by Samuel Bjork
‘What?’
‘We think it’s Jon Larsen,’ Wold said gravely.
‘That’s ridiculous.’ Mia couldn’t help a brief giggle of relief. ‘Curry? No, you’re wrong about that. Jon is an oddball, but there’s no way he would ever—’
‘We’re convinced it’s someone from the Drugs Squad.’
‘Curry isn’t from the Drugs Squad.’
‘He has been assigned to the Drugs Squad on several occasions. Besides, certain aspects of his private life indicate that he’s in trouble.’
‘Now hang on—’
‘Allow me to continue, please? Some time ago, Jon Larsen’s fiancée dumped him, isn’t that correct? And she owned everything. The flat in which they lived? It was hers. He has nothing.’
‘No, but that—’
‘He rents a room now, he has no money, he’s up to his eyeballs in debt. He drinks heavily and is having a casual affair with a twenty-one-year-old woman, Luna Nyvik, a bartender who has previously come to police attention because of the importation of drugs. That’s how they do it. Young people who don’t know any better. They’re used as mules. It’s how they get the drugs into Norway.’
‘It’s not Curry,’ Mia insisted again. ‘If you knew him, you would understand.’
Wold held up his hand to stop her.
‘Will you help us? If nothing else, then to prove us wrong?’
His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He looked at it this time and got up from the table.
‘I’m sorry, but something has come up. Please, would you at least think about it?’
‘You’re wrong.’
‘Here’s my number.’ Wold handed her a business card. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow. Is that OK?’
Wold flashed her a quick smile, then gave her a firm handshake before moving through the crowd and disappearing. Mia picked up the pen from the table and tried to get back into her case, but the moment had passed.
An officer on the take.
Curry?
No.
Not possible.
She was about to order another cup of tea when her mobile rang.
‘Hello, Holger, what is it?’
Munch sounded very odd.
‘I have something you need to see,’ he said quietly.
‘What is it?’
Someone in the bar laughed and Mia could barely hear what Munch was saying.
‘It’s better if you take a look for yourself. I’ll text you the address.’
‘OK.’ Mia stuffed her notes into her bag and ran outside to hail a taxi.
Chapter 24
Mia paid the cab driver and found Munch outside a solarium with a cigarette in his mouth and a dark look in his eyes.
‘What’s happening?’
Munch just shook his head.
‘You know how the crime scenes were contaminated?’
‘Go on?’
‘The receptionist at Hotel Lundgren said that Kurt Wang had been talking to a young man before he disappeared into his room. From a cleaning company.’
‘Last night?’
‘Yes.’
‘A cleaning company,’ Mia said, feeling for a lozenge in her pocket. ‘Why did we not think of that before? Hairs? Nails? Excrement? So that’s how he got all those different samples. But that’s brilliant, Holger.’
She felt a tingling of excitement under her jacket and smiled at Munch, who for some reason didn’t seem very pleased.
‘And?’ Mia said, keen to know more.
‘I visited the company.’
‘Yes?’
‘They didn’t send anybody there last night.’
‘But …?’
Mia shook her head, still unable to work out what was troubling him.
‘But they knew who it was?’
Munch took a drag on his cigarette and nodded.
‘Karl Overlind. I have an address; the mobile number they had for him has been cancelled.’
‘But that’s great, Holger. So what are we waiting for? What is it? What did you want to show me?’
‘Bergensgata number 41.’
‘What?’
‘That’s the address he gave them.’
Mia was so excited now she could barely stand still, but Munch continued to look miserable.
‘So what’s the problem? We have a name, we have an address. What are we waiting for? What did you want to show me?’
‘This,’ Munch said quietly.
He dropped his cigarette stub on the pavement, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his duffel coat and led the way around the corner of the tall building.
Bergensgata.
Something at the back of her mind.
Now, what was it …?
Munch stopped at the end of the pavement and nodded across the street.
And that was when she saw it.
The small, rust-red industrial building.
But for …
‘Oh no, Holger!’
Munch turned to her and nodded.
‘Do you see it now?’
‘He gave them … this address?’
She felt the nausea rise in her throat.
‘Oh shit, Holger. Are you sure?’
Munch nodded, his mouth closed.
‘But it … it can’t be true?’
‘Should we have made the connection before? The photographs? The camera in front of the body?’
‘Oh God.’ Mia forced herself to look at the building again, although everything inside her told her not to.
The industrial building in Bjølsen.
Bergensgata 41.
It was where he had held them.
Where his workshop had been.
All those tools.
‘Klaus Heming,’ Munch muttered, and found another cigarette.
It dangled from his lips without him lighting it.
‘The same address? That’s not possible …’
Mia pulled herself together.
Eight years ago.
She was straight back there.
Klaus Heming.
The postman.
Photographs of his victims.
Sent to the families.
As if losing them wasn’t enough.
The postman.
It had been one of the hardest cases she’d ever worked.
Eight years now, but she still couldn’t open her own postbox without experiencing a tiny wave of nausea.
Hell.
‘Bergensgata, Bjølsen,’ Munch said, only now lighting his cigarette. ‘I don’t understand why I didn’t see it at once.’
‘But he’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘He was the last time I checked.’
‘So what …?’ Mia glanced reluctantly across the road.
‘A copycat?’
‘You really think so? Heming never gave us anything, did he? Numbers? Messages. The bastard was just—’
‘Just a thought,’ Munch interrupted her. ‘It has to mean something, don’t you think?’
‘What was the name of your guy?’ Mia asked. ‘From the cleaning company?’
‘Karl Overlind.’
‘And?’
‘And what?’
Munch looked irritably at her.
The case had almost broken them.
Holger had been halfway through a round of family therapy. Two years after the split and he had pleaded with Marianne for a second chance. She had given in at last. All right, we’ll try again. For Miriam’s sake. Only to find that Munch didn’t show up for the appointments.
Klaus Heming.
The postman.
With his own workshop.
And his own tools.
Shit.
‘What do we do?’ Mia said.
‘I’ve asked Ludvig to check out all the Karl Overlinds we can find.’ Munch furrowed his brow. ‘We’ll gather everyone in the office, and then we’ll just have to …’
He stood there, looking gloomy.
‘Organize a team briefing?’
�
�Why not?’
‘Do you have a car?’
‘I’m parked down the street.’ Munch shook his head again, then tightened his beige duffel coat closely around his big body and flicked the half-smoked cigarette through the air towards the rust-red building.
Chapter 25
Curry had just raised the whisky glass to his lips when his mobile started to vibrate. He didn’t hear it – it was on silent – it just buzzed on the table in front of him like an angry wasp. He watched his hand move through the air to press the green button but realized in time, fortunately, that he shouldn’t take the call. It was only five o’clock in the afternoon and he was drunk already. Shit. It had been supposed to be a quick visit. Say hi to Luna. Clear his head. See if he could find something in his notes, which he had brought with him. Try to work the way Mia always worked. It was just an excuse, of course. He had been craving a drink. And it had turned into one too many.
His phone stopped vibrating at last. Then the text messages began. First one. Then another two. He picked up the mobile in the dim light and began reading them. Anette Goli. Munch. Something must have happened. Everyone was told to attend a meeting at the office. Shit. No, no way. Not now. He couldn’t turn up in this state. He drained his whisky and waved Luna over to the table.
‘Another one,’ he muttered, and tapped the edge of his glass.
The young woman raised her eyebrows.
‘Are you sure, Jon?’
‘What do you mean?’ he mumbled again, and became aware that he was slurring his words.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
She quickly ran her hand through his hair.
‘Yeah, yeah. Just get me another one.’
Someone dropped a coin into the jukebox at the end of the room and an old country song started creeping up the brown walls. There was the sound of pool balls hitting one another. He was in one of the dingiest pubs in Oslo, so shabby that not even the hipsters would frequent it. Merchant navy tattoos. Biker jackets. Lonely souls in every corner, mumbling lips bent over filthy beer glasses. The two men in sports jackets sitting at the bar looked like they were in the wrong place. They had been glancing at him furtively and, at first, he hadn’t understood why. A moment of paranoia: Shit, were they cops? Were they watching him? But halfway through his third whisky the answer had come to him. He was a pathetic sight as he sat there. They were looking at him out of pity. Yet another drunk with trembling hands.
Damn it.
When had that happened? He had always been able to control it, hadn’t he? The odd drink, sure, but never like this. He was like a dry sponge, a tree in need of water. He had seen an advertisement in the newspaper some days ago and had read it with interest. Sollia Treatment Centre. Do you know someone in need of help? He dismissed the thought as Luna brought him another beer and a whisky chaser.
‘Do you want me to ring Katrine? Ask her to cover my shift?’
She came closer and brushed his cheek with her warm fingers.
‘Why?’
He tried to focus but wasn’t able to make proper eye contact.
‘So we can go back to yours? Is that what you want?’
Curry straightened up and waved her away.
‘No, no, it’s fine, I just …’
Sports jacket number one over by the bar looked towards them again.
‘Sure?’
‘You have customers,’ he slurred, and attempted a smile.
‘It’s all right for me to leave. You just need to tell me, OK?’
‘It’s fine,’ he said again, but she had already returned to the bar.
He raised the glass to his mouth and the tremors began to ease off, thank God. He felt warmer now, as the fortifying drink disappeared down his throat and settled in his stomach.
He hadn’t eaten anything.
That was it.
That was the reason.
He could handle the alcohol – that wasn’t the problem – it was just that he hadn’t eaten anything.
Rehab? You, seriously?
He chuckled to himself and downed half his beer as one country song faded away and was followed by another.
He had just started drinking a little too early.
And he had forgotten to eat.
Sports jacket number one glanced in his direction again and Curry was tempted to challenge him, tell the guy to go to hell, but he didn’t. He looked out of the window instead, and spotted a familiar face that made him cringe.
Allan Dahl.
Shit.
That bloody gossip from the Drugs Squad. There was a team briefing at the office and here he was, pissed out of his head. It wouldn’t be long before news of his sorry state reached Munch. He ducked in the booth as Dahl crossed the street but, fortunately, Dahl didn’t enter the pub. A car was waiting by the kerb. Allan Dahl got into it and it pulled away.
The driver?
Didn’t he recognize his face from somewhere?
He trawled his memories but his brain was no longer working.
Never mind.
The TV behind the bar. News twenty-four/seven. The ballet dancer in the mountain lake. The young man at the hotel. The media talked of nothing else now. Two grave faces in the studio, then they cut to footage of Anette Goli. He didn’t recognize her immediately because she was in uniform. It was a repeat of the press conference that had aired earlier today. Flashing cameras, eager microphones through the air. More footage. The talking heads again, and then it cut to something that looked like a live broadcast. He jolted when he saw where it was.
Shit.
He staggered up to the bar.
‘Turn up the volume.’
‘What?’
The sports jackets gave him a look, but he ignored them.
‘The volume,’ he mumbled again, pointing to the remote control.
Luna finally understood what he was talking about.
‘We’re outside Hedrum School in Larvik,’ said a woman in a jacket with TV2’s logo. ‘Where the man who is alleged to be the police’s prime suspect works.’
It ticked across the screen now, white letters against a red background.
Raymond Greger.
Damn.
Bloody local bobbies.
Someone had talked.
Munch would blow his top.
‘What is it?’ Luna said anxiously as Curry’s mobile started to vibrate again somewhere far away.
‘I need to get to work.’ He sat down on one of the barstools, except it wasn’t there.
He saw the floor come at him and tried to brace his fall, but his arms refused to help him.
‘Are you OK?’
Her pretty face was above him now, and the sports jackets had got up as well.
‘I need to get to work,’ he slurred, and tried to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate either.
‘I’ll call Katrine.’
A grey shadow.
A whispering voice.
From the bottom of the sea.
Before the country music suddenly disappeared and left him alone on the cold floor.
Chapter 26
Father Paul Malley was sitting in the confessional in St Olav’s Cathedral, wondering whether it had been such a good idea after all. Morning Mass was over, and it had felt as if his congregation had been more preoccupied with getting to work. The big cathedral had fallen silent now. The sound of silence in this fine, spiritual space, which meant so much to him, washed over him. St Olav’s Cathedral. He had no doubt that it was the most beautiful Catholic church in Norway. It was where he had been ordained as deacon five years ago and where he had served as a priest just six months later. After a brief stint as parish administrator in Lillehammer, he had been called back to Oslo, where he was now priest and the rector of the cathedral. Father Malley couldn’t be more contented with the path God had chosen for him.
Traditionally, the Catholic Church in Norway couldn’t compete with the Protestants, but this had changed over the last decade. Mostly thank
s to immigration, weekly Masses were now said in Polish and Vietnamese, but the Norwegian parishioners had also increased in numbers. Now he led – ably aided by deacons and chaplains, of course – as many as three Masses every day of the week, at eight, eleven and four o’clock. And it was this timetable that he had decided to change last week. Not the Masses themselves – no, he was happy with their scheduling: morning Mass, lunchtime Mass, and Mass after work, so that his disciples could decide when in their busy working day it suited them to commune with the Lord.
Disciples – no, that was clearly wrong. Father Malley smiled to himself. Only Jesus had disciples; even so, at times it felt as if the flock were his own. It was rare for him not to recognize a face and, if he saw a stranger, he made a point of always introducing himself to the new arrival. After all, he was one of God’s chosen ones, the gateway to the Lord, and it was important that he carried out his mission with closeness, not distance. And that was the reason he had decided to change the daily programme.
In the old system the confessional had been open for only thirty minutes every day, between a quarter past five and a quarter to six. There hadn’t been much demand, and he was left with the feeling that it was primarily because the timing was wrong. Confess your sins in the afternoon? That just didn’t feel right. Confess after a long day at work? No, he understood his parishioners, he really did. At that point all they wanted to do was see their family, get dinner on the table and maybe pray to the Lord in the comfort of their own home. And then it had come to him: why not offer confession after morning Mass? After all, the soul was at its loneliest in the darkness of the night. Surely the urge to confess your sins was at its strongest in the morning?
Father Malley didn’t want to give up yet, but he was sorely tempted as he sat alone in the silence. He was hungry. He lifted his cassock and tied his shoelaces. He could smell the freshly washed floor and the scent of pine in the small confessional. Or did he detect a hint of lemon today? The delightful aroma made him smile, but he was obviously a little disappointed at how wrong he had been. Confession in the morning? Clearly, no one had the time or the need. He made up his mind to give it a few more minutes. After all, he had better things to do than sit here alone in the confined space, smelling the floor. He had been wrong, and it was time to admit it. Father Malley sighed and was gathering up his cassock in order to stand when he heard footsteps outside in the sonorous cathedral space.
