Dregs (6 page)

Ken Ronny was the older of two sons. His younger brother was now 35 years old and, as far as Line could discover, had never been involved in any criminal activity. He ran a company that supplied machinery to the stone industry, was married and had two daughters.

Ken Ronny’s mother had been found dead in the harbour almost exactly a year after he had been arrested. The death was described as a drowning accident. Line wondered if the journalist who had splashed the picture of Ken Ronny over the front page had been aware of the incident. It was probably a final way out that she had chosen after failing to drink away her sorrow and despair.

There were several aspects of the police murder that made it unusual, the most disquieting being that Ken Ronny Hauge had never admitted guilt or given any explanation about what happened that dark September night in 1991. Not once during the trial had he offered any explanation.

Line was to interview him on Friday and was excited about what he might have to say, but met his gaze from the photograph with a slight sense of dread. She thought of all the evenings she had lain in bed as a little girl without being able to fall asleep, praying to God that the
Police Murderer
would not take her father too. Interviewing him would be like going to meet a danger from the past.

CHAPTER 10

Afternoon sunshine trickled through the venetian blinds, throwing stripes of light across the overflowing desk in Wisting’s office.

He unscrewed the cap on a container of tablets for which he had paid almost four hundred kroner in the health-food shop, and examined the contents. The expensive pills contained roseroot (rhodiola rosea) and other herbs. According to the product description, the pale capsules would increase his tolerance of stress, stimulate physical and psychological performance, and produce higher levels of energy and vigour. In addition, they would improve concentration and memory, at the same time having a positive effect on mood and motivation.

Everything he needed.

He shook two capsules onto his palm and swallowed them without water while reading through the press release he had written. It was too late to change it. The information had already been sent to a dozen or so editorial offices, and would be disseminated via the news bureaux to all the newspapers in the country.

The text briefly summed up the facts of the case, describing the finding of the three severed feet, giving time and place and confirming that the most likely scenario involved body parts from three different people. In the next paragraph it explained about the four people who had gone missing in the area, and that the discoveries were being checked against these. There was nevertheless still a possibility that the body parts had come from far away. He had also added the stock phrase about the police keeping all possibilities open, but did not exclude the possibility of a criminal act and had initiated appropriate lines of enquiry.

Finally, he had announced a press conference to be held at the police station at eight o’clock that same evening. This meant that the news editors had three hours to reflect. It was St John’s Eve and several papers would have only a skeleton staff, but he knew that the press release would set off a landslide. Teams of reporters from Oslo and the news departments of the various television companies were in all likelihood already starting to pack their cars.

Wisting rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. They would not have a single quiet moment after this.

Audun Vetti had asked that his name be listed as both sender and contact person for the press. Telephone numbers for his mobile and office were also given. It was stipulated that information beyond what was stated in the press release would not be released before the press conference. The Assistant Police Chief’s telephone would not remain silent. Wisting was glad that he could avoid answering endless repeats of the same questions, but knew that the most experienced journalists would manage to reach him too.

He reached over for the half-empty coffee cup, gulped the cold liquid and pulled the bundle of case files towards him. It was time to set the ball rolling.

He decided to start with Camilla Thaulow at Stavern nursing home and leafed through the files for her telephone number. She had known two of the missing men well. Described as an especially caring nurse she often took time to have long conversations with her patients. Nevertheless, she had not been interviewed.

He tried to phone her twice in order to make an appointment, without success. Keying in her number once more he was transferred to voicemail but did not leave a request to get in touch.

He felt the beginnings of a headache inside his temple that he knew would soon spread and explode inside his skull. Taking out the glasses he was not good at remembering to wear he turned towards his computer screen. It could be that Camilla Thaulow had taken a new phone number in the months that had passed since the investigation. Perhaps she had a home phone too, without it being listed in the case files.

His computer opened at the last thing he had been doing, looking up the keywords
low testosterone level
on the internet. Most of the answers contained the same information that he had received from his doctor the day before, and focused on problems with lack of potency, listlessness and depression. Some of the search results had also included the word
tumour
and led him to the home page of
Kreftforeningen
, the national cancer organisation.

He hurriedly clicked it away and looked up Camilla Thaulow in the telephone directory. She lived in Markaveien in Langangen, but had no phone numbers listed other than the one he had already rung.

He clicked further into the net pages of the local newspaper, saved in his favourites section. The press release was already doing its work. The Internet Editor had chosen INVESTIGATING MURDER as the headline. Wisting managed to discover that the newspaper had been in touch with Assistant Chief of Police Audun Vetti, who had confirmed that a murder investigation was under way.

His mobile phone rang. The circus had begun.

Line stretched her arms in the air and yawned, details from the old newspaper reports still running through her head. She had worked with great concentration on the cuttings and made a plan for meeting the police murderer Ken Ronny Hauge. Feeling hungry, she glanced at the clock on the wall. Almost two hours had gone by. Her father should be home by now.

She opened the refrigerator and noted that he had done his shopping with her in mind. There were new sandwich toppings, cheese, two slices of beef, and a carton of milk. Her father did not drink milk. She had almost stopped as well, but he still thought that she needed a glass every morning and always bought some in when he knew she was coming.

She took a couple of tomatoes from the drawer at the bottom back to the computer. Fresh juice ran out of the corners of her mouth when she bit into them. She sucked it in, dried her mouth with the back of her hand and chewed some more while clicking into
Verdens Gang
on the net. She remained sitting with her mouth half-open as she read the headline: MURDER ALARM SOUNDED IN STAVERN. On the next line, in slightly smaller type, it stated:
Body parts wash ashore on the beaches
.

She put the half-eaten tomato aside and scrolled down through the text, but had not managed to read all of it before the telephone rang. It was Morten Pludowski from the news section. They had worked together on several criminal cases, but had not spoken since Line had been transferred to the features department.

‘Have you read about it?’ he asked, without introducing himself.

‘I’m reading it now.’

‘Do you know anything about it?’

‘No more than what it says on the net newspaper.’

‘Where are you?’

‘At home.’ She hesitated before adding: ‘In Larvik.’

‘Wonderful. I’m on my way down.’

‘But I’m working on something completely different,’ Line protested. ‘I have appointments that I can’t change. I can’t take part in this. I don’t want to either. It will make things difficult with Dad.’

‘That’s ok. We’re coming with a team. I just want you to be aware that if you get to know anything I hope you’ll phone me.’

‘Of course. Goes without saying.’

‘And I’d like to have a cup of coffee with you when I arrive down there.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I miss you.’

Line didn’t know if it was true or flattery, but realised that she missed Morten P. as well. He had been working on crime stories for over twenty years, but from day one had never had any problem about taking Line with him to accidents and crime scenes. They had good chemistry, and she had learned a great deal from him.

‘I miss you too,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps we can try for lunch tomorrow?’

‘I’ll phone you if I’m free.’ Someone was shouting in the background. ‘Now I have to go. Speak later.’

‘Good luck!’

The connection was cut, and Line remained sitting with a tingling feeling in her stomach. She would give a lot to take part in the case, but did not have any wish to cover a murder investigation that her father was leading. She had done that only once, and it had been too exhausting for her to want it to happen again. She fiddled with the phone for a while, and then keyed in his number.

‘Yes?’ answered Wisting abruptly, not bothering to check the display for who was calling.

‘Hello, Dad. It’s me.’

Some quick thoughts raced through Wisting’s head. They had not actually made any arrangement, but he had prepared dinner and was looking forward to meeting her later. ‘Line,’ he said, smiling. ‘Where are you?’

‘At home. I arrived a couple of hours ago.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry about that. I should have phoned you …’

‘I’ve seen the headlines,’ Line interrupted. ‘No need to think about me.’

‘There’s some food in the fridge …’

‘I’ll manage. Is everything ok with you?’

‘Oh yes, of course, we’ll manage all right as well,’ he confirmed, without entirely believing it. ‘You won’t be working on this?’

‘No, I’m in another department now, you know.’

It went a bit quiet.

‘Have you let Buster in?’ Wisting enquired, changing the subject. He had taken over the black male cat from Line almost three years previously. Buster had grown big and round, and never ventured very far from home.

‘No, I haven’t seen him.’

‘He’ll come if you call him,’ Wisting said. ‘What will you do this evening?’

‘I haven’t thought about it yet. Perhaps I’ll phone some girlfriends but most will probably be busy. They have husbands and children. Maybe I’ll go for a drive to the beaches.’

Wisting’s office door opened. Audun Vetti entered, together with the Chief Superintendent. ‘Sounds like a good idea.’ He waved to the Assistant Chief of Police to invite him to sit in the visitor’s chair. ‘I’ve got people in the office now,’ he went on. ‘We’ll talk this evening.’

Vetti sat down, but the Chief Superintendent went to the window and stared out. Wisting concluded the telephone conversation.

‘They want pictures,’ the Assistant Chief of Police said.

‘Pictures?’

‘Of the shoes.’

Of course, thought Wisting. Of course they want pictures. He did not say anything, but closed his eyes, reflecting. He had discussed the use of pictures in the newspapers many times with Line, and understood how important they were to the press. The police also might have an interest in ensuring that a case received a higher profile in the news. Dramatic photographs led to increased attention, and a greater possibility that someone out there who held information would make contact.

This case would be at the top of the news regardless, and he was doubtful about publicising anything sensational. At the same time, it was of interest to the investigation. They still did not know who the severed feet belonged to and by making pictures of the shoes public they might prompt a response. And there were pictures in Mortensen’s folders of illustrations in which human material was not visible.

‘We must have something more to show than we have already described in the press release,’ Vetti argued.

‘I’ll arrange something,’ Wisting promised. ‘And I’ll make a summary of what we know about shoe sizes, manufacture, and so forth.’

The telephone on his desk rang again. He did not recognise the number and waited until Vetti had moved to the door before he lifted the receiver. The Chief Superintendent remained by the window.

‘Wait!’ Wisting said into the phone before laying his hand over the receiver and glancing enquiringly at him.

The Chief Superintendent waited until Vetti had left the office, then turned to face him. ‘I’d like you to show up at the press conference,’ he requested. Wisting never felt comfortable in meetings with a massive press corps, but could not find an argument against his attending. His body language expressed his reluctance. ‘We need someone there that people depend on.’ He threw a glance towards the open door. ‘Someone they feel confident can find a way out of all this.’

Wisting knitted his brows.

‘That is you, William, as you have demonstrated before. You have the necessary personal authority.’ He stepped towards the door. ‘Eight o’clock,’ he said with a nod and went out.

Wisting looked after him, and then returned his attention to the telephone. ‘Yes?’

‘I’ll make it brief,’ the man who had been waiting at the other end began. ‘I’m calling from the crime watch section in Grenland.’ He cleared his throat and introduced himself: ‘Kvastmo, Vetle Kvastmo. I understand that you’ve got a lot to deal with just now, but that’s why I’m phoning.’

‘Well then?’

‘It probably doesn’t have any connection, but we received a report about a missing person this morning.’

‘Well then?’ Wisting repeated.

We’re talking about a lady from Langangen who didn’t come home last night. The point is that she works at the care home for the elderly where two men in your case have been reported missing. She did not turn up for the evening shift yesterday either.’