The Caveman (29 page)

Line fell asleep wrapped in several layers of canvas sacks. Having at last stopped shivering, her eyes had slid shut. When she opened them again, the room was dark except for the moonlight shining through the narrow window high on the wall.

She kept still and considered her position. Wet and cold, she had no idea of her whereabouts other than that it was a desolate spot. Somewhere ‘out there’ was the man who had killed Viggo Hansen. Though she had no idea why, she knew that was how all this must hang together. Neither did she understand what she had done, or what questions she had asked, that had brought her to this.

A noise had roused her from sleep. She heard it again: a car driving past, followed immediately by another vehicle.

She threw the sacks aside and rushed to the door, struggling at first to push it open. When that proved useless, she pulled it towards her, again failing. Wrenching the handle up and down she applied her shoulder, still without success. Taking a couple of steps back, she twice launched herself at the door. It rattled on its hinges but did not yield.

He must have found her, she realised. Her footprints would not have been difficult to follow. He must have found her while she slept and barricaded the door from the outside. The narrow window was high on the wall, but if she succeed in climbing up she could squeeze her way through.

She clambered onto the workbench, crouching down under the ceiling to peer outside, and froze when she saw Ole Linge shovelling snow only a few metres from the barn wall, his powerful flashlight illuminating the scene as he cleared an area about two metres square. After clearing a few more patches he straightened and drove the shovel into a snowdrift. Lifting the flashlight, he trained the beam down at a trapdoor. Fiddling with a metal hasp he lifted the cover from the farm’s old well.

The helicopter crew consisted of a pilot and a systems operator. Wisting and Nils Hammer squeezed behind them with Ingemar Bergquist. Wisting would have preferred Leif Malm to have come but, as the helicopter had only three passenger seats and their intention was to traverse Swedish territory, he chose Bergquist.

Flying across the outer part of the Oslo fjord, they reached Sweden south of Strömstad and followed the coast southwards, looking down on the lights of densely populated areas before the helicopter abruptly changed course. The flight took less than thirty minutes. Robert Godwin would have taken at least three and a half hours by car.

‘Down there,’ the pilot said, his words strangely distant through the headphones although he sat directly in front of them.

They circled and hovered above the red painted buildings of the smallholding Ole Linge had inherited from his father. Beside the road, several Swedish police vehicles were parked, and a number of police officers were tramping through the snow. A few peered up at the helicopter.

Changing channel on the radio, the systems operator called the forces on the ground and a number of brief messages were relayed back and forth without Wisting understanding much of what was said. ‘They’ve been in,’ the pilot told him. ‘It’s empty.’

Keeping the engine steady he directed the helicopter floodlight onto the road and an unmarked car parked at the verge beside the driveway. Turning in a semi-circle they dropped enough to identify it as an ancient Mercedes, stuck in a snowdrift.

‘That’s his car,’ Wisting said.

The pilot switched on the heat-seeking camera and the policemen were transformed into red blazing figures on-screen. As they turned in widening circles the camera under the fuselage swept across the terrain in pursuit of temperature differences, but all that was visible on-screen remained in shades of grey.

‘We have less than forty minutes flight time left,’ the pilot said. ‘We’ll soon have to head back to Rygge airport for refuelling. Do you want me to land here and drop you off, or are you returning with me?’

Wisting stared out into the darkness, at the grey silhouettes of endless forests blanketed in snow: ‘Go down,’ he said.

The man in the yard pointed his flashlight into the well, staring into it for a long time before switching off, turning on his heel and approaching the barn entrance. Line’s panic rose inside, but she needed to keep a clear head. If she could not think, every chance of escape would be lost.

Fumbling along the edge of the window she used her fingers to search for the hasps, but realised that this window had no hasps or hinges: it could not be opened. She supported herself with one hand on the ceiling as she searched among the tools on the shelves for something to smash the pane of glass with until, suddenly, she noticed that the ceiling panels above her head were loose. She pushed at one, lifting it without difficulty, and shoved it aside. Cold air blasted her face.

With wall shelves serving as ladder rungs, she clambered to the dark opening in the ceiling, kicking aside objects that dropped noisily to the floor. At the same time she searched for something to defend herself with: an iron bar, knife, or chain. On the top shelf she found an axe and a box of matches. Ignoring the axe, she grabbed the matchbox and hauled herself up the last stretch. Behind her, she heard the barn door banging shut, but also another, fainter sound she could neither locate nor identify.

On her knees, she pushed the ceiling panel back into place, struggling to make out her surroundings in the darkness. She was almost at the mid-point of the barn, with the large room she had left directly below. The barn door was ajar, admitting moonlight from outside, and drifts of snow had been blown inside by the wind. Only a few metres away, Ole Linge was removing the barricade from the interior door, pushing the wooden chest along the floor, his flashlight beam sweeping to and fro, but then he stopped in mid-movement. The cone of light froze and was directed at the ceiling as he strained to listen.

The distant sound she had heard earlier increased in volume and became the pulsing sound of helicopter rotor blades.

She retreated farther inside the barn to the hay loft. Just below the roof, several peepholes lined the wall. Balancing on a beam, Line reached the nearest, which was just wide enough to squeeze through, thrust her head out and looked down. It was almost three metres to the ground, but the deep snow would cushion her fall.

She looked behind and heard the room door open as the sweeping beam of light vanished, feeling that she had blundered by not bringing the axe. If a crooked ceiling panel gave her away, letting him realise how she had escaped, then she could have slugged him as he poked his head through. Too late for regret, but she already had a plan. Putting one leg through the peephole she took out the box of matches, opened it, removed a match and drew it along the rough sandpaper. Though it sparked slightly, it did not catch. She tried again, but the sulphur only smouldered.

The matches were old, and not until the fourth attempt did she strike a flame. Using her hand as a shield, she held the match in front of her until it was going well, and lobbed it at the hay. Nothing happened. It must have gone out.

Her plan had been to attract attention by setting the barn alight. In the meantime all she could do was hide in the forest. The helicopter in the vicinity might be sheer chance, but might also mean they were searching for her.

A fifth match also would not light, and then a powerful ray pierced the darkness. Ole Linge had discovered the only possible way out of the room. The light struck her face, blinding her as she fought panic. A pulse beat behind her eyes. She fumbled for another match, but it broke when she tried to strike it. Ole Linge was about to haul himself up through the opening in the ceiling. There were only two or three matches left. She struck one and this time it lit immediately and burned with a clear flame.

She tossed it with care, aiming for the closest pile of hay. A second or two elapsed before the flames caught hold and the dry grass began to crackle. The fire spread rapidly, and smoke spiralled from the barn roof.

Line hauled her other leg through the peephole, lowering herself until she was hanging by her fingertips. She let go.

There was enough time for a final flight over the terrain. The pilot pointed the helicopter’s nose in an easterly direction, its searchlight following the road that advanced into the forest. Treetops swayed beneath them, releasing a shower of snow from their branches. Two red flecks appeared on the infra-red camera screen and remained totally still until both suddenly bounced out of sight. ‘Elk,’ the systems operator explained.

Wisting watched them disappear from the screen before his attention returned to the road. After a few hundred metres, a cluster of buildings came into view on the left. A barn, a farmhouse and associated outbuildings. On the screen, heat loss from the windows and doors appeared as yellow squares with green edges.

A figure emerged onto the steps, with another person in the doorway behind. Wisting peered down at a man with his hand to his forehead to shield himself from the strong light, a woman in a skirt at his back. A dog dashed between them to stand in the farmyard, barking.

The pilot banked the helicopter, turned and flew back. Sweeping past the red cottage where the Swedish police officers were still working, they increased their altitude to cross power lines at a safe height.

‘One o’clock,’ said the systems operator on the intercom, pointing simultaneously. Between the trees up ahead they could see an orange glimmer.

The pilot pushed the control stick forward, dipping the helicopter’s nose, and gave it full throttle.

A barn was on fire, with flames leaping from just below the roof, black smoke belching.

The systems operator called the ground crew, giving specific directions, and the pilot directed his searchlight onto the area at the front of the burning building. Tracks in the snow led to the barn door.

‘Down!’ Wisting commanded, loosening his safety harness. ‘Take us down!’

The helicopter ascended, turned round and flew to a straight length of road where the pilot switched on his landing lights and dropped to fifty feet. Spruce trees loomed above them on either side as the rotor blades whirled up snow. They landed with a bump and the doors were pulled aside. Wisting leapt out into the snowstorm, stooping under the rotor blades as he raced towards the blazing barn.

A sharp pain shot from her foot up through her left leg as she hit the ground. She must have landed on a stone lying under the snow. Stretched on her back she floundered with her leg dragging behind, listening to the fire take hold as it spread rapidly on the other side of the barn wall.

As she approached the fringe of the forest, she stood and tried to hobble between the trees, but the snow was too deep and she stumbled and fell. Hauling herself up again she toiled on, though painful shudders coursed through her whenever she put weight on the injured foot.

Supporting herself on the first tree trunk, she turned and looked back to see flames licking round the peepholes high on the barn wall, and him approaching, wading through the snow with flashlight in hand, the cone of light picking out her footprints. Behind him, flames were eating through the barn roof.

Fear sharpened her senses and she heard the helicopter rotors as it again approached. The fire would attract the pilot’s attention. Only one question: would it be in time? The man was heading directly towards her. Their eyes met. Despite being over sixty years of age, his bulk and strength were nevertheless superior to hers.

She retreated into the deep snow, falling on her back, but managed to right herself again. Terror overwhelmed her. She held out one hand and begged incoherently, ‘No! Don’t!’

He struck a blow with the flashlight to the side of her head, stunning her and forcing her to her knees. She tasted blood in her mouth as she struggled to her feet, but he was quickly behind her, pressing hard around her neck with one hand and holding her kicking legs in check with the other.

Line used her arms to fight him off, grabbed his foot and yanked it hard. He lost his balance and fell, and she aimed a kick at his groin but was hampered by her sore foot. He caught hold of one of her wrists and grabbed her hair with the other, dragging her behind him. The pain at her hair roots was excruciating, and she struggled to scramble after him. From the corner of her eye she saw flames advance along the barn walls and creep under the roof.

He hauled her towards the well opening. Realising his intention, she twisted and turned and tufts of hair were pulled from her scalp. The heat from the fire was intense. Near the edge of the well she hurled her body forward and sank her teeth into his hand, forcing him to let go, and tried to take hold of the spade he had dug into the snowdrift.

Ole Linge launched himself at her and they rolled on the ground. When she dug her fingers into his face, pressing her thumb into his eyeball, Ole Linge screamed and pulled himself free. As he stood up, he kicked her on the jaw, grabbed her by the feet and pulled her towards the well opening.

Wisting sprinted along the snow-covered road, his pulse racing until he was on the verge of passing out. He slipped and tumbled headlong on the snow before hauling himself up and continuing.

At an old milk depot hut he saw footsteps leading from the road into the forest. Among the trees the fire had grown fiercer. Flames broke through the barn roof and a plume of grey smoke billowed towards him.

Five metres from the barn he stopped and raised his hand to shield his eyes. The fire burned most voraciously at the other end of the building, where the roof had already started to sag, and twisting, curling tongues of flame were consuming the entire structure.

He looked over his shoulder before stepping forward and pulling the barn door open. Smoke belched out and brought tears to his eyes. He shouted, but received no answer other than the crackling of the inferno. Using his arm to cover his nose and mouth, he dived inside.

Line made a last strenuous effort to find a handhold, clutching at the powdery snow, digging down in the hope of locating something. She struggled and twisted, and managed to take hold of the open trapdoor. As Ole Linge kicked at her to make her release her grip, splinters pierced her fingers. She was on the point of letting go when something inside the barn exploded and the entire wall blew out. Chunks of burning timber flew in all directions. Sparks showered against the sky above a sea of blue and orange flames.

Line watched as what was left of the roof was destroyed. The internal framework resembled a black, fragile skeleton. One of the dividing beams between the roof ridge and the wall slowly gave way, subsiding into the burning room and disappearing. A series of smaller explosions followed, and yet another beam loosened its grip on the wall, swayed and plunged into the flames. The roof structure collapsed, and a shudder passed through the back wall before it fractured and fell into the demolished building.

Only when she saw blue flashing lights on the road and silhouettes of running figures did she turn to discover that Ole Linge was gone. Struggling into a kneeling position, she crawled to the edge of the well and peered down. Flames from the barn cast flickering lights down into it, but the bottom was too deep and dark to make anything out.