by Samuel Bjork
“Yes. Help me. Please.”
Slowly he crept back toward the fence. There was still total silence on the other side. Tobias did not know exactly what to do. He’d planned to go on a secret mission, but that had been just a silly idea in his head.
This was different.
This was real.
The girl in the gray dress existed. The girl who was thirsty but not allowed to talk. And now she had asked him for help.
Tobias put on his knapsack and walked calmly to the mound from where he would have a clearer view.
27
Mia Krüger woke up with a feeling that there was someone in her hotel room. She was unable to open her eyes properly, enveloped in a fog, half asleep, half awake. She forced open her eyelids enough to establish that she was alone. There was no one there, just her. A depressing thought. Her life was reduced to this? A hotel room and a murder case. Not that it really mattered. This was only temporary.
Come to me, Mia, come.
She would be gone soon. Why fret about it? Why think? Why this? Why that?
For some inexplicable reason, Mia had a headache. After her consumption of various drugs in the last six months, she thought she’d become immune to low-level pain like this. Her evening with Susanne had gone on longer than planned—well, “planned” was an exaggeration; it had been a chance meeting—but the bottom line was that she’d had too much to drink. When her cell rang, she reached out sleepily, pressed the screen, and started to talk before she was fully conscious.
“Yes? Mia speaking.”
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
It was Gabriel Mørk. The new guy. The cute one who blushed. The hacker.
“No,” Mia said, sitting up in her bed.
“Now, I know I’m not a bona fide police officer,” Gabriel said, sounding apologetic. “So I’m not sure if this is important or not.”
“You’re doing fine.” Mia yawned. “Just tell me.”
“Okay,” Gabriel went on. “You know that the laptop had two users?”
“Roger and Randi.”
“Yes, Roger and Randi. And this is where it gets weird.”
“Why?”
“Let’s start with Roger. No surprises there. Did not use his laptop all that much. He wasn’t a computer freak.”
“Why not?”
“He only used it for the usual guy stuff.”
“Which is what?”
“Emails. Cars and motorbikes. What we would expect, basically.”
“Who did he email? Anyone interesting?”
“Not really. There were hardly any private emails. I mean, from people he knew. He had ordered some biker magazines. Bills, e-invoices. Junk mail. A fairly sad life, judging by his email account.”
“Not everyone lives their life on the Net, Gabriel,” Mia said.
“No, you’re right, but even so. The absence of personal stuff is odd, but that’s not the interesting bit.”
“Could you hang on two seconds?”
“Okay.”
Mia put the cell on hold and made her way to the hotel telephone on the bedside table. She called reception and ordered breakfast to be sent to her room. She had tried going to the dining room for breakfast yesterday, and that had been a mistake. Too many people.
“I’m back.”
“Okay,” Gabriel said again. “I’ll check out this Roger user a bit more, but I wanted to tell you what I found on the other one.”
“Randi?”
“Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“That’s the weird part.”
“What?”
Gabriel fell silent for a little while. “I think you need to see it for yourself, but I’m quite sure that it’s the same person.”
“What do you mean?”
“Roger and Randi. They’re one and the same.”
“Roger Bakken was two people?”
“Yes . . . or no. Or yes. He liked to be a woman.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, it’s the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“Under the Roger username, he’s a man. He has photographs of motorbikes and cars. He goes fishing and drinks alcohol. As Randi he’s completely different. He’s a woman. Bookmarks on the browser are blogs about crocheting and interior design. He has photographs of himself wearing women’s clothing. It looks like he lived a double life.”
“And you’re quite sure about this?”
She heard Gabriel sigh on the other end.
“I know I’m not a police officer, but I am capable of spotting a man dressed like a woman.”
“Sorry,” Mia said. “It just sounds so weird.”
“I agree,” Gabriel said. “But it is him. One hundred percent. You can see for yourself when you get here.”
“I’ll be there shortly,” Mia said. “What about his cell phone?”
“That’s also a bit odd.”
“What do you mean?”
“Practically all the messages had been deleted, and he had no stored numbers. I don’t know what this guy was up to, but he’s done everything he could to erase every trace of himself.”
“Apart from the photographs of himself dressed as a woman.”
“Yes, except for that, but like I said, they were on the laptop.”
“You said that practically all the text messages had been deleted. Are you telling me you do have some?”
“Yes, a few cryptic ones.”
“Let me hear them.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” Mia couldn’t help smiling.
“Okay.”
Gabriel cleared his throat and prepared to read aloud what he had found. “There are three text messages. All are dated March twentieth.”
“The day he died.”
“Was it?”
“Yes, let me have them.”
There was a knock on the hotel door. Mia put on one of the hotel’s dressing gowns and took in her breakfast while Gabriel opened the text messages.
“Okay, the first one is short.”
“Who sent it?”
“The sender is anonymous.”
“How is that possible? Can you really hide your number when you’re texting?”
“Yes, that’s easy,” Gabriel replied.
“I know I probably sound like your granny right now, but how do you do that?” Mia asked him, and took a sip of her coffee.
It was bitter. She spit it out, muttering curses under her breath. How could people not learn to make proper coffee? The scrambled eggs and the bacon on the plate didn’t look very appetizing either.
“You send it via the Net using TxtEmNow.com or some similar site. There are lots of them where you don’t have to register. You just type in the number and the message, and off it goes, usually with advertising—that’s how they finance it.”
“And what did the message say?”
“There are three.”
“Let me have them.”
“‘It is unwise to fly too near the sun.’”
“Again, please.”
Mia was unable to eat anything. She carried the tray to the windowsill.
“‘It is unwise to fly too near the sun.’ That’s the first message.”
“What did he reply?”
“He didn’t. You can’t reply to a text message when there’s no sender.”
Mia sat down on the bed and leaned her head against the wall. Her headache was starting to lift. Fly too near the sun. The eagle tattoo. Wings. Icarus with his wings. He flew too near the sun, and the wings melted. Hubris. Arrogance. Roger Bakken had stepped out of line.
“Are you there?”
“Yes, sorry, Gabriel, just had to think.”
“Are you ready for the next o
ne?”
“Sure.”
“‘Who’s there?’”
“Was that the full message?”
“Yes. Do you want the final one?”
“Yes.”
“‘Bye, bye, birdie.’”
Mia closed her eyes, but nothing came to her. Who’s there? Bye, bye, birdie. Right now it made no sense. She got up from the bed and went to the bathroom. Caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and did not like what she saw. She looked exhausted. Practically dead. Ghostly. She bent down and started running the bath.
“Mia? You still there?”
“Yes, sorry, Gabriel. I was just trying to work out if the two latter ones made any sense.”
“And?”
“No, not right now. I’ll be there in a while, all right?”
“That’s fine, I’ll stay where I am.”
“Great, Gabriel, good job so far.”
She returned to the bedroom. Put her cell phone on the windowsill and tried eating some of her breakfast. She could not get anything down. Never mind. She would get herself a coffee and a scone on the way.
Who’s there? Bye, bye, birdie.
Mia undressed and got into the bath. The warm water enveloped her body and calmed her. Being out with Susanne had been great. Really great. In fact, they had arranged to meet up again, hadn’t they? Mia could not quite remember—she’d been a little drunk toward the end.
She leaned her head against the rim of the bath and closed her eyes.
Who’s there? Bye, bye, birdie.
It wasn’t much, but at least it was a start.
28
Cecilie Mykle had slept so soundly that it almost hurt to wake up. Force of habit made her reach for the alarm clock, but for some reason it wasn’t ringing. Cecilie tried and failed to open her eyes. Her body felt so heavy and comfortable and warm, almost as if she were lying on a soft cloud with another lovely cloud covering her. She pulled the duvet more tightly around herself and turned over onto her stomach. Pressed her face into the pillow. Tried to obey her body. Go back to sleep, go back to sleep. Forget what your head and your mind are telling you. You need to sleep now, sleep, sleep, Cecilie, sleep. It was for this reason that the doctor had prescribed her the pills. Cecilie had been against it; she’d never taken sleeping pills in her life. She did not like medication. She liked to be alert. She hated the thought of something controlling her body. Cecilie Mykle was very keen on being in control. Underneath the duvet her hand reached out again, automatically trying to switch off the alarm clock, at six-fifteen as always, but it had still not begun to ring. A tiny part of her brain wondered why, but it was quickly overruled by the rest of her brain, which could not care less, swayed by the aftereffects of the sleeping pills; she snuggled up under the duvet and pressed her head against the lovely soft pillow.
“This is not a suggestion, it’s an order,” her doctor had said. “You have to take these pills because you need some sleep. You need to sleep. How many times do I have to tell you before you understand?”
The best doctor in the world. Who knew what she needed and was a bit strict with her, who had told her to take care of herself. Something Cecilie Mykle was not very good at. You have to take care of yourself, people told her all the time, but Cecilie Mykle thought that was easier said than done. She had grown up with a mother unable to do that, who had always put other people’s needs first. It was a difficult pattern to break.
She was a worrier. That’s why she was unable to sleep. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a good night’s sleep. Her nights were largely restless: she would doze a little, then get up, watch some late-night TV, have a cup of tea, and then perhaps catnap for a few minutes before the alarm went off and it was six-fifteen again. There were always so many things that could go wrong, and Cecilie was the sort of person who worried more than most.
“You’re worrying yourself unnecessarily,” her husband would say, as he had the time they bought the terraced house in Skullerud.
“Are you sure we can afford it?”
“We’ll manage,” her husband had said, and he’d been right. They’d managed fine, especially once he started working on the North Sea oil rigs.
Six weeks on, six weeks off. She missed her husband, of course, the weeks he was away, but the money did come in very handy. And when he was at home, he was at home the whole time. Cecilie Mykle loved her husband. He was perfect; she could not have wished for a better friend or lover. He was not like many of his friends who also worked on the oil rigs, men who would come home with money in their pockets and then hit the town. Six weeks at work, six weeks of drinking. No, he was not like them at all. When her husband was at home, he was at home.
Cecilie Mykle stretched her arms toward the ceiling and finally managed to open her eyes. She decided to stay in bed for a little bit longer while she came around. She felt lethargic, but still also incredibly rested after a good night’s sleep, her skin warm, her body soft and calm. She hadn’t had any dreams last night either, as she had recently—violent, almost feverish nightmares—but last night nothing. Just total relaxation.
She was awake now. Suddenly she surfaced in the dark bedroom and started to feel anxious again. What time was it really? She reached out to switch on the bedside lamp. It would not come on. Why was everything dark? And cold? Had they had a power cut? Cecilie Mykle pressed the button that lit up the small alarm clock and had a shock when she realized what time it was. A quarter to ten? Gosh, she should have been up hours ago. She should have taken Karoline to nursery school by now. Cecilie swung her legs over the edge of the bed but stayed sitting with her head buried in her hands. It felt like a lump of lead. She could barely keep her eyes open. She staggered to the light switch by the door and tried turning on the ceiling light, but it would not come on either. The house was cold and strangely quiet. Cecilie fumbled her way to the window and opened the curtains. Spring light poured into the bedroom, enough for her to see by.
Cecilie stumbled out into the passage. She had to wake Karoline. Her legs were heavy, almost incapable of supporting her down the dark hallway. She had forgotten to put on socks, and the floor was cold. Cecilie felt her way along the wall to Karoline’s room.
“Karoline?”
Her voice was feeble and weak. It, too, refused to wake up.
“Karoline, are you awake?”
There was no reply from her daughter’s bedroom. At a quarter to ten? Karoline was usually up by seven, or at least awake. Often she would pad to her parents’ bedroom with her teddy in tow. Best time of the day, really. Quiet mornings in bed with Karoline and her teddy.
“Karoline?”
Cecilie continued to feel her way around, her eyes slowly acclimating to the darkness. Suddenly she felt something wet and sticky under her feet. What on earth? She stopped and raised her foot. Carefully, she touched the sole. There was something yucky on the floor. But she had washed it only the day before. Cecilie made her way gingerly across the sticky floor and entered Karoline’s room. She pressed the light switch, but again the light did not come on.
“Karoline?”
She quickly crossed the room and opened the curtains. The light poured in, and it was at this point that Cecilie Mykle started to worry in earnest.
“Karoline?”
She could not believe her own eyes. Karoline wasn’t in her bed. There was blood on the floor. Cecilie could not be awake. She had stepped in the blood. So she must be dreaming. She was still asleep. She should never have taken that sleeping pill, but her doctor had insisted. Cecilie Mykle stayed in her daughter’s bedroom while she waited to wake up. She did not like this dream. Karoline was not in her bed. It was a quarter to ten in the morning. There was blood on the floor. There was no electricity. The house was dark. Cecilie had goose pimples on her arms under her sweater. She really wanted to wake up now. The alarm clock will go off any moment now, s
he thought, and chewed her lip.
This is just a dream.
Cecilie Mykle was in shock. She did not even hear the distant ringing of the telephone.
29
Mia Krüger sat at the café drinking her second cortado of the day. She had eaten a scone and drunk a glass of orange juice and was suffering from a surprisingly bad hangover, and yet her body was slowly but surely starting to recover after last night’s excesses with Susanne. She normally never read the newspapers, but for some reason she had done so today, even though she found the front pages tasteless. “The Babes in the Woods Murders” seemed to be what the papers had decided to call them. Mia hated it when the media did this, coined names and logos for murder investigations, the hunt for missing people, civil unrest, war, or indeed any form of tragedy. Did they not realize the effect it had on their readers? Did they not care that they fueled people’s fears, terrified them? Damn them all to hell.
She put down the newspaper and had knocked back the last of her cortado just as her phone rang.
“Yes, Mia speaking.”
“It’s Holger. Where are you?”
“The café on Storgata. What is it?”
“Another girl has gone missing.”
Mia felt the hairs on her arms stand up. She put on her leather jacket and was out the door in a matter of seconds.
“Are you at the office?” she asked him.
“I’m just about to leave.”
“Pick me up outside 7-Eleven on Pløensgate.”
“Okay.”
Mia ended the call and ran. Damn. Number three. Three lines on the nail of her left little finger. No, not this time. This time they had a head start. Another girl had gone missing, but they were on the case. There would be no more Paulines. Mia did not know who this new girl was, but she had already made up her mind as she pushed through the crowds on her way down Torggata, that they would find this girl before it was too late.
