sure if he was really interested, or if he was asking because it absorbed her so. ‘I’ve interviewed someone who murdered a thirteen-year-old boy, and on Saturday …’
‘What did he get for that?’ Tommy interrupted.
‘Eighteen years, and served fifteen of them. On Saturday I’m going to talk to someone who first served eleven years for killing his girlfriend …’
‘So a policeman’s life is worth more than that of a thirteen-year-old boy?’ Tommy broke in once more.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The one who killed the policeman was inside for sixteen years, but the one who murdered the young boy served fifteen years. And for his girlfriend the third one got only eleven years?’
‘Each case is dealt with individually when it comes to measuring the length of sentence.’
Tommy became thoughtful. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘Now we’ll relax and enjoy ourselves.’
CHAPTER 19
Wisting went home to Herman Wildenveysgate and stayed the night. Later he regretted it. The dawn was breaking when he finally fell asleep. Staggering out of bed when the alarm sounded, he got through his regular morning rituals and to the office, still not feeling fully awake.
They held a short morning meeting, surveying the previous day. The divers had finished searching the lake around midnight. It had been more than empty, without even the usual empty bottles and wrecked bicycles. The only thing that caused a certain degree of interest was an animal carcass they thought was a roe deer that had died at the waterside and slid down into the depths.
Wisting made a list of what he intended to do that day. The first thing would be to go out to Stavern nursing home: it had been on his notepad for a while, and he wanted to make the trip that morning to ensure that nothing else got in the way.
At twelve o’clock he had an appointment with the psychiatrist. He had told Nils Hammer, who had looked at him sceptically until he realised that it was Hanne Richter’s psychiatrist he was talking about. He also considered initiating new interviews with the family members of the missing men, but doubted that he would be able to make a start on that today. In this particular phase of the investigation it was usual for unexpected things to happen, and it was difficult to hold to plans for an entire working day.
He signed out a service vehicle and went down to the garage. Camilla Thaulow’s red Fiesta was in the inspection area. Espen Mortensen stood there, noting something on a writing pad. ‘Found anything?’ he asked.
The crime scene technician pointed to a transparent bag containing a multi-coloured scarf with a checked pattern. ‘That’s about all. The water has washed away all traces.’
‘It matches her mother’s description,’ Wisting nodded, picking up the evidence bag. ‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing really. The keys are in the ignition, the gearstick in first. It was driven into the water at a relatively high speed.’ He pointed towards the car with his ballpoint pen. ‘No rigging of the pedals. The driver’s door was open, of course, so a piece of wood across the accelerator pedal could have fallen out, but it’s also possible that the driver sat behind the wheel, then crawled out and swam to land.’
‘Risky.’
‘Not really. You have to keep your nerve, but it would’ve been the surest way to get the car out into the water.’
‘Not exactly a job for a lady.’
‘Do you think she might have staged it herself?’ Mortensen asked.
Wisting shrugged. The idea had just fallen from his lips, a thought that had not been fully fleshed out. ‘It’s a possibility. This case is so incomprehensible I don’t know what to think.’
Mortensen told him that a report would be ready for him that afternoon. He asked him to continue and left.
The sun quickly warmed the cramped saloon car. Wisting adjusted the ventilators on the air conditioning so they were blowing directly at him, and looked thoughtfully
‘What did he get for that?’ Tommy interrupted.
‘Eighteen years, and served fifteen of them. On Saturday I’m going to talk to someone who first served eleven years for killing his girlfriend …’
‘So a policeman’s life is worth more than that of a thirteen-year-old boy?’ Tommy broke in once more.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The one who killed the policeman was inside for sixteen years, but the one who murdered the young boy served fifteen years. And for his girlfriend the third one got only eleven years?’
‘Each case is dealt with individually when it comes to measuring the length of sentence.’
Tommy became thoughtful. ‘You’re right,’ he said eventually. ‘Now we’ll relax and enjoy ourselves.’
CHAPTER 19
Wisting went home to Herman Wildenveysgate and stayed the night. Later he regretted it. The dawn was breaking when he finally fell asleep. Staggering out of bed when the alarm sounded, he got through his regular morning rituals and to the office, still not feeling fully awake.
They held a short morning meeting, surveying the previous day. The divers had finished searching the lake around midnight. It had been more than empty, without even the usual empty bottles and wrecked bicycles. The only thing that caused a certain degree of interest was an animal carcass they thought was a roe deer that had died at the waterside and slid down into the depths.
Wisting made a list of what he intended to do that day. The first thing would be to go out to Stavern nursing home: it had been on his notepad for a while, and he wanted to make the trip that morning to ensure that nothing else got in the way.
At twelve o’clock he had an appointment with the psychiatrist. He had told Nils Hammer, who had looked at him sceptically until he realised that it was Hanne Richter’s psychiatrist he was talking about. He also considered initiating new interviews with the family members of the missing men, but doubted that he would be able to make a start on that today. In this particular phase of the investigation it was usual for unexpected things to happen, and it was difficult to hold to plans for an entire working day.
He signed out a service vehicle and went down to the garage. Camilla Thaulow’s red Fiesta was in the inspection area. Espen Mortensen stood there, noting something on a writing pad. ‘Found anything?’ he asked.
The crime scene technician pointed to a transparent bag containing a multi-coloured scarf with a checked pattern. ‘That’s about all. The water has washed away all traces.’
‘It matches her mother’s description,’ Wisting nodded, picking up the evidence bag. ‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing really. The keys are in the ignition, the gearstick in first. It was driven into the water at a relatively high speed.’ He pointed towards the car with his ballpoint pen. ‘No rigging of the pedals. The driver’s door was open, of course, so a piece of wood across the accelerator pedal could have fallen out, but it’s also possible that the driver sat behind the wheel, then crawled out and swam to land.’
‘Risky.’
‘Not really. You have to keep your nerve, but it would’ve been the surest way to get the car out into the water.’
‘Not exactly a job for a lady.’
‘Do you think she might have staged it herself?’ Mortensen asked.
Wisting shrugged. The idea had just fallen from his lips, a thought that had not been fully fleshed out. ‘It’s a possibility. This case is so incomprehensible I don’t know what to think.’
Mortensen told him that a report would be ready for him that afternoon. He asked him to continue and left.
The sun quickly warmed the cramped saloon car. Wisting adjusted the ventilators on the air conditioning so they were blowing directly at him, and looked thoughtfully
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