The Caveman Page 4

  It would be strange to meet Steinar again. They had been childhood sweethearts, mostly because he had been the only boy of the same age in the street, and he was the first she had kissed and the first to touch her breasts. That had happened on the hillside beside the main road, before she had started wearing a bra, in a tree house with barely room for two people. Lying close to each other, it was almost by accident that their lips had brushed together. He had placed his hand on her breast, outside her clothing, and then thrust it underneath, eventually pulling up her sweater so that he could look at them. At the age of twelve or thirteen, she had no idea what might have happened if his sister had not arrived.

  Her thoughts wandered in another direction. Where had Viggo Hansen been that day? Had he ever touched a girl or a woman like that? It was difficult to imagine a person going through life without sharing it with anyone in any way whatsoever. She poured the rest of the coffee down her throat before carrying her mobile phone to the window. One of the neighbours was busy clearing snow from the car in front of hers. Tapping in her father’s number, she placed the palm of her hand on the cold glass and waited.

  ‘Hello,’ he answered. ‘I’m on my way to a meeting.’

  Line turned round, supporting the small of her back against the window ledge, and peered at her notes spread over the kitchen table. ‘I’m just phoning to let you know I’m taking a trip down today. I’ll be staying at home for a few days.’

  ‘Oh? Why’s that?’

  ‘Doesn’t it suit?’

  ‘Of course it suits. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to see you until Christmas.’

  ‘I’m going to write about Viggo Hansen.’

  ‘For VG? Why on earth?’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘We were on nodding terms.’

  ‘Yes, but what do you know about him?’

  Her father was quiet for a few moments, before repeating, ‘I’m on my way to a meeting.’

  ‘I don’t believe anyone really knew him. That’s why I’m going to write about him, and how it’s possible to be entirely alone throughout your life.’

  She heard only silence as her father thought about this. He seemed to be contemplating her point. ‘That could be an interesting story,’ he said, ‘but isn’t it slightly close to home?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He was our neighbour, wasn’t he? You were one of the people who were here but didn’t get to know him.’

  Line crossed to the kitchen table. She had thought about this, understanding that she herself was one of the reasons for Viggo Hansen’s loneliness. It would present a challenge when she came to balance the material, but she saw nothing wrong with that. It would be almost like working on the local paper again, when you knew, or knew of, most people you were writing about.

  ‘I’ve sent a request to Christine Thiis for access to the case notes from the time when he was found,’ she said. ‘Can you ask whether she’s received it? I can send a copy to you as well.’

  ‘It’s not a criminal case,’ her father objected. She could hear his footsteps as he spoke.

  ‘I know that. I’m just trying to find out who he was. Will you speak to her?’

  ‘I’ll do that, but now I can’t talk any longer. See you tonight, then.’

  8

  Wisting entered the conference room and placed his phone on the table. He had forgotten about Viggo Hansen. The case file, containing photographs he would prefer that Line did not see, was still lying in his office. However, he knew his daughter and was well aware she would not give up until she had her hands on the folder.

  Espen Mortensen was already at work in the conference room, connecting the videolink to the autopsy room at the Institute of Public Health in Oslo.

  Wisting gazed absentmindedly at the test card image on the screen. He could not let go of Viggo Hansen. He often pondered such trivial coincidences. The unidentified body and Viggo Hansen had both been lying for the same length of time, without anyone having missed them. There was no apparent connection, but a habitual suspicion meant he was unable to drop the notion.

  Nils Hammer came in and sat in his usual place, complaining how much he hated snow, and slipped a sachet of snuff under his lip.

  Christine Thiis was last to arrive, carrying a sheaf of papers that she set down on the table before her. ‘It’s out,’ she said, taking her seat. ‘I’ve spoken to the local paper.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Wisting remarked. ‘We’re going to need information from the public.’

  ‘What did you tell them?’ Hammer asked.

  ‘Not much,’ Christine Thiis replied. ‘After all, we don’t know very much. A dead body has been found in the woods beside Halle farmhouse. It’s been lying for a long time, and we can’t say anything about age or sex with any certainty. They’re of a similar mind to us, that it’s probably a personal tragedy.’

  Wisting nodded. The newspaper would probably keep a low profile, as they had done with Viggo Hansen’s death.

  ‘A good idea to talk to them just now,’ Hammer remarked, pointing to the large flat screen. ‘In an hour or so, we’ll probably know a great deal more.’

  ‘They’ll soon be hassling me again.’

  Images of the autopsy room were now filling the large screen, with the harsh ceiling light reflecting off the white wall tiles and sterile metal worktops. Wisting joined them at the table.

  This was a type of television broadcast he had not been able to get completely used to. He associated television with entertainment, so it was a bizarre experience to sit watching pathologists cutting into a human body as a live broadcast. However, it was a practical form of communication, two-way with respect to sound, but with the picture travelling only one way. Previously, they had been at the mercy of a resumé in a phone call and a brief report via fax. The new arrangement allowed them to pose questions directly to the pathologist and receive immediate answers.

  Three people were present at the autopsy: a forensics expert and an assistant, each wearing green overalls as well as facemasks, gloves and yellow plastic aprons, and a crime scene technician from Kripos, the national criminal investigation section, in the usual white coverall. According to their papers, the Kripos officer’s name was Jon Berge. Wisting was familiar with the name from countless reports, but had never seen him before.

  A fourth man entered the room trundling a body-shaped bundle wrapped in white plastic. They heard his footsteps echo in the room as he pushed the trolley into place.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Jon Berge from Kripos asked, peering up at the camera.

  ‘Ready,’ Wisting said.

  The assistant rolled out a table on which they could see surgical instruments and empty test-tubes with labels attached. The pathologist unzipped the body bag and folded it to one side, removing some stained sheets before exposing the damaged body to the bright artificial light. Wisting saw how everyone in the autopsy room reacted to the smell that must be overwhelming now that the frozen body had started to thaw.

  A transparent plastic bag was drawn over the dead man’s right arm, on which the hand had stiffened in a grip around some strands of hair. At several points on the clothing, Mortensen had affixed broad, clear tape to secure possible traces of the perpetrator: hair, fibres, skin, sweat, blood and tears.

  The pathologist dictated time and place into a recorder and announced the names of everyone present.

  ‘The unidentified body arrived at the Forensics Division of the Institute of Public Health wearing a brown blazer, shirt, pale trousers and brown leather shoes,’ he said. ‘A more detailed description of the clothing is being left to the police crime scene technician.’

  Jon Berge took an overview picture.

  ‘The body is far advanced in decomposition, but has not reached the final stage of putrefaction. The remains of the epidermis are brownish-black, and numerous pin-sized, crater-shaped lesions can be detected that may be assumed to derive from attacks by ants and beetles. Wounds caused by large
r animals can also be seen in the form of centimetre-long, irregular lesions on the bare areas of connective tissue, such as the ankle and neck. Incursions by fly larvae seem to have been restricted. The left arm is stretched out and lying along the body. The right arm is at an angle from the elbow joint and is resting on the chest. The hand is clenched and looks to be holding something.’

  The camera flash shed its white light on the body before the pathologist continued with the external description. He then removed the plastic cover around the right hand and straightened out the thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Potential hair fibres found in the right hand,’ he dictated, ensuring that photos were taken before unfolding the remaining three fingers. ‘The palm of the hand is stained with a brownish-black coating. Possibly a surface crusting of blood. A total of six hairs are firmly attached to the crust.’

  One by one, the hairs were removed with tweezers and placed in a test-tube. Subsequently, samples were taken of what was probably blood, before the hand was rinsed clean. No injuries were found on it.

  ‘We’ll continue,’ the pathologist declared, inviting the assistant to remove the shoes.

  He coaxed them off and handed them to the Kripos investigator. ‘Wolverine,’ he read from the sole of the shoe. ‘Size 11.5.’

  ‘Not a European measurement, then,’ Christine Thiis said.

  Espen Mortensen keyed the company name into the computer to initiate a search. ‘A shoe factory with headquarters in Michigan, USA. They’re sold worldwide.’

  On screen, they had removed the jacket from the body. The police officer tried to read a label at the collar.

  Mortensen leafed through his notes. ‘Brioni. I’ve checked it. An Italian label.’

  Jon Berge nodded in confirmation as he placed the jacket in a paper bag.

  The trouser legs were then cut open and carefully peeled back. Black encrustations of skin and tissue came next, and thread-like remains of musculature were revealed.

  ‘Men’s underwear,’ the policeman in the autopsy room announced, prior to examining the pale trousers. ‘John Henry Men’s Dress Pants.’

  Espen Mortensen’s computer screen filled with results from various online stockists. ‘Only foreign pages. Shopko, Find&Save and eBay.’

  The arms of the shirt were cut off in the same way as the trousers.

  Wisting peered at the remains on the metal table. The ribcage was protruding from the chest, and the blackish-brown skin was broken and covered in open sores. Most probably these were due to depredations by rats. The clothing had been intact, and there was nothing to suggest external injuries caused by violence in the form of stab or gunshot wounds.

  The Kripos investigator let his fingers slide along the shirt collar, searching for a label. ‘There’s some discolouration here,’ he said. ‘Darker than the other stains. I can’t make out the brand.’ He turned to face the camera. ‘It could be blood.’

  The pathologist picked up a ruler and drew the adjustable arm of the lamp towards the head. ‘It’s difficult to say,’ he muttered before dictating: ‘Possible fracture of the left temple. An area of the skull bone, measuring 3.5 centimetres in diameter, is exposed. Remnants of corpse wax are visible along the edges of the wound.’

  Jon Berge took photographs on the pathologist’s instructions. ‘Could be consistent with an injury caused by a blunt weapon. Extremely provisional conclusion.’

  Wisting noted what was said, mostly from habit. He would receive a preliminary report before the end of the day with descriptions and comments on all the injuries. The work in the autopsy room continued. The underpants were cut and removed from the body.

  The pathologist raised the recorder to his mouth again: ‘The external sex organs are like leaves,’ he stated, describing the folds of skin in the dead man’s groin. ‘Most probably male, dried out. The chest and abdomen have collapsed, parts of the skeleton can be seen clearly and, as far as I can make out, have no inflicted injuries.’

  Christine Thiis stood up, her face drained of colour. ‘I’m going to my office,’ she said. ‘Let me have a summary afterwards.’

  Wisting’s eyes followed her to the door before returning to the images on the screen. The pathologist continued with routine aspects of his work before the body was hosed down with cold water.

  ‘We’re obviously dealing with a corpse of some age,’ he said, peering up at the camera. ‘It’s relatively well preserved, considering it’s been lying outdoors, but it’s impossible to give an exact time of death.’

  ‘Four months?’ Wisting suggested.

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to suggest otherwise. The average temperature has been low since the end of September. The first undoubted night frosts came to Eastern Norway in October; so, yes. He may well have been there from the middle of August. It was a fairly cool summer as well.’

  ‘’He’s been kept dry and relatively dark too,’ Wisting said, recalling how, in the Scouts, they had learned to light a fire in pouring rain, without help from lighter fuel or paper. The secret lay underneath the fir trees, at the foot of the trunk, where rain and damp never penetrated, and dry branches could always be found. ‘That would explain why the body’s in such good condition, even after four months.’

  ‘I understood you didn’t have anyone missing from that time?’ the Kripos investigator said.

  Wisting shook his head to confirm, but then it dawned on him that the people on screen could not see him. ‘At least not locally,’ he said. ‘And nobody from the rest of the country who might possibly have ended up here in our neck of the woods.’

  ‘We’re moving to X-rays now,’ the pathologist explained. ‘Then we’ll take weights and measurements before we cut him up. Perhaps that will be of help to you. I’ll get the forensic odontologist to take an impression of his teeth as well. Provisionally, I can’t say more than that it’s a fully-grown male.’

  Wisting expressed his thanks and the screen went dark.

  9

  Christine Thiis’ office was located at the end of the corridor. As the door was ajar, Wisting ventured inside. ‘I think it’s a foreigner,’ he said, positioning himself beside the window. The sky was leaden and large snowflakes fell thick and fast.

  Christine Thiis leaned back and folded her arms across her chest. ‘Did anything more specific emerge from the post-mortem?’

  ‘We’ll know in the course of the day, but in the meantime we don’t know any more than that it’s a grown man wearing clothes and shoes bought abroad.’

  ‘And that he has a substantial wound on his head.’

  Wisting nodded as he pushed his hands into his pockets and rested his forehead on the cold windowpane. In a courtyard across the street children were rolling big snowballs that left black marks in all the whiteness.

  ‘Have you received an application from Line?’ he asked.

  ‘Not from Line,’ she replied, clicking into her email, ‘but from a chief editor.’ Leaning closer to the screen, she screwed up her eyes and read aloud: ‘We hereby request that our journalist Line Wisting be granted access to the case documents pertaining to the death of Viggo Hansen.’

  ‘I spoke to her a few hours ago,’ Wisting said. ‘She’s on her way home. Perhaps she’ll stay here until after Christmas.’

  ‘That’ll be nice. Are you going to celebrate together?’

  ‘I expect so. We haven’t actually talked about Christmas yet.’ Down in the courtyard the children were patting the largest snowball flat at the top before lifting the next and placing it on top. ‘Have you managed to look at that?’ he asked, nodding at the computer screen.

  ‘At present there’s not much to do apart from wait,’ Christine Thiis said, glancing into the corridor in the direction of the conference room. ‘I’ve already sent the chief editor a reply.’

  Wisting remained silent in anticipation of her telling him whether she had declined or approved the request.

  ‘I can’t see anything wrong with allowing the newspaper access to the documen
ts,’ she said. ‘They have an editorial responsibility with respect to the publication of personal and private information, but I’ve discussed it with the chief constable and we’ve decided to allow them free access.’

  Wisting gazed at her. ‘Does this have anything to do with it being Line who asked?’

  ‘Not really. Obviously it’s important for us to have confidence that Line will handle the assignment in an acceptable fashion, but it’s really more to do with my belief that it’s an important story. I’ve spoken to the probate authorities and the local council’s legal department as well. They’re allowing her access to the house.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Wisting said, his eyes flitting again to the window, where he could see the snowman had been given a head, with eyes, nose, mouth and a knitted hat. Espen Mortensen came into the room.

  ‘What do you think?’ Christine Thiis asked. ‘About the post-mortem?’

  ‘I think we must accept that this is a case of murder,’ he said, sitting down. ‘And that we’re behind by four months.’

  Wisting had already appreciated what they were facing some time earlier. ‘I don’t believe it happened there,’ he said. ‘In amongst the Christmas trees.’

  Mortensen agreed. ‘He was brought there. It’s a long time ago now, but there’s no evidence at the discovery site to indicate the murder was committed there.’

  ‘You mean he was killed somewhere else and transported there?’ Christine Thiis asked.

  Wisting rubbed his hand over his mouth, biting his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘It’s a strange place to hide a body.’

  Christine Thiis was noting key words in large, round handwriting. ‘It could have happened somewhere close by?’ she suggested. ‘At one of the farms out there, or something like that?’