break-in. The kind of thing people liked to read. She would give the police a few hours before
phoning them. If she were lucky, she would succeed in getting someone to agree with
her opinion that there was something mysterious about how the burglary had been executed.
‘That was really risky, though,’ Erik Fjeld suggested. ‘Breaking into the house of
somebody you’ve just killed. The police were certain to show up.’
‘He must have been looking for something worth the risk,’ Line agreed. ‘Something
worth killing for.’
24
Above his head a flock of migrating birds ploughed their way south, wing-to-wing in
synchronised formation below low clouds. Wisting was not driving home. Instead he
passed quickly through Stavern and along the main road to Helgeroa, ignoring the exits
leading to the Justice Department’s conference and training centre, the sports ground,
the hospital and the Folk High School.
Crows flapped like dark shadows across the flanks of brown ploughed fields. He pulled
into the side at a sign pointing along the gravel track to the left, Gumserød farm,
and halted where the witness on the tractor had said the white Opel had been parked.
The young woman whose photograph Nils Hammer had shown him was in his mind, the one
with the yellow bow in her hair. Linnea Kaupang. Somewhere, her despairing parents
were waiting. Hammer knew what had to be done, but Wisting felt bad, not being able
to contribute.
He forced himself to concentrate on seventeen years back in time.
Almost all murders in Norway are solved, which brings its own pressure. He was not
the only one who had felt the Cecilia case heavy on his shoulders. When Rudolf Haglund
appeared it felt as if a burden had been lifted from them all and Wisting experienced
the satisfying feeling of success: of finally making a breakthrough, having a name,
a suspect on whom the investigation could focus. But all they had achieved was the
construction of their own version. They had invested their professional pride into
drawing a convincing picture of Rudolf Haglund as a murderer.
Wisting had seen this before. Pressure and the demand to solve a case could lead to
rash conclusions. The investigators formed their own impressions of how elements hung
together based on the first evidence. After they drew their conclusions, an unconscious
process had been set in motion by which they sought confirmation. They had developed
tunnel vision and sought evidence to fit their theory, become like hunting dogs following
the scent. All sidetracks and possible distractions were passed over. It was Rudolf
Haglund they were after, and they circled round him.
Closing his eyes, he recreated his own picture of that hot summer day when Cecilia
ran along the gravel track, the sunlight filtering through the leafy trees, muscles
visible under her singlet, her hair pulled back in a ponytail swinging from side to
side, earphones pressed close to her head, Seal, Kiss from a Rose , perspiration forming beads on her forehead and a veneer of moisture on her chest.
In Wisting’s mind it was still Rudolf Haglund who was waiting, perched on the edge
of the open car boot. White T-shirt and jeans. Small, close-set eyes, crooked nose
and cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. When he caught sight of her,
he discarded the cigarette end, glanced from side to side to ensure he was entirely
alone, and positioned himself with his back half-turned. When she passed, he pounced
and upended her into the boot.
For Wisting, Rudolf Haglund was still the man who had abducted Cecilia Linde but,
realistically, there was doubt. He glanced in the mirror. The cardboard box on the
rear seat contained thousands of documents. Several hundred names. He could not shake
off the idea that it also contained an alternative name. An alternative killer.
A man with a stick and heavy rainwear came walking along the farm track in the
phoning them. If she were lucky, she would succeed in getting someone to agree with
her opinion that there was something mysterious about how the burglary had been executed.
‘That was really risky, though,’ Erik Fjeld suggested. ‘Breaking into the house of
somebody you’ve just killed. The police were certain to show up.’
‘He must have been looking for something worth the risk,’ Line agreed. ‘Something
worth killing for.’
24
Above his head a flock of migrating birds ploughed their way south, wing-to-wing in
synchronised formation below low clouds. Wisting was not driving home. Instead he
passed quickly through Stavern and along the main road to Helgeroa, ignoring the exits
leading to the Justice Department’s conference and training centre, the sports ground,
the hospital and the Folk High School.
Crows flapped like dark shadows across the flanks of brown ploughed fields. He pulled
into the side at a sign pointing along the gravel track to the left, Gumserød farm,
and halted where the witness on the tractor had said the white Opel had been parked.
The young woman whose photograph Nils Hammer had shown him was in his mind, the one
with the yellow bow in her hair. Linnea Kaupang. Somewhere, her despairing parents
were waiting. Hammer knew what had to be done, but Wisting felt bad, not being able
to contribute.
He forced himself to concentrate on seventeen years back in time.
Almost all murders in Norway are solved, which brings its own pressure. He was not
the only one who had felt the Cecilia case heavy on his shoulders. When Rudolf Haglund
appeared it felt as if a burden had been lifted from them all and Wisting experienced
the satisfying feeling of success: of finally making a breakthrough, having a name,
a suspect on whom the investigation could focus. But all they had achieved was the
construction of their own version. They had invested their professional pride into
drawing a convincing picture of Rudolf Haglund as a murderer.
Wisting had seen this before. Pressure and the demand to solve a case could lead to
rash conclusions. The investigators formed their own impressions of how elements hung
together based on the first evidence. After they drew their conclusions, an unconscious
process had been set in motion by which they sought confirmation. They had developed
tunnel vision and sought evidence to fit their theory, become like hunting dogs following
the scent. All sidetracks and possible distractions were passed over. It was Rudolf
Haglund they were after, and they circled round him.
Closing his eyes, he recreated his own picture of that hot summer day when Cecilia
ran along the gravel track, the sunlight filtering through the leafy trees, muscles
visible under her singlet, her hair pulled back in a ponytail swinging from side to
side, earphones pressed close to her head, Seal, Kiss from a Rose , perspiration forming beads on her forehead and a veneer of moisture on her chest.
In Wisting’s mind it was still Rudolf Haglund who was waiting, perched on the edge
of the open car boot. White T-shirt and jeans. Small, close-set eyes, crooked nose
and cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. When he caught sight of her,
he discarded the cigarette end, glanced from side to side to ensure he was entirely
alone, and positioned himself with his back half-turned. When she passed, he pounced
and upended her into the boot.
For Wisting, Rudolf Haglund was still the man who had abducted Cecilia Linde but,
realistically, there was doubt. He glanced in the mirror. The cardboard box on the
rear seat contained thousands of documents. Several hundred names. He could not shake
off the idea that it also contained an alternative name. An alternative killer.
A man with a stick and heavy rainwear came walking along the farm track in the
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