I'm Traveling Alone

by Samuel Bjork

  “There you are.” The girl in the green uniform smiled kindly and handed him the keys. “A nice big Volvo V70, all paid for, open-ended rental period and mileage. You can return it when and where you like. Have a nice trip.”

  Big? Was this another one of her jokes, or was she merely trying to reassure him? Here’s a nice big car for you, because you have grown so fat that you can barely see your own feet?

  On his way to the garage, Holger Munch caught a glimpse of his reflection in the large windows outside the arrivals terminal. Perhaps it was about time. Start exercising. Eat a slightly healthier diet. Lose a bit of weight. Lately he had begun to think along those lines. He no longer had to run down the streets chasing criminals—he had people working for him who could do that, so that was not the reason. No, in the last few weeks, Holger Munch had become rather vain.

  Wow, Holger, new sweater? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?

  He unlocked the Volvo, placed his cell phone in the cradle, and turned it on. He fastened his seat belt and was heading toward the center of Trondheim when his messages began coming through. He heaved a sigh. One hour with his phone turned off and now it was starting again. No respite from the world. It was not entirely fair to say that it was the flight alone that had put him in a bad mood. There’d been a lot happening recently, both at work and at home. Holger swiped his finger across the smartphone screen, a model they’d told him to buy—it was all about high-tech these days, the twenty-first-century police force, even in Hønefoss, where he had worked for the last eighteen months for Ringerike Police. This was where he’d started his career, and now he’d come back. Because of the Tryvann incident.

  Seven calls from Oslo Police Headquarters at Grønland. Two from his ex-wife. One from his daughter. Two from the nursing home. Plus countless text messages.

  Holger Munch decided to ignore the world for a little longer and turned on the radio. He found the classical station, opened the window, and lit a cigarette. Cigarettes were his only vice—apart from food, obviously, but they were in a different league in terms of attraction. Holger Munch had no intention of ever quitting smoking no matter how many laws the politicians came up with and how many No Smoking signs they put up all over Norway, including on the dashboard of his rental car.

  He could not think without a cigarette, and there was nothing Holger Munch loved more than thinking. Using his brain. Never mind about the body as long as his brain worked. They were playing Handel’s Messiah on the radio, not Munch’s favorite, but he was okay with it. He was more of a Bach man himself. He liked the mathematics of the music, not all those emotional composers: Wagner’s bellicose tempo, Ravel’s impressionistic emotional landscape. Munch listened to classical music precisely to escape these human feelings. If people were mathematical equations, life would be much simpler. He quickly touched his wedding ring and thought about Marianne, his ex-wife. It had been ten years now, and still he could not make himself take it off. She had phoned him. Perhaps she was . . .

  No. It would be about the wedding, obviously. She wanted to talk about the wedding. They had a daughter together, Miriam, who was getting married shortly. There were practicalities to discuss. That was all. Holger Munch flicked the cigarette out the window and lit another one.

  I don’t drink coffee, I don’t touch alcohol. Surely I’m allowed a stupid cigarette.

  Holger Munch had been drunk only once, at the age of fourteen on his father’s cherry brandy at their vacation cottage, and he had never touched a drop of alcohol since.

  The desire was just not there. He didn’t want it. It would never cross his mind to do anything that might impair his brain cells. Not in a million years. Now, smoking, on the other hand, and the occasional burger—that was something else again.

  He pulled over at a Shell station and ordered a bacon-burger meal deal, which he ate sitting on a bench overlooking Trondheim Fjord. If his colleagues had been asked to describe Holger Munch in three words, two of them were likely to be “nerd.” “Clever” would possibly be the third, or “too clever for his own good” if they were permitted more than a single word. But a nerd definitely. A fat, amiable nerd who never touched alcohol, loved mathematics, classical music, crossword puzzles, and chess. A little dull perhaps, but an extremely talented investigator. And a fair boss. So what if he never joined his colleagues for a beer after work or had not been on a date since his wife left him for a teacher with eight weeks of annual vacation who never had to get up in the middle of the night without telling her where he was going? There was no one whose clear-up rate was as high as Holger Munch’s, everyone knew that. Everyone liked Holger Munch. And even so he had ended up back in Hønefoss.

  I’m not demoting you, I’m reassigning you. The way I see it, you should count yourself lucky that you still have a job.

  He had almost quit on the spot that day outside Mikkelson’s office, but he’d bitten his tongue. What else would he do? Work as a security guard?

  Holger Munch got back into the car and took the E6 toward Trondheim. He lit a fresh cigarette and followed the ring road around the city, heading south. The rental car was equipped with GPS, but he did not turn it on. He knew where he was going.

  Mia Krüger.

  He thought warmly about his former colleague just as his cell phone rang again.

  “Munch speaking.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  It was an agitated Mikkelson, on the verge of a heart attack as usual; how that man had survived ten years in the boss’s chair down at Grønland was a mystery.

  “I’m in the car. Where the hell are you?” Munch snapped back.

  “In the car where? Haven’t you gotten there yet?”

  “No, I haven’t gotten there yet, I’ve only just landed—I thought you knew that. What do you want?”

  “I wanted to check that you’re sticking with the plan.”

  “I have the file here, and I intend to deliver it in person, if that’s what you mean.” Munch sighed. “Was it really necessary to send me all the way up here just for this? How about a courier? Or we could have used the local police.”

  “You know exactly why you’re there,” Mikkelson replied. “And this time I want you to do as you’ve been told.”

  “One,” Munch said as he flicked the cigarette butt out of the window, “I owe you nothing. Two, I owe you nothing. Three, it’s your own fault you’re no longer using my brain for its intended purpose, so I suggest you shut up. Do you want to know the cases I’m working these days? Do you, Mikkelson? Want to know what I’m working on?”

  A brief silence followed at the other end. Munch chuckled contentedly to himself.

  Mikkelson hated nothing more than having to ask for a favor. Munch knew that Mikkelson was fuming now, and he savored how his former boss was having to control himself rather than speak his mind.

  “Just do it.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.” Munch grinned as he saluted in the car.

  “Drop the irony, Munch, and call me when you’ve got something.”

  “Will do. Oh, by the way, there was one thing . . .”

  “What?” Mikkelson grunted.

  “If she’s in, then so am I. No more Hønefoss for me. And I want our old offices in Mariboesgate. We work away from police headquarters. And I want the same team as before.”

  There was total silence before the reply came.

  “That’s completely out of the question. It’s never going to happen, Munch. It’s—”

  Munch smiled and pressed the red button to end the call before Mikkelson had time to say anything else. He lit another cigarette, turned the radio on again, and took the road leading to Orkanger.

  4

  Mia Krüger had been dozing on the sofa under a blanket near the fireplace. She’d been dreaming about Sigrid and had woken up feeling as if her twin sister were still there. With he
r. Alive. That they were together again like they always used to be. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Two peas in a pod, born two minutes apart, one blond, the other dark, so different and yet so alike.

  All Mia wanted to do was return to her dream, join Sigrid, but she made herself get up and go to the kitchen. Eat some breakfast. To keep the alcohol down. If she carried on like this, she would die prematurely, and that was completely out of the question.

  April 18.

  Ten days left.

  She had to hold out, last another ten days. Mia forced down two pieces of crispbread and considered drinking a glass of milk but opted for water instead. Two glasses of water and two pills. From her pants pocket. Didn’t matter which ones. One white and one pale blue today.

  Sigrid Krüger

  Sister, friend, and daughter

  Born November 11, 1979. Died April 18, 2002.

  Much loved. Deeply missed.

  Mia Krüger returned to the sofa and stayed there until she felt the pills starting to kick in. Numb her. Form a membrane between her and the world. She needed one now. It was almost three weeks since she had last looked at herself, and she could put it off no longer. Time for a shower. The bathroom was on the first floor. She had avoided it for as long as possible, didn’t want to look at herself in the large mirror that the previous owner had put up right inside the door. She’d been meaning to find a screwdriver. Remove the damn thing. She felt bad enough as it was and did not need it confirmed, but she hadn’t had the energy. No energy for anything. Just for the pills. And the alcohol. Liquid Valium in her veins, little smiles in her bloodstream, lovely protection against all the barbs that had been swimming around inside her for so long. She steeled herself and walked up the stairs. She opened the door to the bathroom and almost had a shock when she saw the figure in the mirror. It was not her. It was someone else. Mia Krüger had always been slim, but now she looked emaciated. She had always been healthy. Always strong. Now there was practically nothing left of her. She pulled off her sweater and her jeans and stood in only her underwear in front of the mirror. Her underpants were sagging. The flesh on her stomach and hips was all gone. Carefully she ran a hand over her protruding ribs—she could feel them clearly, count them all. She made herself walk right up close to the mirror, caught a glimpse of her own eyes in the rusty silver surface. People had always remarked on her blue eyes. No one has eyes as Norwegian as yours, Mia, someone had said to her once, and she still remembered how proud she’d been, Norwegian eyes. It had sounded so fine. At a time when she wanted to fit in, not be different. Sigrid had always been the prettier one. Perhaps that explained why it had felt so good? Sparkling blue eyes. Not much of that left now. They looked dead already.

  My little Indian, her grandmother used to call her. And she could have been—apart from the blue eyes. An American Indian. Kiowa or Sioux or Apache. Mia had always been fascinated by Indians when she was a child; there had never been any doubt whose side she was on. The cowboys were the bad guys. The Indians the good guys. How are you today, Mia Moonbeam? Mia touched her face in the mirror and remembered her grandmother with love. She looked at her long hair. Raven black hair flowing down her delicate shoulders. She had not had hair as long as this for ages. She’d started to wear it short when she started at the police academy. She hadn’t gone to a hairdresser’s but cut it herself at home, just grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped it off. To show that she didn’t care about looking pretty. About showing off. She didn’t wear makeup either. You’re naturally beautiful, my little Indian, her grandmother had said one evening when she braided Mia’s hair in front of the fireplace back home in Åsgårdstrand.

  Sigrid had always been the favorite. Sigrid with her long blond hair. Who was good at school. Who played the flute, who played handball and was everyone’s friend. Mia had not resented the attention Sigrid got. Sigrid was never one to exploit it to her advantage, never said a bad word about anyone. Sigrid was quite simply fantastic, but whenever their grandmother had pulled Mia to one side and told her that she was special, she’d felt great.

  You’re very special, did you know that? The other children are fine, but you know things, Mia, don’t you? You see the things that other people tend to overlook.

  A grandmother who had taken notice of her, seen who she was, told her she was special.

  Fly like the ladybird, Mia, never forget that.

  Her grandmother’s last words on her deathbed, spoken with a wink to her very special friend.

  Ten days left.

  April 18.

  She was not particularly interested in what it would be like. Her final moment. If it would hurt. If it would be difficult to let go. She did not believe the stories about how your life flashed in front of your eyes as you died. Or perhaps it was true? It didn’t really matter. The story of Mia Krüger’s life was imprinted on her body. She could see her life in the mirror. An Indian with Norwegian eyes. Long black hair that she used to cut short but was now cascading down her thin white shoulders. She tugged her hair behind one ear and studied the scar near her left eye. An inch-long cut, a scar that would never fade away completely. She’d been interrogating a murder suspect after a young girl from Latvia had been found floating in the river Aker. Mia had failed to pay attention, hadn’t seen the knife; luckily, she’d managed to swerve so that it did not blind her. She’d worn a patch over her eye for several months afterward; thanks to the doctors, she still had sight in both eyes. She held up her left hand in front of the mirror and looked at the missing fingertip. Another suspect, a farm outside Moss, mind the dog. The rottweiler had gone for her throat, but she raised her hand just in time. She could still feel its teeth around her fingers, how the panic had spread inside her in the few seconds it took before she got the pistol out of her holster and blew the head off the manic dog. She shifted her eyes down to the small butterfly she’d had tattooed on her hip. She had been a nineteen-year-old girl in Prague, thinking herself a woman of the world. She met a Spanish guy, a summer fling, they’d drunk far too much Becherovka and both woken up with a tattoo. Hers was a small purple, yellow, and green butterfly. Mia was tempted to smile. She had considered having it removed several times, embarrassed by the idiocy of her youth, but had never gotten around to it, and now it no longer mattered. She stroked the slender silver bracelet on her right wrist. They’d been given one each as confirmation presents, Sigrid and she. A charm bracelet with a heart and an anchor and an initial. An M on hers. An S on Sigrid’s. That night, when the party was over and the guests had gone home, they’d sat in their shared bedroom at home in Åsgårdstrand when Sigrid had suddenly suggested they swap.

  You take mine and I’ll have yours?

  From that day Mia had never taken the silver bracelet off.

  The tablets were making her feel even dopier—she could barely see herself in the mirror. Her body was like a ghost’s; it seemed far away. She stumbled into the shower cubicle and stood underneath the warm water for so long that it finally turned icy.

  She avoided the mirror as she stepped out. Walked naked down to the living room and dried herself in front of the unlit fireplace. Went into the kitchen and poured herself another drink. Found more pills in a drawer. Chewed them while she got dressed. Even more spaced out now. Clean on the outside and soon also on the inside.

  Mia put on her knitted cap and jacket and left the house.

  April 18.

  It had suddenly come to her one day, like a kind of vision, and from then on, everything slotted into place. Sigrid was found dead on April 18, 2002. In a basement in Tøyen in Oslo, on a rotting mattress, still with the needle in her arm. She’d not even had time to undo the strap. The overdose had killed her instantly. In ten days it would be exactly ten years ago. Lovely little sweet, beautiful Sigrid had died from an overdose of heroin in a filthy basement. Just one week after Mia had picked her up from the rehab clinic in Valdres.

  Oh, but she’d l
ooked wonderful, Sigrid, after four weeks at the facility. Her cheeks glowing, her smile back. In the car heading home to Oslo, it had been almost like the old days, the two of them laughing and joking the way they used to in the garden at home in Åsgårdstrand.

  “You’re Snow White and I’m Sleeping Beauty.”

  “But I want to be Sleeping Beauty! Why do I always have to be Snow White?”

  “Because you have dark hair, Mia.”

  Sigrid’s prince, unfortunately, had been an idiot from Horten. He thought of himself as a musician, even played in some kind of band that never gave concerts. All they ever did was hang out in the park, where they smoked joints or took speed. He was just another skinny, opinionated loser. Mia Krüger could not bear even to say his name. The mere thought of him made her feel sick. She followed the path along the rocks, past the boathouse, and sat down on the jetty. On the distant shore, she could see activity. People doing people things. She took a swig from the bottle she’d brought with her as she felt the pills starting to take effect, strip her of her senses, make her indifferent. She dangled her feet over the edge of the jetty and turned her face to the sun.

  Markus Skog.

  Sigrid had been eighteen, the scrawny idiot twenty-two. He’d moved to Oslo. A few months later, Sigrid had joined him.

  Four weeks in rehab. It was not the first time Mia had picked up her sister from a rehab center, but this time had been different. Sigrid’s motivation had been completely different. Not the usual junkie smile after such a stay, lies and more lies, just itching to get out and shoot up again—no, there’d been something in her eyes. She’d seemed more determined, almost back to her old self.

  Mia had thought so much about her sister over the years that it had almost driven her insane. Why Sigrid? Was it boredom? Because their parents had died? Or just because of some skinny, scrawny idiot? Was it love?

  Their mother could be strict, but she was never particularly harsh. Their father had spoiled them, but surely that could do no harm? Eva and Kyrre Krüger had adopted the twins right after their birth. They had made arrangements with the biological mother in advance; she was young, single, desperate. Did not want to and could not cope with looking after two children. For a childless couple, the girls were a gift from heaven, exactly what they had always wanted. Their happiness was complete.