The Hunting Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page B

cottage residents, children and farmers. First of all,
     she had run in a westerly direction, down to the beach at Nalumstranda. Then she followed
     the coastal path east and up towards Gumserød farm where all the leads came to an
     end.’
    Wisting pictured the map that had hung on the wall in his office, covered in red dots
     marking the sighting locations, remembering drawing a line through them, almost like
     a join-the-dots puzzle in a children’s book, to follow her fateful run.
    ‘On Tuesday morning, three days after she disappeared, a man called Karsten Brekke
     turned up at the police station. He had read about the Cecilia case in the newspapers,
     just like everyone else. They used the photo for the Canes sweater advertisement when they reported her missing on the front pages.’
    ‘Had he seen her?’
    ‘No, but he saw someone who could be the murderer. Driving a tractor along the main
     road leading to Stavern, at the intersection where the Gumserød farm track reaches
     the Helgeroa road, he spotted a rusty white Opel Rekord with its boot open and a man
     pacing on the gravel track.’
    Wisting could still remember the description: white T-shirt and blue jeans; dark hair
     thick at the sides; broad face with a strong chin; eyes close set; forehead furrowed
     as if something was worrying him. Two simple details were of greatest significance.
     His nose looked as though it had been broken at some time, and a cigarette was hanging
     from the corner of his mouth. Sitting on the seat of the tractor, Karsten Brekke had
     plenty of time to study the stranger.
    Wisting had sent the crime scene technicians to comb the intersection and among the
     items they brought back in evidence bags had been three cigarette butts.
    ‘Something else was found as well,’ Suzanne said. ‘A cassette player, or something
     like that?’
    ‘Her Walkman,’ Wisting nodded, thinking about how greatly times had changed. At that
     time, people played cassette tapes. ‘We collected that the same afternoon. Cecilia
     always listened to music while she was running, as had been mentioned in the newspapers.
     Two little girls found it in the ditch beside the 302 road, near to the Fritzøe house
     driveway.’
    ‘That’s almost the opposite side of town.’
    ‘Not quite the opposite side, but not a logical position considering the route of
     her run and the Cigarette Man.’
    ‘The Cigarette Man?’
    ‘That’s what the newspapers named him. Of course, we called him that as well.’ Wisting
     ran his hand over the table surface. ‘But, enough of that. There was no doubt it was
     Cecilia’s Walkman.’ It had contained a yellow AGFA recordable tape. 90 minutes. ‘She
     had written her initials on it. CL , and the name of the programme she had recorded from the radio. Poprush .’
    Wisting noticed that Suzanne was restless in her seat and guessed she must remember
     the next part of the story. The newspapers had been full of it. ‘The crime scene technicians
     still didn’t have much to go on. They examined the Walkman for fingerprints, but only
     found Cecilia’s own. The cassette player lay on my desk for three days before it dawned
     on me that I should play the tape.’

8
    The men’s overalls were pungent with oil and metal and all were as eager as Line to
     discover the identity of the dog’s owner. She glanced at the time: 23.27, and gave
     herself an hour to gather information before contacting the news desk. By then she
     would have barely half an hour to write the story.
    One of the younger men knew how to log onto an internet page listing domestic pets
     with ID chips. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Have you got the number?’ He used one finger to type
     in the digits as Line read it out. Seconds later the answer appeared.
    Jonas Ravneberg
    W. Blakstads gate 78
    1630 Gamle Fredrikstad
    There was nothing familiar about the name. Line jotted the address down before glancing
     again at her watch, twenty-seven minutes gone. ‘Do