that he had no family, and there’s never been anyone else registered at his address.’

‘No girlfriend, then,’ Wisting said.

‘In the nineties he worked for a while at one of the
Jotun
paint factories. He’s been on disability pension since 1998.’

‘Solvents,’ Wisting said, interrupting. ‘Do you know if they used chloroform in the factory?’ If Odd Werner Ellefsen had previously had access to the chemical it would support Wisting’s suspicions.

‘We can find out.’

‘What else have you come up with?’

‘He drives a silver Toyota Camry, 1998 model.’

‘Criminal record?’

‘A spot fine from Customs last summer. Import of four litres of liquor from Sweden; apart from that, nothing.’

‘Sweden?’ Wisting said. ‘When last summer?’

He heard Torunn Borg thumbing through papers. ‘19th July.’

‘Kikki Lindén went missing from Trollhättan on 18th. Who is leading the surveillance operation?’

‘Nils Hammer.’

Wisting ended the call to Torunn Borg and phoned Hammer. ‘What can you tell me?’ he asked.

‘He’s not at home,’ Hammer answered. ‘He’s probably out driving. The garage is empty. Judging from the tracks in the driveway, he drove out almost immediately after it began to snow.’

‘Do you have a secure surveillance post?’

‘We have a car at each end of the street, and we’re inside the house directly opposite. One of our undercover detectives is on the Parent Council with the woman who lives there. She’s cooking waffles for them now.’

‘Can she tell you anything about him?’

‘They don’t have any contact with him. They’ve never seen people there, but they did see Line visiting. At least, it must have been her. Aged about thirty and driving a grey Golf; first visit was Monday. She went inside the house then, and came back again yesterday evening.’

‘Yesterday evening?’

‘Yes. Have you spoken to her about this?’

Wisting shook his head, as if Hammer could see him. ‘Ring me as soon as you catch sight of him,’ he said. Then he phoned Leif Malm again.

‘This is Wisting,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘How quickly can you trace her phone?’

Line’s hands were still tied together behind her back and the rope was chafing her wrists. She twisted round and felt her way to the putty knife, grabbed it and wriggled over the broken seat back, pulling herself forward on her elbows, and pushing with her legs until she could reach far enough into the car to raise her head and look outside. Snow was everywhere, partly like a smooth white carpet and partly accumulated in deep drifts.

The car was parked at the entrance to an avenue of mature birch trees with a red house at the far end. The track leading to it had not been cleared and there were footprints in the snow, although no one was to be seen. The car must have become stuck on its way to the house.

Placing the putty knife on the rope round her wrists, she began to rub, grinding backwards and forwards, feeling it digging into the strands until suddenly it slipped from her fingers. She managed to catch it before it fell to the floor, but had to waste time feeling her way back to the notch she had already made.

Her body was tense and her breath whistled in her nostrils. As she put more pressure on the putty knife, it felt as though she was rubbing more skin than rope, and only the tape across her mouth prevented her from screaming out loud. Pain and despair brought tears to her eyes but she continued to work away, keeping her mind on what she would do when she was free. She glanced at the ignition, but there was no key. The surrounding area appeared to be deserted, as if they were somewhere in the countryside. Flight was her only option, but the snow would make her easy to follow.

The rope suddenly broke.

Pulling the tape from her mouth, she filled her lungs in deep gulps and rubbed at her wrists before pulling up her feet and picking at the knot with one corner of the knife. Eventually it loosened enough for her to tug the ends of the rope apart. Creeping forward in the car, she raised her head and peered outside at a desolate wilderness.

Tentatively, she opened the car door. The air was bitterly cold with a faint salty tang. She must be somewhere along the coast, she thought.

Her foot sank into the snow as she stepped out, standing for a moment before leaning into the car to pick up the putty knife. Crouching beside the rear wheel she pressed the corner of the knife into the tyre until she could hear the whistling sound of air seeping out. Then she moved in a stooped position around the car, puncturing each of the tyres in turn, until she started walking.

The dress she had chosen the previous evening was thin and only thigh-length. Her high boots protected her a little, but above them she wore only fine nylon tights, already torn in several places. As the distance between her and the car increased, she broke into a run, though she could see nothing but white winter landscape all around.

Wisting drove to the police station. In the changing room toilets, he splashed his face with cold water, drying with a paper towel, staring at himself in the mirror, observing himself as others saw him. His expression was calm and serious, even as a wave of anxiety swept through him. The situation made his head spin and he felt sick. When his mobile phone rang, he hooked it out of his pocket. It was Line’s journalist colleague, Morten P.

‘Yes?’ he said breathlessly.

‘Do you have any comment?’

‘To what?’

‘To the photo I sent you?’

‘What photo?’

‘I just sent it to your mobile.’

Wisting removed the phone from his ear to peer at the display. He had received one message without hearing the bleep, while the water was running in the basin. He opened it and looked at the image. Even on the tiny screen, he could see the white body bags, one being lifted into a car, two lying on the ground. Quite involuntarily, he gasped for breath.

‘The news desk is preparing a headline saying that several bodies have been brought out. Will you confirm that?’

‘I don’t have any comment,’ Wisting said, heading for the stairs. ‘Not at present.’

Morten P began to argue, but Wisting broke off the conversation.

A photographer must have sneaked behind the crime scene tape and soon the whole case would explode. The photo must have triggered furious activity at the
VG
news desk. They would be reading about this for weeks.

The communications adviser emerged from Christine Thiis’ office with red blotches on his throat and face. ‘It’s out,’ he said before Wisting reached him. ‘
VG
has photos of body bags at the discovery site.’

‘I know,’ Wisting replied. It had only been a question of time; nevertheless, they were ill-prepared.

‘We have to compose a press release,’ the communications adviser said, notepad in hand. ‘We can’t hold back any longer.’

Wisting turned on his heel and made for his own office, calling out for Benjamin Fjeld. The communications adviser followed him in. ‘We’ve waited too long already,’ he said.

Benjamin Fjeld appeared in the doorway behind him. Wisting rooted around in the papers on his desk to find the list of ten missing women. ‘Get in touch with the responsible investigators,’ he said. ‘Fill them in on the case and ask them to contact the families. The parents have to be told that we may have found their daughters before they see any media reports.’

Christine Thiis appeared at the door, nodding approvingly. Benjamin Fjeld took the list and left as Wisting turned to face the communications adviser.

‘This is what you write,’ he said. ‘The police have conducted further investigations in the area where sixty-seven-year-old American citizen Bob Crabb was found murdered on Friday 9th December. Discoveries have been made at the site and further information will be given at a press conference . . .’ He glanced at his watch: almost half past two. Things were moving quickly. ‘. . . at 18.00,’ he suggested, looking at Christine Thiis, who again nodded. ‘Media enquiries prior to that will not be answered.’

The communications adviser noted all this and left the office without another word. Wisting sat down.

‘I’ll need to have you there,’ Christine Thiis said.

‘We’ll have to sit like prize exhibits, all of us,’ Wisting said. ‘Are you going to speak to Donald Baker?’

She nodded and, turning to go, bumped into Espen Mortensen at the door.

‘Anything new?’ Wisting asked.

‘By the time I left, we had found eight bodies,’ he said, ‘and we haven’t reached the bottom yet. There could be more.’ He stood in front of the map with the ten faces. ‘I understand that Odd Werner Ellefsen may be the man we’re looking for. Have you spoken to Line?’

Shaking his head, Wisting tried hard to seem unconcerned. ‘I can’t get hold of her,’ he said, taking a portable police radio from his desk drawer and turning to the channel used by the undercover detectives.

‘Do we have any idea of where he is?’ Mortensen asked.

‘The tyre tracks from the garage are covered in snow,’ Wisting said. ‘That means he left his home sometime this morning. He could have travelled a considerable distance by now.’

‘How long have you been thinking about this business of the wig? That the strands of hair in Bob Crabb’s hand could be from a
toupee
?’

‘It struck me at the moment I said it. Could that be true from a purely technical viewpoint?’

‘Absolutely.’

The radio made a crackling sound:
‘A man is approaching on foot,’
one of the undercover detectives reported.
‘Passing the intersection at Huitfeldts gate.’

Wisting increased the volume. The detectives in the house opposite Ellefsen’s responded:
‘Continuing along Bugges gate,’
and added:
‘Rapid footsteps, looking over his shoulder.’

Wisting grabbed the radio and barked his name. ‘Is it him?’ he asked, understanding that the suspect would have been named if they had recognised him.

‘The problem is that we don’t know what he looks like,’
the detective reported back.
‘There aren’t any photographs of him.’

‘Don’t we have a description?’

‘Aged sixty, about five foot ten in height, normal build, according to the neighbour,’
Hammer intervened.
‘Grey beard, bristly dark blond hair.’

‘The height and build could fit,’
the undercover detective said.
‘Age too, judging by his gait, but he’s walking with his head hidden between the lapels of his jacket.’

‘Are you sure his car isn’t in the garage?’

‘Yes.’

The radio went quiet until Hammer reported they could see him approach. Odd Werner Ellefsen’s house was second-last in the street that ended at a fenced industrial area. The farther along the street the man walked, the greater the chance it could be him.

‘Fox 0-5,’
he said, calling the officer in charge of the Emergency Squad.
‘Do you have anyone present to stop him before he enters the house?’

‘Negative. We’ve packed our equipment and are driving through the gate now.’

Wisting crossed to the window to see the Emergency Squad vehicle leaving.

‘It is him,’
Hammer said.
‘He’s letting himself into the house now.’

Wisting felt too restless to remain in an office. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked, picking up the police radio transmitter.

Mortensen shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here and get the fingerprint exam ready,’ he said. ‘If you bring him in, it’ll take only a few minutes to find out whether he’s the man he purports to be.’