The Hunting Dogs (18 page)

Line turned at a layby, drove back and parked at the turn-off before the dirt track,
her headlights lighting up a rusty old mailbox on a telephone pole. She stepped from
the car and peered at the lid, at a white plaque on which the names Ingvald and Anne
Marie Ravneberg were engraved. Underneath, it looked like there had once been another
name.

Jonas, she thought. This was his childhood home.

She drove on, dense vegetation beating the sides of the car, until she noticed vehicle
tracks in the soft ground ahead. It could be a police patrol car, here in connection
with the murder in Fredrikstad, but she doubted that. She reversed out, turned onto
the main road and parked in a layby, an estimated six or seven hundred metres from
the smallholding by the river. She changed into a pair of boots and took her camera
from her bag. It had an ISO setting of up to 25600, and could take photographs in
almost total darkness.

The forest had grown close to the narrow track, so that overhanging branches formed
a sort of tunnel. She set off on foot, the river thundering somewhere to her left
behind the trees, in spate after many days of heavy rain. The sky was sprinkled with
pale stars.

Soon her eyes became accustomed to the darkness but she stepped cautiously down the
slope. The farther she ventured along the track, the quieter it became. And darker.
She was wondering whether she should turn and come back in daylight when she saw a
light between the trees. Soon the little cluster of buildings came into sight.

She approached more closely.

The red farmhouse had white borders and latticed windows but darkness hid anything
that might be seen as pastoral charm. At one corner a solitary light bulb cast a yellowy-grey
glimmer. It was a dying house, suffering rot, paint flaking from the walls and a broken
porch. Two collapsed, grey outhouses were situated on the opposite side of the yard
with, between them, an old car with weeds growing round it. No chance it was the vehicle
that had made the fresh ruts on the track. Slightly farther away was a weather-beaten
barn with its roof sagged into the shape of a saddle.

A grassy hill sloped down towards the river and another building, a low structure
with a turf roof and a tall, narrow chimney.

The place looked abandoned, but the electricity was still connected, and the tyre
tracks meant that someone had been here not too long ago. Partly eroded by the weather,
it was difficult to tell how old they were. Probably a day or two.

She climbed the grey concrete steps of the main building and put her hands on the
door; locked. There was a window, but it was too dark to see inside. She took out
her mobile phone and used the flashlight function as a torch. Two paintings hung on
a wall, and a rug was spread on the wooden floor, with a pair of clogs on it.

She waded through the long grass to the next window, which was draped with white curtains
and a crocheted valance. She used her mobile phone again and this time pressed her
forehead against the glass. It was an old kitchen: enamel stove with three rings,
a deep kitchen sink, slop sink, worktop and wall cabinets. A table with a grey top
stood directly beside the window and, in the centre of the table, a vase sat on a
patterned cloth.

She placed her phone on the windowpane again. There were flowers in the vase, red
roses. A petal had fallen; apart from that, they were quite fresh.

She turned and let her eyes roam. The trees at the edge of the forest creaked as they
swayed in the breeze. Pearly moonlight cast moving shadows. The sound of something
scraping against something else. Where? Close. From inside the house. She stepped
forward and the sound vanished, but returned with the next gust of wind. It was the
branches of a tree scratching against the roof tiles.

Fear was irrational, but it felt like a clammy hand running down her back. The house
should have been empty for seventeen years, but someone had been here a short time
ago. A light drifted through the trees, headlights moving slowly along the track.
The low rumble of an engine followed.

She hid behind a tree as the car drove past. The headlights had robbed her of her
night vision, and she could not see anything more than the driver’s profile. The vehicle
stopped in front of the farmhouse, bathing the derelict yard in light. The driver
remained seated with the engine idling.

Line crossed quickly to the other side, in among the trees again, and took a couple
of photos of the car and its surroundings. She zoomed in on the number plate.

Five minutes later the car drove towards the two shacks and switched to full beam.
The wrecked car was a Saab, its dull red paint speckled with rust and the rubber on
its tyres rotted. Two minutes later the car reversed out again.

Line pressed against a mossy boulder and, as she heard the car drive past, took a
photo of the driver, a man around the same age as her father. He wore glasses and
had dark hair flecked with silver at the sides. There was something familiar about
him but, whoever he was, his behaviour was very strange.

Re-reading the forensic psychiatrists’ report, Wisting was brought up short by a paragraph
dealing with Rudolf Haglund’s health. The subject was reported to be in good physical
condition. He had not been treated for any serious illnesses and had never been an
in-patient at any hospital in Norway or abroad. No hereditary conditions existed in
his family and he was not prescribed any kind of medication.

He looked at the photo of the scar where Haglund had been operated on to remove a
mole. The psychiatrists had been thorough but the incidence of skin cancer was not
mentioned. An operation could have been carried out at day surgery, and might have
been on benign skin tumours, but it was strange that it was ignored.

Wisting called the senior consultant, now retired. ‘Do you know whether Rudolf Haglund
had an operation for skin cancer?’

The man smacked his lips, as though his mouth was dry. ‘Why are you asking that?’

‘I’ve been reading through your report. It stays that Haglund had never been in hospital
or treated for serious illness. We have photos showing three small scars which he
said were from the removal of moles.’

‘I can’t recall that the subject ever came up,’ the psychiatrist said. ‘Information
about physical health comes from the subject. All the same, it’s peculiar that he
didn’t mention it. His father had suffered from cancer, and his illness was a turning
point in Haglund’s life. We talked about it a great deal, but he never told me this.’

‘Isn’t that rather odd?’

‘Yes, but, when all’s said and done, he’s a typical candidate for malignant skin lesions.
I remember his skin was extremely pale and, of course, it’s hereditary.’

Wisting leafed through the other pictures. Haglund also had a scar below his left
shoulder blade and another high on his neck.

‘Is it important?’ the psychiatrist asked.

Wisting heard footsteps on the verandah and set the photographs aside. ‘Probably not.
I just thought it strange that he should withhold such information when, for example,
he was open about his predilection for sadomasochism.’

Line entered, her boots covered in mud. She pulled them off. Wisting moved his lips
in a silent
hello
.

‘That admission came after he was shown the pornographic material you found,’ said
the psychiatrist. ‘You must remember that Rudolf Haglund is a complex character. Understanding
his motives for sharing his thoughts is hardly simple, far less understanding his
actions.’

‘He’s not mad?’

‘No, but he’s something of a psychological puzzle.’

Line settled on the settee, opening her laptop and clicking through photos on her
camera as she waited for the computer to start. Drawing his conversation to a close,
Wisting sat opposite her.

‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘One of the forensic psychiatrists who examined Rudolf Haglund. The one who called,
concerned that Rudolf Haglund might be involved in Linnea Kaupang’s disappearance.’

Line slumped back on the settee. ‘My God,’ she groaned. ‘He really must speak to the
people working on the case.’

‘I’ve told Nils Hammer.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I sent him a text.’

‘A text? When an experienced psychiatrist puts forward the opinion that a previous
killer may have abducted another girl?’

Wisting did not want to say that Nils Hammer was at the top of his list of colleagues
who might have planted the DNA evidence.

‘Did he answer?’ Line asked.

‘He wrote that they would look into it. They had a couple of other interesting leads.’

He knew the Haglund theory would be at the bottom of the list. When it came to the
crunch, it was no more than conjecture.

‘They’ll not follow it up,’ Line said. ‘As things stand, they won’t dare go after
Rudolf Haglund.’

Wisting agreed. Further investigation of Rudolf Haglund would require the approval
of the prosecuting authorities and, with no more than the suppositions of a retired
psychiatrist, Audun Vetti would certainly apply the brakes.

Line stood up, crossed to the fireplace and placed the last log on the fire. ‘Are
you meeting Haglund tomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Twelve o’clock at Henden’s office. Then I can feel my way forward. Find out how things
stand.’

She picked up the poker, prodding the log she had added to the embers. ‘We could follow
him,’ she said. ‘The meeting gives us our starting point. We can follow him from there.’

‘I don’t know …’ Wisting said.

‘It’s the only opportunity,’ Line said obstinately. ‘If he’s holding her, it’s the
only chance of finding her.’

‘That’s a job for the police.’

‘Do you think they’ll do that?’ Line asked.

Following Rudolf Haglund could lead to something, but he did not believe that Nils
Hammer would set up an extensive surveillance procedure. The justification was too
slight.

‘I have another appointment afterwards,’ Wisting said. ‘I have to give a statement
to Internal Affairs at two o’clock.’

‘We’ll do it without you. He might recognise you anyway.’

‘Who are
we
?’

‘I’ll bring someone from work.’

‘It’s not just a matter of tagging along,’ Wisting said. ‘Surveillance demands training
and practice. It’s a special skill.’

‘It’s part of our work too,’ Line reminded him. ‘Following the police to see who they
contact in a major case is always interesting. You’ve probably had crime journalists
on your tail several times without noticing.’

‘You can’t write about this. We agreed on that.’

‘I won’t write about the Cecilia case.’ Line pointed to the coffee table piled with
notes. ‘But if Rudolf Haglund leads us to Linnea Kaupang, that’s another case entirely.’

They sat at the table again. ‘Have you spoken to Suzanne?’ Line asked. Wisting shook
his head. ‘Don’t you think you should have?’

‘Yes,’ Wisting admitted. ‘Where have you been?’

‘At Jonas Ravneberg’s.’

‘The man who was murdered in Fredrikstad?’

‘He grew up on a smallholding out at Manvik. He still owns it.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘I wanted to have a look. He moved away the autumn after Cecilia’s murder. The place
is deserted, but somebody had been there. There were wheel ruts on the track all the
way, and a bunch of red roses on the kitchen table.’

‘Perhaps someone looks after the place,’ Wisting said, ‘and when they heard he died,
they took flowers. A final goodbye.’

Line gave him a doubtful look. ‘A car arrived while I was there as well,’ she said,
picking up her camera.

‘Who was it?’

‘A guy who just sat in his car. I thought I should check the registration.’

Wisting looked at the display on the back of the camera. ‘You could have saved yourself
the trouble. I know who it is. I spoke to him earlier today: Frank Robekk.’

‘The policeman?’

‘He quit after the Cecilia case. It all became too much for him. His niece had vanished
the same way as Cecilia, one year earlier.’

‘What was he doing out at Ravneberg’s?’

‘I guess he’s picked up where he left off all those years ago. The question is how
he made the connection.’

A possibility had opened up, like a door slightly ajar. Wisting crossed to the box
marked
Cecilia case
and took out the alphabetical list of names. Under
R
he found
RAVNBERG, Jonas.
The name was referred to in document 6.43.

Ravneberg without an E between ‘Ravn’ and ‘berg’. It could be due to something as
simple as a typing error.

‘What is it?’ Line asked.

‘Jonas Ravneberg is mentioned in the Cecilia case.’

He located the ring binder marked with a large number 6, the witness statements. Document
number forty-three was an interview with Hogne Slettevoll, one of the five members
of staff at the furniture store where Rudolf Haglund was a warehouseman. He was a
character witness.

The interview had been conducted by Nils Hammer, the main substance of which was a
complaint by a female customer after Haglund offered to assemble a double bed and
help her test it. He had also explained that the headboard was suitable for attaching
handcuffs. This episode had been almost ten years earlier. Just prior to the interview,
a similar incident had taken place when the witness took a complaint about a defective
bed base. Haglund had made insinuations about the reason the bed gave way.

Half a page dealt with Rudolf Haglund’s temperament, how trivial events made him explode
with rage: goods not in the right place, delivery notes not completed, packaged items
difficult to open.

Towards the end, Wisting came across the name Jonas Ravnberg, without an E. He read
the paragraph aloud to Line:

‘
The witness does not socialise
with the accused other than in connection with work. He
does not know his circle of friends or his hobbies
, but is aware that he collects things, for example Matchbox
cars. He does not exactly recall how the subject came
up, but the witness had a box of these model
cars that had belonged to his father and that he
wanted to sell. The accused bought three of the cars
and had a possible buyer for the others. They arranged
a meeting down at the furniture warehouse. This might have
been about two or three years previously. The buyer
’
s
name was Jonas Ravnberg. The witness received fifty kroner per
car, and the total amount came to 1,150 kroner, which
the buyer paid by cheque.
’

‘Jonas Ravneberg collected model cars,’ Line said, telling Wisting about Elvis Presley’s
miniature Cadillac outside his house in Fredrikstad. ‘It must be the same man.’

Wisting put his head in his hands in an attempt to gather his thoughts. A connection
had appeared between Rudolf Haglund and a murder victim who had moved from the town
at the same time that Haglund was convicted. The link had seemed insignificant then
and he did not know whether it was any more significant now. In the midst of all this,
Frank Robekk had turned up.

Line took hold of the folder of witness statements. ‘Why wasn’t Jonas Ravneberg interviewed
at the time?’ she asked.

Wisting did not have a good answer. Early in the investigation, each new name became
a focus for further examination. As the case progressed, peripheral characters became
of less interest. By this stage they had more than enough on Rudolf Haglund. From
the moment he was arrested, that was all that mattered. Finding enough evidence to
convict him.