number and I’ll pass them to the people who arrange those things.’
The laptop emitted a signal as a dialogue box popped up to warn her the battery was
running out of charge.
‘By the way, it’s called Tiedemann.’
Line clicked away the warning.
‘Who?’ she asked, saving what she had written.
‘The dog. I’ve heard him calling it Tiedemann. It’s probably named after the tobacco
brand. He always buys Tiedemann’s Gold Mix number three and cigarette papers.’
Line peered into the night. The police car had arrived outside a yellowish-brown brick
building with an enormous glass façade. Fredrikstad Police Station. ‘Okay, thanks,’
she said.
‘Do you know what’s going to happen to it?’
00.25
‘No.’
‘Since its owner’s been killed, I mean.’
‘I’ve no idea, Nina. I really have to go now.’
‘Okay. Bye then.’
Line disconnected the call. ‘Can I have quarter of an hour?’ she asked, looking at
the driver who knew her father.
‘We have to go back,’ he replied. ‘We’re setting up road blocks.’
‘There’s a technician in an examination room in there waiting for you,’ the other
man said. ‘As soon as he’s finished, he’ll go back to the crime scene too.’
Line slammed the lid of her laptop shut at 00.26.
15
The examination room at the police station was cold, with bare walls and a fluorescent
ceiling tube. The man waiting for her held a camera. Old and silver-haired, with heavy
eyelids, he explained that he would document her injuries with photographs, and asked
her to stand with her back to the wall. After each picture, he scrutinised the result
on the tiny display. They followed this procedure with both profiles.
‘Where did he hit you with the rake?’ he asked.
‘Here,’ Line said, twisting her hip towards him and pointing.
The crime technician looked at the tears in her trousers where the rake tines had
dug in. He crossed to a drawer and rummaged for a photo ruler. ‘Can you hold this?’
he asked.
Line held the ruler against her thigh as he hunkered down, placing the camera at right
angles to her injuries. He took one photo that he examined closely before coming in
closer and taking another. Then he straightened up. ‘I wonder if we should take one
without your trousers on as well,’ he said.
Line set down the ruler and gazed at the man. These were photos that would be studied
by investigators, defence lawyers, judges and jury when that time eventually arrived.
She did not take exception to them seeing her in her underwear, but they had already
taken more time than she could spare. She would not finish writing her story before
the deadline, even though most of it was already inside her head. ‘I have to make
a phone call first.’
The digital clock on her mobile display read 00.44. She cleared it by pressing the
speed dial key for the news editor. ‘Did you receive Erik’s photos?’ she asked.
‘Yep. The one with the dog is a prize winner.’
‘Are we in time to use it on the front page?’
‘We won’t be using it, Line.’
‘What do you mean? There’s half an hour to go.’
‘Frost has decided. The front page spread stays. We’ve put the murder on pages ten
and eleven. The picture of the dog with its dead owner takes up most of the space.
Then we’ll run the story about the attack on you in the online edition right after
our competitors have gone to press.’
‘But …’
‘Frost has made up his mind. The front page is settled.’
She said nothing. Swallowed. It felt as if something had crumbled away, the ground
beneath her feet, and disappeared. ‘How does it look?’
‘To be honest, Line, it looks dreadful.’
‘The headline?’
‘That’s a quote from Rudolf Haglund’s lawyer – Planted the crucial evidence . I can send you the whole story as a PDF file.’
A sudden rage erupted within her, a reaction to everything collapsing around her,
but she managed to
The laptop emitted a signal as a dialogue box popped up to warn her the battery was
running out of charge.
‘By the way, it’s called Tiedemann.’
Line clicked away the warning.
‘Who?’ she asked, saving what she had written.
‘The dog. I’ve heard him calling it Tiedemann. It’s probably named after the tobacco
brand. He always buys Tiedemann’s Gold Mix number three and cigarette papers.’
Line peered into the night. The police car had arrived outside a yellowish-brown brick
building with an enormous glass façade. Fredrikstad Police Station. ‘Okay, thanks,’
she said.
‘Do you know what’s going to happen to it?’
00.25
‘No.’
‘Since its owner’s been killed, I mean.’
‘I’ve no idea, Nina. I really have to go now.’
‘Okay. Bye then.’
Line disconnected the call. ‘Can I have quarter of an hour?’ she asked, looking at
the driver who knew her father.
‘We have to go back,’ he replied. ‘We’re setting up road blocks.’
‘There’s a technician in an examination room in there waiting for you,’ the other
man said. ‘As soon as he’s finished, he’ll go back to the crime scene too.’
Line slammed the lid of her laptop shut at 00.26.
15
The examination room at the police station was cold, with bare walls and a fluorescent
ceiling tube. The man waiting for her held a camera. Old and silver-haired, with heavy
eyelids, he explained that he would document her injuries with photographs, and asked
her to stand with her back to the wall. After each picture, he scrutinised the result
on the tiny display. They followed this procedure with both profiles.
‘Where did he hit you with the rake?’ he asked.
‘Here,’ Line said, twisting her hip towards him and pointing.
The crime technician looked at the tears in her trousers where the rake tines had
dug in. He crossed to a drawer and rummaged for a photo ruler. ‘Can you hold this?’
he asked.
Line held the ruler against her thigh as he hunkered down, placing the camera at right
angles to her injuries. He took one photo that he examined closely before coming in
closer and taking another. Then he straightened up. ‘I wonder if we should take one
without your trousers on as well,’ he said.
Line set down the ruler and gazed at the man. These were photos that would be studied
by investigators, defence lawyers, judges and jury when that time eventually arrived.
She did not take exception to them seeing her in her underwear, but they had already
taken more time than she could spare. She would not finish writing her story before
the deadline, even though most of it was already inside her head. ‘I have to make
a phone call first.’
The digital clock on her mobile display read 00.44. She cleared it by pressing the
speed dial key for the news editor. ‘Did you receive Erik’s photos?’ she asked.
‘Yep. The one with the dog is a prize winner.’
‘Are we in time to use it on the front page?’
‘We won’t be using it, Line.’
‘What do you mean? There’s half an hour to go.’
‘Frost has decided. The front page spread stays. We’ve put the murder on pages ten
and eleven. The picture of the dog with its dead owner takes up most of the space.
Then we’ll run the story about the attack on you in the online edition right after
our competitors have gone to press.’
‘But …’
‘Frost has made up his mind. The front page is settled.’
She said nothing. Swallowed. It felt as if something had crumbled away, the ground
beneath her feet, and disappeared. ‘How does it look?’
‘To be honest, Line, it looks dreadful.’
‘The headline?’
‘That’s a quote from Rudolf Haglund’s lawyer – Planted the crucial evidence . I can send you the whole story as a PDF file.’
A sudden rage erupted within her, a reaction to everything collapsing around her,
but she managed to
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