by Samuel Bjork
Many, in fact.
After all, he was Kurt Wang.
He was standing in the hall in front of the mirror after Nina and the Portuguese drummer had sneaked into the kitchen holding hands, her mouth giggling against his cheek. He studied himself, shook his head and tied his scarf around his neck. What a mess. It was a cold evening outside, but he hated the smell. Burned heroin and tinfoil. He had almost thrown up the first time the drummer flicked the lighter under the brown lump in the tinfoil.
Enough.
He lit a cigarette and felt that this time he really had made up his mind. He had had enough. No more. Too bad about the voice. And his infatuation. It would pass, wouldn’t it? Five years now? Surely it would pass eventually? He would finish this rehearsal, then call Mulle. Start up the trio again. If Mulle would take his call, that is. Four months without a word. He didn’t blame him. Of course he didn’t.
Nina. Nina. Nina.
His friend had stormed out of the rehearsal room, practically foaming at the mouth.
Christ, it was cold. And dark. Wasn’t it meant to be springtime now? Kurt Wang pulled his jumper further over his fingers and threw his cigarette onto the tarmac as a figure suddenly appeared in front of him.
‘Excuse me? Aren’t you … Kurt Wang?’
A young man the same age as him was standing in front of him, his face hidden under the big hood of his parka.
‘Yes?’ Kurt said, taking out his cigarette packet from his jacket pocket to light another cigarette.
How did this guy know his name?
A fan?
He smiled and felt flattered, although he had made up his mind a long time ago not to care about such things.
The music came first.
‘Where’s your saxophone?’ the man said from under the hood, looking curiously at him.
‘What do you mean?’ Kurt smiled.
A fan, clearly. He shouldn’t be pleased, of course, but it did him good right now, being recognized. In the street. So at least he had done something right. No, there was no going back; he had made up his mind. He could feel it now.
Enough is enough.
‘It’s upstairs in the rehearsal room,’ Kurt said, still smiling. ‘Are you after an autograph? Sorry, I’m a bit busy now, so if—’
‘That’s all right. I have one we can use,’ the voice under the hood said.
‘What do you mean?’
He didn’t get any further.
Kurt felt something wet on his face.
‘Don’t take it personally,’ said the voice, which within the space of a few seconds now seemed to come from a long way away.
What the hell …?
Kurt could see his cigarette clearly now, but it was no longer in his hand.
It had grown wings and was flying up to the third floor. Still burning. It knocked on the window and was let into the kitchen, where it mixed with tinfoil and became an origami pipe that looked like a hummingbird in a tree full of honey and sandpaper before it started singing at the top of its voice.
With lips speaking Portuguese.
TWO
Chapter 17
Munch was woken up by his mobile and wondered where he was. He had briefly imagined himself to be back in his old house in Røa but soon realized that it had just been a dream. He had fallen asleep on the sofa in his flat, fully dressed. He had left the office late; he hadn’t even had the energy to go to bed. The clock on the wall over the kitchen counter showed a quarter past seven. How many hours of sleep had he managed? Three? His mobile stopped ringing, only to start again. The display read Anette Goli. Munch sat up, still half asleep, and pressed the green button to take the call.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Barely.’ Munch coughed.
He reached for the cigarettes on the table but then remembered the promise he had made himself.
No smoking before breakfast.
He had given up giving up, but at least he could try to cut down.
‘I’ve been talking to Wolfgang Ritter. He can see you today, preferably early.’
Anette Goli sounded as if she had been awake for a long time.
‘OK.’ Munch nodded, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
‘I’ve called Mia. She’s ready. By the way, I’ve heard from Mikkelson.’
‘Go on?’
‘We can bring in as many people as we want to. He seems strangely keen to give us whatever we want.’
‘Super,’ Munch said, starting to surface now. ‘Give Curry the people he needs to trawl through the building where Vivian Berg lived. Knock on every single door. I know that Kripos have done their rounds, but I want us to talk to everybody again, OK?’
‘Will do. And Lillian Lund wants to talk to you. Please could you call her?’
‘Will do. Are you at the office?’
‘Yes. I didn’t make it home last night.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
The fat investigator stretched his arms towards the ceiling. The sofa was far too hard. He was aching all over. He must try to get to bed. This was a beginner’s error. A new case, working twenty-four/seven, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat – he ought to know better. These cases were rarely a sprint; they were pretty much always a marathon.
He gave himself time to shower and had just put on clean clothes when his mobile rang again. Munch was surprised when he saw who it was.
Miriam?
He felt it wash over him again, this instinctive paternal dart of worry. This small, dark terror somewhere inside him which refused to disappear completely.
This early?
Had something happened?
‘Hi, Miriam. Are you up already? How are you?’
He waited patiently for her to reply. He knew that it took time for her to articulate the words, to get them out of her mouth properly.
‘I … I’m … fine, Daddy. A— … And how about you?’
‘I’m just great,’ Munch said, reaching for a cigarette. He needed something to hold on to.
He was so proud of her and it hurt him to hear her stutter. She had fought her injuries so bravely – typical of her, the stubborn girl who would never admit how hard anything was. And it was such a relief to hear her say ‘Daddy’ again. There had been too many years with bad blood between them, years when she had barely spoken to him. Hatred had simmered in her eyes on the rare occasions they had met. It had been so bad that she had come close to deciding that he could never see his granddaughter. That time had passed now. Thank God. And he couldn’t be happier about that. But to listen to her stammer like that? He had to steel himself.
‘Did you manage your workout yesterday?’
‘The phy— … physiotherapist … came here. S— … some good, I think. A— … Arms a little heavy, but my l— … legs are much s— … stronger.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ Munch said. ‘Really good, Miriam. That’s great news. And is little Marion there?’
‘She … she’s asleep,’ his daughter stammered.
Munch could hear the effort it cost her to speak. Most of all he wanted her to hang up so that she could rest, but it was clear she had something to tell him so he let her continue.
‘S— … She said you were buying her a … h— … horse?’
‘Yes, I promised, but it’s a horse for her doll,’ Munch said quickly.
‘Y— … You … mustn’t spoil her like that, OK? I’m t— … trying to raise her not to be so … so—’
‘I’m sorry.’ Munch interrupted her so she wouldn’t have to expend unnecessary energy.
‘Y— … Yes, it’s quite important …’
‘Of course, Miriam. I’ll restrain myself, I promise. It’s just, yes, you know that I can’t say no.’
Miriam chuckled quietly. It was heart-warming. Munch smiled and lit his cigarette.
‘O— … OK,’ his daughter went on. ‘B— … But that wasn’t why I’m calling.’
‘It isn’t?’
Munch got another call. Lud
vig Grønlie. Fortunately, he had learned how to dismiss them without cutting off the call he was already on. Holger Munch was old school and hadn’t switched to a smart phone until he was forced to.
‘I … I’ve decided to get married,’ Miriam said calmly.
‘What did you say?’
‘I’m getting married,’ Miriam said, more clearly this time. ‘This summer.’
Miriam had once been engaged to a doctor from Sandefjord who was the father of his granddaughter, Marion. Seen from the outside, the relationship had looked fine, although Munch wouldn’t have been able to say much more about it; he hadn’t known the guy very well. Now they had split up and Marion lived alternately with each of her parents. Munch had actually been against this arrangement, hadn’t wanted the little girl to have two homes, but his granddaughter didn’t seem to mind.
Oh, Grandad, everyone has two houses these days, didn’t you know?
A precocious six-year-old, evidently, just like her mother had been.
No, I didn’t know that, Marion.
It’s completely normal now, Grandad, and that’s because then you have two birthdays and you get twice as many presents at Christmas, and it’s something the king has decided.
Is that right? What a nice king.
Yes, he is, isn’t he? And when he’s in his palace, they raise the flag so that everyone can see he’s at home and not in his cabin.
Fancy that? How clever.
Yes, the king’s clever. He doesn’t have a job, he just waves from the balcony and says hello to people. Please can I have a horse, Grandad?
A horse? Why would you want a horse?
Not for me, Grandad! For Barbie, because she can’t wear riding clothes and not have a horse? Can she?
No, of course not. I see that.
‘I … I’m not asking for your permission, Daddy. I’m just letting you know, OK?’
Despite her near-fatal injuries, his daughter’s personality hadn’t changed. No one could tell her what to do.
‘Of course.’ Munch coughed. ‘So who is …?’
‘Th— … That’s why I’m calling. I … I want you to meet him. His name is Ziggy and he makes me very happy.’
Munch could hear that his daughter was almost out of breath.
‘Congratulations, Miriam. I’m looking forward to it already.’
‘You are?’
‘Of course. Will you be wearing a white dress? Do I get to walk you up the aisle?’
His daughter giggled.
‘W— … We’ll have to see. W— … We thought we might have it at home in the garden.’
‘I’ll walk you up the aisle no matter where it is, Miriam.’
There was silence on the phone now.
‘Thank you, Daddy. I … I appreciate that,’ his daughter said quietly at last.
‘Now you get some rest, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘I’m looking forward to meeting your Ziggy. I’ll come and visit you as soon as I can. I’m a bit busy right now, but within a few days, OK?’
‘OK, Daddy. T— … Take care.’
‘You too, Miriam.’
Munch had only just ended the call when his mobile rang again.
‘Are you at home?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why don’t we drive up there together?’
‘Sure,’ Munch said. ‘Are you coming over to my place?’
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ Mia said, and rang off.
Chapter 18
Thirty-six-year-old Samantha Berg had dreamed of getting married. The dream had been oh so wonderful that when she woke up and realized she was in her own bed and still single she was tempted to take yet another sleeping pill. Close her eyes. Crawl back under her warm duvet. Go back there. To the white beach.
Oh, how perfect everything had been. Just like she had always imagined. Barefoot on the sand. The white dress. Her veil fluttering in the wind. Background music. An arch of flowers like she had seen in American films. And he had stood underneath it. Her prince. Samantha wasn’t quite sure who he had been this time, but he had looked a bit like Brad Pitt. Much younger, obviously, and smartly dressed, with blue eyes that sparkled as they waited for her. With the rings in his hand. Oh, how they had gazed at her, all the guests – admiring, envious glances. His family and friends on one side; her family and friends on the other. Laila Bekkevåg had been there too, that dreadful woman, her old schoolfriend, who always uploaded pictures of her perfect family life on Facebook and always rubbed it in whenever they met.
‘Are you still single, Samantha? Oh, poor you, that must be awful, and you always wanted a husband and a family. Well, at least you have your cat.’
The others in her circle of friends were not as tactless, but she could see it in their eyes as well.
Pity. They felt sorry for her.
Oh, surely it would be her turn soon? After all, she wasn’t asking for much in life.
The vicar had been an old man who had reminded her a little of her grandfather, with a gravelly voice, a big white beard and a smile that went all the way to eternity.
Samantha, do you take this man to be your lawful husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?
She had wanted to shout it out loud. I do, I do, I do! But she had controlled herself, of course she had, and had just blushed a little and whispered, ‘I do,’ as a young woman should. She had winked slightly and seductively as he slipped a diamond ring on her slim finger. Closed her eyes as he leaned forwards through the cool summer air to kiss her. Oh, how wonderful it had been. How warm her body had felt when his strong arms embraced her, his lips against hers.
The ice-cold floor tiles in the bathroom when she opened the bathroom cabinet to get the white box of sleeping tablets had woken her up. The dream evaporated. She wouldn’t be able to return to it now, no matter how hard she tried, so she just put the pills back and pottered into the kitchen to make breakfast, as usual.
Was she boring?
Was that why nobody wanted her?
She did the same thing every single day, true, but what was wrong with that? She liked her routines. They made life simpler. She could get through the days when she had a plan. Wake up at seven thirty when the alarm went off. Go to the kitchen and turn on the radio. Make breakfast, usually crispbread for her and tuna for Rebekka, her cat. Then shower and, afterwards, when she had dried herself properly, go to her bedroom to get dressed. Nothing fancy, but still presentable. She was selling the dresses, not getting married, so it was about blending in. She shouldn’t stand out like someone trying to compete with the customers, yet she should still exude taste and elegance. Not easy, of course, with her small budget, but she managed somehow. There had been no complaints at her performance reviews for quite a while, and she saw that as a good sign.
Wedding Dresses Limited in Prinsensgate.
That was where she worked.
She had heard her friends whisper about it the last time they went out together, Laila Bekkevåg leaning slightly forwards with that disgusting smile of hers as Samantha returned with their drinks from the bar.
‘She sells wedding dresses, but always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Isn’t that a kick in the teeth?’
‘Is it true that he’s doing time?’
‘Who?’
‘The guy she was sort of engaged to?’
‘God, she just has such bad luck.’
Samantha Berg got off the Metro at Jernbanetorget, wondering whether to reactivate her Møteplassen dating profile. She had tried Tinder, but it was definitely not for her. She hadn’t had many matches, and the few she had had were – well, to be perfectly blunt – only after one thing.
Unlucky.
Perhaps she had just been unlucky so far?
Samantha inserted the key into the lock and switched off the alarm. A world of wedding dresses. She felt it now: she loved her job; she did.
Her friends could say what they liked. She loved walking around these beautiful rooms all day, surrounded by these lovely dresses. Yes, it was a shame that it hadn’t been her turn yet. But her time would come; it would. It was just a question of patience.
Perhaps she should post some new pictures of herself next time? She had taken some of herself in Frogner Park one day when she had been out walking Rebekka. They didn’t show her whole body and they looked quite nice. It was about not giving up. Who dares wins. Fortune favours the brave. Wasn’t that how the sayings went?
She smiled to herself, put her coat on the peg in the back and entered the shop as the bell over the door rang. The first customer of the day. A young woman with blonde hair under a green cap came in. Another bride-to-be. Samantha felt happy just thinking about it.
‘Hello, how can I help you?’
The young woman looked nervously at her from under the brim of her cap.
‘The thing is, I need a, well, a wedding dress.’
‘Then you have come to the right place. Do you have anything particular in mind?’
The girl continued to stand there, looking rather lost.
They were always like that.
Such an abundance of choice. Of course it was difficult. She would struggle herself.
‘Costing about ten thousand?’ the girl said.
Samantha smiled again. Starting with the price wasn’t unusual either, and she understood. She had seen enough bowed heads and disappointed faces when a woman was on her way back to the changing room once she had learned what her dream dress cost.
‘That should give you quite a wide choice. Do you have any particular design in mind? Classic? More modern? We’ve just got some brand-new ones in from Rosa Clara, which I personally think are fantastic. Traditional, yet exciting. Very clean lines. I’ve always said it and I always will: the most beautiful wedding dresses come from Spain. Might you like something like that?’
Samantha guided the young woman across to the Rosa Clara section and picked a dress from the rail.
‘I really like this one. It’s—’
‘Yes, that’s great. I’ll take it.’
The girl with the green baseball cap nodded quickly and continued to look out of the window.
