through the windscreen. It was covered in the flattened remains of dead insects.
The fjord was milky-blue and calm. Today the beaches and rocky shores would fill up once more with volunteers searching for dead bodies.
Stavern nursing home was a two-storied brown-stained building with a flat roof and extensions coming off at various angles. It was an option for elderly people who, for health reasons, could no longer live at home. Wisting had visited the place one Christmas almost twenty years before, when Line sang in a children’s gospel choir in the foyer. An old building, it looked well maintained, but rather like a barracks. It was not a place he would choose to spend his old age. The staff had received good references in all the interviews and that was probably the deciding factor for residents to thrive.
Inga Svendsen, the departmental manager, greeted him, offering him coffee in her cramped, basement office. Folders, books and ring binders filled the shelves along the wall and the day’s newspapers lay open on the desk. Wisting sat on the only visitor’s chair. She glanced inquisitively over at him, but at the same time appeared resigned. Wisting thought he recognised that look. It was holiday time, the place was certain to be understaffed and would be unbearably warm.
‘Can we talk about Camilla Thaulow first of all?’ he enquired.
‘She works in my department,’ Inga Svendsen confirmed. ‘This disappearance is very unlike her. She’s conscientious and has hardly ever been off sick.’ She gestured towards the computer screen. ‘She took a few days off when her mother had a hip operation two years ago, and since then hasn’t missed a single day.’
‘So, where can she be?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody here knows.’ She cleared away the newspapers in which the discovery of the red Fiesta was reported. ‘But I understand that it’s now a criminal investigation? This too.’
She was thinking of the missing men. Wisting avoided a reply by putting the cup to his lips. ‘What did her work involve?’ he asked.
‘She was a care worker, participating in occupational therapy and rehabilitation initiatives, helping the residents with practical assistance and taking care of daily tasks. Personal hygiene, morning and evening care and feeding for those who need help.’
‘Was there anyone here she had more contact with than others?’
‘Those who worked permanently on the same shift, of course,’ the departmental manager nodded, rattling off a few names. ‘She was well liked by everyone, both staff and patients.’
Wisting posed a few different questions in the hope of discovering some possible trigger for her disappearance, or something that could be connected to the two other disappearances, but made no progress. Nor did he find out anything more about Otto Saga and Torkel Lauritzen.
‘Torkel had almost become too healthy to stay here,’ she explained. ‘He didn’t have the same need for care and support as when he was admitted. The nursing home was not the right place for Otto either. He had more of a social disability and should have been in a dementia wing.’
Wisting leafed through his notepad to a page with the heading Christian Hauge . ‘There was another man staying here: Christian Hauge. He died on the 10th August last year.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you know what he died of?’
‘Does that have anything to do with the missing persons cases?’ the departmental manager asked.
‘It might have,’ Wisting did not want to explain that he was the man who owned the house from which Hanne Richter had vanished, or that he was the grandfather of a police murderer who had returned home.
‘That information is normally confidential,’ Inga Svendsen elaborated.
Wisting remained silent, waiting for her to tell him all the same.
‘It’s not exactly a secret though. He came here after a major heart attack four or five years ago when he was in need of care. After the doctors had to
The fjord was milky-blue and calm. Today the beaches and rocky shores would fill up once more with volunteers searching for dead bodies.
Stavern nursing home was a two-storied brown-stained building with a flat roof and extensions coming off at various angles. It was an option for elderly people who, for health reasons, could no longer live at home. Wisting had visited the place one Christmas almost twenty years before, when Line sang in a children’s gospel choir in the foyer. An old building, it looked well maintained, but rather like a barracks. It was not a place he would choose to spend his old age. The staff had received good references in all the interviews and that was probably the deciding factor for residents to thrive.
Inga Svendsen, the departmental manager, greeted him, offering him coffee in her cramped, basement office. Folders, books and ring binders filled the shelves along the wall and the day’s newspapers lay open on the desk. Wisting sat on the only visitor’s chair. She glanced inquisitively over at him, but at the same time appeared resigned. Wisting thought he recognised that look. It was holiday time, the place was certain to be understaffed and would be unbearably warm.
‘Can we talk about Camilla Thaulow first of all?’ he enquired.
‘She works in my department,’ Inga Svendsen confirmed. ‘This disappearance is very unlike her. She’s conscientious and has hardly ever been off sick.’ She gestured towards the computer screen. ‘She took a few days off when her mother had a hip operation two years ago, and since then hasn’t missed a single day.’
‘So, where can she be?’
‘I don’t know. Nobody here knows.’ She cleared away the newspapers in which the discovery of the red Fiesta was reported. ‘But I understand that it’s now a criminal investigation? This too.’
She was thinking of the missing men. Wisting avoided a reply by putting the cup to his lips. ‘What did her work involve?’ he asked.
‘She was a care worker, participating in occupational therapy and rehabilitation initiatives, helping the residents with practical assistance and taking care of daily tasks. Personal hygiene, morning and evening care and feeding for those who need help.’
‘Was there anyone here she had more contact with than others?’
‘Those who worked permanently on the same shift, of course,’ the departmental manager nodded, rattling off a few names. ‘She was well liked by everyone, both staff and patients.’
Wisting posed a few different questions in the hope of discovering some possible trigger for her disappearance, or something that could be connected to the two other disappearances, but made no progress. Nor did he find out anything more about Otto Saga and Torkel Lauritzen.
‘Torkel had almost become too healthy to stay here,’ she explained. ‘He didn’t have the same need for care and support as when he was admitted. The nursing home was not the right place for Otto either. He had more of a social disability and should have been in a dementia wing.’
Wisting leafed through his notepad to a page with the heading Christian Hauge . ‘There was another man staying here: Christian Hauge. He died on the 10th August last year.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you know what he died of?’
‘Does that have anything to do with the missing persons cases?’ the departmental manager asked.
‘It might have,’ Wisting did not want to explain that he was the man who owned the house from which Hanne Richter had vanished, or that he was the grandfather of a police murderer who had returned home.
‘That information is normally confidential,’ Inga Svendsen elaborated.
Wisting remained silent, waiting for her to tell him all the same.
‘It’s not exactly a secret though. He came here after a major heart attack four or five years ago when he was in need of care. After the doctors had to
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