The Boy in the Headlights

by Samuel Bjork

‘My pleasure.’

  Grung looked around the room nervously, as if he were half expecting the security service to have followed them or an armed response unit to storm the café, before getting up carefully and calmly making his way to the Gents.

  Chapter 36

  Curry was already waiting by the lift when Mia arrived. The compact bulldog pressed the button and clutched his head.

  ‘What a bloody awful day,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Yes, for all of us,’ Mia said, looking at him. ‘Where have you been? Have you been drinking?’

  ‘Just a quick one, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’

  Curry gave her a look, which she interpreted as meaning that he didn’t want her to probe.

  His shoulders were hunched. He had dark rings around his eyes.

  There was something in his gaze she couldn’t fathom.

  Mia couldn’t help being reminded of what Wold had told her in Lorry, but she didn’t have the energy to go there now. Three murders. It would have to wait.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked when they had reached the underground car park.

  ‘Kalle’s Toys in Torshov,’ Curry said, and clicked to unlock the car.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ Mia said, taking the keys from him.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the bulldog barked.

  ‘Yes,’ Mia said, getting behind the wheel.

  Curry sighed and put on his seatbelt. It looked as if keeping his head on his shoulders was something of a challenge.

  ‘How did we find the place so soon?’ Mia asked as she drove out of the car park.

  ‘Grønlie emailed everyone he could find. Toyshops, importers, wholesalers – absolutely everyone – and received a reply almost immediately that Kalle might be our man.’

  ‘You’ve already talked to him?’

  ‘Sort of. He was asleep. He said he would come over as soon as he could.’

  ‘The shop wasn’t open?’

  Curry sighed again and clutched his head in his hands.

  ‘Eh, no, it appears to be some sort of alternative place. Proper toys. Handmade. Using materials that don’t harm poor kids in developing nations, that kind of thing. Unconventional opening hours. But he’s on his way there now.’

  Curry produced a box of chewing tobacco from his inside pocket and, after a few attempts, managed to slip a wad under his lip.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have some water, would you?’

  Mia had to laugh.

  ‘What do you mean? Do I look as if I have a tap in my pocket?’

  ‘What the hell would I know?’ Curry clutched his head again. ‘These days everyone carries a water bottle. Oh God, I feel awful.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Mia said, taking the route to Torshov.

  ‘Paracetamol, then?’

  ‘No.’ She smiled compassionately. ‘Would you like me to stop somewhere?’

  ‘Could you?’

  Mia pulled up at the kerb and waited while Curry ran into a 7-Eleven.

  ‘Thank you,’ the bulldog mumbled when he was back in the car and had washed down four pills with practically a whole bottle of water.

  Mia thought it wisest to stay quiet for the rest of the drive.

  They parked and had just noticed a homemade shop sign when a middle-aged man with long hair and a big beard came strolling down the pavement towards them.

  ‘Are you the guy who rang?’ the man said, producing a clattering bunch of keys from a large anorak.

  ‘Jon Larsen,’ Curry said, shaking his hand.

  ‘Thomas Lange,’ the bearded man said. ‘But everyone calls me Big Tom.’

  ‘So you’re not called Kalle?’ Mia asked, nodding to the sign above the door.

  The man smiled.

  ‘Kalle’s Climbing Tree? Ever heard of that? The children’s TV show?’

  ‘Is he the one who lies in a tree all day watching the clouds?’ Curry said.

  ‘That’s me.’ Lange smiled and unlocked the door.

  Curry sang the theme tune, missing practically every single note. ‘You don’t remember it? Kalle sits in the tree pondering life while his grandad sits on the grass reading the newspaper.’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ Mia nodded.

  ‘Amazing programme. Why does all the good stuff come from Sweden? Emil. Tjorven, Bill Bergson, Master Detective, The White Stone. Can you think of any good Norwegian children’s stuff? Nope, everything is from Sweden.’

  ‘Shall we?’ Mia said, indicating the open door.

  ‘And there’s Ronia the Robber’s Daughter and Alfie Atkins—’

  ‘After you,’ Mia said, following Curry over the threshold.

  ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Lange said once they were inside the shop.

  ‘Mia Krüger,’ Mia said, holding out her hand.

  ‘Ah.’ Lange took off his long, colourful scarf and put it on the counter. ‘I thought there was something familiar about you. Can I offer you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘We just need to know if you sold this,’ Curry said, producing a photograph from his inside pocket.

  Lange took it and scrunched up his nose.

  ‘That’s my work, yes, but who burned my house down?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Mia said. ‘Have you sold many of them?’

  ‘No. I only sold one, and that was it. Not much demand for quality goods these days. It’s a pity. I made quite a few. I thought they were nice.’

  Lange returned the photograph to Curry and disappeared into the back room. He reappeared with a white doll’s house, an exact copy of the one they had found at Camp Skar.

  ‘Bamboo,’ Lange said, placing the house on the counter. ‘The world’s most environmentally friendly material. It grows quickly. Uses few resources. We should make everything from bamboo. I believe that somewhere—’

  ‘Did you sell it recently?’ Mia asked.

  ‘I did, as it happens. To a very nice girl. She looked a bit like you, come to think of it, only blonde.’

  ‘A girl?’ Mia said.

  ‘Girl, woman, lady, I don’t know what you prefer, but a young woman. Twenty-something, I would guess. Very nice. We chatted for a long time. She wanted to travel to Goa. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘Angola?’ Curry said.

  ‘No, Goa, India. Or paradise, as I call it. I usually spend the winter there, but not this year, sadly. Business hasn’t been as good as it usually is. Everybody wants shiny plastic now, don’t they? We no longer care, do we, that the planet goes to hell in a handcart and all our children will inherit is rubbish? And now these fighter planes? I ask you. Hundreds of millions of kroner. People are starving, kids don’t have school books, old people sit in their nappies with no one looking after them in care homes, and yet we can afford to buy American fighter planes. This country will go to the dogs if we don’t get someone with their head screwed on properly at the helm soon.’

  ‘A young woman?’ Mia repeated, sounding surprised and glancing at Curry, who shrugged.

  ‘Yes, it was a good day.’ Lange smiled. ‘It’s nice when people appreciate your craftsmanship, isn’t it? Handmade, right down to the smallest detail.’

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to have a camera in here, would you?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Big Brother watching you? No, thanks.’

  ‘Or a mailing list or something? You didn’t get her name?’ Curry said.

  ‘A mailing list?’ Lange snorted with contempt. ‘Intrude on people’s privacy? Do you know how much global capital knows about you these days? Big data? Do you think they want your phone number and your email so that they can be helpful? Shorter working days? Better pay? Oh no, buy more, buy more. Of course I don’t have a mailing list. But I have a small jar where people who want to can make a donation to a school in Rwanda. My girlfriend and I sponsor it. Can either of you spare some change for the people who need it the most?’

  Curry looked at the almost empty jar Lange was holding out to him, and reluctantly pro
duced a fifty-krone note from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Anything else you can tell us about this girl?’ Mia said.

  ‘Well, like I said, she was very nice. Twenty-something, perhaps, slim. Long hair, green baseball cap, looked like a chav, as you would say if you lived up west.’

  Lange smiled ironically and gestured westwards.

  ‘But no name or address?’

  ‘Big Brother,’ Lange said again, and shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Please would you give us a call if she turns up again?’ Mia took out a business card from her inside pocket.

  ‘Of course. Are you sure you don’t want anything? I have really good Darjeeling and honey directly from Svartlamon in Trondheim. The real deal. It’ll warm you up, seeing as spring is keeping us waiting.’ The bearded man nodded to the foggy cityscape outside. ‘Nature is fighting back. Soon we’ll all freeze to solid ice and I guess that’s what we deserve.’

  ‘Would you mind if we sent a sketch artist up here?’

  ‘An artist? To do my picture?’ Lange winked.

  ‘To produce a sketch of the woman who bought the doll’s house?’

  ‘I knew that,’ he said. ‘Again, twenty-something, long blonde hair, green baseball cap, but you’re welcome to send one along. I’m always here. Or nearby, at any rate.’

  ‘Great. Thank you for your help so far. Please call if you remember anything else,’ Mia said, and followed Curry out of the shop.

  She stopped for a moment on the damp pavement.

  ‘There, there and there,’ she said, and pointed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Cameras. Please would you get the footage?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have to check something. Are you all right?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, don’t worry about it.’ The compact bulldog coughed and replaced his chewing tobacco with a fresh piece. ‘I’ll take a cab back. See you at the office.’

  ‘Fine,’ Mia said, and got in behind the wheel.

  Chapter 37

  Gabriel Mørk was sitting in his office, wondering what to do with the enormous amount of information now on his MacBook when Ylva popped her head round the door.

  ‘It’s an emergency.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Everyone is on their way.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A reporter from Aftenposten thinks he has the murder on film.’

  ‘What? Which one?’

  ‘Ruben Iversen.’

  ‘You’re kidding me? How is that possible?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ Ylva said, and disappeared down the corridor.

  ‘OK, before we begin,’ Munch said when they were all gathered in the incident room, ‘we’ve just received the artist’s sketches of the young man who worked for the cleaning company and was seen at Hotel Lundgren.’

  ‘Karl Overlind?’ Curry said.

  Munch nodded.

  ‘Before we watch the footage,’ he said, once he had finally got the screen behind him to work, ‘I think it’s important that we take a look at them.’

  Two artist’s sketches. There was murmuring across the room when those gathered saw them.

  ‘That’s not the same man,’ Ylva burst out. Gabriel had been thinking the exact same thing. The two sketches were completely different. The man on the left had short hair. The man on the right had a Beatles-style haircut with a fringe and he was wearing glasses.

  ‘Are we looking for two different men?’ Curry wondered out loud. ‘Are they in it together?’

  ‘I have a hunch he’s messing with us,’ said Mia, who was leaning against the back wall.

  ‘Why?’ Ylva asked.

  ‘Just look at this.’ Mia pointed to the screen. ‘The eyes. Same size. The noses, quite similar. The chins, practically identical. These are features that are hard to camouflage, don’t you think?’

  She turned to the others.

  ‘So he disguises himself?’ Goli said.

  ‘I think so,’ Mia said.

  ‘Seriously?’ Curry exclaimed.

  ‘I agree with Mia,’ Munch said. ‘And that’s why we’ve been having problems finding him on the CCTV footage.’

  ‘He changes his appearance?’

  ‘If it’s the same man,’ Munch said, nodding towards the screen, ‘then, yes, we have reason to think so. And if he changes his face like that, who knows what else he might change. Up until now—’

  ‘Everything has been a diversion tactic,’ Mia interrupted him. ‘The contamination of the crime scenes. The wrong address. It’s as if he wants to send us on a wild-goose chase, waste our resources.’

  ‘While he carries out the next phase of his plan?’ Goli wondered out loud.

  ‘It certainly feels like it,’ Mia said.

  There was murmuring across the room again.

  ‘So there will be more?’ Ylva said anxiously.

  ‘Listen,’ Munch said. ‘We can’t be sure of any of it, it’s just a theory, but it’s worth bearing in mind.’

  ‘What if they’re siblings?’ Gabriel ventured cautiously.

  He rarely opened his mouth during such meetings, but this time he couldn’t help himself.

  Munch looked at Mia.

  ‘I mean,’ Gabriel went on, ‘both sketches might be right, but there are two of them? As you just said, those are features that aren’t easy to disguise – the eyes, the nose – maybe there are two of them and they really do look like one another?’

  He could feel his face getting a little flushed as Munch turned to Mia again.

  ‘It’s possible,’ Mia said at length. ‘In fact, that’s not a bad idea. Good thinking, Gabriel.’

  ‘Brothers?’ Munch said.

  It was clear that their bosses had only just seen the sketches themselves and hadn’t had time to discuss them.

  ‘But back to the film,’ Curry said again. ‘Is it true?’

  ‘Is what true?’ Munch said.

  ‘That it shows the murder? The one up at Camp Skar? How did they get it? It sounds unlikely. I mean, how could they know that a murder would happen right there? Were they tipped off or something?’

  Munch looked at Anette.

  ‘The newspaper insists on protecting its sources,’ Goli said irritably, ‘but I’ve put a couple of our lawyers on it. I can’t imagine that their refusal to cooperate will impress the judge, but it’ll take time to resolve.’

  ‘Will we be charging anyone from the newspaper?’ Grønlie asked.

  ‘We could always try that.’ Anette glanced at Munch. ‘But there are still procedures that we have to follow.’

  ‘There’s nothing to indicate that they knew about the murder in advance,’ Munch said. ‘I know Grung. I trust him. He’s a good man. I can’t imagine he would sanction something like this. Of course he wouldn’t. If they had known a crime would be committed, they would have informed us.’

  ‘But what about the journalist?’ Curry said. ‘Erik Rønning? He’s a prat, isn’t he? A show-off? Did he discover it? Or is he the victim of a hoax?’

  ‘Like I said, finding out where that film is from is going to be an uphill struggle,’ Munch went on. ‘In the meantime, we should just be grateful that we have it – regardless of how callous that might sound. It’s not every day we get such detailed evidence of a crime, where we get to be a fly on the wall.’

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ Curry said, flinging out his arms.

  He seemed under the influence of something and was slurring his words a little.

  ‘Completely different appearance again.’ Munch nodded towards the screen once more. ‘And the reason I want you to keep that in mind is that this time we see the killer.’

  ‘He’s on the film?’ Ylva said.

  ‘Yes,’ Munch nodded. ‘But this time—’

  ‘Don’t tell me that he has changed his appearance again.’ Curry sighed
impatiently, oblivious to the fact that he had just hit the nail on the head.

  Munch looked at Mia and then at Anette.

  ‘He has?’ Curry said, surprised. ‘We have a third man?’

  ‘The film isn’t top quality, so I’m going to talk you through it before I show it to you,’ Munch said. ‘The camera is mounted quite far away, it’s a little grainy, but we can still see things that I regard as useful. The car arrives. Ruben Iversen is sitting in the back. We can’t see the driver’s face. Iversen gets out of the car and starts undressing right away. He puts his clothes in a bag and stands for a moment, naked, in the car park before putting on his swimming trunks and going behind the car. And it’s at that point—’

  ‘The killer gets out, takes the bag, places it on the ground in front of the car, and that’s when we see him,’ Goli said.

  ‘And?’ Curry said.

  ‘Third disguise,’ Munch said gravely. ‘A moustache this time.’

  ‘Surely we’re not dealing with three brothers?’ Curry again slurred his words. ‘He’s obviously some kind of – well, what do you call them, impersonator? Can’t you just show us the film?’

  ‘Damn,’ Mia said, still not wholly present in the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Munch asked.

  ‘Can you get me a screenshot?’ Mia said eagerly, addressing Ludvig Grønlie.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘The face? On the film?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you mean right now?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mia said, putting on her jacket.

  ‘Sure.’ Grønlie nodded.

  ‘I need to check something,’ Mia mumbled, and followed the grey-haired investigator out of the room.

  Chapter 38

  Susanne Hval was waiting at the foot of the steps to the National Theatre, between the statues of Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson and Henrik Ibsen, when Mia came rushing across the square. She had mixed feelings about this meeting. It was good to see her again; of course it was. Her old friend from Åsgårdstrand. But Susanne had always felt that their friendship was mostly on Mia’s terms. She had tried to contact her for months without any success. Mia Krüger. Homicide investigator. It felt as if her friend always had priorities other than her.

  And then Mia had called her out of the blue.