Snow-laden trees overhung both sides of the narrow track.
Concentrating hard, Wisting gripped the steering wheel as the unmarked car lurched forward, wheels spinning as it climbed the last incline before the track flattened out. Ahead, he could see the van that brought crew and equipment to where the landslip blocked the route.
‘We can’t go any farther,’ he said to Donald Baker, switching off the ignition.
Before getting out he put on gloves and hat. Baker’s thermal suit, borrowed from the Emergency Squad store, was a couple of sizes too small. The surrounding forest provided some shelter from the wind, but the freezing air burned their nostrils.
‘It’s cold,’ the American said. There was no real need for them to be out in this wintry landscape, but the FBI agent was made of the same stuff as Wisting and was keen to orientate himself in the field. The sense of following tangible clues made them both feel they were gaining ground.
The men had been wearing snowshoes to drag heavy sleds piled with equipment. Following their trail, they sank to their knees in snow, boots filling in an instant, the snow melting and soaking their feet. When they arrived at the burned-down barn Wisting was wet with perspiration and barely noticed the cold.
What was left of the building reared like a dark wall above the snow. The tumbledown farmhouse seemed to be frozen into the landscape, desolate and chill, its windows thick with frost and impossible to see through.
‘A perfect place for him,’ Donald Baker said.
The Emergency Squad had already erected a tent, and cleared the well to expose a circular paved area with an old-fashioned hand-pump hanging at one side. A paving stone lay in the centre of the well lid, sufficiently large and heavy to prevent children from lifting it. One of the officers tipped it aside and inserted the edge of a spade under the wooden cover. It was frozen fast to the stones, and in the end he broke off one of the planks.
Wisting’s phone buzzed. Removing his right glove, he fished it from his pocket and saw it was an unknown number, not stored in his contacts list. ‘This is Morten P from
VG
,’ the man at the other end said.
‘You’re speaking to William Wisting,’ he said, his breath a white plume in the cold air. He felt his heart sink.
‘I’m calling about an incident last Friday,’ the journalist said. ‘A man who was found dead in a felling area where people cut Christmas trees. Are you familiar with the case?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he been identified?’
It was too cold to stand still. Wisting shifted from one foot to the other to keep his blood moving. ‘We don’t have a definite identification,’ he said, ‘but we do have an inkling.’
‘Has an autopsy been carried out?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the weekend?’
Wisting sensed the contrivance in the question. Experienced journalists knew the forensics service was not normally available at weekends, and that they did not conduct post-mortem examinations outwith normal hours. ‘Yes,’ was all he said.
‘Has the cause of death been established?’
‘The body showed signs of having lain outside for a long time,’ Wisting avoided the question. ‘Probably since the summer.’
‘But did you find a cause of death?’
The man with the spade had managed to loosen more pieces of wood from the well cover. Two of the Emergency Squad officers were preparing ropes and carabiner hooks. Soon they would be able to lower themselves down. ‘Cause of death has not been established,’ he said.
‘What does that mean?’
‘That the pathologist has not drawn his final conclusions.’
‘What steps are you taking to investigate the case?’
The last wooden planks were removed from the well. Donald Baker and several of the others peered down into the depths.
‘We’re keeping all options open,’ Wisting said. ‘But that doesn’t mean this is a story deserving of major headlines. Probably it was nothing more than an accident.’
The journalist did not give up so easily. ‘What kind of accident?’
‘The investigation will have to discover that.’
‘Does that mean you’re working on the theory that he died where he was found?’
Wisting swallowed noisily, hoping this could not be heard at the other end of the line. ‘If not, it would be a clear case of murder.’
‘But it’s not?’
Nils Hammer emerged from the tent with a powerful flashlight, switched on the beam and trained it on the bottom of the well.
‘I have to go now,’ Wisting said, hearing how abrupt he sounded. ‘Can you call me back in a couple of hours?’
‘In a couple of hours,’ the journalist confirmed.
Wisting stored the number as
Morten P, VG
and returned his phone to his pocket. He trudged across to the well and leaned over the edge. It was deeper than he had thought, perhaps a depth of six or seven metres. Frozen water lay like a black mirror at the bottom.
The massive church door closed heavily behind her.
Although Line had been delayed by the news editor’s phone call, she was early for the service. The man from the funeral directors, however, was already present. He smiled sympathetically, handing her a programme. Line returned his smile as she accepted it. The reverse side said
Thank you for coming
.
‘Is it all right if I take photographs?’ she asked.
He used his hand to indicate the empty church, the white coffin placed in front of the altar. On either side, flickering candles in huge three-armed candlesticks cast shadows on the whitewashed walls.
Line took a couple of photos. Her wreath was displayed at the end of the coffin, a simple bouquet of red roses lying on the casket lid. Apart from that, there were no more flowers. She chose a camera angle on which the message from the neighbours was not prominent.
When her mother died she thought a great deal about how death is always cloaked in funeral rituals:
the Late Departed
, as if the person has just gone to another place,
Rest in Peace
, as if death is nothing but a protracted, longed-for sleep in soft bedding. Afterwards, she had written an article for the weekend magazine, including an interview with a linguistics researcher about how language conceals the true meaning of death. How we try to soften the brutal fact of its finality.
Still no others had arrived. She sat on a pew in the third row on the right-hand side. Feeble rays of winter sun seeped through the stained glass window above the altar, particles of dust dancing in the air. The organist began to play a subdued prelude which she recognised as a psalm, though she did not remember the words.
The door opened and she heard footsteps behind her until they stopped as someone sat down. Being so far forward meant she could not see those who arrived later. She stood again and walked back up the aisle. It was Eivind Aske, the painter. She greeted him with a nod and took a seat in the second row from the back.
It was seven minutes to eleven. She had already done a lot today, even if it had not all borne fruit. She had gone into the nearest food retailers and spoken to the staff, but none of them recalled Viggo Hansen. At least, they could not say anything for certain without seeing a photograph. The same applied in the hairdressing salon. They had a number of older male clients, but no one knew who Viggo Hansen was.
The locksmith had given her the name and phone number of Roger Nicolaysen, who had fitted two new locks to Viggo Hansen’s door, and who may well have been the last person to talk to him. He had not answered her call before the funeral.
The last thing she had done before leaving was look at her emails. The fact-checking department had located a Frank Iversen who was one year older than Viggo Hansen. He had lived in Stavern and later moved to Langesund. Now he was listed as having emigrated to Denmark, but they had succeeded in finding an address and phone number for him there.
The church bell began to toll. At the same time, the door opened and Line heard more, lighter, footfalls on the smooth floor.
The woman who walked past was short and had blond hair in a thick plait. She placed a long-stemmed red rose on the coffin lid, turned and walked back to the third row of pews and sat down where Line had been previously. She would be about the same age as Viggo Hansen, around sixty. Her face was narrow and anaemic.
Irene of the Christmas cards, Line guessed, and decided to talk to her after the service.
When the bell stopped ringing a clergyman emerged from the sacristy, stood beside the coffin and made a deep bow to the congregation before taking his seat.
The organist began again, and the man from the funeral directors sat in the pew directly across from Line and began to sing: ‘
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide; the darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide
.’
Line opened her programme leaflet and joined in. ‘
When other helpers fail and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, o abide with me.
’
Towards the end of the hymn the clergyman stood and approached the unadorned pulpit. ‘We are gathered here today to bid farewell to Viggo Hansen,’ he said. ‘Together we will give him into Our Lord’s keeping. We do not have many words to say in memory of him. We are gathered in silence.’
Line bowed her head as he led the opening prayer, followed by another psalm,
‘What a friend we have in Jesus,’
before clearing his throat and embarking on the eulogy.
‘Winter has made its mark on the natural world,’ he said. ‘As if it is hiding what was once there. I would like to share some thoughts about this as we take our leave of Viggo Hansen.’
His gaze wandered among the few people present, from Line to the woman who had brought the single rose, to the man from the funeral directors, then to Eivind Aske and back to Line.
‘I did not know Viggo Hansen,’ he continued. ‘I cannot say anything meaningful about what sort of person he was, who he was, what he dreamed about, what he laughed or cried at. However, there is something liberating about remembering the dead as participants in the march of history. Everyone has a place in the book of life. No one has lived in vain.’
Continuing the speech he had discussed with Line he stood stock still as he spoke, clutching both sides of the pulpit as if afraid he would fall.
‘There is comfort and redemption in God’s remembrance of us all,’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘By God we are remembered for all eternity. Not even the least one of us will perish.’ He lowered his gaze and whispered softly, ‘Amen.’
A black wrought iron chest containing a spade and fresh soil sat on the floor beside the coffin. He took up the spade and filled it.
‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life,’ he declaimed, sprinkling the coffin lid with earth and bringing the ceremony to a close. The church bell tolled three times and he walked up the aisle, followed closely by the man from the funeral directors. Line got to her feet but waited until the woman from the third row had passed before following the little procession.
Usually the coffin was carried out to a waiting car, but there were insufficient people. There was no one to carry it, and so it was left. It was to be incinerated on Friday, and Line had asked permission to come to the crematorium and take one last photograph.
Outside, the cold was biting, and she buttoned her jacket. A man had stopped on the pavement to show respect for the mourners. He loitered for a moment, looking through the church door, but plodded on when he saw there were no more people in the funeral group.
The petite woman with the rose remained standing. Her nose was red, and Line assumed she was either suffering from a cold or had been crying. She was rummaging in her bag, but glanced up when Line approached her, asking: ‘Irene?’
The woman’s eyes fluttered, and she gave a brief nod.
Line introduced herself as an old neighbour of Viggo Hansen’s. ‘Do you have time for a cup of coffee?’
A shudder ran through the woman. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but clamped it shut again. Then she nodded shyly.
One of the specialist officers from the Emergency Squad put on a head torch and jumped on the wall. He tucked an ice axe into his belt to keep his hands free, positioned himself with his back to the opening and tugged on the rope a couple of times to check the anchor. Leaning backwards he abseiled down. It was apparent that only one man at a time could fit inside the well.
Wisting followed his downward progress as he found his footholds in fissures and tiny projections, on stones displaced by frost action. At the bottom, he put one foot gingerly on the ice. It held his weight.
Remaining in the abseil harness, he made some initial, tentative swings with the ice axe. Splinters of ice sprayed around him. The walls of the well echoed, sending a harsh clanging noise up to the watchers and a bucket was lowered so that broken ice could be hoisted up.
‘The newspapers have started probing,’ Wisting said to Donald Baker.
‘Into this?’
‘Not this exactly, but Bob Crabb,’ Wisting said.
‘What are you doing about it?’
‘Keeping them at a distance.’
Wisting hung over the edge, thinking about the people who had cleared the forest here, built the house and dug the well over a century ago. Someone had dug and dug, first in hope after the dowsing rod had bent at this exact spot, then perhaps in anger when the water did not appear, finally in defiant determination until they found the aquifer. Buckets of earth, clay and gravel were hauled up as the well grew deeper. When they finally found water, down in the depths, the walls were lined with slate to keep it clean.
‘I’m through!’ the officer shouted up. ‘The ice is about twenty centimetres thick.’
He continued hacking for another quarter of an hour before climbing up to let one of his colleagues take over. The new man set to work with even greater enthusiasm and smashed increasingly larger fragments of ice that were, again, hauled up.
‘Can you check the water depth?’ Nils Hammer called down, lowering a rope, knotted at half-metre intervals and with a weight at the end. The officer lowered the weight into the water until it touched bottom. When he pulled it up Wisting counted four knots. A depth of two metres.
‘Even if we find anything here,’ Donald Baker said, ‘and even if we succeed in locating Robert Godwin, it might still be difficult to link him to the homicides.’
Wisting had realised that some time ago. The most recent name on the list of possible victims had been reported two and a half years earlier. He had no expectations of finding forensic or biological evidence that could connect the perpetrator to the crime. It would be an enormous challenge simply to identify the dead women.
‘
We
can charge him,’ Baker continued. ‘We have an arrest warrant ready for him. We can fly him home as soon as we locate him and make certain he never sees the light of day again.’
‘That’s a discussion for the lawyers and politicians,’ Wisting said, ‘when or if that time comes, but he has to answer for what he has done here in Norway before we can hand him over.’
The man in the well broke through the last chunk of ice before clambering up again.
‘We’ll see,’ Donald Baker said, but there was something obstinate about the expression on his face. Something that made Wisting guess the FBI agent had an assignment above and beyond helping the Norwegian police.
A portable generator starting up interrupted them. Nils Hammer dropped a bilge pump into the well. It gurgled as it hit the surface and sludgy water started flooding out, topside, from the hose. Espen Mortensen had rigged up a wooden box with a fine-mesh base plate for the water to filter through. If the pump sucked up any objects, they would be retained on the wire mesh.
‘It will take around half an hour to empty the well,’ Hammer said, holding a stack of paper beakers in one hand and a thermos flask in the other.
Wisting thanked him and removed the glove from his right hand to take hold of the beaker. He stood sipping the coffee as he warmed his fingers.
The water pouring from the pump hose was pale brown but took on an increasingly darker colour. A number of twigs and tiny stones were left lying on the netting. Suddenly, the hose began to flail about until a rusty, bent length of metal was spat out. Mortensen picked it up and studied it closely. It looked like part of a bucket handle. He dropped it back on the grid.
The generator provided enough current for a floodlight as well. Nils Hammer placed it on a stand at the edge of the well and tilted the powerful light so that the beam was trained directly on the bottom.
Wisting leaned over the edge and peered down. A rotten stench drifted up from the stagnant water.
Two police officers took up position beside him. And then another. Soon all the police officers were gathered around the well opening. None of them uttered a word, but watched in silence as the water level dropped centimetre by centimetre. In the end the bilge pump was left on the bottom of the well, guzzling up the last of the muddy water from the foundation stones.
Wisting sighed heavily. There was nothing after all. The well was empty.