The Hunting Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page A

opened the car door again to activate the interior light. ‘Where did they take
     it?’
    ‘The dog?’
    ‘Yes. Where is it now?’
    ‘At their depot, I expect. In Tomteveien near Lisleby.’ Line was out of the car before
     he finished speaking. ‘Where are you going?’
    ‘To have a look at the dog.’
    ‘Do you want me with you?’
    She shook her head. ‘Wait here. They’ll carry the body out soon. We should have photos
     of that. I’ll call if I need you.’
    Slamming the car door, she hurried back to her own vehicle and keyed Tomteveien into the satnav. The address, located on the opposite bank of the River Glomma, was
     directly outside the town centre. Eleven minutes away, according to the gadget. She
     got there in nine and a half.
    A breakdown lorry was idling outside the massive building when she arrived, the driver
     coiling and storing a cargo strap. He glanced up as Line parked beside him. She stepped
     out and flashed a smile. ‘Is this where stray dogs are brought?’ she asked, ruffling
     her already dishevelled hair.
    ‘Have you lost one?’ he asked, tugging off his work gloves.
    ‘I wondered if I could see the dog you just collected from Heibergs gate.’
    The driver looked at her in the powerful light of the building’s wall lamps, from
     the top of her blonde hair to the tips of her toes. On the return journey, his eyes
     lingered. ‘The dog belonging to the guy who was murdered?’
    Line told him who she was, where she worked and what she did. Experience told her
     he would either hold journalists in contempt or be one of those who read the paper
     avidly with a steaming coffee in his hand.
    ‘Do you want to come in with me and say hello to it?’ he asked, nodding behind him
     at the garage.
    Line followed him into a hall with rows of bicycles suspended from the ceiling.
    ‘Lost property,’ he explained. ‘Drillo’s in here.’ He pointed towards a door at the
     opposite end of the premises.
    ‘Drillo?’
    ‘That’s what we call him,’ the man confirmed. ‘It’s exactly the same kind of dog as
     Drillo’s.’
    It dawned on Line that he was right. The coach of the national football team owned
     a longhaired dog, just like the one she had seen in the photograph. He came from Fredrikstad
     too, if she remembered correctly. The town could claim another celebrity. Ahead of
     her, the man pushed open the door leading to the next room. Dimly lit, it comprised
     four cubicles with bars and wire mesh doors. The dog in the first cage was a heavily
     built Schaefer with a grey snout and vacant eyes whose head slid back down onto its
     paws as they passed.
    Drillo was in the last cage. The dog’s sombre gaze seemed to look right through them
     as Line approached and placed the flat of her hand on the wire mesh.
    ‘Do you want to go inside?’ the driver asked. Without waiting for an answer, he withdrew
     the bolt that held the mesh door closed.
    Line entered and the dog sat down, watching her carefully. ‘Hi, there,’ she said,
     scratching under the dog’s chin before examining under its ears. ‘Do you know if it’s
     been chipped?’ she asked the driver.
    ‘I don’t think anyone’s got as far as thinking about that yet, but we’ve got the gizmo
     to do that somewhere here.’
    Before Line became a crime reporter she wrote an article about the ID marking of dogs.
     There were two methods: a tattoo inside the ear, or a microchip injected by a vet
     on the left side of the neck or just above the left shoulder. This electronic chip
     contained a registration number searchable on the internet.
    ‘Here it is!’ The driver hauled out an apparatus that resembled a barcode reader in
     a shop. When he moved the reader up and down the dog’s neck a fifteen-digit number
     appeared on the display. 578097016663510.

7
    ‘Leave it,’ Wisting said. Suzanne was about to snuff out the last candle. She looked
     at him in puzzlement. ‘Sit down for a moment,’ he said. Suzanne looked at