direction
of the mailboxes. Tim Bakke, Wisting decided. A grizzled, green-eyed man with strong
arms who lived in the first red house on the right-hand side of the track. He kept
four hens in a chicken run behind his garage. When Wisting interviewed him he was
most concerned about the fox that had snatched the fifth hen.
He put the car into gear, crunching across the rough gravel. Ten minutes later, he
swung off the road again. It was almost a year since he had taken over the cottage
out at Værvågen, and he had grown fond of the place. He could relax there.
Two parallel wheel ruts filled with brown muddy water stretched before him, ascending
to a plateau where he could see the smooth coastal rock of the shore. The track ended
at an open area surrounded by thick wild rose bushes about thirty metres from the
cottage. A footpath covered the final stretch. Down on the shore a seagull posed on
one of the mooring posts. Wisting parked and lifted the box of case documents out
of the boot. The wind rustled the autumn leaves and waves broke against the beach.
He sank his shoulders and exhaled.
Inside the cottage, he could smell the fresh paint from the final week of summer when
he had been here with Line. The living room was bright and attractive with new covers
on the soft furnishings as well as cushions and curtains in matching colours. The
necessary female influence was his daughter’s.
He set the box down in the centre of the table and removed his jacket before emptying
the contents. He placed the ring binders in the centre of the table and sorted them
according to colour. When he had finished, a cassette still lay at the bottom of the
box: a copy, a BASF tape, marked exactly as Cecilia’s. CL.
He looked around. Their old portable radio cassette player was still sitting underneath
the windowsill. He pressed the eject button and inserted the cassette, spooling back
slightly before commencing playback, and straightened up as he waited. Cecilia’s voice
interrupted just as abruptly as the first time he had heard her.
‘ On Saturday 15th July a man kidnapped me while I was out running. It took place at the crossroads beside Gumserød farm. He had an old white car. I ’ m lying inside its boot right now . It all happened so fast. I didn ’ t manage to get a good look at him, but he had a foul smell, of smoke, though something else as well. I ’ ve seen him before. He was wearing a white T -shirt and jeans. Dark hair. Small dark eyes and bushy black eyebrows. A crooked nose. ’
He listened to the entire one minute and forty-three seconds, moving his lips and
repeating parts of the statement along with her. Her voice was clear and distinct,
but she spoke rapidly, as though in a rush. Even though he had heard it many times
before, it seemed nevertheless that there was something new there. He spooled back.
‘… he had a foul smell , of smoke, though something else as well. I ’ ve seen him before. ’
He stopped and rewound it again.
‘ I ’ ve seen him before. ’
The sentence was familiar, but had taken new meaning. They had never succeeded in
proving any connection between Cecilia Linde and Rudolf Haglund. Not a single one
of the documents on the table suggested any point of intersection between their lives.
He had thought the comment might mean she had spotted him on one of her runs, and
perhaps Rudolf Haglund had even kept an eye on her as he planned the abduction. However,
it might also mean that Cecilia Linde’s murderer occupied a position somewhere in
her social circle.
25
Among the contents of the cardboard box was an unfiled, stapled sheaf of papers, a
printout from a database containing an overview of everyone involved, with each name
allocated a reference. Thus it was a simple matter to find someone when the name appeared
again. It also simplified the checking of named tip-offs.
There was no corresponding method for discovering which
of the mailboxes. Tim Bakke, Wisting decided. A grizzled, green-eyed man with strong
arms who lived in the first red house on the right-hand side of the track. He kept
four hens in a chicken run behind his garage. When Wisting interviewed him he was
most concerned about the fox that had snatched the fifth hen.
He put the car into gear, crunching across the rough gravel. Ten minutes later, he
swung off the road again. It was almost a year since he had taken over the cottage
out at Værvågen, and he had grown fond of the place. He could relax there.
Two parallel wheel ruts filled with brown muddy water stretched before him, ascending
to a plateau where he could see the smooth coastal rock of the shore. The track ended
at an open area surrounded by thick wild rose bushes about thirty metres from the
cottage. A footpath covered the final stretch. Down on the shore a seagull posed on
one of the mooring posts. Wisting parked and lifted the box of case documents out
of the boot. The wind rustled the autumn leaves and waves broke against the beach.
He sank his shoulders and exhaled.
Inside the cottage, he could smell the fresh paint from the final week of summer when
he had been here with Line. The living room was bright and attractive with new covers
on the soft furnishings as well as cushions and curtains in matching colours. The
necessary female influence was his daughter’s.
He set the box down in the centre of the table and removed his jacket before emptying
the contents. He placed the ring binders in the centre of the table and sorted them
according to colour. When he had finished, a cassette still lay at the bottom of the
box: a copy, a BASF tape, marked exactly as Cecilia’s. CL.
He looked around. Their old portable radio cassette player was still sitting underneath
the windowsill. He pressed the eject button and inserted the cassette, spooling back
slightly before commencing playback, and straightened up as he waited. Cecilia’s voice
interrupted just as abruptly as the first time he had heard her.
‘ On Saturday 15th July a man kidnapped me while I was out running. It took place at the crossroads beside Gumserød farm. He had an old white car. I ’ m lying inside its boot right now . It all happened so fast. I didn ’ t manage to get a good look at him, but he had a foul smell, of smoke, though something else as well. I ’ ve seen him before. He was wearing a white T -shirt and jeans. Dark hair. Small dark eyes and bushy black eyebrows. A crooked nose. ’
He listened to the entire one minute and forty-three seconds, moving his lips and
repeating parts of the statement along with her. Her voice was clear and distinct,
but she spoke rapidly, as though in a rush. Even though he had heard it many times
before, it seemed nevertheless that there was something new there. He spooled back.
‘… he had a foul smell , of smoke, though something else as well. I ’ ve seen him before. ’
He stopped and rewound it again.
‘ I ’ ve seen him before. ’
The sentence was familiar, but had taken new meaning. They had never succeeded in
proving any connection between Cecilia Linde and Rudolf Haglund. Not a single one
of the documents on the table suggested any point of intersection between their lives.
He had thought the comment might mean she had spotted him on one of her runs, and
perhaps Rudolf Haglund had even kept an eye on her as he planned the abduction. However,
it might also mean that Cecilia Linde’s murderer occupied a position somewhere in
her social circle.
25
Among the contents of the cardboard box was an unfiled, stapled sheaf of papers, a
printout from a database containing an overview of everyone involved, with each name
allocated a reference. Thus it was a simple matter to find someone when the name appeared
again. It also simplified the checking of named tip-offs.
There was no corresponding method for discovering which
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