by Samuel Bjork
“As you can all see, Mia is back,” Munch continued, in his usual pleasant mood this time.
“Hello again,” said Mia Krüger, who had been sitting quietly during the whole presentation but now got up and walked over to the screen.
There was scattered applause and the odd whistle from the room.
“Thank you, everyone, it’s good to be back.”
Gabriel glanced furtively at Mia; he was frightened of looking at her too often, scared that he wouldn’t be able to stop staring. It was all getting to be too much for him. Pauline and Johanne hanging dead from the trees, and now Mia Krüger standing only a few meters away. Gabriel Mørk was not the only person who had had a crush on Mia Krüger. Mia Krüger had her own fan pages on Facebook. Or perhaps she didn’t these days—he wasn’t quite sure—but she used to. He had considered “liking” some of them, but as a hacker, Gabriel Mørk knew that all your online activity could be traced down to a single click, so he was very careful with anything he ever did. Rumor had it that Mia Krüger had set out to shoot and kill her sister’s boyfriend, a junkie; the newspapers had been all over the case for a few weeks, until it had been overtaken by other events. Gabriel believed that the final police report had concluded that Mia Krüger had done nothing wrong, but even so, she had clearly been away for a while.
The skinny girl with the jet black hair was wearing a black-and-white turtleneck sweater and tight black trousers with zippers on the thighs. She looked exhausted, her eyes were dull, and she was much thinner than she’d looked in the photographs in the papers. Mia Moonbeam. That was what they’d called her on the Net. It was taken from a Belgian cartoon Gabriel did not know, something before his time, but he believed it was called The Silver Arrow. One of the characters had been a very beautiful Native American girl, Moonbeam, and during the eighties all the boys were supposed to have had a secret crush on her.
Even so, he couldn’t help staring at her. Mia Krüger. There were not many famous Norwegian crime investigators. Perhaps that explained it. A beautiful, young, talented, blue-eyed Norwegian girl who looked like a Native American, caught up in a huge scandal—perfect tabloid fodder. He couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for her now. She really did look exhausted. Her thin legs ended in a pair of big biker boots with buckles that rattled whenever she moved. She wore a silver charm bracelet around one wrist and a leather cord around the other. In chat forums on the Net, stories had been circulating about both items. The silver bracelet was supposedly a present from her sister, who had died from a drug overdose. She was said to have taken the leather cord from a Latvian man who was suspected of having murdered a young girl he’d trafficked to Norway as a sex slave. It had been early in her career, and the Latvian man had made her feel sorry for him. She allowed him to be interviewed without being handcuffed. He attacked her with a craft knife concealed in one of his boots. With blood all over her face, she managed to overpower him and then used his own craft knife to cut the leather cord off his wrist. It was said that she wore it to remind herself never to be weak. She had almost lost an eye in the attack. Gabriel could see the scar from where he was sitting. Rumors and stories. He didn’t know if any of it was true, but even so, it was fascinating. Now she was standing right here in front of him. And they would be working together.
Mia Krüger hugged herself with one arm and spoke softly and cautiously; Gabriel had to strain to hear what she was saying.
“Most of you already know everything that we know. We’re going to take a look at a few things you don’t know about, which we believe are important.”
Mia pressed a key on Holger’s laptop, and another photograph appeared on the screen.
“The girls wore backpacks when they were found. The backpacks contained schoolbooks. A name had been written on the cover of the books. On Johanne Lange’s books, it said Johanne Lange. However, on Pauline’s books it said Toni J. W. Smith.”
Another photograph on the screen.
“Why?”
Mia Krüger smiled briefly. “Thanks, Curry, just as patient as always. Good to see you again.”
“Let Mia finish,” Munch said irritably.
“So on Johanne’s books it said Johanne Lange. On Pauline’s books, however, it said Toni J. W. Smith. As you can see, nothing in these cases is accidental. Everything seems to be planned down to the last detail. The killer knew what he was doing, he knew the girls’ names. We have reason to think that he watched them for a long time before he abducted them, and we’ll get back to that later, but as I was saying . . .”
Mia Krüger stopped for a moment, cleared her throat, and hugged herself more tightly. Munch got up and offered her his water bottle. Mia shook her head and continued in a low voice.
“As everyone knows, there’s no doubt that these two cases are connected, but we now have reason to believe they are also connected to a third case, a case we didn’t manage to solve some years ago.”
She pressed a key on the computer again.
“In 2006 a baby disappeared from Hønefoss Hospital. A few weeks later, a Swedish nurse named Joachim Wicklund was found hanging in his studio apartment. On the floor below his body, we found a typed note in which he takes responsibility for the kidnapping. The baby was never found. The case was shelved.”
Mia Krüger stopped again. Decided to drink some water after all. She was not in good shape. Everyone could see that. The normally fit and healthy woman was trembling slightly, and it looked as if she were struggling to make her head work properly.
“Holger and I,” she continued after a short pause, “are convinced that the name on Pauline’s book, Toni J. W. Smith, is a message from the killer. We’re still not sure why he did it, but we think that ‘J.W.’ is short for Joachim Wicklund, and that ‘Toni Smith’ is an anagram: ‘It’s not him.’”
Low murmuring in the room. It was clear that everyone had huge respect for Mia Krüger and her intellect.
Munch took over again. “As a result we’re reopening the Hønefoss investigation. Everything we discovered back then must be reviewed, every interview, every observation, and any names linked to that case must be revisited. I want you to take charge of this, Ludvig, because you worked with us back then, and take Curry with you, because he didn’t. A pair of old eyes and a pair of fresh ones, that would be good, I think.”
Both the older man named Ludvig Grønlie and the man with the shaved head, Curry, who had been so eager to comment on politicians, nodded.
“So that’s our first lead, Hønefoss 2006, Ludvig and Curry. Our second lead, the dresses. Anette will coordinate any tip-offs received by Grønland and go over them with Mia and me. Ex-offenders and other likely suspects . . .” Holger looked up again. “Kyrre?”
A tall, slim man with short black hair and large glasses looked up from his notes.
“Yes. Trond and I are on it, but it’s not a long list. What we have so far are sex offenders, assault cases. To be quite honest, I’m not really sure what we’re looking for. Have we seen anything like this before? I mean, seriously? Not me, certainly. We have cross-referenced our lists with our friends down in Europe, especially in Belgium, with the names of everyone associated with Marc Dutroux, but again, that case involved serious sexual assaults, quite unlike this one. To tell you the truth, our colleagues abroad are shaking their heads at us, but we’ll keep looking, of course.”
“Good.” Munch nodded. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. We have a new database system that will be up and running later today. Everything we enter—names, observations, anything at all—will immediately be cross-referenced against all other available databases, ours and anyone else’s. If anyone experiences any problem making it work, please talk to Gabriel Mørk, our new nerd. Have you all met Gabriel?”
Gabriel jumped when he heard his name spoken. He looked up and saw that everyone had turned to him.
“Hi, Gabriel,” some of them said.
“Hello, everyone,” Gabriel replied, sounding a little nervous.
He had the feeling of being back at school again. That soon he would have to stand up and say something, but fortunately he was not made to. He had no idea what database they were talking about. Munch looked at him and winked.
“A project I didn’t have time to tell you about, but we’ll do it later, okay?”
“Okay.” Gabriel was relieved when Mia Krüger started talking again.
“I don’t know how many of you have seen this.” She pressed a key.
“But we discovered a number on the nail of the left little finger when we examined Pauline. It’s the number one. As you can see . . .”
Another photograph on the screen.
“Johanne had exactly the same, the number two, in the form of two lines on her left ring finger.”
“Damn!” Ludvig exclaimed spontaneously. He was the older man with the round glasses.
“Yes, exactly.” Mia looked at him.
“What the hell?” Curry said.
“There will be others,” Anette said.
The room fell silent.
“We have cause to fear that Pauline and Johanne were only the beginning. That there will be others, unfortunately.”
Munch had taken over again.
“So we pay special attention to any missing-persons cases. Girls aged six years, even if they have only been gone for thirty minutes, we turn up like gangbusters, do you understand?”
The assembly nodded.
“Now I feel the need for a cigarette, so we’ll break for ten minutes and meet back here again.”
Munch produced cigarettes from his jacket pocket and went outside on the smoking terrace, closely followed by Mia. Gabriel did not quite know what to do with himself. Seeing the photographs of the two girls had been overwhelming enough by itself. And they were saying there would be more? He breathed in and out deeply a couple of times to lower his pulse and went out into the corridor to get himself a cup of coffee.
19
Lukas was sitting in his usual place in the chapel, on the slightly raised chair close to the wall with a good view of the pulpit and the congregation. Pastor Simon had gone up in front of the altar but had yet to start speaking. It looked as if he were thinking about something important. Lukas and the rest of the congregation sat very still. You could have heard a pin drop in the large white room. Everyone waited with bated breath to hear what Pastor Simon had to say. The white-haired pastor was known for taking his time before preaching; it was about making contact with the Lord, opening the lines between God, himself, and the congregation, clearing the room of anything that might obstruct the celestial dialogue. The whole service was beautiful, angelic, almost meditative, Lukas thought as he sat very calmly with his hands folded in his lap.
Lukas loved listening to Pastor Simon. He had first heard him by chance twelve years ago at a campsite in Sørlandet. His foster parents had sent him on holiday with their neighbors; either they couldn’t afford to take Lukas with them or didn’t want to go on holiday with him themselves. Lukas could not remember where they themselves were going—to the Mediterranean, something like that. It no longer mattered. He had been fifteen years old and initially felt very uncomfortable at the campsite, as everyone else there was very old compared to him. It was not the first time he’d felt like an outsider; he’d felt that way his whole life. He had been moved in and out of foster care ever since Social Services had removed him from the place that was supposed to be his home, and he had never settled down. Not at school either. No difficulties with the subjects. The problem was the other pupils. And the teachers. Or maybe people in general. Lukas gazed in admiration at Pastor Simon, who was still standing with his eyes closed and both palms facing the sky. Lukas could feel the heat. The glowing heat and the soft, bright light that filled his body and made him feel safe. He remembered the first time he’d had this feeling, at that campsite in Sørlandet twelve years ago. Not to begin with; at first he had felt like a fish out of water, as if everyone around him knew a secret that excluded him. The insecurity and the restlessness had affected him badly, and as always when this happened, the voices in his head started telling him to do things, things he could not say out loud. But then, as if God himself had lit up the path for him, he had found his way to one of the smaller tents on the outskirts of the campsite. A beam of light directed him to the white tent, and a Whisperer encouraged him to go there, one of the voices that was not so loud, not like the Shouters, he hated them, but it was not one of them, it was a nice Whisperer, calling softly in this foreign language. “Sequere via ad caelum.” The kind voice in his ear and the compelling light drew him closer. “Sequere via ad caelum. Follow the path to heaven.” Not long afterward he found himself standing inside the tent, mesmerized by the voices and the warmth and the light. And there, on a podium in the center, was Pastor Simon, his eyes shining, his voice powerful, and ever since that day Lukas had been saved.
Lukas looked across the congregation, which was still waiting silently for the pastor’s sermon to begin. He recognized every face. Most had been members of the church for years, but none as long as Lukas. He had not returned to his foster parents that summer, and no one had seemed to mind. Twelve years later he had risen up the ranks, and though he had yet to turn twenty-seven, he was now Pastor Simon’s right-hand man. His second-in-command. He helped Pastor Simon with all his activities, be they private or church-related. As far as Lukas was concerned, working for Pastor Simon was his mission in life. There was nothing Lukas would not do for him. Life was nothing compared to Pastor Simon, and if it came to it one day, he would gladly die for him. Death was no longer death, not for Pastor Simon’s followers. It was just another step nearer to heaven. Lukas suppressed a small smile as the warmth and the beautiful light filled him again.
He had not heard the voices in his head for a while now. From time to time, sure, but not loud and not often, not like when he was younger, when the voices, especially the Shouters, had told him to do things he knew he should not do. Even though he tried to resist, it had been futile, and deep down he knew that the Shouters would never give up. He had to obey them. Get it over with. Hope for the best. It had occurred to Lukas that the Whisperers and the Shouters were like God and the devil. Pastor Simon had explained to him once how one could not exist without the other. That these two poles of the universe and eternity were inseparable. That you should not be scared, because the path of light would always guide you. Succumbing to the devil’s commands from time to time was not mortal sin; it constituted proof of God’s existence, proof that sometimes God spoke in the devil’s voice to test you. It was a trial. Even so, Lukas was pleased that the voices, especially the Shouters’ voices, did not visit him so often now.
Deo sic per diabolum.
The path to God is through the devil.
Lukas was well aware that this was not the official position of their church. It would not be well received by the amateurs. You had to be one of the initiated in order to understand. But the amateurs were only there to be used, like the people now sitting in front of him in reverent silence. The initiated were the people who mattered. Those who had understood what Pastor Simon really meant about the path toward the light. And Lukas was one of them.
Tonight was amateur night. Lukas could feel how much he was looking forward to the coming weekend, when they would return to the forest and meet up with the other initiated. Deep down, Lukas could not understand why Pastor Simon insisted on holding meetings for the amateurs anymore—after all, they had more important work to do—but he would obviously never contradict the pastor. The pastor was in contact with God and knew exactly what needed doing. Lux domus. Wait until the weekend. Lukas had to press his lips together again so as not to sigh with pleasure as the warmth and the light flowed through his body once more.
At last Pastor Simon opened his mouth, and God was in the room. The membe
rs of the congregation sat as if glued to their seats and let themselves be filled with bliss. Lukas had heard this sermon before—it was written for the amateurs; it was fine, but simple—and besides, his mind was on the upcoming weekend. Lux domus. Another step closer to heaven. He shut his eyes and let the pastor’s words fill him, and then soon afterward it was over and the pastor was standing by the exit. Grateful hands and bowed heads proceeded past him on their way out of the hall, and then Lukas and the pastor were alone again, just the two of them, in the large white space.
Lukas followed the pastor into his office and helped him out of his cassock. He turned away so as not to see the pastor in his underwear, then helped him put on the suit he normally wore. Poured him a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He said nothing until the pastor had sat down in his chair behind the huge desk and indicated that God had left the room and that they were permitted to speak again.
“Another name has come forward.” Lukas cleared his throat and produced the envelope he’d kept in his inside jacket pocket during the whole service.
“Ah?” The pastor looked up at him and took the envelope. It contained a single white sheet of paper. Lukas did not know what it said, only that it was a name. He did not know what name it was; that was for the pastor’s eyes only. His task was to collect the envelope and give it to the pastor. Not to open it. He was merely a messenger, like an angel.
As usual, the pastor said nothing. He read the name, folded the sheet, and locked the envelope in the safe under the small table by the window.
“Thank you, Lukas. Was there anything else?” The pastor looked up at him.
Lukas smiled back at the kind, luminous gaze. “No, nothing. Oh, yes, your brother is here.”
“Nils? He’s here now?”
