bulletin?’
Wisting shrugged his shoulders. ‘Until tomorrow?’ he suggested.
Torunn Borg leafed through a bundle of papers on her lap and produced a printout. ‘The police response centre at Telenor has traced her phone. It is either switched off or out of charge. The last time it gave a signal was yesterday evening about ten o’clock. At that time it was in Helgeroa.’
‘In our district,’ the Chief Superintendent concluded. ‘She’s here somewhere.’
‘We’ll concentrate the search in that area.’
‘What about a helicopter?’
‘The police helicopter is not in operation just now, but they’re coming tomorrow.’
‘Who has she spoken to on the phone?’ Hammer asked.
Wisting leaned over across the office desk, knowing Camilla Thaulow’s network of contacts might provide a decisive clue.
‘No one,’ Torunn Borg replied.
Wisting glanced at her enquiringly.
‘She hardly ever talks on her mobile phone. In the course of the past few weeks she had three outgoing calls. Two home to her mother and one to her work. No ingoing calls. If she had arranged to meet someone, she didn’t make the arrangement by phone.’
They remained sitting for ten minutes more, discussing the case without any new ideas emerging, before they went their different ways to finish off the day’s work.
Wisting stared through the window that Hammer had left open. The light summer night was waiting. The longest day of the year was behind him. Around the fjord the Midsummer Eve bonfires were already lit, as a warning of the shorter and darker days to follow.
So far he had not speculated on what might actually have happened. What lay behind the discovery of three amputated feet? Murder and foul play were seldom rational actions, but it was usually possible to find an explanation. In many cases it was easy to form at least an impression of what had taken place, and a theory about the sequence of events. In this case though, he was stuck and couldn’t come up with anything logical. It frightened him. One alternative was that a completely sick human mind was behind it all. A human being whose actions were impossible to understand, and therefore also impossible to anticipate.
The telephone drummed against the writing desk and broke his gloomy train of thought. He had turned off the ring tone while they were holding the meeting. It was Suzanne. He should have phoned her earlier but there simply hadn’t been time.
‘How are things?’ she asked.
‘I’m just finishing up for the day.’ He closed the window.
‘I’ve made some salad with shellfish. It’s too much for just me.’ Her voice sounded hopeful.
‘That sounds good, but I think I’ll go straight home and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. Besides, Line’s at home.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘So-so.’
‘Have you had the results of the blood tests?’
‘No, that’ll take a few days.’
They made small talk as Wisting closed the office and locked the door. When he reached his car they said good night.
Concentrating more on his own thoughts than the traffic he drove slowly towards Stavern. He couldn’t remember so chaotic a case. Everything seemed so meaningless and improbable it was difficult to know where to begin, or how to make best use of their slender resources.
The fjord was filled with small craft. People gathered together on little islands and skerries, the light from their midsummer bonfires reflected on the sea. He sighed heavily, switched on the car radio and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to an old summertime hit.
At home the courtyard was empty. He parked in such a way that Line would have space to park without blocking him in. Evening darkness was closing in. The cat came creeping out from behind the hedge and stroked his head against Wisting’s leg. He bent down and scratched him behind the ear before opening the door, deciding to set his alarm for six o’clock.
The kitchen table was filled with
Wisting shrugged his shoulders. ‘Until tomorrow?’ he suggested.
Torunn Borg leafed through a bundle of papers on her lap and produced a printout. ‘The police response centre at Telenor has traced her phone. It is either switched off or out of charge. The last time it gave a signal was yesterday evening about ten o’clock. At that time it was in Helgeroa.’
‘In our district,’ the Chief Superintendent concluded. ‘She’s here somewhere.’
‘We’ll concentrate the search in that area.’
‘What about a helicopter?’
‘The police helicopter is not in operation just now, but they’re coming tomorrow.’
‘Who has she spoken to on the phone?’ Hammer asked.
Wisting leaned over across the office desk, knowing Camilla Thaulow’s network of contacts might provide a decisive clue.
‘No one,’ Torunn Borg replied.
Wisting glanced at her enquiringly.
‘She hardly ever talks on her mobile phone. In the course of the past few weeks she had three outgoing calls. Two home to her mother and one to her work. No ingoing calls. If she had arranged to meet someone, she didn’t make the arrangement by phone.’
They remained sitting for ten minutes more, discussing the case without any new ideas emerging, before they went their different ways to finish off the day’s work.
Wisting stared through the window that Hammer had left open. The light summer night was waiting. The longest day of the year was behind him. Around the fjord the Midsummer Eve bonfires were already lit, as a warning of the shorter and darker days to follow.
So far he had not speculated on what might actually have happened. What lay behind the discovery of three amputated feet? Murder and foul play were seldom rational actions, but it was usually possible to find an explanation. In many cases it was easy to form at least an impression of what had taken place, and a theory about the sequence of events. In this case though, he was stuck and couldn’t come up with anything logical. It frightened him. One alternative was that a completely sick human mind was behind it all. A human being whose actions were impossible to understand, and therefore also impossible to anticipate.
The telephone drummed against the writing desk and broke his gloomy train of thought. He had turned off the ring tone while they were holding the meeting. It was Suzanne. He should have phoned her earlier but there simply hadn’t been time.
‘How are things?’ she asked.
‘I’m just finishing up for the day.’ He closed the window.
‘I’ve made some salad with shellfish. It’s too much for just me.’ Her voice sounded hopeful.
‘That sounds good, but I think I’ll go straight home and get some sleep. Tomorrow will be another long day. Besides, Line’s at home.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘So-so.’
‘Have you had the results of the blood tests?’
‘No, that’ll take a few days.’
They made small talk as Wisting closed the office and locked the door. When he reached his car they said good night.
Concentrating more on his own thoughts than the traffic he drove slowly towards Stavern. He couldn’t remember so chaotic a case. Everything seemed so meaningless and improbable it was difficult to know where to begin, or how to make best use of their slender resources.
The fjord was filled with small craft. People gathered together on little islands and skerries, the light from their midsummer bonfires reflected on the sea. He sighed heavily, switched on the car radio and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel to an old summertime hit.
At home the courtyard was empty. He parked in such a way that Line would have space to park without blocking him in. Evening darkness was closing in. The cat came creeping out from behind the hedge and stroked his head against Wisting’s leg. He bent down and scratched him behind the ear before opening the door, deciding to set his alarm for six o’clock.
The kitchen table was filled with
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