by Samuel Bjork
Their mother, Eva, taught at Åsgården Primary School. Their father, Kyrre, sold paint and owned a shop called Ole Krüger in the center of Horten.
Mia had searched high and low for an explanation, anything that could tell her why Sigrid ended up a junkie, but she never found one.
Markus Skog.
It was his fault.
It was just one week after leaving rehab. They had gotten along so well in her apartment in Vogtsgate. Sigrid and Mia. Mia and Sigrid. Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. The two peas were back in their pod. Mia had even taken a couple of days off work, for the first time in God knows how long. Then one evening she found a note on the kitchen table:
Have to talk to M.
Back soon. S.
Mia Krüger got up from the edge of the jetty. She was already starting to sway. The pills from her pocket made her groggy. Mia Krüger took a few more and leaned back against the rock.
You’re very special, did you know that?
Perhaps that explained why she had chosen to go to the police academy? To do something different? She’d thought about this as well these last few days—why had she applied? She could no longer make the pieces fit together. Time kept shifting. Her brain was out of kilter. Sigrid was no longer little blond Sigrid. She was junkie Sigrid now, the nightmare. Their parents had been devastated, withdrawn from the world, from each other, from Mia. She had moved to Oslo, started with absolutely no enthusiasm to study at the university in Blindern. She hadn’t even been able to summon the energy to turn up for her exams. Perhaps the police academy had chosen her? So that she might rid the world of people like Markus Skog.
She had shot him.
Markus Skog.
Twice. In the chest.
It was a chance encounter; they’d been out on another assignment. A girl had disappeared, and the special unit had been called in—just sniff around and take a peek at things, as Holger had put it. We don’t have a lot on right now, Mia. I think we should check this one out.
Holger Munch. Mia Krüger thought fondly of her old colleague as she dangled her boots over the edge of the jetty. The whole incident was bizarre. She’d killed another human being, but she didn’t feel bad about it. She felt worse about the consequences. The media outrage and the uproar down at Grønland. Holger Munch, who had led the unit, who had cherry-picked her from the police academy, had been reassigned, the special unit closed down. This hurt her deeply, and it had cut her to the core that Holger had paid the price for her actions, but the actual killing, strangely enough, no. They’d been following a lead that took them to Tryvann. Some junkies or hippies—the public always had difficulty telling the two apart when they called to complain—anyway, someone had parked a camper in Tryvann and was partying and making a racket. Holger thought the missing girl might be there. And indeed they did come across a young girl, not the girl who was missing, but another one, glazed eyes, a needle in her arm, inside the filthy camper and with her, unexpectedly, Markus Skog. And Mia had, as the internal affairs unit’s report quite accurately stated:
Acted carelessly, with unnecessary use of force.
Mia shook her head at her own immorality. Holger Munch had stood by her, said that Skog had attacked her first—after all, a knife and an ax were found at the crime scene—but Mia should have known better. She was trained to defend herself without backup against a frenzied junkie brandishing a knife or wielding an ax. She could have shot him in the foot. Or in his arm. But she hadn’t. She had killed him. A moment of hatred when the rest of the world had simply disappeared. Two shots to the center of his chest.
She would have gone to prison if it had not been for Holger Munch. She took the empty bottle from her pocket, licked the last few drops, and raised it toward the clouds once more. It didn’t matter now. It would all be over soon.
She lay down, rested her cheek against the coarse wooden planks of the jetty, and closed her eyes.
5
Holger Munch was fed up with driving and decided to take a break. He pulled over and got out to stretch his legs. He did not have much farther to go. The man who would be taking him to the island in his boat could not take him there until after two o’clock for some reason—Munch hadn’t had the energy to ask why. He had spoken to the local police officer, who didn’t seem particularly bright. He wasn’t prejudiced against regional police officers, but Holger had been used to another pace in Oslo. Not these days, for obvious reasons. You would be hard-pressed to claim that the pace at Ringerike Police was fast-moving. Munch swore softly under his breath and cursed Mikkelson but regretted it immediately. It was not Mikkelson’s fault. There had been an investigation afterward and there had to be some repercussions—he knew that only too well—but surely there were limits.
Munch took a seat on a bench and lit another cigarette. Spring had come early to Trøndelag this year. There were green leaves on the trees in several places, and the snow had almost melted away. Not that he knew very much about when spring usually came to Trøndelag, but he had heard them talk about it on the local radio when he’d taken a break from the music to listen to the news. He wondered if they’d managed to keep it out of the media or if some idiot down at police headquarters had leaked the discovery to a news-hungry journalist with deep pockets, but fortunately there was nothing. Nothing about the little girl who’d been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen.
His cell had been ringing and beeping all the time he was in the car, but Holger had ignored it. He did not want to make calls or send text messages while driving. He’d attended too many accidents caused by just one second of distraction. Besides, none of it was urgent. And he savored this brief moment of freedom. He hated to admit it to himself, but at times it got to him. The work. And family life. He did not mind visiting his mother in the nursing home. He did not mind helping his daughter with the preparations for her wedding. And he certainly never minded hours spent with Marion, his granddaughter, who had just turned six, but even so, yes, at times it all got to be too much for him.
He and Marianne. He had never imagined anything else. Even now, ten years after the divorce, he still had the feeling that something inside him was so broken that it could never be fixed.
He shuddered and checked his cell. Another two unanswered calls from Mikkelson; he knew what they would be about. There was no reason to call back. Another message from Miriam, his daughter, brief and impersonal as usual. Some calls from Marianne, his ex-wife. Shit, he had forgotten to call the nursing home. After all, today was a Wednesday. He really should have done it before he started driving. He found the number, got up, and straightened his legs.
“Høvikveien Nursing Home, Karen speaking.”
“Yes, hello, Karen, it’s Holger Munch.”
“Hi, Holger, how are you?” The soft voice at the other end almost made Munch blush. He had expected one of the older caregivers to answer the phone, as they usually did.
Wow, Holger, new sweater? Wow, Holger, new jacket? Wow, Holger, have you trimmed your beard?
“Oh, I’m all right,” Munch replied. “But I’m afraid I’m about to ask you to do me yet another favor.”
“Go on, then, ask away, Holger.” The woman on the telephone laughed.
They had been nodding acquaintances for some years. Karen was one of the aides at the home where his mother initially had refused to live but where she now appeared to have settled in.
“It’s Wednesday again.” Munch heaved a sigh.
“And you won’t be able to make it?”
“No, sadly not,” Munch replied. “I’m out of town.”
“I understand,” Karen said, chuckling softly. “I’ll see if somebody here can give her a lift. If not, I’ll order her a cab.”
“I’ll pay for it, of course,” Munch quickly interjected.
“No problem.”
“Thank you, Karen.”
“Don’t mention i
t, Holger. You’ll manage next Wednesday, I expect?”
“Oh, I will.”
“Great. Perhaps we’ll see each other then?”
“That’s very likely.” Munch coughed. “Thank you so much, and . . . well, give her my best.”
“Will do.”
Munch ended the call and returned to the bench.
Why don’t you ask her out? Where’s the harm? A cup of coffee? A trip to the movies?
He dismissed the idea just as an email pinged to announce its arrival on his cell. He’d been dead set against it, these newfangled phones where everything was gathered in one place. How would he ever get a moment’s peace? Still, right now it suited him just fine. He smiled as he opened the email and read another challenge from Yuri, a man from Belarus he’d met on the Net some years ago. Nerds the world over gathered on Math2.org’s message board. Yuri was a sixty-something-year-old professor from Minsk. Munch would not go as far as calling him a friend—after all, they had never met in real life, but they had exchanged email addresses and were in contact from time to time. They discussed chess, and every now and then they would challenge each other with brain teasers, as was the case now.
Water flows into a tank. The volume of water doubles every minute. The tank is full in one hour. How long does it take for the tank to be half full? Y.
Munch lit another cigarette and pondered the question for a while before he found the answer. Ha, ha. He liked Yuri. He had actually considered going to visit him one day, and why not? He’d never been to Belarus, so why not meet up with people you had gotten to know on the Internet? He had made several acquaintances in this way: mrmichigan40 from the United States, Margrete_08 from Sweden, Birrrdman from South Africa. Chess and mathematics nerds but, more important, people like him, so yes, why not? Organize a trip, make new friends, surely that would be all right? He wasn’t that old, was he? And when was the last time he traveled anywhere? He caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the screen of his cell phone and put it down on the bench next to him.
Fifty-four. He didn’t think that number could be quite right. He felt much older. He had aged ten years on the day Marianne had told him about the teacher from Hurum. He had tried to stay calm. He should have seen it coming. His long days at work and his general absentmindedness. Ultimately there would be a price to pay, but now, and like this? She had been completely relaxed, as if she’d rehearsed her speech several times. They had met in a class. Stayed in touch ever since. They had developed feelings for each other. They had gotten together a few times, in secret, but she no longer wanted to live a dishonest life. In the end Munch had failed to keep his cool. He who had never raised a hand to anyone. He had howled and hurled his dinner plate at the wall. Shouted and chased her around the house. He was still ashamed of his behavior. Miriam had come running down from her room, crying. Fifteen years old then, now twenty-five and about to get married. Fifteen years and taking her mother’s side. Not surprising, really. How much time had he ever spent at home and been available to them during all those years?
• • •
He felt reluctant to reply to Miriam’s message. It was so short and cold, symbolic of how their relationship was and had been. It only piled on the pressure, as if the folder lying in the rented car were not enough.
Could you add a few thousand extra? We have decided to invite cousins. M.
The wedding. Of course, he texted, adding a smiley face and then deleting it. He saw the message go out while he thought about his granddaughter, Marion. Miriam had told him to his face soon after Marion’s birth that she was not at all certain that he deserved to have any contact with the baby. Fortunately, she had changed her mind. Now these were his most treasured moments. His hours with lovely, totally straightforward Marion, a bright light in his daily life, which, to be completely honest, had been fairly dark after his transfer back to Hønefoss.
He had let Marianne keep the house after the divorce. It seemed like the right thing to do. Otherwise Miriam would have had to move away from her friends and her school and her handball. He’d bought a small apartment in Bislett, suitably near to them and suitably far from his work. He had kept the place after his transfer and was now renting a studio apartment on Ringveien, not far from Hønefoss Police Station. His belongings were still in cardboard boxes. He had not taken very much, had expected a quick return to the capital once the public outcry had died down, but now, almost two years later, he was still there and had yet to unpack, as neither place felt like home.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself. There are people much worse off than you.
Munch stubbed out the cigarette and thought about the file in his car. A six-year-old girl had been found hanging from a tree in Maridalen by a random dog walker. He had not seen a case like this for a long time. No wonder they were sweating down at Grønland.
He picked up his cell and replied to Yuri’s email.
59 minutes;) hm
Munch was loath to admit it to himself, but the file on the passenger seat sent shivers down his spine. He started the car, pulled out onto the main road, and continued his journey east to Hitra.
6
The man with the eagle tattoo on his neck had put on a turtleneck for the occasion. He used to really like Oslo Central Station—the crowds had made it the perfect place for a man of his profession—but these days there were so many cameras that practically nowhere was safe. He had long ago started arranging his meetings and transactions at other venues, movie theaters and kebab shops, places where you were less likely to be identified should your business lead to a major investigation, though it rarely did; he did not operate on such a large scale anymore, but still, better safe than sorry.
The man with the eagle tattoo pulled the cap deep down over his head and entered the station concourse. He had not chosen the venue, but the amount offered was so high that he was happy to obey orders. He had no idea how the client had found him, but one day he had received an MMS with a photo, an assignment, and a sum of money. And he had done what he always did, replied “OK” without asking any questions. It was a strange assignment, no doubt about it, and he had never done anything like it, but over the years he had learned not to probe, to just do the job and collect the money. It was what you needed to do in order to survive and retain your credibility out there in the shadowy world. Though the number of assignments was falling, as were the amounts, every now and again something big would fall into his lap. Like this one. A bizarre request, yes—quite extraordinary, in fact—but well paid, and that was exactly what he was about to do now, pick up his check.
Suit jacket, smart trousers, shiny shoes, business briefcase, turtleneck. Even a pair of fake eyeglasses. The man with the eagle tattoo looked like the complete opposite of what he was, and that was precisely the intention. In his profession you never knew when the police might order a complete review of all CCTV recordings, so it was best to blend in. He looked like an accountant or any other kind of businessman, and though you might not think so, the man with the eagle tattoo was rather vain. You would never mistake him for a well-groomed, privileged member of the elite; he liked his rough appearance, his tattoos, and the leather jacket. These revolting trousers rubbed his groin, and he felt like a jerk in the tight jacket and the stupid shiny brown shoes. Never mind, just grin and bear it. The money waiting for him in one of the safe-deposit boxes was worth it. Totally worth it. He needed the cash. He was going to party now. He smiled faintly under the unfamiliar glasses and walked calmly but vigilantly through the station building.
The first message had arrived about a year ago, and more had followed. An MMS with a photograph and an amount. That first time the request had been so unusual and bizarre that he had taken it to be some kind of joke, but he carried it out nevertheless. And been paid. As he was the next time. And the time after that. Then he had ceased caring what it was about.
He stopped at a kiosk and bought a newspaper and a pack of c
igarettes. A completely ordinary man commuting home after a day at the office. Nothing unusual about this accountant. He tucked the newspaper under his arm and continued down toward the safe-deposit boxes. Stopped outside the entrance to the boxes and sent the text message.
I’m here.
He waited only a short while for the reply. As usual it came promptly. The number of the safe-deposit box and the code to open it beeped as it whizzed into his cell phone. He glanced around a few times before he walked along the boxes to find the right one. He would have to grant Oslo Central Station at least one thing: the days of keys changing hands in back streets and alleyways were over. Now all you needed was a code. The man with the eagle tattoo entered the digits on the keypad and heard a click as the box opened. As usual, the familiar brown envelope was lying within. He removed the envelope from the box and tried not to look around, drawing as little attention to himself as possible in view of all the cameras present before he opened the briefcase and deftly slipped the envelope inside it. There was a smile at one corner of his mouth as he gauged that the envelope was much fatter this time. His final assignment. Time to settle his accounts. He left the safe-deposit boxes, walked up the steps, continued through the station, entered a Burger King, and locked himself in a cubicle in the men’s room. He opened the briefcase and took out the envelope. He could hardly contain himself. He grinned from ear to ear when he saw the contents. There was more than just the agreed sum of money, in two-hundred-kroner notes as he always requested; there was also a small bag of white powder. The man with the eagle tattoo opened the transparent plastic bag, carefully tasted the contents, and the smile on his face broadened even further. He had no idea who his client was, but there was clearly nothing wrong with his contacts or information. Those who knew him well were also aware of his great love for this substance.
