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Authors: Jørn Lier Horst
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Fredrikstad?’
he asked.
‘I am indeed,’ she answered, reading his mind and bursting into disarming laughter.
The background noise on the phone line subsided, and she guessed that he had pulled
up. ‘What happened?’ he asked seriously.
She told him the whole story, from the time she had left the editorial office in Oslo’s
Akersgata until she gave her written statement at the police station.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.
‘There’s a press conference at ten o’clock.’
‘Are you going on with the story?’
‘It’s my story now. I won’t give it up until the police have captured him, if I don’t
get hold of him myself.’
Her father groaned. ‘Line!’
‘Okay then, okay.’ It struck her that her father would be in charge of the morning
meeting at the police station beginning at eight o’clock, in seven minutes according
to the television clock. ‘I have to go now,’ she excused herself so that her father
would not have to terminate their conversation. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Okay, but Line?’
‘Yes?’
‘I look good in that photo, don’t you think?’
She understood this was an attempt to stop her worrying.
‘Very good.’
‘There’s something that doesn’t add up,’ he said. ‘I’ll work it out if I can uncover
the background to these allegations.’
‘You’ll work it out,’ she reassured him, disconnecting the call.
In the bathroom she let her towel drop to the floor and combed her blonde hair with
her fingers.
She had a toilet bag and a change of clothes in the case she carried in the boot of
her car. Putting on a fresh pair of jeans she remembered the toy car, retrieving it
from the trousers she had been wearing the previous evening. An American car with
every detail and refinement included. She should have given it to the police, she
supposed, but had completely forgotten it. Perhaps the man had dropped it, but that
seemed unlikely. She flipped the tiny boot lid up and down before placing it on the
desk. She could use it later, an excuse to make contact with the investigating officers.
She fastened her bra and drew a turtle-necked sweater over her head. Then she lay
down on the bed with her laptop by her side. The online newspapers had all written
about her encounter with the killer; none had revealed her identity, but her name
appeared in the bye-line on the story VG ran about the actual murder, and it would not be difficult to read between the lines.
Her mobile phone lit up on the window ledge. The call was from Morten P, one of her
oldest colleagues in the crime section.
Crap newspaper we work for. Hope you ’ re okay, and Wisting senior too . Phone me if you ’ re up to talking about it .
They had worked together many times, and she had learned a great deal from him. He
had a genuine commitment to his fellow human beings, a trait reflected both in what
he wrote and how he treated his colleagues. She invited him for coffee and the whole
rotten story once she could manage to sit down again.
Her own paper was the only news source not to write about the fake evidence in the
Cecilia case in their online edition. The other net newspapers quoted from the coverage
in their paper edition. She read her father’s brief comment that he had confidence
in the Criminal Cases Review Commission, and apart from that there was nothing except
what she already knew.
According to the article, there were two main issues in the petition from Henden,
the lawyer. New analyses could prove that the cigarette end containing Rudolf Haglund’s
DNA profile had been planted, and they had come up with a witness who had provided
an alibi. There was nothing about what types of analysis had been conducted, and Line
found it impossible to understand how it could lead to such a conclusion. There was
nothing about the identity of the new witness, or the alibi he had given Rudolf Haglund.
Biting her lower lip,
he asked.
‘I am indeed,’ she answered, reading his mind and bursting into disarming laughter.
The background noise on the phone line subsided, and she guessed that he had pulled
up. ‘What happened?’ he asked seriously.
She told him the whole story, from the time she had left the editorial office in Oslo’s
Akersgata until she gave her written statement at the police station.
‘What are you doing now?’ he asked.
‘There’s a press conference at ten o’clock.’
‘Are you going on with the story?’
‘It’s my story now. I won’t give it up until the police have captured him, if I don’t
get hold of him myself.’
Her father groaned. ‘Line!’
‘Okay then, okay.’ It struck her that her father would be in charge of the morning
meeting at the police station beginning at eight o’clock, in seven minutes according
to the television clock. ‘I have to go now,’ she excused herself so that her father
would not have to terminate their conversation. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Okay, but Line?’
‘Yes?’
‘I look good in that photo, don’t you think?’
She understood this was an attempt to stop her worrying.
‘Very good.’
‘There’s something that doesn’t add up,’ he said. ‘I’ll work it out if I can uncover
the background to these allegations.’
‘You’ll work it out,’ she reassured him, disconnecting the call.
In the bathroom she let her towel drop to the floor and combed her blonde hair with
her fingers.
She had a toilet bag and a change of clothes in the case she carried in the boot of
her car. Putting on a fresh pair of jeans she remembered the toy car, retrieving it
from the trousers she had been wearing the previous evening. An American car with
every detail and refinement included. She should have given it to the police, she
supposed, but had completely forgotten it. Perhaps the man had dropped it, but that
seemed unlikely. She flipped the tiny boot lid up and down before placing it on the
desk. She could use it later, an excuse to make contact with the investigating officers.
She fastened her bra and drew a turtle-necked sweater over her head. Then she lay
down on the bed with her laptop by her side. The online newspapers had all written
about her encounter with the killer; none had revealed her identity, but her name
appeared in the bye-line on the story VG ran about the actual murder, and it would not be difficult to read between the lines.
Her mobile phone lit up on the window ledge. The call was from Morten P, one of her
oldest colleagues in the crime section.
Crap newspaper we work for. Hope you ’ re okay, and Wisting senior too . Phone me if you ’ re up to talking about it .
They had worked together many times, and she had learned a great deal from him. He
had a genuine commitment to his fellow human beings, a trait reflected both in what
he wrote and how he treated his colleagues. She invited him for coffee and the whole
rotten story once she could manage to sit down again.
Her own paper was the only news source not to write about the fake evidence in the
Cecilia case in their online edition. The other net newspapers quoted from the coverage
in their paper edition. She read her father’s brief comment that he had confidence
in the Criminal Cases Review Commission, and apart from that there was nothing except
what she already knew.
According to the article, there were two main issues in the petition from Henden,
the lawyer. New analyses could prove that the cigarette end containing Rudolf Haglund’s
DNA profile had been planted, and they had come up with a witness who had provided
an alibi. There was nothing about what types of analysis had been conducted, and Line
found it impossible to understand how it could lead to such a conclusion. There was
nothing about the identity of the new witness, or the alibi he had given Rudolf Haglund.
Biting her lower lip,
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