The Hunting Dogs (22 page)

The dashboard clock showed 14.37. Rudolf Haglund had spent almost an hour in the company
of the
Dagbladet
journalist. The rain grew heavier, and water cascaded along the pavement gutters.

Line had the red ring binder from the Cecilia case on her lap in the car. It was marked
Suspect
and contained the statements given by Rudolf Haglund and all their other information
on him. She would use it to familiarise herself with him and as a reference book depending
upon who he visited and what he got up to.

No DNA, fingerprints or other traces of Cecilia had been found at Haglund’s home.
Forensics had come to the conclusion that she had never been inside. The house was
typical of the seventies: large living room, kitchen, bathroom, toilet, utility room,
two storerooms and three bedrooms. A number of photographs had been taken in the course
of the search. Each room pictured from a variety of angles, followed by close-ups
of the pornographic magazines discovered in a suitcase in one of the storerooms. Every
single magazine was photographed. The intention of the folder had obviously been to
illustrate Haglund’s sexual preferences and support a sexual motive.

She flicked back to the living room: drab hessian wallpaper on the walls, brown cord
carpet on the floor, blue velvet settee and two matching armchairs, glass-topped coffee
table, television set and video player on a wheeled console.

Evidence of a sad and lonely life, Line thought. About to close the folder, she was
halted by something apparently insignificant. Three shelves were built on the wall
behind the television and on each shelf was a line of model cars.

She switched on the interior light. Yes, it was a collection of model cars.

She had not read anywhere that Rudolf Haglund collected model cars. The closest she
had come was the witness statement that Haglund had arranged contact between Jonas
Ravneberg and one of the employees in the furniture shop who had inherited a box of
model cars. Neither Haglund nor Ravneberg was easy to know. Perhaps this was how they
had met in the first place, through a shared interest.

She checked the email on her phone and downloaded a message from the fact-checking
department. Maud Svedberg lived in Lilla Norregatan in Ystad. She had adopted the
name Svedberg when she married twelve years previously, but was listed as separated
with no children. If she did not follow the news in the Norwegian press she might
not know her former partner had been murdered. If so, Line would have to break the
news. She felt she was riding two horses saddled together, Jonas Ravneberg and Rudolf
Haglund.

She tapped in the number and was answered by a husky female voice. ‘I’m working on
a murder case and believe you knew the victim,’ she said.

‘A murder case?’

‘A murder report. The murder victim was called Jonas Ravneberg, and I think you knew
him.’

‘Jonas?’

‘You lived together in Norway seventeen years ago?’

‘Is he dead?’

Line described what had happened. ‘You lived together, didn’t you?’

‘That was years ago.’ Maud Svedberg spoke so softly that Line had to concentrate to
hear properly. ‘I’m living a different life now. I moved back to Sweden and got married.’

‘When did your relationship come to an end?’

‘It was so many years ago.’

‘He moved to Fredrikstad,’ Line said. ‘Was there any particular reason?’

‘He had problems with his nerves. You work for a newspaper?’

‘
Verdens Gang,
’ Line confirmed. ‘I’m keen to find out who he was.’

‘I don’t want you to write about us.’

‘I don’t need to. I just want to speak to someone who knew him well. It doesn’t seem
as though many did.’

‘That was what our problem was. He kept more and more to himself. He didn’t share
his thoughts, or anything else, with me. Eventually there was no need to share a house
either, and he moved away.’

‘Have you heard anything from him?’

‘I had my fiftieth birthday last summer. I am … was … two years older than him. He
didn’t write much but he sent me a letter. Didn’t say anything about himself, just
a few lines about the time we spent together.’

‘Have you received anything in the post during the past few days?’

‘No. He wrote his address on the back of the envelope, and I sent him a postcard from
Spain when I was there in September. I thanked him for his letter and wished him well
in life.’

‘Can you think of any reason for anyone to kill him?’

Maud Svedberg did not have time to respond.

‘
Movement,
’ Morten P announced on the other line. ‘
Haglund coming out
. Walking towards Akersgata.
’

‘I’ve got another phone call,’ Line said. ‘Can I phone you back later?’

Maud Svedberg’s voice was almost inaudible as she thanked Line for calling.

Wisting gave his statement for over an hour, without a break, as objectively as possible.
He named everyone who worked on the Cecilia case and explained how responsibility
was divided. Terje Nordbo listened patiently, but without making many specific notes.
He would already have read through the records, and Wisting’s summary would be familiar.

Regarded objectively, Wisting’s handling of the case had been flawless. Starting with
a report about a missing girl, he had steered it through numerous witness statements
to a discovery site and an arrest. When he finished, Nordbo homed in on his evaluations,
reflections and feelings about the case. He discussed the interpretation of theories,
procedures and instructions and, suddenly, it felt as if nothing was straightforward
any longer.

‘Why were you selected to lead the investigation?’

‘I was assigned by the chief superintendent, so that question really ought to be asked
of him.’

‘We’ll do that, but have you given it any thought?’

Wisting was used to accepting the responsibility allocated to him without question.
‘I was there, and I had the qualifications.’

‘Didn’t it bother you?’

Wisting shook his head. Nordbo pointed to the recorder. Nodding and shaking of the
head were not good enough. ‘Had you been in charge of such a major investigation before?’
he asked.

‘The Cecilia case grew into the most serious case I had ever led,’ Wisting said, ‘but
when I was called in she was still only a missing person.’

‘Only?’

‘From the beginning it was obvious that Cecilia Linde had not vanished of her own
accord. Most likely she had met with some kind of accident; parts of her route were
hilly and bordered the sea. Just the same, I allowed for a worst case scenario.’

‘Worst case scenario?’

‘That she might have been the victim of criminal activity.’

‘What guidelines did your superior officers give you?’

‘Guidelines? I’m not sure I understand the question.’

‘Did they tell you they were satisfied with the job you were doing?’

‘I didn’t get the impression of anything otherwise. There was continual questioning
about allocation of resources, of course, but there was never any criticism of the
work.’

‘What were their expectations?’

It was not usual for the chief constable to tell him what his expectations were. They
had the same goal: to solve the crime and bring the criminal to justice. ‘Results.
Naturally, they expected results.’

‘How did that become obvious during the investigation?’

‘I don’t understand the question.’

‘Did someone in particular become impatient when results did not appear?’

‘Everybody was impatient,’ Wisting said, ‘but most of us were used to that. We’re
experienced and knew it could take time to build a case.’

‘What about the media?’

‘What about them?’

‘Weren’t they impatient?’

‘As ever, they made demands about making a breakthrough and posed questions about
progress.’

‘What was your reaction to that?’

‘Two reactions. Firstly, answering questions all the time inhibits progress. Secondly,
media interest provokes tip-offs and information from the public.’

‘Was it stressful?’

‘Of course, but handling the media is part of our job.’

‘I imagine the public clamour became enormous.’

‘Was that a question?’

‘Let me word it differently. How did it affect the investigation when you had nothing
new to say?’

‘My responsibility was to lead the tactical investigation and I concentrated on that.
The police prosecutor at that time, Audun Vetti, dealt with the press.’

‘You attended the press conferences?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did it feel to sit through them without fresh information?’

‘It wasn’t like that. The case made progress. There were daily developments, if no
real breakthrough.’

Wisting studied the investigator across the desk as he leafed through his papers.
Nordbo had homed in on something that was not only central to the case, but that had
produced catastrophic consequences. While they were searching for Cecilia Linde, it
had emerged that the police were in possession of the cassette. The day Audun Vetti
confirmed this to the media, her body was dumped in a ditch.

If there was anything he could be criticised for it was that he had not succeeded
in keeping the information about the cassette and the massive search quiet. The perpetrator
had no choice but to get rid of her when it became common knowledge. Wisting avoided
the subject.

‘How did this lack of a breakthrough affect you personally?’

‘That wasn’t something I thought about or focused on.’

‘Did it weigh you down?’

‘That’s quite an accurate description.’

‘How did your family respond to the case?’

‘I didn’t say much to them.’

The investigator riffled through his notes. ‘You have a pair of twins? Line and Thomas.
How old were they at the time?’

‘Just turned twelve.’

‘Were they aware of what was going on?’

‘Ingrid, my wife, spoke to them about it. I was seldom home before their bedtime.’

Eyes cast down, Wisting remembered how he had unloaded his thoughts on Ingrid and
gone to bed with his head as clear as possible.

‘Was it something you missed?’

‘What?’

‘The time away from your family. Did you miss them?’

‘Of course.’

‘How was your marriage?’

Wisting stared through the window. The rain washed over it, distorting the world outside.
He understood that Terje Nordbo was shaping a motive, viewing Wisting’s responsibility
as an insupportable burden, trying to substantiate Internal Affairs’ theory that he
had planted false evidence to escape the pressures. ‘I don’t think my marriage is
relevant to the case,’ he said.

‘I think it is.’

Their silence filled the room.

Terje Nordbo reclined in his high-backed chair and waited. Wisting had done the same
many times. It was often effective; sitting in silence could become so oppressive
that the suspect just opened his mouth and kept going. He looked at the window again,
and a tiny rivulet of water as it ran down the glass. The contrived pause made him
realise how much the interview was stressing him, that Nordbo was determined to provoke
an emotional reaction or slip of the tongue.

Perhaps it was his own fault, he thought. Maybe he had unwittingly let it happen because
of the lack of a breakthrough. Perhaps his ineffectiveness had forced someone else
to take matters into his own hands.

Terje Nordbo broke the silence. ‘How many interviews did you conduct with Rudolf Haglund?’

Wisting knew the answer, but understood where the investigator was going. He had persuaded
Wisting to describe a case that had become almost stuck and that had weighed him down
as leader of the investigation. This provided motive; now he wanted to know whether
Wisting had also had the opportunity.

‘Six.’

‘Why did you interview him personally? Did you consider delegating?’

Wisting’s mobile phone rang. Nordbo was obviously annoyed, but adopted an indulgent
manner. It was Bjørg Karin from the criminal proceedings office. ‘I need to take this,’
he said, already on his way out.

Rudolf Haglund left the restaurant in Rådhusgata at 15.43 hours. He strolled into
Tollbugata and down to Børsen, the Oslo Stock Exchange, past another block and into
a multistorey car park. Soon afterwards he drove out in a silver Passat. Unknown
to him, he was now in the middle of an invisible net.

En route southwards along the E18 highway, with Morten P five car lengths ahead. The
other three were behind, but constantly changing position so their headlights alternated
in his rear view mirror.

Haglund drove at or just above the speed limit, tyres hissing on the wet asphalt.
Line was first of those behind. At Liertoppen, he suddenly reduced speed and other
traffic overtook. Line warned the others that she was about to go past him and they
fell further back. She drove past with her gaze fixed on the road ahead. Having overtaken,
she cast a glance in the mirror, through condensation and rain on her rear window,
to note the position of his headlamps.

Staying in the left lane she passed Morten P. Now there were two cars in front and
two behind, leaving them vulnerable if he took an exit lane.

‘He���s speeding up again,’ Tommy said.

‘I’ll fall back,’ Morten P replied.

In the mirror, Line watched the others manoeuvre.

‘Here he comes,’ Morten P said. ‘I’ll position myself at the rear.’

Haglund continued in a southerly direction. The motorway bridge above the town of
Drammen was congested with cars. In the heavy rain, they appeared as lights floating
into the distance.

At the industrial area of Kobbervikdalen, Line’s other mobile phone rang. She had
to put it to her ear since the open line shared with the others monopolised her hands-free
kit. It was Erik Fjeld.

‘It took a bit longer than I said, but I have a picture of that phone box of yours.’

‘That’s great,’ Line said. She had dropped her speed to take the call and saw in her
rear view mirror that Haglund was edging out. ‘Hold on!’

She asked for someone else to take over at the front as the silver car went past,
followed by Tommy, herself becoming the security car at the back and muted the hands-free
device so that she could hear what the others were saying but they could not hear
her. Haglund’s vehicle disappeared from her sight.

‘What about the CCTV surveillance?’ she asked, shifting the phone to her other ear.

‘They’ve been bothered by a lot of vandalism, so they installed a CCTV system before
the summer.’

‘Do they still have the recording?’

‘That was why it took so long. The police were there yesterday. It had been handed
to them.’

Line gave an exclamation of annoyance, even though it was, in a way, reassuring that
the police in Fredrikstad had beaten her to it.

‘It’s digital,’ Erik Fjeld explained. ‘They were only given a copy. The actual recording
is still here at the railway station.’

A gust of wind caught the car, and she gripped the steering wheel with both hands.
A sheet of rain swept across the road. ‘Can you get us a copy?’

‘The staff here wouldn’t do that, since the police are already involved, but I was
allowed to watch the recording.’

‘And?’

‘I was left on my own and managed to take a few photographs of the screen. I can
send them to you, but they’re not very helpful. The telephone kiosk is at the edge.
All that can be seen is a man dressed in dark clothes with his back turned.’

‘Does he appear in any other camera angles?’

‘No, only in the one image.’

‘Can you see if he arrives in a car?’

‘All that can be seen is a dark shadow.’

‘Okay, then. All the same, that’s good work. Send me what you have. I’ll find out
what the police have discovered.’

As they approached the toll station on the E18 near Sande, Harald reported that Haglund
was driving to the manual payment booth. Line slowed to avoid getting ahead of him
when she drove through the subscription payment lane.

When she was through the toll station she called the police in Fredrikstad. She considered
making a call to the news editor first, to be sure no one else was working on the
story, but dropped the idea. The murder case no longer featured in the headlines and
would not appear again until an arrest or some other major development happened. She
was put through to the police prosecutor who had attended the press conference.

‘You picked up a video from the railway station,’ she said, careful not to reveal
how much she knew.

‘Routine,’ the policeman answered tersely, obviously tired of journalists.

Line changed direction: ‘Have you identified the man who phoned Jonas Ravneberg from
that location?’

Silence: the information that the police had collected the video recording could have
been obtained from an employee at the railway station who had tipped off the newspaper,
but telephone data was more difficult. The most likely explanation for the policeman
was that another officer had leaked it.

‘We can put an appeal in the newspaper,’ Line offered, in an effort to coax more details
from him.

‘I’ll have to come back to you on that one,’ he said.

‘Does that mean you know who made the call?’

‘I can’t comment on that.’

Line moved the phone to her other ear. ‘You can see a connection?’

‘Can I come back to you?’

‘
He
’
s turning off from the motorway at
Kopstadkrysset,
’ Harald said.

‘What did you say?’ the policeman asked.

‘Can I call you back?’ Line broke off and switched on the multi-user connection.

‘
I
’
m overtaking,
’ Tommy reported. ‘
Taking the next exit.
’

‘Who’s following him?’ she asked.

‘I’m the first car,’ Harald replied, ‘but too close. I’ll have to lose him at the
next exit.’

‘I’m behind,’ Morten P said. ‘I’ll take over.’

Line moved her car into the exit lane and glanced at the red ring binder on the passenger
seat. They were now in Horten. She could not recall reading anything about Rudolf
Haglund having any connection with the little rural community. It was still almost
an hour’s drive from Larvik and his home.

‘He’s driving inland,’ Harald said. ‘I’m letting go.’

‘Got him!’ Morten P said, but then broke off: ‘No! He’s pulling into a bus stop. I’m
driving past. Hold back, Line!’

It was too late. Line had already turned off and was on the secondary road. She spotted
the silver Passat several hundred metres ahead on a straight stretch. As there was
nowhere she could turn, she was forced to overtake. She accelerated to make sure she
passed at the maximum possible speed, so that Haglund would not notice what she was
driving.

Morten P took command, ordering Harald to keep his head down beside the E18, but to
be ready in case Haglund turned and drove back. Line was directed into the nearest
side road to take up an observation post.

Tommy took the first exit from the E18 to return towards them, continuing for another
couple of kilometres to the front position.

They loitered for almost quarter of an hour until the silver Passat drove past the
side road where Line was positioned. ‘He’s on his way,’ she said, and set off. The
others all acknowledged.

Haglund drove inland. There was little traffic, making him difficult to follow. He
maintained a normal speed, and Line was able to remain as lead car for several kilometres.
The landscape was monotonous, with huge, flat fields, and buildings became increasingly
sparse, only a few solitary farms. They drove past a small lake before the road began
to climb. When it flattened again, Haglund braked in the middle of the open countryside
and turned onto a gravel track.

‘He’s turning off,’ Line said, passing the side road and pulling over.

‘What do we do now?’ Harald asked.

Line thought quickly. If they followed him along the narrow gravel track they risked
discovery. On the other hand, what was the point? Seventeen years earlier, the concluding
stages of the investigation had failed to find Cecilia Linde. They were now located
within an hour’s radius of where she had been abducted.

‘I’m going to follow him,’ Line said, reversing. ‘The rest of you stay where you are
and keep the line open.’

The others stopped talking. The gravel crunched underneath her tyres as Line turned
onto the narrow track.

‘Be careful,’ Tommy implored.